An excerpt characterizing Jasmine (singer)

From the house of Prince Shcherbatov, the prisoners were led straight down along the Devichye Pole, to the left of the Devichye Monastery and led to a vegetable garden on which there was a pillar. Behind the pillar there was a large hole dug with freshly dug up earth, and a large crowd of people stood in a semicircle around the pit and the pillar. The crowd consisted of a small number of Russians and a large number of Napoleonic troops out of formation: Germans, Italians and French in different uniforms. To the right and left of the pillar stood fronts of French troops in blue uniforms with red epaulettes, boots and shakos.
The criminals were placed in a certain order, which was on the list (Pierre was sixth), and were led to a post. Several drums suddenly struck from both sides, and Pierre felt that with this sound it was as if part of his soul had been torn away. He lost the ability to think and think. He could only see and hear. And he had only one desire - the desire for something terrible to happen that had to be done as quickly as possible. Pierre looked back at his comrades and examined them.
The two men on the edge were shaven and guarded. One is tall and thin; the other is black, shaggy, muscular, with a flat nose. The third was a street servant, about forty-five years old, with graying hair and a plump, well-fed body. The fourth was a very handsome man, with a thick brown beard and black eyes. The fifth was a factory worker, yellow, thin, about eighteen, in a dressing gown.
Pierre heard that the French were discussing how to shoot - one at a time or two at a time? “Two at a time,” the senior officer answered coldly and calmly. There was movement in the ranks of the soldiers, and it was noticeable that everyone was in a hurry - and they were in a hurry not as they are in a hurry to do something understandable to everyone, but as they are in a hurry to finish a necessary, but unpleasant and incomprehensible task.
A French official in a scarf approached the right side of the line of criminals and read the verdict in Russian and French.
Then two pairs of Frenchmen approached the criminals and, at the officer’s direction, took two guards standing on the edge. The guards, approaching the post, stopped and, while the bags were brought, silently looked around them, as a wounded animal looks at a suitable hunter. One kept crossing himself, the other scratched his back and made a movement with his lips like a smile. The soldiers, hurrying with their hands, began to blindfold them, put on bags and tie them to a post.
Twelve riflemen with rifles stepped out from behind the ranks with measured, firm steps and stopped eight steps from the post. Pierre turned away so as not to see what would happen. Suddenly a crash and roar was heard, which seemed to Pierre louder than the most terrible thunderclaps, and he looked around. There was smoke, and the French with pale faces and trembling hands were doing something near the pit. They brought the other two. In the same way, with the same eyes, these two looked at everyone, in vain, with only their eyes, silently, asking for protection and, apparently, not understanding or believing what would happen. They could not believe, because they alone knew what their life was for them, and therefore they did not understand and did not believe that it could be taken away.
Pierre wanted not to look and turned away again; but again, as if a terrible explosion struck his ears, and along with these sounds he saw smoke, someone’s blood and the pale, frightened faces of the French, who were again doing something at the post, pushing each other with trembling hands. Pierre, breathing heavily, looked around him, as if asking: what is this? The same question was in all the glances that met Pierre’s gaze.
On all the faces of the Russians, on the faces of the French soldiers, officers, everyone without exception, he read the same fear, horror and struggle that were in his heart. “Who does this anyway? They all suffer just like me. Who? Who?” – it flashed in Pierre’s soul for a second.
– Tirailleurs du 86 me, en avant! [Shooters of the 86th, forward!] - someone shouted. They brought in the fifth one, standing next to Pierre - alone. Pierre did not understand that he was saved, that he and everyone else were brought here only to be present at the execution. With ever-increasing horror, feeling neither joy nor peace, he looked at what was happening. The fifth was a factory worker in a dressing gown. They had just touched him when he jumped back in horror and grabbed Pierre (Pierre shuddered and broke away from him). The factory worker could not go. They dragged him under his arms, and he shouted something. When they brought him to the pillar, he suddenly fell silent. It was as if he suddenly understood something. Either he realized that it was in vain to shout, or that it was impossible for people to kill him, but he stood at the post, waiting for the bandage along with the others and, like a shot animal, looking around him with shining eyes.
Pierre could no longer take it upon himself to turn away and close his eyes. The curiosity and excitement of him and the entire crowd at this fifth murder reached the highest degree. Just like the others, this fifth one seemed calm: he pulled his robe around him and scratched one bare foot against the other.
When they began to blindfold him, he straightened the very knot on the back of his head that was cutting him; then, when they leaned him against the bloody post, he fell back, and since he felt awkward in this position, he straightened himself out and, placing his legs evenly, leaned calmly. Pierre did not take his eyes off him, not missing the slightest movement.
A command must have been heard, and after the command the shots of eight guns must have been heard. But Pierre, no matter how much he tried to remember later, did not hear the slightest sound from the shots. He only saw how, for some reason, the factory worker suddenly sank down on the ropes, how blood appeared in two places, and how the ropes themselves, from the weight of the hanging body, unraveled and the factory worker, unnaturally lowering his head and twisting his leg, sat down. Pierre ran up to the post. No one was holding him back. Frightened, pale people were doing something around the factory floor. One old, mustachioed Frenchman's lower jaw was shaking as he untied the ropes. The body came down. The soldiers awkwardly and hastily dragged him behind the post and began to push him into the pit.
