"You owe forty-three thousand, Count," said Dolokhov, and
stretching himself he rose from the table. "One does get tired sitting
so long," he added.
"Yes, I’m tired too," said Rostov.
Dolokhov cut him short, as if to remind him that it was not for him to
jest.
"When am I to receive the money, Count?"
Rostov, flushing, drew Dolokhov into the next room.
"I cannot pay it all immediately. Will you take an I.O.U.?" he said.
"I say, Rostov," said Dolokhov clearly, smiling and looking
Nicholas straight in the eyes, "you know the saying, ‘Lucky in love,
unlucky at cards.’ Your cousin is in love with you, I know."
"Oh, it’s terrible to feel oneself so in this man’s power,"
thought Rostov. He knew what a shock he would inflict on his father and
mother by the news of this loss, he knew what a relief it would be to
escape it all, and felt that Dolokhov knew that he could save him from
all this shame and sorrow, but wanted now to play with him as a cat does
with a mouse.
"Your cousin..." Dolokhov started to say, but Nicholas interrupted
him.
"My cousin has nothing to do with this and it’s not necessary to
mention her!" he exclaimed fiercely.
"Then when am I to have it?"
"Tomorrow," replied Rostov and left the room.
CHAPTER XV
To say "tomorrow" and keep up a dignified tone was not difficult,
but to go home alone, see his sisters, brother, mother, and father,
confess and ask for money he had no right to after giving his word of
honor, was terrible.
At home, they had not yet gone to bed. The young people, after returning
from the theater, had had supper and were grouped round the clavichord.
As soon as Nicholas entered, he was enfolded in that poetic atmosphere
of love which pervaded the Rostov household that winter and, now after
Dolokhov’s proposal and Iogel’s ball, seemed to have grown thicker
round Sonya and Natasha as the air does before a thunderstorm. Sonya
and Natasha, in the light-blue dresses they had worn at the theater,
looking pretty and conscious of it, were standing by the clavichord,
happy and smiling. Vera was playing chess with Shinshin in the drawing
room. The old countess, waiting for the return of her husband and son,
sat playing patience with the old gentlewoman who lived in their house.
Denisov, with sparkling eyes and ruffled hair, sat at the clavichord
striking chords with his short fingers, his legs thrown back and his
eyes rolling as he sang, with his small, husky, but true voice, some
verses called "Enchantress," which he had composed, and to which he
was trying to fit music:
Enchantress, say, to my forsaken lyre
What magic power is this recalls me still?
What spark has set my inmost soul on fire,
What is this bliss that makes my fingers thrill?
He was singing in passionate tones, gazing with his sparkling
black-agate eyes at the frightened and happy Natasha.
"Splendid! Excellent!" exclaimed Natasha. "Another verse," she
said, without noticing Nicholas.
"Everything’s still the same with them," thought Nicholas,
glancing into the drawing room, where he saw Vera and his mother with
the old lady.
"Ah, and here’s Nicholas!" cried Natasha, running up to him.
"Is Papa at home?" he asked.
"I am so glad you’ve come!" said Natasha, without answering him.
"We are enjoying ourselves! Vasili Dmitrich is staying a day longer
for my sake! Did you know?"
"No, Papa is not back yet," said Sonya.
"Nicholas, have you come? Come here, dear!" called the old countess
from the drawing room.
Nicholas went to her, kissed her hand, and sitting down silently at her
table began to watch her hands arranging the cards. From the dancing
room, they still heard the laughter and merry voices trying to persuade
Natasha to sing.
"All wight! All wight!" shouted Denisov. "It’s no good making
excuses now! It’s your turn to sing the ba’cawolla - I entweat
you!"
The countess glanced at her silent son.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing," said he, as if weary of being continually asked the
same question. "Will Papa be back soon?"
"I expect so."
"Everything’s the same with them. They know nothing about it! Where
am I to go?" thought Nicholas, and went again into the dancing room
where the clavichord stood.
Sonya was sitting at the clavichord, playing the prelude to
Denisov’s favorite barcarolle. Natasha was preparing to sing.
Denisov was looking at her with enraptured eyes.
Nicholas began pacing up and down the room.
"Why do they want to make her sing? How can she sing? There’s
nothing to be happy about!" thought he.
Sonya struck the first chord of the prelude.
"My God, I’m a ruined and dishonored man! A bullet through my brain
is the only thing left me - not singing!" his thoughts ran on. "Go
away? But where to? It’s one - let them sing!"
He continued to pace the room, looking gloomily at Denisov and the
girls and avoiding their eyes.
"Nikolenka, what is the matter?" Sonya’s eyes fixed on him
seemed to ask. She noticed at once that something had happened to him.
Nicholas turned away from her. Natasha too, with her quick instinct,
had instantly noticed her brother’s condition. But, though she noticed
it, she was herself in such high spirits at that moment, so far from
sorrow, sadness, or self-reproach, that she purposely deceived herself
as young people often do. "No, I am too happy now to spoil my
enjoyment by sympathy with anyone’s sorrow," she felt, and she said
to herself: "No, I must be mistaken, he must be feeling happy, just as
I am."
