EARLY in the morning of the 6th of October, Pierre came out of the shed, and when he went back, he stood in the doorway, playing with the long bandy-legged, purplish-grey dog, that jumped about him. This dog lived in their shed, sleeping with Karataev, though it sometimes went off on its own account into the town, and came back again. It had probably never belonged to any one, and now it had no master, and no name. The French called it Azor; the soldier who told stories called it Femgalka; Karataev called it “Grey-coat,” and sometimes “Floppy.” The lack of a master, of a name, of any particular breed, and even of a definite colour, by no means troubled the purplish-grey dog. Its fluffy tail stood up firm and round like a plume; its bandy legs served it so well that often, as though disdaining to use all four, it would hold one hind-leg gracefully up, and run very quickly and smartly on three paws. Everything was a source of satisfaction to it. At one moment, it was barking with joy, then it would bask in the sun, with a dreamy and thoughtful air, then it would frolic about, playing with a chip or a straw.
Pierre's attire now consisted of a dirty, tattered shirt, the sole relic left of his previous wardrobe, a pair of soldier's drawers, tied with string round the ankles by Karataev's advice, for the sake of warmth, a full peasant's coat and a peasant's cap. Physically Pierre had changed greatly during this period. He no longer seemed stout, though he still had that look of solidity and strength that was characteristic of the Bezuhov family. The lower part of his face was overgrown with beard and moustaches; his long, tangled hair, swarming with lice, formed a mat of curls on his head. His eyes had a look of firmness, calm, and alert readiness, such as had never been seen in Pierre's face before. All his old slackness, which had shown even in his eyes, was replaced now by a vigorous, alert look of readiness for action and for resistance. His feet were bare.
Pierre looked over the meadow, across which waggons and men on horseback were moving that morning, then far away beyond the river, then at the dog, who was pretending to be meaning to bite him in earnest, then at his bare feet, which he shifted with pleasure from one position to another, moving the dirty, thick, big toes. And every time he looked at his bare feet, a smile of eager self-satisfaction flitted across his face. The sight of those bare feet reminded him of all he had passed through and learned during this time; and the thought of that was sweet to him.
The weather had for several days been still and clear, with light frosts in the mornings—the so-called “old granny's summer.”
It was warm out of doors in the sunshine, and that warmth was particularly pleasant, with the bracing freshness of the morning frost still in the air.
Over everything, over all objects near and far, lay that magical, crystal-clear brightness, which is only seen at that time in the autumn. In the distance could be seen the Sparrow Hills, with the village, the church, and the great white house. And the leafless trees, and the sand and the stones and roofs of the houses, the green spire of the church, and the angles of the white house in the distance, all stood out in the most delicate outlines with unnatural distinctness in the limpid air. Close at hand stood the familiar ruins of a half-burnt mansion, occupied by French soldiers, with lilac bushes still dark-green by the fence. And even this charred and ruined house, which looked revoltingly hideous in bad weather, had a sort of soothing comeliness in the clear, still brightness.
A French corporal, in a smoking-cap, with his coat comfortably unbuttoned, came round the corner of the shed, with a short pipe between his teeth, and with a friendly wink, approached Pierre.
“What sunshine, hein, M. Kiril?” (This was what all the French soldiers called Pierre.) “One would say it was spring.” And the corporal leaned against the door, and offered Pierre his pipe, though he was always offering it, and Pierre always declined it.
“If one were marching in weather like this,” he began.
Pierre questioned him what he had heard of the departure of the French, and the corporal told him that almost all the troops were setting out, and that to-day instructions were expected in regard to the prisoners. In the shed in which Pierre was, one of the Russian soldiers, Sokolov, was dangerously ill, and Pierre told the corporal that something ought to be done about this soldier. The corporal said that Pierre might set his mind at rest, that they had both travelling and stationary hospitals for such cases, that instructions would be given in regard to the sick, and that in fact every possible contingency was provided for by the authorities.
“And then, M. Kiril, you have only to say a word to the captain, you know. Oh, he is a man who never forgets anything. Speak to the captain when he makes his round; he will do anything for you.”
The captain of whom the corporal spoke used often to have long conversations with Pierre, and did him all kinds of favours.
“‘You see, St. Thomas,” he said to me the other day, ‘Kiril is a man of education, who speaks French; he is a Russian lord who has had troubles, but he is a man. And he understands … If he wants anything, let him tell me, he shall not meet with a refusal. When one has studied, one likes education, you see, and well-bred people.' It's for your own sake I tell you that, M. Kiril. In the affair that happened the other day, if it hadn't been for you, things would have ended badly.”
