"Pierre, if you let her do that again, you'll go straight to behavior modification," he warned her assigned bodyguard.
"I swear I'll stop her even if it costs me my life," Pierre replied.
"How far along is she, Pierre?" he asked.
"Five-- " "Nine weeks," Pierre grated.
"She's saving it for when she gets in trouble again with ikir," Pierre supplied.
"Boss, you can send her to behavior modification training," Pierre suggested.
Dusty wasn't sure how Pierre ever made it through the Guardian basic training with his lip.
If she leaves, then Pierre tells Dusty, and we all get yelled at.
"I'm keeping him safe from the women, ikir," Pierre, Sofi's bodyguard, added.
Pierre was unfazed by his raised voice and continued playing a game on his phone.
"Welcome," Pierre called from the other side of the library.
You're on your own, Pierre replied.
Pierre gave him a sidelong look at his butchered French, and Sofia smiled despite herself.
Grande and Pierre are joining us from our European front.
Pierre punched him in the shoulder, and they walked toward the garage.
Dressed for sparring, he waited with Grande and Pierre for Damian.
"Pierre for the kill," Grande said, handing Han one from the wad of dollars in his hand.
Pierre called to her.
Pierre asked with a frown.
A short time later, she sagged against the toilet, ignoring Pierre as he tsked and held her hair.
She motioned for Pierre to close the door so she could clean up.
Pierre recommended I see you.
He closed the door and moved the laptop Pierre had brought her to supplement her Oracle research.
Pierre returned a couple of hours later as she checked off the fourth box on her list of Oracle self-training.
Pierre, you can sleep with whomever you want, really.
"Claire," Pierre said, stooping to kiss her cheek.
Pierre will defend you well.
"Babysitter," Pierre corrected her.
Pierre obeyed and closed the doors behind him.
Pierre had brought in a dress box and shoe box earlier.
Pierre greeted her with an approving smile that buoyed her.
Even he does not wear it, Pierre said and motioned her to follow him towards the party below.
Dustin escorted the man into the mansion, and Pierre wrapped an arm around her as she sagged.
Pierre trailed, balancing a plate of food.
She heard Dustin order Pierre out before he approached her.
Pierre remained at the door.
Pierre trotted after her.
Pierre was in front of Sofia's door.
Pierre glanced up from his video game at his hesitation.
Damian didn't care; Sofia liked Pierre, and he had a feeling Pierre's blunt dose of reality was soothing to her in a world where nothing else made sense.
Pierre spoke from her doorway, framed against the light of the hall.
Pierre eyed her and crossed to her bathroom, tossing several items into her travel bag.
Sofia took a step back and silently urged Pierre to hurry.
Pierre asked, agitated as he trotted through the gate.
Pierre pounded on the door with the discretion of a jackhammer.
"Pierre," her bodyguard introduced himself, clapping him on the arm.
"This is the Tucson Sector team," Pierre said.
Without Pierre, she'd never set foot in such a dangerous situation.
"Rainy, Ving, Justin, this is Pierre," the surly blond said.
Pierre was at ease among his own kind.
"Damian sent her," Pierre answered.
Pierre motioned her forward, and she went, afraid of what she'd find.
Pierre motioned Sofia aside as the mad rush went through the house to the garage.
"I want to go, Pierre," she said, following.
Pierre crammed himself into the backseat.
"Careful," Pierre warned from nearby.
Pierre drew nearer, and Linda waved her forward again.
Pierre trailed them at a distance just out of earshot, and Linda looked at her curiously.
Pierre, you want my croissant?
You assume we French all eat croissants, Pierre complained.
Pierre, am I allowed to go Christmas shopping?
"It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor invalid," said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her aunt as she conducted him to her.
Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look round as if in search of something.
Anna Pavlovna's alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty's health.
But amid these cares her anxiety about Pierre was evident.
Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbe about the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by the young man's simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet theory.
At that moment Anna Pavlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre, asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate.
Not letting the abbe and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the more conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the larger circle.
Pierre, who from the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with glad, affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm.
Pierre gazed at her with rapturous, almost frightened, eyes as she passed him.
Anna Pavlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand.
Pierre wished to make a remark, for the conversation interested him, but Anna Pavlovna, who had him under observation, interrupted:
"From what I have heard," said Pierre, blushing and breaking into the conversation, "almost all the aristocracy has already gone over to Bonaparte's side."
Before Anna Pavlovna and the others had time to smile their appreciation of the vicomte's epigram, Pierre again broke into the conversation, and though Anna Pavlovna felt sure he would say something inappropriate, she was unable to stop him.
"The execution of the Duc d'Enghien," declared Monsieur Pierre, "was a political necessity, and it seems to me that Napoleon showed greatness of soul by not fearing to take on himself the whole responsibility of that deed."
Pierre looked solemnly at his audience over his spectacles and continued.
But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her.
Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the vicomte and from the vicomte to their hostess.
"But, my dear Monsieur Pierre," said she, "how do you explain the fact of a great man executing a duc--or even an ordinary man who--is innocent and untried?"
Pierre, not knowing whom to answer, looked at them all and smiled.
Pierre chimed in, pleased at the arrival of this reinforcement.
"I am expecting you, Pierre," said the same voice, but gently and affectionately.
Pierre reaching the house first went into Prince Andrew's study like one quite at home, and from habit immediately lay down on the sofa, took from the shelf the first book that came to his hand (it was Caesar's Commentaries), and resting on his elbow, began reading it in the middle.
Pierre turned his whole body, making the sofa creak.
Pierre sat up on the sofa, with his legs tucked under him.
Pierre rubbed his forehead.
Pierre removed his feet from the sofa.
I can't understand why he wants to go to the war, replied Pierre, addressing the princess with none of the embarrassment so commonly shown by young men in their intercourse with young women.
Pierre looked at his friend and, noticing that he did not like the conversation, gave no reply.
She paused as if she felt it indecorous to speak of her pregnancy before Pierre, though the gist of the matter lay in that.
Pierre looked over his spectacles with naive surprise, now at him and now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind.
Pierre continually glanced at Prince Andrew; Prince Andrew rubbed his forehead with his small hand.
Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face seem different and the good-natured expression still more apparent, and gazed at his friend in amazement.
"It seems funny to me," said Pierre, "that you, you should consider yourself incapable and your life a spoiled life.
Pierre was always astonished at Prince Andrew's calm manner of treating everybody, his extraordinary memory, his extensive reading (he had read everything, knew everything, and had an opinion about everything), but above all at his capacity for work and study.
And if Pierre was often struck by Andrew's lack of capacity for philosophical meditation (to which he himself was particularly addicted), he regarded even this not as a defect but as a sign of strength.
"But what is there to say about me?" said Pierre, his face relaxing into a careless, merry smile.
"What would you have, my dear fellow?" answered Pierre, shrugging his shoulders.
Pierre was staying at Prince Vasili Kuragin's and sharing the dissipated life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were planning to reform by marrying him to Prince Andrew's sister.
It was past one o'clock when Pierre left his friend.
Pierre took an open cab intending to drive straight home.
Pierre often indulged in reflections of this sort, nullifying all his decisions and intentions.
Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards' barracks, in which Anatole lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, ascended the stairs, and went in at the open door.
Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first room, in which were the remains of supper.
Pierre smiled, looking about him merrily.
Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows at the tipsy guests who were again crowding round the window, and listening to their chatter.
"Go on, you must drink it all," said Anatole, giving Pierre the last glass, "or I won't let you go!"
"No, I won't," said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up to the window.
Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame out with a crash.
Pierre stood smiling but silent.
Pierre hid his face, from which a faint smile forgot to fade though his features now expressed horror and fear.
Pierre took his hands from his eyes.
Pierre again covered his eyes and thought he would never open them again.
Pierre jumped upon the window sill.
The conversation was on the chief topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau of Catherine's day, Count Bezukhov, and about his illegitimate son Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pavlovna's reception.
I think Pierre also is illegitimate.
He has lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite.
Pierre had taken part in tying a policeman to a bear.
Pierre was received as if he were a corpse or a leper.
Can I see him? asked Pierre, awkwardly as usual, but unabashed.
Olga, go and see whether Uncle's beef tea is ready--it is almost time, she added, giving Pierre to understand that they were busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he, Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance.
Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he bowed and said: Then I will go to my rooms.
He sent for Pierre and said to him: My dear fellow, if you are going to behave here as you did in Petersburg, you will end very badly; that is all I have to say to you.
But before Pierre--who at that moment imagined himself to be Napoleon in person and to have just effected the dangerous crossing of the Straits of Dover and captured London--could pronounce Pitt's sentence, he saw a well-built and handsome young officer entering his room.
People are always disturbing him, answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young man was.
Boris felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not consider it necessary to introduce himself, and without experiencing the least embarrassment looked Pierre straight in the face.
"Count Rostov asks you to come to dinner today," said he, after a considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable.
"Ah, Count Rostov!" exclaimed Pierre joyfully.
Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosquitoes or bees.
Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his companion's sake that the latter might say something he would afterwards regret.
Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently say something disconcerting to himself.
For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he did, he jumped up from the sofa, seized Boris under the elbow in his quick, clumsy way, and, blushing far more than Boris, began to speak with a feeling of mingled shame and vexation.
"No, but I say," said Pierre, calming down, "you are a wonderful fellow!
Pierre saw that Boris wished to change the subject, and being of the same mind he began explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the Boulogne expedition.
Pierre, in order to make Boris' better acquaintance, promised to come to dinner, and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his spectacles into Boris' eyes.
After he had gone Pierre continued pacing up and down the room for a long time, no longer piercing an imaginary foe with his imaginary sword, but smiling at the remembrance of that pleasant, intelligent, and resolute young man.
"I don't understand, Mamma--what is his attitude to Pierre?" asked the son.
Pierre had come just at dinnertime and was sitting awkwardly in the middle of the drawing room on the first chair he had come across, blocking the way for everyone.
Pierre approached, looking at her in a childlike way through his spectacles.
Midway down the long table on one side sat the grownup young people: Vera beside Berg, and Pierre beside Boris; and on the other side, the children, tutors, and governesses.
Boris was telling his new friend Pierre who the guests were and exchanging glances with Natasha, who was sitting opposite.
Pierre spoke little but examined the new faces, and ate a great deal.
Of the four crystal glasses engraved with the count's monogram that stood before his plate, Pierre held out one at random and drank with enjoyment, gazing with ever- increasing amiability at the other guests.
Sometimes that same look fell on Pierre, and that funny lively little girl's look made him inclined to laugh without knowing why.
Pierre listened to the colonel's speech and nodded approvingly.
She half rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat opposite, to listen to what was coming, and turning to her mother:
I have asked, whispered Natasha to her little brother and to Pierre, glancing at him again.
"Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!" said Natasha, stopping suddenly.
When the music began Natasha came in and walking straight up to Pierre said, laughing and blushing:
While the couples were arranging themselves and the musicians tuning up, Pierre sat down with his little partner.
Pierre will get everything as the legitimate son.
Rousing himself, Pierre followed Anna Mikhaylovna out of the carriage, and only then began to think of the interview with his dying father which awaited him.
Pausing for a moment, Pierre noticed several other men of the same kind hiding in the shadow of the house on both sides.
"It seems to be all right," Pierre concluded, and followed Anna Mikhaylovna.
She hurriedly ascended the narrow dimly lit stone staircase, calling to Pierre, who was lagging behind, to follow.
These men pressed close to the wall to let Pierre and Anna Mikhaylovna pass and did not evince the least surprise at seeing them there.
"Perhaps the count did not ask for me," said Pierre when he reached the landing.
Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that all this had to be grew stronger, and he meekly followed Anna Mikhaylovna who was already opening a door.
Anna Mikhaylovna, addressing a maid who was hurrying past with a decanter on a tray as "my dear" and "my sweet," asked about the princess' health and then led Pierre along a stone passage.
Pierre could not make out what it was all about, and still less what "watching over his interests" meant, but he decided that all these things had to be.
They went into the reception room familiar to Pierre, with two Italian windows opening into the conservatory, with its large bust and full length portrait of Catherine the Great.
All became silent and turned to look at the pale tear-worn Anna Mikhaylovna as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pierre who, hanging his head, meekly followed her.
With the air of a practical Petersburg lady she now, keeping Pierre close beside her, entered the room even more boldly than that afternoon.
Pierre, having made up his mind to obey his monitress implicitly, moved toward the sofa she had indicated.
Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an arch, its walls hung round with Persian carpets.
She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and remained with it hidden for awhile; then looking up and seeing Pierre she again began to laugh.
Pierre paid no more attention to this occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having made up his mind once for all that what he saw happening around him that evening was in some way essential.
Pierre heard her say:
The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, and servants that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow face with its gray mane-- which, though he saw other faces as well, he had not lost sight of for a single moment during the whole service.
It was the same as Pierre remembered it three months before, when the count had sent him to Petersburg.
When Pierre came up the count was gazing straight at him, but with a look the significance of which could not be understood by mortal man.
Pierre hesitated, not knowing what to do, and glanced inquiringly at his guide.
Pierre, carefully stretching his neck so as not to touch the quilt, followed her suggestion and pressed his lips to the large boned, fleshy hand.
Once more Pierre looked questioningly at Anna Mikhaylovna to see what he was to do next.
Pierre obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he were doing right.
This lasted about two minutes, which to Pierre seemed an hour.
Anna Mikhaylovna looked attentively at the sick man's eyes, trying to guess what he wanted; she pointed first to Pierre, then to some drink, then named Prince Vasili in an inquiring whisper, then pointed to the quilt.
Pierre rose to help him.
At sight of this smile Pierre felt an unexpected quivering in his breast and a tickling in his nose, and tears dimmed his eyes.
As soon as they saw Pierre and his companion they became silent, and Pierre thought he saw the princess hide something as she whispered:
To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze below the shoulder.
Pierre went with Anna Mikhaylovna into the small drawing room.
Pierre well remembered this small circular drawing room with its mirrors and little tables.
Pierre did not eat anything though he would very much have liked to.
Pierre concluded that this also was essential, and after a short interval followed her.
Pierre, my dear, come here.
Here, Pierre, tell them your opinion, said she, turning to the young man who, having come quite close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of the princess which had lost all dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of Prince Vasili.
At this moment that terrible door burst noisily open and banged against the wall.
He staggered to the sofa on which Pierre was sitting and dropped onto it, covering his face with his hand.
Pierre noticed that he was pale and that his jaw quivered and shook as if in an ague.
"Ah, my friend!" said he, taking Pierre by the elbow; and there was in his voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had never observed in it before.
She approached Pierre with slow, quiet steps.
Pierre gave her an inquiring look.
Pierre looked at her over his spectacles.
She led him into the dark drawing room and Pierre was glad no one could see his face.
Pierre understood nothing of all this and coloring shyly looked in silence at Princess Anna Mikhaylovna.
After her talk with Pierre, Anna Mikhaylovna returned to the Rostovs' and went to bed.
I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a child.
The old prince always dressed in old-fashioned style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair; and when Prince Andrew entered his father's dressing room (not with the contemptuous look and manner he wore in drawing rooms, but with the animated face with which he talked to Pierre), the old man was sitting on a large leather-covered chair, wrapped in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to Tikhon.
