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ard over Russians as cold and starving； who were continually dying and being left behind on the road； and whom they had orders to shoot—it was not only incomprehensible； but revolting。 And the soldiers of the escort； apparently afraid in the miserable plight they were in themselves； to give way to the pity they felt for the prisoners； for fear of making their own lot harder； treated them with marked moroseness and severity。
At Dorogobuzh the soldiers of the escort had gone off to plunder their own stores； leaving the prisoners locked in a stable； and several prisoners had burrowed under the wall and run away； but they were caught by the French and shot。
The arrangement； made at the start from Moscow； that the officers among the prisoners should march separately from the common soldiers； had long since been given up。 All who could walk marched together； and at the third stage Pierre had rejoined Karataev and the bow…legged； purple…grey dog； who had chosen Karataev for her master。
On the third day after leaving Moscow； Karataev had a return of the fever； which had kept him in the Moscow hospital； and as Karataev’s strength failed； Pierre held more aloof from him。 Pierre could not have said why it was； but from the time Karataev fell sick； he had to make an effort to force himself to go near him。 And when he did go near him and heard the subdued moans； which Karataev often uttered； as he lay at the halting…places； and smelt the increasing odour from the sick man。 Pierre moved further away from him and did not think about him。
In captivity in the shed that had been his prison； Pierre had learned not through his intellect； but through his whole being； through life； that man is created for happiness； that happiness lies in himself； in the satisfaction of his natural； human cravings； that all unhappiness is due； not to lack of what is needful； but to superfluity。 But now； during the last three weeks of the march； he had learned another new and consolatory truth—he had learned that there is nothing terrible to be dreaded in the world。 He had learned that just as there is no position in the world in which a man can be happy and perfectly free； so too there is no position in which he need be unhappy and in bondage。 He had found out that there is a limit to suffering and a limit to freedom； and that that limit is very soon reached； that the man who suffered from a crumpled petal in his bed of roses； suffered just as much as he suffered now； sleeping on the bare； damp earth； with one side getting chilled as the other side got warm； that when in former days he had put on his tight dancing…shoes； he had suffered in just the same way as now； when he walked quite barefoot （his foot…gear had long since fallen to pieces）； with his feet covered with sores。 He learned that when he had—by his own free…will； as he had fancied—married his wife； he had been no more free than now when he was locked up for the night in a stable。 Of all that he did himself afterwards call sufferings； though at the time he hardly felt them so； the chief was the state of his bare； blistered； sore feet。 The horse…flesh was savoury and nourishing； the saltpetre flavour given it by the gun…powder they used instead of salt was positively agreeable； there was no great degree of cold； it was always warm in the daytime on the march； and at night there were the camp…fires； and the lice that devoured him helped to keep him warm。 One thing was painful in the earlier days— that was his feet。
On the second day of the march； as he examined his blisters by the camp…fire； Pierre thought he could not possibly walk on them； but when they all got up； he set off limping； and later on； when he got warm； he walked without pain； though his feet looked even more terrible that evening。 But he did not look at them； and thought of something else。
Only now Pierre grasped all the force of vitality in man； and the saving power innate in man； of transferring his attention； like the safety…valve in steam…engines； that lets off the superfluous steam so soon as its pressure exceeds a certain point。
He did not see and did not hear how the prisoners that lagged behind were shot； though more than a hundred of them had perished in that way。 He did not think about Karataev； who was getting weaker every day； and would obviously soon fall a victim to the same fate。 Still less did Pierre think about himself。 The harder his lot became； the more terrible his future； the more independent of his present plight were the glad and soothing thoughts； memories； and images that occurred to him。
Chapter 13
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 b