(The corporal was alluding to a fight a few days before between the prisoners and the French soldiers, in which Pierre had succeeded in pacifying his companions.) After chatting a little time longer the corporal went away.
Several of the prisoners had heard Pierre talking to the corporal, and they came up immediately to ask what the latter had said. While Pierre was telling his companions what the corporal had said about setting off from Moscow, a thin, sallow, ragged French soldier came up to the door of the shed. With a shy and rapid gesture he put his fingers to his forehead by way of a salute, and addressing Pierre, asked him if the soldier, Platoche, who was making a shirt for him, were in this shed.
The French soldiers had been provided with linen and leather a week previously, and had given out the materials to the Russian prisoners to make them boots and shirts.
“It's ready, darling, it's ready!” said Karataev, coming out with a carefully folded shirt. On account of the heat and for greater convenience in working, Karataev was wearing nothing but a pair of drawers and a tattered shirt, as black as the earth. He had tied a wisp of bast round his hair, as workmen do, and his round face looked rounder and more pleasing than ever.
“Punctuality is own brother to good business. I said Friday, and so I have done it,” said Platon, smiling and displaying the shirt he had made.
The Frenchman looked about him uneasily, and as though overcoming some hesitation, rapidly slipped off his uniform and put on the shirt. Under his uniform he had no shirt, but a long, greasy, flowered silk waistcoat next his bare, yellow, thin body. The Frenchman was evidently afraid that the prisoners, who were looking at him, would laugh at him, and he made haste to put his head through the shirt. None of the prisoners said a word. “To be sure, it fits well,” Platon observed, pulling the shirt down. The Frenchman, after putting his head and arms through, looked down at the shirt, and examined the stitching without lifting his eyes.
“Well, darling, this isn't a tailor's, you know, and I had no proper sewing materials, and there's a saying without the right tool you can't even kill a louse properly,” said Karataev, still admiring his own handiwork.
“Very good, thanks; but you must have some stuff left…” said the Frenchman.
“It will be more comfortable as it wears to your body,” said Karataev, still admiring his work. “There, you'll be nice and comfortable.”
“Thanks, thanks, old fellow; but what is left…?” repeated the Frenchman, giving Karataev a paper note. “Give me the pieces that are over.”
Pierre saw that Platon did not want to understand what the Frenchman said, and he looked on without interfering. Karataev thanked him for the rouble and went on admiring his own work. The Frenchman persisted in asking for what was left, and asked Pierre to translate what he said.
“What does he want with the pieces?” said Karataev. “They would have made me capital leg wrappers. Oh well, God bless the man.”
And, looking suddenly crestfallen and melancholy, Karataev took a bundle of remnants out of his bosom and gave it to the Frenchman without looking at him. “Ach-ma!” he cried, and walked away. The Frenchman looked at the linen, he hesitated, glanced inquiringly at Pierre, and as though Pierre's eyes had told him something:
“Here, Platoche!” he cried in a shrill voice, suddenly blushing. “Keep them yourself,” he said, and giving him the remnants, he turned and went out.
“There, look'ee now,” said Karataev, shaking his head. “They say they're not Christians, but they have souls too. It's true what the old folks used to say: a sweating hand is an open hand, but a dry hand is closefisted. His own back's bare, and yet he has given me this.” Karataev paused for a while, smiling dreamily and gazing at the cuttings of linen. “But first-rate leg binders they'll make me, my dear,” he added, as he went back into the shed.