"Now, Sonya!" she said, going to the very middle of the room, where
she considered the resonance was best.
Having lifted her head and let her arms droop lifelessly, as ballet
dancers do, Natasha, rising energetically from her heels to her toes,
stepped to the middle of the room and stood still.
"Yes, that’s me!" she seemed to say, answering the rapt gaze with
which Denisov followed her.
"And what is she so pleased about?" thought Nicholas, looking at his
sister. "Why isn’t she dull and ashamed?"
Natasha took the first note, her throat swelled, her chest rose,
her eyes became serious. At that moment she was oblivious of her
surroundings, and from her smiling lips flowed sounds which anyone may
produce at the same intervals and hold for the same time, but which
leave you cold a thousand times and the thousand and first time thrill
you and make you weep.
Natasha, that winter, had for the first time begun to sing seriously,
mainly because Denisov so delighted in her singing. She no longer sang
as a child, there was no longer in her singing that comical, childish,
painstaking effect that had been in it before; but she did not yet sing
well, as all the connoisseurs who heard her said: "It is not trained,
but it is a beautiful voice that must be trained." Only they generally
said this some time after she had finished singing. While that untrained
voice, with its incorrect breathing and labored transitions, was
sounding, even the connoisseurs said nothing, but only delighted in
it and wished to hear it again. In her voice there was a virginal
freshness, an unconsciousness of her own powers, and an as yet untrained
velvety softness, which so mingled with her lack of art in singing that
it seemed as if nothing in that voice could be altered without spoiling
it.
"What is this?" thought Nicholas, listening to her with widely
opened eyes. "What has happened to her? How she is singing today!"
And suddenly the whole world centered for him on anticipation of the
next note, the next phrase, and everything in the world was divided into
three beats: "Oh mio crudele affetto."... One, two, three... one,
two, three... One... "Oh mio crudele affetto."... One, two, three...
One. "Oh, this senseless life of ours!" thought Nicholas. "All
this misery, and money, and Dolokhov, and anger, and honor - it’s all
nonsense... but this is real.... Now then, Natasha, now then, dearest!
Now then, darling! How will she take that si? She’s taken it! Thank
God!" And without noticing that he was singing, to strengthen the si
he sung a second, a third below the high note. "Ah, God! How fine! Did
I really take it? How fortunate!" he thought.
Oh, how that chord vibrated, and how moved was something that was finest
in Rostov’s soul! And this something was apart from everything else
in the world and above everything in the world. "What were losses, and
Dolokhov, and words of honor?... All nonsense! One might kill and rob
and yet be happy...."
CHAPTER XVI
It was long since Rostov had felt such enjoyment from music as he
did that day. But no sooner had Natasha finished her barcarolle than
reality again presented itself. He got up without saying a word and went
downstairs to his own room. A quarter of an hour later the old count
came in from his club, cheerful and contented. Nicholas, hearing him
drive up, went to meet him.
"Well - had a good time?" said the old count, smiling gaily and
proudly at his son.
Nicholas tried to say "Yes," but could not: and he nearly burst into
sobs. The count was lighting his pipe and did not notice his son’s
condition.
"Ah, it can’t be avoided!" thought Nicholas, for the first and
last time. And suddenly, in the most casual tone, which made him feel
ashamed of himself, he said, as if merely asking his father to let him
have the carriage to drive to town:
"Papa, I have come on a matter of business. I was nearly forgetting. I
need some money."
"Dear me!" said his father, who was in a specially good humor. "I
told you it would not be enough. How much?"
"Very much," said Nicholas flushing, and with a stupid careless
smile, for which he was long unable to forgive himself, "I have lost a
little, I mean a good deal, a great deal - forty three thousand."
"What! To whom?... Nonsense!" cried the count, suddenly reddening
with an apoplectic flush over neck and nape as old people do.
"I promised to pay tomorrow," said Nicholas.
"Well!..." said the old count, spreading out his arms and sinking
helplessly on the sofa.
"It can’t be helped! It happens to everyone!" said the son, with
a bold, free, and easy tone, while in his soul he regarded himself as a
worthless scoundrel whose whole life could not atone for his crime. He
longed to kiss his father’s hands and kneel to beg his forgiveness,
but said, in a careless and even rude voice, that it happens to
everyone!
The old count cast down his eyes on hearing his son’s words and began
bustlingly searching for something.
"Yes, yes," he muttered, "it will be difficult, I fear, difficult
to raise... happens to everybody! Yes, who has not done it?"
And with a furtive glance at his son’s face, the count went out of the
room.... Nicholas had been prepared for resistance, but had not at all
expected this.
"Papa! Pa-pa!" he called after him, sobbing, "forgive me!" And
seizing his father’s hand, he pressed it to his lips and burst into
tears.