Everyone, obviously, undoubtedly knew that they were criminals who needed to quickly hide the traces of their crime.
Pierre looked into the hole and saw that the factory worker was lying there with his knees up, close to his head, one shoulder higher than the other. And this shoulder convulsively, evenly fell and rose. But shovels of earth were already falling all over my body. One of the soldiers angrily, viciously and painfully shouted at Pierre to come back. But Pierre did not understand him and stood at the post, and no one drove him away.
When the hole was already completely filled up, a command was heard. Pierre was taken to his place, and the French troops, standing in front on both sides of the pillar, made a half turn and began to walk past the pillar with measured steps. Twenty-four riflemen with unloaded guns, standing in the middle of the circle, ran to their places while the companies passed by them.
Pierre now looked with meaningless eyes at these shooters, who ran out of the circle in pairs. All but one joined the companies. A young soldier with a deathly pale face, in a shako that had fallen back, having lowered his gun, was still standing opposite the pit in the place from which he had fired. He staggered like a drunk, taking several steps forward and backward to support his falling body. An old soldier, a non-commissioned officer, ran out of the ranks and, grabbing the young soldier by the shoulder, dragged him into the company. The crowd of Russians and French began to disperse. Everyone walked in silence, with their heads bowed.
“Ca leur apprendra a incendier, [This will teach them to set fire.],” said one of the French. Pierre looked back at the speaker and saw that it was a soldier who wanted to console himself with something about what had been done, but could not. Without finishing what he started, he waved his hand and walked away.

After the execution, Pierre was separated from the other defendants and left alone in a small, ruined and polluted church.
Before evening, a guard non-commissioned officer with two soldiers entered the church and announced to Pierre that he had been forgiven and was now entering the barracks of prisoners of war. Not understanding what they told him, Pierre got up and went with the soldiers. He was led to booths built at the top of a field of charred boards, logs and planks and led into one of them. In the darkness, about twenty different people surrounded Pierre. Pierre looked at them, not understanding who these people were, why they were and what they wanted from him. He heard the words that were spoken to him, but did not draw any conclusion or application from them: he did not understand their meaning. He himself answered what was asked of him, but did not understand who was listening to him and how his answers would be understood. He looked at the faces and figures, and they all seemed equally meaningless to him.
From the moment Pierre saw this terrible murder committed by people who did not want to do it, it was as if the spring on which everything was held and seemed alive was suddenly pulled out in his soul, and everything fell into a heap of meaningless rubbish. In him, although he was not aware of it, faith in the good order of the world, in humanity, in his soul, and in God was destroyed. Pierre had experienced this state before, but never with such force as now. Previously, when such doubts were found on Pierre, these doubts had their source in his own guilt. And in the very depths of his soul, Pierre then felt that from that despair and those doubts there was salvation in himself. But now he felt that it was not his fault that the world had collapsed in his eyes and that only meaningless ruins remained. He felt that returning to faith in life was not in his power.
People stood around him in the darkness: it was true that something really interested them in him. They told him something, asked him about something, then took him somewhere, and he finally found himself in the corner of the booth next to some people, talking from different sides, laughing.
“And here, my brothers... is the same prince who (with special emphasis on the word which)...” said someone’s voice in the opposite corner of the booth.
Sitting silently and motionless against the wall on the straw, Pierre opened and closed his eyes. But as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw before him the same terrible, especially terrible in its simplicity, face of the factory worker and even more terrible in its anxiety faces of unwitting killers. And he again opened his eyes and looked senselessly in the darkness around him.
Next to him sat, bent over, some small man, whose presence Pierre noticed at first by the strong smell of sweat that separated from him with every movement. This man was doing something in the dark with his legs, and, despite the fact that Pierre could not see his face, he felt that this man was constantly looking at him. Looking closely in the darkness, Pierre realized that this man had taken off his shoes. And the way he did it interested Pierre.
Unwinding the twine with which one leg was tied, he carefully rolled up the twine and immediately began working on the other leg, looking at Pierre. While one hand was hanging the twine, the other was already beginning to unwind the other leg. Thus, carefully, with round, spore-like movements, without slowing down one after another, taking off his shoes, the man hung his shoes on the pegs driven over his heads, took out a knife, cut something, folded the knife, put it under the head of the head and, sitting down better, hugged raised his knees with both hands and stared directly at Pierre. Pierre felt something pleasant, soothing and round in these controversial movements, in this comfortable household in his corner, in the smell even of this man, and he, without taking his eyes off, looked at him.
“Did you see a lot of need, master?” A? - the little man suddenly said. And there was such an expression of affection and simplicity in the man’s melodious voice that Pierre wanted to answer, but his jaw trembled and he felt tears. The little man at that very second, not giving Pierre time to show his embarrassment, spoke in the same pleasant voice.
