Chapter 12 Chapter Twelve

After the execution, Pierre was separated from other prisoners and imprisoned alone in a dilapidated and dirty chapel. Before evening, the sergeant of the guard came to the church with two soldiers and announced to Pierre that he was pardoned and was going to the prisoner-of-war camp.Pierre, not understanding what was said to him, got up and followed the two soldiers.He was taken to one of the rows of sheds built of fire-charred planks, beams, and battens high up in the square.In the darkness, twenty or so figures of various kinds approached Pierre.Pierre looked at them, not understanding who these people were.What they came around for, what was demanded of him, he heard what they said to him, but nothing came out of it, they couldn't be connected: he didn't understand what it meant.He himself answered all their questions without regard to who else was listening and understood his answers.He looked at those faces and figures, all of which made him feel equally bewildered.

From the moment he saw the horrific massacre by the unwilling, the mainspring in him that held everything together and animated everything seemed suddenly to be pulled out, and everything collapsed into a heap. Pointless waste.Although he has not yet figured it out, the peace of the world, the belief in human beings and his own soul, and in God are all gone in his heart.Pierre had had this experience before, but never with such intensity.Previously, when Pierre had had such doubts in his mind, the source of the doubts was his own fault.And, deep down, he felt at the time that it was up to him to escape disappointment and doubt.And now, he felt, it was no fault of his that the world had collapsed before his eyes into a useless ruin.He felt that to return to his belief in life—he could no longer do it.

Around him stood people in the darkness: something in him indeed attracted them.They told him some things, asked him some things, and then took him to a place. Finally, the leaders coordinated the overall situation according to the historical and environmental conditions of each specific area, and he settled down in a corner, beside him. The people laughed and talked loudly. "That's it, buddies . . . the prince, (emphasis on the word that) . . . " said a voice in the opposite corner of the prison camp. Pierre sat silent and motionless on the dry grass against the wall, his eyes opening and closing for a while.But as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw before him the terrible, especially unbearable in its simplicity, the face of the workshop boy, and the face of the involuntary butcher, still more terrible because of his inner uneasiness. face.So he opened his eyes again and looked around blankly in the dark.

Sitting next to him was a stooped little man, whom Pierre noticed at first because of the stinky smell of sweat that came from him every time he moved.The man moved his feet in the dark, although Pierre did not see his face.Huang Shiyi collected all the entries and classified them into one hundred, but he felt that this person was looking at him constantly.After his eyes got used to the darkness, Pierre saw that the man was taking off his boots.The movement of him taking off his boots attracted Pierre's interest. Having unwound the string around one foot, he rolled it up neatly, and at once untied the string around the other foot, looking at Pierre.One hand is hanging the coiled thin rope, and the other hand has begun to untie the rope on the other foot. He moves non-stop, one after another, carefully and swiftly taking off his boots and hanging them up separately. He went to the prong above his head, took out his knife, cut something off, put the knife away under the pillow, and sat up more comfortably, with his hands on his knees, looking straight at Pierre.Pierre, from his well-rounded movements, from the well-arranged affairs of his corner, even from his smell, aroused in him a certain pleasant sense of calm and leisure, and he looked intently at the with him.

"You've had a lot of trouble, haven't you, sir? Huh?" said the little man suddenly.There was tenderness and simplicity in that sweet voice, and Pierre wanted to answer, but his jaw trembled, and he felt tears fall.The little man, not to embarrass Pierre for a moment, also began to talk in the same pleasant voice. "Ah, little eagle, don't worry," he said, with the sweetly sweet voice of an old Russian mother. "Don't worry, friend: endure for a while is a free translation of Sein in German. German Heidegger's term. It refers to the ontology, the original, to live a life! That's it, my dear. We stay here, thank God, there is no grievance. Here There are bad people, and there are good people." He said, while speaking, he flexibly arched his body and stood up, coughing and walking towards a certain place.

"Oh, here you come, bastard!" Pierre heard the same tender voice from the other side of the shed. "You're here, bad guy, remember me! Heh, heh, that's fine." Then, the soldier pushed away the puppy that jumped up to him, and returned to his seat to sit down.In his hand he held something wrapped in rags. "Here, have something to eat, sir," he said, returning to his earlier respectful tone, and opening the rolled-up bag, he handed Pierre some baked potatoes. "Drinking soup at noon. Potatoes are the best! " Pierre hadn't eaten all day, and the smell of potatoes was very pleasant to him.He thanked the soldier and began to eat.

"Why, isn't it good?" the soldier smiled and picked up a potato. Bring some salt wrapped in rags and pass it to Pierre. "The potatoes are great," he said again. "You can eat them as they are." Pierre felt that he had never eaten anything so delicious. "No, I can do whatever I want," said Pierre, "but why are they shooting the unfortunates today! . . . the last one of twenty." "Tut, tut..." said the little man, "guilty, sin..." He added quickly, as if he had been preparing something to say at any moment, and went on: "What is the matter with you, sir, You are staying in Moscow like this?"

