DETAILS FROM War and Peace

WARNING: Spoilers

If you haven’t read War and Peace, I suggest you read my other post on the book instead.

Vladimir Nabokov, in his essay “Good Readers and Good Writers,” said that in reading, one should focus on the details first. This is because the author is creating a new world, and we can understand that new world only by studying its details closely.

Nabokov: “There is nothing wrong about the moonshine of generalization when it comes after the sunny trifles of the book have been lovingly collected.”

So here are the sunny trifles I collected from War and Peace (Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 2007):

Anna Pavlovna’s salon (pp. 1-24). I was surprised when I realized that I was twenty pages into the book and still in the same room. I had met many of the main characters, and I knew what each of the major characters wanted in that setting. There was a sense of movement, physical purpose. Tolstoy uses Anna Pavlova’s character to navigate the room and give insight into the social perceptions of key people:

And, ridding herself of the young man who did not know how to live, [Anna Pavlovna] returned to her duties as mistress of the house and went on listening and looking out, ready to come to the rescue at any point where the conversation lagged. As the owner of a spinning mill, having put his workers in their places, strolls about the establishment, watching out for an idle spindle or the odd one squealing much too loudly, and hastens to go and slow it down or start it up at the proper speed—so Anna Pavlovna strolled about her drawing room, going up to a circle that had fallen silent or was too talkative, and with one word or rearrangement set the conversation machine running evenly and properly again. But amidst all these cares there could still be seen in her a special fear for Pierre. She glanced at him concernedly when he went over to listen to what was being talked about around Mortemart and went on to another circle where the abbé was talking. For Pierre, brought up abroad, this soirée of Anna Pavlovna’s was the first he had seen in Russia. He knew that all the intelligentsia of Petersburg was gathered there, and, like a child in a toy shop, he looked everywhere at once. He kept fearing to miss intelligent conversations that he might have listened to. Looking at the self-assured and elegant expressions on the faces gathered here, he kept expecting something especially intelligent. Finally he went up to Morio. The conversation seemed interesting to him, and he stopped, waiting for a chance to voice his thoughts, as young people like to do.

The death of Count Bezukhov (pp. 80-87). The second scene that had a mathematical precision to it as people navigated the physical and social environment of the room to achieve their aims was Count Bezukhov’s bedroom as he lay dying. This event became known as “the affair of the inlaid portfolio,” when Prince Vassily unsuccessfully tried to take (in order to ultimately destroy) the documents that passed the entirety of the Count’s significant wealth to Pierre Bezukhov, the Count’s illegitimate son. This denied Prince Vassily of the much-needed portion of the wealth that would otherwise have come to him. It’s a few moments on which, literally, a fortune rests, and the way it’s executed is incredible.
Nikolai Rostov at Schöngrabern (pp. 188-190). The way Tolstoy describes Nikolai getting injured at the Battle of Schöngrabern was memorable. I felt it as if I was Nikolai Rostov in battle—the thrill, some unclear event, then confusion, surprise.

“Well, now let anybody at all come along,” thought Rostov, spurring Little Rook and, outstripping the others, sending him into a full gallop. The enemy could already be seen ahead. Suddenly something lashed at the squadron as if with a broad besom. Rostov raised his sword, preparing to strike, but just then the soldier Nikitenko galloped past, leaving him behind, and Rostov felt, as in a dream, that he was still racing on with unnatural speed and at the same time was staying in place. The familiar hussar Bandarchuk galloped towards him from behind and looked at him angrily. Bandarchuk’s horse shied, and he swerved around him.

“What is it? I’m not moving ahead? I’ve fallen, I’ve been killed …” Rostov asked and answered in the same instant. He was alone now in the middle of the field. Instead of moving horses and hussar backs, he saw the immobile earth and stubble around him. There was warm blood under him. “No, I’m wounded, and my horse has been killed.” Little Rook tried to get up on his forelegs, but fell back, pinning his rider’s leg. Blood flowed from the horse’s head. The horse thrashed and could not get up. Rostov went to get up and also fell: his pouch caught on the saddle. Where ours were, where the French were—he did not know. There was no one around.

Tushin at Schöngrabern (pp. 191-194). The battle scenes eventually took on a familiar rhythm. They started with a halting pace, a sense of confusion and self-consciousness. But then, for the ones that went in the Russian’s favor, they merged into a rhythmic unity, where people felt caught up in a force greater than themselves. The best description of this was Tushin and his artillery at the Battle of Schöngrabern.

Amidst the smoke, deafened by the ceaseless firing, which made him jump each time, Tushin, without relinquishing his nose-warmer, ran from one gun to the other, now taking aim, now counting the charges, now ordering the dead and wounded horses to be changed and reharnessed, and shouting all the while in his weak, high, irresolute voice. His face was growing more and more animated. Only when people were killed or wounded, he winced and, turning away from the dead man, shouted angrily at his crew, who, as always, were slow to pick up a wounded man or a body. His soldiers, for the most part fine, handsome fellows (two heads taller and twice as broad as their officer, as always in a battery company), all looked to their commander, like children in a difficult situation, and the expression on his face was inevitably mirrored on theirs.