“Eh, falcon, don’t bother,” he said with that tenderly melodious caress with which old Russian women speak. - Don’t worry, my friend: endure for an hour, but live for a century! That's it, my dear. And we live here, thank God, there is no resentment. There are also good and bad people,” he said, and while still speaking, with a flexible movement he bent to his knees, stood up and, clearing his throat, went somewhere.
- Look, you rascal, she’s come! - Pierre heard the same gentle voice at the end of the booth. - The rogue has come, she remembers! Well, well, you will. - And the soldier, pushing away the little dog that was jumping towards him, returned to his place and sat down. In his hands he had something wrapped in a rag.
“Here, eat, master,” he said, again returning to his former respectful tone and unwrapping and handing Pierre several baked potatoes. - There was stew at lunch. And the potatoes are important!
Pierre had not eaten all day, and the smell of potatoes seemed unusually pleasant to him. He thanked the soldier and began to eat.
- Well, is that so? – the soldier said smiling and took one of the potatoes. - And that’s how you are. - He took out a folding knife again, cut the potatoes into equal two halves in his palm, sprinkled salt from a rag and brought it to Pierre.
“The potatoes are important,” he repeated. - You eat it like this.
It seemed to Pierre that he had never eaten a dish tastier than this.
“No, I don’t care,” said Pierre, “but why did they shoot these unfortunates!.. The last twenty years.”
“Tch, tsk...” said the little man. “This is a sin, this is a sin...” he quickly added, and, as if his words were always ready in his mouth and accidentally flew out of him, he continued: “What is it, master, that you stayed in Moscow like that?”
“I didn’t think they would come so soon.” “I accidentally stayed,” said Pierre.
- How did they take you, falcon, from your house?
- No, I went to the fire, and then they grabbed me and tried me for an arsonist.
“Where there is justice, there is no truth,” the little man interjected.
- How long have you been here? – asked Pierre, chewing the last potato.
- Is that me? That Sunday they took me from the hospital in Moscow.
-Who are you, soldier?
- Soldiers of the Absheron Regiment. He was dying of fever. They didn't tell us anything. About twenty of us were lying there. And they didn’t think, they didn’t guess.
- Well, are you bored here? – asked Pierre.
- It’s not boring, falcon. Call me Plato; “Karataev’s nickname,” he added, apparently in order to make it easier for Pierre to address him. - They called him Falcon in the service. How not to get bored, falcon! Moscow, she is the mother of cities. How not to get bored looking at this. Yes, the worm gnaws at the cabbage, but before that you disappear: that’s what the old men used to say,” he added quickly.
- How, how did you say that? – asked Pierre.
- Is that me? – asked Karataev. “I say: not by our mind, but by God’s judgment,” he said, thinking that he was repeating what had been said. And he immediately continued: “How come you, master, have estates?” And there is a house? Therefore, the cup is full! And is there a hostess? Are your old parents still alive? - he asked, and although Pierre could not see in the darkness, he felt that the soldier’s lips were wrinkled with a restrained smile of affection while he was asking this. He was apparently upset that Pierre did not have parents, especially a mother.
“A wife is for advice, a mother-in-law is for greetings, and nothing is dearer than your own mother!” - he said. - Well, are there any children? – he continued to ask. Pierre's negative answer again apparently upset him, and he hastened to add: “Well, there will be young people, God willing.” If only I could live in the council...
“It doesn’t matter now,” Pierre said involuntarily.
“Eh, you’re a dear man,” Plato objected. - Never give up money or prison. “He sat down better and cleared his throat, apparently preparing for a long story. “So, my dear friend, I was still living at home,” he began. “Our patrimony is rich, there is a lot of land, the men live well, and our home, thank God.” The priest himself went out to mow. We lived well. They were real Christians. It happened... - And Platon Karataev told a long story about how he went to someone else’s grove behind the forest and was caught by a guard, how he was whipped, tried and handed over to the soldiers. “Well, the falcon,” he said, his voice changing with a smile, “they thought grief, but joy!” My brother should go, if it were not for my sin. And the younger brother has five boys himself - and look, I have only one soldier left. There was a girl, and God took care of her even before she became a soldier. I came on leave, I’ll tell you. I see they live better than before. The yard is full of bellies, women are at home, two brothers are at work. Only Mikhailo, the youngest, is at home. Father says: “All children are equal to me, he says: no matter what finger you bite, everything hurts. If only Plato hadn’t been shaved then, Mikhail would have gone.” He called us all - believe me - he put us in front of the image. Mikhailo, he says, come here, bow at his feet, and you, woman, bow, and your grandchildren bow. Got it? speaks. So, my dear friend. Rock is looking for his head. And we judge everything: sometimes it’s not good, sometimes it’s not okay. Our happiness, my friend, is like water in delirium: if you pull it, it swells, but if you pull it out, there’s nothing. That's it. - And Plato sat down on his straw.