War And Peace

Noticing the black shadow of a man crossing the road, Dolokhov stopped him and asked where the colonel and officers were to be found. The man, a soldier carrying a sack over his shoulder, stopped, came up close to Dolokhov’s horse, patted it with one hand and told them in a simple, friendly way that the colonel and the officers were just up the hill on the right-hand side, in the courtyard of the farm, as he called the little manor house.

They kept on up the road, hearing French voices from the camp-fires on both sides, and then Dolokhov turned into the yard of the manor house. When he got to the gate, he dismounted and walked over to a big, blazing fire with several men sitting round it, engaged in loud conversation. There was something boiling in a pot over to one side, and a soldier in a peaked cap and a blue coat was down on his knees in the bright glow, stirring away with his ramrod.

‘He’s as tough as old boots, you know,’ said one of the officers, sitting in the shadows on the other side of the fire.

‘He’ll get them off their backsides,’ said another with a laugh.

They stopped talking and peered into the darkness when they heard Petya and Dolokhov approaching with their horses.

‘Good evening, gentlemen!’ Dolokhov called out clearly in a loud voice.

There was a stir among the officers in the shadows beyond the fire, and one of them, a tall man with a long neck, walked round the fire and came over to Dolokhov.

‘Is that you, Clément?’ said he. ‘Where the devil . . . ?’ but he broke off when he saw his mistake, and frowned slightly, greeting Dolokhov as a stranger, and asking whether he could be of any assistance. Dolokhov told him he and his comrade were trying to catch up with their regiment, and asked the whole company whether they knew anything about the Sixth Regiment. Nobody did, and Petya thought the officers were beginning to look at him and Dolokhov with hostility and suspicion. For several seconds nobody spoke.

‘If you were hoping for some supper you’ve come too late,’ said a voice from across the fire, with a scarcely concealed laugh.

Dolokhov said they weren’t hungry, and they had to push on during the night.

He gave their horses to the soldier who was stirring the pot and squatted down on his heels next to the officer with the long neck. This man couldn’t take his eyes off Dolokhov, and he asked again what regiment he belonged to. Dolokhov appeared not to hear the question. Instead of answering he took out a short French pipe, lit it and asked the officers whether the road ahead was safe from Cossacks.

‘The brigands are everywhere,’ answered an officer from across the fire.

Dolokhov said that the Cossacks were only a danger to stragglers like him and his comrade; they wouldn’t dare to attack the big units. ‘Would they?’ he added inquiringly. There was no answer.

‘He’s bound to come away now, surely,’ Petya kept thinking as he stood by the fire listening to the conversation.

But Dolokhov struck up again, and proceeded to ask direct questions. How many men did they have in their battalion? How many battalions were there? How many prisoners?

Inquiring about the Russian prisoners, Dolokhov went on to say, ‘Nasty business this, dragging these corpses after you. Better to shoot vermin like that,’ and he broke into such a strange, loud laugh that Petya thought the French were bound to see through their disguise, and his instinctive reaction was to take a step back from the fire.

Dolokhov’s comment and laughter elicited no response, and a French officer, someone they hadn’t seen because he was lying there wrapped up in a greatcoat, sat up and whispered something to his neighbour. Dolokhov got to his feet and shouted to the man holding their horses.

‘Are they going to let us have our horses?’ Petya wondered, instinctively edging closer to Dolokhov.

They did.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Dolokhov.

Petya tried to say ‘Good evening’, but the words stuck in his throat. The officers were whispering. Dolokhov’s horse wouldn’t stand still and it took him a long time to mount; then at last they were going out through the gate at a gentle walking pace. Petya rode at his side, not daring to look back, though he was dying to see whether or not the French were running after them.

Once out on the road, instead of turning back towards the open country Dolokhov rode along further into the village. At one point he stopped and listened.

‘Can you hear that?’ he said.

Petya recognized the sound of voices speaking Russian, and he could see camp-fires with the dark shapes of Russian prisoners all round them. When they finally got back to the bridge Petya and Dolokhov rode past the sentry, who continued to pace gloomily up and down and never said a word. They came to the hollow where the Cossacks were waiting.

‘Goodbye, then. Tell Denisov. Sunrise. We’ll wait for the first shot,’ said Dolokhov, and he was about to ride away, but Petya snatched at his arm.