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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 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 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. 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 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 Karataev, coming
out 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 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 looking
at the pieces.
"But they'll make grand leg bands, dear friend,"
he said, and went back into the shed.
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