AFTER THE EXECUTION Pierre was separated from the other prisoners and left alone in a small, despoiled, and filthy church.

Towards evening a patrol sergeant, with two soldiers, came into the church and informed Pierre that he was pardoned, and was now going to the barracks of the prisoners of war. Without understanding a word of what was said to him, Pierre got up and went with the soldiers. He was conducted to some sheds that had been rigged up in the upper part of the meadow out of charred boards, beams, and battens, and was taken into one of them. Some twenty persons of various kinds thronged round Pierre. He stared at them, with no idea of what these men were, why they were here, and what they wanted of him. He heard the words they said to him, but his mind made no kind of deduction or interpretation of them; he had no idea of their meaning. He made some answer, too, to the questions asked him, but without any notion who was hearing him, or how they would understand his replies. He gazed at faces and figures, and all seemed to him equally meaningless.

From the moment when Pierre saw that fearful murder committed by men who did not want to do it, it seemed as though the spring in his soul, by which everything was held together and given the semblance of life, had been wrenched out, and all seemed to have collapsed into a heap of meaningless refuse. Though he had no clear apprehension of it, it had annihilated in his soul all faith in the beneficent ordering of the universe, and in the soul of men, and in his own soul, and in God. This state of mind Pierre had experienced before, but never with such intensity as now. When such doubts had come upon him in the past they had arisen from his own fault. And at the very bottom of his heart Pierre had been aware then that salvation from that despair and from these doubts lay in his own hands. But now he felt that it was not his fault that the world was collapsing before his eyes, and that nothing was left but meaningless ruins. He felt that to get back to faith in life was not in his power.

Around him in the darkness stood men. Probably they found something very entertaining in him. They were telling him something, asking him something, then leading him somewhere, and at last he found himself in a corner of the shed beside men of some sort, who were talking on all sides, and laughing.

“And so, mates…that same prince who” (with a special emphasis on the last word)…some voice was saying in the opposite corner of the shed.

Sitting in the straw against the wall, mute and motionless, Pierre opened, and then closed, his eyes. As soon as he shut his eyes he saw the fearful face of the factory lad, fearful especially from its simplicity, and the faces of the involuntary murderers, still more fearful in their uneasiness. And he opened his eyes again and stared blankly about him in the darkness.

Close by him a little man was sitting bent up, of whose presence Pierre was first aware from the strong smell of sweat that rose at every movement he made. This man was doing something with his feet in the darkness, and although Pierre did not see his face, he was aware that he was continually glancing at him. Peering intently at him in the dark, Pierre made out that the man was undoing his foot-gear. And the way he was doing it began to interest Pierre.

Undoing the strings in which one foot was tied up, he wound them neatly off, and at once set to work on the other leg, glancing at Pierre. While one hand hung up the first leg-binder, the other was already beginning to untie the other leg. In this way, deftly, with rounded, effective movements following one another without delay, the man unrolled his leg-wrappers and hung them up on pegs driven in over-head, took out a knife, cut off something, shut the knife up, put it under his bolster and settling himself more at his ease, clasped his arms round his knees, and stared straight at Pierre. Pierre was conscious of something pleasant, soothing, and rounded off in those deft movements, in his comfortable establishment of his belongings in the corner, and even in the very smell of the man, and he did not take his eyes off him.

“And have you seen a lot of trouble, sir? Eh?” said the little man suddenly. And there was a tone of such friendliness and simplicity in the sing-song voice that Pierre wanted to answer, but his jaw quivered, and he felt the tears rising. At the same second, leaving no time for Pierre's embarrassment to appear, the little man said, in the same pleasant voice:

“Ay, darling, don't grieve,” he said, in that tender, caressing sing-song in which old Russian peasant women talk. “Don't grieve, dearie; trouble lasts an hour, but life lasts for ever! Ay, ay, my dear. And we get on here finely, thank God; nothing to vex us. They're men, too, and bad and good among them,” he said; and, while still speaking, got with a supple movement on his knees to his feet, and clearing his throat walked away.

“Hey, the hussy, here she is!” Pierre heard at the end of the shed the same caressing voice. “Here she is, the hussy; she remembers me! There, there, lie down!” And the soldier, pushing down a dog that was jumping up on him, came back to his place and sat down. In his hands he had something wrapped up in a cloth.

