War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [656]
The plight of the whole army was like the plight of a wounded animal that feels itself perishing and does not know what it is doing. To study the skillful maneuvers and aims of Napoleon and his army from the moment of his entry into Moscow until the destruction of that army, is the same as studying the meaning of the dying leaps and convulsions of a mortally wounded animal. Very often a wounded animal, hearing a rustle, rushes towards the hunter’s shot, runs forward, then back, and hastens its own end. That was what Napoleon was doing under the pressure of his whole army. The rustle of the battle of Tarutino frightened the beast, and it rushed ahead towards the shot, ran as far as the hunter, turned back, then ahead, then back again, and finally, like any beast, ran back over its old, familiar tracks—that is, over the most disadvantageous and dangerous path for it.
Napoleon, whom we imagine as guiding this whole movement (as a savage imagines that the figure carved on the prow of a ship is the force that guides it), Napoleon, during all this time of his activity, was like a child who, holding the straps tied inside a carriage, fancies that he is driving it.
XI
On the sixth of October, early in the morning, Pierre stepped out of the shed and, on his way back, stopped by the door, playing with a long, purplish dog on short, bowed legs that was fidgeting around him. This dog lived in their shed, spending the nights with Karataev, but occasionally went to town somewhere and came back again. It had probably never belonged to anyone, and now, too, it was no one’s and had no name at all. The French called it Azor, the storytelling soldier called it Femgalka, Karataev and the others sometimes called it Gray, sometimes Floppy. Its not belonging to anyone, and the absence of a name and even of a breed, even of a definite color, seemed not to bother the purplish dog in the least. Its fluffy tail stood up firm and rounded like a panache, its bowed legs served it so well that often, as if scorning to use all four legs, it raised one gracefully and ran very deftly and quickly on three. Everything was an object of pleasure for it. Now it lolled on its back, squealing with joy, now it warmed itself in the sun with a pensive and meaningful look, now it frolicked, playing with a wood chip or a straw.
Pierre’s clothing now consisted of a dirty, tattered shirt, the only remains of his former attire, a soldier’s trousers, tied with string at the ankles for the sake of warmth, on Karataev’s advice, a kaftan, and a muzhik’s hat. Physically Pierre had changed very much during that time. He no longer seemed fat, though he had the same look of massiveness and strength that was hereditary to his breed. The lower part of his face was overgrown with a beard and mustache; his hair, grown long and full of lice, now formed a tangled, curly cap. There was firmness, calm, and a lively readiness in the expression of his eyes, such as had never been there before. His former laxness, expressed even in his gaze, was now replaced by an energetic composure, ready for action and resistance. His feet were bare.
Pierre now looked down across the field, over which wagons and horsemen were moving about that morning, now into the distance beyond the river, now at the dog, who pretended that she was going to bite him in earnest, now at his bare feet, which he took pleasure in shifting into different positions, moving his dirty, fat, big toes. And each time he looked at his bare feet, a lively and self-satisfied smile passed over his face. The sight of those bare feet reminded him of all he had lived through and understood during that time, and he found that remembrance pleasant.
For several days already the