Nor did he say to himself: "Pierre is a rich man, I must entice him to marry my daughter and lend me the forty thousand rubles I need."
He had Pierre at hand in Moscow and procured for him an appointment as Gentleman of the Bedchamber, which at that time conferred the status of Councilor of State, and insisted on the young man accompanying him to Petersburg and staying at his house.
Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming Count Bezukhov and a rich man, felt himself after his recent loneliness and freedom from cares so beset and preoccupied that only in bed was he able to be by himself.
Touched that this statuesque princess could so change, Pierre took her hand and begged her forgiveness, without knowing what for.
From that day the eldest princess quite changed toward Pierre and began knitting a striped scarf for him.
Pierre signed the deed and after that the princess grew still kinder.
It seemed so natural to Pierre that everyone should like him, and it would have seemed so unnatural had anyone disliked him, that he could not but believe in the sincerity of those around him.
In Petersburg, as in Moscow, Pierre found the same atmosphere of gentleness and affection.
Like the others, Anna Pavlovna Scherer showed Pierre the change of attitude toward him that had taken place in society.
Formerly in Anna Pavlovna's presence, Pierre had always felt that what he was saying was out of place, tactless and unsuitable, that remarks which seemed to him clever while they formed in his mind became foolish as soon as he uttered them, while on the contrary Hippolyte's stupidest remarks came out clever and apt.
Now everything Pierre said was charmant.
In the beginning of the winter of 1805-6 Pierre received one of Anna Pavlovna's usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added: "You will find the beautiful Helene here, whom it is always delightful to see."
When he read that sentence, Pierre felt for the first time that some link which other people recognized had grown up between himself and Helene, and that thought both alarmed him, as if some obligation were being imposed on him which he could not fulfill, and pleased him as an entertaining supposition.
Pierre felt flattered by this.
The beauty went to the aunt, but Anna Pavlovna detained Pierre, looking as if she had to give some final necessary instructions.
I only wanted to know your opinion, and Anna Pavlovna let Pierre go.
Pierre, in reply, sincerely agreed with her as to Helene's perfection of manner.
The aunt coughed, swallowed, and said in French that she was very pleased to see Helene, then she turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome and the same look.
In the middle of a dull and halting conversation, Helene turned to Pierre with the beautiful bright smile that she gave to everyone.
Pierre was so used to that smile, and it had so little meaning for him, that he paid no attention to it.
"That is probably the work of Vinesse," said Pierre, mentioning a celebrated miniaturist, and he leaned over the table to take the snuffbox while trying to hear what was being said at the other table.
And at that moment Pierre felt that Helene not only could, but must, be his wife, and that it could not be otherwise.
And Pierre, anxiously trying to remember whether he had done anything reprehensible, looked round with a blush.
The architect had told him that it was necessary, and Pierre, without knowing why, was having his enormous Petersburg house done up.
Pierre did not look at Helene nor she at him.
"This is all very fine, but things must be settled," said Prince Vasili to himself, with a sorrowful sigh, one morning, feeling that Pierre who was under such obligations to him ("But never mind that") was not behaving very well in this matter.
And though Prince Vasili, when he stayed in (as he said) for Pierre's sake, hardly exchanged a couple of words with him, Pierre felt unable to disappoint him.
He had often begun to make reflections or think aloud in her company, and she had always answered him either by a brief but appropriate remark--showing that it did not interest her--or by a silent look and smile which more palpably than anything else showed Pierre her superiority.
Pierre knew that everyone was waiting for him to say a word and cross a certain line, and he knew that sooner or later he would step across it, but an incomprehensible terror seized him at the thought of that dreadful step.
Pierre was one of those who are only strong when they feel themselves quite innocent, and since that day when he was overpowered by a feeling of desire while stooping over the snuffbox at Anna Pavlovna's, an unacknowledged sense of the guilt of that desire paralyzed his will.
At the other end sat the younger and less important guests, and there too sat the members of the family, and Pierre and Helene, side by side.
To each of them he made some careless and agreeable remark except to Pierre and Helene, whose presence he seemed not to notice.
Only Pierre and Helene sat silently side by side almost at the bottom of the table, a suppressed smile brightening both their faces, a smile that had nothing to do with Sergey Kuzmich--a smile of bashfulness at their own feelings.
But much as all the rest laughed, talked, and joked, much as they enjoyed their Rhine wine, saute, and ices, and however they avoided looking at the young couple, and heedless and unobservant as they seemed of them, one could feel by the occasional glances they gave that the story about Sergey Kuzmich, the laughter, and the food were all a pretense, and that the whole attention of that company was directed to-- Pierre and Helene.
Anna Pavlovna threatened him on behalf of "our dear Vyazmitinov," and in her eyes, which, for an instant, glanced at Pierre, Prince Vasili read a congratulation on his future son-in-law and on his daughter's happiness.
Pierre felt that he was the center of it all, and this both pleased and embarrassed him.
I do not know, but it will certainly happen! thought Pierre, glancing at those dazzling shoulders close to his eyes.
But Pierre was so absorbed that he did not understand what was said.
Prince Vasili smiled, and Pierre noticed that everyone was smiling at him and Helene.
After supper Pierre with his partner followed the others into the drawing room.
While the guests were taking their leave Pierre remained for a long time alone with Helene in the little drawing room where they were sitting.
Pierre rose and said it was getting late.
Prince Vasili gave him a look of stern inquiry, as though what Pierre had just said was so strange that one could not take it in.
Pierre smiled, but his smile showed that he knew it was not the story about Sergey Kuzmich that interested Prince Vasili just then, and Prince Vasili saw that Pierre knew this.
It seemed to Pierre that even the prince was disconcerted.
The sight of the discomposure of that old man of the world touched Pierre: he looked at Helene and she too seemed disconcerted, and her look seemed to say: "Well, it is your own fault."
"The step must be taken but I cannot, I cannot!" thought Pierre, and he again began speaking about indifferent matters, about Sergey Kuzmich, asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it properly.
Pierre and Helene still sat talking just as before.
His face was so unusually triumphant that Pierre rose in alarm on seeing it.
Pierre was kissed, and he kissed the beautiful Helene's hand several times.
Pierre held the hand of his betrothed in silence, looking at her beautiful bosom as it rose and fell.
Her face struck Pierre, by its altered, unpleasantly excited expression.
Boris, during the campaign, had made the acquaintance of many persons who might prove useful to him, and by a letter of recommendation he had brought from Pierre had become acquainted with Prince Andrew Bolkonski, through whom he hoped to obtain a post on the commander-in-chief's staff.
Pierre has arrived, and now we shall get anything we want from his hothouses.
Pierre took him up, invited him to his house in Petersburg, and now... she has come here and that daredevil after her!" said Anna Mikhaylovna, wishing to show her sympathy for Pierre, but by involuntary intonations and a half smile betraying her sympathy for the "daredevil," as she called Dolokhov.
They say Pierre is quite broken by his misfortune.
Pierre, who at his wife's command had let his hair grow and abandoned his spectacles, went about the rooms fashionably dressed but looking sad and dull.
Facing them sat Pierre, beside Prince Nesvitski.
Pierre sat opposite Dolokhov and Nicholas Rostov.
Pierre absolutely disbelieved both the princess' hints and the letter, but he feared now to look at Dolokhov, who was sitting opposite him.
Every time he chanced to meet Dolokhov's handsome insolent eyes, Pierre felt something terrible and monstrous rising in his soul and turned quickly away.
Involuntarily recalling his wife's past and her relations with Dolokhov, Pierre saw clearly that what was said in the letter might be true, or might at least seem to be true had it not referred to his wife.
Pierre recalled how Helene had smilingly expressed disapproval of Dolokhov's living at their house, and how cynically Dolokhov had praised his wife's beauty to him and from that time till they came to Moscow had not left them for a day.
"Yes, he is very handsome," thought Pierre, "and I know him.
"Yes, he is a bully," thought Pierre, "to kill a man means nothing to him.
Dolokhov, Denisov, and Rostov were now sitting opposite Pierre and seemed very gay.
Rostov was talking merrily to his two friends, one of whom was a dashing hussar and the other a notorious duelist and rake, and every now and then he glanced ironically at Pierre, whose preoccupied, absent-minded, and massive figure was a very noticeable one at the dinner.
Rostov looked inimically at Pierre, first because Pierre appeared to his hussar eyes as a rich civilian, the husband of a beauty, and in a word--an old woman; and secondly because Pierre in his preoccupation and absent-mindedness had not recognized Rostov and had not responded to his greeting.
When the Emperor's health was drunk, Pierre, lost in thought, did not rise or lift his glass.
Pierre did not catch what they were saying, but knew they were talking about him.
Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without looking at Dolokhov or answering him.
The footman, who was distributing leaflets with Kutuzov's cantata, laid one before Pierre as one of the principal guests.
Pale, with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy.
Pierre went home, but Rostov with Dolokhov and Denisov stayed on at the club till late, listening to the gypsies and other singers.
Next day, at eight in the morning, Pierre and Nesvitski drove to the Sokolniki forest and found Dolokhov, Denisov, and Rostov already there.
Pierre had the air of a man preoccupied with considerations which had no connection with the matter in hand.
"All right," said Pierre, still smiling in the same way.
"So I can fire when I like!" said Pierre, and at the word "three," he went quickly forward, missing the trodden path and stepping into the deep snow.
Not at all expecting so loud a report, Pierre shuddered at the sound and then, smiling at his own sensations, stood still.
Pierre, hardly restraining his sobs, began running toward Dolokhov and was about to cross the space between the barriers, when Dolokhov cried:
"To your barrier!" and Pierre, grasping what was meant, stopped by his saber.
Pierre, with a gentle smile of pity and remorse, his arms and legs helplessly spread out, stood with his broad chest directly facing Dolokhov looked sorrowfully at him.
Pierre clutched his temples, and turning round went into the forest, trampling through the deep snow, and muttering incoherent words:
Pierre had of late rarely seen his wife alone.
Often seeing the success she had with young and old men and women Pierre could not understand why he did not love her.
Pierre was one of those people who, in spite of an appearance of what is called weak character, do not seek a confidant in their troubles.
Next morning when the valet came into the room with his coffee, Pierre was lying asleep on the ottoman with an open book in his hand.
Pierre turned over heavily on the ottoman and opened his mouth, but could not reply.
"Hm... Hm...!" growled Pierre, frowning without looking at her, and not moving a muscle.
I beg you, muttered Pierre hoarsely.
Pierre wished to say something, looked at her with eyes whose strange expression she did not understand, and lay down again.
Pierre leaped up from the sofa and rushed staggering toward her.
A week later Pierre gave his wife full power to control all his estates in Great Russia, which formed the larger part of his property, and left for Petersburg alone.
"Perhaps," coldly and angrily replied Dolokhov, glancing at Sonya, and, scowling, he gave Nicholas just such a look as he had given Pierre at the club dinner.
After his interview with his wife Pierre left for Petersburg.
Pierre was obliged to wait.
Pierre gave no answer, for he neither heard nor saw anything.
Without changing his careless attitude, Pierre looked at them over his spectacles unable to understand what they wanted or how they could go on living without having solved the problems that so absorbed him.
And I," continued Pierre, "shot Dolokhov because I considered myself injured, and Louis XVI was executed because they considered him a criminal, and a year later they executed those who executed him--also for some reason.
His shriveled old hands were folded and on the finger of one of them Pierre noticed a large cast iron ring with a seal representing a death's head.
The stranger sat without stirring, either resting or, as it seemed to Pierre, sunk in profound and calm meditation.
Pierre began to feel a sense of uneasiness, and the need, even the inevitability, of entering into conversation with this stranger.
The servant handed him a book which Pierre took to be a devotional work, and the traveler became absorbed in it.
Pierre looked at him.
Pierre looked at him and had not time to turn away when the old man, opening his eyes, fixed his steady and severe gaze straight on Pierre's face.
Pierre felt confused and wished to avoid that look, but the bright old eyes attracted him irresistibly.
Pierre looked silently and inquiringly at him over his spectacles.
Pierre flushed and, hurriedly putting his legs down from the bed, bent forward toward the old man with a forced and timid smile.
He paused, his gaze still on Pierre, and moved aside on the sofa by way of inviting the other to take a seat beside him.
"Oh, yes!" said Pierre, with a forced smile.
"Just as I may suppose you to be deluded," said Pierre, with a faint smile.
"I should never dare to say that I know the truth," said the Mason, whose words struck Pierre more and more by their precision and firmness.
"I ought to tell you that I do not believe... do not believe in God," said Pierre, regretfully and with an effort, feeling it essential to speak the whole truth.
The Mason looked intently at Pierre and smiled as a rich man with millions in hand might smile at a poor fellow who told him that he, poor man, had not the five rubles that would make him happy.
Pierre could not and did not wish to break this silence.
"He exists, but to understand Him is hard," the Mason began again, looking not at Pierre but straight before him, and turning the leaves of his book with his old hands which from excitement he could not keep still.
Pierre listened with swelling heart, gazing into the Mason's face with shining eyes, not interrupting or questioning him, but believing with his whole soul what the stranger said.
"I do not understand," said Pierre, feeling with dismay doubts reawakening.
"Yes, yes, that is so," said Pierre joyfully.
"No, I hate my life," Pierre muttered, wincing.
Pierre looked at that aged, stern, motionless, almost lifeless face and moved his lips without uttering a sound.
"Can he really be going away leaving me alone without having told me all, and without promising to help me?" thought Pierre, rising with downcast head; and he began to pace the room, glancing occasionally at the Mason.
Pierre wished to say this to the Mason, but did not dare to.
"I?... I'm going to Petersburg," answered Pierre, in a childlike, hesitating voice.
Pierre could not go on.
The traveler was Joseph Alexeevich Bazdeev, as Pierre saw from the postmaster's book.
"In that case..." began Willarski, but Pierre interrupted him.
To Pierre's inquiries as to what he must do and how he should answer, Willarski only replied that brothers more worthy than he would test him and that Pierre had only to tell the truth.
Willarski, stepping toward him, said something to him in French in an undertone and then went up to a small wardrobe in which Pierre noticed garments such as he had never seen before.
The hairs tied in the knot hurt Pierre and there were lines of pain on his face and a shamefaced smile.
Left alone, Pierre went on smiling in the same way.
Pierre took the bandage off his eyes and glanced around him.
Pierre went nearer and saw that the lamp stood on a black table on which lay an open book.
After reading the first words of the Gospel: "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God," Pierre went round the table and saw a large open box filled with something.
By the dim light, to which Pierre had already become accustomed, he saw a rather short man.
I... desire regeneration, Pierre uttered with difficulty.
"No, I considered it erroneous and did not follow it," said Pierre, so softly that the Rhetor did not hear him and asked him what he was saying.
Pierre repeated, and a mental image of his future activity in this direction rose in his mind.
"Yes, that must be so," thought Pierre, when after these words the Rhetor went away, leaving him to solitary meditation.
Pierre knew very well what a hieroglyph was, but dared not speak.
"But I have nothing here," replied Pierre, supposing that he was asked to give up all he possessed.
Pierre quickly took out his purse and watch, but could not manage for some time to get the wedding ring off his fat finger.
