‘So that’s where you’ve got to, you little rogue!’ Pierre heard the same soothing voice at the other end of the shed. ‘ ’Ere she be, little devil. She remembers me! Go on with you, that’s enough!’ Pushing down a dog that was jumping up at him, the soldier came back to his place and sat down. He was holding something wrapped up in a bit of rag.
‘ ’Ere you are, sir. You taste these,’ he said in the same tone of respect he had used before, unwrapping his little bundle and handing Pierre a few baked potatoes. ‘We had soup for dinner. But these potatoes is a real treat!’
Pierre had had nothing to eat all day, and the smell of the potatoes was out of this world. He thanked the soldier and set about them.
‘No, not like that, sir,’ said the soldier with a grin, and he took one of the potatoes from him. ‘Try ’em like this.’ He got out his clasp-knife again, cut the potato in the palm of his hand into two equal halves, sprinkled them with a pinch of salt from the rag, and gave them back to Pierre.
‘Real treat they is,’ he repeated. ‘You try ’em like that.’ Pierre would have sworn he had never eaten better in his life.
‘No, I am all right,’ said Pierre, ‘but why did they have to shoot those poor men? . . . That last boy couldn’t have been more than twenty.’
The little man gave a soothing tut-tut. ‘Oh yes, the sin of it . . .’ he added quickly, and went straight on talking as if he always had a mouthful of words at the ready so they could come flying out by pure chance.
‘How d’you come to stay on in Moscow, sir?’
‘I didn’t think they’d get here quite so quickly. I stayed on by accident,’ said Pierre.
‘Just come in your house an’ got you, did they, old darlin’?’
‘No, I went out to see the fire, and they got me then. Tried me for arson.’
‘No justice in a courtroom,’ put in the little man.
‘How long have you been here?’ asked Pierre, munching his last potato.
‘Me? Took me out of the ’orspital in Moscow last Sunday they did.’
‘Are you a soldier then?’
‘Yes, we’re all from the Apsheron mob. Dyin’ of fever I was. Never told us nothin’. Must’ve been twenty of us layin’ there sick. Never ’ad a thought, we didn’t, no idea ’ow things was.’
‘You’ve had a bad time in here then?’ asked Pierre.
‘Not too good, me old darlin’. My name’s Platon. Platon Karatayev,’ he added, obviously wanting to smooth the path for Pierre to talk to him. ‘The boys used to call me their little mate. Bound to get you down a bit, isn’t it, matey? Moscow – mother of all cities. Sight like that’s bound to get you down a bit. But you know what they says: “A worm be in the cabbage, but ’e dies before ’e’s done,” ’ he added quickly.
‘What was that? What did you say?’ asked Pierre.
‘You what?’ said Karatayev. ‘What I says is this: we’re at large but God’s in charge,’ he said, quite sure he was repeating what he had just said. And he plunged on. ‘ ’Ave you got your own family estate then, sir? Your own ’ouse? My goodness, your cup was runnin’ over! Little wife, too? Your old mum and dad still alive?’ he asked and though Pierre couldn’t see it in the dark, he felt sure the soldier’s lips were squeezed up in a wincing little smile of good will as he asked these questions. Karatayev was quite distressed to learn that Pierre had no parents, and especially that he had never had a mother.
‘Wives give advice, and their mothers are nice, but there’s nobody like your own mother!’ said he. ‘And have you any little ones?’ he continued. Pierre’s negative response seemed to come as another disappointment, and he was quick to add, ‘Oh well, you’re a young man. Please God, you’ll ’ave some. One day you will. The great thing is to get on with other people . . .’
‘Doesn’t make any difference now, does it?’ Pierre couldn’t help saying.
