War and Peace
said, turning to an officer who wished to cut himself a piece of mutton.
And he handed him his clasp knife. The officer admired it.
“Please keep it. I have several like it,” said Pétya, blushing.
“Heavens! I was quite forgetting!” he suddenly cried. “I have some
raisins, fine ones; you know, seedless ones. We have a new sutler and
he has such capital things. I bought ten pounds. I am used to something
sweet. Would you like some?...” and Pétya ran out into the passage to
his Cossack and brought back some bags which contained about five pounds
of raisins. “Have some, gentlemen, have some!”
“You want a coffeepot, don’t you?” he asked the esaul. “I bought a
capital one from our sutler! He has splendid things. And he’s very
honest, that’s the chief thing. I’ll be sure to send it to you. Or
perhaps your flints are giving out, or are worn out—that happens
sometimes, you know. I have brought some with me, here they are”—and he
showed a bag—“a hundred flints. I bought them very cheap. Please take as
many as you want, or all if you like....”
Then suddenly, dismayed lest he had said too much, Pétya stopped and
blushed.
He tried to remember whether he had not done anything else that was
foolish. And running over the events of the day he remembered the French
drummer boy. “It’s capital for us here, but what of him? Where have they
put him? Have they fed him? Haven’t they hurt his feelings?” he thought.
But having caught himself saying too much about the flints, he was now
afraid to speak out.
“I might ask,” he thought, “but they’ll say: ‘He’s a boy himself and so
he pities the boy.’ I’ll show them tomorrow whether I’m a boy. Will it
seem odd if I ask?” Pétya thought. “Well, never mind!” and immediately,
blushing and looking anxiously at the officers to see if they appeared
ironical, he said:
“May I call in that boy who was taken prisoner and give him something to
eat?... Perhaps...”
“Yes, he’s a poor little fellow,” said Denísov, who evidently saw
nothing shameful in this reminder. “Call him in. His name is Vincent
Bosse. Have him fetched.”
“I’ll call him,” said Pétya.
“Yes, yes, call him. A poor little fellow,” Denísov repeated.
Pétya was standing at the door when Denísov said this. He slipped in
between the officers, came close to Denísov, and said:
“Let me kiss you, dear old fellow! Oh, how fine, how splendid!”
And having kissed Denísov he ran out of the hut.
“Bosse! Vincent!” Pétya cried, stopping outside the door.
“Who do you want, sir?” asked a voice in the darkness.
Pétya replied that he wanted the French lad who had been captured that
day.
“Ah, Vesénny?” said a Cossack.
Vincent, the boy’s name, had already been changed by the Cossacks into
Vesénny (vernal) and into Vesénya by the peasants and soldiers. In both
these adaptations the reference to spring (vesná) matched the impression
made by the young lad.
“He is warming himself there by the bonfire. Ho, Vesénya!
Vesénya!—Vesénny!” laughing voices were heard calling to one another in
the darkness.
“He’s a smart lad,” said an hussar standing near Pétya. “We gave him
something to eat a while ago. He was awfully hungry!”
The sound of bare feet splashing through the mud was heard in the
darkness, and the drummer boy came to the door.
“Ah, c’est vous!” said Pétya. “Voulez-vous manger? N’ayez pas peur, on
ne vous fera pas de mal,” * he added shyly and affectionately, touching
the boy’s hand. “Entrez, entrez.” *(2)
* “Ah, it’s you! Do you want something to eat? Don’t be
afraid, they won’t hurt you.”
* (2) “Come in, come in.”
“Merci, monsieur,” * said the drummer boy in a trembling almost childish
voice, and he began scraping his dirty feet on the threshold.
* “Thank you, sir.”
There were many things Pétya wanted to say to the drummer boy, but did
not dare to. He stood irresolutely beside him in the passage. Then in
the darkness he took the boy’s hand and pressed it.
“Come in, come in!” he repeated in a gentle whisper. “Oh, what can I do
for him?” he thought, and opening the door he let the boy pass in first.
When the boy had entered the hut, Pétya sat down at a distance from
him, considering it beneath his dignity to pay attention to him. But
he fingered the money in his pocket and wondered whether it would seem
ridiculous to give some to the drummer boy.
CHAPTER VIII
The arrival of Dólokhov diverted Pétya’s attention from the drummer boy,
to whom Denísov had had some mutton and vodka given, and whom he had had
dressed in a Russian coat so that he might be kept with their band and
not sent away with the other prisoners. Pétya had heard in the army many
stories of Dólokhov’s extraordinary bravery and of his cruelty to the
French, so from the moment he entered the hut Pétya did not take his
eyes from him, but braced himself up more and more and held his head
high, that he might not be unworthy even of such company.
Dólokhov’s appearance amazed Pétya by its simplicity.