Pierre took off his coat, waistcoat, and left boot according to the Rhetor's instructions.
Pierre hurriedly began taking off his right boot also and was going to tuck up the other trouser leg to save this stranger the trouble, but the Mason told him that was not necessary and gave him a slipper for his left foot.
Pierre paused, seeking a reply.
Soon after this there came into the dark chamber to fetch Pierre, not the Rhetor but Pierre's sponsor, Willarski, whom he recognized by his voice.
To fresh questions as to the firmness of his resolution Pierre replied: "Yes, yes, I agree," and with a beaming, childlike smile, his fat chest uncovered, stepping unevenly and timidly in one slippered and one booted foot, he advanced, while Willarski held a sword to his bare chest.
A bass voice (Pierre was still blindfolded) questioned him as to who he was, when and where he was born, and so on.
During these wanderings, Pierre noticed that he was spoken of now as the "Seeker," now as the "Sufferer," and now as the "Postulant," to the accompaniment of various knockings with mallets and swords.
The candles were then extinguished and some spirit lighted, as Pierre knew by the smell, and he was told that he would now see the lesser light.
The bandage was taken off his eyes and, by the faint light of the burning spirit, Pierre, as in a dream, saw several men standing before him, wearing aprons like the Rhetor's and holding swords in their hands pointed at his breast.
On seeing this, Pierre moved forward with his breast toward the swords, meaning them to pierce it.
Pierre gradually began to recover himself and looked about at the room and at the people in it.
Some of them Pierre had met in Petersburg society.
On his right sat the Italian abbe whom Pierre had met at Anna Pavlovna's two years before.
Two of the brothers led Pierre up to the altar, placed his feet at right angles, and bade him lie down, saying that he must prostrate himself at the Gates of the Temple.
Pierre, perplexed, looked round with his shortsighted eyes without obeying, and suddenly doubts arose in his mind.
Pierre glanced at the serious faces of those around, remembered all he had already gone through, and realized that he could not stop halfway.
As to the first pair of gloves, a man's, he said that Pierre could not know their meaning but must keep them.
While the Grand Master said these last words it seemed to Pierre that he grew embarrassed.
Pierre himself grew still more confused, blushed like a child till tears came to his eyes, began looking about him uneasily, and an awkward pause followed.
This silence was broken by one of the brethren, who led Pierre up to the rug and began reading to him from a manuscript book an explanation of all the figures on it: the sun, the moon, a hammer, a plumb line, a trowel, a rough stone and a squared stone, a pillar, three windows, and so on.
Then a place was assigned to Pierre, he was shown the signs of the Lodge, told the password, and at last was permitted to sit down.
They were very long, and Pierre, from joy, agitation, and embarrassment, was not in a state to understand what was being read.
He finished and, getting up, embraced and kissed Pierre, who, with tears of joy in his eyes, looked round him, not knowing how to answer the congratulations and greetings from acquaintances that met him on all sides.
Pierre would have liked to subscribe all he had, but fearing that it might look like pride subscribed the same amount as the others.
The meeting was at an end, and on reaching home Pierre felt as if he had returned from a long journey on which he had spent dozens of years, had become completely changed, and had quite left behind his former habits and way of life.
Pierre proposed going to his estates in the south and there attending to the welfare of his serfs.
Pierre was about to reply, but Prince Vasili interrupted him.
Prince Vasili gave Pierre a significant look.
Pierre tried several times to speak, but, on one hand, Prince Vasili did not let him and, on the other, Pierre himself feared to begin to speak in the tone of decided refusal and disagreement in which he had firmly resolved to answer his father-in-law.
But before Prince Vasili had finished his playful speech, Pierre, without looking at him, and with a kind of fury that made him like his father, muttered in a whisper:
A week later, Pierre, having taken leave of his new friends, the Masons, and leaving large sums of money with them for alms, went away to his estates.
The duel between Pierre and Dolokhov was hushed up and, in spite of the Emperor's severity regarding duels at that time, neither the principals nor their seconds suffered for it.
He shrugged his shoulders when Pierre was mentioned and, pointing to his forehead, remarked:
Despite Count Bezukhov's enormous wealth, since he had come into an income which was said to amount to five hundred thousand rubles a year, Pierre felt himself far poorer than when his father had made him an allowance of ten thousand rubles.
So the first task Pierre had to face was one for which he had very little aptitude or inclination--practical business.
In Kiev Pierre found some people he knew, and strangers hastened to make his acquaintance and joyfully welcomed the rich newcomer, the largest landowner of the province.
Everywhere preparations were made not for ceremonious welcomes (which he knew Pierre would not like), but for just such gratefully religious ones, with offerings of icons and the bread and salt of hospitality, as, according to his understanding of his master, would touch and delude him.
Everywhere were receptions, which though they embarrassed Pierre awakened a joyful feeling in the depth of his heart.
On all his estates Pierre saw with his own eyes brick buildings erected or in course of erection, all on one plan, for hospitals, schools, and almshouses, which were soon to be opened.
What Pierre did not know was that the place where they presented him with bread and salt and wished to build a chantry in honor of Peter and Paul was a market village where a fair was held on St. Peter's day, and that the richest peasants (who formed the deputation) had begun the chantry long before, but that nine tenths of the peasants in that villages were in a state of the greatest poverty.
"How easy it is, how little effort it needs, to do so much good," thought Pierre, "and how little attention we pay to it!"
Returning from his journey through South Russia in the happiest state of mind, Pierre carried out an intention he had long had of visiting his friend Bolkonski, whom he had not seen for two years.
Some domestic serfs Pierre met, in reply to inquiries as to where the prince lived, pointed out a small newly built lodge close to the pond.
Pierre was struck by the modesty of the small though clean house after the brilliant surroundings in which he had last met his friend in Petersburg.
Pierre went with rapid steps to the door and suddenly came face to face with Prince Andrew, who came out frowning and looking old.
Pierre embraced him and lifting his spectacles kissed his friend on the cheek and looked at him closely.
Pierre said nothing; he looked fixedly at his friend with surprise.
The preoccupation and despondency which Pierre had noticed in his friend's look was now still more clearly expressed in the smile with which he listened to Pierre, especially when he spoke with joyful animation of the past or the future.
It was as if Prince Andrew would have liked to sympathize with what Pierre was saying, but could not.
Pierre looked silently and searchingly into Prince Andrew's face, which had grown much older.
Pierre began, but Prince Andrew interrupted him.
Pierre felt uncomfortable and even depressed in his friend's company and at last became silent.
Pierre blushed, as he always did when it was mentioned, and said hurriedly: I will tell you some time how it all happened.
"What does harm to another is wrong," said Pierre, feeling with pleasure that for the first time since his arrival Prince Andrew was roused, had begun to talk, and wanted to express what had brought him to his present state.
Prince Andrew looked silently at Pierre with an ironic smile.
"But what do you mean by living only for yourself?" asked Pierre, growing excited.
And he looked at Pierre with a mocking, challenging expression.
"You are joking," replied Pierre, growing more and more excited.
His eyes glittered feverishly while he tried to prove to Pierre that in his actions there was no desire to do good to his neighbor.
In the evening Andrew and Pierre got into the open carriage and drove to Bald Hills.
Prince Andrew, glancing at Pierre, broke the silence now and then with remarks which showed that he was in a good temper.
Pierre remained gloomily silent, answering in monosyllables and apparently immersed in his own thoughts.
Pierre suddenly began, lowering his head and looking like a bull about to charge, why do you think so?
On earth, here on this earth" (Pierre pointed to the fields), "there is no truth, all is false and evil; but in the universe, in the whole universe there is a kingdom of truth, and we who are now the children of earth are--eternally--children of the whole universe.
"Yes, yes, of course," said Pierre, "isn't that what I'm saying?"
The sun had sunk half below the horizon and an evening frost was starring the puddles near the ferry, but Pierre and Andrew, to the astonishment of the footmen, coachmen, and ferrymen, still stood on the raft and talked.
We must live, we must love, and we must believe that we live not only today on this scrap of earth, but have lived and shall live forever, there, in the Whole, said Pierre, and he pointed to the sky.
Prince Andrew stood leaning on the railing of the raft listening to Pierre, and he gazed with his eyes fixed on the red reflection of the sun gleaming on the blue waters.
His meeting with Pierre formed an epoch in Prince Andrew's life.
It was getting dusk when Prince Andrew and Pierre drove up to the front entrance of the house at Bald Hills.
Prince Andrew led Pierre to his own apartments, which were always kept in perfect order and readiness for him in his father's house; he himself went to the nursery.
"Let us go and see my sister," he said to Pierre when he returned.
"Mais, ma bonne amie," said Prince Andrew, "vous devriez au contraire m'Ãªtre reconnaissante de ce que j'explique a Pierre votre intimitÃ© avec ce jeune homme." *
"Really?" said Pierre, gazing over his spectacles with curiosity and seriousness (for which Princess Mary was specially grateful to him) into Ivanushka's face, who, seeing that she was being spoken about, looked round at them all with crafty eyes.
"But, dear me, that must be a fraud!" said Pierre, naively, who had listened attentively to the pilgrim.
Pelageya stopped doubtfully, but in Pierre's face there was such a look of sincere penitence, and Prince Andrew glanced so meekly now at her and now at Pierre, that she was gradually reassured.
Pierre listened to her attentively and seriously.
Prince Andrew went out of the room, and then, leaving "God's folk" to finish their tea, Princess Mary took Pierre into the drawing room.
Prince Andrew and Pierre also went out into the porch.
"Who's that?" asked the old prince, noticing Pierre as he got out of the carriage.
Pierre was maintaining that a time would come when there would be no more wars.
Old women's nonsense--old women's nonsense! he repeated, but still he patted Pierre affectionately on the shoulder, and then went up to the table where Prince Andrew, evidently not wishing to join in the conversation, was looking over the papers his father had brought from town.
Well, my boy, the old prince went on, addressing his son and patting Pierre on the shoulder.
Make friends with my little fool, Princess Mary, he shouted after Pierre, through the door.
With the stern old prince and the gentle, timid Princess Mary, though he had scarcely known them, Pierre at once felt like an old friend.
When Pierre had gone and the members of the household met together, they began to express their opinions of him as people always do after a new acquaintance has left, but as seldom happens, no one said anything but what was good of him.
All the plans Pierre had attempted on his estates--and constantly changing from one thing to another had never accomplished--were carried out by Prince Andrew without display and without perceptible difficulty.
He had in the highest degree a practical tenacity which Pierre lacked, and without fuss or strain on his part this set things going.
They crossed the ferry where he had talked with Pierre the year before.
Nearly two years before this, in 1808, Pierre on returning to Petersburg after visiting his estates had involuntarily found himself in a leading position among the Petersburg Freemasons.
Amid the turmoil of his activities and distractions, however, Pierre at the end of a year began to feel that the more firmly he tried to rest upon it, the more masonic ground on which he stood gave way under him.
Often after collecting alms, and reckoning up twenty to thirty rubles received for the most part in promises from a dozen members, of whom half were as well able to pay as himself, Pierre remembered the masonic vow in which each Brother promised to devote all his belongings to his neighbor, and doubts on which he tried not to dwell arose in his soul.
Pierre respected this class of Brothers to which the elder ones chiefly belonged, including, Pierre thought, Joseph Alexeevich himself, but he did not share their interests.
Pierre began to feel dissatisfied with what he was doing.
In the summer of 1809 Pierre returned to Petersburg.
A solemn meeting of the lodge of the second degree was convened, at which Pierre promised to communicate to the Petersburg Brothers what he had to deliver to them from the highest leaders of their order.
After the usual ceremonies Pierre rose and began his address.
Pierre raised his notebook and began to read.
The Grand Master began answering him, and Pierre began developing his views with more and more warmth.
Parties were formed, some accusing Pierre of Illuminism, others supporting him.
Pierre did not answer him and asked briefly whether his proposal would be accepted.
Again Pierre was overtaken by the depression he so dreaded.
Pierre saw that there was a conspiracy against him and that they wanted to reunite him with his wife, and in the mood he then was, this was not even unpleasant to him.
Without replying either to his wife or his mother-in-law, Pierre late one night prepared for a journey and started for Moscow to see Joseph Alexeevich.
Napoleon himself had noticed her in the theater and said of her: "C'est un superbe animal." * Her success as a beautiful and elegant woman did not surprise Pierre, for she had become even handsomer than before.
Pierre was just the husband needed for a brilliant society woman.
Her smile for him was the same as for everybody, but sometimes that smile made Pierre uncomfortable.
"What a strange antipathy," thought Pierre, "yet I used to like him very much."
Pierre went on with his diary, and this is what he wrote in it during that time:
Country neighbors from Otradnoe, impoverished old squires and their daughters, Peronskaya a maid of honor, Pierre Bezukhov, and the son of their district postmaster who had obtained a post in Petersburg.
Among the men who very soon became frequent visitors at the Rostovs' house in Petersburg were Boris, Pierre whom the count had met in the street and dragged home with him, and Berg who spent whole days at the Rostovs' and paid the eldest daughter, Countess Vera, the attentions a young man pays when he intends to propose.
Pierre, swaying his stout body, advanced, making way through the crowd and nodding to right and left as casually and good-naturedly as if he were passing through a crowd at a fair.
But before he reached them Pierre stopped beside a very handsome, dark man of middle height, and in a white uniform, who stood by a window talking to a tall man wearing stars and a ribbon.
Pierre came up to him and caught him by the arm.
He stepped forward in the direction Pierre indicated.
At that ball Pierre for the first time felt humiliated by the position his wife occupied in court circles.
Pierre smiled absent-mindedly, evidently not grasping what she said.
Pierre was right when he said one must believe in the possibility of happiness in order to be happy, and now I do believe in it.
One morning Colonel Berg, whom Pierre knew as he knew everybody in Moscow and Petersburg, came to see him.
Berg explained so clearly why he wanted to collect at his house a small but select company, and why this would give him pleasure, and why though he grudged spending money on cards or anything harmful, he was prepared to run into some expense for the sake of good society--that Pierre could not refuse, and promised to come.
Contrary to his habit of being late, Pierre on that day arrived at the Bergs' house, not at ten but at fifteen minutes to eight.
They received Pierre in their small, new drawing-room, where it was impossible to sit down anywhere without disturbing its symmetry, neatness, and order; so it was quite comprehensible and not strange that Berg, having generously offered to disturb the symmetry of an armchair or of the sofa for his dear guest, but being apparently painfully undecided on the matter himself, eventually left the visitor to settle the question of selection.
Pierre disturbed the symmetry by moving a chair for himself, and Berg and Vera immediately began their evening party, interrupting each other in their efforts to entertain their guest.
Vera, having decided in her own mind that Pierre ought to be entertained with conversation about the French embassy, at once began accordingly.
Pierre, as one of the principal guests, had to sit down to boston with Count Rostov, the general, and the colonel.
"What's the matter with her?" thought Pierre, glancing at her.
After playing out a whole suit and to his partner's delight taking five tricks, Pierre, hearing greetings and the steps of someone who had entered the room while he was picking up his tricks, glanced again at Natasha.
Prince Andrew went up to Pierre, and the latter noticed a new and youthful expression in his friend's face.
