IN THIS SHED, where Pierre spent four weeks, there were twenty-three soldiers, three officers, and two civilian functionaries, all prisoners.

They were all misty figures to Pierre afterwards, but Platon Karataev remained for ever in his mind the strongest and most precious memory, and the personification of everything Russian, kindly, and round. When next day at dawn Pierre saw his neighbour, his first impression of something round was fully confirmed; Platon's whole figure in his French military coat, girt round the waist with cord, in his forage-cap and bast shoes, was roundish, his head was perfectly round, his back, his chest, his shoulders, even his arms, which he always held as though he were about to embrace something, were round in their lines; his friendly smile and big, soft, brown eyes, too, were round.

Platon Karataev must have been over fifty to judge by his stories of the campaigns in which he had taken part. He did not himself know and could not determine how old he was. But his strong, dazzlingly white teeth showed in two unbroken semicircles whenever he laughed, as he often did, and all were good and sound: there was not a grey hair in his beard or on his head, and his whole frame had a look of suppleness and of unusual hardiness and endurance.

His face had an expression of innocence and youth in spite of the curving wrinkles on it; his voice had a pleasant sing-song note. But the great peculiarity of his talk was its spontaneity and readiness. It was evident that he never thought of what he was saying, or of what he was going to say; and that gave a peculiar, irresistible persuasiveness to his rapid and genuine intonations.

His physical powers and activity were such, during the first period of his imprisonment, that he seemed not to know what fatigue or sickness meant. Every evening as he lay down to sleep, he said: “Let me lie down, Lord, like a stone; let me rise up like new bread”; and every morning on getting up, he would shake his shoulder in the same way, saying: “Lie down and curl up, get up and shake yourself.” And he had, in fact, only to lie down in order to sleep at once like a stone, and he had but to shake himself to be ready at once, on waking, without a second's delay, to set to work of some sort; just as children, on waking, begin at once playing with their toys. He knew how to do everything, not particularly well, but not badly either. He baked, and cooked, and sewed, and planed, and cobbled boots. He was always busy, and only in the evenings allowed himself to indulge in conversation, which he loved, and singing. He sang songs, not as singers do, who know they are listened to, but sang, as the birds sing, obviously, because it was necessary to him to utter those sounds, as it sometimes is to stretch or to walk about; and those sounds were always thin, tender, almost feminine, melancholy notes, and his face as he uttered them was very serious.

Being in prison, and having let his beard grow, he had apparently cast off all the soldier's ways that had been forced upon him and were not natural to him, and had unconsciously relapsed into his old peasant habits.

“A soldier discharged is the shirt outside the breeches again,” he used to say. He did not care to talk of his life as a soldier, though he never complained, and often repeated that he had never once been beaten since he had been in the service. When he told stories, it was always by preference of his old and evidently precious memories of his life as a “Christian,” as he pronounced the word “krestyan,” or peasant. The proverbial sayings, of which his talk was full, were not the bold, and mostly indecent, sayings common among soldiers, but those peasant saws, which seem of so little meaning looked at separately, and gain all at once a significance of profound wisdom when uttered appropriately.

Often he would say something directly contrary to what he had said before, but both sayings were equally true. He liked talking, and talked well, adorning his speech with caressing epithets and proverbial sayings, which Pierre fancied he often invented himself. But the great charm of his talk was that the simplest incidents—sometimes the same that Pierre had himself seen without noticing them—in his account of them gained a character of seemliness and solemn significance. He liked to listen to the fairy tales which one soldier used to tell—always the same ones over and over again—in the evenings, but most of all he liked to listen to stories of real life. He smiled gleefully as he listened to such stories, putting in words and asking questions, all aiming at bringing out clearly the moral beauty of the action of which he was told. Attachments, friendships, love, as Pierre understood them, Karataev had none; but he loved and lived on affectionate terms with every creature with whom he was thrown in life, and especially so with man—not with any particular man, but with the men who happened to be before his eyes. He loved his dog, loved his comrades, loved the French, loved Pierre, who was his neighbour. But Pierre felt that in spite of Karataev's affectionate tenderness to him (in which he involuntarily paid tribute to Pierre's spiritual life), he would not suffer a moment's grief at parting from him. And Pierre began to have the same feeling towards Karataev.

To all the other soldiers Platon Karataev was the most ordinary soldier; they called him “little hawk,” or Platosha; made good-humoured jibes at his expense, sent him to fetch things. But to Pierre, such as he appeared on that first night—an unfathomable, rounded-off, and everlasting personification of the spirit of simplicity and truth—so he remained to him for ever.

Platon Karataev knew nothing by heart except his prayers. When he talked, he did not know on beginning a sentence how he was going to end it.

When Pierre, struck sometimes by the force of his remarks, asked him to repeat what he had said, Platon could never recall what he had said the minute before, just as he could never repeat to Pierre the words of his favourite song. There came in, “My own little birch-tree,” and “My heart is sick,” but there was no meaning in the words. He did not understand, and could not grasp the significance of words taken apart from the sentence. Every word and every action of his was the expression of a force uncomprehended by him, which was his life. But his life, as he looked at it, had no meaning as a separate life. It had meaning only as a part of a whole, of which he was at all times conscious. His words and actions flowed from him as smoothly, as inevitably, and as spontaneously, as the perfume rises from the flower. He could not understand any value or significance in an act or a word taken separately.

