AT MIDDAY on the 22nd, Pierre was walking along the muddy, slippery road uphill, looking at his feet and at the unevenness of the road. From time to time he glanced at the familiar crowd around him, and then again at his feet. Both that crowd and those feet were alike his and familiar to him. The purplish, bandy-legged, grey dog was running merrily along at the side of the road; sometimes picking up a hind leg, and skipping along on three paws as a sign of content and briskness, or barking at the crows that perched on the carrion. The grey dog was sleeker and merrier than in Moscow. All around lay the flesh of different animals— from men to horses—in different stages of decomposition, and the marching soldiers prevented wolves from coming near it, so that the grey dog could feast to her heart's content.

Rain had been falling since early morning; and it seemed continually as though in another minute it would cease and the sky would clear, when, after a short break, the rain came on again more heavily. The road, saturated with rain, could soak up no more, and streams flowed along the ruts.

Pierre walked, looking from side to side, counting his steps, and reckoning them off in threes on his fingers. Inwardly addressing the rain, he said to it, “Now then, come on then, pelt away!”

It seemed to him that he was thinking of nothing at all; but somewhere deep down his soul was pondering something grave and consolatory. That something was the subtlest, spiritual deduction arising from his talk the night before with Karataev.

Getting chilled by the dying fire on the previous night's halt, Pierre had got up and moved to the next fire, which was burning better. There Platon was sitting, with a coat put over his head, like a priest's chasuble. In his flexible, pleasant voice, feeble now from illness, he was telling the soldiers a story Pierre had heard already. It was past midnight, the time when Karataev's fever usually abated, and he was particularly lively. As he drew near the fire and heard Platon's weak, sickly voice, and saw his piteous mien in the bright firelight, Pierre felt a pang at heart. He was frightened at his own pity for this man, and would have gone away, but there was no other fire to go to, and trying not to look at Platon, he sat down by it.

“Well, how is your fever?” he asked.

“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 slit—all according to the law in due course, as Karataev said—and sent to hard labour.

“And so, brother” (it was at this point in the story that Pierre found Karataev) “ten years or more passed by after that. The old man lives on in prison. He submits, as is fitting; he does nothing wrong. Only he prays to God for death. Very well. And so at night-time they are gathered 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 has 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 no reason. So they began asking the old man, ‘What,' they say, ‘are you 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,' 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 happen, grandfather?' says he. ‘When and in what month?' and so he asked him all about it. His heart began to ache. He 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, for 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, darling!” Karataev concluded, and he gazed a long while straight before him, smiling silently.

Not the story itself, but its mysterious import, the ecstatic gladness that beamed in Karataev's face as he told it, the mysterious significance of that gladness vaguely filled and rejoiced Pierre's soul now.
 
 
二十二日中午，皮埃尔沿着泥泞的打滑的道路向山上走，他看着自己的脚，又看看那崎岖的山道。他偶而看一眼他周围熟悉的人群，然后又看那双脚，全都是他所熟悉的。那条雪青色的哈叭狗快活地沿着路边跑。有时，为了证明它的敏捷和满足，它提起一只后腿，用三条腿跳，然后又用四条腿跑，狂吠着向栖在死尸上的乌鸦奔去。哈叭狗比在莫斯科时更快活，更光滑圆润。沿途到处都是各种动物的陈尸烂肉——从人的到马的，不同程度腐烂了的肉；狼不敢走近有行人的道路两旁，而狗可以任意大嚼大吃。

雨从早上下起，眼看就要转晴，雨停了一阵，又下起来了，比先前还下得大，道路已经湿透，水顺着车辙流成了道道水沟。

皮埃尔一边走一边向两旁张望，每走三步就弯起一根手指头。他内心在嘀咕“下呀，下呀，再下大点！”

他觉得他什么都不想，但是，在他的内心深处，他的灵魂却在想一件重要的和令人欣慰的东西。这是他昨天和卡拉塔耶夫的谈话中得出来的最奥妙的精神收获。

在他们昨天的宿营地，皮埃尔在一堆快要燃烧完了的火堆旁觉得很冷，他站起身走到最近的一堆燃烧得较旺的火堆旁边。普拉东坐在火堆旁边，用他的大衣像法衣一样连头裹了起来，他用动人的、愉快的、然而却是微弱的、病人的声音向士兵们讲述着一个早已为皮埃尔熟悉的故事。下半夜，这通常是卡拉塔耶夫疟疾发作过后特别活跃的时候。皮埃尔走近火堆，听见普拉东微弱、病态的声音，看见他那被火光照亮了的可怜的脸，他的心像被针扎了一样，被刺痛了。他对这个人的同情使他吃惊，他想走开，但是没有另外的火堆可去，于是皮埃尔极力不看普拉东，在火堆旁坐了下来。