As a result of the dreadful rumbling, the noise, the necessity for attention and activity, Tushin did not experience the slightest unpleasant feeling of fear, and the thought that he could be killed or painfully wounded did not occur to him. On the contrary, he felt ever merrier and merrier. It seemed to him that the moment when he saw the enemy and fired the first shot was already very long ago, maybe even yesterday, and that the spot on the field where he stood was a long-familiar and dear place to him. Though he remembered everything, considered everything, did everything the best officer could do in his position, he was in a state similar to feverish delirium or to that of a drunken man.

From the deafening noise of his guns on all sides, from the whistling and thud of the enemy’s shells, from the sight of the sweaty, flushed crews hustling about the guns, from the sight of the blood of men and horses, from the sight of the little puffs of smoke on the enemy’s side (after each of which a cannon-ball came flying and hit the ground, a man, a cannon, or a horse)—owing to the sight of all these things, there was established in his head a fantastic world of his own, which made up his pleasure at that moment. In his imagination, the enemy’s cannon were not cannon but pipes, from which an invisible smoker released an occasional puff of smoke.

“Look, he’s puffing away again,” Tushin said to himself in a whisper, as a puff of smoke leaped from the hillside and was borne leftwards in a strip by the wind, “now wait for the ball—and send it back.”

“What orders, Your Honor?” asked the fireworker, who was standing close to him and heard him mutter something.

“Nothing … a shell …” he replied.

“Now for our Matvevna,” he said to himself. In his imagination, Matvevna was the big cannon at the end, of ancient casting. The French looked like ants around their guns. A handsome man and a drunkard, the number one at the second gun was known in his world as uncle; Tushin looked at him more often than at the others and rejoiced at his every movement. The sound of musket fire at the foot of the hill, now dying down, now intensifying again, seemed to him like someone’s breathing. He listened to the fading and flaring up of these sounds.

“Hah, breathing again, breathing,” he said to himself.

He pictured himself as of enormous size, a mighty man, flinging cannonballs at the French with both hands.

Prince Andrei reflecting on Austerlitz battle plans (pp. 264-265). I was struck by the timelessness of Prince Andrei’s reflections after hearing the disagreements between generals on the plan for Austerlitz:

The council of war, at which Prince Andrei had not managed to speak out his opinion as he had hoped to, left in him a vague and disturbing impression. Who was right—Dolgorukov and Weyrother, or Kutuzov and Langeron and the others who did not approve the plan of attack—he did not know. “But was it really impossible for Kutuzov to speak his mind directly to the sovereign? Can it really not be done otherwise? Can it really be that, for court and personal considerations, tens of thousands of lives must be risked—and my own, my life?” he thought.

Infinite sky (p. 281). One of the iconic images of the book is the sky Prince Andrei sees as he’s lying, wounded, on the Austerlitz battlefield.

“What is it? am I falling? are my legs giving way under me?” he thought, and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the fight between the French and the artillerists ended, and wishing to know whether or not the red-haired artillerist had been killed, whether the cannon had been taken or saved. But he did not see anything. There was nothing over him now except the sky—the lofty sky, not clear, but still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds slowly creeping across it. “How quiet, calm, and solemn, not at all like when I was running,” thought Prince Andrei, “not like when we were running, shouting, and fighting; not at all like when the Frenchman and the artillerist, with angry and frightened faces, were pulling at the swab—it’s quite different the way the clouds creep across this lofty, infinite sky. How is it I haven’t seen this lofty sky before? And how happy I am that I’ve finally come to know it. Yes! everything is empty, everything is a deception, except this infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing except that. But there is not even that, there is nothing except silence, tranquillity. And thank God!…”

Rostov delivering a message at Austerlitz (pp. 281-288). The visuals Tolstoy provides and the feelings he’s able to evoke as Rostov races across the battlefield to deliver a message to the sovereign are majestic:

Rostov stopped his horse for a minute on a knoll, so as to see what was going on; but no matter how he strained his attention, he could neither understand nor make out what was going on: some sort of men were moving about in the smoke; some sort of sheets of troops were moving in front and behind; but why? who? where?—it was impossible to grasp. The sights and sounds not only did not arouse any sort of dejected or timid feelings in him, but, on the contrary, gave him energy and determination.

“More, more, step it up!” he addressed these sounds mentally, and again started riding along the line, penetrating further and further into the area of the troops already going into action.

“How it’s going to be, I don’t know, but all will be well!” thought Rostov.

Having ridden past some Austrian troops, Rostov noticed that the next part of the line (this was the guards) had already gone into action.

“So much the better! I’ll see it close-up,” he thought.

He was riding almost along the front line. Several horsemen came riding in his direction. They were our life uhlans, who were returning from an attack in disorderly ranks. Rostov passed by them, involuntarily noticing that one of them was covered with blood, and rode on.