“Here, you taste this, sir,” he said, returning to the respectful tone he had used at first, and untying and handing to Pierre several baked potatoes. “At dinner we had soup. But the potatoes are first-rate!”

Pierre had eaten nothing the whole day, and the smell of the potatoes struck him as extraordinarily pleasant. He thanked the soldier and began eating.

“But why so, eh?” said the soldier smiling, and he took one of the potatoes. “You try them like this.” He took out his clasp-knife again, cut the potato in his hand into two even halves, and sprinkled them with salt from the cloth, and offered them to Pierre.

“The potatoes are first-rate,” he repeated. “You taste them like that.”

It seemed to Pierre that he had never eaten anything so good.

“No, I am all right,” said Pierre; “but why did they shoot those poor fellows?…The last was a lad of twenty.”

“Tss…tss…” said the little man. “Sin, indeed,…sin…” he added quickly, just as though the words were already in his mouth and flew out of it by accident; he went on: “How was it, sir, you came to stay in Moscow like this?”

“I didn't think they would come so soon. I stayed by accident,” said Pierre.

“But how did they take you, darling; from your home?”

“No, I went out to see the fire, and then they took me up and brought me to judgment as an incendiary.”

“Where there's judgment, there there's falsehood,” put in the little man.

“And have you been here long?” asked Pierre, as he munched the last potato.

“I? On Sunday they took me out of the hospital in Moscow.”

“Who are you, a soldier?”

“We are soldiers of the Apsheron regiment. I was dying of fever. We were never told anything. There were twenty of us lying sick. And we had never a thought, never a guess of how it was.”

“Well, and are you miserable here?” asked Pierre.

“Miserable, to be sure, darling. My name's Platon, surname Karataev,” he added, evidently to make it easier for Pierre to address him. “In the regiment they called me ‘the little hawk.' How can one help being sad, my dear? Moscow—she's the mother of cities. One must be sad to see it. Yes, the maggot gnaws the cabbage, but it dies before it's done; so the old folks used to say,” he added quickly.

“What, what was that you said?” asked Pierre.

“I?” said Karataev. “I say it's not by our wit, but as God thinks fit,” said he, supposing that he was repeating what he had said. And at once he went on: “Tell me, sir, and have you an estate from your fathers? And a house of your own? To be sure, your cup was overflowing! And a wife, too? And are your old parents living?” he asked, and though Pierre could not see him in the dark, he felt that the soldier's lips were puckered in a restrained smile of kindliness while he asked these questions. He was evidently disappointed that Pierre had no parents, especially that he had not a mother.

“Wife for good counsel, mother-in-law for kind welcome, but none dear as your own mother!” said he. “And have you children?” he went on to ask. Pierre's negative reply seemed to disappoint him again, and he added himself: “Oh well, you are young folks; please God, there will be. Only live in peace and concord.”

“But it makes no difference now,” Pierre could not help saying.

“Ah, my dear man,” rejoined Platon, “the beggar's bag and the prison walls none can be sure of escaping.” He settled himself more comfortably, and cleared his throat, evidently preparing himself for a long story. “So it was like this, dear friend, when I used to be living at home,” he began, “we have a rich heritage, a great deal of land, the peasants were well off, and our house—something to thank God for, indeed. Father used to go out to reap with six of us. We got along finely. Something like peasants we were. It came to pass…” and Platon Karataev told a long story of how he had gone into another man's copse for wood, and had been caught by the keeper, how he had been flogged, tried, and sent for a soldier. “And do you know, darling,” said he, his voice changing from the smile on his face, “we thought it was a misfortune, while it was all for our happiness. My brother would have had to go if it hadn't been for my fault. And my younger brother had five little ones; while I, look you, I left no one behind but my wife. I had a little girl, but God had taken her before I went for a soldier. I went home on leave, I must tell you. I find them all better off than ever. The yard full of beasts, the women folk at home, two brothers out earning wages. Only Mihailo, the youngest, at home. Father says all his children are alike; whichever finger's pricked, it hurts the same. And if they hadn't shaved Platon for a soldier, then Mihailo would have had to go. He called us all together—would you believe it—made us stand before the holy picture. ‘Mihailo,' says he, ‘come here, bend down to his feet; and you, women, bow down; and you, grandchildren. Do you understand?' says he. Yes, so you see, my dear. Fate acts with reason. And we are always passing judgment; that's not right, and this doesn't suit us. Our happiness, my dear, is like water in a dragnet; you drag, and it is all puffed up, but pull it out and there's nothing. Yes, that's it.” And Platon moved to a fresh seat in the straw.

