ar fellow, I was still living at home," he began. "We had
a well-to-do homestead, plenty of land, we peasants lived well and our
house was one to thank God for. When Father and we went out mowing
there were seven of us. We lived well. We were real peasants. It so
happened..."

And Platon Karataev told a long story of how he had gone into someone's
copse to take wood, how he had been caught by the keeper, had been
tried, flogged, and sent to serve as a soldier.

"Well, lad," and a smile changed the tone of his voice "we thought it
was a misfortune but it turned out a blessing! If it had not been for
my sin, my brother would have had to go as a soldier. But he, my younger
brother, had five little ones, while I, you see, only left a wife
behind. We had a little girl, but God took her before I went as a
soldier. I come home on leave and I'll tell you how it was, I look and
see that they are living better than before. The yard full of cattle,
the women at home, two brothers away earning wages, and only Michael the
youngest, at home. Father, he says, 'All my children are the same to
me: it hurts the same whichever finger gets bitten. But if Platon hadn't
been shaved for a soldier, Michael would have had to go.' called us
all to him and, will you believe it, placed us in front of the icons.
'Michael,' he says, 'come here and bow down to his feet; and you, young
woman, you bow down too; and you, grandchildren, also bow down before
him! Do you understand?' he says. That's how it is, dear fellow. Fate
looks for a head. But we are always judging, 'that's not well--that's
not right!' Our luck is like water in a dragnet: you pull at it and it
bulges, but when you've drawn it out it's empty! That's how it is."

And Platon shifted his seat on the straw.

After a short silence he rose.

"Well, I think you must be sleepy," said he, and began rapidly crossing
himself and repeating:

"Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus
Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus Christ, have
mercy on us and save us!" he concluded, then bowed to the ground, got
up, sighed, and sat down again on his heap of straw. "That's the way.
Lay me down like a stone, O God, and raise me up like a loaf," he
muttered as he lay down, pulling his coat over him.

"What prayer was that you were saying?" asked Pierre.

"Eh?" murmured Platon, who had almost fallen asleep. "What was I saying?
I was praying. Don't you pray?