While father and son were having their explanation, the mother and
daughter were having one not less important. Natasha came running to
her mother, quite excited.
"Mamma!... Mamma!... He has made me..."
"Made what?"
"Made, made me an offer, Mamma! Mamma!" she exclaimed.
The countess did not believe her ears. Denisov had proposed. To whom?
To this chit of a girl, Natasha, who not so long ago was playing with
dolls and who was still having lessons.
"Don’t, Natasha! What nonsense!" she said, hoping it was a joke.
"Nonsense, indeed! I am telling you the fact," said Natasha
indignantly. "I come to ask you what to do, and you call it
‘nonsense!’"
The countess shrugged her shoulders.
"If it is true that Monsieur Denisov has made you a proposal, tell
him he is a fool, that’s all!"
"No, he’s not a fool!" replied Natasha indignantly and seriously.
"Well then, what do you want? You’re all in love nowadays. Well,
if you are in love, marry him!" said the countess, with a laugh of
annoyance. "Good luck to you!"
"No, Mamma, I’m not in love with him, I suppose I’m not in love
with him."
"Well then, tell him so."
"Mamma, are you cross? Don’t be cross, dear! Is it my fault?"
"No, but what is it, my dear? Do you want me to go and tell him?"
said the countess smiling.
"No, I will do it myself, only tell me what to say. It’s all very
well for you," said Natasha, with a responsive smile. "You should
have seen how he said it! I know he did not mean to say it, but it came
out accidently."
"Well, all the same, you must refuse him."
"No, I mustn’t. I am so sorry for him! He’s so nice."
"Well then, accept his offer. It’s high time for you to be
married," answered the countess sharply and sarcastically.
"No, Mamma, but I’m so sorry for him. I don’t know how I’m to
say it."
"And there’s nothing for you to say. I shall speak to him myself,"
said the countess, indignant that they should have dared to treat this
little Natasha as grown up.
"No, not on any account! I will tell him myself, and you’ll listen
at the door," and Natasha ran across the drawing room to the dancing
hall, where Denisov was sitting on the same chair by the clavichord
with his face in his hands.
He jumped up at the sound of her light step.
"Nataly," he said, moving with rapid steps toward her, "decide my
fate. It is in your hands."
"Vasili Dmitrich, I’m so sorry for you!... No, but you are so
nice... but it won’t do...not that... but as a friend, I shall always
love you."
Denisov bent over her hand and she heard strange sounds she did not
understand. She kissed his rough curly black head. At this instant, they
heard the quick rustle of the countess’ dress. She came up to them.
"Vasili Dmitrich, I thank you for the honor," she said, with an
embarrassed voice, though it sounded severe to Denisov - "but my
daughter is so young, and I thought that, as my son’s friend, you
would have addressed yourself first to me. In that case you would not
have obliged me to give this refusal."
"Countess..." said Denisov, with downcast eyes and a guilty face.
He tried to say more, but faltered.
Natasha could not remain calm, seeing him in such a plight. She began
to sob aloud.
"Countess, I have done w’ong," Denisov went on in an unsteady
voice, "but believe me, I so adore your daughter and all your family
that I would give my life twice over..." He looked at the countess,
and seeing her severe face said: "Well, good-by, Countess," and
kissing her hand, he left the room with quick resolute strides, without
looking at Natasha.
Next day Rostov saw Denisov off. He did not wish to stay another
day in Moscow. All Denisov’s Moscow friends gave him a farewell
entertainment at the gypsies’, with the result that he had no
recollection of how he was put in the sleigh or of the first three
stages of his journey.
After Denisov’s departure, Rostov spent another fortnight in Moscow,
without going out of the house, waiting for the money his father could
not at once raise, and he spent most of his time in the girls’ room.
Sonya was more tender and devoted to him than ever. It was as if she
wanted to show him that his losses were an achievement that made her
love him all the more, but Nicholas now considered himself unworthy of
her.
He filled the girls’ albums with verses and music, and having at last
sent Dolokhov the whole forty-three thousand rubles and received his
receipt, he left at the end of November, without taking leave of any of
his acquaintances, to overtake his regiment which was already in Poland.
BOOK FIVE: 1806 - 07
CHAPTER I
After his interview with his wife Pierre left for Petersburg. At the
Torzhok post station, either there were no horses or the postmaster
would 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 big
feet in their overboots on the table, and began to reflect.
"Will you have the portmanteaus brought in? And a bed got ready, and
tea?" asked his valet.
Pierre gave no answer, for he neither heard nor saw anything. He had
begun to think of the last station and was still pondering on the same
question - one so important that he took no notice of what went
on around him. Not only was he indifferent as to whether he got to
Petersburg earlier or later, or whether he secured accommodation at this
station, but compared to the thoughts that now occupied him it was a
matter of indifference whether he remained there for a few hours or for
the rest of his life.
The postmaster, his wife, the valet, and a peasant woman selling
Torzhok embroidery came into the room offering their services.
