Book Eight: 1811-12 - Chapter I

by Leo Tolstoy

　　After Prince Andrews engagement to Natasha, Pierre without anyapparent cause suddenly felt it impossible to go on living asbefore. Firmly convinced as he was of the truths revealed to him byhis benefactor, and happy as he had been in perfecting his innerman, to which he had devoted himself with such ardor- all the zestof such a life vanished after the engagement of Andrew and Natasha andthe death of Joseph Alexeevich, the news of which reached him almostat the same time. Only the skeleton of life remained: his house, abrilliant wife who now enjoyed the favors of a very importantpersonage, acquaintance with all Petersburg, and his court servicewith its dull formalities. And this life suddenly seemed to Pierreunexpectedly loathsome. He ceased keeping a diary, avoided the companyof the Brothers, began going to the Club again, drank a great deal,and came once more in touch with the bachelor sets, leading such alife that the Countess Helene thought it necessary to speak severelyto him about it. Pierre felt that she right, and to avoid compromisingher went away to Moscow.

　　In Moscow as soon as he entered his huge house in which the fadedand fading princesses still lived, with its enormous retinue; assoon as, driving through the town, he saw the Iberian shrine withinnumerable tapers burning before the golden covers of the icons,the Kremlin Square with its snow undisturbed by vehicles, the sleighdrivers and hovels of the Sivtsev Vrazhok, those old Moscovites whodesired nothing, hurried nowhere, and were ending their daysleisurely; when he saw those old Moscow ladies, the Moscow balls,and the English Club, he felt himself at home in a quiet haven. InMoscow he felt at peace, at home, warm and dirty as in an old dressinggown.

　　Moscow society, from the old women down to the children, receivedPierre like a long-expected guest whose place was always readyawaiting him. For Moscow society Pierre was the nicest, kindest,most intellectual, merriest, and most magnanimous of cranks, aheedless, genial nobleman of the old Russian type. His purse wasalways empty because it was open to everyone.

　　Benefit performances, poor pictures, statues, benevolentsocieties, gypsy choirs, schools, subscription dinners, sprees,Freemasons, churches, and books- no one and nothing met with a refusalfrom him, and had it not been for two friends who had borrowed largesums from him and taken him under their protection, he would havegiven everything away. There was never a dinner or soiree at theClub without him. As soon as he sank into his place on the sofaafter two bottles of Margaux he was surrounded, and talking,disputing, and joking began. When there were quarrels, his kindlysmile and well-timed jests reconciled the antagonists. The Masonicdinners were dull and dreary when he was not there.

　　When after a bachelor supper he rose with his amiable and kindlysmile, yielding to the entreaties of the festive company to driveoff somewhere with them, shouts of delight and triumph arose among theyoung men. At balls he danced if a partner was needed. Young ladies,married and unmarried, liked him because without making love to any ofthem, he was equally amiable to all, especially after supper. "Ilest charmant; il n'a pas de sexe,"* they said of him.

　　*"He is charming; he has no sex."

　　Pierre was one of those retired gentlemen-in-waiting of whom therewere hundreds good-humoredly ending their days in Moscow.

　　How horrified he would have been seven years before, when he firstarrived from abroad, had he been told that there was no need for himto seek or plan anything, that his rut had long been shaped, eternallypredetermined, and that wriggle as he might, he would be what all inhis position were. He could not have believed it! Had he not at onetime longed with all his heart to establish a republic in Russia; thenhimself to be a Napoleon; then to be a philosopher; and then astrategist and the conqueror of Napoleon? Had he not seen thepossibility of, and passionately desired, the regeneration of thesinful human race, and his own progress to the highest degree ofperfection? Had he not established schools and hospitals and liberatedhis serfs?

　　But instead of all that- here he was, the wealthy husband of anunfaithful wife, a retired gentleman-in-waiting, fond of eating anddrinking and, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, of abusing thegovernment a bit, a member of the Moscow English Club, and a universalfavorite in Moscow society. For a long time he could not reconcilehimself to the idea that he was one of those same retired Moscowgentlemen-in-waiting he had so despised seven years before.

　　Sometimes he consoled himself with the thought that he was onlyliving this life temporarily; but then he was shocked by the thoughtof how many, like himself, had entered that life and that Clubtemporarily, with all their teeth and hair, and had only left itwhen not a single tooth or hair remained.

　　In moments of pride, when he thought of his position it seemed tohim that he was quite different and distinct from those otherretired gentlemen-in-waiting he had formerly despised: they wereempty, stupid, contented fellows, satisfied with their position,"while I am still discontented and want to do something for mankind.But perhaps all these comrades of mine struggled just like me andsought something new, a path in life of their own, and like me werebrought by force of circumstances, society, and race- by thatelemental force against which man is powerless- to the condition Iam in," said he to himself in moments of humility; and after livingsome time in Moscow he no longer despised, but began to grow fondof, to respect, and to pity his comrades in destiny, as he pitiedhimself.

