War And Peace

Pierre’s clothing now consisted of a dirty, tattered shirt, the only thing left from what he had been wearing, a pair of soldier’s drawers tied round the ankles with pieces of string on Karatayev’s advice, to keep the warmth in, and a peasant’s coat and cap. Physically Pierre had changed a great deal during this period. He didn’t look fat any more, though he still retained the Bezukhovs’ bulk and strength. A beard and moustache covered the lower part of his face; his long, matted hair, crawling with lice, gave him a thick cap of curls. There was a firm, calm look in his eyes, the kind of sharpness and alertness that Pierre’s face had never shown before. All his old lassitude, which had shown itself even in his eyes, had given way to a new vitality; he looked instantly ready for action and resistance. His feet were bare.

Pierre looked across the meadow at the steady movement of wagons and men on horseback, then right out over the river, then at the dog, who was making a good show of really wanting to bite him, then down at his bare feet, twisting them about with enormous pleasure, and wriggling his big, thick, dirty toes. And every time he looked at his bare feet his face lit up with a bright smile of contentment. The sight of those bare feet reminded him of all he had gone through and all he had learnt during this period, and the memory was sweet.

For several days the weather had been calm and clear, with just a light frost in the mornings; it was a real Indian summer.

It was warm outside in the sunshine, and the warmth was particularly pleasant, with a bracing freshness still in the air after the early-morning frost.

Over everything, all objects near and far, lay the magic crystal brightness you will only ever see at this time in the autumn. The Sparrow hills were visible in the distance, along with a village, a church and a big white house. And the leafless trees, the sand, the stones and the rooftops of houses, the green church-steeple and the sharp corners of the white house in the distance all stood out with remarkable clarity, delicately etched in the limpid air. Nearer in stood the familiar ruins of a half-burnt mansion, occupied by French soldiers, with lilac bushes still showing dark-green by the fence. And even this charred and grimy house, such a hideous sight in bad weather, looked lovely, even comforting, in all the stillness and brightness.

A French corporal with a night-cap on his head and his coat casually unbuttoned, came round the corner of the shed, sucking on a stubby pipe, gave Pierre a friendly wink, and walked over to him.

‘Nice bit of sunshine, eh, Monsieur Kiril?’ (This was what all the French soldiers called Pierre.) ‘Just like spring.’

And the corporal leant against the door, offering Pierre his pipe, even though he was always doing this, and Pierre always refused.

‘If we were out on the road in weather like this . . .’ he began.

Pierre asked him some questions, hoping to find out whether he had heard anything about the French moving out, and the corporal told him nearly all the troops were going, and they were expecting orders today about what to do with the prisoners. In the shed that Pierre lived in there was a Russian soldier by the name of Sokolov who was so ill he was near to death, and Pierre told the corporal something had to be done about him. The corporal told Pierre not to worry: they had field stations and proper hospitals for cases like that, they would be told what to do with the sick, and all possible contingencies had been anticipated by the powers that be.

‘Anyway, Monsieur Kiril, all you have to do is say the word to the captain, you know. He’s a you know what, but he doesn’t forget things. Talk to the captain when he comes round. He’ll do the necessary.’

The captain in question had had many a long conversation with Pierre, and done him all sorts of favours.

‘ “Mark my words, St Thomas,” he was saying to me only the other day, “that Kiril’s an educated man, speaks French he does, he’s a Russian lord who’s been through a bad patch, but he’s a real man. And he knows what’s what . . . If he wants anything, he only has to ask, nobody will refuse him nothing.” When you’ve done your own bit of studying, see, you have a lot of time for education and posh people. I’m telling you this for your own good, Monsieur Kiril. That bit of business the other day – but for you it could have turned very nasty.’

The corporal chatted on for a few more minutes and then went away. (The other day’s bit of business had been a set-to between the prisoners and the French soldiers, which Pierre had managed to sort out by persuading his companions to calm down.)