“It’s none of my business!” he thought. He had not managed to go a few hundred paces after that when to the left of him, cutting across, there appeared along the whole width of the field an enormous mass of cavalrymen on black horses, in white gleaming uniforms, coming straight at him at a canter. Rostov sent his horse into a full gallop to get out of the way of these cavalrymen, and he would have gotten away from them if they had continued at the same speed, but they kept increasing their pace, so that some of the horses were already galloping. Rostov heard their hoofbeats and the clanging of their weapons growing louder and louder, and saw their horses, their figures, and even their faces more and more clearly. These were our horse guards going into attack against the French cavalry, which was coming towards them.

The horse guards galloped, but still holding back their horses. Rostov could now see their faces and heard the command “Forward, forward!” uttered by an officer, letting his thoroughbred go at full speed. Rostov, afraid of being trampled or swept into the attack on the French, galloped along the front as hard as his horse could go, and still did not manage to avoid them.

The last horse guard, a pockmarked man of enormous height, frowned angrily, seeing Rostov in front of him, where he would inevitably run into him. This horse guard would certainly have knocked Rostov and his Bedouin down (Rostov felt himself so small and weak compared to these enormous men and horses), if it had not occurred to him to swing his whip at the eyes of the guardsman’s horse. The heavy, black, twenty-hand horse shied, laying back his ears; but the pockmarked horse guard spurred him as hard as he could with his huge spurs, and the horse, tossing his tail and stretching his neck, raced on still faster. The horse guards had barely gone past Rostov, when he heard their shout of “Hurrah!” and, turning, saw their front ranks mingling with other, probably French, horsemen with red epaulettes. Beyond that nothing could be seen, because just after that cannon began firing from somewhere and everything was covered in smoke.

At the moment when the horse guards, going past him, disappeared into the smoke, Rostov hesitated whether to gallop after them or ride where he was supposed to. This was that brilliant attack of the horse guards which astonished the French themselves. Rostov was horrified to hear later that, of all that mass of enormous, handsome men, of all those brilliant, rich men, youths, officers, and junkers, who had ridden past him on thousand-rouble horses, only eighteen were left after the attack.

Death and birth (p. 320-328). After Austerlitz, Prince Andrei is feared dead. But his wife, Liza, is close to giving birth to their son. Andrei returns, and Liza gives birth—but dies in childbirth. The entire sequence is intense and heartbreaking.

Prince Andrei and the oak (pp. 418-420). Just before Prince Andrei meets Natasha, he sees an oak that elicits his views of life at the time, a decidedly bleak and gloomy one:

At the side of the road stood an oak. Probably ten times older than the birches of the woods, it was ten times as thick and twice as tall as any birch. It was an enormous oak, twice the span of a man’s arms in girth, with some limbs broken off long ago, and broken bark covered with old scars. With its huge, gnarled, ungainly, unsymmetrically spread arms and fingers, it stood, old, angry, scornful, and ugly, amidst the smiling birches. It alone did not want to submit to the charm of spring and did not want to see either the springtime or the sun. “Spring, and love, and happiness!” the oak seemed to say. “And how is it you’re not bored with the same stupid, senseless deception! Always the same, and always a deception! There is no spring, no sun, no happiness. Look, there sit those smothered, dead fir trees, always the same; look at me spreading my broken, flayed fingers wherever they grow—from my back, from my sides. As they’ve grown, so I stand, and I don’t believe in your hopes and deceptions.” Prince Andrei turned several times to look at this oak as he drove through the woods, as if he expected something from it. There were flowers and grass beneath the oak as well, but it stood among them in the same way, scowling, motionless, ugly, and stubborn. “Yes, it’s right, a thousand times right, this oak,” thought Prince Andrei. “Let others, the young ones, succumb afresh to this deception, but we know life—our life is over!” A whole new series of thoughts in connection with the oak, hopeless but sadly pleasant, emerged in Prince Andrei’s soul. During this journey it was as if he again thought over his whole life and reached the same old comforting and hopeless conclusion, that there was no need for him to start anything, that he had to live out his life without doing evil, without anxiety, and without wishing for anything.

Prince Andrei seeing Natasha for the first time (pp. 420-428). But that starts to change when he sees Natasha. The language and slow change in his perspective is touching.

Natasha at the ball (p. 456). The precision of language Tolstoy uses to describe Natasha’s feelings as she enters her first ball is incredible:

In the damp, cold air, in the incomplete darkness of the crowded, rocking carriage, she imagined vividly for the first time what awaited her there at the ball, in the brightly lit rooms—music, flowers, dancing, the sovereign, all the brilliant youth of Petersburg. What awaited her was so beautiful that she did not even believe it could happen: so out of keeping it was with the impression of the cold, the crowdedness, the darkness of the carriage. She understood what awaited her only when, having stepped over the red baize of the porch, she entered the front hall, took off her fur coat, and walked beside Sonya in front of her mother between the flowers on the lighted stairway. Only then did she remember how one had to behave at a ball and try to assume the majestic manner she considered necessary for a girl at a ball. But, luckily for her, she felt her eyes looking everywhere at once: she saw nothing clearly, her pulse beat a hundred times a minute, and the blood began to throb in her heart. She was unable to assume that manner which would have made her ridiculous, and walked on, faint with excitement and only trying as hard as she could to conceal it. And this was the manner that was most becoming to her. Before them, behind them, also talking quietly and also in ball gowns, other guests were entering. The mirrors on the stairway reflected ladies in white, blue, pink dresses, with diamonds and pearls on their bare arms and necks.

