War And Peace

Several of the prisoners had heard Pierre talking to the corporal, and now they wanted to know what he had said. Pierre was busy telling his companions what had been said about the French moving out of Moscow when a thin, sallow, ragged French soldier came up to the door of the shed. With one quick, uncertain gesture he put his fingers to his forehead in a kind of salute, looked at Pierre, and asked whether Private Platoche, who was making a shirt for him, lived in this shed.

The French soldiers had been issued with linen and leather a week or so before this, and had got the Russian prisoners to make boots and shirts for them.

‘Oh yes, me old darlin’, ’tis ready all right!’ said Karatayev, emerging with a neatly folded shirt. Because of the heat, and to make it easier for working, Karatayev was wearing nothing but a pair of drawers and a tattered shirt, as black as the soil. He had tied his hair up with a strip of bark-fibre like a factory-worker, and his round face looked rounder than ever and even more genial.

‘A deal’s a deal. Friday, I said, and I’ve done it,’ said Platon with a broad smile, unfolding the shirt he had made.

The Frenchman looked round nervously. He seemed full of misgivings, but he overcame them, slipped off his jacket and put the shirt on. Under his uniform he hadn’t been wearing a shirt; next to his yellow, thin body he wore a long, greasy, flowery silk waistcoat. He was obviously worried that the prisoners might take one look at him and fall about laughing, and he shoved his head quickly through the neck-hole. None of the prisoners said a word.

‘Nice fit, that,’ said Platon, easing the shirt down. The Frenchman got his head and arms through, and inspected the fit of the shirt, checking the needle-work without once looking up.

‘Well, me dear, this ain’t no tailor’s shop, you know, and I didn’t have no proper sewing kit, and they do say you can’t kill a louse without the right kit,’ said Karatayev, admiring his own handiwork.

‘No, it’s very good. Thank you very much. But you must have some stuff left over . . .’ said the Frenchman.

‘It’ll bed in as you wears it,’ said Karatayev, still revelling in his achievement. ‘There you are. Nice and comfortable, that’s what you’ll be.’

‘Thank you, thank you very much, old fellow, but what about the offcuts?’ repeated the Frenchman, handing Karatayev a banknote. ‘Have you got the offcuts?’

Pierre could tell Platon was determined not to understand what the Frenchman was saying in his own language, and he watched the pair of them without interfering. Karatayev thanked him for the money, but he was still lost in admiration of his own work. The Frenchman insisted, and asked Pierre to translate.

‘What does he want with the offcuts?’ said Karatayev. ‘Nice set of leg-bands they’d have been. Oh well, it doesn’t worry me.’

And so, with a sudden saddening of his features, Karatayev took a bundle of remnants out of his shirt and handed them over without looking at the Frenchman. ‘Oh, dearie me!’ he cried, and walked away. The Frenchman looked down at the linen, nonplussed, glanced quizzically in Pierre’s direction, and seemed to pick up a message from the way Pierre looked back.

‘Hey, Platoche!’ he called in a thin, shrill voice, suddenly blushing. ‘You can keep these,’ he said. He gave him the remnants, turned away and walked off.

‘Now, just look at that,’ said Karatayev, shaking his head. ‘Not supposed to be Christians, but they’ve got souls too. Like what the old folks always said: a sweaty hand’s an open hand, a dry fist is tight. Not a stitch to his back, and ’e gives me this lot.’ Karatayev stood there for a while, saying nothing, just smiling thoughtfully to himself and staring at the offcuts. ‘Nice set of leg-bands these’ll be, me dear,’ he said, walking off back into the shed.

CHAPTER 12

Four weeks had passed since Pierre had been taken prisoner. Although the French had offered to transfer him so he could be with the officers, he had stayed on in the same shed they had first put him in.