At that moment the lady companion； who lived in Ellen’s house； came in to announce that his highness was in the drawing…room； and wished to see her。
“No； tell him I don’t want to see him； that I am furious with him for not keeping his word。”
“Countess； there is mercy for every sin；” said a young man with fair hair and a long face and long nose。
The old princess rose respectfully and curtsied at his entrance。 The young man took no notice of her。 Princess Kuragin nodded to her daughter； and swam to the door。
“Yes； she is right；” thought the old princess； all of whose convictions had been dissipated by the appearance of his highness on the scene。 “She is right； but how was it in our youth—gone now for ever—we knew nothing of this？ And it is so simple；” thought Princess Kuragin； as she settled herself in her carriage。
At the beginning of August Ellen’s affairs were settled； and she wrote to her husband （who； as she supposed； was deeply attached to her） a letter； in which she made known to him her intention of marrying N。 N。 She informed him also of her conversion to the one true faith； and begged him to go through all the necessary formalities for obtaining a divorce； of which the bearer of the letter would give him further details。 “On which I pray God to have you in His holy and powerful keeping。 Your friend； Ellen。”
This letter was brought to Pierre’s house at the time when he was on the field of Borodino。
Chapter 8
AT THE END of the day of Borodino； Pierre ran for a second time from Raevsky’s battery； and with crowds of soldiers crossed the ravine on the way to Knyazkovo。 There he reached an ambulance tent； and seeing blood and hearing screams and groans； he hurried on； caught up in a mob of soldiers。
The one thing Pierre desired now with his whole soul was to get away from the terrible sensations in which he had passed that day； to get back into the ordinary conditions of life； and to go to sleep quietly indoors in his own bed。 He felt that only in the ordinary conditions of life would he be fit to understand himself and all he had seen and felt。 But the ordinary conditions of life were nowhere to be found。
Though bullets and cannon balls were not whistling here on the road along which he was going； still he saw here on all sides the same sights as on the field of battle。 There were everywhere the same suffering； exhausted； and sometimes strangely indifferent faces； everywhere the same blood and soldiers’ overcoats； the same sound of firing at a distance； yet still rousing the same horror。 There was heat and dust besides。
After walking about three versts along the Mozhaisk road； Pierre sat down by the roadside。
The shadows of night were beginning to fall over the earth； and the roar of cannon died down。 Pierre lay leaning on his elbow； and lay so a long while； gazing at the shadows passing by him in the dusk。 He was continually fancying that a cannon ball was swooping down upon him with a fearful whiz。 He started and sat up。 He had no idea how long he had been there。 In the middle of the night； three soldiers； dragging branches after them； settled themselves near him and began making a fire。
Casting sidelong glances at Pierre； the soldiers lighted the fire； set a pot on it； broke up their biscuits into it； and put in some lard。 The pleasant odour of the savoury and greasy mess blended with the smell of smoke。 Pierre raised himself and sighed。 The soldiers （there were three of them） were eating and talking among themselves。 without taking any notice of Pierre。
“And what lot will you be one of？” one of the soldiers suddenly asked Pierre； evidently suggesting in this inquiry precisely what Pierre was thinking about。 “If you are hungry we’ll give you some； only tell us whether you’re a true man。”
“I？” … said Pierre； feeling the necessity of minimising his social position as far as possible； so as to be closer to the soldiers and more within their range。 “I am really a militia officer； but my company’s nowhere about； I came to the battle and lost sight of my comrades。”
“Well！ Fancy that！” said one of the soldiers。
Another soldier shook his head。
“Well； you can have some of the mash； if you like！” said the first； and licking a wooden spoon he gave it to Pierre。
Pierre squatted by the fire； and fell to eating the mess in the pot； which seemed to him the most delicious dish he had ever tasted。 While he was bending over the pot； helping himself to big spoonfuls and greedily munching one after another； the soldiers stared at him in silence。
“Where do you want to go？ Tell us！” the first of them asked again。
“To Mozhaisk。”
“You’re a gentleman； then？”
“Yes。”
“And what’s your name？”
“Pyotr Kirillovitch。”
“Well； Pyotr Kirillovitch； come along； we’ll take you there。”
In the pitch dark the soldiers and Pierre walked to Mozhaisk。
The cocks were crowing when they reached Mozhaisk； and began ascending the steep hill into the town。
Pierre walked on with the soldiers； entirely forgetting that his inn was at the bottom of the hill and he had passed it。 He would not have been aware of this—so preoccupied was he—if he had not chanced halfway up the hill to stumble across his groom； who had been to look for him in the town； and was on his way back to the inn。 The groom recognised Pierre by his hat； which gleamed white in the dark。
“Your excellency！” he cried； “why； we had quite given you up。 How is it you are on foot？ And； mercy on us； where are you going？”
“Oh； to be sure…” said Pierre。
The soldiers halted。
“Well； found your own folks then？” said one of them。
“Well； good…bye to you—Pyotr Kirillovitch； wasn’t it？”
“Good…bye； Pyotr Kirillovitch！” said the other voices。
“Good…bye；” said Pierre； and with the groom he turned in the direction of the inn。
“I ought to give them something！” thought Pierre； feeling for his pocket。 “No； better not；” some inner voice prompted him。
There was not a room at the inn： all were full。 Pierre went out into the yard； and muffling his head up； lay down in his carriage。
Chapter 9
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