Without changing his careless attitude, Pierre looked at them over his
spectacles unable to understand what they wanted or how they could go on
living without having solved the problems that so absorbed him. He had
been engrossed by the same thoughts ever since the day he returned from
Sokolniki after the duel and had spent that first agonizing, 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 solve and yet could not cease to
ask himself. It was as if the thread of the chief screw which held his
life together were stripped, so that the screw could not get in or out,
but went on turning uselessly in the same place.
The postmaster came in and began obsequiously to beg his excellency to
wait only two hours, when, come what might, he would let his excellency
have the courier horses. It was plain that he was lying and only wanted
to get more money from the traveler.
"Is this good or bad?" Pierre asked himself. "It is good for me,
bad for another traveler, and for himself it’s unavoidable, because
he needs money for food; the man said an officer had once given him a
thrashing for letting a private traveler have the courier horses.
But the officer thrashed him because he had to get on as quickly as
possible. And I," continued Pierre, "shot Dolokhov because I
considered myself injured, and Louis XVI was executed because they
considered him a criminal, and a year later they executed those who
executed him - also for some reason. What is bad? What is good? What
should one love and what hate? What does one live for? And what am I?
What is life, and what is death? What power governs all?"
There was no answer to any of these questions, except one, and that
not a logical answer and not at all a reply to them. The answer was:
"You’ll die and all will end. You’ll die and know all, or cease
asking." But dying was also dreadful.
The Torzhok peddler woman, in a whining voice, went on offering her
wares, especially a pair of goatskin slippers. "I have hundreds of
rubles I don’t know what to do with, and she stands in her tattered
cloak looking timidly at me," he thought. "And what does she
want the money for? As if that money could add a hair’s breadth to
happiness or peace of mind. Can anything in the world make her or me
less a prey to evil and death? - death which ends all and must come
today or tomorrow - at any rate, in an instant as compared with
eternity." 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 virtuous
struggles of a certain Emilie de Mansfeld. "And why did she resist
her seducer when she loved him?" he thought. "God could not have put
into her heart an impulse that was against His will. My wife - as she
once was - did not struggle, and perhaps she was right. Nothing has been
found out, nothing discovered," Pierre again said to himself. "All
we can know is that we know nothing. And that’s the height of human
wisdom."
Everything within and around him seemed confused, senseless, and
repellent. Yet in this very repugnance to all his circumstances Pierre
found a kind of tantalizing satisfaction.
"I make bold to ask your excellency to move a little for this
gentleman," said the postmaster, entering the room followed by another
traveler, also detained for lack of horses.
The newcomer was a short, large-boned, yellow-faced, wrinkled old
man, with gray bushy eyebrows overhanging bright eyes of an indefinite
grayish color.
Pierre took his feet off the table, stood up, and lay down on a bed that
had been got ready for him, glancing now and then at the newcomer, who,
with a gloomy and tired face, was wearily taking off his wraps with the
aid of his servant, and not looking at Pierre. With a 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-cropped hair, and looked at Bezukhov. The
stern, shrewd, and penetrating expression of that look struck Pierre. He
felt a wish to speak to the stranger, but by the time he had made up his
mind to ask him a question about the roads, the traveler had closed his
eyes. His shriveled old hands were folded and on the finger of one of
them Pierre noticed a large cast iron ring with a seal representing a
death’s head. The stranger sat without stirring, either resting or, as
it seemed to Pierre, sunk in profound and calm meditation. His servant
was also a yellow, wrinkled old man, without beard or mustache,
evidently not because he was shaven but because they had never grown.
This active old servant was unpacking the traveler’s canteen and
preparing tea. He brought in a boiling samovar. When everything was
ready, the stranger opened his eyes, moved to the table, filled a
tumbler with tea for himself and one for the beardless old man to whom
he passed it. Pierre began to feel a sense of uneasiness, and the
need, even the inevitability, of entering into conversation with this
stranger.
The servant brought back his tumbler turned upside down, * with an
unfinished bit of nibbled sugar, and asked if anything more would be
wanted.
* 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 devotional work,
and the traveler became absorbed in it. Pierre looked at him. All at
once the stranger closed the book, putting in a marker, and again,
leaning with his arms on the back of the sofa, sat in his former
position with his eyes shut. Pierre looked at him and had not time
to turn away when the old man, opening his eyes, fixed his steady and
severe gaze straight on Pierre’s face.
Pierre felt confused and wished to avoid that look, but the bright old
eyes attracted him irresistibly.
CHAPTER II
"I have the pleasure of addressing Count Bezukhov, if I am not
mistaken," said the stranger in a deliberate and loud voice.
Pierre looked silently and inquiringly at him over his spectacles.
"I have heard of you, my dear sir," continued the stranger, "and
of your misfortune." He seemed to emphasize the last word, as if to
say - "Yes, misfortune! Call it what you please, I know that what
happened to you in Moscow was a misfortune." - "I regret it very
much, my dear sir."
