just anyhow, and that he never considered personal danger.
‘For you’ll admit that if we don’t know for sure how
many of them there are… hundreds of lives may depend on
it, while there are only two of us. Besides, I want to go very
much and certainly will go, so don’t hinder me,’ said he. ‘It
will only make things worse..’
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Having put on French greatcoats and shakos, Petya and
Dolokhov rode to the clearing from which Denisov had reconnoitered the French camp, and emerging from the forest
in pitch darkness they descended into the hollow. On reaching the bottom, Dolokhov told the Cossacks accompanying
him to await him there and rode on at a quick trot along the
road to the bridge. Petya, his heart in his mouth with excitement, rode by his side.
‘If we’re caught, I won’t be taken alive! I have a pistol,’
whispered he.
‘Don’t talk Russian,’ said Dolokhov in a hurried whisper,
and at that very moment they heard through the darkness
the challenge: ‘Qui vive?’* and the click of a musket.
”Who goes there?’ The blood rushed to Petya’s face and he grasped his pistol. ‘Lanciers du 6-me,’ replied Dolokhov, neither hastening
nor slackening his horse’s pace.
”Lancers of the 6th Regiment.’ The black figure of a sentinel stood on the bridge. ‘Mot d’ordre.’
”Password.’ Dolokhov reined in his horse and advanced at a walk. ‘Dites donc, le colonel Gerard est ici?’ he asked.
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”Tell me, is Colonel Gerard here?’ ‘Mot d’ordre,’ repeated the sentinel, barring the way and not replying. ‘Quand un officier fait sa ronde, les sentinelles ne demandent pas le mot d’ordre…’ cried Dolokhov suddenly flaring up and riding straight at the sentinel. ‘Je vous demande si le colonel est ici.’
*”When an officer is making his round, sentinels don’t
ask him for the password…. I am asking you if the colonel
is here.’
And without waiting for an answer from the sentinel,
who had stepped aside, Dolokhov rode up the incline at a
walk.
Noticing the black outline of a man crossing the road,
Dolokhov stopped him and inquired where the commander and officers were. The man, a soldier with a sack over
his shoulder, stopped, came close up to Dolokhov’s horse,
touched it with his hand, and explained simply and in
a friendly way that the commander and the officers were
higher up the hill to the right in the courtyard of the farm,
as he called the landowner’s house.
Having ridden up the road, on both sides of which French
talk could be heard around the campfires, Dolokhov turned
into the courtyard of the landowner’s house. Having ridden
in, he dismounted and approached a big blazing campfire,
around which sat several men talking noisily. Something
was boiling in a small cauldron at the edge of the fire and a
soldier in a peaked cap and blue overcoat, lit up by the fire,
was kneeling beside it stirring its contents with a ramrod.
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‘Oh, he’s a hard nut to crack,’ said one of the officers who
was sitting in the shadow at the other side of the fire.
‘He’ll make them get a move on, those fellows!’ said another, laughing.
Both fell silent, peering out through the darkness at the
sound of Dolokhov’s and Petya’s steps as they advanced to
the fire leading their horses.
‘Bonjour, messieurs!’* said Dolokhov loudly and clearly.
*”Good day, gentlemen.’
There was a stir among the officers in the shadow beyond
the fire, and one tall, long-necked officer, walking round the
fire, came up to Dolokhov.
‘Is that you, Clement?’ he asked. ‘Where the devil…? But,
noticing his mistake, he broke off short and, with a frown,
greeted Dolokhov as a stranger, asking what he could do
for him.
Dolokhov said that he and his companion were trying
to overtake their regiment, and addressing the company in
general asked whether they knew anything of the 6th Regiment. None of them knew anything, and Petya thought the
officers were beginning to look at him and Dolokhov with
hostility and suspicion. For some seconds all were silent.
‘If you were counting on the evening soup, you have
come too late,’ said a voice from behind the fire with a repressed laugh.
Dolokhov replied that they were not hungry and must
push on farther that night.
He handed the horses over to the soldier who was stirring
the pot and squatted down on his heels by the fire beside the
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officer with the long neck. That officer did not take his eyes
from Dolokhov and again asked to what regiment he belonged. Dolokhov, as if he had not heard the question, did
not reply, but lighting a short French pipe which he took
from his pocket began asking the officer in how far the road
before them was safe from Cossacks.
‘Those brigands are everywhere,’ replied an officer from
behind the fire.
Dolokhov remarked that the Cossacks were a danger
only to stragglers such as his companion and himself, ‘but
probably they would not dare to attack large detachments?’
he added inquiringly. No one replied.
‘Well, now he’ll come away,’ Petya thought every moment as he stood by the campfire listening to the talk.
