Briggs: Pierre meets Platon Karatayev in prison.
Pevear and Volokhonsky (chapters 12-13): Pierre pardoned. Joins prisoners of war. Platon Karataev.
Translation:
XII.
After the execution, Pierre was separated from the other defendants and left alone in a small, ravaged and fouled church.
Before night, the noncommissioned officer guard with two soldiers entered in the church and declared to Pierre that he was forgiven and arrives now to the barracks of the prisoners of war. Not understanding what was said to him, Pierre got up and went with the soldiers. He was brought to a building above the field of burnt wood, logs and thin boards, booths, and was introduced in one of them. In the dark twenty institutional people surrounded Pierre. Pierre watched them, not understanding who such were these people, what for they were and what they wanted from him. He heard the words which were said to him, but made from them not withdrawal and annexes: not understanding their meanings. He responded to himself that he was asked, but did not think of who was listening to him, and how to understand his answers. He watched the faces and figures, and all of them seemed to him equally meaningless.
From that minute, as Pierre saw this scary murder, the perfect people who did not want to do this, in his soul was as if suddenly pulled out that spring in which held all and presented as alive, and all collapsed in a lot of senseless litter. Although he did not give himself back a report, was destroyed faith in the improvement of the world, in humanity, in his soul, and in God. This was a state experienced by Pierre before, but never with such force as now. Before, when in Pierre was found such a family of doubt, this doubt had the source of his own blame. And in the very depth of his soul, Pierre then felt that from this despair and this doubt was the salvation in his very self. Yet now he felt that not his fault was the cause that the world collapsed in his eyes, and stayed only senseless ruins. He felt that to return to faith in life — was not in his authority.
Around him in the dark were standing people: something to their right extremely occupied him. He was told something, questioned about something, then led somewhere, and he finally found himself in the corner of the booth nearby with some people, negotiating with different parties, laughing.
— And here, my brothers... that very prince, which (with special emphasis on the word that)... — spoke some voice in the opposite corner of the booth.
Silently and sitting still at the walls in the straw, Pierre opened, then closed his eyes. Only that he covered his head, he saw before himself that same scary, in particular scary in its simplicity, face of the factory worker and still more scary was the anxiety on the face of the involuntary assassins. And he again opened his eyes and pointlessly watched the dark around himself.
Nearby with him sat some bent over little person, the presence of which Pierre saw first by the strong smell of sweat, which separated from him at every one of his movements. This person did something in the dark with their own feet and, despite that Pierre did not see his face, he felt that this person incessantly looked at him. Looking closely in the dark, Pierre got that this person took off his shoes. And that, in the way he did this, interested Pierre.
Unwinding the twine which was tied on one foot, he accurately rolled up the twine and immediately began for the other leg, looking at Pierre. While on one hand hung the twine, the other now took to unwind the other leg. In such a way accurately, round, flowing, without slow down by the following one behind the other, movements, taking off his shoes, the person hung up his footwear on pegs, driven in above his head, took out a knife, cut off something, folded up the knife, placed it under the headboard and, better sitting down, hugged his raised knees with both hands and stared all at Pierre. Pierre felt something pleasant, sedative and round at these flowing movements, in this livability in the corner of his household, in even the smell of this human, and he, not lowering his eyes, watched him.
— Ah you need to have seen much, baron? Ah? — said suddenly the little person. And such an expression of caressing and simplicity was in the melodiously voice of the man that Pierre wanted to respond, but he had a trembled jaw, and he felt tears. The little person in that same second, not giving Pierre time to express his embarrassment, began to talk by that same enjoyable voice.
— Eh, falcon, no pain, — he said with that tenderly melodious affection with which speak old Russian women. — No pain, my friend: an hour stands, but a century lives! Here is so, my sweet.
But live here, thank God, no grudges. Also people and thin, kindly eat, — he said and saying it, behind flexible movement bent over on his knees, got up and, clearing his throat, went somewhere.
— See, the rogue has come! — heard Pierre at the end of the booth that same affectionate voice. — It has come, the rogue, it remembers! Well, well, it will. — and a soldier, pushing away from himself a little dog, jumping to him, returned to his place and sat down. In his hands was something wrapped in a rag.
— Here, eat, baron, — he said, again returning to a still respectful tone and deploying and giving Pierre a few baked potatoes. — Lunch was soup. But potatoes are important!
Pierre did not eat the whole day, and the smell of the potatoes seemed to him unusually enjoyable. He thanked the soldier and began to eat.
— What but that? — smiling said the soldier and took one of the potatoes. — But you are here how. — He took out again the foldable knife, cut in his palm the potatoes in two equal halves, sprinkled salt from the rags and brought it to Pierre.
— Potatoes are important, — he repeated. — You eat here that.
To Pierre it seemed that he had never eaten food tastier than this.
— No, me all nothing, — said Pierre, — but for what they shot these miserables!.. The last was twenty years-old.