“你身体好吗？”他问道。

“身体？如果我们埋怨病，上帝就不会把死神赐给我们。”

卡拉塔耶夫说，他又接着讲述那个已讲开了头的故事。

“……我说，我的老弟，”普拉东继续说，他那苍白、憔悴的脸上带着笑容，眼睛里含着奇异的、喜悦的光亮，“我说，我的老弟……”

皮埃尔早就熟知这个故事，卡拉塔耶夫单独对他一个人至少讲过六次，而每次讲述这个故事时总是怀着奇特的、喜悦的感情。然而，无论皮埃尔对这个故事已经多么熟悉，他现在听起来，仍然觉得新鲜，卡拉塔耶夫讲述这个故事时所表现出的安详和出自内心的喜悦，感染着皮埃尔。这个故事是讲一个老商人，他和全家人都循规蹈矩，信奉上帝，有一次他和一个富商结伴到马卡里去所发生的事情。

他们俩住进一家客店，两个人都躺下睡了，第二天早晨发现那个富商被人杀害并劫走了财物。在老商人的枕头下面找到一把上面染着血迹的刀子。这个老商人遭到审判，挨了鞭打，撕破了鼻孔，——按照规矩要做的都做到了，——卡拉塔耶夫说——然后他就被流放，去做苦工。

“就是这样，我的老弟（卡拉塔耶夫讲到这里，皮埃尔就来了），这件事一晃过去了十多年，那个老头在劳动营服苦役，他规规矩矩，一件坏事也不做，他只乞求上帝赐他一死。嘿！一天夜里，犯人们聚在一起，就像我们现在这样，那个老头也在其中。他们谈论自己为什么受这份罪，是怎样得罪了上帝的。有一个说他杀过一个人，另一个说，他害死两条人命，还有一个说他是纵火，再有一个说他是逃亡者，什么罪也没有。接着大家问那个老头，“老人家你又是为了什么遭这个罪呢？”“我嘛，小兄弟们，我是为我自己的也是为别人的罪过才遭这个罪的，我没有杀过一个人，没有拿过别人一点东西，我还时常帮助穷人。亲爱的小兄弟们，我是个商人，我有很多财产。”他这样从头到尾地详详细细地把经过对大家讲了一遍。“我不为自己难过，这是上帝的旨意，不过只有一点，”他说，“我老伴和孩子太可怜了。”讲到这里，老人哭了。碰巧，在这群犯人中有一个人，就是这个人杀死了那个商人。“老人家，”那个人说，“那件事发生在什么地方？什么时间？哪一个月？”他问及所有情况，他的心被刺痛了。他就像这个样子走到老人跟前——扑通一声，跪倒在老人脚下。“老人家，”他说，“你是因为我才遭的这份罪，弟兄们，他说的都是真的，弟兄们，老人家没有罪，他是冤枉了的，那件事情是我干的，那把刀是我趁你睡着了塞到你枕头下面的。原谅我吧，老人家。”他说，“看在上帝的份上，原谅我吧。”

卡拉塔耶夫停住嘴，他凝视着火光，露出欣喜的笑容，拨了一下火。

——“那个老头说，上帝会饶恕你的，我们所有的人对上帝都有罪，我是为我自己的罪过才遭受这份罪。”他哭了，泪流满面。你们想不到吧，善良的人们，”卡拉塔耶夫说，他露出喜悦的笑容，眼睛闪着愈益明亮的光彩，好像他刚刚所讲述的故事里面，包含有一种最有魅力、最有意义的东西。

“你们真想不到，亲爱的朋友们，这个杀人凶手向当局自首了。他说，‘我害过六条人命，我是凶手，但是最使我难过的是那位老人，不能再让他为了我的缘故而遭罪。当局记录下供词，发了公文，一切都照章办理。那地方很远，一审再审，一道道公文，一层层上报，终于到了沙皇手中，沙皇的命令来了：无罪释放，发还没收的财产。公文下来了，到处找那老头。那个无辜的老头在哪里呢？”卡拉塔耶夫的下巴在打颤。‘上帝已经饶恕了他——他死了。你看，事情就这样，亲爱的朋友们。”卡拉塔耶夫结束道，他微笑着，默默地凝视着远方，停了很久。

这时，皮埃尔模模糊糊，充满了欢快，这不是因为这个故事本身，而是它那神秘的意义，是卡拉塔耶夫讲这个故事时，他那如痴如醉的神态和这种如痴如醉的神秘意义。