Chapter 9 Chapter nine

As soon as Pierre touched the pillow, he felt that he was falling asleep; but suddenly, distinctly and distinctly, he heard the crash of the shots, heard the groans and shouts and the crash of the shells, smelled the blood and the smell of gunpowder, and , a sense of terror and the fear of death seized him.He opened his eyes in fright and looked up from under his coat.In the yard, everything was quiet.Only inside the gate, an orderly who was talking to the shop owner was walking around, stepping on the mud and making noise.Above Pierre's head, under the eaves of the dark wooden eaves, some pigeons fluttered, startled by Pierre's turning over.The courtyard was peacefully filled with the strong smell of the inn, hay, horse dung, and tar, which at the moment was so intoxicating to Pierre.Between the two black lean-tos, a clear starry sky appeared.

"Thank God, I can't hear it now," thought Pierre, covering his head again. "Oh, what a dreadful feeling, how ashamed I succumb to it! But they . . . they remained firm and composed . . . " he thought again. They were, according to Pierre, soldiers, soldiers who garrisoned the battery, fed him, and prayed to the holy images. They—they were strangers, people whom he had never known before, who in his mind were markedly and sharply different from the rest. "Be a soldier, just be a soldier!" Pierre thought, gradually falling asleep. "To throw myself into this shared life, to experience deeply what makes them who they are. But how do you get rid of this superfluous demonic burden of human appearance? Sometimes I can do that." Yes. I could have run away from my father, as I thought. I could have been sent to the army after the duel with Dolokhov." And then Pierre's imagination flashed back to the time when he asked Dolokhov. Hof provokes a duel luncheon, and the philanthropist of Torjok.Pierre was also reminded of the dinner of the imposing Masonic lodge, ibn F. Rushd (1126-1198) Latin name Averro Ys, held at the English Club.A familiar and amiable man sat at the end of the table.Yes, that's him!Be a philanthropist. "Yes, but he is dead?" thought Pierre. "Yes, dead; but I didn't know he was alive. What a pity he died, and I'm so glad he's alive again!" Anatole, Dolokhov, and Nirvana sat at one side of the table. Svetsky, Denisov, and others like them (Pierre in his sleep grouped them together in his mind, just as he grouped the people he just called them) , and these men, Anatole, Dolokhov, etc., shouted and sang; and amidst their shouts, one heard the incessant voice of a philanthropist, whose voice was like that of a soldier on the battlefield. The roar is as powerful and continuous as it is, but it sounds pleasant and comforting.Pierre did not understand what the philanthropists were talking about, but he knew (and in his sleep he categorized thoughts equally well) that the philanthropists were talking about being kind, about being like them.And they were huddled around the philanthropist, their faces simple, kind, and firm.However, good as they were, they paid no attention to Pierre and did not know him.Pierre wanted their attention, he wanted to talk.He got up, and at that moment, he felt his legs were very cold, and it turned out that his legs were exposed.

Feeling embarrassed, he covered his legs with his hands, and the coat slipped off his legs.Pierre opened his eyes suddenly as he was pulling on his overcoat, and he still saw the two lean-tos, the colonnades, the courtyard, but all this was now blue, shiny, covered with dew or water. Creamy gloss. "It's daylight," thought Pierre. "But leave it alone. I've got to hear what the philanthropist has to say and make sense of it." He put his overcoat over his head again, but the club seats and the philanthropist were gone.Only the implications of the words remained, those that had been told to him, or that Pierre himself had pondered over.

When Pierre later recalled these meanings, he firmly believed that someone told him from outside him, although they were inspired by the impression of this day.He felt that he had never been able to think and express himself like that in his waking hours. "War is the hardest exercise of human liberty to obey God's law," said a voice. "Simplicity is loyalty to God; you cannot do without God. They are simple. They do not speak, but do. What is spoken is silver, and what is not spoken is gold. When a man is afraid of death, he Nothing can be mastered. And whoever is not afraid of death has everything. If there is no suffering, one will not know his limits, he will not know himself. The most difficult thing to do (Pierre continues to think in his sleep, or listen to ) is to be good at unifying the meaning of all this in one's own heart. Is everything unified?" Pierre asked himself. "No, not unity. It is impossible to unify ideas, but to combine them all, and that is what is to be done! Yes, they should be combined, they should be combined!" Pierre repeated to himself with the joy of his heart. He said that he felt that this sentence, and only this sentence was enough to express what he wanted to express, and the whole problem of tormenting him was solved.

"Yes, it should be a combination, it's time to combine." "It's time to harness, it's time to harness, my lord! My lord," repeated a voice, "it's time to harness, it's time to harness..."① -------- ①In Russian, "set car" and "combine" have the same root and the same rhyme. It was the voice of the groom, waking Pierre up.The sun was already shining directly on Pierre's face.He scanned the squalid inn yard, where soldiers were drinking scrawny horses by the well, and carts were being driven out the gates.Pierre turned away dismissively, closed his eyes, and hastily sank down on the carriage seat again. "No, don't want this, I don't want to see, I don't want to understand, I want to understand what I just dreamed. One more second, and I'll understand it all. But what do I do now? Combine, how do I combine everything? ’ As a result, Pierre felt with horror that the meaning of what he saw and thought in his dream was completely lost.

The groom, the coachman, and the shopkeeper told Pierre that an officer had brought news that the French were approaching Mozhaisk and that our men were retreating. Pierre got up, gave orders to pack up and catch up with them, and set off on foot through the town. The troops had moved out, leaving about 10,000 wounded.These wounded can be seen in the yards and windows of various houses, and they are also crowded in the streets and alleys.Around the vehicles waiting to transport the wounded in the street, there were sounds of shouting, cursing and fighting.Pierre assigned to a wounded general whom he knew well a carriage which had overtaken him, and drove with him to Moscow.On the way, Pierre learns of the death of his brother-in-law and Prince Andrew.