After a short pause, Platon got up.

“Well, I dare say, you are sleepy?” he said, and he began rapidly crossing himself, murmuring:

“Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nikola, Frola and Lavra; Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nikola, Frola and Lavra; Lord Jesus Christ—have mercy and save us!” he concluded, bowed down to the ground, got up, sighed, and sat down on his straw. “That's right. Let me lie down like a stone, O God, and rise up like new bread!” he murmured, and lay down, pulling his military coat over him.

“What prayer was that you recited?” asked Pierre.

“Eh?” said Platon (he was already half asleep). “Recited? I prayed to God. Don't you pray, too?”

“Yes, I do,” said Pierre. “But what was it you said—Frola and Lavra?”

“Eh, to be sure,” Platon answered quickly. “They're the horses' saints. One must think of the poor beasts, too,” he said. “Why, the little hussy, she's curled up. You're warm, child of a bitch!” he said, feeling the dog at his feet; and, turning over again, he fell asleep at once.

Outside shouting and wailing could be heard somewhere far away, and through the cracks in the walls could be seen the glow of fire; but within the shed all was dark and hushed. For a long while Pierre did not sleep, and lay with open eyes in the darkness, listening to Platon snoring rhythmically as he lay beside him, and he felt that the world that had been shattered was rising up now in his soul, in new beauty, and on new foundations that could not be shaken.

行刑后，皮埃尔与别的犯人隔离开来，单独囚禁在一座破败肮脏的小教堂内。

傍晚前，卫队的军士带着两个兵到教堂来对皮埃尔宣布，他被赦免，现在进战俘营去。皮埃尔不明白对他说的话，起身跟随那两个兵走了。他被带到广场高处一排排用火烧焦的木板、梁木和木条搭起的棚子那里，被送进其中一间。黑暗中，有二十来个各种人物向皮埃尔围来。皮埃尔看着他们，不明白这些人是谁。围过来干什么，对他有何要求，他听到他们对他说的话，但引伸不出任何结论，把它们连贯不起来：他不明白其涵意。他自己对他们有问必答，但不考虑有谁在听，懂不懂得他的回答。他看着那些面孔和身影，全都使他觉得一样地茫然。

从他看到由不愿干的人进行的可怕屠杀的那一时刻起，他心里那根维系着一切，使一切有生气的发条，突然仿佛被拔掉了，于是，一切东西倒塌成一堆没有意义的废物。虽然他还没有弄清楚，他内心对世界太平，对人类和自己的灵魂，对上帝的那种信仰，都已荡然无存。这种体验皮埃尔以前也曾有过，但从未像现在这样强烈。以前，当皮埃尔心中曾有这种怀疑时，这怀疑的根源是他自己的过错。并且，在内心深处，他当时还觉得，免除失望和怀疑在于他自己。而现在，他觉得，世界在他眼前倒塌了，只剩下一片无用的废墟，这并不是他的过错所造成。他觉得，要回到对人生的信仰上来——他已做不到了。

黑暗中，他的周围站着一些人：的确是他身上有什么东西吸引了他们。他们告诉他一些事，又问他一些事，然后把他带到一个地方去，最后，他在一个角落安顿下来，他身旁的人们笑语喧闹。

“就这样，哥儿们……就是那个王子，（在·那·个这一字眼上特别强调）……”在这间俘虏营对面角落里的一个声音说。

皮埃尔沉默地一动不动地坐在靠墙的干草上，眼睛一忽儿睁开，一忽儿闭上。但当他一闭眼，他便在他面前看见那张可怕的，尤其是以其纯朴表情使人目不忍睹的，工场伙计的面孔，以及由于内心不安而更为可怕的身不由己的屠杀者的面孔。于是，他又睁开眼睛，在黑暗中茫然地看着周围。

挨着他坐着的是一位弯着腰的小个子，皮埃尔注意到他，开初是由于他身子每动一下，便传出一股臭汗味来。此人在黑暗中摆动他的两只脚，尽管皮埃尔没有看到他的脸，但他感觉到此人在不停地看他。眼睛习惯黑暗以后，皮埃尔看出这人在脱靴子。他脱靴子的动作，吸引了皮埃尔的兴趣。

