The Complete Works of Leo Tolstoy (25+ Works with active table of contents)

by Leo Tolstoy

  In ten minutes the table was ready and a napkin spread on it. On the table were vodka, a flask of rum, white bread, roast mutton, and salt.

  Sitting at table with the officers and tearing the fat savory mutton with his hands, down which the grease trickled, Petya was in an ecstatic childish state of love for all men, and consequently of confidence that others loved him in the same way.

  "So then what do you think, Vasili Dmitrich?" said he to Denisov. "It's all right my staying a day with you?" And not waiting for a reply he answered his own question: "You see I was told to find out- well, I am finding out.... Only do let me into the very... into the chief... I don't want a reward... But I want..."

  Petya clenched his teeth and looked around, throwing back his head and flourishing his arms.

  "Into the vewy chief..." Denisov repeated with a smile.

  "Only, please let me command something, so that I may really command..." Petya went on. "What would it be to you?... Oh, you want a knife?" he said, turning to an officer who wished to cut himself a piece of mutton.

  And he handed him his clasp knife. The officer admired it.

  "Please keep it. I have several like it," said Petya, blushing. "Heavens! I was quite forgetting!" he suddenly cried. "I have some raisins, fine ones; you know, seedless ones. We have a new sutler and he has such capital things. I bought ten pounds. I am used to something sweet. Would you like some?..." and Petya ran out into the passage to his Cossack and brought back some bags which contained about five pounds of raisins. "Have some, gentlemen, have some!"

  "You want a coffeepot, don't you?" he asked the esaul. "I bought a capital one from our sutler! He has splendid things. And he's very honest, that's the chief thing. I'll be sure to send it to you. Or perhaps your flints are giving out, or are worn out--that happens sometimes, you know. I have brought some with me, here they are"- and he showed a bag--"a hundred flints. I bought them very cheap. Please take as many as you want, or all if you like...."

  Then suddenly, dismayed lest he had said too much, Petya stopped and blushed.

  He tried to remember whether he had not done anything else that was foolish. And running over the events of the day he remembered the French drummer boy. "It's capital for us here, but what of him? Where have they put him? Have they fed him? Haven't they hurt his feelings?" he thought. But having caught himself saying too much about the flints, he was now afraid to speak out.

  "I might ask," he thought, "but they'll say: 'He's a boy himself and so he pities the boy.' I'll show them tomorrow whether I'm a boy. Will it seem odd if I ask?" Petya thought. "Well, never mind!" and immediately, blushing and looking anxiously at the officers to see if they appeared ironical, he said:

  "May I call in that boy who was taken prisoner and give him something to eat?... Perhaps..."

  "Yes, he's a poor little fellow," said Denisov, who evidently saw nothing shameful in this reminder. "Call him in. His name is Vincent Bosse. Have him fetched."

  "I'll call him," said Petya.

  "Yes, yes, call him. A poor little fellow," Denisov repeated.

  Petya was standing at the door when Denisov said this. He slipped in between the officers, came close to Denisov, and said:

  "Let me kiss you, dear old fellow! Oh, how fine, how splendid!"

  And having kissed Denisov he ran out of the hut.

  "Bosse! Vincent!" Petya cried, stopping outside the door.

  "Who do you want, sir?" asked a voice in the darkness.

  Petya replied that he wanted the French lad who had been captured that day.

  "Ah, Vesenny?" said a Cossack.

  Vincent, the boy's name, had already been changed by the Cossacks into Vesenny (vernal) and into Vesenya by the peasants and soldiers. In both these adaptations the reference to spring (vesna) matched the impression made by the young lad.

  "He is warming himself there by the bonfire. Ho, Vesenya! Vesenya!--Vesenny!" laughing voices were heard calling to one another in the darkness.

  "He's a smart lad," said an hussar standing near Petya. "We gave him something to eat a while ago. He was awfully hungry!"

  The sound of bare feet splashing through the mud was heard in the darkness, and the drummer boy came to the door.

  "Ah, c'est vous!" said Petya. "Voulez-vous manger? N'ayez pas peur, on ne vous fera pas de mal,"* he added shyly and affectionately, touching the boy's hand. "Entrez, entrez."*[2]

  *"Ah, it's you! Do you want something to eat? Don't be afraid, they won't hurt you."

  *[2] "Come in, come in."

  "Merci, monsieur,"* said the drummer boy in a trembling almost childish voice, and he began scraping his dirty feet on the threshold.

  *"Thank you, sir."

  There were many things Petya wanted to say to the drummer boy, but did not dare to. He stood irresolutely beside him in the passage. Then in the darkness he took the boy's hand and pressed it.

  "Come in, come in!" he repeated in a gentle whisper. "Oh, what can I do for him?" he thought, and opening the door he let the boy pass in first.