"I didn't expect them to come so soon. I stayed by chance," said Pierre. "And how did they get you, Little Eagle, from your house?" "No, I went to see the fire, where they caught me and took me to court as an arsonist." "Where there is a court, there is injustice," the little man interjected. "Have you been here long?" asked Pierre, finishing his last potato. "Me? They took me from the military hospital in Moscow last Sunday." "Who are you, soldier?" "Soldiers of the Absheron. Dying of malaria. They didn't tell us anything when they retreated. About twenty of us were lying in the hospital. We didn't think, didn't guess."

"Well, are you bored here?" asked Pierre. "Don't be bored, little eagle! My name is Platon Karatayev," he added, apparently to make it easier for Pierre to address him. "Nicknamed Little Eagle, that's what the army calls me. It's not boring, Little Eagle! Moscow—she's the mother of all cities. It's not boring to see all this. But the maggots bite the cabbage heart and die first: the old people That's it," he added quickly. "Why, what do you say?" asked Pierre. "Me?" Karatayev asked. "I said: Don't think people are smart, God has a court," he said, thinking he was repeating what he had just said.And immediately went on: "And you, sir, do you have a land? Do you have a house? It seems that life is good! Is there a mistress? Are the old parents still alive?" he asked, and Pierre, although watching in the dark No, I felt the unbearable and warm smile on the soldier's lips.He is clearly saddened by the loss of Pierre's parents, especially his mother.

"Wife advises you, and mother-in-law treats you like a distinguished guest, how can you have your own father!" He said. "Hey, do you have any kids?" He asked again.Pierre's negative question and answer seemed to hurt him again, so he hastened to add: "It's nothing, people are still young, God will reward, and there will be more. As long as we get along in harmony..." "It's all the same now," Pierre said involuntarily. "Oh, you lovely man." Platon demurred. "Don't dislike the begging bag and the prison." He sat more comfortably and coughed. It seemed that he was about to tell a long story. "I will tell you, my dear friend, that I was living at home," he began. "Our hereditary property is very rich, we have a lot of land, we farmers live well, and our home is also very good, thank God. The old man of the family of seven even went out to harvest himself. Live well. They are all true Christs Christians. Suddenly something happened..." Platon Karatayev's long story tells how he drove a cart to cut firewood in someone else's woodland, was caught by the forest watchman, whipped, interrogated, and finally sent to the pawnshop. soldier. "It's nothing, Little Eagle," he changed his tone with a smile. "I thought it was painful, but I was happy! If I hadn't committed a crime, my younger brother would have been in the army. But my younger brother has five children, and I, lo, have only one wife left. I had a daughter, but I was in the army. God took her away a few days ago. I took leave of absence to visit the house, and I'll tell you. I saw - they are doing better than before. The yard is full of livestock, the women are at home, and the two brothers are out to make money. Only Mihailo, the youngest, was at home. The old man said that all children are the same: every finger hurts. If Platon hadn't shaved his head to go to the army, Mihailo would have gone. He called the whole family together You can believe it, put the statue in front of you. Mihailo, he said, come here, kneel down to him, and you, daughter-in-law, kneel down, and grandchildren also kneel down. Understand? "He said.

"I tell you, my dear friend. The living cannot escape. And we always have to judge: this is not right, that is not right. Our happiness, my friend, is like water in a net: when you go, it swells , but dragged it out of the water, nothing. That's it." Platon shifted his seat on the dry grass. After a moment of silence, Platon stood up. "Come, I see, are you sleepy?" he said, and began to cross himself quickly, saying: "Jesus Christ God, Saint Nicholas, Flora and Lavra, Jesus Christ God, Saints Nicholas, Flora and Lavra, Jesus Christ God—have mercy on us, save us!" he said. After speaking, he bowed deeply, stood up, sighed, and then sat down on the hay. "That is to say, it's like a rock when it's laid down, and it's like a piece of bread when it's lifted up." After he finished speaking, he lay down and pulled his military overcoat over it. -------- ①Floras and Lauras, the martyrs of the Diocletian dynasty of the Roman Empire, were included in the saints of the Orthodox Church. Peasants regarded them as horse gods and mispronounced their names. "What prayer are you reading?" Pierre asked. "Oh?" said Platon, "what are you reading? Pray to God, don't you pray?" "No, I pray too," said Pierre. "But what are you talking about: Flora and Lavra?" "No," replied Platon quickly, "Gods of horses, animals should be pity too," said Karatayev. "Yo, wretch, huddled up. Warm up, puppies," He said that he touched the dog under his feet, turned over and fell asleep immediately. Outside, there were cries and shouts in the distance, and fires could be seen through the cracks in the wooden houses; but inside the house was silence and darkness.Pierre did not fall asleep for a long time, and lay on his bunk in the dark with his eyes open, listening.Platon, who was asleep, was snoring evenly, and gradually felt that the ruined world was now moving in his soul with a new beauty and a new unshakable foundation.