The Power of Shared Stories — War and Peace

At midday on the twenty-second of October Pierre was going uphill along the muddy, slippery road, looking at his feet and at the roughness of the way. Occasionally he glanced at the familiar crowd around him, then again at his feet. The former and the latter were alike familiar and his own. The blue-grey bandy-legged dog ran merrily beside the road, sometimes hopping on three legs in proof of agility, then rushing to bark at crows that sat on the carrion. The dog was merrier and sleeker than it had been in Moscow. All around lay the flesh of different animals, from men to horses, in various stages of decomposition, and as the wolves were kept off by the passing men the dog could eat all it wanted. It had been raining since morning and had seemed as if it might cease; after a short break it began raining harder. The saturated road no longer absorbed the water, which ran along the ruts in streams. Pierre counted his steps in threes, reckoning them off on his fingers. Mentally addressing the rain he repeated: now then, go on, pelt harder. It seemed to him that he was thinking of nothing, but far down within him his soul was occupied with something important and comforting: a subtle spiritual deduction from a conversation with Karataev the day before.

At yesterday's halt, chilly by a dying fire, Pierre had gone to the next, which burned better. Platon sat covered head and all with his greatcoat as if it were a vestment, telling in his effective pleasant voice, now feeble, a story Pierre knew. It was past midnight, the hour when Karataev was usually free of fever and particularly lively. Seeing the pathetic face brightly lit, Pierre felt a painful prick at his heart. Pity frightened him and he wished to go away, but there was no other fire, so he sat trying not to look. How am I? If we grumble at sickness, God won't grant us death, Platon said, and resumed. Pierre had heard the tale some half-dozen times, always with a specially joyful emotion, yet now he listened as to something new, and the quiet rapture communicated itself to him. An old merchant, living a good God-fearing life, went to the Nizhni fair with a rich companion. In the morning the companion was found robbed, throat cut, a bloodstained knife under the old merchant's pillow. He was tried, knouted, nostrils torn off, all in due form, and sent to hard labour in Siberia.

Ten years or more passed. The old man submitted as he should, prayed only for death. One night among convicts telling what each suffered for, he said he was being punished for his own and other men's sins, had not killed anyone, only helped poorer brothers, and wept for his wife and children. The very man who had killed the other merchant asked where and when, his heart aching, fell at the old man's feet, and confessed he had put the knife under the sleeping head. God will forgive you, we are all sinners in His sight, the old man said, and wept bitter tears. The murderer confessed to the authorities, most sorry for this old man. Papers went off in due form. The place was a long way off. Time passed. The affair reached the Tsar. A decree came to set the merchant free and give him compensation. They began to look for the old man who had been suffering innocently. Karataev's lower jaw trembled. But God had already forgiven him: he was dead. That's how it was, dear fellows. He sat a long time silent, gazing before him with a smile. Pierre's soul was dimly but joyfully filled not by the story itself but by its mysterious significance, by the rapturous joy that lit Karataev's face, and the mystic significance of that joy.