Pierre flushed and, hurriedly putting his legs down from the bed, bent
forward toward the old man with a forced and timid smile.
"I have not referred to this out of curiosity, my dear sir, but for
greater reasons."
He paused, his gaze still on Pierre, and moved aside on the sofa by way
of inviting the other to take a seat beside him. Pierre felt reluctant
to enter into conversation with this old man, but, submitting to him
involuntarily, came up and sat down beside him.
"You are unhappy, my dear sir," the stranger continued. "You
are young and I am old. I should like to help you as far as lies in my
power."
"Oh, yes!" said Pierre, with a forced smile. "I am very grateful
to you. Where are you traveling from?"
The stranger’s face was not genial, it was even cold and severe, but
in spite of this, both the face and words of his new acquaintance were
irresistibly attractive to Pierre.
"But if for any reason you don’t feel inclined to talk to me,"
said the old man, "say so, my dear sir." And he suddenly smiled, in
an unexpected and tenderly paternal way.
"Oh no, not at all! On the contrary, I am very glad to make your
acquaintance," said Pierre. And again, glancing at the stranger’s
hands, he looked more closely at the ring, with its skull - a Masonic
sign.
"Allow me to ask," he said, "are you a Mason?"
"Yes, I belong to the Brotherhood of the Freemasons," said the
stranger, looking deeper and deeper into Pierre’s eyes. "And in
their name and my own I hold out a brotherly hand to you."
"I am afraid," said Pierre, smiling, and wavering between the
confidence the personality of the Freemason inspired in him and his own
habit of ridiculing the Masonic beliefs - "I am afraid I am very far
from understanding - how am I to put it? - I am afraid my way of looking
at the world is so opposed to yours that we shall not understand one
another."
"I know your outlook," said the Mason, "and the view of life you
mention, and which you think is the result of your own mental efforts,
is the one held by the majority of people, and is the invariable fruit
of pride, indolence, and ignorance. Forgive me, my dear sir, but if I
had not known it I should not have addressed you. Your view of life is a
regrettable delusion."
"Just as I may suppose you to be deluded," said Pierre, with a faint
smile.
"I should never dare to say that I know the truth," said the Mason,
whose words struck Pierre more and more by their precision and firmness.
"No one can attain to truth by himself. Only by laying stone on stone
with the cooperation of all, by the millions of generations from our
forefather Adam to our own times, is that temple reared which is to be
a worthy dwelling place of the Great God," he added, and closed his
eyes.
"I ought to tell you that I do not believe... do not believe in
God," said Pierre, regretfully and with an effort, feeling it
essential to speak the whole truth.
The Mason looked intently at Pierre and smiled as a rich man with
millions in hand might smile at a poor fellow who told him that he, poor
man, had not the five rubles that would make him happy.
"Yes, you do not know Him, my dear sir," said the Mason. "You
cannot know Him. You do not know Him and that is why you are unhappy."
"Yes, yes, I am unhappy," assented Pierre. "But what am I to
do?"
"You know Him not, my dear sir, and so you are very unhappy. You do
not know Him, but He is here, He is in me, He is in my words, He is in
thee, and even in those blasphemous words thou hast just uttered!"
pronounced the Mason in a stern and tremulous voice.
He paused and sighed, evidently trying to calm himself.
"If He were not," he said quietly, "you and I would not be
speaking of Him, my dear sir. Of what, of whom, are we speaking? Whom
hast thou denied?" he suddenly asked with exulting austerity and
authority in his voice. "Who invented Him, if He did not exist? Whence
came thy conception of the existence of such an incomprehensible Being?
didst thou, and why did the whole world, conceive the idea of the
existence of such an incomprehensible Being, a Being all-powerful,
eternal, and infinite in all His attributes?..."
He stopped and remained silent for a long time.
Pierre could not and did not wish to break this silence.
"He exists, but to understand Him is hard," the Mason began again,
looking not at Pierre but straight before him, and turning the leaves
of his book with his old hands which from excitement he could not keep
still. "If it were a man whose existence thou didst doubt I could
bring him to thee, could take him by the hand and show him to thee. But
how can I, an insignificant mortal, show His omnipotence, His infinity,
and all His mercy to one who is blind, or who shuts his eyes that he may
not see or understand Him and may not see or understand his own vileness
and sinfulness?" He paused again. "Who art thou? Thou dreamest that
thou art wise because thou couldst utter those blasphemous words," he
went on, with a somber and scornful smile. "And thou art more foolish
and unreasonable than a little child, who, playing with the parts of a
skillfully made watch, dares to say that, as he does not understand
its use, he does not believe in the master who made it. To know Him is
hard.... For ages, from our forefather Adam to our own day, we labor to
attain that knowledge and are still infinitely far from our aim; but
in our lack of understanding we see only our weakness and His
greatness...."