在皮埃尔进去住了四个星期的那间战俘营里，有二十三名战俘，三名军官，两名文官。

皮埃尔后来觉得这些人都好像笼罩在大雾里，但普拉东·卡拉塔耶夫则以最强烈最宝贵的印象，作为整个俄罗斯的善良的圆满的东西的化身，而永远留在皮埃尔心上。当第二天清晨，皮埃尔看到自己的邻居时，关于圆的第一印象就完全得到了证实：普拉东身穿法军大衣，腰间系一条绳子，头戴制帽，脚穿草鞋，他的整个身形都是圆的，头完全是圆的，背、胸、肩膀，甚至连他那随时准备抱住什么的双手，都是圆圆的；愉快的笑脸，褐色的温柔的大眼睛，也是圆圆的。

从普拉东·卡拉塔耶夫看，讲述的他当兵时间久，参加过不少战役加以判断，他应该有五十多岁了。他自己不知为什么不能断定他年龄多大，但他的牙齿，又白又坚固，他开口笑时，露出两排完整无缺的半圆形的牙（他常笑）；胡子和头发没有一根白的，同时，整个身躯显得灵活，分外结实而富有耐力。

他的脸，虽然有些细碎的鱼尾纹，但却流落出天真年少的表情；他的嗓子是愉快动听的。但他说话的主要特点，是直截了当和流畅。他似乎从不想他说过什么和将要说什么；这就是他说得快和语调纯正的原因，因而有特殊的不可抗拒的说服力。

他的力气和手脚的灵便在关进战俘营的最初几天，表现得好像他不懂得什么是疲劳和疾病。每天早晨和晚上，他在躺下时就说：“上帝保佑，放倒像石头，扶起像面包。”早晨起床时，总要耸耸肩膀说：“躺下来，蜷缩成一团，起了床，抖擞精神。”也真的如此，他只要一躺下，立刻睡得像石头一样，而只要一站直了，便立刻毫不迟延地去找事情干，就像小孩子一起床便耍玩具一样。他样样会干，不顶好，但也不算坏。他会烤面包，煮食物，缝补，刨木板，上靴底。他总是有活儿干，只是在晚上聊聊天，他爱聊天，也爱唱歌。他唱歌不像歌唱家那样，知道有人在听他们唱，而是像鸟儿那样，似乎因为他必须发出这些声音来，就像必须伸懒腰或散步一样；同时，这些声音总是尖细的，温柔的，近乎女人的声音，如怨如诉，而这时他的面部表情非常严肃。

作了囚犯，满脸长起胡子，他好像扔掉了一切加之于他身上的外来的士兵的东西，不由自主地恢复了从前的农夫的老百姓的习惯。

“歇假的兵士——散在裤腰外面的的衬衫。”①他时常说。他不情愿讲自己的当兵生涯，尽管并不惋惜，还常常反复说，整个服役期间没捱过一次鞭笞。当他聊天的时候，主要讲自己陈年的，他所珍视的“耶稣”徒的，他本该说“农夫”的生活的回忆。②

①俄国农民觉得衬衫扎进裤腰拘束，不习惯。

②“基督的”与“农民的”两字俄语发音极像。这里译为耶稣徒的。

充满他的语言里的成语，大多是不文雅而粗犷的那些成语，并不是士兵使用的，而是老百姓的日常习用语，把它们单独抽出来看是没有意义的，但凑到话里说出来，则突然显示出深刻的机智。

他往往说出与他刚才说过的相抵触的话来，但前后两种法说都是正确的。他爱说，能说，用讨好话和成语装饰他的语言，那些成语，皮埃尔觉得是他自己造出来的；而他谈话的主要魅力，在于他说的事都是单纯的，往往是皮埃尔视而不见的，而一经他道出，便具有庄严优雅的特点。他喜欢听一个士兵晚上讲故事（老是那些相同的故事），但更喜欢听关于现实生活的聊天。他愉快地微笑着，边听边插话，同时还问这问那，以便他能摸清那些聊天内容的精彩之处。至于眷恋、友谊、爱情这些事，照皮埃尔对他的了解来看，卡拉塔耶夫却未曾有过；但他也爱过，并且和生活里遇到的一切，尤其是和人——不是和某个知名的人，而是和出现在他面前的人们相亲相爱，和衷共济。他爱他的狗，爱难友，爱法国兵，爱他的邻人皮埃尔；但皮埃尔感到，尽管卡拉塔耶夫对他很亲热（他是不自觉地这样子来表示敬重皮埃尔的精神生活），但他一分钟也不会为同他分开而难过。皮埃尔也开始对卡拉塔耶夫抱着同样的感情。

普拉东·卡拉塔耶夫对所有其余的俘虏来说，也是个一般的士兵，都叫他小雄鹰或普拉托沙，善意地开他的玩笑，支他的差。而对皮埃尔来说，他在第一个晚上就使皮埃尔想象到，他已作为一个不可思议的、圆满的、永恒的纯朴和真理的化身永远留在皮埃尔心上。

普拉东·卡拉塔耶夫除了祷辞，不会背诵别的什么。他说起话来，好像只知开头，而不知如何收尾。

皮埃尔有时为他的谈话感到惊异，请他重说一遍时，普拉东总回忆不出一分钟前讲过的内容，就像他不能把他爱唱的歌给皮埃尔说出歌词一样。比如歌词是：“亲爱的，小白桦树啊，我多么痛苦啊。”而在歌词上显不出任何意义来。他不明白，也不可能明白从他话里单独抽出来的字的意义。他的每一句话和每一个行动，都是他所不知的现实的表现，那现实便是他的生活。但他的生活，照他自己看来，作为一种单独的东西，是没有意义的。只有作为他经常感觉得到的那个整体的一部份，他的生活才有意义。他的话和行动的表露，都是顺畅，必然和直接的，像花朵散发芳香。他不可能从单独抽出来的一个行动和一句话上，理解其价值或意义。