War and Peace

arly 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 Karatáev 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 Femgálka; Karatáev 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
Karatáev’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 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 mornings—what 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 everything—far and near—lay the magic crystal glitter seen only at
that time of 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 corners 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 house—which in dull
weather was repulsively ugly—seemed 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. Sokolóv, 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 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 before—a 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 Karatáev, coming out with a neatly
folded shirt.

Karatáev, 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 Platón, 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!” Platón 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
Platón 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 Karatáev,
still admiring his handiwork. “You’ll be nice and 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 Karatáev. “But give me the pieces that are over.”

Pierre saw that Platón did not want to understand what the Frenchman
was saying, and he looked on without interfering. Karatáev 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 Karatáev. “They’d make fine leg
bands for us. Well, never mind.”

And Karatáev, 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 Karatáev 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 Karatáev, 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.”

Karatáev smiled thoughtfully and was silent awhile looking at the
pieces.

“But they’ll make grand leg bands, dear friend,” he said, and went back
into the shed.