Emma Watson Pussy
War And Peace
strong smell of perspiration
which came from him every time he moved. This man was doing
something to his legs in the darkness, and though Pierre could not see
his face he felt that the man continually glanced at him. On growing
used to the darkness Pierre saw that the man was taking off his leg
bands, and the way he did it aroused Pierres interest.
Having unwound the string that tied the band on one leg, he
carefully coiled it up and immediately set to work on the other leg,
glancing up at Pierre. While one hand hung up the first string the
other was already unwinding the band on the second leg. In this way,
having carefully removed the leg bands by deft circular motions of his
arm following one another uninterruptedly, the man hung the leg
bands up on some pegs fixed above his head. Then he took out a
knife, cut something, closed the knife, placed it under the head of
his bed, and, seating himself comfortably, clasped his arms round
his lifted knees and fixed his eyes on Pierre. The latter was
conscious of something pleasant, comforting, and well rounded in these
deft movements, in the mans well-ordered arrangements in his
corner, and even in his very smell, and he looked at the man without
taking his eyes from him.
"Youve seen a lot of trouble, sir, eh?" the little man suddenly
And there was so much kindliness and simplicity in his singsong
voice that Pierre tried to reply, but his jaw trembled and he felt
tears rising to his eyes. The little fellow, giving Pierre no time
to betray his confusion, instantly continued in the same pleasant
"Eh, lad, dont fret!" said he, in the tender singsong caressing
voice old Russian peasant women employ. "Dont fret, friend--suffer
an hour, live for an age! thats how it is, my dear fellow. And
here we live, thank heaven, without offense. Among these folk, too,
there are good men as well as bad," said he, and still speaking, he
turned on his knees with a supple movement, got up, coughed, and
went off to another part of the shed.
"Eh, you rascal!" Pierre heard the same kind voice saying at the
other end of the shed. "So youve come, you rascal? She remembers...
Now, now, thatll do!"
And the soldier, pushing away a little dog that was jumping up at
him, returned to his place and sat down. In his hands he had something
wrapped in a rag.
"Here, eat a bit, sir," said he, resuming his former respectful tone
as he unwrapped and offered Pierre some baked potatoes. "We had soup
for dinner and the potatoes are grand!"
Pierre had not eaten all day and the smell of the potatoes seemed
extremely pleasant to him. He thanked the soldier and began to eat.
"Well, are they all right?" said the soldier with a smile. "You
should do like this."
He took a potato, drew out his clasp knife, cut the potato into
two equal halves on the palm of his hand, sprinkled some salt on it
from the rag, and handed it to Pierre.
"The potatoes are grand!" he said once more. "Eat some like that!"
Pierre thought he had never eaten anything that tasted better.
"Oh, Im all right," said he, "but why did they shoot those poor
fellows? The last one was hardly twenty."
"Tss, tt...!" said the little man. "Ah, what a sin... what a sin!"
he added quickly, and as if his words were always waiting ready in his
mouth and flew out involuntarily he went on: "How was it, sir, that
you stayed in Moscow?"
"I didnt think they would come so soon. I stayed accidentally,"
"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 theres law theres 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 werent 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
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