War And Peace: Book 11 - CHAPTER IX

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PIERRE had hardly put his head on the pillow when he felt that he was

dropping asleep. But all of a sudden he heard, almost with the distinctness of

reality, the sound of the boom, boom, boom of the cannon, the groans and shrieks

and dull thud of the falling shell, smelt the blood and powder; and the feeling

of horror, of the dread of death came over him. He opened his eyes in a panic,

and put his head out from the cloak. All was quiet in the yard. The only sound

came from a servant of some sort talking with the porter at the gate, and

splashing through the mud. Over Pierre's head, under the dark, wooden eaves, he

heard pigeons fluttering, startled by the movement he had made in sitting up.

The whole yard was pervaded by the strong smell of a tavern—full of peaceful

suggestion and soothing relief to Pierre—the smell of hay, of dung, and of tar.

Between two dark sheds he caught a glimpse of the pure, starlit sky.

“Thank God, that is all over!” thought Pierre, covering his head up again.

“Oh, how awful terror is, and how shamefully I gave way to it! But

they…they were firm and calm all the while up to the end …” he thought.

They, in Pierre's mind, meant the soldiers, those who had been on the

battery, and those who had given him food, and those who had prayed to the holy

picture. They—those strange people, of whom he had known nothing

hitherto—they stood out clearly and sharply in his mind apart from all

other people.

“To be a soldier, simply a soldier!” thought Pierre as he fell asleep. “To

enter with one's whole nature into that common life, to be filled with what

makes them what they are. But how is one to cast off all that is superfluous,

devilish in one's self, all the burden of the outer man? At one time I might

have been the same. I might have run away from my father as I wanted to. After

the duel with Dolohov too I might have been sent for a soldier.”

And into Pierre's imagination flashed a picture of the dinner at the club, at

which he had challenged Dolohov, then the image of his benefactor at Torzhok.

And there rose before his mind a solemn meeting of the lodge. It was taking

place at the English Club. And some one he knew, some one near and dear to him,

was sitting at the end of the table. “Why, it is he! It is my benefactor. But

surely he died?” thought Pierre. “Yes, he did die, but I didn't know he was

alive. And how sorry I was when he died, and how glad I am he is alive again!”

On one side of the table were sitting Anatole, Dolohov, Nesvitsky, Denisov, and

others like them (in Pierre's dream these people formed as distinct a class

apart as those other men whom he had called them to himself), and those

people, Anatole and Dolohov, were loudly shouting and singing. But through their

clamour the voice of his benefactor could be heard speaking all the while, and

the sound of his voice was as weighty and as uninterrupted as the din of the

battlefield, but it was pleasant and comforting. Pierre did not understand what

his benefactor was saying, but he knew (the category of his ideas, too, was

distinct in his dream) that he was talking of goodness, of the possibility of

being like them. And they with their simple, good, plucky faces

were surrounding his benefactor on all sides. But though they were kindly, they

did not look at Pierre; they did not know him. Pierre wanted to attract their

notice, and to speak to them. He got up, but at the same instant became aware

that his legs were bare and chill.

He felt ashamed, and put his arm over his legs, from which his cloak had in

fact slipped off. For an instant Pierre opened his eyes as he pulled up the

cloak, and saw the same roofs, and posts, and yard, but it was now full of

bluish light, and glistening with dew or frost.

“It's getting light,” thought Pierre. “But that's not the point. I want to

hear and understand the benefactor's words.”

He muffled himself in the cloak again, but the masonic dinner and his

benefactor would not come back. All that remained were thoughts, clearly

expressed in words, ideas; some voice was speaking, or Pierre was

thinking.

When he recalled those thoughts later, although they had been evoked by the

impressions of that day, Pierre was convinced that they were uttered by some one

outside himself. It seemed to him that he had never been capable of thinking

those thoughts and expressing them in that form in his waking moments.

“The most difficult thing is the subjection of man's will to the law of God,”

said the voice. “Simplicity is the submission to God; there is no escaping from

Him. And they are simple. They do not talk, but act. A word

uttered is silver, but unuttered is golden. No one can be master of anything

while he fears death. And all things belong to him who fears it not. If it were

not for suffering, a man would know not his limits, would know not himself. The

hardest thing” (Pierre thought or heard in his dream) “is to know how to unite

in one's soul the significance of the whole. To unite the whole?” Pierre said to

himself. “No, not to unite. One cannot unite one's thoughts, but to

harness together all those ideas, that's what's wanted. Yes, one must

harness together, harness together,” Pierre repeated to himself with

a thrill of ecstasy, feeling that those words, and only those words, expressed

what he wanted to express, and solved the whole problem fretting him.

“Yes, one must harness together; it's time to harness…”

“We want to harness the horses; it's time to harness the horses, your

excellency! Your excellency,” some voice was repeating, “we want to harness the

horses; it's time…”

It was the groom waking Pierre. The sun was shining full in Pierre's face. He

glanced at the dirty tavern yard; at the well in the middle of it soldiers were

watering their thin horses; and waggons were moving out of the gate.

He turned away with repugnance, and shutting his eyes, made haste to huddle

up again on the seat of the carriage. “No, I don't want that; I don't want to

see and understand that; I want to understand what was revealed to me in my

sleep. Another second and I should have understood it all. But what am I to do?

To harness, but how to harness all together?” And Pierre felt with horror that

the whole meaning of what he had seen and thought in his dream had slipped

away.

The groom, the coachman, and the porter told Pierre that an officer had come

with the news that the French were advancing on Mozhaisk and our troops were

retreating.

Pierre got up, and ordering the carriage to be got out and to drive after

him, crossed the town on foot.

The troops were marching out, leaving tens of thousands of wounded behind.

The wounded could be seen at the windows of the houses, and were crowding the

yards and streets. Screams, oaths, and blows could be heard in the streets about

the carts which were to carry away the wounded. Pierre put his carriage at the

service of a wounded general of his acquaintance, and drove with him to Moscow.

On the way he was told of the death of his brother-in-law, Anatole, and of the

death of Prince Andrey.

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1. Ebooks list page : 84
2. War And Peace: Book 4 - CHAPTER V
3. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER III
4. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER II
5. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER I
6. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER IV
7. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIX
8. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XVI
9. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XV
10. War And Peace: Book 3 - CHAPTER XIV
11. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER V
12. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER VI
13. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIX
14. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XVI
15. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XIV
16. War And Peace: Book 2 - CHAPTER XV