where he was first put.
In burned and devastated Moscow Pierre experienced almost the extreme limits of privation a man can endure; but
thanks to his physical strength and health, of which he had
till then been unconscious, and thanks especially to the fact
that the privations came so gradually that it was impossible
to say when they began, he endured his position not only
lightly but joyfully. And just at this time he obtained the
tranquillity and ease of mind he had formerly striven in vain
to reach. He had long sought in different ways that tranquillity of mind, that inner harmony which had so impressed
him in the soldiers at the battle of Borodino. He had sought
it in philanthropy, in Freemasonry, in the dissipations of
town life, in wine, in heroic feats of self-sacrifice, and in romantic love for Natasha; he had sought it by reasoningand
all these quests and experiments had failed him. And now
without thinking about it he had found that peace and inner
harmony only through the horror of death, through privation, and through what he recognized in Karataev.
Those dreadful moments he had lived through at the
executions had as it were forever washed away from his
1901
imagination and memory the agitating thoughts and feelings that had formerly seemed so important. It did not now
occur to him to think of Russia, or the war, or politics, or
Napoleon. It was plain to him that all these things were no
business of his, and that he was not called on to judge concerning them and therefore could not do so. ‘Russia and
summer weather are not bound together,’ he thought, repeating words of Karataev’s which he found strangely consoling.
His intention of killing Napoleon and his calculations of
the cabalistic number of the beast of the Apocalypse now
seemed to him meaningless and even ridiculous. His anger with his wife and anxiety that his name should not be
smirched now seemed not merely trivial but even amusing.
What concern was it of his that somewhere or other that
woman was leading the life she preferred? What did it matter to anybody, and especially to him, whether or not they
found out that their prisoner’s name was Count Bezukhov?
He now often remembered his conversation with Prince
Andrew and quite agreed with him, though he understood
Prince Andrew’s thoughts somewhat differently. Prince
Andrew had thought and said that happiness could only be
negative, but had said it with a shade of bitterness and irony
as though he was really saying that all desire for positive
happiness is implanted in us merely to torment us and never
be satisfied. 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. Here and now for
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War and Peace
the first time he fully appreciated the enjoyment of eating
when he wanted to eat, drinking when he wanted to drink,
sleeping when he wanted to sleep, of warmth when he was
cold, of talking to a fellow man when he wished to talk and
to hear a human voice. The satisfaction of one’s needsgood
food, cleanliness, and freedomnow that he was deprived of
all this, seemed to Pierre to constitute perfect happiness;
and the choice of occupation, that is, of his way of lifenow
that that was so restrictedseemed to him such an easy matter that he forgot that a superfluity of the comforts of life
destroys all joy in satisfying one’s needs, while great freedom in the choice of occupationsuch freedom as his wealth,
his education, and his social position had given him in his
own lifeis just what makes the choice of occupation insolubly difficult and destroys the desire and possibility of having
an occupation.
All Pierre’s daydreams now turned on the time when he
would be free. Yet subsequently, and for the rest of his life,
he thought and spoke with enthusiasm of that month of
captivity, of those irrecoverable, strong, joyful sensations,
and chiefly of the complete peace of mind and inner freedom which he experienced only during those weeks.
When on the first day he got up early, went out of the
shed at dawn, and saw the cupolas and crosses of the New
Convent of the Virgin still dark at first, the hoarfrost on
the dusty grass, the Sparrow Hills, and the wooded banks
above the winding river vanishing in the purple distance,
when he felt the contact of the fresh air and heard the noise
of the crows flying from Moscow across the field, and when
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afterwards light gleamed from the east and the sun’s rim appeared solemnly from behind a cloud, and the cupolas and
crosses, the hoarfrost, the distance and the river, all began
to sparkle in the glad lightPierre felt a new joy and strength
in life such as he had never before known. And this not only
stayed with him during the whole of his imprisonment, but
even grew in strength as the hardships of his position increased.
That feeling of alertness and of readiness for anything
was still further strengthened in him by the high opinion his
fellow prisoners formed of him soon after his arrival at the
shed. With his knowledge of languages, the respect shown
him by the French, his simplicity, his readiness to give anything asked of him (he received the allowance of three rubles
a week made to officers); with his strength, which he showed
to the soldiers by pressing nails into the walls of the hut; his
gentleness to his companions, and his capacity for sitting
still and thinking without doing anything (which seemed to
them incomprehensible), he appeared to them a rather mysterious and superior being. The very qualities that had been
a hindrance, if not actually harmful, to him in the world
he had lived inhis strength, his disdain for the comforts of
life, his absent-mindedness and simplicityhere among these
people gave him almost the status of a hero. And Pierre felt
that their opinion placed responsibilities upon him.
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War and Peace
Chapter XIII
The French evacuation began on the night between
the sixth and seventh of October: kitchens and sheds were
dismantled, carts loaded, and troops and baggage trains
started.
At seven in the morning a French convoy in marching
trim, wearing shakos and carrying muskets, knapsacks,
and enormous sacks, stood in front of the sheds, and animated French talk mingled with curses sounded all along
the lines.
In the shed everyone was ready, dressed, belted, shod,
and only awaited the order to start. The sick soldier, Sokolov,
pale and thin with dark shadows round his eyes, alone sat
in his place barefoot and not dressed. His eyes, prominent from the emaciation of his face, gazed inquiringly at
his comrades who were paying no attention to him, and he
moaned regularly and quietly. It was evidently not so much
his sufferings that caused him to moan (he had dysentery)
as his fear and grief at being left alone.
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.
‘You know, Sokolov, they are not all going away! They
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have a hospital here. You may be better off than we others,’
said Pierre.
‘O Lord! Oh, it will be the death of me! O Lord!’ moaned
the man in a louder voice.
‘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. The corporal and soldiers were in marching kit
with knapsacks and shakos that had metal straps, and these
changed their familiar faces.
The corporal came, according to orders, to shut the door.
The prisoners had to be counted before being let out.
‘Corporal, what will they do with the sick man?…’ Pierre
began.
But even as he spoke he began to doubt whether this was
the corporal he knew or a stranger, so unlike himself did the
corporal seem at that moment. Moreover, just as Pierre was
speaking a sharp rattle of drums was suddenly heard from
both sides. The corporal frowned at Pierre’s words and, uttering some meaningless oaths, slammed the door. The shed
became semidark, and the sharp rattle of the drums on two
sides drowned the sick man’s groans.
‘There it is!… It again!…’ said Pierre to himself, and an
involuntary shudder ran down his spine. In the corporal’s
changed face, in the sound of his voice, in the stirring and
deafening noise of the drums, he recognized that mysterious, callous force which compelled people against their will
to kill their fellow menthat force the effect of which he had
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War and Peace
witnessed during the executions. To fear or to try to escape
that force, to address entreaties or exhortations to those
who served as its tools, was useless. Pierre knew this now.
One had to wait and endure. He did not again go to the sick
man, nor turn to look at him, but stood frowning by the
door of the hut.
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.
‘Pass on, pass on!’ the captain reiterated, frowning sternly, and looking at the prisoners who thronged past him.
Pierre went up to him, though he knew his attempt
would be vain.
‘What now?’ the officer asked with a cold look as if not
recognizing Pierre.
Pierre told him about the sick man.
‘He’ll manage to walk, devil take him!’ said the captain.
‘Pass on, pass on!’ he continued without looking at Pierre.
‘But he is dying,’ Pierre again began.
‘Be so good…’ shouted the captain, frowning angrily.
‘Dram-da-da-dam, dam-dam…’ rattled the drums,