Pierre listened with swelling heart, gazing into the Mason’s face with
shining eyes, not interrupting or questioning him, but believing with
his whole soul what the stranger said. Whether he accepted the wise
reasoning contained in the Mason’s words, or believed as a child
believes, in the speaker’s tone of conviction and earnestness, or
the tremor of the speaker’s voice - which sometimes almost broke - or
those brilliant aged eyes grown old in this conviction, or the calm
firmness and certainty of his vocation, which radiated from his whole
being (and which struck Pierre especially by contrast with his own
dejection and hopelessness) - at any rate, Pierre longed with his whole
soul to believe and he did believe, and felt a joyful sense of comfort,
regeneration, and return to life.
"He is not to be apprehended by reason, but by life," said the
Mason.
"I do not understand," said Pierre, feeling with dismay doubts
reawakening. He was afraid of any want of clearness, any weakness, in
the Mason’s arguments; he dreaded not to be able to believe in him.
"I don’t understand," he said, "how it is that the mind of man
cannot attain the knowledge of which you speak."
The Mason smiled with his gentle fatherly smile.
"The highest wisdom and truth are like the purest liquid we may wish
to imbibe," he said. "Can I receive that pure liquid into an impure
vessel and judge of its purity? Only by the inner purification of myself
can I retain in some degree of purity the liquid I receive."
"Yes, yes, that is so," said Pierre joyfully.
"The highest wisdom is not founded on reason alone, not on those
worldly sciences of physics, history, chemistry, and the like, into
which intellectual knowledge is divided. The highest wisdom is one.
The highest wisdom has but one science - the science of the whole - the
science explaining the whole creation and man’s place in it. To
receive that science it is necessary to purify and renew one’s inner
self, and so before one can know, it is necessary to believe and to
perfect one’s self. And to attain this end, we have the light called
conscience that God has implanted in our souls."
"Yes, yes," assented Pierre.
"Look then at thy inner self with the eyes of the spirit, and ask
thyself whether thou art content with thyself. What hast thou attained
relying on reason only? What art thou? You are young, you are rich, you
are clever, you are well educated. And what have you done with all these
good gifts? Are you content with yourself and with your life?"
"No, I hate my life," Pierre muttered, wincing.
"Thou hatest it. Then change it, purify thyself; and as thou art
purified, thou wilt gain wisdom. Look at your life, my dear sir.
How have you spent it? In riotous orgies and debauchery, receiving
everything from society and giving nothing in return. You have become
the possessor of wealth. How have you used it? What have you done
for your neighbor? Have you ever thought of your tens of thousands
of slaves? Have you helped them physically and morally? No! You have
profited by their toil to lead a profligate life. That is what you have
done. Have you chosen a post in which you might be of service to your
neighbor? No! You have spent your life in idleness. Then you married, my
dear sir - took on yourself responsibility for the guidance of a young
woman; and what have you done? You have not helped her to find the way
of truth, my dear sir, but have thrust her into an abyss of deceit and
misery. A man offended you and you shot him, and you say you do not
know God and hate your life. There is nothing strange in that, my dear
sir!"
After these words, the Mason, as if tired by his long discourse, again
leaned his arms on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Pierre
looked at that aged, stern, motionless, almost lifeless face and moved
his lips without uttering a sound. He wished to say, "Yes, a vile,
idle, vicious life!" but dared not break the silence.
The Mason cleared his throat huskily, as old men do, and called his
servant.
"How about the horses?" he asked, without looking at Pierre.
"The exchange horses have just come," answered the servant. "Will
you not rest here?"
"No, tell them to harness."
"Can he really be going away leaving me alone without having told me
all, and without promising to help me?" thought Pierre, rising with
downcast head; and he began to pace the room, glancing occasionally at
the Mason. "Yes, I never thought of it, but I have led a contemptible
and profligate life, though I did not like it and did not want to,"
thought Pierre. "But this man knows the truth and, if he wished to,
could disclose it to me."
Pierre wished to say this to the Mason, but did not dare to. The
traveler, having packed his things with his practiced hands, began
fastening his coat. When he had finished, he turned to Bezukhov, and
said in a tone of indifferent politeness:
"Where are you going to now, my dear sir?"
"I?... I’m going to Petersburg," answered Pierre, in a childlike,
hesitating voice. "I thank you. I agree with all you have said. But
do not suppose me to be so bad. With my whole soul I wish to be what you
would have me be, but I have never had help from anyone.... But it is
I, above all, who am to blame for everything. Help me, teach me, and
perhaps I may..."
Pierre could not go on. He gulped and turned away.
The Mason remained silent for a long time, evidently considering.
"Help comes from God alone," he said, "but such measure of help as
our Order can bestow it will render you, my dear sir. You are going to
Petersburg. Hand this to Count Willarski" (he took out his notebook
and wrote a few words on a large sheet of paper folded in four).
"Allow me to give you a piece of advice. When you reach the capital,
first of all devote some time to solitude and self-examination and do
not resume your former way of life. And now I wish you a good journey,
my dear sir," he added, seeing that his servant had entered... "and
success."
