Scarcely has Pierre laid his head on the pillow before he feels himself falling asleep, but suddenly, almost with the distinctness of reality, he hears the boom of firing, the thud of projectiles, groans and cries, and smells blood and powder, and a feeling of horror and dread of death seizes him. Filled with fright he opens his eyes and lifts his head from under his cloak. All is tranquil in the yard. Only someone's orderly passes through the gateway, splashing through the mud, and talks to the innkeeper. Above Pierre's head some pigeons, disturbed by his sitting up, flutter under the dark roof of the penthouse. The whole courtyard is permeated by a strong peaceful smell of stable yards, delightful to him at that moment. He can see the clear starry sky between the dark roofs of two penthouses. Thank God, there is no more of that, he thinks, covering up his head again. What a terrible thing is fear, and how shamefully I yielded to it. But they, they were steady and calm all the time, to the end. They, in Pierre's mind, are the soldiers, those who had been at the battery, those who had given him food, and those who had prayed before the icon. Those strange men he had not previously known stand out clearly and sharply from everyone else. To be a soldier, just a soldier, he thinks as he falls asleep: to enter communal life completely, to be imbued by what makes them what they are. But how to cast off all the superfluous, devilish burden of his outer man? There was a time when he could have done it. He could have run away from his father, as he wanted to. Or he might have been sent to serve as a soldier after the duel with Dolokhov.
The memory of the dinner at the English Club when he challenged Dolokhov flashes through his mind, then his benefactor at Torzhok. A solemn meeting of the lodge presents itself, taking place at the English Club, and someone near and dear sits at the end of the table. Yes, that is he, it is my benefactor. But he died. How sorry I am that he died, and how glad I am that he is alive again. On one side of the table sit Anatole, Dolokhov, Nesvitski, Denisov, and others like them. In the dream the category to which these men belong is as clearly defined as the category of those he terms they. Anatole and Dolokhov shout and sing loudly, yet through their shouting the voice of his benefactor is heard speaking all the time, as weighty and uninterrupted as the booming on the battlefield, but pleasant and comforting. Pierre does not understand the words, but he knows the benefactor is talking of goodness and the possibility of being what they were. They with their simple, kind, firm faces surround the benefactor on all sides, yet they do not look at Pierre and do not know him. Wishing to speak, he gets up, but at that moment his legs grow cold and bare. He feels ashamed, and with one arm covers his legs from which his cloak has in fact slipped. For a moment, rearranging it, he opens his eyes and sees the penthouse roofs, posts, and yard, now bluish, lit up, glittering with frost or dew. It is dawn. But that is not what he wants. He wants to hear and understand his benefactor's words.
Again he covers himself, but now neither the lodge nor his benefactor is there. There are only thoughts clearly expressed in words, thoughts that someone is uttering or that he himself is formulating. Afterwards, when he recalls them, Pierre is convinced that someone outside himself has spoken them, though the impressions of that day have evoked them. To endure war is the most difficult subordination of man's freedom to the law of God. Simplicity is submission to the will of God. You cannot escape from Him. And they are simple. They do not talk, but act. The spoken word is silver but the unspoken is golden. Man can be master of nothing while he fears death, but he who does not fear it possesses all. If there were no suffering, man would not know his limitations, would not know himself. The hardest thing is to be able in your soul to unite the meaning of all. No, not to unite. Thoughts cannot be united, but to harness all these thoughts together is what we need. Yes, one must harness them. Time to harness, time to harness, your excellency, some voice is repeating. It is the groom, trying to wake him. The sun shines straight into Pierre's face. He glances at the dirty innyard, soldiers watering lean horses, carts passing out of the gate, and turns away with repugnance. One second more and he should have understood it all. But what is he to do? Harness, but how can he harness everything? With horror he feels that the meaning of the dream has been destroyed. The groom, the coachman, and the innkeeper tell him that an officer has come with news that the French are already near Mozhaysk and that our men are leaving it. Pierre gets up and, having told them to harness and overtake him, goes on foot through the town. The troops are moving on, leaving about ten thousand wounded behind. The streets are crowded with them. Around carts that are to take some away, shouts, curses, and blows can be heard. Pierre offers the use of his carriage to a wounded general he knows, and drives with him to Moscow. On the way he is told of the death of his brother-in-law Anatole and of that of Prince Andrew.