Natasha looked in the mirrors and in the reflections could not distinguish herself from the others. Everything mixed into one brilliant procession. At the entrance to the first room, the monotonous noise of voices, footsteps, greetings deafened Natasha, the light and brilliance dazzled her still more. The host and hostess, who had already been standing by the door for half an hour saying the same words to the entering people—“Charmé de vous voir”—greeted the Rostovs and Mme Peronsky in the same way.

Nikolai and Natasha, the hunt, and uncle’s house (pp. 493-514). The experience Nikolai and Natasha have at the hunt and the dinner and singing at uncle’s house is beautifully done (and heartbreaking when you know going to happen to Natasha soon after). There’s food, singing, dancing. It conveys happiness, warmth, safety, belonging, and togetherness better than anything I’ve read. (J.R.R Tolkien did this well, too, in Lord of the Rings, but not with Tolstoy’s precision and economy.)

Pierre, Natasha, and the star (pp. 598-600). The passage that concludes Volume II, just after Pierre realizes he loves Natasha, is incredible:

It was cold and clear. Above the dirty, semi-dark streets, above the black roofs, stood the dark, starry sky. Only looking at the sky did Pierre not feel the insulting baseness of everything earthly compared with the height his soul had risen to. At the entrance to Arbat Square, the huge expanse of the dark, starry night opened out to Pierre’s eyes. Almost in the middle of that sky, over Prechistensky Boulevard, stood the huge, bright comet of the year 1812—surrounded, strewn with stars on all sides, but different from them in its closeness to the earth, its white light and long, raised tail—that same comet which presaged, as they said, all sorts of horrors and the end of the world. But for Pierre this bright star with its long, luminous tail did not arouse any frightening feeling. On the contrary, Pierre, his eyes wet with tears, gazed joyfully at this bright star, which, having flown with inexpressible speed through immeasurable space on its parabolic course, suddenly, like an arrow piercing the earth, seemed to have struck here its one chosen spot in the black sky and stopped, its tail raised energetically, its white light shining and playing among the countless other shimmering stars. It seemed to Pierre that this star answered fully to what was in his softened and encouraged soul, now blossoming into new life.

The opera (pp. 557-567). The third scene in which a complex set of events takes place in a room is, by far, the best: the opera at which Natasha meets Anatole. It’s incredible. Rather than the two dimensional movement in a room, you now have three dimensions, because you have what’s on stage as well as the characters observing each other on the different levels of the opera house—the parterre, the balcony, and the different boxes. In addition to the three dimensions of space, you also have movement across time (in which the characters’ objectives and thoughts change) and the thoughts (now) and desires (future) of each character. It’s five dimensions in total! It’s particularly amazing when you consider not just how much is happening but also the ease with which Tolstoy is orchestrating the reader’s understanding of it all. It’s pure magic. I can’t highlight any specific passage here because the magic is spread across these ten pages.

The nature of battles and war (pp. 632-633). There’s deep wisdom in Prince Andrei’s observations about the nature of battles:

…the question of whether this camp was advantageous or not remained unresolved for Prince Andrei. He had already managed to draw from his military experience the conviction that in military matters the most profoundly devised plans meant nothing (as he had seen in the Austerlitz campaign), that everything depended on how one responded to the unexpected and unpredictable actions of the enemy, that everything depended on how and by whom the action was conducted. To clarify this last question for himself, Prince Andrei, using his position and acquaintances, tried to penetrate the character of the army’s administration, of the army’s administration, of the persons and parties participating in it, and arrived at the following idea about the state of affairs.

Content v. form (p. 705). Tolstoy makes his point of view clearer as he progresses through the book, and I thought this was kind of funny (and a broadly applicable insight):

Among the innumerable subdivisions that can be made in the phenomena of life, one can subdivide them all into those in which content predominates and those in which form predominates. Among the latter, as opposed to the life of a village, a zemstvo, a province, even of Moscow, can be counted the life of Petersburg, especially its salon life. That life is unchanging.

It’s pretty clear that certain characters, such as Hélène and Prince Vassily are largely “form” and others, such as Pierre, Prince Andrei, and Natasha are “content.”

Kutuzov’s wisdom: Patience and time (p. 744). General Kutuzov shares his wisdom about battles and war with Prince Andrei:

…Kutuzov began speaking about the Turkish war and the peace that had been concluded. “Yes, I’ve been reproached a good deal,” said Kutuzov, “both for the war and for the peace … but everything came at the right time. Everything comes at the right time to him who knows how to wait. And there, too, there were no fewer advisers than here …” he went on, returning to the advisers, who were clearly on his mind. “Ah, advisers, advisers!” he said. “If we’d listened to everybody there in Turkey, we wouldn’t have made peace and brought the war to an end. Everything quickly, but quick turns out to be slow. If Kamensky hadn’t died, he’d have been lost. He stormed fortresses with thirty thousand men. It’s not hard to take a fortress, it’s hard to win a campaign. And for that there’s no need to storm and attack, there’s need for patience and time. Kamensky sent soldiers to Rushchuk, but I, with just those two (patience and time), took more fortresses than Kamensky and made the Turks eat horseflesh.” He shook his head. “And the French will, too! Take my word for it,” Kutuzov said, becoming animated and beating his chest, “they’ll eat horseflesh for me!” And again his eyes glistened with tears.