他退卷下缠在一只脚上的细绳子之后，整齐地把它卷起来，并立即解开另一只脚上的细绳子，同时望着皮埃尔。一手在挂卷好的细绳子，另一只手已开始解另一只脚上的绳子，他的动作不停地、一个紧接一个，从容不迫地细心而麻利地脱下靴子，把靴子分别挂到头上的橛子上，拿出小刀来切下点什么东西，然后收拢小刀，放在枕头下，接着坐得更舒服些，两手抱着膝盖，对直盯着皮埃尔。皮埃尔从他那些圆熟的动作上，从他那一角落妥贴安排的内务上，甚至从他的气味上，都使他产生某种愉快的安详的从容不迫的感觉，于是，他目不转睛地看着他。

“你遭过很多苦难，是吧，老爷？啊？”这个小个子突然说道。这个动听的嗓音里表现着柔情和纯朴，皮埃尔很想回答，但他的下巴在发抖，他觉察到眼泪掉下来了。小个儿在这一瞬间不让皮埃尔发窘，也开始用那同样愉快的嗓音谈起话来。

“哎，小雄鹰，别发愁，”他带着俄国老妈妈说话那样的娓娓动听的柔情说。“别发愁，朋友：忍得一时，过得一世！就是这样，我亲爱的。我们呆在这儿，谢天谢地，没有委屈。这儿的人有坏的，也有好的。”他说，一边说话，一边灵活地弓起身子站起来，咳嗽着走向某个地方。

“哟，坏东西，你来啦！”皮埃尔听到棚子那一头传来那同一个柔情的声音。“你来啦，坏东西，还记得我！呶，呶，行了。”于是，这个兵把跳到他跟前来的小狗推开，回到自己位置上坐下。他手里拿着包在破布里的什么东西。

“来，您吃点，老爷。”他说，回到了先前尊敬的语调，并打开卷起的包，递给皮埃尔几个烤土豆。“中午喝的是稀汤。

土豆可是最好吃的！”

皮埃尔整天未吃东西，土豆香味他觉得异常好闻。他谢过这个兵后便开始吃起来。

“怎么，挺好吧？”士兵微笑着说，拿起一个土豆来，“你要这样。”他又拿出一把小折刀，在自己手掌上把那个土豆切成均匀的两半，撒上些破布里包着的盐，递给皮埃尔。

“土豆好极了。”他又说一遍，“你就这样吃吧。”

皮埃尔觉得他从未吃过这么好吃的东西。

“不，我随便怎样都行，”皮埃尔说，“可他们为什么今天要枪毙那些不幸的人！……最后一个二十岁上下。”

“啧，啧……”小个子说，“罪过啊，罪过啊……”他迅速补充说，仿佛他嘴里一直准备着话说，随时会脱口而出，他继续说：“您怎么回事，老爷，您就这样留在莫斯科了？”

“我没想到他们来得这样快。我偶然留下来的。”皮埃尔说。

“那他们是怎样抓你的呢，小雄鹰，从你的家里抓住的吗？”

“不是，我去看大火，他们在那里抓到我，把我当成纵火犯交法庭审讯。”

“哪里有法庭，哪里就有不公平的事。”小个子插进来说。

“你关在这里很久了吧？”皮埃尔问，快要嚼完最后一个土豆。

“我吗？上星期日他们把我从莫斯科的军队医院里抓来的。”

“你是谁，士兵吗？”

“阿普舍龙团的兵。害疟疾要死了。他们撤退时什么也没有告诉我们。我们二十来个人躺在医院里。我们没有想到，没有猜到。”

“那，你在这儿烦闷吗？”皮埃尔问。

“怎么不闷，小雄鹰！我叫普拉东·卡拉塔耶夫，”他补充说，显然是为了让皮埃尔便于称呼他。“绰号小雄鹰，军队里这么叫我。怎么不闷，小雄鹰！莫斯科——她是众城之母。看着这一切如何不烦闷。可是蛆咬白菜心，自己先丧命：老人都这么说。”他又迅速补充说。

