Book Twelve: 1812 - Chapter XII

by Leo Tolstoy

　　After the execution Pierre was separated from the rest of theprisoners and placed alone in a small, ruined, and befouled church.

　　Toward evening a noncommissioned officer entered with two soldiersand told him that he had been pardoned and would now go to thebarracks for the prisoners of war. Without understanding what was saidto him, Pierre got up and went with the soldiers. They took him to theupper end of the field, where there were some sheds built of charredplanks, beams, and battens, and led him into one of them. In thedarkness some twenty different men surrounded Pierre. He looked atthem without understanding who they were, why they were there, or whatthey wanted of him. He heard what they said, but did not understandthe meaning of the words and made no kind of deduction from orapplication of them. He replied to questions they put to him, butdid not consider who was listening to his replies, nor how theywould understand them. He looked at their faces and figures, butthey all seemed to him equally meaningless.

　　From the moment Pierre had witnessed those terrible murderscommitted by men who did not wish to commit them, it was as if themainspring of his life, on which everything depended and which madeeverything appear alive, had suddenly been wrenched out and everythinghad collapsed into a heap of meaningless rubbish. Though he did notacknowledge it to himself, his faith in the right ordering of theuniverse, in humanity, in his own soul, and in God, had beendestroyed. He had experienced this before, but never so strongly asnow. When similar doubts had assailed him before, they had been theresult of his own wrongdoing, and at the bottom of his heart he hadfelt that relief from his despair and from those doubts was to befound within himself. But now he felt that the universe had crumbledbefore his eyes and only meaningless ruins remained, and this not byany fault of his own. He felt that it was not in his power to regainfaith in the meaning of life.

　　Around him in the darkness men were standing and evidently somethingabout him interested them greatly. They were telling him something andasking him something. Then they led him away somewhere, and at last hefound himself in a corner of the shed among men who were laughingand talking on all sides.

　　"Well, then, mates... that very prince who..." some voice at theother end of the shed was saying, with a strong emphasis on the wordwho.

　　Sitting silent and motionless on a heap of straw against the wall,Pierre sometimes opened and sometimes closed his eyes. But as soonas he closed them he saw before him the dreadful face of the factorylad- especially dreadful because of its simplicity- and the faces ofthe murderers, even more dreadful because of their disquiet. And heopened his eyes again and stared vacantly into the darkness aroundhim.

　　Beside him in a stooping position sat a small man of whosepresence he was first made aware by a strong smell of perspirationwhich came from him every time he moved. This man was doingsomething to his legs in the darkness, and though Pierre could not seehis face he felt that the man continually glanced at him. On growingused to the darkness Pierre saw that the man was taking off his legbands, and the way he did it aroused Pierre's interest.

　　Having unwound the string that tied the band on one leg, hecarefully coiled it up and immediately set to work on the other leg,glancing up at Pierre. While one hand hung up the first string theother was already unwinding the band on the second leg. In this way,having carefully removed the leg bands by deft circular motions of hisarm following one another uninterruptedly, the man hung the legbands up on some pegs fixed above his head. Then he took out aknife, cut something, closed the knife, placed it under the head ofhis bed, and, seating himself comfortably, clasped his arms roundhis lifted knees and fixed his eyes on Pierre. The latter wasconscious of something pleasant, comforting, and well rounded in thesedeft movements, in the man's well-ordered arrangements in hiscorner, and even in his very smell, and he looked at the man withouttaking his eyes from him.

　　"You've seen a lot of trouble, sir, eh?" the little man suddenlysaid.

　　And there was so much kindliness and simplicity in his singsongvoice that Pierre tried to reply, but his jaw trembled and he felttears rising to his eyes. The little fellow, giving Pierre no timeto betray his confusion, instantly continued in the same pleasanttones:

　　"Eh, lad, don't fret!" said he, in the tender singsong caressingvoice old Russian peasant women employ. "Don't fret, friend- 'sufferan hour, live for an age!' that's how it is, my dear fellow. Andhere we live, thank heaven, without offense. Among these folk, too,there are good men as well as bad," said he, and still speaking, heturned on his knees with a supple movement, got up, coughed, andwent off to another part of the shed.

　　"Eh, you rascal!" Pierre heard the same kind voice saying at theother end of the shed. "So you've come, you rascal? She remembers...Now, now, that'll do!"

　　And the soldier, pushing away a little dog that was jumping up athim, returned to his place and sat down. In his hands he had somethingwrapped in a rag.

　　"Here, eat a bit, sir," said he, resuming his former respectful toneas he unwrapped and offered Pierre some baked potatoes. "We had soupfor dinner and the potatoes are grand!"

　　Pierre had not eaten all day and the smell of the potatoes seemedextremely pleasant to him. He thanked the soldier and began to eat.

　　"Well, are they all right?" said the soldier with a smile. "Youshould do like this."

　　He took a potato, drew out his clasp knife, cut the potato intotwo equal halves on the palm of his hand, sprinkled some salt on itfrom the rag, and handed it to Pierre.

　　"The potatoes are grand!" he said once more. "Eat some like that!"

　　Pierre thought he had never eaten anything that tasted better.

　　"Oh, I'm all right," said he, "but why did they shoot those poorfellows? The last one was hardly twenty."

