Book Five: 1806-07 - Chapter I

by Leo Tolstoy

　　After his interview with his wife Pierre left for Petersburg. At theTorzhok post station, either there were no horses or the postmasterwould not supply them. Pierre was obliged to wait. Without undressing,he lay down on the leather sofa in front of a round table, put his bigfeet in their overboots on the table, and began to reflect.

　　"Will you have the portmanteaus brought in? And a bed got ready, andtea?" asked his valet.

　　Pierre gave no answer, for he neither heard nor saw anything. He hadbegun to think of the last station and was still pondering on the samequestion- one so important that he took no notice of what went onaround him. Not only was he indifferent as to whether he got toPetersburg earlier or later, or whether he secured accommodation atthis station, but compared to the thoughts that now occupied him itwas a matter of indifference whether he remained there for a few hoursor for the rest of his life.

　　The postmaster, his wife, the valet, and a peasant woman sellingTorzhok embroidery came into the room offering their services. Withoutchanging his careless attitude, Pierre looked at them over hisspectacles unable to understand what they wanted or how they couldgo on living without having solved the problems that so absorbedhim. He had been engrossed by the same thoughts ever since the dayhe returned from Sokolniki after the duel and had spent that firstagonizing, sleepless night. But now, in the solitude of the journey,they seized him with special force. No matter what he thought about,he always returned to these same questions which he could not solveand yet could not cease to ask himself. It was as if the thread of thechief screw which held his life together were stripped, so that thescrew could not get in or out, but went on turning uselessly in thesame place.

　　The postmaster came in and began obsequiously to beg hisexcellency to wait only two hours, when, come what might, he would lethis excellency have the courier horses. It was plain that he was lyingand only wanted to get more money from the traveler.

　　"Is this good or bad?" Pierre asked himself. "It is good for me, badfor another traveler, and for himself it's unavoidable, because heneeds money for food; the man said an officer had once given him athrashing for letting a private traveler have the courier horses.But the officer thrashed him because he had to get on as quickly aspossible. And I," continued Pierre, "shot Dolokhov because Iconsidered myself injured, and Louis XVI was executed because theyconsidered him a criminal, and a year later they executed those whoexecuted him- also for some reason. What is bad? What is good? Whatshould one love and what hate? What does one live for? And what amI? What is life, and what is death? What power governs all?"

　　There was no answer to any of these questions, except one, andthat not a logical answer and not at all a reply to them. The answerwas: "You'll die and all will end. You'll die and know all, or ceaseasking." But dying was also dreadful.

　　The Torzhok peddler woman, in a whining voice, went on offeringher wares, especially a pair of goatskin slippers. "I have hundreds ofrubles I don't know what to do with, and she stands in her tatteredcloak looking timidly at me," he thought. "And what does she wantthe money for? As if that money could add a hair's breadth tohappiness or peace of mind. Can anything in the world make her or meless a prey to evil and death?- death which ends all and must cometoday or tomorrow- at any rate, in an instant as compared witheternity." And again he twisted the screw with the stripped thread,and again it turned uselessly in the same place.

　　His servant handed him a half-cut novel, in the form of letters,by Madame de Souza. He began reading about the sufferings and virtuousstruggles of a certain Emilie de Mansfeld. "And why did she resist herseducer when she loved him?" he thought. "God could not have putinto her heart an impulse that was against His will. My wife- as sheonce was- did not struggle, and perhaps she was right. Nothing hasbeen found out, nothing discovered," Pierre again said to himself."All we can know is that we know nothing. And that's the height ofhuman wisdom."

　　Everything within and around him seemed confused, senseless, andrepellent. Yet in this very repugnance to all his circumstances Pierrefound a kind of tantalizing satisfaction.

　　"I make bold to ask your excellency to move a little for thisgentleman," said the postmaster, entering the room followed by anothertraveler, also detained for lack of horses.

　　The newcomer was a short, large-boned, yellow-faced, wrinkled oldman, with gray bushy eyebrows overhanging bright eyes of an indefinitegrayish color.

　　Pierre took his feet off the table, stood up, and lay down on abed that had been got ready for him, glancing now and then at thenewcomer, who, with a gloomy and tired face, was wearily taking offhis wraps with the aid of his servant, and not looking at Pierre. Witha pair of felt boots on his thin bony legs, and keeping on a worn,nankeen-covered, sheepskin coat, the traveler sat down on the sofa,leaned back his big head with its broad temples and close-croppedhair, and looked at Bezukhov. The stern, shrewd, and penetratingexpression of that look struck Pierre. He felt a wish to speak tothe stranger, but by the time he had made up his mind to ask him aquestion about the roads, the traveler had closed his eyes. Hisshriveled old hands were folded and on the finger of one of themPierre noticed a large cast iron ring with a seal representing adeath's head. The stranger sat without stirring, either resting or, asit seemed to Pierre, sunk in profound and calm meditation. His servantwas also a yellow, wrinkled old man, without beard or mustache,evidently not because he was shaven but because they had nevergrown. This active old servant was unpacking the traveler's canteenand preparing tea. He brought in a boiling samovar. When everythingwas ready, the stranger opened his eyes, moved to the table, filleda tumbler with tea for himself and one for the beardless old man towhom he passed it. Pierre began to feel a sense of uneasiness, and theneed, even the inevitability, of entering into conversation withthis stranger.

　　The servant brought back his tumbler turned upside down,* with anunfinished bit of nibbled sugar, and asked if anything more would bewanted.

　　*To indicate he did not want more tea.

　　"No. Give me the book," said the stranger.

　　The servant handed him a book which Pierre took to be a devotionalwork, and the traveler became absorbed in it. Pierre looked at him.All at once the stranger closed the book, putting in a marker, andagain, leaning with his arms on the back of the sofa, sat in hisformer position with his eyes shut. Pierre looked at him and had nottime to turn away when the old man, opening his eyes, fixed his steadyand severe gaze straight on Pierre's face.

　　Pierre felt confused and wished to avoid that look, but the brightold eyes attracted him irresistibly.