The traveler was Joseph Alexeevich Bazdeev, as Pierre saw from the
postmaster’s book. Bazdeev had been one of the best-known Freemasons
and Martinists, even in Novikov’s time. For a long while after he had
gone, Pierre did not go to bed or order horses but paced up and down
the room, pondering over his vicious past, and with a rapturous sense
of beginning anew pictured to himself the blissful, irreproachable,
virtuous future that seemed to him so easy. It seemed to him that he had
been vicious only because he had somehow forgotten how good it is to
be virtuous. Not a trace of his former doubts remained in his soul. He
firmly believed in the possibility of the brotherhood of men united in
the aim of supporting one another in the path of virtue, and that is how
Freemasonry presented itself to him.
CHAPTER III
On reaching Petersburg Pierre did not let anyone know of his arrival,
he went nowhere and spent whole days in reading Thomas à Kempis, whose
book had been sent him by someone unknown. One thing he continually
realized as he read that book: the joy, hitherto unknown to him,
of believing in the possibility of attaining perfection, and in the
possibility of active brotherly love among men, which Joseph Alexeevich
had revealed to him. A week after his arrival, the young Polish count,
Willarski, whom Pierre had known slightly in Petersburg society, came
into his room one evening in the official and ceremonious manner in
which Dolokhov’s second had called on him, and, having closed the
door behind him and satisfied himself that there was nobody else in the
room, addressed Pierre.
"I have come to you with a message and an offer, Count," he
said without sitting down. "A person of very high standing in our
Brotherhood has made application for you to be received into our Order
before the usual term and has proposed to me to be your sponsor. I
consider it a sacred duty to fulfill that person’s wishes. Do you wish
to enter the Brotherhood of Freemasons under my sponsorship?"
The cold, austere tone of this man, whom he had almost always before met
at balls, amiably smiling in the society of the most brilliant women,
surprised Pierre.
"Yes, I do wish it," said he.
Willarski bowed his head.
"One more question, Count," he said, "which I beg you to answer
in all sincerity - not as a future Mason but as an honest man: have you
renounced your former convictions - do you believe in God?"
Pierre considered.
"Yes... yes, I believe in God," he said.
"In that case..." began Willarski, but Pierre interrupted him.
"Yes, I do believe in God," he repeated.
"In that case we can go," said Willarski. "My carriage is at your
service."
Willarski was silent throughout the drive. To Pierre’s inquiries as
to what he must do and how he should answer, Willarski only replied that
brothers more worthy than he would test him and that Pierre had only to
tell the truth.
Having entered the courtyard of a large house where the Lodge had its
headquarters, and having ascended a dark staircase, they entered a small
well-lit anteroom where they took off their cloaks without the aid of
a servant. From there they passed into another room. A man in strange
attire appeared at the door. Willarski, stepping toward him, said
something to him in French in an undertone and then went up to a small
wardrobe in which Pierre noticed garments such as he had never seen
before. Having taken a kerchief from the cupboard, Willarski bound
Pierre’s eyes with it and tied it in a knot behind, catching some
hairs painfully in the knot. Then he drew his face down, kissed him, and
taking him by the hand led him forward. The hairs tied in the knot hurt
Pierre and there were lines of pain on his face and a shamefaced smile.
His huge figure, with arms hanging down and with a puckered, though
smiling face, moved after Willarski with uncertain, timid steps.
Having led him about ten paces, Willarski stopped.
"Whatever happens to you," he said, "you must bear it all manfully
if you have firmly resolved to join our Brotherhood." (Pierre nodded
affirmatively.) "When you hear a knock at the door, you will uncover
your eyes," added Willarski. "I wish you courage and success,"
and, pressing Pierre’s hand, he went out.
Left alone, Pierre went on smiling in the same way. Once or twice
he shrugged his shoulders and raised his hand to the kerchief, as if
wishing to take it off, but let it drop again. The five minutes spent
with his eyes bandaged seemed to him an hour. His arms felt numb,
his legs almost gave way, it seemed to him that he was tired out. He
experienced a variety of most complex sensations. He felt afraid of what
would happen to him and still more afraid of showing his fear. He felt
curious to know what was going to happen and what would be revealed to
him; but most of all, he felt joyful that the moment had come when he
would at last start on that path of regeneration and on the actively
virtuous life of which he had been dreaming since he met Joseph
Alexeevich. Loud knocks were heard at the door. Pierre took the bandage
off his eyes and glanced around him. The room was in black darkness,
only a small lamp was burning inside something white. Pierre went nearer
and saw that the lamp stood on a black table on which lay an open book.
The book was the Gospel, and the white thing with the lamp inside was a
human skull with its cavities and teeth. After reading the first words
of the Gospel: "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with
God," Pierre went round the table and saw a large open box filled
with something. It was a coffin with bones inside. He was not at all
surprised by what he saw. Hoping to enter on an entirely new life quite
unlike the old one, he expected everything to be unusual, even more
unusual than what he was seeing. A skull, a coffin, the Gospel - it
seemed to him that he had expected all this and even more. Trying
to stimulate his emotions he looked around. "God, death, love, the
brotherhood of man," he kept saying to himself, associating these
words with vague yet joyful ideas. The door opened and someone came in.