十月六日清晨，皮埃尔走出棚子，返回来的时候，在门旁边停了下来，逗玩一只围着他跳的身子长、腿又短又弯、毛色雪青的小狗。这条小狗住在他们的棚子里，夜间和卡拉塔耶夫睡在一起，它有时跑进城里，然后又跑回来。他大概从来都不属于任何人，而现在也仍然不属于任何人，也从来没有一个名字，法国人叫它阿佐尔，喜欢讲故事的那个士兵叫它费姆加尔卡，卡拉塔耶夫和其他人都叫它小灰子，有时候叫它薇薇。它没有主人，没有名字，甚至种属也不明，毛色也不清，所有这一切，似乎并没有使那条蓝灰色的小狗为难。它那毛茸茸的尾巴像帽子上插的羽毛直竖起来，又硬又圆，罗圈腿是那么听使唤，它常常优美地提起一条后腿，很轻快、很迅捷地用三条腿跑路，好像不屑于把四条腿都用上一样。一切都使它高兴。它一会儿欢快地汪汪叫着在地上打滚，一会儿带着若有所思的神情晒太阳，一会儿玩弄着一块木片或一根干草。
皮埃尔的衣服现在只有一件又脏又破的衬衫（他原有的衣服剩下的唯一的一件），一条用农民的长衫和帽子改制成的士兵的裤子，按照卡拉塔耶夫的意见，用绳子把裤脚扎上以保暖。皮埃尔在这一时期身体变化很大。虽然从外表上来看，他依然具有他们家族遗传的强迫有力的体魄，但是他已经没有那么胖了。脸的下半截长满了胡子；满头乱发生满了虱子，盘在头上的头发就像一顶帽子。眼睛的表情坚定、平静、机灵和充满活力，皮埃尔从前从来没有过这种表情。从前他那种松懈、散漫的眼神，现在却换上一付精力饱满、随时准备行动和反抗的奋进精神。他的双脚是光着的。
皮埃尔忽而看着从那天早上就行驶着大量车辆和骑马的人所经过的田野，忽而又看着河对岸的远方，忽而又看着那只装出真心要咬他的小狗，忽而又看着自己的一双光腿板，然后他饶有兴味地把这一双光脚摆成各种不同的姿势，翘动着粗大、脏污的脚趾头。每当他看着自己的那一双光脚板，脸上就露出兴奋和得意的微笑。这一双光脚板的模样，使他想起这一段时间所有的经历和所懂得的道理，这一段回忆使他感到愉快。
一连许多天，都是风和日丽，每天早晨有一层薄霜——
所谓的“晴和的初秋”。
在室外，在阳光下，暖洋洋的，这种温暖加上早晨的微寒，空气清新，凉爽宜人，使人感到格外愉快。
在所有的东西上面，不论是近处的还是远处的东西上面，都有一层神秘的、明净的光辉，这只有在这个时期的秋天才可以见到。在远方的麻雀的和那个村庄，那所教堂，以及那处高大的白色房屋都清晰可见。光秃秃的树林、沙地、石头、房顶、教堂的绿色塔顶、远处那所白色房屋的墙角——所有这一切物体的最精细的线条，异常清晰地，在透彻明亮的空气中显露出来了。近处是随处都可以看到的法军占领的被焚毁的贵族宅第的断垣残壁，在垣墙周围还有墨绿色的丁香树丛。甚至这座在阴暗的天气丑得可憎的污秽的废墟，这时，在明朗、宁静的光辉中，也显露出一种令人欣慰的美。
一个法军班长随便地敞着衣襟、头戴一顶便帽，嘴里叨着烟斗，从棚子的角落处走了出来，走到皮埃尔跟前，友好地向他挤挤眼。
“Quelsoleil，hein，monsieurKiril？（法国人都这样称呼皮埃尔），Ondiraitleprintemps．”①于是那个班长靠在门上，把他的烟斗递给皮埃尔，虽然不论什么时候他递过来，皮埃尔总是拒绝。
“Sil'onmarchaitparuntempscommecelui—là…”②他刚要说下去。
①法语：多么好的太阳，嗯，基里尔先生，简直是春天。
②法语：如果在这样的天气行军嘛……
皮埃尔问他听到有关出发的消息没有，那个班长说，几乎所有的部队都已经出发了，今天应当得到处理俘虏的命令。在皮埃尔住的那所棚子里有一个叫索科洛夫的士兵，患了重病，生命垂危，皮埃尔对那个班长说，应当对他有适当的安排，班长要皮埃尔尽管放心，因为他们有一所野战医院和一所常设的医院，都会照应病员的，总之，可能发生的一切事情，长官们全都想到了。
“Etpuis，monsieurKiril，vousn'avezqu'àdireunmotaucapitaine，voussavez．Oh，c'estun…quinóubliejamaisrien．Ditesaucapitainequandilferasatournée，ilferatoutpourvous…”①
班长所说的那个上尉，时常和皮埃尔长谈，给他以各种照顾。