　　"Tss, tt...!" said the little man. "Ah, what a sin... what a sin!"he added quickly, and as if his words were always waiting ready in hismouth and flew out involuntarily he went on: "How was it, sir, thatyou stayed in Moscow?"

　　"I didn't think they would come so soon. I stayed accidentally,"replied Pierre.

　　"And how did they arrest you, dear lad? At your house?"

　　"No, I went to look at the fire, and they arrested me there, andtried me as an incendiary."

　　"Where there's law there's injustice," put in the little man.

　　"And have you been here long?" Pierre asked as he munched the lastof the potato.

　　"I? It was last Sunday they took me, out of a hospital in Moscow."

　　"Why, are you a soldier then?"

　　"Yes, we are soldiers of the Apsheron regiment. I was dying offever. We weren't told anything. There were some twenty of us lyingthere. We had no idea, never guessed at all."

　　"And do you feel sad here?" Pierre inquired.

　　"How can one help it, lad? My name is Platon, and the surname isKarataev," he added, evidently wishing to make it easier for Pierre toaddress him. "They call me 'little falcon' in the regiment. How is oneto help feeling sad? Moscow- she's the mother of cities. How can onesee all this and not feel sad? But 'the maggot gnaws the cabbage,yet dies first'; that's what the old folks used to tell us," headded rapidly.

　　"What? What did you say?" asked Pierre.

　　"Who? I?" said Karataev. "I say things happen not as we plan butas God judges," he replied, thinking that he was repeating what he hadsaid before, and immediately continued:

　　"Well, and you, have you a family estate, sir? And a house? So youhave abundance, then? And a housewife? And your old parents, arethey still living?" he asked.

　　And though it was too dark for Pierre to see, he felt that asuppressed smile of kindliness puckered the soldier's lips as he putthese questions. He seemed grieved that Pierre had no parents,especially that he had no mother.

　　"A wife for counsel, a mother-in-law for welcome, but there's noneas dear as one's own mother!" said he. "Well, and have you littleones?" he went on asking.

　　Again Pierre's negative answer seemed to distress him, and hehastened to add:

　　"Never mind! You're young folks yet, and please God may still havesome. The great thing is to live in harmony...."

　　"But it's all the same now," Pierre could not help saying.

　　"Ah, my dear fellow!" rejoined Karataev, "never decline a prisonor a beggar's sack!"

　　He seated himself more comfortably and coughed, evidentlypreparing to tell a long story.

　　"Well, my dear fellow, I was still living at home," he began. "Wehad a well-to-do homestead, plenty of land, we peasants lived well andour house was one to thank God for. When Father and we went out mowingthere were seven of us. We lived well. We were real peasants. It sohappened..."

　　And Platon Karataev told a long story of how he had gone intosomeone's copse to take wood, how he had been caught by the keeper,had been tried, flogged, and sent to serve as a soldier.

　　"Well, lad," and a smile changed the tone of his voice "we thoughtit was a misfortune but it turned out a blessing! If it had not beenfor my sin, my brother would have had to go as a soldier. But he, myyounger brother, had five little ones, while I, you see, only left awife behind. We had a little girl, but God took her before I went as asoldier. I come home on leave and I'll tell you how it was, I look andsee that they are living better than before. The yard full ofcattle, the women at home, two brothers away earning wages, and onlyMichael the youngest, at home. Father, he says, 'All my children arethe same to me: it hurts the same whichever finger gets bitten. But ifPlaton hadn't been shaved for a soldier, Michael would have had togo.' called us all to him and, will you believe it, placed us in frontof the icons. 'Michael,' he says, 'come here and bow down to his feet;and you, young woman, you bow down too; and you, grandchildren, alsobow down before him! Do you understand?' he says. That's how it is,dear fellow. Fate looks for a head. But we are always judging, 'that'snot well- that's not right!' Our luck is like water in a dragnet:you pull at it and it bulges, but when you've drawn it out it's empty!That's how it is."

　　And Platon shifted his seat on the straw.

　　After a short silence he rose.

　　"Well, I think you must be sleepy," said he, and began rapidlycrossing himself and repeating:

　　"Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord JesusChrist, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus Christ,have mercy on us and save us!" he concluded, then bowed to the ground,got up, sighed, and sat down again on his heap of straw. "That's theway. Lay me down like a stone, O God, and raise me up like a loaf," hemuttered as he lay down, pulling his coat over him.

　　"What prayer was that you were saying?" asked Pierre.

　　"Eh?" murmured Platon, who had almost fallen asleep. "What was Isaying? I was praying. Don't you pray?"

　　"Yes, I do," said Pierre. "But what was that you said: Frola andLavra?"

　　"Well, of course," replied Platon quickly, "the horses' saints.One must pity the animals too. Eh, the rascal! Now you've curled upand got warm, you daughter of a bitch!" said Karataev, touching thedog that lay at his feet, and again turning over he fell asleepimmediately.

　　Sounds of crying and screaming came from somewhere in the distanceoutside, and flames were visible through the cracks of the shed, butinside it was quiet and dark. For a long time Pierre did not sleep,but lay with eyes open in the darkness, listening to the regularsnoring of Platon who lay beside him, and he felt that the worldthat had been shattered was once more stirring in his soul with anew beauty and on new and unshakable foundations.