runs forward and back again, and hastens its own end. Napoleon, under pressure from his whole army, did the same
thing. The rustle of the battle of Tarutino frightened the
beast, and it rushed forward onto the hunter’s gun, reached
him, turned back, and finallylike any wild beastran back
along the most disadvantageous and dangerous path, where
the old scent was familiar.
During the whole of that period Napoleon, who seems
to us to have been the leader of all these movementsas the
figurehead of a ship may seem to a savage to guide the vesselacted like a child who, holding a couple of strings inside
a carriage, thinks he is driving it.
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Chapter XI
Early in the morning of the sixth of October Pierre went
out of the shed, and on returning stopped by the door to
play with a little blue-gray dog, with a long body and short
bandy legs, that jumped about him. This little dog lived in
their shed, sleeping beside Karataev at night; it sometimes
made excursions into the town but always returned again.
Probably it had never had an owner, and it still belonged to
nobody and had no name. The French called it Azor; the
soldier who told stories called it Femgalka; Karataev and
others called it Gray, or sometimes Flabby. Its lack of a master, a name, or even of a breed or any definite color did not
seem to trouble the blue-gray dog in the least. Its furry tail
stood up firm and round as a plume, its bandy legs served it
so well that it would often gracefully lift a hind leg and run
very easily and quickly on three legs, as if disdaining to use
all four. Everything pleased it. Now it would roll on its back,
yelping with delight, now bask in the sun with a thoughtful
air of importance, and now frolic about playing with a chip
of wood or a straw.
Pierre’s attire by now consisted of a dirty torn shirt (the
only remnant of his former clothing), a pair of soldier’s
trousers which by Karataev’s advice he tied with string
round the ankles for warmth, and a peasant coat and cap.
Physically he had changed much during this time. He no
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War and Peace
longer seemed stout, though he still had the appearance of
solidity and strength hereditary in his family. A beard and
mustache covered the lower part of his face, and a tangle of
hair, infested with lice, curled round his head like a cap. The
look of his eyes was resolute, calm, and animatedly alert, as
never before. The former slackness which had shown itself
even in his eyes was now replaced by an energetic readiness
for action and resistance. His feet were bare.
Pierre first looked down the field across which vehicles
and horsemen were passing that morning, then into the distance across the river, then at the dog who was pretending
to be in earnest about biting him, and then at his bare feet
which he placed with pleasure in various positions, moving
his dirty thick big toes. Every time he looked at his bare feet
a smile of animated self-satisfaction flitted across his face.
The sight of them reminded him of all he had experienced
and learned during these weeks and this recollection was
pleasant to him.
For some days the weather had been calm and clear with
slight frosts in the morningswhat is called an ‘old wives’
summer.’
In the sunshine the air was warm, and that warmth was
particularly pleasant with the invigorating freshness of the
morning frost still in the air.
On everythingfar and nearlay the magic crystal glitter
seen only at that time autumn. The Sparrow Hills were visible in the distance, with the village, the church, and the
large white house. The bare trees, the sand, the bricks and
roofs of the houses, the green church spire, and the cor
1895
ners of the white house in the distance, all stood out in the
transparent air in most delicate outline and with unnatural clearness. Near by could be seen the familiar ruins of
a half-burned mansion occupied by the French, with lilac
bushes still showing dark green beside the fence. And even
that ruined and befouled housewhich in dull weather was
repulsively uglyseemed quietly beautiful now, in the clear,
motionless brilliance.
A French corporal, with coat unbuttoned in a homely
way, a skullcap on his head, and a short pipe in his mouth,
came from behind a corner of the shed and approached
Pierre with a friendly wink.
‘What sunshine, Monsieur Kiril!’ (Their name for Pierre.)
‘Eh? Just like spring!’
And the corporal leaned against the door and offered
Pierre his pipe, though whenever he offered it Pierre always
declined it.
‘To be on the march in such weather…’ he began.
Pierre inquired what was being said about leaving, and
the corporal told him that nearly all the troops were starting and there ought to be an order about the prisoners that
day. Sokolov, one of the soldiers in the shed with Pierre, was
dying, and Pierre told the corporal that something should
be done about him. The corporal replied that Pierre need
not worry about that as they had an ambulance and a permanent hospital and arrangements would be made for the
sick, and that in general everything that could happen had
been foreseen by the authorities.
‘Besides, Monsieur Kiril, you have only to say a word to
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War and Peace
the captain, you know. He is a man who never forgets anything. Speak to the captain when he makes his round, he
will do anything for you.’
