‘How is my fever? Weep over sickness, and God won’t give you death,’ said Karataev, and he went back at once to the story he had begun.
‘And so, brother,’ he went on with a smile on his thin, white face, and a peculiar, joyful light in his eyes, ‘And so, brother . . .’
Pierre had heard the story long before. Karataev had told it to him about six times already, and always with special joyful emotion. But well as Pierre knew the story, he listened to it now as though it were something new, and the subdued ecstasy, which Karataev evidently felt in telling it, infected Pierre too.
It was the story of an old merchant, who had lived in good works and in the fear of God with his family, and had made a journey one day with a companion, a rich merchant, to Makary.
Both the merchants had put up at an inn and gone to sleep; and next day the rich merchant had been found robbed, and with his throat cut. A knife, stained with blood, was found under the old merchant’s pillow. The merchant was tried, sentenced to be flogged, and to have his nostrils
iooo WAR AND PEACE
slit—all according to the law in due course, as Karataev said—and ser. to hard labour.
‘And so, brother’ (it was at this point in the story that Pierre fount' Karataev) ‘ten years or more passed by after that. The old man live! on in prison. He submits, as is fitting; lie does nothing wrong. Only h< prays to God for death. Very well. And so at night-time they are gatherec together, the convicts, just as we are here, and the old man with them And so they fall to talking of what each is suffering for, and how he ha; sinned against God. One tells how he took a man’s life, another two, another had set fire to something, and another was a runaway just for nc reason. So they began asking the old man, “What,” they say, “are yon suffering for, grandfather?” “I am suffering, dear brethren,” says he. “for my own sins, and for other men’s sins. I have not taken a life, nor taken other men’s goods, save what I have bestowed on poorer brethren, I was a merchant, dear brethren, and I had great wealth.” And he tells them this and that, and how the whole thing had happened. “For myself,”i says he, “I do not grieve. God has chastened me. The only thing,” says he, “I am sorry for my old wife and my children.” And so the old man fell a-weeping. And it so happened that in that company there was the very man, you know, who had killed the merchant. “Where did it hnp- oen, grandfather?” says he. “When and in what month?” and so he asked him all about it. His heart began to ache. Fie goes up to the old man like this—and falls down at his feet. “You are suffering for me, old man,” says he. “It’s the holy truth; this man is tormented innocently, lor nothing, lads,” says he. “I did that deed,” says he, “and put the knife under his head when he was asleep. Forgive me, grandfather, for Christ’s sake! ” says he.’
Karataev paused, smiling blissfully, and gazing at the fire, as he rearranged the logs.
‘The old man, he says, “God forgive you,” says he, “but we are all sinners before God,” says he. “I am suffering for my own sins.” And he wept with bitter tears. What do you think, darling?’ said Karataev, his ecstatic smile growing more and more radiant, as though the great charm and whole point of his story lay in what he was going to tell now, ‘what do you think, darling, that murderer confessed of himself to the police. “I have killed six men,” says he (for he was a great criminal), “but what I am most sorry for is this old man. Let him not weep through my fault.’” He confessed. It was written down, and a paper sent off to the right place. The place was far away. Then came a trial. Then all the reports were written in due course, by the authorities, I mean. It was brought to the Tsar. Then a decree comes from the Tsar to let the merchant go free; to give him the recompense they had awarded him. The paper comes; they fall to looking for the old man. Where was that old man who had suffered innocently? The paper had come from the Tsar, and they fell to looking for him.’ Karataev’s lower jaw quivered. ‘But God had pardoned him already—he was dead! So it happened,
Barling!’ Karataev concluded, and he gazed a long while straight before lim, smiling silently.
Not the story itself, but its mysterious import, the ecstatic gladness nat beamed in Karataev’s face as he told it, the mysterious significance if that gladness vaguely filled and rejoiced Pierre’s soul now.
XIV
To your places!’ a voice shouted suddenly.
There was a cheerful stir among the prisoners and convoy soldiers, and an air of expecting something festive and solemn. Shouted commands could be heard on all sides, and a party of well-dressed cavalry [soldiers on good horses came trotting up from the left, making a circuit ■round the prisoners. Every face w'ore the look of nervousness commonly seen at the approach of men in authority. The prisoners huddled together and were shoved out of the way. The convoy soldiers formed in ranks.