Denísov wore a Cossack coat, had a beard, had an icon of Nicholas the
Wonder-Worker on his breast, and his way of speaking and everything he
did indicated his unusual position. But Dólokhov, who in Moscow had worn
a Persian costume, had now the appearance of a most correct officer of
the Guards. He was clean-shaven and wore a Guardsman’s padded coat with
an Order of St. George at his buttonhole and a plain forage cap set
straight on his head. He took off his wet felt cloak in a corner of
the room, and without greeting anyone went up to Denísov and began
questioning him about the matter in hand. Denísov told him of the
designs the large detachments had on the transport, of the message Pétya
had brought, and his own replies to both generals. Then he told him all
he knew of the French detachment.
“That’s so. But we must know what troops they are and their numbers,”
said Dólokhov. “It will be necessary to go there. We can’t start the
affair without knowing for certain how many there are. I like to work
accurately. Here now—wouldn’t one of these gentlemen like to ride over
to the French camp with me? I have brought a spare uniform.”
“I, I... I’ll go with you!” cried Pétya.
“There’s no need for you to go at all,” said Denísov, addressing
Dólokhov, “and as for him, I won’t let him go on any account.”
“I like that!” exclaimed Pétya. “Why shouldn’t I go?”
“Because it’s useless.”
“Well, you must excuse me, because... because... I shall go, and that’s
all. You’ll take me, won’t you?” he said, turning to Dólokhov.
“Why not?” Dólokhov answered absently, scrutinizing the face of the
French drummer boy. “Have you had that youngster with you long?” he
asked Denísov.
“He was taken today but he knows nothing. I’m keeping him with me.”
“Yes, and where do you put the others?” inquired Dólokhov.
“Where? I send them away and take a weceipt for them,” shouted Denísov,
suddenly flushing. “And I say boldly that I have not a single man’s life
on my conscience. Would it be difficult for you to send thirty or
thwee hundwed men to town under escort, instead of staining—I speak
bluntly—staining the honor of a soldier?”
“That kind of amiable talk would be suitable from this young count of
sixteen,” said Dólokhov with cold irony, “but it’s time for you to drop
it.”
“Why, I’ve not said anything! I only say that I’ll certainly go with
you,” said Pétya shyly.
“But for you and me, old fellow, it’s time to drop these amenities,”
continued Dólokhov, as if he found particular pleasure in speaking of
this subject which irritated Denísov. “Now, why have you kept this lad?”
he went on, swaying his head. “Because you are sorry for him! Don’t we
know those ‘receipts’ of yours? You send a hundred men away, and thirty
get there. The rest either starve or get killed. So isn’t it all the
same not to send them?”
The esaul, screwing up his light-colored eyes, nodded approvingly.
“That’s not the point. I’m not going to discuss the matter. I do not
wish to take it on my conscience. You say they’ll die. All wight. Only
not by my fault!”
Dólokhov began laughing.
“Who has told them not to capture me these twenty times over? But if
they did catch me they’d string me up to an aspen tree, and with all
your chivalry just the same.” He paused. “However, we must get to work.
Tell the Cossack to fetch my kit. I have two French uniforms in it.
Well, are you coming with me?” he asked Pétya.
“I? Yes, yes, certainly!” cried Pétya, blushing almost to tears and
glancing at Denísov.
While Dólokhov had been disputing with Denísov what should be done with
prisoners, Pétya had once more felt awkward and restless; but again he
had no time to grasp fully what they were talking about. “If grown-up,
distinguished men think so, it must be necessary and right,” thought he.
“But above all Denísov must not dare to imagine that I’ll obey him and
that he can order me about. I will certainly go to the French camp with
Dólokhov. If he can, so can I!”
And to all Denísov’s persuasions, Pétya replied that he too was
accustomed to do everything accurately and not 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....”
CHAPTER IX
Having put on French greatcoats and shakos, Pétya and Dólokhov rode to
the clearing from which Denísov had reconnoitered the French camp,
and emerging from the forest in pitch darkness they descended into the
hollow. On reaching the bottom, Dólokhov told the Cossacks accompanying
him to await him there and rode on at a quick trot along the road to the
bridge. Pétya, 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 Dólokhov 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 Pétya’s face and he grasped his pistol.
“Lanciers du 6-me,” * replied Dólokhov, 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.”
Dólokhov reined in his horse and advanced at a walk.
“Dites donc, le colonel Gérard est ici?” * he asked.
* “Tell me, is Colonel Gérard 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 Dólokhov 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, Dólokhov rode up the incline at a walk.
Noticing the black outline of a man crossing the road, Dólokhov 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
Dólokhov’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, Dólokhov turned into the courtyard of the
landowner’s house. Having ridden in, he dismounted and approached a