War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [549]
Though there was no whistling of cannonballs and bullets here, on the road he was walking along, there was on all sides the same thing as there on the battlefield. There were the same suffering, tormented, and sometimes strangely indifferent faces, the same blood, the same soldiers’ greatcoats, the same sounds of gunfire, distant now, but arousing terror all the same; besides, it was stifling and dusty.
Having gone some two miles along the Mozhaisk high road, Pierre sat down by the roadside.
Dusk had fallen over the earth, and the roar of the artillery had died down. Pierre, propping himself on his elbow, lay down and stayed that way for a long time, gazing at the shadows that moved past him in the darkness. He kept fancying that a cannonball was flying at him with a frightful whistling; he would give a start and raise himself up. He did not remember how long he lay there. In the middle of the night three soldiers, bringing brushwood, settled next to him and began to make a fire.
The soldiers, glancing sidelong at Pierre, made the fire, put a kettle on it, crumbled some biscuits into it, and added some lard. The pleasant smell of edible and greasy viands mingled with the smell of smoke. Pierre sat up and sighed. The soldiers (there were three of them) were eating, without paying attention to Pierre, and talking among themselves.
“And what sort are you?” one of the soldiers suddenly addressed Pierre, obviously implying by this question what Pierre was thinking, namely: if you want to eat, we’ll give you some, only tell us if you’re an honest man.
“I? I?…” said Pierre, feeling it necessary to diminish his social position as much as possible, so as to be closer and more understandable to the soldiers. “I’m actually a militia officer, only my detachment isn’t here; I was in the battle and lost my men.”
“Just look at that!” said one of the soldiers.
Another soldier shook his head.
“Well, then, eat some of our mess if you want!” said the first, and he handed Pierre a wooden spoon, after licking it clean.
Pierre moved towards the fire and began to eat the mess that was in the kettle and that seemed to him the tastiest of all the dishes he had ever eaten. While he bent over the kettle, scooping up big spoonfuls and greedily chewing one after another, his face could be seen in the firelight, and the soldiers silently looked at him.
“Where are you headed? Tell us!” one of them again asked.
“To Mozhaisk.”
“So you’d be a gentleman?”
“Yes.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Pyotr Kirillovich.”
“Well, Pyotr Kirillovich, come on, we’ll take you there.”
In total darkness, the soldiers walked with Pierre towards Mozhaisk.
The cocks were already crowing when they reached Mozhaisk and began to climb the steep town hill. Pierre walked with the soldiers, having forgotten completely that his inn was below, at the foot of the hill, and that he had already gone past it. He would not have remembered it (he was in such a state of bewilderment) if halfway up the hill he had not run into his groom, who had gone looking for him all over the town and was now going back to the inn. The groom recognized Pierre by his hat, showing white in the darkness.
“Your Excellency,” he said, “we’ve been in despair. Why are you on foot? Where are you going, if you please!”
“Ah, yes,” said Pierre.
The soldiers stopped.
“Well, so you’ve found your people?” said one of them.
“Well, good-bye to you! Pyotr Kirillovich, is it? Good-bye to you, Pyotr Kirillovich!” said other voices.
“Good-bye,” said Pierre, and he headed for the inn together with his groom.
“I should give them something!” Pierre thought, putting his hand to his pocket. “No, you shouldn’t,” some voice said to him.
There was no place left in the rooms of the inn: they were all taken. Pierre went out to the yard and, covering himself