‘Ah, you’re a lovely man,’ Platon countered. ‘The beggar’s bowl or the prison hole, you have to take what comes.’ He settled down more comfortably, and cleared his throat, obviously ready to launch into a long story. ‘Now take me, for instance, my dear friend. When I was still livin’ at home,’ he began, ‘we ’ad a nice family place, lots of land, lovely ’ouse – we was well off, something to thank God for. Seven of us when we went out reapin’ with our dad. Nice life. Good Christian peasants we was. Now what d’you think happened? . . .’ and Platon Karatayev went into a rambling story about how he had gone into somebody else’s copse to get wood, and been caught by the keeper, how he had been flogged and tried, and sent off to join the army. ‘And do you know, me old darlin’,’ said he with a smile in his voice, ‘we thought it was the end of the world, but it turned out for the best. My brother would’ve had to go if I hadn’t got into trouble. And my younger brother, he had five little ones, see, and I only ’ad a wife to leave behind. We did ’ave a little girl, but God took her to him before I went in the army. Went home on leave, I did, and I’m tellin’ you, they was livin’ better than ever. Yard full of beasts, womenfolk at home, two brothers off earnin’ good money. Only Mikhaylo, the youngest, still at home. Father says all his kids matters to him; bite any finger, it hurts just the same. And if they hadn’t shaved Platon for a soldier that time, Mikhaylo would’ve had to go. Got us all together he did – would you believe it? – stood us right in front of the holy icons. “Mikhaylo,” says he, “come you ’ere and bow down at his feet. You women, you bow down as well. And you grandchildren, you bow down. Understand?” says he. So there we ’ave it, me old dear. Fate picks you out. And ’ere we be, always passing judgement – that’s not right, doesn’t suit us. Our ’appiness, me dear, be like water in a drag-net. Swells out lovely when you pulls; take it out and it’s empty. Yes, that’s the way things be.’ And Platon shifted position in the straw.
After a short pause he got up.
‘Bet you could do with some shut-eye,’ he said, and he began rapidly crossing himself and intoning, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nikola, Fraula and Laura!2 Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nikola, Fraula and Laura! Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy and save us!’ he concluded, bowing down to touch the ground with his forehead. Then he got to his feet, gave a sigh and sat down again on his straw. ‘That’s it, then. Lord, make me lie down like a stone, and rise like new bread!’ he murmured before lying down and pulling his greatcoat over him.
‘What were you reciting just then?’ asked Pierre.
‘Huh?’ said Platon, already half asleep. ‘Recitin’? I was just sayin’ my prayers. Don’t you say your prayers, then?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Pierre. ‘But what was all that about Fraula and Laura?’
‘Oh, them,’ Platon answered quickly. ‘They be the ’orses’ saints. Got to think o’ the poor beasts, too,’ he said. ‘Look at this little ’ussy, she be all curled up nice an’ warm, daughter of a bitch!’ he said, reaching down to touch the dog at his feet. With that he turned over again and went straight to sleep.
Somewhere outside there were distant sounds of people calling out and crying, and the glow from a fire could be seen through cracks in the shed-walls, but inside it was all dark and quiet. Pierre couldn’t get to sleep for some time. He lay where he was with his eyes open in the darkness, listening to Platon’s steady snoring at his side, and he could feel his ruined world rising up again in his soul with a new kind of beauty, and its new foundations were unshakable.
CHAPTER 13
In the shed, where Pierre spent four weeks, his fellow prisoners consisted of twenty-three soldiers, three officers and two government officials.
Later on Pierre would remember them as nothing more than misty figures, but Platon Karatayev would always stay in his mind as a most vivid and precious memory, the epitome of kind-heartedness and all things rounded and Russian. When Pierre took a look at his neighbour next day at dawn his first impression of something rounded was fully confirmed. Everything about Platon’s figure, in his French military coat with a piece of string round his waist, his soldier’s cap and bark-fibre shoes, was rounded. He had a perfectly round head, and his back, chest, shoulders, even his arms, which he always held out as if he was just about to embrace something, had rounded lines; his open smile and big, soft, brown eyes were round as well.
