“The potatoes are first-rate,” he repeated. “You taste them like that.”
It seemed to Pierre that he had never eaten anything so good.
“No, I am all right,” said Pierre; “but why did they shoot those poor fellows？…The last was a lad of twenty.”
“Tss…tss…” said the little man. “Sin, indeed,…sin…” he added quickly, just as though the words were already in his mouth and flew out of it by accident; he went on： “How was it, sir, you came to stay in Moscow like this？”
“I didn’t think they would come so soon. I stayed by accident,” said Pierre.
“But how did they take you, darling; from your home？”
“No, I went out to see the fire, and then they took me up and brought me to judgment as an incendiary.”
“Where there’s judgment, there there’s falsehood,” put in the little man.
“And have you been here long？” asked Pierre, as he munched the last potato.
“I？ On Sunday they took me out of the hospital in Moscow.”
“Who are you, a soldier？”
“We are soldiers of the Apsheron regiment. I was dying of fever. We were never told anything. There were twenty of us lying sick. And we had never a thought, never a guess of how it was.”
“Well, and are you miserable here？” asked Pierre.
“Miserable, to be sure, darling. My name’s Platon, surname Karataev,” he added, evidently to make it easier for Pierre to address him. “In the regiment they called me ‘the little hawk.’ How can one help being sad, my dear？ Moscow—she’s the mother of cities. One must be sad to see it. Yes, the maggot gnaws the cabbage, but it dies before it’s done; so the old folks used to say,” he added quickly.
“What, what was that you said？” asked Pierre.
“I？” said Karataev. “I say it’s not by our wit, but as God thinks fit,” said he, supposing that he was repeating what he had said. And at once he went on： “Tell me, sir, and have you an estate from your fathers？ And a house of your own？ To be sure, your cup was overflowing！ And a wife, too？ And are your old parents living？” he asked, and though Pierre could not see him in the dark, he felt that the soldier’s lips were puckered in a restrained smile of kindliness while he asked these questions. He was evidently disappointed that Pierre had no parents, especially that he had not a mother.
“Wife for good counsel, mother-in-law for kind welcome, but none dear as your own mother！” said he. “And have you children？” he went on to ask. Pierre’s negative reply seemed to disappoint him again, and he added himself： “Oh well, you are young folks; please God, there will be. Only live in peace and concord.”
“But it makes no difference now,” Pierre could not help saying.
“Ah, my dear man,” rejoined Platon, “the beggar’s bag and the prison walls none can be sure of escaping.” He settled himself more comfortably, and cleared his throat, evidently preparing himself for a long story. “So it was like this, dear friend, when I used to be living at home,” he began, “we have a rich heritage, a great deal of land, the peasants were well off, and our house—something to thank God for, indeed. Father used to go out to reap with six of us. We got along finely. Something like peasants we were. It came to pass…” and Platon Karataev told a long story of how he had gone into another man’s copse for wood, and had been caught by the keeper, how he had been flogged, tried, and sent for a soldier. “And do you know, darling,” said he, his voice changing from the smile on his face, “we thought it was a misfortune, while it was all for our happiness. My brother would have had to go if it hadn’t been for my fault. And my younger brother had five little ones; while I, look you, I left no one behind but my wife. I had a little girl, but God had taken her before I went for a soldier. I went home on leave, I must tell you. I find them all better off than ever. The yard full of beasts, the women folk at home, two brothers out earning wages. Only Mihailo, the youngest, at home. Father says all his children are alike; whichever finger’s pricked, it hurts the same. And if they hadn’t shaved Platon for a soldier, then Mihailo would have had to go. He called us all together—would you believe it—made us stand before the holy picture. ‘Mihailo,’ says he, ‘come here, bend down to his feet; and you, women, bow down; and you, grandchildren. Do you understand？’ says he. Yes, so you see, my dear. Fate acts with reason. And we are always passing judgment; that’s not right, and this doesn’t suit us. Our happiness, my dear, is like water in a dragnet; you drag, and it is all puffed up, but pull it out and there’s nothing. Yes, that’s it.” And Platon moved to a fresh seat in the straw.
After a short pause, Platon got up.
“Well, I dare say, you are sleepy？” he said, and he began rapidly crossing himself, murmuring：
“Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nikola, Frola and Lavra; Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nikola, Frola and Lavra; Lord Jesus Christ—have mercy and save us！” he concluded, bowed down to the ground, got up, sighed, and sat down on his straw. “That’s right. Let me lie down like a stone, O God, and rise up like new bread！” he murmured, and lay down, pulling his military coat over him.
“What prayer was that you recited？” asked Pierre.
“Eh？” said Platon （he was already half asleep）. “Recited？ I prayed to God. Don’t you pray, too？”
“Yes, I do,” said Pierre. “But what was it you said—Frola and Lavra？”
“Eh, to be sure,” Platon answered quickly. “They’re the horses’ saints. One must think of the poor beasts, too,” he said. “Why, the little hussy, she’s curled up. You’re warm, child of a *****！” he said, feeling the dog at his feet; and, turning over again, he fell asleep at once.
Outside shouting and wailing could be heard somewhere far away, and through the cracks in the walls could be seen the glow of fire; but within the shed all was dark and hushed. For a long while Pierre did not sleep, and lay with open eyes in the darkness, listening to Platon snoring rhythmically as he lay beside him, and he felt that the world that had been shattered was rising up now in his soul, in new beauty, and on new foundations that could not be shaken.