“怎么，你怎么说来着？”皮埃尔问。

“我吗？”卡拉塔耶夫问道。“我说的：别看人聪明，上帝有法庭，”他说，以为他是在重复刚才说过的话。并立即继续说：“您呢，老爷，有领地吗？有房子吗？看来，生活美满！有女主人吗？老父母还健在吗？”他问，而皮埃尔，虽然在黑暗中看不见，感觉到了士兵的唇边漾起了忍俊不禁的温情的微笑。他显然为皮埃尔父母，尤其是母亲不在人世而感到难过。

“妻子给您出主意，岳母待你如贵宾，哪有自家父亲亲啊！”他说。“呶，有孩子吗？”他接着问。皮埃尔的否定问答，看来又使他痛心，于是，他急忙补充：“没什么，人还年轻，上帝会赏赐，还会有的。只要和睦地相处……”

“现在有没有都一样了。”皮埃尔情不自禁地说。

“哎呀，你这个可爱的人。”普拉东表示异议。

“讨饭袋和监狱你都别嫌弃。”他坐得更舒服些，咳一声嗽，看样子，要准备讲一个长故事了。“给你说吧，亲爱的朋友，我那时还在家里过活的呢，”他开始讲。“我们的世袭产业很富有，土地很多，我们农民过得好好的，还有我们的家也挺好，谢天谢地。七口之家的老爷子还亲自出去收割。过得好好的。都是真正的基督教徒。忽然出事了……”普拉东·卡拉塔耶夫的长故事讲他如何赶车去别人的柴林砍木柴，被看林人捉住，挨鞭抽，被审问，最后被送去当兵。“没什么，小雄鹰，”他微笑着语气一转。“原以为痛苦，其实高兴！如果不是我犯了罪，本来该弟弟去当兵。但弟弟有五个孩子，而我呢，瞧，只剩下一个妻子。有过一个女儿，但在当兵前，上帝就把她带走了。我请假探家，我这就告诉你。我一看——他们过得比以前好。院子里满是牲畜，女人们在家，两个弟弟出去赚钱。只有米哈伊洛，最小的，在家。老爷子说，孩子都一样：哪根指头咬着都疼。如果普拉东当时没有剃头去当兵。米哈伊洛就得去。他把全家召到一起。你可相信，把神像摆在前面。米哈伊洛，他说，到这儿来，给他跪下叩头，还有你，媳妇，跪下，还有孙辈也来下跪。懂吗？”他说。

“给你说，我亲爱的朋友。在世者难逃去。而我们老是要评理：这不好，那不对。我们的幸福，朋友，就像网里的水：你一走，鼓了起来，可是把它从水里拖出来，什么也没有。就是这样的。”普拉东在干草上挪动了一下坐位。

沉默片刻后，普拉东站了起来。

“得了，我看，你想睡了吧？”他说，并开始迅速画十字，念着：

“耶稣基督上帝，尼古拉圣徒，弗洛拉和拉夫拉①，耶稣基督上帝，尼古拉圣徒，弗洛拉和拉夫拉，耶稣基督上帝——怜悯我们，拯救我们吧！”他说完，深深一鞠躬，站起身，叹一口气，然后坐到干草上。“这就是说，放倒像个石头，扶起像个面包。”他说完了，然后躺下，把军大衣拉来盖上。

①罗马帝国戴奥克里先朝的殉道者弗罗拉斯和劳拉斯，被列入东正教的圣徒中，农民把他们两个当成马神，并且把他们的名字读错了。

“你读的是什么祷辞？”皮埃尔问。

“哦？”普拉东说，“读的是什么吗？向上帝祈祷呀，你难道不祈祷？”

“不，我也祈祷，”皮埃尔说。“但你说的是什么：弗洛拉和拉夫拉？”

“可不是，”普拉东很快地回答，“马神呀，牲口也该怜惜，”卡拉塔耶夫说。“哟，坏东西，缩成一团了。暖和了，小狗崽，”

他说，触摸了一下脚底下的狗，一翻身便马上睡着了。

外面，远方传来哭声和喊叫声，透过板屋缝隙看得见火光；但屋里是沉寂和黑暗。皮埃尔久久未能入睡，睁着眼睛躺在黑暗里自己的铺位上，听着旁。边睡着的普拉东的均匀的鼾声，渐渐觉得，那个已毁坏了的世界，如今带着一种新的美，在新的不可动摇的基础上，在他的心灵中活动起来。

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