War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [114]
“It is a disgrace for a soldier to steal, a soldier should be honest, noble, and brave; and if one steals from his comrade, there is no honor in him, he is a scoundrel. More, more!”
Again there came the supple strokes and a desperate but feigned cry.
“More, more,” repeated the major.
A young officer, with an expression of perplexity and suffering on his face, walked away from the punished man, looking questioningly at the passing adjutant.
Prince Andrei, having reached the front line, rode along it. Our line and the enemy’s stood far from each other on the left and right flanks, but in the center, where the envoys had passed that morning, the lines came so close that the men could see each other’s faces and talk to each other. Besides the soldiers who occupied the line at that place, many of the curious stood on both sides and gazed, laughing, at their strange and foreign-looking enemies.
Since early morning, though it was forbidden to go near the line, the officers had been unable to ward off the curious. The soldiers stationed on the line, like people displaying something rare, no longer looked at the French, but made their observations to those who came and, languishing, waited to be relieved. Prince Andrei stopped to examine the French.
“Look, look,” one soldier said to his comrade, pointing to a Russian musketeer who had gone up to the line along with an officer and was speaking rapidly and heatedly with a French grenadier. “See how clever he patters away. Even the Khrenchman can’t keep up with him. Now you, Sidorov…”
“Wait, listen. That’s really clever!” replied Sidorov, who was considered an expert at speaking French.
The soldier at whom the laughing men were pointing was Dolokhov. Prince Andrei recognized him and listened to what he was saying. Dolokhov and his company commander had come to the line from the left flank, where their regiment was stationed.
“Go on, more, more!” the company commander egged him on, leaning forward and trying not to miss a single incomprehensible word. “Thicker and faster! What’s he saying?”
Dolokhov did not answer his company commander; he was involved in a heated argument with the French grenadier. They were talking, as they could only have been, about the campaign. The Frenchman, confusing the Austrians with the Russians, insisted that the Russians had surrendered and fled all the way from Ulm. Dolokhov insisted that the Russians had not surrendered, but had beaten the French.
“We have orders to drive you away, and that’s what we’re going to do,” said Dolokhov.
“Only try hard not to get captured with all your Cossacks,” said the French grenadier.
The French onlookers and listeners laughed.
“We’ll make you dance, as you danced for Suvorov” (on vous fera danser), said Dolokhov.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il chante?”*219 said one Frenchman.
“De l’histoire ancienne,” said a third, realizing that the talk was about former wars. “L’Empereur va lui faire voir à votre Souvara, comme les autres…”†220
“Bonaparte…” Dolokhov began, but the Frenchman interrupted him.
“There is no Bonaparte. There is the Emperor! Sacré nom…”‡221 he cried angrily.
“Devil take your emperor!”
And Dolokhov produced a rude soldier’s curse and, shouldering his gun, walked off.
“Come on, Ivan Lukich,” he said to the company commander.
“That’s the Khrench for you,” the soldiers started talking in the line. “Now you, Sidorov!”
Sidorov winked and, turning to the French, began pouring out a thick patter of incomprehensible words:
“Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter, kaskà,” he pattered, trying to give his voice expressive intonations.
“Ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Hoo, hoo!” Peals of such healthy and merry guffawing