Pierre changed places several times during the game, sitting now with his back to Natasha and now facing her, but during the whole of the six rubbers he watched her and his friend.
After six rubbers the general got up, saying that it was no use playing like that, and Pierre was released.
Pierre went up to his friend and, asking whether they were talking secrets, sat down beside them.
Now you know, Count," she said to Pierre, "even our dear cousin Boris, who, between ourselves, was very far gone in the land of tenderness..."
"Oh, undoubtedly!" said Prince Andrew, and with sudden and unnatural liveliness he began chaffing Pierre about the need to be very careful with his fifty-year-old Moscow cousins, and in the midst of these jesting remarks he rose, taking Pierre by the arm, and drew him aside.
"Well?" asked Pierre, seeing his friend's strange animation with surprise, and noticing the glance he turned on Natasha as he rose.
Pierre saw how Prince Andrew asked her something and how she flushed as she replied.
But at that moment Berg came to Pierre and began insisting that he should take part in an argument between the general and the colonel on the affairs in Spain.
Now the general had begun such a discussion and so Berg drew Pierre to it.
At that very time Prince Andrew was sitting with Pierre and telling him of his love for Natasha and his firm resolve to make her his wife.
Pierre, who had come downstairs, walked through the rooms and struck everyone by his preoccupied, absent-minded, and morose air.
"Ah, it's you!" said Pierre with a preoccupied, dissatisfied air.
Prince Andrew, with a beaming, ecstatic expression of renewed life on his face, paused in front of Pierre and, not noticing his sad look, smiled at him with the egotism of joy.
Suddenly Pierre heaved a deep sigh and dumped his heavy person down on the sofa beside Prince Andrew.
What did I tell you? said Pierre suddenly, rising and beginning to pace up and down the room.
"She does, I know," Pierre cried fiercely.
Pierre was the only person to whom he made up his mind to speak openly; and to him he told all that was in his soul.
"Darkness and gloom," reiterated Pierre: "yes, yes, I understand that."
"Yes, yes," Pierre assented, looking at his friend with a touched and sad expression in his eyes.
Pierre did not come either and Natasha, not knowing that Prince Andrew had gone to see his father, could not explain his absence to herself.
Pierre seemed disconcerted and embarrassed.
And this life suddenly seemed to Pierre unexpectedly loathsome.
Pierre felt that she was right, and to avoid compromising her went away to Moscow.
Moscow society, from the old women down to the children, received Pierre like a long-expected guest whose place was always ready awaiting him.
For Moscow society Pierre was the nicest, kindest, most intellectual, merriest, and most magnanimous of cranks, a heedless, genial nobleman of the old Russian type.
Pierre was one of those retired gentlemen-in-waiting of whom there were hundreds good-humoredly ending their days in Moscow.
Pierre no longer suffered moments of despair, hypochondria, and disgust with life, but the malady that had formerly found expression in such acute attacks was driven inwards and never left him for a moment.
"Helene, who has never cared for anything but her own body and is one of the stupidest women in the world," thought Pierre, "is regarded by people as the acme of intelligence and refinement, and they pay homage to her.
These guests--the famous Count Rostopchin, Prince Lopukhin with his nephew, General Chatrov an old war comrade of the prince's, and of the younger generation Pierre and Boris Drubetskoy--awaited the prince in the drawing room.
Pierre looked at Rostopchin with naive astonishment, not understanding why he should be disturbed by the bad composition of the Note.
Pierre now understood the count's dissatisfaction with the wording of the Note.
Pierre was in an agreeable after-dinner mood.
"Yes," returned Pierre with a smile, "and this young man now manages matters so that where there is a wealthy heiress there he is too.
And do you know the new way of courting? said Pierre with an amused smile, evidently in that cheerful mood of good humored raillery for which he so often reproached himself in his diary.
"And how does he now regard the matter?" asked Pierre, referring to the old prince.
Princess Mary told Pierre of her plan to become intimate with her future sister-in-law as soon as the Rostovs arrived and to try to accustom the old prince to her.
Count Pierre never used to forget us.
Before the beginning of the second act Pierre appeared in the stalls.
On seeing Natasha Pierre grew animated and, hastily passing between the rows, came toward their box.
While conversing with Pierre, Natasha heard a man's voice in Countess Bezukhova's box and something told her it was Kuragin.
Pierre received him unwillingly at first, but got used to him after a while, sometimes even accompanied him on his carousals, and gave him money under the guise of loans.
So she knows I am engaged, and she and her husband Pierre--that good Pierre--have talked and laughed about this.
When he returned to Moscow Pierre was handed a letter from Marya Dmitrievna asking him to come and see her on a matter of great importance relating to Andrew Bolkonski and his betrothed.
Pierre raised his head.
When he opened the ballroom door Pierre saw Natasha sitting at the window, with a thin, pale, and spiteful face.
"What has happened?" asked Pierre, entering Marya Dmitrievna's room.
Pierre raised his shoulders and listened open-mouthed to what was told him, scarcely able to believe his own ears.
That Prince Andrew's deeply loved affianced wife--the same Natasha Rostova who used to be so charming--should give up Bolkonski for that fool Anatole who was already secretly married (as Pierre knew), and should be so in love with him as to agree to run away with him, was something Pierre could not conceive and could not imagine.
"But how get married?" said Pierre, in answer to Marya Dmitrievna.
After hearing the details of Anatole's marriage from Pierre, and giving vent to her anger against Anatole in words of abuse, Marya Dmitrievna told Pierre why she had sent for him.
Pierre--only now realizing the danger to the old count, Nicholas, and Prince Andrew-- promised to do as she wished.
Pierre met the old count, who seemed nervous and upset.
Pierre saw that the count was much upset and tried to change the subject, but the count returned to his troubles.
Sonya told Pierre this as she led him along the corridor to Natasha's room.
Natasha, pale and stern, was sitting beside Marya Dmitrievna, and her eyes, glittering feverishly, met Pierre with a questioning look the moment he entered.
As for Pierre, he evidently did not exist for her.
"He knows all about it," said Marya Dmitrievna pointing to Pierre and addressing Natasha.
"Natalya Ilynichna," Pierre began, dropping his eyes with a feeling of pity for her and loathing for the thing he had to do, "whether it is true or not should make no difference to you, because..."
Pierre gave his word of honor.
Pierre did not stay for dinner, but left the room and went away at once.
Pierre drove to the club.
The members who were assembling for dinner were sitting about in groups; they greeted Pierre and spoke of the town news.
Pierre laughed and said it was nonsense for he had just come from the Rostovs'.
Pierre felt it strange to see this calm, indifferent crowd of people unaware of what was going on in his soul.
Anatole, for whom Pierre was looking, dined that day with Dolokhov, consulting him as to how to remedy this unfortunate affair.
When Pierre returned home after vainly hunting all over Moscow, his valet informed him that Prince Anatole was with the countess.
Pierre without greeting his wife whom he had not seen since his return-- at that moment she was more repulsive to him than ever--entered the drawing room and seeing Anatole went up to him.
"Ah, Pierre," said the countess going up to her husband.
"Where you are, there is vice and evil!" said Pierre to his wife.
Pierre, taking him by the arm, pulled him toward himself and was leading him from the room.
"If you allow yourself in my drawing room..." whispered Helene, but Pierre did not reply and went out of the room.
Having entered his study Pierre closed the door and addressed Anatole without looking at him.
"You're a scoundrel and a blackguard, and I don't know what deprives me from the pleasure of smashing your head with this!" said Pierre, expressing himself so artificially because he was talking French.
Pierre took the letter Anatole handed him and, pushing aside a table that stood in his way, threw himself on the sofa.
"I shan't be violent, don't be afraid!" said Pierre in answer to a frightened gesture of Anatole's.
"Thirdly," Pierre continued without listening to him, "you must never breathe a word of what has passed between you and Countess Rostova.
Pierre paced the room several times in silence.
Pierre paused and looked at Anatole no longer with an angry but with a questioning look.
"I don't know about that, eh?" said Anatole, growing more confident as Pierre mastered his wrath.
"I don't know that and don't want to," he said, not looking at Pierre and with a slight tremor of his lower jaw, "but you have used such words to me--'mean' and so on--which as a man of honor I can't allow anyone to use."
Pierre glanced at him with amazement, unable to understand what he wanted.
"Is it satisfaction you want?" said Pierre ironically.
"I take them back, I take them back!" said Pierre, "and I ask you to forgive me."
Pierre involuntarily glanced at the loose button.
The expression of that base and cringing smile, which Pierre knew so well in his wife, revolted him.
Pierre drove to Marya Dmitrievna's to tell her of the fulfillment of her wish that Kuragin should be banished from Moscow.
Pierre saw the distracted count, and Sonya, who had a tear-stained face, but he could not see Natasha.
Pierre dined at the club that day and heard on all sides gossip about the attempted abduction of Rostova.
It seemed to Pierre that it was his duty to conceal the whole affair and re-establish Natasha's reputation.
Some days after Anatole's departure Pierre received a note from Prince Andrew, informing him of his arrival and asking him to come to see him.
Prince Andrew had arrived in the evening and Pierre came to see him next morning.
She sighed, looking toward the door of the room where Prince Andrew was, evidently intending to express her sympathy with his sorrow, but Pierre saw by her face that she was glad both at what had happened and at the way her brother had taken the news of Natasha's faithlessness.
Pierre went into the study.
Pierre now recognized in his friend a need with which he was only too familiar, to get excited and to have arguments about extraneous matters in order to stifle thoughts that were too oppressive and too intimate.
Pierre saw that Prince Andrew was going to speak of Natasha, and his broad face expressed pity and sympathy.
"Both true and untrue," Pierre began; but Prince Andrew interrupted him.
Pierre took the packet.
Prince Andrew, as if trying to remember whether he had something more to say, or waiting to see if Pierre would say anything, looked fixedly at him.
"I say, do you remember our discussion in Petersburg?" asked Pierre, "about..."
Pierre left the room and went to the old prince and Princess Mary.
Looking at them Pierre realized what contempt and animosity they all felt for the Rostovs, and that it was impossible in their presence even to mention the name of her who could give up Prince Andrew for anyone else.
Prince Andrew talked incessantly, arguing now with his father, now with the Swiss tutor Dessalles, and showing an unnatural animation, the cause of which Pierre so well understood.
That same evening Pierre went to the Rostovs' to fulfill the commission entrusted to him.
Natasha was in bed, the count at the club, and Pierre, after giving the letters to Sonya, went to Marya Dmitrievna who was interested to know how Prince Andrew had taken the news.
Natasha was standing in the middle of the drawing room, emaciated, with a pale set face, but not at all shamefaced as Pierre expected to find her.
Pierre hastened to her.
Pierre sniffed as he looked at her, but did not speak.
"Yes... I will tell him," answered Pierre; "but..."
Pierre did not know how to refer to Anatole and flushed at the thought of him--"did you love that bad man?"
"We won't speak of it any more, my dear," said Pierre, and his gentle, cordial tone suddenly seemed very strange to Natasha.
I am not worth it! exclaimed Natasha and turned to leave the room, but Pierre held her hand.
For the first time for many days Natasha wept tears of gratitude and tenderness, and glancing at Pierre she went out of the room.
Pierre too when she had gone almost ran into the anteroom, restraining tears of tenderness and joy that choked him, and without finding the sleeves of his fur cloak threw it on and got into his sleigh.
"Home!" said Pierre, and despite twenty-two degrees of frost Fahrenheit he threw open the bearskin cloak from his broad chest and inhaled the air with joy.
In Pierre, however, that comet with its long luminous tail aroused no feeling of fear.
It seemed to Pierre that this comet fully responded to what was passing in his own softened and uplifted soul, now blossoming into a new life.
After his interview with Pierre in Moscow, Prince Andrew went to Petersburg, on business as he told his family, but really to meet Anatole Kuragin whom he felt it necessary to encounter.
Pierre had warned his brother-in-law that Prince Andrew was on his track.
Not only could he no longer think the thoughts that had first come to him as he lay gazing at the sky on the field of Austerlitz and had later enlarged upon with Pierre, and which had filled his solitude at Bogucharovo and then in Switzerland and Rome, but he even dreaded to recall them and the bright and boundless horizons they had revealed.
After those involuntary words--that if he were free he would have asked on his knees for her hand and her love--uttered at a moment when she was so strongly agitated, Pierre never spoke to Natasha of his feelings; and it seemed plain to her that those words, which had then so comforted her, were spoken as all sorts of meaningless words are spoken to comfort a crying child.
From the day when Pierre, after leaving the Rostovs' with Natasha's grateful look fresh in his mind, had gazed at the comet that seemed to be fixed in the sky and felt that something new was appearing on his own horizon--from that day the problem of the vanity and uselessness of all earthly things, that had incessantly tormented him, no longer presented itself.
Pierre still went into society, drank as much and led the same idle and dissipated life, because besides the hours he spent at the Rostovs' there were other hours he had to spend somehow, and the habits and acquaintances he had made in Moscow formed a current that bore him along irresistibly.
Once when making such calculations he wrote down his own name in French, Comte Pierre Besouhoff, but the sum of the numbers did not come right.
Pierre came early so as to find them alone.
Pierre, from club habit, always left both hat and stick in the anteroom.
She spoke rapidly and did not notice how Pierre flushed at her words.
Pierre replied, that he has nothing to forgive....
He had asked Pierre to find out whether he would be accepted in the hussars.
Pierre walked up and down the drawing room, not listening to what Petya was saying.
Pierre began feeling in his pockets for the papers, but could not find them.
Pierre was about to begin reading.
Pierre had been silent and preoccupied all through dinner, seeming not to grasp what was said.
Pierre felt her eyes on him and tried not to look round.
"What a darling our Papa is!" she cried, kissing him, and she again looked at Pierre with the unconscious coquetry that had returned to her with her better spirits.
Pierre was agitated and undecided.
I really must go home... business... said Pierre hurriedly.
Pierre made up his mind not to go to the Rostovs' any more.
Pierre was there too, buttoned up since early morning in a nobleman's uniform that had become too tight for him.
Pierre went up to the circle that had formed round the speaker and listened.
The retired naval man was speaking very boldly, as was evident from the expression on the faces of the listeners and from the fact that some people Pierre knew as the meekest and quietest of men walked away disapprovingly or expressed disagreement with him.
Pierre pushed his way into the middle of the group, listened, and convinced himself that the man was indeed a liberal, but of views quite different from his own.
Count Rostov's mouth watered with pleasure and he nudged Pierre, but Pierre wanted to speak himself.
Pierre suddenly saw an outlet for his excitement.
Pierre stepped forward and interrupted him.
"I think that before discussing these questions," Pierre continued, "we should ask the Emperor--most respectfully ask His Majesty--to let us know the number of our troops and the position in which our army and our forces now are, and then..."
But scarcely had Pierre uttered these words before he was attacked from three sides.
Adraksin was in uniform, and whether as a result of the uniform or from some other cause Pierre saw before him quite a different man.
Pierre wished to reply, but could not get in a word.
Pierre wished to say that he was ready to sacrifice his money, his serfs, or himself, only one ought to know the state of affairs in order to be able to improve it, but he was unable to speak.
Pierre became the latter.
