The stores, the prisoners, and the marshal's baggage train stopped at th_illage of Shamshevo. The men crowded together round the campfires. Pierr_ent up to the fire, ate some roast horseflesh, lay down with his back to th_ire, and immediately fell asleep. He again slept as he had done at Mozhays_fter the battle of Borodino.
Again real events mingled with dreams and again someone, he or another, gav_xpression to his thoughts, and even to the same thoughts that had bee_xpressed in his dream at Mozhaysk.
"Life is everything. Life is God. Everything changes and moves and tha_ovement is God. And while there is life there is joy in consciousness of th_ivine. To love life is to love God. Harder and more blessed than all else i_o love this life in one's sufferings, in innocent sufferings."
"Karataev!" came to Pierre's mind.
And suddenly he saw vividly before him a long-forgotten, kindly old man wh_ad given him geography lessons in Switzerland. "Wait a bit," said the ol_an, and showed Pierre a globe. This globe was alive—a vibrating ball withou_ixed dimensions. Its whole surface consisted of drops closely presse_ogether, and all these drops moved and changed places, sometimes several o_hem merging into one, sometimes one dividing into many. Each drop tried t_pread out and occupy as much space as possible, but others striving to do th_ame compressed it, sometimes destroyed it, and sometimes merged with it.
"That is life," said the old teacher.
"How simple and clear it is," thought Pierre. "How is it I did not know i_efore?"
"God is in the midst, and each drop tries to expand so as to reflect Him t_he greatest extent. And it grows, merges, disappears from the surface, sink_o the depths, and again emerges. There now, Karataev has spread out an_isappeared. Do you understand, my child?" said the teacher.
"Do you understand, damn you?" shouted a voice, and Pierre woke up.
He lifted himself and sat up. A Frenchman who had just pushed a Russia_oldier away was squatting by the fire, engaged in roasting a piece of mea_tuck on a ramrod. His sleeves were rolled up and his sinewy, hairy, red hand_ith their short fingers deftly turned the ramrod. His brown morose face wit_rowning brows was clearly visible by the glow of the charcoal.
"It's all the same to him," he muttered, turning quickly to a soldier wh_tood behind him. "Brigand! Get away!"
And twisting the ramrod he looked gloomily at Pierre, who turned away an_azed into the darkness. A prisoner, the Russian soldier the Frenchman ha_ushed away, was sitting near the fire patting something with his hand.
Looking more closely Pierre recognized the blue-gray dog, sitting beside th_oldier, wagging its tail.
"Ah, he's come?" said Pierre. "And Plat-" he began, but did not finish.
Suddenly and simultaneously a crowd of memories awoke in his fancy—of the loo_laton had given him as he sat under the tree, of the shot heard from tha_pot, of the dog's howl, of the guilty faces of the two Frenchmen as they ra_ast him, of the lowered and smoking gun, and of Karataev's absence at thi_alt—and he was on the point of realizing that Karataev had been killed, bu_ust at that instant, he knew not why, the recollection came to his mind of _ummer evening he had spent with a beautiful Polish lady on the veranda of hi_ouse in Kiev. And without linking up the events of the day or drawing _onclusion from them, Pierre closed his eyes, seeing a vision of the countr_n summertime mingled with memories of bathing and of the liquid, vibratin_lobe, and he sank into water so that it closed over his head.
Before sunrise he was awakened by shouts and loud and rapid firing. Frenc_oldiers were running past him.
"The Cossacks!" one of them shouted, and a moment later a crowd of Russian_urrounded Pierre.
For a long time he could not understand what was happening to him. All aroun_e heard his comrades sobbing with joy.
"Brothers! Dear fellows! Darlings!" old soldiers exclaimed, weeping, as the_mbraced Cossacks and hussars.
The hussars and Cossacks crowded round the prisoners; one offered the_lothes, another boots, and a third bread. Pierre sobbed as he sat among the_nd could not utter a word. He hugged the first soldier who approached him,
and kissed him, weeping.
Dolokhov stood at the gate of the ruined house, letting a crowd of disarme_renchmen pass by. The French, excited by all that had happened, were talkin_oudly among themselves, but as they passed Dolokhov who gently switched hi_oots with his whip and watched them with cold glassy eyes that boded no good,
they became silent. On the opposite side stood Dolokhov's Cossack, countin_he prisoners and marking off each hundred with a chalk line on the gate.
having adopted this expression from the French, and when his eyes met those o_he prisoners they flashed with a cruel light. Denisov, bareheaded and with _loomy face, walked behind some Cossacks who were carrying the body of Pety_ostov to a hole that had been dug in the garden.