But Dolokhov restarted the conversation which had
dropped and began putting direct questions as to how many
men there were in the battalion, how many battalions, and
how many prisoners. Asking about the Russian prisoners
with that detachment, Dolokhov said:
‘A horrid business dragging these corpses about with
one! It would be better to shoot such rabble,’ and burst into
loud laughter, so strange that Petya thought the French
would immediately detect their disguise, and involuntarily
took a step back from the campfire.
No one replied a word to Dolokhov’s laughter, and a
French officer whom they could not see (he lay wrapped in
a greatcoat) rose and whispered something to a companion.
Dolokhov got up and called to the soldier who was holding
their horses.
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‘Will they bring our horses or not?’ thought Petya, instinctively drawing nearer to Dolokhov.
The horses were brought.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Dolokhov.
Petya wished to say ‘Good night’ but could not utter a
word. The officers were whispering together. Dolokhov was
a long time mounting his horse which would not stand still,
then he rode out of the yard at a footpace. Petya rode beside
him, longing to look round to see whether or no the French
were running after them, but not daring to.
Coming out onto the road Dolokhov did not ride back
across the open country, but through the village. At one
spot he stopped and listened. ‘Do you hear?’ he asked. Petya
recognized the sound of Russian voices and saw the dark
figures of Russian prisoners round their campfires. When
they had descended to the bridge Petya and Dolokhov rode
past the sentinel, who without saying a word paced morosely up and down it, then they descended into the hollow
where the Cossacks awaited them.
‘Well now, good-by. Tell Denisov, ‘at the first shot at daybreak,’’ said Dolokhov and was about to ride away, but Petya
seized hold of him.
‘Really!’ he cried, ‘you are such a hero! Oh, how fine, how
splendid! How I love you!’
‘All right, all right!’ said Dolokhov. But Petya did not let
go of him and Dolokhov saw through the gloom that Petya
was bending toward him and wanted to kiss him. Dolokhov
kissed him, laughed, turned his horse, and vanished into
the darkness.
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Chapter X
Having returned to the watchman’s hut, Petya found
Denisov in the passage. He was awaiting Petya’s return in
a state of agitation, anxiety, and self-reproach for having let
him go.
‘Thank God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Yes, thank God!’ he repeated, listening to Petya’s rapturous account. ‘But, devil take
you, I haven’t slept because of you! Well, thank God. Now
lie down. We can still get a nap before morning.’
‘But… no,’ said Petya, ‘I don’t want to sleep yet. Besides I
know myself, if I fall asleep it’s finished. And then I am used
to not sleeping before a battle.’
He sat awhile in the hut joyfully recalling the details of
his expedition and vividly picturing to himself what would
happen next day.
Then, noticing that Denisov was asleep, he rose and went
out of doors.
It was still quite dark outside. The rain was over, but
drops were still falling from the trees. Near the watchman’s
hut the black shapes of the Cossacks’ shanties and of horses
tethered together could be seen. Behind the hut the dark
shapes of the two wagons with their horses beside them
were discernible, and in the hollow the dying campfire
gleamed red. Not all the Cossacks and hussars were asleep;
here and there, amid the sounds of falling drops and the
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munching of the horses near by, could be heard low voices
which seemed to be whispering.
Petya came out, peered into the darkness, and went up to
the wagons. Someone was snoring under them, and around
them stood saddled horses munching their oats. In the dark
Petya recognized his own horse, which he called ‘Karabakh’
though it was of Ukranian breed, and went up to it.
‘Well, Karabakh! We’ll do some service tomorrow,’ said
he, sniffing its nostrils and kissing it.
‘Why aren’t you asleep, sir?’ said a Cossack who was sitting under a wagon.
‘No, ah… Likhachevisn’t that your name? Do you know
I have only just come back! We’ve been into the French
camp.’
And Petya gave the Cossack a detailed account not only
of his ride but also of his object, and why he considered it
better to risk his life than to act ‘just anyhow.’
‘Well, you should get some sleep now,’ said the Cossack.
‘No, I am used to this,’ said Petya. ‘I say, aren’t the flints
in your pistols worn out? I brought some with me. Don’t you
want any? You can have some.’
The Cossack bent forward from under the wagon to get
a closer look at Petya.
‘Because I am accustomed to doing everything accurately,’ said Petya. ‘Some fellows do things just anyhow, without
preparation, and then they’re sorry for it afterwards. I don’t
like that.’
‘Just so,’ said the Cossack.
‘Oh yes, another thing! Please, my dear fellow, will you
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sharpen my saber for me? It’s got bl…’ (Petya feared to tell a
lie, and the saber never had been sharpened.) ‘Can you do
it?’
‘Of course I can.’
Likhachev got up, rummaged in his pack, and soon Petya
heard the warlike sound of steel