　　Pierre longer suffered moments of despair, hypochondria, and disgustwith life, but the malady that had formerly found expression in suchacute attacks was driven inwards and never left him for a moment."What for? Why? What is going on in the world?" he would ask himselfin perplexity several times a day, involuntarily beginning toreflect anew on the meaning of the phenomena of life; but knowing byexperience that there were no answers to these questions he made hasteto turn away from them, and took up a book, or hurried of to theClub or to Apollon Nikolaevich's, to exchange the gossip of the town.

　　"Helene, who has never cared for anything but her own body and isone of the stupidest women in the world," thought Pierre, "is regardedby people as the acme of intelligence and refinement, and they payhomage to her. Napoleon Bonaparte was despised by all as long as hewas great, but now that he has become a wretched comedian theEmperor Francis wants to offer him his daughter in an illegalmarriage. The Spaniards, through the Catholic clergy, offer praiseto God for their victory over the French on the fourteenth of June,and the French, also through the Catholic clergy, offer praise becauseon that same fourteenth of June they defeated the Spaniards. Mybrother Masons swear by the blood that they are ready to sacrificeeverything for their neighbor, but they do not give a ruble each tothe collections for the poor, and they intrigue, the Astraea Lodgeagainst the Manna Seekers, and fuss about an authentic Scotch carpetand a charter that nobody needs, and the meaning of which the very manwho wrote it does not understand. We all profess the Christian lawof forgiveness of injuries and love of our neighbors, the law in honorof which we have built in Moscow forty times forty churches- butyesterday a deserter was knouted to death and a minister of thatsame law of love and forgiveness, a priest, gave the soldier a crossto kiss before his execution." So thought Pierre, and the whole ofthis general deception which everyone accepts, accustomed as he was toit, astonished him each time as if it were something new. "Iunderstand the deception and confusion," he thought, "but how am Ito tell them all that I see? I have tried, and have always foundthat they too in the depths of their souls understand it as I do,and only try not to see it. So it appears that it must be so! But I-what is to become of me?" thought he. He had the unfortunatecapacity many men, especially Russians, have of seeing and believingin the possibility of goodness and truth, but of seeing the evil andfalsehood of life too clearly to be able to take a serious part in it.Every sphere of work was connected, in his eyes, with evil anddeception. Whatever he tried to be, whatever he engaged in, the eviland falsehood of it repulsed him and blocked every path of activity.Yet he had to live and to find occupation. It was too dreadful to beunder the burden of these insoluble problems, so he abandonedhimself to any distraction in order to forget them. He frequentedevery kind of society, drank much, bought pictures, engaged inbuilding, and above all- read.

　　He read, and read everything that came to hand. On coming home,while his valets were still taking off his things, he picked up a bookand began to read. From reading he passed to sleeping, from sleepingto gossip in drawing rooms of the Club, from gossip to carousals andwomen; from carousals back to gossip, reading, and wine. Drinkingbecame more and more a physical and also a moral necessity. Though thedoctors warned him that with his corpulence wine was dangerous forhim, he drank a great deal. He was only quite at ease when havingpoured several glasses of wine mechanically into his large mouth hefelt a pleasant warmth in his body, an amiability toward all hisfellows, and a readiness to respond superficially to every ideawithout probing it deeply. Only after emptying a bottle or two didhe feel dimly that the terribly tangled skein of life which previouslyhad terrified him was not as dreadful as he had thought. He was alwaysconscious of some aspect of that skein, as with a buzzing in hishead after dinner or supper he chatted or listened to conversationor read. But under the influence of wine he said to himself: "Itdoesn't matter. I'll get it unraveled. I have a solution ready, buthave no time now- I'll think it all out later on!" But the later onnever came.

　　In the morning, on an empty stomach, all the old questionsappeared as insoluble and terrible as ever, and Pierre hastilypicked up a book, and if anyone came to see him he was glad.

　　Sometimes he remembered how he had heard that soldiers in war whenentrenched under the enemy's fire, if they have nothing to do, tryhard to find some occupation the more easily to bear the danger. ToPierre all men seemed like those soldiers, seeking refuge from life:some in ambition, some in cards, some in framing laws, some inwomen, some in toys, some in horses, some in politics, some insport, some in wine, and some in governmental affairs. "Nothing istrivial, and nothing is important, it's all the same- only to saveoneself from it as best one can," thought Pierre. "Only not to see it,that dreadful it!"