— Ts, tts... — said the little person. — That’s a sin, that’s a sin... — he fastly added and, as if his words were always ready in his mouth and accidentally took off from him, he continued: — What the same this is, baron, you so in Moscow stayed?
— I did not think that they would come so soon. I accidentally stayed, — said Pierre.
— And how again they took you, falcon, from your home?
— No, I went to a fire, but here they grabbed me, judging me for an arsonist.
— Where is a court, there is the not true, — inserted the little person.
— But you for a long time are here? — asked Pierre, chewing the last of the potatoes.
— I? On that Sunday I was taken from the state hospital in Moscow.
— You were who again, a soldier?
— A soldier of the Apsheron regiment. From fever we died. We have not said anything. Of our person twenty lied. And do not think we were guessing.
— What are you bored here? — asked Pierre.
— So not bored, falcon. I am called Platon; Karataev is the nickname, — he added apparently with that, so to facilitate Pierre in appealing to him. — Falcon in the service nicknamed. So do not miss, falcon! Moscow, she is the mother city. So do not miss this look. Yes the worm gnaws the cabbage, but itself before this disappears: so that old men used to say, — he added fast.
— How, how is this you said? — asked Pierre.
— I? — asked Karataev. — I do not speak our mind, but God’s court, — he said, thinking that he repeated what he said. And immediately again he continued: — How again is it in you, baron, fiefdoms? And a house? A complete bowl! And a hostess? But are your elderly parents alive?— he asked, and although Pierre did not see in the dark, he felt that the soldier winced his lips in a restrained smile of caress, in that time as he asked this is. He apparently was afflicted by that Pierre had no parents, in particular a mother.
— Wife for council, mother-in-law for hello, but no dear native mother! — he said. — Well but children? — he continued to ask. The negative answer of Pierre again apparently upset him, and he hurried to add: — What but people are young, more will give God, he will. Only would in his advice live...
— Yes now all care, — unwittingly said Pierre.
— Oh, sweet person you, — objected Platon. — From bags, and from prisons never refuse. — he sat down better, cleared his throat, apparently getting ready for a long story. — So that, my kind friend, I lived still at home, — he started. — Our fiefdom was rich, earth much, okay living men, and our house, thank you God. This father himself went out to mow. We lived okay. We were real Christians. It happened... — and Platon Karataev told the long story about how he went in a foreign grove behind the forest and was caught by the watchman, how he was flogged, judged and given to the soldiers. — What the same, falcon, — he spoke changing from his smiling voice, — you think a grief, but a joy! My brother would have gone, if not for my sin. But in my younger brother himself was five kids, but in me, see, only a soldier left. There was a girl, and still before the soldiery God cleaned up. I came on a visit, I say to you. I see — the better the former live. A yard full of bellies, women at home, two brothers in earnings. Only Mihayl, the younger, at home. My father spoke, all children are wounds: what finger is bit, all hurt. But if not Platon then had been shaved, Mihail would have gone. He called us all — believe it — put before the image. Mihayl, he spoke, go here, bow down at his legs, and you, woman, bow down, and the grandchildren, bow down. Understood? He spoke. — So that, my kind friend. Fate is looking for heads looking. But we all judged: that is not okay, that is not okay. Our happiness, my friend, is as water in delirium: pulls — swells, and drags out — to nothing. So that. — and Platon moved on his straw.
Keeping silent for some time, Platon got up.
— What, but am I tea, want to sleep? — he said and quickly started crossing, saying:
— Lord, Jesus Christ, Nikolay the pleaser, Frola and Lavra, Lord Jesus Christ, Nikolay the pleaser! Frola and Lavra, Lord Jesus Christ — have mercy and save us! — he concluded, bowed on the land, got up, sighed and sat down on his straw. — Here is so that. Place, my God, a pebble, lift a ball, — he spoke and lied down, pulling on himself an overcoat.
— Which is this your prayer you were reading? — asked Pierre.
— As? — spoke Platon (he was already asleep). — Was reading what? A prayer to God. But don't you pray?
— No, I pray, — said Pierre. — But what you spoke: Frola and Lavra?
— But how again, — fast was the response of Platon, — horse celebration. And cattle need pity, — said Karataev. — You see the rogue, rolled up. Got cold, the bitch’s daughter, — he said, feeling the dog at his feet and, turning again, immediately again was asleep.
Outwardly was heard somewhere a far away cry and shouting, and through the crevices of the booth was seen a fire; but in the booth it was quiet and dark. Pierre for long did not sleep and with open eyes lied in the dark in his location, listening to the measured snoring of Platon, lying beside him, and he felt that the before ruined world now with new beauty, in what kind of new and unshakable foundations, moved in his soul.