“But won’t we have to accept battle?” said Prince Andrei.

“We’ll have to if everybody wants it, there’s no way around it … And yet, my dear boy, there’s nothing stronger than those two warriors, patience and time; they’d do it all, but the advisers don’t hear with that ear, that’s the trouble. Some want it, others don’t. What can we do?” he asked, evidently expecting an answer. “Yes, what would you have us do?” he repeated, and his eyes shone with a profound, intelligent expression. “I’ll tell you what to do,” he went on, since Prince Andrei still gave no answer. “I’ll tell you what to do, and what I do. When in doubt, my dear,” he paused, “abstain,” he pronounced measuredly.”

Kutuzov’s wisdom: Don’t hinder anything useful or allow anything harmful (pp. 744-745). After speaking with Kutuzov, Prince Andrei reflects on what he learned:

How and why it happened, Prince Andrei could in no way have explained, but after this meeting with Kutuzov, he went back to his regiment relieved with regard to the general course of things and with regard to the man to whom it had been entrusted. The more he saw the absence of anything personal in this old man, in whom there seemed to remain only the habit of passions, and, instead of intelligence (which groups events and draws conclusions), only the ability to calmly contemplate the course of events, the more calmed he felt over everything being as it had to be. “He won’t have anything of his own. He won’t invent, won’t undertake anything,” thought Prince Andrei, “but he’ll listen to everything, remember everything, put everything in its place, won’t hinder anything useful or allow anything harmful. He understands that there is something stronger and more significant than his will—the inevitable course of events—and he’s able to see them, able to understand their significance, and, in view of that significance, is able to renounce participating in those events, renounce his personal will and direct it elsewhere. And the main reason why one believes him,” thought Prince Andrei, “is that he’s Russian, despite the Genlis novel and the French proverbs; it’s that his voice trembled when he said, ‘See what they’ve brought us to!’ and had a catch in it when he said he’d ‘make them eat horseflesh.’ ” On this feeling, which was more or less vaguely experienced by everyone, the unanimity and general approval were based which, contrary to the considerations of the court, accompanied the people’s election of Kutuzov as commander in chief.

Pierre at the battery (pp. 791-798). Another iconic battle scene is Pierre at the battery during the battle of Borodino. It’s Tolstoy at his war best—an epic, emotional, powerful scene.

Debate about Moscow (pp. 826-831). The debates between Kutuzov and his generals about whether or not to defend Moscow is incredibly rich—filled with nuance, wisdom, folly, and interpersonal dynamics. Again, it’s not just what Tolstoy conveys, it’s also the economy with which he does it.

On the machinations of Kutuzov’s rival, Benningsen:

Bennigsen, having chosen the position, ardently displaying his patriotism (which Kutuzov could not listen to without wincing), insisted on defending Moscow. Kutuzov saw Bennigsen’s aim as clear as day: if the defense failed, to throw the blame on Kutuzov, who had led the troops as far as Sparrow Hills without a battle; if it succeeded, to ascribe it to himself; in case of refusal—to clear himself of criminally abandoning Moscow. But this question of intrigue did not concern the old man now.

Framing the debate:

Only when Bennigsen came into the cottage did Kutuzov stir from his corner and move towards the table, but only so far, so that his face would not be lit by the candles that had been placed on it.

Bennigsen opened the council with the question: “To abandon Russia’s sacred and ancient capital without a fight, or to defend it?” A long and general silence ensued. All faces frowned, and in the silence Kutuzov’s angry grunting and coughing could be heard. All eyes looked at him. Malasha also looked at Grandpa. She was closest to him of all and saw how his face winced; it was as if he was about to cry. But that did not last long.

“Russia’s sacred and ancient capital!” he suddenly began in an angry voice, repeating Bennigsen’s words and thereby indicating the false note in those words. “Allow me to tell you, Your Excellency, that this question has no meaning for a Russian.” (He heaved his heavy body forward.) “Such a question cannot be posed, and such a question has no meaning. The question for which I have asked these gentlemen to meet is a military one. The question is this: Russia’s salvation lies in the army. Is it more advantageous to risk losing the army and Moscow by accepting battle, or to surrender Moscow without a battle? That is the question on which I would like to know your opinion.” (He heaved himself back in the armchair.)

The decision, Kutuzov’s alone:

The debate began again, but there were frequent pauses, and the feeling was that there was nothing more to talk about.

During one such pause, Kutuzov sighed deeply, as if he was about to speak. They all turned to look at him.

“Well, gentlemen! I see it’s I who will have to pay for the broken cockery,” he said. And, slowly getting up, he went to the table. “Gentlemen, I’ve heard your opinions. Some will disagree with me. But I,” (he stopped), “by the power entrusted in me by my sovereign and the fatherland, I—order a retreat.”