  When the boy had entered the hut, Petya sat down at a distance from him, considering it beneath his dignity to pay attention to him. But he fingered the money in his pocket and wondered whether it would seem ridiculous to give some to the drummer boy.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The arrival of Dolokhov diverted Petya's attention from the drummer boy, to whom Denisov had had some mutton and vodka given, and whom he had had dressed in a Russian coat so that he might be kept with their band and not sent away with the other prisoners. Petya had heard in the army many stories of Dolokhov's extraordinary bravery and of his cruelty to the French, so from the moment he entered the hut Petya did not take his eyes from him, but braced himself up more and more and held his head high, that he might not be unworthy even of such company.

  Dolokhov's appearance amazed Petya by its simplicity.

  Denisov wore a Cossack coat, had a beard, had an icon of Nicholas the Wonder-Worker on his breast, and his way of speaking and everything he did indicated his unusual position. But Dolokhov, who in Moscow had worn a Persian costume, had now the appearance of a most correct officer of the Guards. He was clean-shaven and wore a Guardsman's padded coat with an Order of St. George at his buttonhole and a plain forage cap set straight on his head. He took off his wet felt cloak in a corner of the room, and without greeting anyone went up to Denisov and began questioning him about the matter in hand. Denisov told him of the designs the large detachments had on the transport, of the message Petya had brought, and his own replies to both generals. Then he told him all he knew of the French detachment.

  "That's so. But we must know what troops they are and their numbers," said Dolokhov. "It will be necessary to go there. We can't start the affair without knowing for certain how many there are. I like to work accurately. Here now--wouldn't one of these gentlemen like to ride over to the French camp with me? I have brought a spare uniform."

  "I, I... I'll go with you!" cried Petya.

  "There's no need for you to go at all," said Denisov, addressing Dolokhov, "and as for him, I won't let him go on any account."

  "I like that!" exclaimed Petya. "Why shouldn't I go?"

  "Because it's useless."

  "Well, you must excuse me, because... because... I shall go, and that's all. You'll take me, won't you?" he said, turning to Dolokhov.

  "Why not?" Dolokhov answered absently, scrutinizing the face of the French drummer boy. "Have you had that youngster with you long?" he asked Denisov.

  "He was taken today but he knows nothing. I'm keeping him with me."

  "Yes, and where do you put the others?" inquired Dolokhov.

  "Where? I send them away and take a weceipt for them," shouted Denisov, suddenly flushing. "And I say boldly that I have not a single man's life on my conscience. Would it be difficult for you to send thirty or thwee hundwed men to town under escort, instead of staining- I speak bluntly--staining the honor of a soldier?"

  "That kind of amiable talk wo
uld be suitable from this young count of sixteen," said Dolokhov with cold irony, "but it's time for you to drop it."

  "Why, I've not said anything! I only say that I'll certainly go with you," said Petya shyly.

  "But for you and me, old fellow, it's time to drop these amenities," continued Dolokhov, as if he found particular pleasure in speaking of this subject which irritated Denisov. "Now, why have you kept this lad?" he went on, swaying his head. "Because you are sorry for him! Don't we know those 'receipts' of yours? You send a hundred men away, and thirty get there. The rest either starve or get killed. So isn't it all the same not to send them?"

  The esaul, screwing up his light-colored eyes, nodded approvingly.

  "That's not the point. I'm not going to discuss the matter. I do not wish to take it on my conscience. You say they'll die. All wight. Only not by my fault!"

  Dolokhov began laughing.

  "Who has told them not to capture me these twenty times over? But if they did catch me they'd string me up to an aspen tree, and with all your chivalry just the same." He paused. "However, we must get to work. Tell the Cossack to fetch my kit. I have two French uniforms in it. Well, are you coming with me?" he asked Petya.

  "I? Yes, yes, certainly!" cried Petya, blushing almost to tears and glancing at Denisov.

  While Dolokhov had been disputing with Denisov what should be done with prisoners, Petya had once more felt awkward and restless; but again he had no time to grasp fully what they were talking about. "If grown-up, distinguished men think so, it must be necessary and right," thought he. "But above all Denisov must not dare to imagine that I'll obey him and that he can order me about. I will certainly go to the French camp with Dolokhov. If he can, so can I!"

  And to all Denisov's persuasions, Petya replied that he too was accustomed to do everything accurately and not just anyhow, and that he never considered personal danger.

  "For you'll admit that if we don't know for sure how many of them there are... hundreds of lives may depend on it, while there are only two of us. Besides, I want to go very much and certainly will go, so don't hinder me," said he. "It will only make things worse..."

  CHAPTER IX

  Having put on French greatcoats and shakos, Petya and Dolokhov rode to the clearing from which Denisov had reconnoitered the French camp, and emerging from the forest in pitch darkness they descended into the hollow. On reaching the bottom, Dolokhov told the Cossacks accompanying him to await him there and rode on at a quick trot along the road to the bridge. Petya, his heart in his mouth with excitement, rode by his side.

  "If we're caught, I won't be taken alive! I have a pistol," whispered he.

  "Don't talk Russian," said Dolokhov in a hurried whisper, and at that very moment they heard through the darkness the challenge: "Qui vive?"* and the click of a musket.

  *"Who goes there?"