“Vois—tu，St．Thomas，qu'ilmedisaitl'autrejour：Kirilc'estunhommeguiadel'instruction，quiparlefranBcais；c'estunseigneurrusse，quiaeudesmalheurs，maisc'estunhomme．Etils'yentendle…S'ildemandequelquechose，qu'ilmedise，iln'yapasderefus．Quandonafaitsesétudes，voyezvous，onaimel'instructionetlesgenscommeilfaut．C'estpourvousquejediscelà，monsieurKirBil．Dansl'affairedel'autrejoursicen'étaitàvous，caauraitfinimal．”②
①法语：还有，基里尔先生，您只要对上尉说一声就行了，您知道……他这个人……什么都放在心上。他再来巡视时，您对上尉说吧，他什么都会为您办的……
②法语：您知道，托马斯前些时候对我说：基里尔是个有教养的人，他会说法语，他是落魄的俄国贵族，但也是个人物，他这人通情达理……他需要什么，都满足他。向人讨讨教，那你就会爱知识，爱有教养的人，我这是说您呢，基里尔先生，前几天，如果不是您的话，事情可就糟了。
那个班长又闲谈了一会儿以后，就走了。（那个班长所说的前几天发生的事，是俘虏们和法国人打了一架，皮埃尔劝阻了自己的同伴，使事件平息下来了。）有几个俘虏在听了皮埃尔和那个班长的谈话之后，立即问皮埃尔，那个班长说了些什么，皮埃尔告诉同伴们说，班长说，法国军队已经出发了，这时，一个面黄肌瘦，衣衫褴褛的法国兵来到棚子门前。他向着皮埃尔迅速而胆怯地把手指举到额头表示敬礼，他问皮埃尔，给他缝衬衫的士兵普拉托什是否在棚子里。
一星期之前，法国人领到了一批皮料和麻布，分发给俘虏们缝制靴子和衬衫。
“做好了，做好了，小伙子！”卡拉塔耶夫拿着叠得很整齐的衬衫走出来说道。
由于天气暖和，也为了干活方便，卡拉塔耶夫只穿着一条裤子和一件黑得像泥土一样的破衬衫。他像工匠那样，把头发用蒡提树皮扎了起来，他的圆脸似乎比以前更圆更愉快了。
“诺言——事业的亲兄弟。说星期五做好，就星期五做好。”普拉尔笑着解开他缝好的衬衫说道。
那个法国人心神不定地东张西望，好像要消除一种疑虑似的，赶忙脱下他的制服，穿上那件衬衫。那个法国人的制服里面没有衬衫，贴着他那赤裸、焦黄、瘦削的身体的是一件老长的，满是油污的，有花点点的绸背心。他显然怕俘虏们要是看见会笑话他，所以他迅速把头套进衬衫。没有任何一个俘虏说过一句话。
“瞧，多合身！”普拉东一面帮他拉伸衬衫，一面反复地说。那个法国人伸进了头和双手之后，连眼皮都不抬一下，他低下头看那件衬衫，又细看衬衫的线缝。
“怎么样，小伙子，这不是裁缝铺呵，没有一件地道的工具；常言道，没有工具连一个虱子也杀不死，”普拉东说，他的脸笑得更圆，看样子，他很欣赏自己的手艺。
“C'estbien，c'estbien，merci，maisvousdevezavoirdelatoiledereste？”①法国人说。
“你要贴身穿，会更合适。”卡拉塔耶夫说，他继续赞赏自己的作品。“那真漂亮，真舒服……”
“Merci，merci，monvieux，lereste？…②法国人微笑又说，他掏出一张钞票，给了卡拉塔耶夫，“Maislereste…”③
皮埃尔看出普拉东并不想要弄懂法国人的话，所以他只在一旁看，并不去干预。卡拉塔耶夫谢了法国人的钱，仍在继续欣赏自己的作品。那个法国人坚持要回所剩的碎布，于是，他请皮埃尔把他的话翻译一下。
“他要那些碎布头有什么用处？”卡拉塔耶夫说。“我们可以用来做一副很好的包脚布。好，上帝保佑他。”卡拉塔耶夫突然脸色阴沉下来，从怀里掏出来一卷碎布头，连着也不看那个法国人一眼，递给了他。“哎呀，真是！”卡拉塔耶夫掉头就往回走，法国人看了一下那些碎布头，沉思片刻，以询问的目光看着皮埃尔，皮埃尔的目光好像在对他说什么。
“Platoche，ditesdonc，Platoche，”④法国人突然间脸涨红了，尖声叫喊道。“Gradezpourvous．”⑤他说着就把那些碎布头又递了过去，转身就走开了。
①法语：好，好，谢谢，剩下的布头呢？
②法语：好，好，谢谢，剩下的布头呢？”
③法语：谢谢，谢谢，我的朋友，剩布头呢，还给我吧……
④法语：普拉东，我说，普拉东，⑤法语：你拿去吧。
“你瞧，这有多怪，”卡拉塔耶夫摇着头说道。“人们说他们都不是基督教徒，而他们也有良心。这就是老人们常说的那句话：‘汗手是张着的，干手是拳着的。'（越是有钱的人越吝啬，越是穷的人越大方。——译者注。）他自己光着身子，但是，他还是把那些东西还给我了。”卡拉塔耶夫若有所思地笑了一笑，然后，他望着那些剩下来的碎布头，沉默了好一阵子。“可以用这东西做出一副很不错的包脚布呢，亲爱的朋友们。”他说了这句话后，走回到栅子里去了。
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