The crowd drew up to the large table, at which sat gray-haired or bald seventy-year-old magnates, uniformed and besashed almost all of whom Pierre had seen in their own homes with their buffoons, or playing boston at the clubs.
Pierre, however, felt excited, and the general desire to show that they were ready to go to all lengths--which found expression in the tones and looks more than in the substance of the speeches--infected him too.
Pierre stood rather far off and could not hear all that the Emperor said.
There was a rustling among the crowd and it again subsided, so that Pierre distinctly heard the pleasantly human voice of the Emperor saying with emotion:
Pierre was among those who saw him come out from the merchants' hall with tears of emotion in his eyes.
When Pierre saw the Emperor he was coming out accompanied by two merchants, one of whom Pierre knew, a fat otkupshchik.
"No," said Pierre, with a laughing glance at his big, stout body.
Julie asked Pierre with a knowing smile.
"They are waiting for their younger son," Pierre replied.
"Get over what?" inquired Pierre, looking displeased.
What do you mean? demanded Pierre, blushing.
These words showed Pierre clearly for the first time that the French would enter Moscow.
Pierre pondered over these broadsheets.
"Then it will mean that I must go to the army," said Pierre to himself.
"On the contrary, things seem satisfactory, ma cousine," said Pierre in the bantering tone he habitually adopted toward her, always feeling uncomfortable in the role of her benefactor.
You take everything so to heart, said Pierre, and began laying out his cards for patience.
Pierre listened to him, scarcely able to repress a smile.
The worse everything became, especially his own affairs, the better was Pierre pleased and the more evident was it that the catastrophe he expected was approaching.
The balloon was not yet ready, but Pierre learned that it was being constructed by the Emperor's desire.
On his way home from Vorontsovo, as he was passing the Bolotnoe Place Pierre, seeing a large crowd round the Lobnoe Place, stopped and got out of his trap.
With a frightened and suffering look resembling that on the thin Frenchman's face, Pierre pushed his way in through the crowd.
"Eh, mounseer, Russian sauce seems to be sour to a Frenchman... sets his teeth on edge!" said a wrinkled clerk who was standing behind Pierre, when the Frenchman began to cry.
Pierre choked, his face puckered, and he turned hastily away, went back to his trap muttering something to himself as he went, and took his seat.
"Where are you going?" shouted Pierre to the man, who was driving to Lubyanka Street.
Idiot! shouted Pierre, abusing his coachman--a thing he rarely did.
On reaching home Pierre gave orders to Evstafey--his head coachman who knew everything, could do anything, and was known to all Moscow--that he would leave that night for the army at Mozhaysk, and that his saddle horses should be sent there.
On the twenty-fourth the weather cleared up after a spell of rain, and after dinner Pierre left Moscow.
At dawn next day Pierre was approaching Mozhaysk.
Every house in Mozhaysk had soldiers quartered in it, and at the hostel where Pierre was met by his groom and coachman there was no room to be had.
Pierre pushed forward as fast as he could, and the farther he left Moscow behind and the deeper he plunged into that sea of troops the more was he overcome by restless agitation and a new and joyful feeling he had not experienced before.
Pierre could not say, and he did not try to determine for whom and for what he felt such particular delight in sacrificing everything.
On the morning of the twenty-fifth Pierre was leaving Mozhaysk.
At the descent of the high steep hill, down which a winding road led out of the town past the cathedral on the right, where a service was being held and the bells were ringing, Pierre got out of his vehicle and proceeded on foot.
Pierre stopped, being pressed against the side of the cutting in which the road ran.
Pierre was so deep in thought that he did not hear the question.
But beneath the slope, by the cart with the wounded near the panting little nag where Pierre stood, it was damp, somber, and sad.
The peasants--even they have to go, said the soldier behind the cart, addressing Pierre with a sad smile.
In spite of the obscurity of the soldier's words Pierre understood what he wanted to say and nodded approval.
The road was clear again; Pierre descended the hill and drove on.
He was driving toward Pierre in a covered gig, sitting beside a young surgeon, and on recognizing Pierre he told the Cossack who occupied the driver's seat to pull up.
Pierre got out and talked to the doctor, explaining his intention of taking part in a battle.
Strange! thought Pierre, continuing his way to Tatarinova.
The commander-in-chief was putting up there, but just when Pierre arrived he was not in and hardly any of the staff were there--they had gone to the church service.
Pierre drove on toward Gorki.
On seeing these peasants, who were evidently still amused by the novelty of their position as soldiers, Pierre once more thought of the wounded men at Mozhaysk and understood what the soldier had meant when he said: "They want the whole nation to fall on them."
Pierre stepped out of his carriage and, passing the toiling militiamen, ascended the knoll from which, according to the doctor, the battlefield could be seen.
"May I ask you," said Pierre, "what village that is in front?"
The officer pointed with his hand to the smoke visible on the left beyond the river, and the same stern and serious expression that Pierre had noticed on many of the faces he had met came into his face.
Pierre pointed to another knoll in the distance with a big tree on it, near a village that lay in a hollow where also some campfires were smoking and something black was visible.
"No, I've come on my own," answered Pierre, and he went down the hill again, passing the militiamen.
Soldiers and militiamen ran bareheaded past Pierre toward the procession.
Standing among the crowd of peasants, Pierre recognized several acquaintances among these notables, but did not look at them--his whole attention was absorbed in watching the serious expression on the faces of the crowd of soldiers and militiamen who were all gazing eagerly at the icon.
Pierre recognized him at once by his peculiar figure, which distinguished him from everybody else.
Staggering amid the crush, Pierre looked about him.
Pierre stopped some thirty paces from Kutuzov, talking to Boris.
After Kaysarov, others whom Pierre knew came up to him, and he had not time to reply to all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon him, or to listen to all that was told him.
The faces all expressed animation and apprehension, but it seemed to Pierre that the cause of the excitement shown in some of these faces lay chiefly in questions of personal success; his mind, however, was occupied by the different expression he saw on other faces--an expression that spoke not of personal matters but of the universal questions of life and death.
Pierre took off his hat and bowed respectfully to Kutuzov.
Just then Boris, with his courtierlike adroitness, stepped up to Pierre's side near Kutuzov and in a most natural manner, without raising his voice, said to Pierre, as though continuing an interrupted conversation:
Boris evidently said this to Pierre in order to be overheard by his Serene Highness.
When Pierre had left Kutuzov, Dolokhov came up to him and took his hand.
Pierre looked at Dolokhov with a smile, not knowing what to say to him.
With tears in his eyes Dolokhov embraced Pierre and kissed him.
Boris said a few words to his general, and Count Bennigsen turned to Pierre and proposed that he should ride with him along the line.
Half an hour later Kutuzov left for Tatarinova, and Bennigsen and his suite, with Pierre among them, set out on their ride along the line.
Pierre also looked at them, trying to guess which of the scarcely discernible figures was Napoleon.
Bennigsen stopped speaking and, noticing that Pierre was listening, suddenly said to him:
"On the contrary it's very interesting!" replied Pierre not quite truthfully.
Here, at the extreme left flank, Bennigsen talked a great deal and with much heat, and, as it seemed to Pierre, gave orders of great military importance.
Prince Andrew looked out of the shed and saw Pierre, who had tripped over a pole on the ground and had nearly fallen, coming his way.
It was unpleasant to Prince Andrew to meet people of his own set in general, and Pierre especially, for he reminded him of all the painful moments of his last visit to Moscow.
As he said this his eyes and face expressed more than coldness--they expressed hostility, which Pierre noticed at once.
"I have come... simply... you know... come... it interests me," said Pierre, who had so often that day senselessly repeated that word "interesting."
Prince Andrew remained silent, and his expression was so forbidding that Pierre addressed his remarks chiefly to the good-natured battalion commander.
"Oh!" said Pierre, looking over his spectacles in perplexity at Prince Andrew.
Pierre looked at Timokhin with the condescendingly interrogative smile with which everybody involuntarily addressed that officer.
Pierre put the same question to Prince Andrew.
Pierre looked at him in surprise.
"At such a moment?" said Pierre reproachfully.
After they had gone Pierre approached Prince Andrew and was about to start a conversation when they heard the clatter of three horses' hoofs on the road not far from the shed, and looking in that direction Prince Andrew recognized Wolzogen and Clausewitz accompanied by a Cossack.
"Yes, yes," muttered Pierre, looking with shining eyes at Prince Andrew.
The question that had perturbed Pierre on the Mozhaysk hill and all that day now seemed to him quite clear and completely solved.
Pierre replied, looking at Prince Andrew with frightened, compassionate eyes.
He came quickly up to Pierre and embraced and kissed him.
It was already dark, and Pierre could not make out whether the expression of Prince Andrew's face was angry or tender.
On returning to Gorki after having seen Prince Andrew, Pierre ordered his groom to get the horses ready and to call him early in the morning, and then immediately fell asleep behind a partition in a corner Boris had given up to him.
Your excellency! he kept repeating pertinaciously while he shook Pierre by the shoulder without looking at him, having apparently lost hope of getting him to wake up.
Pierre asked, waking up.
Pierre dressed hastily and ran out to the porch.
Telling the groom to follow him with the horses, Pierre went down the street to the knoll from which he had looked at the field of battle the day before.
Mounting the steps to the knoll Pierre looked at the scene before him, spellbound by beauty.
It was the same panorama he had admired from that spot the day before, but now the whole place was full of troops and covered by smoke clouds from the guns, and the slanting rays of the bright sun, rising slightly to the left behind Pierre, cast upon it through the clear morning air penetrating streaks of rosy, golden-tinted light and long dark shadows.
All this was vivid, majestic, and unexpected; but what impressed Pierre most of all was the view of the battlefield itself, of Borodino and the hollows on both sides of the Kolocha.
Pierre wished to be there with that smoke, those shining bayonets, that movement, and those sounds.
All their faces were now shining with that latent warmth of feeling Pierre had noticed the day before and had fully understood after his talk with Prince Andrew.
Having received this order the general passed by Pierre on his way down the knoll.
"I'll go there too, I too!" thought Pierre, and followed the general.
Pierre went to his groom who was holding his horses and, asking which was the quietest, clambered onto it, seized it by the mane, and turning out his toes pressed his heels against its sides and, feeling that his spectacles were slipping off but unable to let go of the mane and reins, he galloped after the general, causing the staff officers to smile as they watched him from the knoll.
Having descended the hill the general after whom Pierre was galloping turned sharply to the left, and Pierre, losing sight of him, galloped in among some ranks of infantry marching ahead of him.
Another prodded his horse with the butt end of a musket, and Pierre, bending over his saddlebow and hardly able to control his shying horse, galloped ahead of the soldiers where there was a free space.
Pierre rode up to them.
Pierre saw that there was a bridge in front of him and that soldiers were doing something on both sides of it and in the meadow, among the rows of new-mown hay which he had taken no notice of amid the smoke of the campfires the day before; but despite the incessant firing going on there he had no idea that this was the field of battle.
Pierre went to the right, and unexpectedly encountered one of Raevski's adjutants whom he knew.
Pierre, feeling out of place there, having nothing to do, and afraid of getting in someone's way again, galloped after the adjutant.
"Yes, I'll come with you," replied Pierre, looking round for his groom.
Pierre was about to ask, but seeing the stern expression of the adjutant who was also looking that way, he checked himself.
Pierre did not find his groom and rode along the hollow with the adjutant to Raevski's Redoubt.
"No it's not that, but her action seems so jerky," said Pierre in a puzzled tone.
Pierre and the adjutant dismounted and walked up the hill on foot.
The adjutant looked at Pierre as if puzzled what to do with him now.
Pierre went to the battery and the adjutant rode on.
They did not meet again, and only much later did Pierre learn that he lost an arm that day.
Having reached the knoll, Pierre sat down at one end of a trench surrounding the battery and gazed at what was going on around him with an unconsciously happy smile.
A young round-faced officer, quite a boy still and evidently only just out of the Cadet College, who was zealously commanding the two guns entrusted to him, addressed Pierre sternly.
The men soon accepted Pierre into their family, adopted him, gave him a nickname ("our gentleman"), and made kindly fun of him among themselves.
A shell tore up the earth two paces from Pierre and he looked around with a smile as he brushed from his clothes some earth it had thrown up.
The booming cannonade and the fusillade of musketry were growing more intense over the whole field, especially to the left where Bagration's fleches were, but where Pierre was the smoke of the firing made it almost impossible to distinguish anything.
Pierre noticed that after every ball that hit the redoubt, and after every loss, the liveliness increased more and more.
Pierre did not look out at the battlefield and was not concerned to know what was happening there; he was entirely absorbed in watching this fire which burned ever more brightly and which he felt was flaming up in the same way in his own soul.
Pierre looked over the wall of the trench and was particularly struck by a pale young officer who, letting his sword hang down, was walking backwards and kept glancing uneasily around.
The stormcloud had come upon them, and in every face the fire which Pierre had watched kindle burned up brightly.
Pierre standing beside the commanding officer.
Pierre, who had not noticed these sounds before, now heard nothing else.
Pierre ran after him, avoiding the spot where the young officer was sitting.
Pierre ran down the slope.
Beside himself with terror Pierre jumped up and ran back to the battery, as to the only refuge from the horrors that surrounded him.
The officer, dropping his sword, seized Pierre by his collar.
Pierre too bent his head and let his hands fall.
Crowds of wounded- -some known to Pierre and some unknown--Russians and French, with faces distorted by suffering, walked, crawled, and were carried on stretchers from the battery.
Pierre again went up onto the knoll where he had spent over an hour, and of that family circle which had received him as a member he did not find a single one.
Pierre ran down the slope once more.
On the rug-covered bench where Pierre had seen him in the morning sat Kutuzov, his gray head hanging, his heavy body relaxed.
"Oh, he loves me so!" said Helene, who for some reason imagined that Pierre too loved her.
Toward the end of the battle of Borodino, Pierre, having run down from Raevski's battery a second time, made his way through a gully to Knyazkovo with a crowd of soldiers, reached the dressing station, and seeing blood and hearing cries and groans hurried on, still entangled in the crowds of soldiers.
Having gone a couple of miles along the Mozhaysk road, Pierre sat down by the roadside.
Pierre lay leaning on his elbow for a long time, gazing at the shadows that moved past him in the darkness.
Pierre sat up and sighed.
"And who may you be?" one of them suddenly asked Pierre, evidently meaning what Pierre himself had in mind, namely: "If you want to eat we'll give you some food, only let us know whether you are an honest man."
"I, I..." said Pierre, feeling it necessary to minimize his social position as much as possible so as to be nearer to the soldiers and better understood by them.
"Would you like a little mash?" the first soldier asked, and handed Pierre a wooden spoon after licking it clean.
Pierre sat down by the fire and began eating the mash, as they called the food in the cauldron, and he thought it more delicious than any food he had ever tasted.
In the total darkness the soldiers walked with Pierre to Mozhaysk.
Pierre went on with the soldiers, quite forgetting that his inn was at the bottom of the hill and that he had already passed it.
The groom recognized Pierre in the darkness by his white hat.
Pierre heard the other voices repeat.
Pierre went out into the yard and, covering himself up head and all, lay down in his carriage.
