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Karataev put down the glass and grabbed at his head. I fancied I understood him. 'Well, well, he said at last, 'one must not rake up the past. 'To your health! 'Shall you stay in Moscow? I asked him. 'I shall die in Moscow! 'Karataev! called a voice in the next room; 'Karataev, where are you? Come here, my dear fellow! 'They're calling me, he said, getting up heavily from his seat.
'It's quite true, lads, that this man, he says, 'is being tortured innocently and for nothing! I, he says, 'did that deed, and I put the knife under your head while you were asleep. Forgive me, Daddy, he says, 'for Christ's sake!" Karataev paused, smiling joyously as he gazed into the fire, and he drew the logs together.
Probably it had never had an owner, and it still belonged to nobody and had no name. The French called it Azor; the soldier who told stories called it Femgalka; Karataev and others called it Gray, or sometimes Flabby. Its lack of a master, a name, or even of a breed or any definite color did not seem to trouble the blue-gray dog in the least.
How is one to help feeling sad? Moscow she's the mother of cities. How can one see all this and not feel sad? But 'the maggot gnaws the cabbage, yet dies first'; that's what the old folks used to tell us," he added rapidly. "What? What did you say?" asked Pierre. "Who? I?" said Karataev.
I brought out a bottle of rum. I was not wrong in taking my new acquaintance for a country gentleman of small property. His name was Piotr Petrovitch Karataev. We got into conversation. In less than half-an-hour after his arrival, he was telling me his whole life with the most simple-hearted openness.
'Well, what do you think? he went on, striking the table with his fist and trying to frown, while the tears still coursed down his flushed cheeks; 'the girl gave herself up.... She went and gave herself up... 'The horses are ready, the overseer cried triumphantly, entering the room. We both stood up. 'What became of Matrona? I asked. Karataev waved his hand.
Again Pierre's negative answer seemed to distress him, and he hastened to add: "Never mind! You're young folks yet, and please God may still have some. The great thing is to live in harmony...." "But it's all the same now," Pierre could not help saying. "Ah, my dear fellow!" rejoined Karataev, "never decline a prison or a beggar's sack!"
I was dying of fever. We weren't told anything. There were some twenty of us lying there. We had no idea, never guessed at all." "And do you feel sad here?" Pierre inquired. "How can one help it, lad? My name is Platon, and the surname is Karataev," he added, evidently wishing to make it easier for Pierre to address him. "They call me 'little falcon' in the regiment.
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 Karataev who grew weaker every day and evidently would soon have to share that fate. Still less did Pierre think about himself.
But suddenly he turned round on the bench, then seemed to ponder, dropped his eyes, and held out his empty glass to me. 'Give me some of your rum, he said. 'But the tea's all finished. 'Never mind, as it is, without tea... Ah h! Karataev laid his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the table.
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