Book Thirteen: 1812 - Chapter XII

by Leo Tolstoy

　　Four weeks had passed since Pierre had been taken prisoner andthough the French had offered to move him from the men's to theofficers' shed, he had stayed in the shed where he was first put.

　　In burned and devastated Moscow Pierre experienced almost theextreme limits of privation a man can endure; but thanks to hisphysical strength and health, of which he had till then beenunconscious, and thanks especially to the fact that the privationscame so gradually that it was impossible to say when they began, heendured his position not only lightly but joyfully. And just at thistime he obtained the tranquillity and ease of mind he had formerlystriven in vain to reach. He had long sought in different ways thattranquillity of mind, that inner harmony which had so impressed him inthe soldiers at the battle of Borodino. He had sought it inphilanthropy, in Freemasonry, in the dissipations of town life, inwine, in heroic feats of self-sacrifice, and in romantic love forNatasha; he had sought it by reasoning- and all these quests andexperiments had failed him. And now without thinking about it he hadfound 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 asit were forever washed away from his imagination and memory theagitating thoughts and feelings that had formerly seemed so important.It did not now occur to him to think of Russia, or the war, orpolitics, or Napoleon. It was plain to him that all these thingswere no business of his, and that he was not called on to judgeconcerning them and therefore could not do so. "Russia and summerweather are not bound together," he thought, repeating words ofKarataev's which he found strangely consoling. His intention ofkilling Napoleon and his calculations of the cabalistic number ofthe beast of the Apocalypse now seemed to him meaningless and evenridiculous. His anger with his wife and anxiety that his name shouldnot be smirched now seemed not merely trivial but even amusing. Whatconcern was it of his that somewhere or other that woman was leadingthe life she preferred? What did it matter to anybody, andespecially to him, whether or not they found out that their prisoner'sname was Count Bezukhov?

　　He now often remembered his conversation with Prince Andrew andquite agreed with him, though he understood Prince Andrew's thoughtssomewhat differently. Prince Andrew had thought and said thathappiness could only be negative, but had said it with a shade ofbitterness and irony as though he was really saying that all desirefor positive happiness is implanted in us merely to torment us andnever be satisfied. But Pierre believed it without any mentalreservation. The absence of suffering, the satisfaction of one's needsand 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'shighest happiness. Here and now for the first time he fullyappreciated the enjoyment of eating when he wanted to eat, drinkingwhen he wanted to drink, sleeping when he wanted to sleep, of warmthwhen he was cold, of talking to a fellow man when he wished to talkand to hear a human voice. The satisfaction of one's needs- good food,cleanliness, and freedom- now that he was deprived of all this, seemedto Pierre to constitute perfect happiness; and the choice ofoccupation, that is, of his way of life- now that that was sorestricted- seemed to him such an easy matter that he forgot that asuperfluity of the comforts of life destroys all joy in satisfyingone's needs, while great freedom in the choice of occupation- suchfreedom as his wealth, his education, and his social position hadgiven him in his own life- is just what makes the choice of occupationinsolubly difficult and destroys the desire and possibility ofhaving 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 spokewith enthusiasm of that month of captivity, of those irrecoverable,strong, joyful sensations, and chiefly of the complete peace of mindand 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 stilldark at first, the hoarfrost on the dusty grass, the Sparrow Hills,and the wooded banks above the winding river vanishing in the purpledistance, when he felt the contact of the fresh air and heard thenoise of the crows flying from Moscow across the field, and whenafterwards light gleamed from the east and the sun's rim appearedsolemnly from behind a cloud, and the cupolas and crosses, thehoarfrost, the distance and the river, all began to sparkle in theglad light- Pierre felt a new joy and strength in life such as hehad never before known. And this not only stayed with him during thewhole of his imprisonment, but even grew in strength as thehardships of his position increased.

　　That feeling of alertness and of readiness for anything was stillfurther strengthened in him by the high opinion his fellow prisonersformed of him soon after his arrival at the shed. With his knowledgeof languages, the respect shown him by the French, his simplicity, hisreadiness to give anything asked of him (he received the allowanceof three rubles a week made to officers); with his strength, whichhe showed to the soldiers by pressing nails into the walls of the hut;his gentleness to his companions, and his capacity for sitting stilland thinking without doing anything (which seemed to themincomprehensible), he appeared to them a rather mysterious andsuperior being. The very qualities that had been a hindrance, if notactually harmful, to him in the world he had lived in- his strength,his disdain for the comforts of life, his absent-mindedness andsimplicity- here among these people gave him almost the status of ahero. And Pierre felt that their opinion placed responsibilitiesupon him.