BOOK TWELVE: 1812
12. CHAPTER XII
(continued)
"I didn't think they would come so soon. I stayed accidentally,"
replied Pierre.
"And how did they arrest you, dear lad? At your house?"
"No, I went to look at the fire, and they arrested me there, and
tried me as an incendiary."
"Where there's law there's injustice," put in the little man.
"And have you been here long?" Pierre asked as he munched the last
of the potato.
"I? It was last Sunday they took me, out of a hospital in Moscow."
"Why, are you a soldier then?"
"Yes, we are soldiers of the Apsheron regiment. 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. 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 say things happen not as we plan but
as God judges," he replied, thinking that he was repeating what he had
said before, and immediately continued:
"Well, and you, have you a family estate, sir? And a house? So you
have abundance, then? And a housewife? And your old parents, are
they still living?" he asked.
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