Natasha helping the soldiers (pp. 862-863). One of the most beautiful, touching, and uplifting scenes in the book was during the preparations the Rostov family was making to leave Moscow before the arrival of the French forces. The family is in an awkward situation because they had allowed wounded Russian soldiers to stay in their house. The family has a large number of carts to take their considerable belongings with them, but the soldiers will be left behind, to fend for themselves with the French. It’s a tough situation because, due to mismanagement by the father, Count Rostov, the family has already lost most of its fortune. So they want to take what possessions they do have. The mother is adamant they take the belongings. The count is a kind man, and he’s torn. Ultimately, the young Natasha, with passion, makes the decision:

“In my opinion,” Natasha suddenly almost shouted, turning her angry face to Petya, “in my opinion, this is so vile, so loathsome, so … I don’t know what! Are we some sort of Germans?…” Her throat trembled with convulsive sobs, and, afraid of weakening and expending the charge of her anger for nothing, she turned and rushed precipitously up the stairs. Berg was sitting by the countess and, with respectful intimacy, was trying to comfort her. The count was pacing the room with his pipe in his hands, when Natasha, her face distorted by anger, stormed into the room and with quick steps went up to her mother.

“This is vile! This is loathsome!” she shouted. “It can’t be that you ordered it.”

Berg and the countess looked at her in perplexity and fear. The count stopped by the window, listening.

“Mama, this can’t be; look at what’s happening in the courtyard!” she shouted. “They’re being left!…”

“What’s the matter with you? Who are ‘they’? What do you want?”

“The wounded, that’s who! It can’t be, mama; it’s like nothing … No, mama, darling, it’s not right, please, forgive me, darling … What do we care what we take, only look at what’s happening in the courtyard … Mama! … It can’t be!…”

The count stood by the window and, without turning his face, listened to Natasha’s words. Suddenly he snuffed his nose and brought his face close to the window.

The countess glanced at her daughter, saw her face ashamed for her mother, saw her agitation, understood why her husband did not turn to look at her now, and glanced around her with a lost air.

“Ah, do as you like! As if I’m hindering anybody!” she said, still not surrendering outright.

“Mama, darling, forgive me!”

But the countess pushed her daughter aside and went up to the count.

“Mon cher, you give the necessary orders … I don’t know about such things,” she said, lowering her eyes guiltily.

“The eggs … the eggs are teaching the hen …” the count said through happy tears, and he embraced his wife, who was glad to hide her ashamed face on his chest.

“Papa, mama! May I give the orders? May I?…” asked Natasha. “We’ll take the most necessary things anyway …” she said.

The count nodded affirmatively to her, and Natasha, running quickly, as she used to run when playing blindman’s buff, rushed through the reception room to the front hall, down the steps, and into the courtyard.

People gathered around Natasha and could not believe the strange instructions she gave them, until the count himself, in his wife’s name, confirmed the instructions to hand over all the carts to the wounded and put the trunks in the storerooms. Once they understood the instructions, the people, joyful and bustling, got down to the new task. Now the servants not only did not find it strange, but, on the contrary, it seemed as though it could not be otherwise; just as, a quarter of an hour before, not only had no one found it strange that the wounded should be left behind and objects taken along, but it had seemed as though it could not be otherwise.

Moscow as a queenless beehive (pp. 874-875). When Napoleon arrives at the gates of Moscow, Tolstoy describes an empty Moscow. What’s surprising is how he describes an empty Moscow: as a queenless beehive.

Meanwhile Moscow was empty. There were still people in it, there was still a fiftieth part of all the former inhabitants left in it, but it was empty. It was empty as a dying-out, queenless beehive is empty.

There is no life in a queenless beehive, but to a superficial glance it seems as alive as the others.

He goes on for about two pages to describe in detail the nature of activity in a queenless beehive as compared to one with a queen.

It’s a fascinating digression because it makes you wonder what else the analogy can be used to describe. It made me think of the soul, the life, of any entity comprised of people, such as a country or a company, as separate from the entity itself. What’s the soul of a country? A company? Is there a moment when each of these become “queenless,” continuing to exist for some time before they actually die?

Moscow absorbing the army (pp. 896-897). The French troops entering a largely Moscow is a haunting series of scenes. But what I found most fascinating was the impact each had on each other—the troops on the city but also the city on the troops—and how effectively Tolstoy described it.

On that same day, the French commanders issued order after order forbidding the troops to disperse through the city, strictly forbidding looting and violence to the inhabitants, and announcing a general roll call for that very evening; but despite all such measures, the men who formerly constituted an army were spreading throughout the rich, empty city, abounding with comforts and supplies. As a hungry herd goes across a bare field in a group, but at once irrepressibly scatters as soon as it comes upon rich pasture, so the troops scattered as irrepressibly through the rich city.