  The blood rushed to Petya's face and he grasped his pistol.

  "Lanciers du 6-me,"* replied Dolokhov, neither hastening nor slackening his horse's pace.

  *"Lancers of the 6th Regiment."

  The black figure of a sentinel stood on the bridge.

  "Mot d'ordre."*

  *"Password."

  Dolokhov reined in his horse and advanced at a walk.

  "Dites donc, le colonel Gerard est ici?"* he asked.

  *"Tell me, is Colonel Gerard here?"

  "Mot d'ordre," repeated the sentinel, barring the way and not replying.

  "Quand un officier fait sa ronde, les sentinelles ne demandent pas le mot d'ordre..." cried Dolokhov suddenly flaring up and riding straight at the sentinel. "Je vous demande si le colonel est ici."*

  *"When an officer is making his round, sentinels don't ask him for the password.... I am asking you if the colonel is here."

  And without waiting for an answer from the sentinel, who had stepped aside, Dolokhov rode up the incline at a walk.

  Noticing the black outline of a man crossing the road, Dolokhov stopped him and inquired where the commander and officers were. The man, a soldier with a sack over his shoulder, stopped, came close up to Dolokhov's horse, touched it with his hand, and explained simply and in a friendly way that the commander and the officers were higher up the hill to the right in the courtyard of the farm, as he called the landowner's house.

  Having ridden up the road, on both sides of which French talk could be heard around the campfires, Dolokhov turned into the courtyard of the landowner's house. Having ridden in, he dismounted and approached a big blazing campfire, around which sat several men talking noisily. Something was boiling in a small cauldron at the edge of the fire and a soldier in a peaked cap and blue overcoat, lit up by the fire, was kneeling beside it stirring its contents with a ramrod.

  "Oh, he's a hard nut to crack," said one of the officers who was sitting in the shadow at the other side of the fire.

  "He'll make them get a move on, those fellows!" said another, laughing.

  Both fell silent, peering out through the darkness at the sound of Dolokhov's and Petya's steps as they advanced to the fire leading their horses.

  "Bonjour, messieurs!"* said Dolokhov loudly and clearly.

  *"Good day, gentlemen."

  There was a stir among the officers in the shadow beyond the fire, and one tall, long-necked officer, walking round the fire, came up to Dolokhov.

  "Is that you, Clement?" he asked. "Where the devil...?" But, noticing his mistake, he broke off short and, with a frown, greeted Dolokhov as a stranger, asking what he could do for him.

  Dolokhov said that he and his companion were trying to overtake their regiment, and addressing the company in general asked whether they knew anything of the 6th Regiment. None of them knew anything, and Petya thought the officers were beginning to look at him and Dolokhov with hostility and suspicion. For some seconds all were silent.

  "If you were counting on the evening soup, you have come too late," said a voice from behind the fire with a repressed laugh.

  Dolokhov replied that they were not hungry and must push on farther that night.

  He handed the horses over to the soldier who was stirring the pot and squatted down on his heels by the fire beside the officer with the long neck. That officer did not take his eyes from Dolokhov and again asked to what regiment he belonged. Dolokhov, as if he had not heard the question, did not reply, but lighting a short French pipe which he took from his pocket began asking the officer in how far the road before them was safe from Cossacks.

  "Those brigands are everywhere," replied an officer from behind the fire.

  Dolokhov remarked that the Cossacks were a danger only to stragglers such as his companion and himself, "but probably they would not dare to attack large detachments?" he added inquiringly. No one replied.

  "Well, now he'll come away," Petya thought every moment as he stood by the campfire listening to the talk.

  But Dolokhov restarted the conversation which had dropped and began putting direct questions as to how many men there were in the battalion, how many battalions, and how many prisoners. Asking about the Russian prisoners with that detachment, Dolokhov said:

  "A horrid business dragging these corpses about with one! It would be better to shoot such rabble," and burst into loud laughter, so strange that Petya thought the French would immediately detect their disguise, and involuntarily took a step back from the campfire.

  No one replied a word to Dolokhov's laughter, and a French officer whom they could not see (he lay wrapped in a greatcoat) rose and whispered something to a companion. Dolokhov got up and called to the soldier who was holding their horses.

  "Will they bring our horses or not?" thought Petya, instinctively drawing nearer to Dolokhov.

  The horses were brought.

  "Good evening, gentlemen," said Dolokhov.

  Petya wished to say "Good night" but could not utter a word. The officers were whispering together. Dolokhov was a long time mounting his horse which would not stand still, then he rode out of the yard at a footpace. Petya rode besid
e him, longing to look round to see whether or no the French were running after them, but not daring to.

  Coming out onto the road Dolokhov did not ride back across the open country, but through the village. At one spot he stopped and listened. "Do you hear?" he asked. Petya recognized the sound of Russian voices and saw the dark figures of Russian prisoners round their campfires. When they had descended to the bridge Petya and Dolokhov rode past the sentinel, who without saying a word paced morosely up and down it, then they descended into the hollow where the Cossacks awaited them.