War And Peace

‘I suppose I could ask,’ he thought. ‘But they’d only say, “It’s one young boy worrying about another.” I’ll show them what kind of boy I am tomorrow! Would it be too embarrassing to ask?’ Petya wondered. ‘Oh, well! I don’t care.’ And without further ado, blushing and watching the officers’ faces warily for any signs of amusement, he said, ‘Do you think we might call that boy in, the one who was taken prisoner, and give him something to eat . . . er, perhaps . . .’

‘Yes, poor little devil,’ said Denisov, who clearly saw nothing embarrassing in the suggestion. ‘Bring him in. His name is Vincent Bosse. Go and fetch him.’

‘I’ll get him,’ said Petya.

‘Yes, do. Poor little devil,’ repeated Denisov.

Petya was standing near the door as Denisov said this. He wriggled between the officers and went up to Denisov.

‘I must embrace you, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘Oh, how splendid! How marvellous!’ He embraced Denisov, and ran outside.

‘Bosse! Vincent!’ Petya called out, standing by the door.

‘Yes, sir. Who do you want?’ said a voice through the darkness. Petya said they wanted the French boy who had been taken prisoner that day.

‘Oh, you mean Vesenny?’ said the Cossack.

His name, Vincent, had already undergone a transformation: the Cossacks called him Vesenny, and the peasants Visenya. In both new versions the touch of spring – vesna in Russian – went well with the figure of the young boy.

‘He’s having a warm by the fire. Hey, Visenya! Visenya!’ Voices and laughter echoed through the darkness.

‘He’s a bright boy,’ said a hussar standing next to Petya. ‘We’ve just given him a meal. Was he hungry!’

Bare feet splashed through the mud in the darkness, and the drummer-boy appeared by the door.

‘Oh, there you are,’ said Petya. ‘Do you want something to eat? Don’t be afraid. Nobody’s going to hurt you,’ he added shyly, touching his hand warmly. ‘Come in, come in.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ answered the drummer, in a quavering voice, almost that of a child, and he began wiping his dirty feet. There was a lot that Petya wanted to say to the drummer-boy, but he didn’t dare. He stood next to him in the entry, shifting from one foot to the other. Then he took hold of his hand in the darkness and gave it a squeeze. ‘Come in, come in,’ he repeated, this time in a gentle whisper.

‘Oh, I wish I could do something for him!’ Petya said to himself as he opened the door and ushered the boy in ahead of him.

When the drummer-boy had come inside Petya sat down some way away, feeling that it would be lowering his dignity to take much notice of him. He sat there fingering the money in his pocket and wondering whether it would be too embarrassing to give some to the drummer-boy.

CHAPTER 8

Denisov had told them to give the drummer-boy some vodka and mutton and dress him in a long Russian coat so he could stay with their unit rather than being sent off with the other prisoners. Petya’s attention was distracted from him by the arrival of Dolokhov. He had heard lots of army stories about Dolokhov’s outstanding bravery and his callous attitude to the French, so from the moment Dolokhov set foot inside the hut Petya couldn’t take his eyes off him; he looked more and more sure of himself and tossed his head back to show himself not unworthy of the company of someone like Dolokhov.

Petya was taken aback by the ordinariness of Dolokhov’s appearance.

Denisov was dressed in a Cossack coat, he had grown a beard and he wore an icon of St Nikolay the Miracle-worker on his chest; there was something about his way of speaking and his overall bearing that bore witness to his special position. By contrast, Dolokhov, who had sported a Persian costume in Moscow, now looked like a well-turned-out guards officer. He was clean-shaven, and he wore the usual guardsman’s padded coat with a St George ribbon in his button-hole and an ordinary forage-cap set straight on his head. Now he took his wet cloak off in the corner, walked over to Denisov without greeting anybody and got straight down to business by asking how things were going. Denisov told him all about the designs the larger units had on the French convoy, the message Petya had brought and his response to both generals. Then he went through everything he knew about the present disposition of the French.

‘That’s fine. But we’ve got to find out what kind of troops they are, and how many they’ve got,’ said Dolokhov. ‘We must go and have a look. We can’t just rush in without knowing for certain how many there are. I like to do things by the book. Come on, I’m sure one of you gentlemen wouldn’t mind coming with me to pay them a little call. I’ve got a spare uniform with me.’

‘I, er . . . I’ll come!’ cried Petya.

‘There’s absolutely no need for you to go,’ said Denisov to Dolokhov, ‘and I wouldn’t let him go for all the tea in China.’

‘I like that!’ cried Petya. ‘Why shouldn’t I go?’

‘Because there’s no need for it.’