(The captain of whom the corporal spoke often had long
chats with Pierre and showed him all sorts of favors.)
‘‘You see, St. Thomas,’ he said to me the other day. ‘Monsieur Kiril is a man of education, who speaks French. He is a
Russian seigneur who has had misfortunes, but he is a man.
He knows what’s what…. If he wants anything and asks me,
he won’t get a refusal. When one has studied, you see, one
likes education and well-bred people.’ It is for your sake I
mention it, Monsieur Kiril. The other day if it had not been
for you that affair would have ended ill.’
And after chatting a while longer, the corporal went
away. (The affair he had alluded to had happened a few days
beforea fight between the prisoners and the French soldiers,
in which Pierre had succeeded in pacifying his comrades.)
Some of the prisoners who had heard Pierre talking to the
corporal immediately asked what the Frenchman had said.
While Pierre was repeating what he had been told about the
army leaving Moscow, a thin, sallow, tattered French soldier
came up to the door of the shed. Rapidly and timidly raising his fingers to his forehead by way of greeting, he asked
Pierre whether the soldier Platoche to whom he had given a
shirt to sew was in that shed.
A week before the French had had boot leather and linen
issued to them, which they had given out to the prisoners to
make up into boots and shirts for them.
‘Ready, ready, dear fellow!’ said Karataev, coming out
1897
with a neatly folded shirt.
Karataev, on account of the warm weather and for convenience at work, was wearing only trousers and a tattered
shirt as black as soot. His hair was bound round, workman
fashion, with a wisp of lime-tree bast, and his round face
seemed rounder and pleasanter than ever.
‘A promise is own brother to performance! I said Friday
and here it is, ready,’ said Platon, smiling and unfolding the
shirt he had sewn.
The Frenchman glanced around uneasily and then, as
if overcoming his hesitation, rapidly threw off his uniform
and put on the shirt. He had a long, greasy, flowered silk
waistcoat next to his sallow, thin bare body, but no shirt. He
was evidently afraid the prisoners looking on would laugh
at him, and thrust his head into the shirt hurriedly. None of
the prisoners said a word.
‘See, it fits well!’ Platon kept repeating, pulling the shirt
straight.
The Frenchman, having pushed his head and hands
through, without raising his eyes, looked down at the shirt
and examined the seams.
‘You see, dear man, this is not a sewing shop, and I had
no proper tools; and, as they say, one needs a tool even to
kill a louse,’ said Platon with one of his round smiles, obviously pleased with his work.
‘It’s good, quite good, thank you,’ said the Frenchman, in
French, ‘but there must be some linen left over.
‘It will fit better still when it sets to your body,’ said
Karataev, still admiring his handiwork. ‘You’ll be nice and
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comfortable…’
‘Thanks, thanks, old fellow…. But the bits left over?’ said
the Frenchman again and smiled. He took out an assignation ruble note and gave it to Karataev. ‘But give me the
pieces that are over.’
Pierre saw that Platon did not want to understand what
the Frenchman was saying, and he looked on without interfering. Karataev thanked the Frenchman for the money and
went on admiring his own work. The Frenchman insisted
on having the pieces returned that were left over and asked
Pierre to translate what he said.
‘What does he want the bits for?’ said Karataev. ‘They’d
make fine leg bands for us. Well, never mind.’
And Karataev, with a suddenly changed and saddened
expression, took a small bundle of scraps from inside his
shirt and gave it to the Frenchman without looking at him.
‘Oh dear!’ muttered Karataev and went away. The Frenchman looked at the linen, considered for a moment, then
looked inquiringly at Pierre and, as if Pierre’s look had told
him something, suddenly blushed and shouted in a squeaky
voice:
‘Platoche! Eh, Platoche! Keep them yourself!’ And handing back the odd bits he turned and went out.
‘There, look at that,’ said Karataev, swaying his head.
‘People said they were not Christians, but they too have
souls. It’s what the old folk used to say: ‘A sweating hand’s
an open hand, a dry hand’s close.’ He’s naked, but yet he’s
given it back.’
Karataev smiled thoughtfully and was silent awhile look
1899
ing at the pieces.
‘But they’ll make grand leg bands, dear friend,’ he said,
and went back into the shed.
1900
War and Peace
Chapter XII
Four weeks had passed since Pierre had been taken prisoner and though the French had offered to move him from
the men’s