There were no inhabitants in Moscow, and the soldiers were absorbed by it like water by sand, and irrepressibly spread starwise in all directions from the Kremlin, which they occupied first of all. Cavalrymen, entering a merchant’s house abandoned with all its goods, and finding stalls there not only for their own horses but extra ones as well, still went to occupy the house next door, which seemed better to them. Many occupied several houses, writing on them in chalk who the occupier was, and quarreled and even fought with other units. Before they had time to settle, the soldiers ran outside to look over the city, and, hearing that everything had been abandoned, rushed wherever valuable things could be had for nothing. Officers went to stop the soldiers and were involuntarily drawn into the same acts. In Carriage Row there were abandoned shops with vehicles, and generals crowded there, picking out caleches and carriages for themselves. The remaining inhabitants invited the officers to stay with them, hoping to protect themselves from being looted. There was an abundance of riches and no end of them in sight; everywhere around the area occupied by the French, there were other areas, unknown and unoccupied, in which, as it seemed to the French, there were still greater riches. And Moscow absorbed them into itself more and more. Just as when water is poured onto dry ground, the result is that both water and dry ground disappear, so when the famished army entered the abundant, empty city, the result was that the army was annihilated and the abundant city was annihilated; there was mud, there were fires and looting.

Moscow burning (pp. 897-898). The burning of Moscow was an important event for a number of reasons, not least because it deprived the French troops of much needed supplies for their return journey, which was one of the many reasons they ultimately perished. One of Tolstoy’s core ideas is that many events will happen for reasons that can’t be easily ascribed to explicit intent, despite the desire for historians to do so. Moscow’s burning is one example. It helped the Russians, but not because they, or anyone, planned it.

The French ascribed the burning of Moscow au patriotisme féroce de Rastopchine;* the Russians—to the savagery of the French. Yet in reality, with regard to the burning of Moscow, there were not and could not be any reasons for placing the responsibility for it on one or several persons. Moscow burned down because it was put into conditions in which any wooden town would have to burn down, regardless of whether the town had or did not have a hundred and thirty poor-quality fire pumps. Moscow had to burn down, because its inhabitants left it, and as inevitably as a pile of wood chips has to catch fire if sparks pour down on it for several days. A wooden town in which, in the presence of the inhabitants who own the houses and of the police, there are fires almost every day during the summer, cannot help burning down when there are no inhabitants there, but troops smoking pipes, making campfires on Senate Square out of the Senate’s chairs, and cooking meals twice a day. Billet troops in the villages of some area during peacetime, and the number of fires in that area increases at once. How much greater, then, is the possibility of fires in an empty wooden town in which foreign troops are billeted? Le patriotisme féroce de Rastopchine and the savagery of the French are not to blame for anything here. Moscow caught fire from the pipes, the kitchens, the carelessness of enemy soldiers, who were living in houses they did not own. If there was arson (which is very doubtful, because no one had any reason for it, and in any case it was troublesome and dangerous), that arson cannot be taken as the cause, since without any arson it would have been the same.

Flattering as it was for the French to blame the brutality of Rastopchin and for the Russians to blame the villain Bonaparte, or later to place the heroic torch in the hands of their own people, it is impossible not to see that there could be no such immediate causes for the burning, because Moscow had to burn down, just as any village, any factory, any house has to burn down which has been left by its owners, and in which strangers are allowed to take over and start cooking kasha for themselves. Moscow was burned by its inhabitants, true; but not by the inhabitants who stayed in it, but by those who left it. Occupied by the enemy, Moscow did not remain intact like Berlin, Vienna, and other cities, only because its inhabitants did not bring out bread and salt and the keys to the city for the French, but left it.

Prince Andrei dying (pp. 982-986). Tolstoy directing his incredible skill to describe the thoughts of a person to one as they lay dying is haunting. Here’s the passage of Prince Andrei dying. (He dies physically just a few passages later.)

Falling asleep, he was thinking about the same thing he had been thinking about all that time—about life and death. And more about death. He felt himself closer to it.

“Love? What is love?” he thought. “Love hinders death. Love is life. Everything, everything I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love. Everything is connected only by that. Love is God, and to die—means that I, a part of love, return to the common and eternal source.” These thoughts seemed comforting to him. But they were only thoughts. Something was lacking in them, there was something one-sidedly personal, cerebral—there was no evidence. And there was the same uneasiness and vagueness. He fell asleep.

In a dream he saw himself lying in the same room in which he lay in reality, but he was not wounded, but healthy. Many sorts of persons, insignificant, indifferent, appear before Prince Andrei. He talks with them, argues about something unnecessary. They are preparing to go somewhere. Prince Andrei vaguely recalls that it is all insignificant and that he has other, more important concerns, but he goes on, to their surprise, speaking some sort of empty, witty words. Gradually, imperceptibly, all these people begin to disappear, and everything is replaced by the one question of the closed door. He gets up and goes to the door to slide the bolt and lock it. Everything depends on whether he does or does not manage to lock it. He walks, he hurries, his feet do not move, and he knows that he will not manage to lock the door, but still he painfully strains all his force. And a tormenting fear seizes him. And this fear is the fear of death: it is standing behind the door. But as he is crawling strengthlessly and awkwardly towards the door, this terrible something is already pushing against it from the other side, forcing it. Something inhuman—death—is forcing the door, and he has to hold it shut. He lays hold of the door, strains in a last effort—to lock it is already impossible—just to hold it shut; but his attempts are weak, clumsy, and, pushed by the terrible thing, the door keeps opening and shutting again.

