The question that had been disturbing Pierre all that day, since the Mozhaisk hill, now struck him as perfectly clear and fully solved. He saw now all the import and all the gravity of the war and the impending battle. All he had seen that day, all the stern, grave faces of which he had had glimpses, appeared to him in a new light now. He saw, to borrow a term from physics, the latent heat of patriotism in all those men he had seen, and saw in it the explanation of the composure and apparent levity with which they were all preparing for death. “We ought not to take prisoners,” said Prince Andrey. “That change alone would transform the whole aspect of war and would make it less cruel. But playing at war, that’s what’s vile; and playing at magnanimity and all the rest of it. That magnanimity and sensibility is like the magnanimity and sensibility of the lady who turns sick at the sight of a slaughtered calf—she is so kind-hearted she can’t see blood—but eats fricasseed veal with a very good appetite. They talk of the laws of warfare, of chivalry, of flags of truce, and humanity to the wounded, and so on. That’s all rubbish. I saw enough in 1805 of chivalry and flags of truce： they duped us, and we duped them. They plunder other people’s homes, issue false money, and, worse than all, kill my children, my father, and then talk of the laws of warfare, and generosity to a fallen foe. No prisoners; and go to give and to meet death！ Any one who has come to think this as I have, through the same sufferings …”
Prince Andrey, who had thought that he did not care whether they took Moscow as they had taken Smolensk, was suddenly pulled up in his speech by a nervous catch in his throat. He walked to and fro several times in silence, but his eyes blazed with feverish brilliance and his lips quivered, as he began to speak again.
“If there were none of this playing at generosity in warfare, we should never go to war, except for something worth facing certain death for, as now. Then there would not be wars because Pavel Ivanitch had insulted Mihail Ivanitch. But if there is war as now, let it be really war. And then the intensity of warfare would be something quite different. All these Westphalians and Hessians Napoleon is leading against us would not have come to fight us in Russia, and we should not have gone to war in Austria and in Prussia without knowing what for. War is not a polite recreation, but the vilest thing in life, and we ought to understand that and not play at war. We ought to accept it sternly and solemnly as a fearful necessity. It all comes to this： have done with lying, and if it’s war, then it’s war and not a game, or else warfare is simply the favourite pastime of the idle and frivolous. … The military is the most honoured calling. And what is war, what is needed for success in war, what are the morals of the military world？ The object of warfare is murder; the means employed in warfare—spying, treachery, and the encouragement of it, the ruin of a country, the plundering of its inhabitants and robbery for the maintenance of the army, trickery and lying, which are called military strategy; the morals of the military class—absence of all independence, that is, discipline, idleness, ignorance, cruelty, debauchery, and drunkenness. And in spite of all that, it is the highest class, respected by every one. All sovereigns, except the Chinese, wear a military uniform, and give the greatest rewards to the man who succeeds in killing most people. … They meet together to murder one another, as we shall do to-morrow; they slaughter and mutilate tens of thousands of men, and then offer up thanksgiving services for the number of men they have killed （and even add to it in the telling）, and glorify the victory, supposing that the more men have been slaughtered the greater the achievement. How God can look down from above and hear them！” shrieked Prince Andrey in a shrill, piercing voice. “Ah, my dear boy, life has been a bitter thing for me of late. I see that I have come to understand too much. And it is not good for man to taste of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. … Ah, well, it’s not for long！” he added. “But you are getting sleepy and it’s time I was in bed too. Go back to Gorky,” said Prince Andrey suddenly.
“Oh no！” answered Pierre, gazing with eyes full of scared sympathy at Prince Andrey.
“You must be off; before a battle one needs to get a good sleep,” repeated Prince Andrey. He went quickly up to Pierre, embraced and kissed him. “Good-bye, be off,” he cried, “whether we see each other again or not …” and turning hurriedly, he went off into the barn.
It was already dark, and Pierre could not distinguish whether the expression of his face was exasperated or affectionate.
Pierre stood for some time in silence, hesitating whether to go after him or to return to Gorky. “No; he does not want me！” Pierre made up his mind, “and I know this is our last meeting！” He heaved a deep sigh and rode back to Gorky.
Prince Andrey lay down on a rug in the barn, but he could not sleep.
He closed his eyes. One set of images followed another in his mind. On one mental picture he dwelt long and joyfully. He vividly recalled one evening in Petersburg. Natasha with an eager, excited face had been telling him how in looking for mushrooms the previous summer she had lost her way in a great forest. She described incoherently the dark depths of the forest, and her feelings, and her talk with a bee-keeper she met, and every minute she broke off in her story, saying： “No, I can’t, I’m not describing it properly; no, you won’t understand me,” although Prince Andrey tried to assure her that he understood and did really understand all she wanted to convey to him. Natasha was dissatisfied with her own words; she felt that they did not convey the passionately poetical feeling she had known that day and tried to give expression to. “It was all so exquisite, that old man, and it was so dark in the forest … and such a kind look in his … no, I can’t describe it,” she had said, flushed and moved.
Prince Andrey smiled now the same happy smile he had smiled then, gazing into her eyes. “I understood her,” thought Prince Andrey, “and more than understood her： that spiritual force, that sincerity, that openness of soul, the very soul of her, which seemed bound up with her body, the very soul it was I loved in her … loved so intensely, so passionately …” and all at once he thought how his love had ended. “He cared nothing for all that. He saw nothing of it, had no notion of it. He saw in her a pretty and fresh young girl with whom he did not deign to unite his life permanently. And I？ … And he is still alive and happy.” Prince Andrey jumped up as though suddenly scalded, and began walking to and fro before the barn again.
