War And Peace

On the 21st of October, when his general had voiced a desire to send someone over to Denisov’s company, Petya had begged so piteously to be sent that the general couldn’t refuse. But even as he dispatched him the general remembered Petya’s foolhardy behaviour at the battle of Vyazma, when, instead of riding straight down the road to deliver a message, Petya had got within firing range of the French and loosed off a couple of pistol-shots, so with this in mind he explicitly banned Petya from taking part in any action that Denisov might be contemplating. This was why Petya had blushed and looked embarrassed when Denisov asked if it was all right for him to stay. Until the moment he got to the edge of the wood Petya had fully intended to carry out his duty to the letter and go straight back. But once he had seen the French, and Tikhon, and learnt that tonight’s attack was definitely on, he suddenly decided, with the swift change of mind that youngsters are so prone to, that the general he had greatly admired until then was a miserable specimen, and only a German, whereas Denisov was a hero, and the hetman was a hero, and Tikhon was a hero, and it would be disgraceful to leave them at such a difficult time.

It was getting dark when Denisov, Petya and the hetman rode up to the forester’s hut. In the semi-darkness they could see saddled horses, Cossacks and hussars building little shelters in the clearing, and kindling a glowing fire in a gully so no smoke would be visible to the French. In the entrance of the little hut a Cossack with his sleeves rolled up was butchering a sheep. Inside, three officers of Denisov’s unit were busy converting the door into a table. Petya took off his wet clothes, handed them over for drying and got straight down to helping the officers fix up a dining-table.

In ten minutes the table was ready, covered with a napkin and set out with vodka, a flask of rum, some white bread, roast mutton and salt.

Sitting at the table with the officers, with his fingers running with fat as he tore into the mutton that smelled so good, Petya was in a state of childish rapture and tender affection for the whole of mankind matched by the certainty that everybody else felt the same affection for him.

‘So what do you think, Vasily Fyodorovich?’ he said to Denisov. ‘It will be all right for me to stay on just for a day or so, won’t it?’ And without waiting for an answer, he provided his own response: ‘I mean, I was told to find out about things, and I am finding out about things . . . Only you must let me get right into . . . you know, the real . . . I’m not bothered about winning medals . . . But I would like to, er . . .’ Petya clenched his teeth and looked round at them, raising his head even higher and waving his hands in the air.

‘Get into the thick of things,’ said Denisov with a smile.

‘Oh, please, put me in charge of something. I do want to be in charge,’ Petya went on. ‘It wouldn’t be much trouble to you. Would you like to borrow my knife?’ he said to an officer, who was trying to cut himself a piece of mutton. And he gave him his folding pocket-knife.

The officer admired the knife.

‘Oh, please keep it. I’ve got several like that . . .’ said Petya, colouring up. ‘Gosh! I nearly forgot,’ he cried suddenly. ‘I’ve got some lovely raisins. You know, the ones without stones. We have a new canteen-man, and he does get hold of some smashing things. I bought ten pounds of them. I’ve got a sweet tooth! Would you like some?’ And Petya ran out to his Cossack in the entrance, and came back with baskets containing five pounds of raisins. ‘Help yourselves, gentlemen. Do help yourselves.’

‘Do you happen to need a coffee-pot?’ he said to the hetman. ‘I bought a beauty from our canteen-man! He has such smashing things. And he’s very honest. That’s the main thing. I’ll make sure I send it. Or perhaps your flints have nearly had it – these things do happen. I brought some with me. Look, I’ve got them here . . .’ – he pointed to the baskets – ‘A hundred flints. I got them cheap. Please, take as many as you like. Take them all . . .’ And suddenly, dismayed at the thought that he might have let his tongue run away with him, Petya stopped short and coloured up.

He began to think back, wondering whether he might have committed any other faux pas. And as he ran through his recollections of the day gone by, a memory of the French drummer-boy popped up in his mind.

‘We’re having a wonderful time, but how is he getting on? What have they done with him? Has he been fed? Have they been nasty to him?’ he wondered.

But, remembering how he had gabbled on about the flints, he was too scared to ask.