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“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。
Chapter 14
“TO YOUR PLACES！” a voice shouted suddenly。
There was a cheerful stir among the prisoners and convoy soldiers； and an air of expecting something festive and solemn。 Shouted commands could be heard on all sides； and a party of well…dressed cavalry soldiers on good horses came trotting up from the left； making a circuit round the prisoners。 Every face wore the look of nervousness commonly seen at the approach of men in authority。 The prisoners huddled together and were shoved out of the way。 The convoy soldiers formed in ranks。
“The Emperor！ The Emperor！ The marshal！ The duke！…” and the sleek cavalry soldiers had hardly ridden by when a carriage rattled up drawn by grey horses。 Pierre had a passing glimpse of the serene； handsome； fat； white face of a man in a three…cornered hat。 It was one of the marshals。 The marshal’s eye was caught by Pierre’s big； striking figure； and in the expression with which he frowned and looked away Pierre fancied he saw pity and the desire to conceal it。
The general in charge of the transport whipped up his lean horse； and galloped after the carriage with a red； panic…stricken face。 Several officers met in a group； the soldiers came round them。 All had excited and uneasy faces。
“What did he say？ What was it he said？ …” Pierre heard。
While the marshal was driving by； the prisoners had been hustled together into one group； and Pierre caught sight of Karataev； whom he had not yet seen that morning。 He was sitting； wrapped in his little military coat； leaning against a birch…tree。 His face still wore the same look of joyous emotion as when he had been telling the story of the merchant； but it had another expression too； a look of subdued solemnity。
Karataev looked at Pierre with his kindly； round eyes； that were bright now with tears； and there was an unmistakable appeal in them。 He evidently wanted to say something to him。 But Pierre was in too great dread for himself。 He made as though he had not seen that look； and hastily walked away。
When the prisoners set off again Pierre looked back。 Karataev was sitting under the birch…tree by the edge of the road； and two Frenchmen were bending over him in conversation。 Pierre did not look again。 He went on limping up the hill。
There was the sound of a shot behind； at the spot where Karataev was sitting。 Pierre heard that shot distinctly； but at the moment that he heard it； he recalled that he had not finished reckoning up how many stages were left to Smolensk； the calculation he had begun before the marshal rode by。 And he began to reckon。 Two French soldiers ran by Pierre； one holding a still smoking gun。 They were both pale； and in the expression of their faces—one of them glanced timidly at Pierre—there was something like what he had seen in the young soldier at the execution in Moscow。 Pierre looked at the soldier and remembered how； the day bef