Mentioned: Last Sunday
Locations: a small, polluted church, Moscow
Mentioned: Russian
Pevear and Volokhonsky Notes: Pierre is again separated from the rest of the prisoners and is left alone in a church but is quickly brought to the prisoners of war. All of his faith in God and the world has been destroyed due to the executions (which Tolstoy frankly calls murders) he witnessed. Pierre then sees a little man taking off his foot cloths methodically, speaking like an old Russian woman and saying "you suffer an hour, you live an age!". The man gives Pierre some potatoes that seems to Pierre as tastier than anything else he's eaten. The man turns out to be Platon Karataev, a soldier who was dying of fever before the French invaded. He speaks in short, pithy proverbs. He tells a story about how through a mistake, he was arrested and sent as a soldier, which saved his brother, who has a family, from being sent as a soldier.
"Fate seeks a head....Our luck is like water in a fishnet: drag it and it swells, pull it out and nothing's there."
He also mentions some magical icons that reminds the reader of the people of God Pierre encountered when around Andrei and Marya earlier in the novel.
This conversation makes Pierre feel "that the previously destroyed world was now arising in his soul with a new beauty, on some new and unshakable foundations."
Characters (characters who do not appear, but are mentioned are placed in italics. First appearances are in Bold. First mentions are underlined. Final appearance denoted by *):
Pierre (also "barin" and "my dear friend".)
Platon Karatayef (also "little man" and "sokolik". "...Karatayev" in Edmonds and Dunnigan. "...Karataev" in Maude, Mandelker, and Garnett. Also in Platon's story, another man, his father, his brother Mikhailo, and his children. Also his wife and dead daughter is mentioned in his story.)
The puppy (also "rascal" and "little slut")
Abridged Versions: Line break instead of chapter break in Bell.
Gibian: line break instead of chapter break.
Fuller: Chapter is preserved and followed by a line break.
Komroff: The description of Platon's leg wrapping is severely shortened. The final paragraph, which reflects on Pierre's inner feelings on the encounter of Platon, is removed.
Kropotkin: Chapter 8: Some of the details around Pierre as he loses his faith in life is removed, as well as the description of Platon's leg wrappings. No break at the end.
Bromfield: Chapter 18: The French ring the bells for the feast for the Intercession of the Holy Virgin and Pierre complains that they don't do it in the Russian manner. He sits back with his fellow fifteen prisoners, including a fifteen year old boy. Pierre carves out a little doll and is described as having changed, both physically and mentally. He finds happiness in thinking about leaving captivity. There is a big emphasis on bare feet, especially his.
"how distant and alien to him were the concepts of war, military commanders, heroism, state, government, administration and philosophical science, and how dear to him were the concepts of human love, compassion, joy, sunshine and song." His most difficult time comes when he is in the chapel when he sees everything is on fire and the French have forgotten about him. He is interrogated quickly and we go into the episode with Davout. The main difference in the episode is that Pierre does not give up his name, instead only giving up that he speaks French.
We then go into the scene where the French shoot the prisoners. It is made explicit that Pierre will not be shot, only made to watch.
After this, we get the information that Pierre is respected in the hut and has given away all his possessions, keeping busy by whittling wood. He is called the "hairy giant". His friend Ponici reaches Pierre and they have a conversation about Pierre's happiness and the strength of his character. Ponici brings a charity bundle, including boots, which Pierre says he has to share with his friend. Ponici has a plan to get him out by having Pierre declare who he is so Napoleon would pardon him. Pierre rejects this plan.
""Ah, my dear friend, what a terrible thing war is, what a senseless, evil thing." "But inevitable, eternal," said Pierre, "and one of the finest means for revealing the goodness in mankind.""
After Ponici leaves, Pierre thinks about how he will devote his whole life to Natasha. There is a short final paragraph about how French soldiers who fell back were being shot and that the order came down that all those who fell back would be shot.
Simmons: line break instead of chapter break.
Edmundson: Act 4 Scene 10: We get almost all of Platon's dialogue. Pierre's is different with he expressing the thoughts as to who actually killed the boy ("Not the ones who pulled the triggers, not Napoleon, not anyone. But we did it. We all stood round and did it."). Pierre also tells him that there is no God before Platon convinces him and they go to sleep.
Additional Notes: Maude: "Florus and Laurus, brothers who were martyred under Diocletian, are numbered among the saints of the Russian Orthodox Church, and are accounted the patron saints of horses by the peasants, who mispronounce their names. (The result is humorous, as the name Frola evokes the picaresque folk hero Frol Skobeev, and 'lavra' in Russian means market. I retain the Russian form of St Nicholas's name here to convey the quaint, folk-Russian quality of Karataev's language."
Garnett (on Platon): "Named for the Greek philosopher Plato...the peasant is enshrined in the pantheon of foundational Western humanists. In his attributes--his childlike simplicity, nurturing altruism, traditional wisdom, and lack of self-consciousness and artificiality--he is kin to Jean-Jacques Rousseau's philosophical construct of the Noble Savage..."
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