Prince Andrey, who had been thinking he didn’t mind one way or the other whether they took Moscow as they had taken Smolensk, was stopped sharply in mid-flow by a sudden tremor and a lump in his throat. He walked up and down once or twice without saying anything, but his eyes had a feverish glint in them and his top lip quivered as he launched forth again.
‘If we didn’t have all this business of magnanimity in warfare, we would only ever go to war when there was something worth facing certain death for, as there is now. Nobody would go to war just because Pavel Ivanych had insulted Mikhail Ivanych. But if there’s going to be a war like this one, let there be war. And besides, the intensity of military commitment would be of a different order. All these Westphalians and Hessians brought over here by Napoleon would never have followed him into Russia, and we wouldn’t have gone off to fight in Austria and in Prussia without knowing what for. War is not being nice to each other, it’s the vilest thing in human life, and we ought to understand that and not play at war. It’s a terrible necessity, and we should be strict about it and take it seriously. It comes down to this: no more lying, war means war and it’s not a plaything. Otherwise war will be a nice hobby for idle people and butterfly minds . . . The military class gets all the honours. And what is war, what is necessary for success on the battlefield, what is the moral basis of a military society? The aim of war is murder, the weapons of war are spying, treachery and the fostering of further treachery, the destruction of people, looting their property and stealing from them to keep the army on the road, falsehood and deceit, which go by the name of clever tactical ploys, and the moral basis of the military class is the curtailment of freedom through discipline, linked with idleness, ignorance, cruelty, debauchery and drunkenness. And in spite of all that, it’s still the highest class, universally respected. All heads of state except the Chinese wear military uniforms, and the biggest rewards go to the man who has killed the most people . . . People come together to murder one another, as they will do tomorrow; men get slaughtered and crippled in their tens of thousands, and then services of thanksgiving are held to celebrate the killing of vast numbers of men (they even exaggerate the numbers), and victory is proclaimed, on the basis that the more men slaughtered, the greater the achievement. How can God look down from heaven and listen to it all?’ Prince Andrey called out in a shrill voice that set the teeth on edge. ‘Listen, old fellow, life’s become unbearable for me just lately. I can see I’ve come to understand too much. And it’s not a good thing for man to taste of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil . . . Oh, well, not much longer!’ he added. ‘But I can see you’re nodding off, and it’s time I went to bed. Off you go back to Gorki,’ said Prince Andrey suddenly.
‘Oh no!’ answered Pierre, his deeply sympathetic eyes lighting up with alarm as he looked at Prince Andrey.
‘Time you were on your way. You need a good night’s sleep before a battle,’ repeated Prince Andrey. He went quickly over to Pierre, embraced him and kissed him. ‘Goodbye, then. Off you go,’ he cried. ‘Maybe we’ll meet again . . . maybe not . . .’ and he turned on his heel and hurried off back into the barn.
By now it was dark, and Pierre could not make out the expression on his face, so he never knew whether it was intimidating or affectionate.
He stood there for some time in silence, wondering whether to follow him in or go back to Gorki. ‘No, he doesn’t need me!’ Pierre told himself, ‘and I know this is our last meeting!’ He gave a deep sigh and rode off back to Gorki.
Back in the barn Prince Andrey lay down on a rug, but he could not get to sleep.
He closed his eyes. One image followed another. There was one that gave him pleasure, and he lingered over it. He vividly recalled one evening in Petersburg. Natasha’s face was a picture of eager excitement as she told him how she had gone mushrooming the previous summer and got lost in a big forest. She was describing in any old order the depths of the forest, her own sensations, and her chat with a bee-keeper she had come across, and she never stopped interrupting herself to say, ‘No, I can’t do it. I’m not telling it properly. No, you can’t possibly understand,’ even though Prince Andrey kept trying to reassure her that he was taking it in and he really had understood everything she had been trying to say. Natasha was dissatisfied with her own words. She felt they didn’t do justice to the poetical and romantic feelings she had experienced that day and now wanted to turn inside out. ‘It was all so wonderful, that old man, the darkness in the forest . . . and his nice, kind . . . no, I can’t describe it,’ she had said, all worked up and red in the face.