By the dim light, to which Pierre had already become accustomed, he
saw a rather short man. Having evidently come from the light into the
darkness, the man paused, then moved with cautious steps toward the
table and placed on it his small leather-gloved hands.
This short man had on a white leather apron which covered his chest and
part of his legs; he had on a kind of necklace above which rose a high
white ruffle, outlining his rather long face which was lit up from
below.
"For what have you come hither?" asked the newcomer, turning in
Pierre’s direction at a slight rustle made by the latter. "Why have
you, who do not believe in the truth of the light and who have not
seen the light, come here? What do you seek from us? Wisdom, virtue,
enlightenment?"
At the moment the door opened and the stranger came in, Pierre felt a
sense of awe and veneration such as he had experienced in his boyhood at
confession; he felt himself in the presence of one socially a complete
stranger, yet nearer to him through the brotherhood of man. With bated
breath and beating heart he moved toward the Rhetor (by which name the
brother who prepared a seeker for entrance into the Brotherhood was
known). Drawing nearer, he recognized in the Rhetor a man he knew,
Smolyaninov, and it mortified him to think that the newcomer was an
acquaintance - he wished him simply a brother and a virtuous instructor.
For a long time he could not utter a word, so that the Rhetor had to
repeat his question.
"Yes... I... I... desire regeneration," Pierre uttered with
difficulty.
"Very well," said Smolyaninov, and went on at once: "Have you any
idea of the means by which our holy Order will help you to reach your
aim?" said he quietly and quickly.
"I... hope... for guidance... help... in regeneration," said Pierre,
with a trembling voice and some difficulty in utterance due to his
excitement and to being unaccustomed to speak of abstract matters in
Russian.
"What is your conception of Freemasonry?"
"I imagine that Freemasonry is the fraternity and equality of men who
have virtuous aims," said Pierre, feeling ashamed of the inadequacy
of his words for the solemnity of the moment, as he spoke. "I
imagine..."
"Good!" said the Rhetor quickly, apparently satisfied with
this answer. "Have you sought for means of attaining your aim in
religion?"
"No, I considered it erroneous and did not follow it," said Pierre,
so softly that the Rhetor did not hear him and asked him what he was
saying. "I have been an atheist," answered Pierre.
"You are seeking for truth in order to follow its laws in your life,
therefore you seek wisdom and virtue. Is that not so?" said the
Rhetor, after a moment’s pause.
"Yes, yes," assented Pierre.
The Rhetor cleared his throat, crossed his gloved hands on his breast,
and began to speak.
"Now I must disclose to you the chief aim of our Order," he said,
"and if this aim coincides with yours, you may enter our Brotherhood
with profit. The first and chief object of our Order, the foundation on
which it rests and which no human power can destroy, is the preservation
and handing on to posterity of a certain important mystery... which
has come down to us from the remotest ages, even from the first man - a
mystery on which perhaps the fate of mankind depends. But since this
mystery is of such a nature that nobody can know or use it unless he be
prepared by long and diligent self-purification, not everyone can hope
to attain it quickly. Hence we have a secondary aim, that of preparing
our members as much as possible to reform their hearts, to purify and
enlighten their minds, by means handed on to us by tradition from those
who have striven to attain this mystery, and thereby to render them
capable of receiving it.
"By purifying and regenerating our members we try, thirdly, to improve
the whole human race, offering it in our members an example of piety
and virtue, and thereby try with all our might to combat the evil which
sways the world. Think this over and I will come to you again."
"To combat the evil which sways the world..." Pierre repeated, and a
mental image of his future activity in this direction rose in his mind.
He imagined men such as he had himself been a fortnight ago, and he
addressed an edifying exhortation to them. He imagined to himself
vicious and unfortunate people whom he would assist by word and deed,
imagined oppressors whose victims he would rescue. Of the three
objects mentioned by the Rhetor, this last, that of improving mankind,
especially appealed to Pierre. The important mystery mentioned by the
Rhetor, though it aroused his curiosity, did not seem to him essential,
and the second aim, that of purifying and regenerating himself, did not
much interest him because at that moment he felt with delight that he
was already perfectly cured of his former faults and was ready for all
that was good.
Half an hour later, the Rhetor returned to inform the seeker of the
seven virtues, corresponding to the seven steps of Solomon’s temple,
which every Freemason should cultivate in himself. These virtues were:
1. Discretion, the keeping of the secrets of the Order. 2. Obedience to
those of higher ranks in the Order. 3. Morality. 4. Love of mankind. 5.
Courage. 6. Generosity. 7. The love of death.
"In the seventh place, try, by the frequent thought of death," the
Rhetor said, "to bring yourself to regard it not as a dreaded foe, but
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