War And Peace

‘So, listen, brother . . .’ (It was at this point that Pierre had come in on the story.) ‘After this a dozen years or more goes by. The old man is still a convict. Resigned to ’is fate, ’e is, as is only right. Never does nothin’ wrong. The only thing ’e prays to God for is death . . . Right then . . . One night they be all gathered together, them convicts, just like we be ’ere, and the old man with ’em. And they starts talkin’ about what they’m all in for, what they done wrong in the eyes of God. Lots of good stories. One of ’em was in for murder, another for two murders, somebody else ’ad set fire to somethin’, and there was a wanderin’ tramp who never done nothin’ wrong. So they turns to the old man and they says, “What are you in for, Grandad?” “Me? Payin’ for me sins, I be, me dear brothers,” says ’e, “and everybody else’s sins as well. I ’aven’t murdered nobody, or pinched nothing, just given what I ’ad to the poor. Used to be a merchant, I did, me dear brothers. I ’ad lots o’ money.” And ’e tells ’em all. ’Ow things ’as worked out for ’im, all the details of ’is story bit by bit. “Not bothered about meself,” says ’e, “I been picked out by God. Only one thing wrong,” says ’e, “I do feel sorry for me old woman, and the kiddies.” And ’e sheds a few tears. And it so ’appened in that company was the very man, you know, what ’ad killed the merchant. “Where did all this’appen, Grandad?” says ’e. “When was it? What month?” Wanted to know all the details. ’Eartbroken ’e was. Goes up to the old man just like that, ’e does, an’ falls down at ’is feet. “You be in ’ere, old man,” says ’e, “for somethin’ what I done.” ’Tis God’s truth. This man be innocent. ’E be sufferin’ for nothing, lads,” says ’e. “I done that job,” says ’e, “an’ put that knife under yer ’ead while you was asleep. Forgive me, Grandad. For God’s sake, forgive me!” says ’e.’

Karatayev paused with a blissful smile on his face and stared into the fire, poking the logs.

‘Then the old man, ’e says, “God will forgive you,” says ’e, “but we’m all sinners in the eyes of God,” says ’e. “I be sufferin’ for me own sins.” And ’e wept bitter tears. Then guess what, me old darling,’ said Karatayev, with an ever-broadening beatific smile, as if to indicate that the best bit, the whole point of his story was about to come. ‘Guess what, me old darling. That murderer went up to them at the top and confessed. “I seen six men off,” says ’e (’e bein’ a real wrong’un), “but I’m right sorry for this little old man. ’E shouldn’t ’ave to suffer ’cos o’ me.” Went an’ confessed, ’e did. ’Twas all wrote down on paper and sent off, as is only right. Bloomin’ miles away. Looked at by all the judges. Then it all gets wrote down again right and proper by them at the top. Know what I mean? Gets to the Tsar. Then an order comes down from the Tsar. Let the merchant go. Give ’im ’is compensation, like what the judges ’as said. Piece o’ paper arrives. Everybody sets to, lookin’ for the old man. Where’s that little old man gone what was innocent and shouldn’t ’ave seen all this sufferin’? ’Ere be a paper from the Tsar! Looked everywhere they did.’ Karatayev’s jaw trembled. ‘But God ’ad forgiven ’im. ’E was dead! That’s ’ow it’appened, me old darling!’ Karatayev came to the end of his story, and sat there for some time staring ahead with a smile on his face and nothing more to say.

It was not the story itself but its mysterious inner meaning, the glow of rapture that had lit up Karatayev’s face as he told it, and the mysterious significance of his rapture – this was what filled Pierre’s soul with a hazy feeling of joy.

CHAPTER 14

‘Get fell in!’ came a sudden voice, speaking in French.

There was a cheerful commotion among the prisoners and the escorting soldiers, and an air of expectancy as if some joyous and splendid occasion was at hand. Orders rang out on all sides, and then from the left a party of very smart cavalry soldiers on fine horses came trotting up, wheeling right round the prisoners. On every face was the tense expression you normally see when important people are about to arrive. The prisoners huddled together and were shoved back from the road. The convoy soldiers formed up in ranks.

‘The Emperor! The Emperor! The marshal! The duke!’ And the sleek cavalry had hardly got clear when a carriage and six greys rumbled past. Pierre caught a passing glimpse of a podgy white face, serene and handsome, belonging to a man in a three-cornered hat. It was one of the marshals. The marshal’s eye fell on Pierre’s big, imposing figure, and in the expression on his face when he frowned and looked away Pierre thought he could see compassion and the desire to conceal it.

The general in charge whipped up his skinny horse, and galloped after the carriage with panic written all over his crimson face. Several officers came together in a group, and the soldiers gathered round them. They all looked uneasy and excited.

‘What did he say? What did he say?’ Pierre could hear them asking.