Scarcely had Pierre laid his head on the pillow before he felt himself falling asleep, but suddenly, almost with the distinctness of reality, he heard the boom, boom, boom of firing, the thud of projectiles, groans and cries, and smelled blood and powder, and a feeling of horror and dread of death seized him.
The whole courtyard was permeated by a strong peaceful smell of stable yards, delightful to Pierre at that moment.
"To be a soldier, just a soldier!" thought Pierre as he fell asleep, "to enter communal life completely, to be imbued by what makes them what they are.
Pierre did not understand what his benefactor was saying, but he knew (the categories of thoughts were also quite distinct in his dream) that he was talking of goodness and the possibility of being what they were.
But though they were kindly they did not look at Pierre and did not know him.
For a moment as he was rearranging his cloak Pierre opened his eyes and saw the same penthouse roofs, posts, and yard, but now they were all bluish, lit up, and glittering with frost or dew.
Afterwards when he recalled those thoughts Pierre was convinced that someone outside himself had spoken them, though the impressions of that day had evoked them.
The hardest thing (Pierre went on thinking, or hearing, in his dream) is to be able in your soul to unite the meaning of all.
Pierre turned away with repugnance, and closing his eyes quickly fell back on the carriage seat.
The groom, the coachman, and the innkeeper told Pierre that an officer had come with news that the French were already near Mozhaysk and that our men were leaving it.
Pierre got up and, having told them to harness and overtake him, went on foot through the town.
Pierre offered the use of his carriage, which had overtaken him, to a wounded general he knew, and drove with him to Moscow.
On the way Pierre was told of the death of his brother-in-law Anatole and of that of Prince Andrew.
On the thirteenth of August Pierre reached Moscow.
Without going home, Pierre took a cab and drove to see the Moscow commander-in-chief.
As Pierre was entering the reception room a courier from the army came out of Rostopchin's private room.
While waiting in the reception room Pierre with weary eyes watched the various officials, old and young, military and civilian, who were there.
Pierre went up to a group of men, one of whom he knew.
After greeting Pierre they continued their conversation.
Pierre took it and began reading.
"But military men have told me that it is impossible to fight in the town," said Pierre, "and that the position..."
By the by, Count," he added suddenly, addressing Pierre with a smile, "we heard that you have family troubles and that the countess, your wife..."
"I have heard nothing," Pierre replied unconcernedly.
"Possibly," remarked Pierre, looking about him absent-mindedly.
"Oh, so that is Vereshchagin!" said Pierre, looking at the firm, calm face of the old man and seeking any indication of his being a traitor.
In the middle of this fresh tale Pierre was summoned to the commander in chief.
A short man was saying something, but when Pierre entered he stopped speaking and went out.
"Yes, I am a Mason," Pierre replied.
"If he is accused of circulating Napoleon's proclamation it is not proved that he did so," said Pierre without looking at Rostopchin, "and Vereshchagin..."
Rostopchin shouted at Pierre louder than before, frowning suddenly.
"Why, nothing," answered Pierre without raising his eyes or changing the thoughtful expression of his face.
Oh, by the by!" he shouted through the doorway after Pierre, "is it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy fathers of the Society of Jesus?"
Pierre did not answer and left Rostopchin's room more sullen and angry than he had ever before shown himself.
They all had business with Pierre and wanted decisions from him.
Pierre did not understand and was not interested in any of these questions and only answered them in order to get rid of these people.
A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the drawing room.
Pierre dressed hurriedly and, instead of going to see them, went to the back porch and out through the gate.
From that time till the end of the destruction of Moscow no one of Bezukhov's household, despite all the search they made, saw Pierre again or knew where he was.
In fact, however, though now much farther off than before, the Rostovs all saw Pierre--or someone extraordinarily like him--in a coachman's coat, going down the street with head bent and a serious face beside a small, beardless old man who looked like a footman.
Pierre, evidently engrossed in thought, could not at first understand him.
Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it awkwardly as he walked along beside her while the coach still moved on.
Pierre glanced absently at Natasha and was about to say something, but the countess interrupted him.
"Yes, I was," Pierre answered.
His major-domo came in a second time to say that the Frenchman who had brought the letter from the countess was very anxious to see him if only for a minute, and that someone from Bazdeev's widow had called to ask Pierre to take charge of her husband's books, as she herself was leaving for the country.
No, of course... go and say I will come directly, Pierre replied to the major-domo.
But as soon as the man had left the room Pierre took up his hat which was lying on the table and went out of his study by the other door.
From the landing where Pierre stood there was a second staircase leading to the back entrance.
But there were some carriages waiting, and as soon as Pierre stepped out of the gate the coachmen and the yard porter noticed him and raised their caps to him.
Of all the affairs awaiting Pierre that day the sorting of Joseph Bazdeev's books and papers appeared to him the most necessary.
Gerasim, that sallow beardless old man Pierre had seen at Torzhok five years before with Joseph Bazdeev, came out in answer to his knock.
Pierre knew that Makar Alexeevich was Joseph Bazdeev's half-insane brother and a hard drinker.
Let us go in... said Pierre and entered the house.
On seeing Pierre he muttered something angrily and went away along the passage.
Pierre went into that gloomy study which he had entered with such trepidation in his benefactor's lifetime.
Gerasim looked cautiously into the study several times and saw Pierre always sitting in the same attitude.
More than two hours passed and Gerasim took the liberty of making a slight noise at the door to attract his attention, but Pierre did not hear him.
"Oh yes!" said Pierre, rousing himself and rising hurriedly.
I want peasant clothes and a pistol, said Pierre, unexpectedly blushing.
All the rest of that day Pierre spent alone in his benefactor's study, and Gerasim heard him pacing restlessly from one corner to another and talking to himself.
That same evening-- without even asking himself what they were wanted for--he procured a coachman's coat and cap for Pierre, and promised to get him the pistol next day.
But as soon as Pierre turned toward him he wrapped his dressing gown around him with a shamefaced and angry look and hurried away.
It was when Pierre (wearing the coachman's coat which Gerasim had procured for him and had disinfected by steam) was on his way with the old man to buy the pistol at the Sukharev market that he met the Rostovs.
The absorption of the French by Moscow, radiating starwise as it did, only reached the quarter where Pierre was staying by the evening of the second of September.
After the last two days spent in solitude and unusual circumstances, Pierre was in a state bordering on insanity.
When, having bought the coat merely with the object of taking part among the people in the defense of Moscow, Pierre had met the Rostovs and Natasha had said to him: Are you remaining in Moscow?...
Next day, with the sole idea of not sparing himself and not lagging in any way behind them, Pierre went to the Three Hills gate.
Two equally strong feelings drew Pierre irresistibly to this purpose.
Pierre had first experienced this strange and fascinating feeling at the Sloboda Palace, when he had suddenly felt that wealth, power, and life--all that men so painstakingly acquire and guard--if it has any worth has so only by reason of the joy with which it can all be renounced.
Moreover, at this moment Pierre was supported in his design and prevented from renouncing it by what he had already done in that direction.
If he were now to leave Moscow like everyone else, his flight from home, the peasant coat, the pistol, and his announcement to the Rostovs that he would remain in Moscow would all become not merely meaningless but contemptible and ridiculous, and to this Pierre was very sensitive.
Pierre knew this, but instead of acting he only thought about his undertaking, going over its minutest details in his mind.
While Pierre, standing in the middle of the room, was talking to himself in this way, the study door opened and on the threshold appeared the figure of Makar Alexeevich, always so timid before but now quite transformed.
On seeing Pierre he grew confused at first, but noticing embarrassment on Pierre's face immediately grew bold and, staggering on his thin legs, advanced into the middle of the room.
Pierre, coming out into the corridor, looked with pity and repulsion at the half-crazy old man.
But the French entered and still Pierre did not retire--an irresistible curiosity kept him there.
Pierre moved away from the door.
Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before Gerasim's nose, intimating that he did not understand him either, and moved, limping, to the door at which Pierre was standing.
Hearing the yell the officer turned round, and at the same moment Pierre threw himself on the drunkard.
Just when Pierre snatched at and struck up the pistol Makar Alexeevich at last got his fingers on the trigger, there was a deafening report, and all were enveloped in a cloud of smoke.
Pierre continued, in French, to persuade the officer not to hold that drunken imbecile to account.
The Frenchman listened in silence with the same gloomy expression, but suddenly turned to Pierre with a smile.
But however indubitable that conclusion and the officer's conviction based upon it, Pierre felt it necessary to disillusion him.
Well, and what are we to do with this man? he added, addressing himself to Pierre as to a brother.
Even if Pierre were not a Frenchman, having once received that loftiest of human appellations he could not renounce it, said the officer's look and tone.
In reply to his last question Pierre again explained who Makar Alexeevich was and how just before their arrival that drunken imbecile had seized the loaded pistol which they had not had time to recover from him, and begged the officer to let the deed go unpunished.
Lead that man away! said he quickly and energetically, and taking the arm of Pierre whom he had promoted to be a Frenchman for saving his life, he went with him into the room.
When the French officer went into the room with Pierre the latter again thought it his duty to assure him that he was not French and wished to go away, but the officer would not hear of it.
He was so very polite, amiable, good-natured, and genuinely grateful to Pierre for saving his life that Pierre had not the heart to refuse, and sat down with him in the parlor--the first room they entered.
There was so much good nature and nobility (in the French sense of the word) in the officer's voice, in the expression of his face and in his gestures, that Pierre, unconsciously smiling in response to the Frenchman's smile, pressed the hand held out to him.
Pierre bent his head.
Monsieur Pierre, you say....
Pierre was hungry and shared the dinner with pleasure.
Yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a fine votive candle for saving me from that maniac....
Terrible in battle... gallant... with the fair" (he winked and smiled), "that's what the French are, Monsieur Pierre, aren't they?"
The captain was so naively and good-humoredly gay, so real, and so pleased with himself that Pierre almost winked back as he looked merrily at him.
The Frenchman emitted a merry, sanguine chuckle, patting Pierre on the shoulder.
"Paris--the capital of the world," Pierre finished his remark for him.
And then the Emperor... he began, but Pierre interrupted him.
"The Emperor," Pierre repeated, and his face suddenly became sad and embarrassed, "is the Emperor...?"
Pierre stammered with a guilty look.
Pierre, who knew German, translated what the German said to the captain and gave the captain's reply to the Wurttemberg hussar in German.
When he returned to the room Pierre was sitting in the same place as before, with his head in his hands.
Painful as that was it was not that which tormented Pierre at the moment.
Pierre still considered that it would be a useful and worthy action to slay the evildoer, but now he felt that he would not do it.
The Frenchman's chatter which had previously amused Pierre now repelled him.
Pierre looked at him in silence.
"Onterkoff," said the captain and looked at Pierre for some seconds with laughing eyes.
The captain looked at Pierre by the candlelight and was evidently struck by the troubled expression on his companion's face.
Ramballe, with genuine distress and sympathy in his face, went up to Pierre and bent over him.
Pierre did not answer, but looked cordially into the Frenchman's eyes whose expression of sympathy was pleasing to him.
Pierre took one of the glasses and emptied it.
And with a Frenchman's easy and naive frankness the captain told Pierre the story of his ancestors, his childhood, youth, and manhood, and all about his relations and his financial and family affairs, "ma pauvre mere" playing of course an important part in the story.
Pierre again emptied his glass and poured himself out a third.
"Oh, women, women!" and the captain, looking with glistening eyes at Pierre, began talking of love and of his love affairs.
It was plain that l'amour which the Frenchman was so fond of was not that low and simple kind that Pierre had once felt for his wife, nor was it the romantic love stimulated by himself that he experienced for Natasha.
Listening to the story of the struggle between love and duty, Pierre saw before his eyes every minutest detail of his last meeting with the object of his love at the Sukharev water tower.
Challenged by this question Pierre raised his head and felt a need to express the thoughts that filled his mind.
When he had reached this point, Pierre asked the captain whether he understood that.
The captain made a gesture signifying that even if he did not understand it he begged Pierre to continue.
More than anything else in Pierre's story the captain was impressed by the fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mansions in Moscow, and that he had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there concealing his name and station.
Gazing at the high starry sky, at the moon, at the comet, and at the glow from the fire, Pierre experienced a joyful emotion.
Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate with unsteady steps and returning to his room lay down on the sofa and immediately fell asleep.
On the third of September Pierre awoke late.
Pierre rose, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the pistol with an engraved stock which Gerasim had replaced on the writing table, he remembered where he was and what lay before him that very day.
Having tied a girdle over his coat and pulled his cap low on his head, Pierre went down the corridor, trying to avoid making a noise or meeting the captain, and passed out into the street.
Both the Russians and the French looked at Pierre with surprise.
Besides his height and stoutness, and the strange morose look of suffering in his face and whole figure, the Russians stared at Pierre because they could not make out to what class he could belong.
The French followed him with astonishment in their eyes chiefly because Pierre, unlike all the other Russians who gazed at the French with fear and curiosity, paid no attention to them.
At the gate of one house three Frenchmen, who were explaining something to some Russians who did not understand them, stopped Pierre asking if he did not know French.
Pierre shook his head and went on.
In another side street a sentinel standing beside a green caisson shouted at him, but only when the shout was threateningly repeated and he heard the click of the man's musket as he raised it did Pierre understand that he had to pass on the other side of the street.
As Pierre approached that street the smoke became denser and denser--he even felt the heat of the fire.
But Pierre, though he felt that something unusual was happening around him, did not realize that he was approaching the fire.
As he was going along a foot path across a wide- open space adjoining the Povarskoy on one side and the gardens of Prince Gruzinski's house on the other, Pierre suddenly heard the desperate weeping of a woman close to him.
As soon as she saw Pierre, the woman almost threw herself at his feet.
I'll do it, gasped Pierre rapidly.
Pierre felt as if he had come back to life after a heavy swoon.
Pierre, accompanied by the maid, was advancing to the spot where the general stood, but the French soldiers stopped him.
Pierre turned back, giving a spring now and then to keep up with her.
As Pierre passed through the fence gate, he was enveloped by hot air and involuntarily stopped.
Get along! said several voices, and one of the soldiers, evidently afraid that Pierre might want to take from them some of the plate and bronzes that were in the drawer, moved threateningly toward him.
And a minute or two later the Frenchman, a black-eyed fellow with a spot on his cheek, in shirt sleeves, really did jump out of a window on the ground floor, and clapping Pierre on the shoulder ran with him into the garden.
Pierre, however, seized her and lifted her in his arms.
Pierre was seized by a sense of horror and repulsion such as he had experienced when touching some nasty little animal.
It was now, however, impossible to get back the way he had come; the maid, Aniska, was no longer there, and Pierre with a feeling of pity and disgust pressed the wet, painfully sobbing child to himself as tenderly as he could and ran with her through the garden seeking another way out.
Having run through different yards and side streets, Pierre got back with his little burden to the Gruzinski garden at the corner of the Povarskoy.
Pierre took no notice of them.
Pierre felt that he had still much to do and to do quickly.
That very young woman seemed to Pierre the perfection of Oriental beauty, with her sharply outlined, arched, black eyebrows and the extraordinarily soft, bright color of her long, beautiful, expressionless face.
Her face struck Pierre and, hurrying along by the fence, he turned several times to look at her.
