Book Thirteen: 1812 - Chapter XI

by Leo Tolstoy

　　Early in the morning of the sixth of October Pierre went out ofthe shed, and on returning stopped by the door to play with a littleblue-gray dog, with a long body and short bandy legs, that jumpedabout him. This little dog lived in their shed, sleeping besideKarataev at night; it sometimes made excursions into the town butalways returned again. Probably it had never had an owner, and itstill belonged to nobody and had no name. The French called it Azor;the soldier who told stories called it Femgalka; Karataev and otherscalled 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 theblue-gray dog in the least. Its furry tail stood up firm and roundas a plume, its bandy legs served it so well that it would oftengracefully lift a hind leg and run very easily and quickly on threelegs, as if disdaining to use all four. Everything pleased it. Nowit would roll on its back, yelping with delight, now bask in the sunwith a thoughtful air of importance, and now frolic about playing witha chip of wood or a straw.

　　Pierre's attire by now consisted of a dirty torn shirt (the onlyremnant of his former clothing), a pair of soldier's trousers which byKarataev's advice he tied with string round the ankles for warmth, anda peasant coat and cap. Physically he had changed much during thistime. He no longer seemed stout, though he still had the appearance ofsolidity and strength hereditary in his family. A beard and mustachecovered the lower part of his face, and a tangle of hair, infestedwith lice, curled round his head like a cap. The look of his eyeswas resolute, calm, and animatedly alert, as never before. Theformer slackness which had shown itself even in his eyes was nowreplaced by an energetic readiness for action and resistance. His feetwere bare.

　　Pierre first looked down the field across which vehicles andhorsemen were passing that morning, then into the distance acrossthe river, then at the dog who was pretending to be in earnest aboutbiting him, and then at his bare feet which he placed with pleasure invarious positions, moving his dirty thick big toes. Every time helooked at his bare feet a smile of animated self-satisfactionflitted across his face. The sight of them reminded him of all hehad experienced and learned during these weeks and this recollectionwas pleasant to him.

　　For some days the weather had been calm and clear with slight frostsin the mornings- what is called an "old wives' summer."

　　In the sunshine the air was warm, and that warmth was particularlypleasant with the invigorating freshness of the morning frost still inthe air.

　　On everything- far and near- lay the magic crystal glitter seen onlyat that time autumn. The Sparrow Hills were visible in the distance,with the village, the church, and the large white house. The baretrees, the sand, the bricks and roofs of the houses, the greenchurch spire, and the corners of the white house in the distance,all stood out in the transparent air in most delicate outline and withunnatural clearness. Near by could be seen the familiar ruins of ahalf-burned mansion occupied by the French, with lilac bushes stillshowing dark green beside the fence. And even that ruined and befouledhouse- which in dull weather was repulsively ugly- seemed quietlybeautiful now, in the clear, motionless brilliance.

　　A French corporal, with coat unbuttoned in a homely way, askullcap on his head, and a short pipe in his mouth, came frombehind a corner of the shed and approached Pierre with a friendlywink.

　　"What sunshine, Monsieur Kiril!" (Their name for Pierre.) "Eh?Just like spring!"

　　And the corporal leaned against the door and offered Pierre hispipe, 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 thecorporal told him that nearly all the troops were starting and thereought to be an order about the prisoners that day. Sokolov, one of thesoldiers in the shed with Pierre, was dying, and Pierre told thecorporal that something should be done about him. The corporal repliedthat Pierre need not worry about that as they had an ambulance and apermanent hospital and arrangements would be made for the sick, andthat in general everything that could happen had been foreseen bythe authorities.

　　"Besides, Monsieur Kiril, you have only to say a word to thecaptain, you know. He is a man who never forgets anything. Speak tothe captain when he makes his round, he will do anything for you."

　　(The captain of whom the corporal spoke often had long chats withPierre and showed him all sorts of favors.)

　　"'You see, St. Thomas,' he said to me the other day. 'Monsieur Kirilis a man of education, who speaks French. He is a Russian seigneur whohas had misfortunes, but he is a man. He knows what's what.... If hewants anything and asks me, he won't get a refusal. When one hasstudied, you see, one likes education and well-bred people.' It is foryour sake I mention it, Monsieur Kiril. The other day if it had notbeen for you that affair would have ended ill."

　　And after chatting a while longer, the corporal went away. (Theaffair he had alluded to had happened a few days before- a fightbetween the prisoners and the French soldiers, in which Pierre hadsucceeded in pacifying his comrades.) Some of the prisoners who hadheard Pierre talking to the corporal immediately asked what theFrenchman had said. While Pierre was repeating what he had been toldabout the army leaving Moscow, a thin, sallow, tattered French soldiercame up to the door of the shed. Rapidly and timidly raising hisfingers to his forehead by way of greeting, he asked Pierre whetherthe soldier Platoche to whom he had given a shirt to sew was in thatshed.

　　A week before the French had had boot leather and linen issued tothem, which they had given out to the prisoners to make up intoboots and shirts for them.

　　"Ready, ready, dear fellow!" said Karataev, coming out with a neatlyfolded shirt.

　　Karataev, on account of the warm weather and for convenience atwork, was wearing only trousers and a tattered shirt as black as soot.His hair was bound round, workman fashion, with a wisp of lime-treebast, and his round face seemed rounder and pleasanter than ever.

　　"A promise is own brother to performance! I said Friday and hereit is, ready," said Platon, smiling and unfolding the shirt he hadsewn.

　　The Frenchman glanced around uneasily and then, as if overcoming hishesitation, rapidly threw off his uniform and put on the shirt. He hada long, greasy, flowered silk waistcoat next to his sallow, thinbare body, but no shirt. He was evidently afraid the prisoners lookingon 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 shirtstraight.

　　The Frenchman, having pushed his head and hands through, withoutraising 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 propertools; and, as they say, one needs a tool even to kill a louse,"said Platon with one of his round smiles, obviously pleased with hiswork.

　　"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 comfortable...."

　　"Thanks, thanks, old fellow.... But the bits left over?" said theFrenchman again and smiled. He took out an assignation ruble noteand gave it to Karataev. "But give me the pieces that are over."

　　Pierre saw that Platon did not want to understand what the Frenchmanwas saying, and he looked on without interfering. Karataev thanked theFrenchman for the money and went on admiring his own work. TheFrenchman insisted on having the pieces returned that were left overand asked Pierre to translate what he said.

　　"What does he want the bits for?" said Karataev. "They'd make fineleg 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 theFrenchman without looking at him. "Oh dear!" muttered Karataev andwent away. The Frenchman looked at the linen, considered for a moment,then looked inquiringly at Pierre and, as if Pierre's look had toldhim something, suddenly blushed and shouted in a squeaky voice:

　　"Platoche! Eh, Platoche! Keep them yourself!" And handing back theodd bits he turned and went out.

　　"There, look at that," said Karataev, swaying his head. "People saidthey were not Christians, but they too have souls. It's what the oldfolk used to say: 'A sweating hand's an open hand, a dry hand'sclose.' He's naked, but yet he's given it back."

　　Karataev smiled thoughtfully and was silent awhile looking at thepieces.

　　"But they'll make grand leg bands, dear friend," he said, and wentback into the shed.