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He
did
not
see
and
did
not
hear
how
they
shot
the
prisoners
who
lagged
behind
,
though
more
than
a
hundred
perished
in
that
way
.
He
did
not
think
of
Karatáev
who
grew
weaker
every
day
and
evidently
would
soon
have
to
share
that
fate
.
Still
less
did
Pierre
think
about
himself
.
The
harder
his
position
became
and
the
more
terrible
the
future
,
the
more
independent
of
that
position
in
which
he
found
himself
were
the
joyful
and
comforting
thoughts
,
memories
,
and
imaginings
that
came
to
him
.
At
midday
on
the
twenty-second
of
October
Pierre
was
going
uphill
along
the
muddy
,
slippery
road
,
looking
at
his
feet
and
at
the
roughness
of
the
way
.
Occasionally
he
glanced
at
the
familiar
crowd
around
him
and
then
again
at
his
feet
.
The
former
and
the
latter
were
alike
familiar
and
his
own
.
The
blue-gray
bandy
legged
dog
ran
merrily
along
the
side
of
the
road
,
sometimes
in
proof
of
its
agility
and
self-satisfaction
lifting
one
hind
leg
and
hopping
along
on
three
,
and
then
again
going
on
all
four
and
rushing
to
bark
at
the
crows
that
sat
on
the
carrion
.
The
dog
was
merrier
and
sleeker
than
it
had
been
in
Moscow
.
All
around
lay
the
flesh
of
different
animals
--
from
men
to
horses
--
in
various
stages
of
decomposition
;
and
as
the
wolves
were
kept
off
by
the
passing
men
the
dog
could
eat
all
it
wanted
.
It
had
been
raining
since
morning
and
had
seemed
as
if
at
any
moment
it
might
cease
and
the
sky
clear
,
but
after
a
short
break
it
began
raining
harder
than
before
.
The
saturated
road
no
longer
absorbed
the
water
,
which
ran
along
the
ruts
in
streams
.
Pierre
walked
along
,
looking
from
side
to
side
,
counting
his
steps
in
threes
,
and
reckoning
them
off
on
his
fingers
.
Mentally
addressing
the
rain
,
he
repeated
:
"
Now
then
,
now
then
,
go
on
!
Pelt
harder
!
"
It
seemed
to
him
that
he
was
thinking
of
nothing
,
but
far
down
and
deep
within
him
his
soul
was
occupied
with
something
important
and
comforting
.
This
something
was
a
most
subtle
spiritual
deduction
from
a
conversation
with
Karatáev
the
day
before
.
At
their
yesterday
's
halting
place
,
feeling
chilly
by
a
dying
campfire
,
Pierre
had
got
up
and
gone
to
the
next
one
,
which
was
burning
better
.
There
Platón
Karatáev
was
sitting
covered
up
--
head
and
all
--
with
his
greatcoat
as
if
it
were
a
vestment
,
telling
the
soldiers
in
his
effective
and
pleasant
though
now
feeble
voice
a
story
Pierre
knew
.
It
was
already
past
midnight
,
the
hour
when
Karatáev
was
usually
free
of
his
fever
and
particularly
lively
.
When
Pierre
reached
the
fire
and
heard
Platón
's
voice
enfeebled
by
illness
,
and
saw
his
pathetic
face
brightly
lit
up
by
the
blaze
,
he
felt
a
painful
prick
at
his
heart
.
His
feeling
of
pity
for
this
man
frightened
him
and
he
wished
to
go
away
,
but
there
was
no
other
fire
,
and
Pierre
sat
down
,
trying
not
to
look
at
Platón
.
"
Well
,
how
are
you
?
"
he
asked
.
"
How
am
I
?
If
we
grumble
at
sickness
,
God
wo
n't
grant
us
death
,
"
replied
Platón
,
and
at
once
resumed
the
story
he
had
begun
.
"
And
so
,
brother
,
"
he
continued
,
with
a
smile
on
his
pale
emaciated
face
and
a
particularly
happy
light
in
his
eyes
,
"
you
see
,
brother
...
"
Pierre
had
long
been
familiar
with
that
story
.
Karatáev
had
told
it
to
him
alone
some
half-dozen
times
and
always
with
a
specially
joyful
emotion
.
But
well
as
he
knew
it
,
Pierre
now
listened
to
that
tale
as
to
something
new
,
and
the
quiet
rapture
Karatáev
evidently
felt
as
he
told
it
communicated
itself
also
to
Pierre
.
The
story
was
of
an
old
merchant
who
lived
a
good
and
God-fearing
life
with
his
family
,
and
who
went
once
to
the
Nízhni
fair
with
a
companion
--
a
rich
merchant
.