But Pierre was not listening to the woman.
The other, whose appearance particularly struck Pierre, was a long, lank, round-shouldered, fair-haired man, slow in his movements and with an idiotic expression of face.
While Pierre was running the few steps that separated him from the Frenchman, the tall marauder in the frieze gown was already tearing from her neck the necklace the young Armenian was wearing, and the young woman, clutching at her neck, screamed piercingly.
"Let that woman alone!" exclaimed Pierre hoarsely in a furious voice, seizing the soldier by his round shoulders and throwing him aside.
Pierre was in such a transport of rage that he remembered nothing and his strength increased tenfold.
The uhlans came up at a trot to Pierre and the Frenchman and surrounded them.
Pierre remembered nothing of what happened after that.
"Lieutenant, he has a dagger," were the first words Pierre understood.
Pierre looked around him with bloodshot eyes and did not reply.
A little man in Russian civilian clothes rode out from the ranks, and by his clothes and manner of speaking Pierre at once knew him to be a French salesman from one of the Moscow shops.
Pierre suddenly replied in French.
Pierre was as if intoxicated.
But of all these various suspected characters, Pierre was considered to be the most suspicious of all.
If they noticed anything remarkable about Pierre, it was only his unabashed, meditative concentration and thoughtfulness, and the way he spoke French, which struck them as surprisingly good.
All the Russians confined with Pierre were men of the lowest class and, recognizing him as a gentleman, they all avoided him, more especially as he spoke French.
Pierre felt sad at hearing them making fun of him.
As soon as Pierre began to say anything that did not fit in with that aim, the channel was removed and the water could flow to waste.
When asked what he was doing when he was arrested, Pierre replied in a rather tragic manner that he was restoring to its parents a child he had saved from the flames.
Pierre answered that he "was protecting a woman," and that "to protect a woman who was being insulted was the duty of every man; that..."
Pierre and thirteen others were moved to the coach house of a merchant's house near the Crimean bridge.
On his way through the streets Pierre felt stifled by the smoke which seemed to hang over the whole city.
What marshal this was, Pierre could not learn from the soldiers.
This officer, probably someone on the staff, was holding a paper in his hand, and called over all the Russians there, naming Pierre as "the man who does not give his name."
An hour later a squad of soldiers arrived and Pierre with thirteen others was led to the Virgin's Field.
No flames were seen, but columns of smoke rose on all sides, and all Moscow as far as Pierre could see was one vast charred ruin.
Pierre gazed at the ruins and did not recognize districts he had known well.
These bells reminded Pierre that it was Sunday and the feast of the Nativity of the Virgin.
Pierre felt himself to be an insignificant chip fallen among the wheels of a machine whose action he did not understand but which was working well.
Pierre was the sixth to enter.
Pierre went close up to him, but Davout, evidently consulting a paper that lay before him, did not look up.
Pierre was silent because he was incapable of uttering a word.
Looking at his cold face, as he sat like a stern schoolmaster who was prepared to wait awhile for an answer, Pierre felt that every instant of delay might cost him his life; but he did not know what to say.
"He is a Russian spy," Davout interrupted, addressing another general who was present, but whom Pierre had not noticed.
With an unexpected reverberation in his voice Pierre rapidly began:
"Monseigneur!" exclaimed Pierre, not in an offended but in a pleading voice.
Pierre remembered Ramballe, and named him and his regiment and the street where the house was.
But where they were to take him Pierre did not know: back to the coach house or to the place of execution his companions had pointed out to him as they crossed the Virgin's Field.
"Yes, of course!" replied Davout, but what this "yes" meant, Pierre did not know.
Pierre could not afterwards remember how he went, whether it was far, or in which direction.
Then who was executing him, killing him, depriving him of life--him, Pierre, with all his memories, aspirations, hopes, and thoughts?
And Pierre felt that it was no one.
A system of some sort was killing him--Pierre--depriving him of life, of everything, annihilating him.
The prisoners were placed in a certain order, according to the list (Pierre was sixth), and were led to the post.
Pierre looked round at his fellow prisoners and scrutinized them.
Pierre heard the French consulting whether to shoot them separately or two at a time.
Pierre turned away to avoid seeing what was going to happen.
Pierre, breathing heavily, looked around as if asking what it meant.
The fifth prisoner, the one next to Pierre, was led away--alone.
(Pierre shuddered and shook himself free.)
Pierre was no longer able to turn away and close his eyes.
Pierre did not take his eyes from him and did not miss his slightest movement.
Probably a word of command was given and was followed by the reports of eight muskets; but try as he would Pierre could not afterwards remember having heard the slightest sound of the shots.
Pierre ran up to the post.
Pierre glanced into the pit and saw that the factory lad was lying with his knees close up to his head and one shoulder higher than the other.
One of the soldiers, evidently suffering, shouted gruffly and angrily at Pierre to go back.
But Pierre did not understand him and remained near the post, and no one drove him away.
Pierre was taken back to his place, and the rows of troops on both sides of the post made a half turn and went past it at a measured pace.
Pierre gazed now with dazed eyes at these sharpshooters who ran in couples out of the circle.
After the execution Pierre was separated from the rest of the prisoners and placed alone in a small, ruined, and befouled church.
Without understanding what was said to him, Pierre got up and went with the soldiers.
Sitting silent and motionless on a heap of straw against the wall, Pierre sometimes opened and sometimes closed his eyes.
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 Pierre's interest.
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 tones:
Pierre heard the same kind voice saying at the other end of the shed.
Pierre had not eaten all day and the smell of the potatoes seemed extremely pleasant to him.
Pierre thought he had never eaten anything that tasted better.
Pierre asked as he munched the last of the potato.
My name is Platon, and the surname is Karataev, he added, evidently wishing to make it easier for Pierre to address him.
He seemed grieved that Pierre had no parents, especially that he had no mother.
"But it's all the same now," Pierre could not help saying.
When Pierre saw his neighbor next morning at dawn the first impression of him, as of something round, was fully confirmed: Platon's whole figure--in a French overcoat girdled with a cord, a soldier's cap, and bast shoes--was round.
He liked to talk and he talked well, adorning his speech with terms of endearment and with folk sayings which Pierre thought he invented himself, but the chief charm of his talk lay in the fact that the commonest events--sometimes just such as Pierre had witnessed without taking notice of them--assumed in Karataev's a character of solemn fitness.
Karataev had no attachments, friendships, or love, as Pierre understood them, but loved and lived affectionately with everything life brought him in contact with, particularly with man--not any particular man, but those with whom he happened to be.
He loved his dog, his comrades, the French, and Pierre who was his neighbor, but Pierre felt that in spite of Karataev's affectionate tenderness for him (by which he unconsciously gave Pierre's spiritual life its due) he would not have grieved for a moment at parting from him.
And Pierre began to feel in the same way toward Karataev.
Sometimes Pierre, struck by the meaning of his words, would ask him to repeat them, but Platon could never recall what he had said a moment before, just as he never could repeat to Pierre the words of his favorite song: native and birch tree and my heart is sick occurred in it, but when spoken and not sung, no meaning could be got out of it.
Early in the morning of the sixth of October Pierre went out of the shed, and on returning stopped by the door to play with a little blue- gray dog, with a long body and short bandy legs, that jumped about him.
Pierre first looked down the field across which vehicles and horsemen were passing that morning, then into the distance across the river, then at the dog who was pretending to be in earnest about biting him, and then at his bare feet which he placed with pleasure in various positions, moving his dirty thick big toes.
A French corporal, with coat unbuttoned in a homely way, a skullcap on his head, and a short pipe in his mouth, came from behind a corner of the shed and approached Pierre with a friendly wink.
And the corporal leaned against the door and offered Pierre his pipe, though whenever he offered it Pierre always declined it.
Sokolov, one of the soldiers in the shed with Pierre, was dying, and Pierre told the corporal that something should be done about him.
(The captain of whom the corporal spoke often had long chats with Pierre and showed him all sorts of favors.)
(The affair he had alluded to had happened a few days before--a fight between the prisoners and the French soldiers, in which Pierre had succeeded in pacifying his comrades.)
Some of the prisoners who had heard Pierre talking to the corporal immediately asked what the Frenchman had said.
Rapidly and timidly raising his fingers to his forehead by way of greeting, he asked Pierre whether the soldier Platoche to whom he had given a shirt to sew was in that shed.
Pierre saw that Platon did not want to understand what the Frenchman was saying, and he looked on without interfering.
The Frenchman insisted on having the pieces returned that were left over and asked Pierre to translate what he said.
The Frenchman looked at the linen, considered for a moment, then looked inquiringly at Pierre and, as if Pierre's look had told him something, suddenly blushed and shouted in a squeaky voice:
But Pierre believed it without any mental reservation.
The absence of suffering, the satisfaction of one's needs and consequent freedom in the choice of one's occupation, that is, of one's way of life, now seemed to Pierre to be indubitably man's highest happiness.
And Pierre felt that their opinion placed responsibilities upon him.
Pierre, girt with a rope round his waist and wearing shoes Karataev had made for him from some leather a French soldier had torn off a tea chest and brought to have his boots mended with, went up to the sick man and squatted down beside him.
"I'll go and ask them again directly," said Pierre, rising and going to the door of the shed.
Just as Pierre reached the door, the corporal who had offered him a pipe the day before came up to it with two soldiers.
Moreover, just as Pierre was speaking a sharp rattle of drums was suddenly heard from both sides.
It again!... said Pierre to himself, and an involuntary shudder ran down his spine.
Pierre knew this now.
When that door was opened and the prisoners, crowding against one another like a flock of sheep, squeezed into the exit, Pierre pushed his way forward and approached that very captain who as the corporal had assured him was ready to do anything for him.
The captain was also in marching kit, and on his cold face appeared that same it which Pierre had recognized in the corporal's words and in the roll of the drums.
Pierre went up to him, though he knew his attempt would be vain.
Pierre told him about the sick man.
"But he is dying," Pierre again began.
"Dram-da-da-dam, dam-dam..." rattled the drums, and Pierre understood that this mysterious force completely controlled these men and that it was now useless to say any more.
There were about thirty officers, with Pierre among them, and about three hundred men.
The officers, who had come from the other sheds, were all strangers to Pierre and much better dressed than he.
Pierre too drew near the church where the thing was that evoked these exclamations, and dimly made out something leaning against the palings surrounding the church.
Pierre stood pressed against the wall of a charred house, listening to that noise which mingled in his imagination with the roll of the drums.
To get a better view, several officer prisoners climbed onto the wall of the half-burned house against which Pierre was leaning.
Again, as at the church in Khamovniki, a wave of general curiosity bore all the prisoners forward onto the road, and Pierre, thanks to his stature, saw over the heads of the others what so attracted their curiosity.
From the moment Pierre had recognized the appearance of the mysterious force nothing had seemed to him strange or dreadful: neither the corpse smeared with soot for fun nor these women hurrying away nor the burned ruins of Moscow.
Pierre did not see the people as individuals but saw their movement.
During the hour Pierre watched them they all came flowing from the different streets with one and the same desire to get on quickly; they all jostled one another, began to grow angry and to fight, white teeth gleamed, brows frowned, ever the same words of abuse flew from side to side, and all the faces bore the same swaggeringly resolute and coldly cruel expression that had struck Pierre that morning on the corporal's face when the drums were beating.
Several soldiers ran toward the cart from different sides: some beat the carriage horses on their heads, turning them aside, others fought among themselves, and Pierre saw that one German was badly wounded on the head by a sword.
Pierre felt that that fatal force which had crushed him during the executions, but which he had not felt during his imprisonment, now again controlled his existence.
Pierre turned back, not to his companions by the campfire, but to an unharnessed cart where there was nobody.
Pierre stopped laughing, got up, went farther away from the inquisitive man, and looked around him.
Pierre glanced up at the sky and the twinkling stars in its faraway depths.
Among the Russian prisoners rescued by Denisov and Dolokhov was Pierre Bezukhov.
All who could walk went together, and after the third stage Pierre had rejoined Karataev and the gray-blue bandy-legged dog that had chosen Karataev for its master.
On the third day after leaving Moscow Karataev again fell ill with the fever he had suffered from in the hospital in Moscow, and as he grew gradually weaker Pierre kept away from him.
Pierre did not know why, but since Karataev had begun to grow weaker it had cost him an effort to go near him.
When he did so and heard the subdued moaning with which Karataev generally lay down at the halting places, and when he smelled the odor emanating from him which was now stronger than before, Pierre moved farther away and did not think about him.
While imprisoned in the shed Pierre had learned not with his intellect but with his whole being, by life itself, that man is created for happiness, that happiness is within him, in the satisfaction of simple human needs, and that all unhappiness arises not from privation but from superfluity.
After the second day's march Pierre, having examined his feet by the campfire, thought it would be impossible to walk on them; but when everybody got up he went along, limping, and, when he had warmed up, walked without feeling the pain, though at night his feet were more terrible to look at than before.
Still less did Pierre think about himself.
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.
Pierre walked along, looking from side to side, counting his steps in threes, and reckoning them off on his fingers.
At their yesterday's halting place, feeling chilly by a dying campfire, Pierre had got up and gone to the next one, which was burning better.
There Platon Karataev was sitting covered up--head and all--with his greatcoat as if it were a vestment, telling the soldiers in his effective and pleasant though now feeble voice a story Pierre knew.
When Pierre reached the fire and heard Platon's voice enfeebled by illness, and saw his pathetic face brightly lit up by the blaze, he felt a painful prick at his heart.
His feeling of pity for this man frightened him and he wished to go away, but there was no other fire, and Pierre sat down, trying not to look at Platon.
Pierre had long been familiar with that story.
But well as he knew it, Pierre now listened to that tale as to something new, and the quiet rapture Karataev evidently felt as he told it communicated itself also to Pierre.
"And so, brother" (it was at this point that Pierre came up), "ten years or more passed by.
Pierre caught a glimpse of a man in a three-cornered hat with a tranquil look on his handsome, plump, white face.
Pierre heard them ask.
Karataev looked at Pierre with his kindly round eyes now filled with tears, evidently wishing him to come near that he might say something to him.
But Pierre was not sufficiently sure of himself.
When the prisoners again went forward Pierre looked round.
Pierre did not look round again but went limping up the hill.
Two French soldiers ran past Pierre, one of whom carried a lowered and smoking gun.
They both looked pale, and in the expression on their faces--one of them glanced timidly at Pierre-- there was something resembling what he had seen on the face of the young soldier at the execution.
Pierre looked at the soldier and remembered that, two days before, that man had burned his shirt while drying it at the fire and how they had laughed at him.
Pierre went up to the fire, ate some roast horseflesh, lay down with his back to the fire, and immediately fell asleep.
"Wait a bit," said the old man, and showed Pierre a globe.
"Do you understand, damn you?" shouted a voice, and Pierre woke up.
And twisting the ramrod he looked gloomily at Pierre, who turned away and gazed into the darkness.
Looking more closely Pierre recognized the blue-gray dog, sitting beside the soldier, wagging its tail.
And without linking up the events of the day or drawing a conclusion from them, Pierre closed his eyes, seeing a vision of the country in summertime mingled with memories of bathing and of the liquid, vibrating globe, and he sank into water so that it closed over his head.
Pierre sobbed as he sat among them and could not utter a word.
As generally happens, Pierre did not feel the full effects of the physical privation and strain he had suffered as prisoner until after they were over.
That same day he had learned that Prince Andrew, after surviving the battle of Borodino for more than a month had recently died in the Rostovs' house at Yaroslavl, and Denisov who told him this news also mentioned Helene's death, supposing that Pierre had heard of it long before.
All this at the time seemed merely strange to Pierre: he felt he could not grasp its significance.
In external ways Pierre had hardly changed at all.
Pierre did not in any way seek her approval, he merely studied her with interest.
And Pierre, noticing that Terenty wanted a chat, generally kept him there.
The doctor who attended Pierre and visited him every day, though he considered it his duty as a doctor to pose as a man whose every moment was of value to suffering humanity, would sit for hours with Pierre telling him his favorite anecdotes and his observations on the characters of his patients in general, and especially of the ladies.
Pierre had evoked the passionate affection of the Italian merely by evoking the best side of his nature and taking a pleasure in so doing.
But to his surprise Willarski soon noticed that Pierre had lagged much behind the times, and had sunk, as he expressed it to himself, into apathy and egotism.
And Pierre, without trying to change the other's views and without condemning him, but with the quiet, joyful, and amused smile now habitual to him, was interested in this strange though very familiar phenomenon.
In practical matters Pierre unexpectedly felt within himself a center of gravity he had previously lacked.
The first time he had recourse to his new judge was when a French prisoner, a colonel, came to him and, after talking a great deal about his exploits, concluded by making what amounted to a demand that Pierre should give him four thousand francs to send to his wife and children.
"Yes, of course that's true," said Pierre with a cheerful smile.
And Pierre decided that the steward's proposals which had so pleased him were wrong and that he must go to Petersburg and settle his wife's affairs and must rebuild in Moscow.
Everyone was pleased to see Pierre, everyone wished to meet him, and everyone questioned him about what he had seen.
Pierre felt particularly well disposed toward them all, but was now instinctively on his guard for fear of binding himself in any way.
Pierre drove up to the house of the old prince in a most serious mood.
A few minutes later the footman returned with Dessalles, who brought word from the princess that she would be very glad to see Pierre if he would excuse her want of ceremony and come upstairs to her apartment.
Pierre remembered that the princess always had lady companions, but who they were and what they were like he never knew or remembered.
He spoke of you even at the very last, she went on, turning her eyes from Pierre to her companion with a shyness that surprised him for an instant.
Again the princess glanced round at her companion with even more uneasiness in her manner and was about to add something, but Pierre interrupted her.
Pierre spoke rapidly and with animation.
Pierre looked again at the companion's pale, delicate face with its black eyes and peculiar mouth, and something near to him, long forgotten and more than sweet, looked at him from those attentive eyes.
Pierre had failed to notice Natasha because he did not at all expect to see her there, but he had failed to recognize her because the change in her since he last saw her was immense.
"Yes, is there a family free from sorrow now?" said Pierre, addressing Natasha.
"Yes, yes, that is really true," Pierre hastily interrupted her.
"And because," Pierre continued, "only one who believes that there is a God ruling us can bear a loss such as hers and... yours."
Pierre hurriedly turned away from her and again addressed Princess Mary, asking about his friend's last days.
Pierre kept saying as he leaned toward her with his whole body and eagerly listened to her story.
Pierre listened to her with lips parted and eyes fixed upon her full of tears.
Pierre gazed at the door through which she had disappeared and did not understand why he suddenly felt all alone in the world.
At that moment of emotional tenderness young Nicholas' face, which resembled his father's, affected Pierre so much that when he had kissed the boy he got up quickly, took out his handkerchief, and went to the window.
Before Pierre left the room Princess Mary told him: "This is the first time she has talked of him like that."
Pierre was shown into the large, brightly lit dining room; a few minutes later he heard footsteps and Princess Mary entered with Natasha.
Pierre unfolded his cold table napkin and, resolving to break the silence, looked at Natasha and at Princess Mary.
"Yes," replied Pierre with the smile of mild irony now habitual to him.
Pierre suddenly flushed crimson and for a long time tried not to look at Natasha.
Supper was over, and Pierre who at first declined to speak about his captivity was gradually led on to do so.
Pierre admitted that it was true, and from that was gradually led by Princess Mary's questions and especially by Natasha's into giving a detailed account of his adventures.
Princess Mary with a gentle smile looked now at Pierre and now at Natasha.
Pierre began to tell about Karataev, but paused.
And Pierre, his voice trembling continually, went on to tell of the last days of their retreat, of Karataev's illness and his death.
She saw the possibility of love and happiness between Natasha and Pierre, and the first thought of this filled her heart with gladness.
Pierre finished his story.
Pierre in shamefaced and happy confusion glanced occasionally at her, and tried to think what to say next to introduce a fresh subject.
"People speak of misfortunes and sufferings," remarked Pierre, "but if at this moment I were asked: 'Would you rather be what you were before you were taken prisoner, or go through all this again?' then for heaven's sake let me again have captivity and horseflesh!
Pierre looked intently at her.
She smiled at Pierre through her tears.
Pierre rose and took his leave.
They talked of what Pierre had told them.
Princess Mary did not express her opinion of Pierre nor did Natasha speak of him.
It was a long time before Pierre could fall asleep that night.
A few days previously Pierre had decided to go to Petersburg on the Friday.
On the same day the Chief of Police came to Pierre, inviting him to send a representative to the Faceted Palace to recover things that were to be returned to their owners that day.
"And this man too," thought Pierre, looking into the face of the Chief of Police.
Pierre went to Princess Mary's to dinner.
Pierre dined with them and would have spent the whole evening there, but Princess Mary was going to vespers and Pierre left the house with her.
Pierre noticed this but could not go.
"No, I am not going," Pierre replied hastily, in a surprised tone and as though offended.
She was going to say that to speak of love was impossible, but she stopped because she had seen by the sudden change in Natasha two days before that she would not only not be hurt if Pierre spoke of his love, but that it was the very thing she wished for.
Pierre was looking into Princess Mary's eyes.
Before her words were out, Pierre had sprung up and with a frightened expression seized Princess Mary's hand.
Pierre kept saying as he kissed Princess Mary's hands.
Next day Pierre came to say good-by.
How happy I am! said Pierre to himself.
She spoke little of Pierre, but when Princess Mary mentioned him a long-extinguished light once more kindled in her eyes and her lips curved with a strange smile.
When Princess Mary returned to her room after her nocturnal talk with Pierre, Natasha met her on the threshold.
And with a sad and rather stern look she told Natasha all that Pierre had said.
When Pierre and his wife had left, he grew very quiet and began to complain of depression.
Natasha and Pierre were living in Petersburg at the time and had no clear idea of Nicholas' circumstances.
Within four years he had paid off all his remaining debts without selling any of his wife's property, and having received a small inheritance on the death of a cousin he paid his debt to Pierre as well.
Pierre had gone to Petersburg on business of his own for three weeks as he said, but had remained there nearly seven weeks and was expected back every minute.
And he told her of his intention to persuade Pierre to stay with them till spring.
The general opinion was that Pierre was under his wife's thumb, which was really true.
Pierre was greatly surprised by his wife's view, to him a perfectly novel one, that every moment of his life belonged to her and to the family.
To make up for this, at home Pierre had the right to regulate his life and that of the whole family exactly as he chose.
Pierre had but to show a partiality for anything to get just what he liked done always.
When Pierre himself wanted to change his mind she would fight him with his own weapons.
Thus in a time of trouble ever memorable to him after the birth of their first child who was delicate, when they had to change the wet nurse three times and Natasha fell ill from despair, Pierre one day told her of Rousseau's view, with which he quite agreed, that to have a wet nurse is unnatural and harmful.
It very often happened that in a moment of irritation husband and wife would have a dispute, but long afterwards Pierre to his surprise and delight would find in his wife's ideas and actions the very thought against which she had argued, but divested of everything superfluous that in the excitement of the dispute he had added when expressing his opinion.
Natasha was sad and irritable all that time, especially when her mother, her brother, Sonya, or Countess Mary in their efforts to console her tried to excuse Pierre and suggested reasons for his delay in returning.
"He's come!" she exclaimed as she ran past, and Denisov felt that he too was delighted that Pierre, whom he did not much care for, had returned.
When Nicholas and his wife came to look for Pierre he was in the nursery holding his baby son, who was again awake, on his huge right palm and dandling him.
Pierre with the baby on his hand stooped, kissed them, and replied to their inquiries.
"Now, Pierre nurses them splendidly," said Natasha.
Pierre suddenly exclaimed with a laugh, and shifting the baby he gave him to the nurse.
Young Nicholas, now a slim lad of fifteen, delicate and intelligent, with curly light-brown hair and beautiful eyes, was delighted because Uncle Pierre as he called him was the object of his rapturous and passionate affection.
Pierre, however, he adored.
In Pierre's presence his face always shone with pleasure and he flushed and was breathless when Pierre spoke to him.
He did not miss a single word he uttered, and would afterwards, with Dessalles or by himself, recall and reconsider the meaning of everything Pierre had said.
From broken remarks about Natasha and his father, from the emotion with which Pierre spoke of that dead father, and from the careful, reverent tenderness with which Natasha spoke of him, the boy, who was only just beginning to guess what love is, derived the notion that his father had loved Natasha and when dying had left her to his friend.
So the boy also was happy that Pierre had arrived.
The guests welcomed Pierre because he always helped to enliven and unite any company he was in.
Pierre felt the different outlooks of these various worlds and made haste to satisfy all their expectations.
With a merry, smiling face Pierre was sorting his purchases.
Pierre told her the price.
The countess was sitting with her companion Belova, playing grand- patience as usual, when Pierre and Natasha came into the drawing room with parcels under their arms.
Only by a rare glance exchanged with a sad smile between Nicholas, Pierre, Natasha, and Countess Mary was the common understanding of her condition expressed.
When Pierre and his wife entered the drawing room the countess was in one of her customary states in which she needed the mental exertion of playing patience, and so--though by force of habit she greeted him with the words she always used when Pierre or her son returned after an absence: High time, my dear, high time!
They consisted of a box for cards, of splendid workmanship, a bright- blue Sevres tea cup with shepherdesses depicted on it and with a lid, and a gold snuffbox with the count's portrait on the lid which Pierre had had done by a miniaturist in Petersburg.
At tea all sat in their accustomed places: Nicholas beside the stove at a small table where his tea was handed to him; Milka, the old gray borzoi bitch (daughter of the first Milka), with a quite gray face and large black eyes that seemed more prominent than ever, lay on the armchair beside him; Denisov, whose curly hair, mustache, and whiskers had turned half gray, sat beside countess Mary with his general's tunic unbuttoned; Pierre sat between his wife and the old countess.
Denisov, not being a member of the family, did not understand Pierre's caution and being, as a malcontent, much interested in what was occurring in Petersburg, kept urging Pierre to tell them about what had happened in the Semenovsk regiment, then about Arakcheev, and then about the Bible Society.
Once or twice Pierre was carried away and began to speak of these things, but Nicholas and Natasha always brought him back to the health of Prince Ivan and Countess Mary Alexeevna.
"Arakcheev and Golitsyn," incautiously remarked Pierre, "are now the whole government!
Pierre exchanged glances with Countess Mary and Nicholas (Natasha he never lost sight of) and smiled happily.
"Oh, I'll go and see," said Pierre, jumping up.
Pierre went to the children, and the shouting and laughter grew still louder.
One, two!..." said Pierre, and a silence followed: "three!" and a rapturously breathless cry of children's voices filled the room.
Good night! said Pierre, giving his hand to the Swiss tutor, and he turned to young Nicholas with a smile.
"Like my father?" asked the boy, flushing crimson and looking up at Pierre with bright, ecstatic eyes.
Denisov, dissatisfied with the government on account of his own disappointments in the service, heard with pleasure of the things done in Petersburg which seemed to him stupid, and made forcible and sharp comments on what Pierre told them.
"Always the same thing," said Pierre, looking round at his listeners.
"Why this," began Pierre, not sitting down but pacing the room, sometimes stopping short, gesticulating, and lisping: "the position in Petersburg is this: the Emperor does not look into anything.
He has abandoned himself altogether to this mysticism (Pierre could not tolerate mysticism in anyone now).
Everything is strained to such a degree that it will certainly break, said Pierre (as those who examine the actions of any government have always said since governments began).
"Well, you know whom," said Pierre, with a meaning glance from under his brows.
Let him be, said Pierre, taking Nicholas by the arm and continuing.
Nicholas, who had left his nephew, irritably pushed up an armchair, sat down in it, and listened to Pierre, coughing discontentedly and frowning more and more.
The boy with the thin neck stretching out from the turn-down collar-- whom everyone had forgotten--gazed at Pierre with even greater and more rapturous joy.
Pierre smiled, Natasha began to laugh, but Nicholas knitted his brows still more and began proving to Pierre that there was no prospect of any great change and that all the danger he spoke of existed only in his imagination.
Pierre maintained the contrary, and as his mental faculties were greater and more resourceful, Nicholas felt himself cornered.
When they all got up to go in to supper, little Nicholas Bolkonski went up to Pierre, pale and with shining, radiant eyes.
Uncle Pierre, you... no...
Denisov started these and Pierre was particularly agreeable and amusing about them.
We began disputing--Pierre and I--and I lost my temper.
This evening he listened to Pierre in a sort of trance, and fancy--as we were going in to supper I looked and he had broken everything on my table to bits, and he told me of it himself at once!
"Yes, Pierre always was a dreamer and always will be," he continued, returning to the talk in the study which had evidently disturbed him.
Natasha and Pierre, left alone, also began to talk as only a husband and wife can talk, that is, with extraordinary clearness and rapidity, understanding and expressing each other's thoughts in ways contrary to all rules of logic, without premises, deductions, or conclusions, and in a quite peculiar way.
Natasha was so used to this kind of talk with her husband that for her it was the surest sign of something being wrong between them if Pierre followed a line of logical reasoning.
Natasha spoke to Pierre about her brother's life and doings, of how she had suffered and lacked life during his own absence, and of how she was fonder than ever of Mary, and how Mary was in every way better than herself.
In saying this Natasha was sincere in acknowledging Mary's superiority, but at the same time by saying it she made a demand on Pierre that he should, all the same, prefer her to Mary and to all other women, and that now, especially after having seen many women in Petersburg, he should tell her so afresh.
"How like his father he is," Pierre interjected.
But I understand that you value what opens up a fresh line, said she, repeating words Pierre had once uttered.
"Yes," Pierre replied, and went on with what was in his mind.
"Now who could decide whether he is really cleverer than all the others?" she asked herself, and passed in review all those whom Pierre most respected.
Pierre was not at all surprised at this question.
"No, he would not have approved," said Pierre, after reflection.
"Always about the same thing," said Pierre with a smile.
Pierre finished what he had begun.
He had dreamed that he and Uncle Pierre, wearing helmets such as were depicted in his Plutarch, were leading a huge army.
He and Pierre were borne along lightly and joyously, nearer and nearer to their goal.
Little Nicholas turned to look at Pierre but Pierre was no longer there.