Once more it pushes from the other side. His last supernatural efforts are in vain, and the two halves open noiselessly. It comes in, and it is death. And Prince Andrei died.

But in the same instant that he died, Prince Andrei remembered that he was asleep, and in the same instant that he died, he made an effort with himself and woke up.

“Yes, that was death. I died—I woke up. Yes, death is an awakening.” Clarity suddenly came to his soul, and the curtain that until then had concealed the unknown was raised before his inner gaze. He felt the release of a force that previously had been as if bound in him and that strange lightness which from then on did not leave him.

When, having come to in a cold sweat, he stirred on his sofa, Natasha went over to him and asked what was the matter. He did not answer, and, not understanding her, gave her a strange look.

That was what had happened to him two days before Princess Marya’s arrival. Since that day, the doctor said, the wasting fever had taken a turn for the worse, but Natasha was not interested in what the doctor said: she saw those dreadful moral signs, which were more unquestionable for her.

Since that day, there began for Prince Andrei, along with his awakening from sleep, an awakening from life. And it seemed no slower to him, in relation to the length of life, than an awakening from sleep in relation to the length of a dream.

Pierre and happiness (pp. 1012-1014). Pierre’s realizations about happiness was a key moment:

In devastated and burnt Moscow, Pierre experienced almost the final limits of privation that a man can endure; but, owing to his strong constitution and health, which he had not been conscious of until then, and especially owing to the fact that these privations came so imperceptibly that it was impossible to tell when they began, he bore his situation not only lightly, but joyfully. And precisely in that time he received the peace and contentment with himself which he had previously striven for in vain. In his life he had long sought in various directions for that peace, that harmony with himself, which had struck him so much in the soldiers during the battle of Borodino—he had sought it in philanthropy, in Masonry, in the distractions of social life, in wine, in a heroic deed of self-sacrifice, in romantic love for Natasha; he had sought it by way of thought, and all this seeking and trying had disappointed him. And, without thinking, he had received that peace and harmony with himself only through the horror of death, through privation, and through what he had understood in Karataev. It was as if those terrible moments he had lived through during the execution had washed forever from his imagination and memory the anxious thoughts and feelings that had once seemed important to him. No thoughts of Russia, or of the war, or of politics, or of Napoleon came to him. It was obvious to him that all this did not concern him, that he was not called upon and therefore could not judge about all that. “Russia and hot weather don’t go together,” he repeated Karataev’s words, and those words strangely calmed him. His intention of killing Napoleon and his calculation of the kabbalistic number and the beast of the Apocalypse now seemed incomprehensible and even ridiculous to him. His anger with his wife and his anxiety about his name being disgraced now seemed to him not only insignificant, but amusing. What did he care about this woman leading the life she liked somewhere? What did it matter to anyone, especially to him, whether or not they found out that their prisoner’s name was Count Bezukhov?

He now often recalled his conversation with Prince Andrei and fully agreed with him, only he understood Prince Andrei’s thought slightly differently. Prince Andrei had thought and said that happiness can only be negative, but had said it with a shade of bitterness and irony. It was as if, in saying it, he was voicing another thought—that all striving for positive happiness had been put into us solely in order to torment us without giving satisfaction. But Pierre acknowledged the correctness of it without any second thoughts. The absence of suffering, the satisfaction of one’s needs, and the resulting freedom to choose one’s occupation, that is, one’s way of life, now seemed to Pierre the highest and most unquestionable human happiness. Here, only now, did Pierre fully appreciate for the first time the enjoyment of food when he wanted to eat, of drink when he wanted to drink, of sleep when he wanted to sleep, of warmth when he was cold, of talking to someone when he wanted to talk and to hear a human voice. The satisfaction of his needs—for good food, cleanliness, freedom—now that he was deprived of them all, seemed perfect happiness to Pierre, and the choice of an occupation, that is, of a life, now, when that choice was so limited, seemed to him such an easy matter that he forgot that a superfluity of life’s comforts destroys all the happiness of the satisfaction of one’s needs, and that a greater freedom to choose one’s occupation, the freedom which in this life was granted him by education, wealth, social position—precisely that freedom made the choice of an occupation insolubly difficult and destroyed the very need and possibility of an occupation.

All Pierre’s dreams were now turned to the time when he would be free. And yet afterwards and for the whole of his life Pierre thought and spoke with rapture of that month of captivity, of those irrevocable, strong, and joyful sensations, and above all of that full peace of mind, that perfect inner freedom, which he experienced only in that time.

Petya’s happy, haunting night (pp. 1053-1056). Petya’s thoughts and perceptions before he joins Denisov for an attack and is ultimately killed is one of the most memorable and magical scenes in the book. A completely routine night isturned magical by the thoughts of a boy in rapture because of his romantic notions of war and his deep fondness and respect for a soldier that is his role model. The passage is also notable because of the care the translators, as they describe in the Introduction, took to maintain the beauty and rhythm of Tolstoy’s writing, generally throughout but in this scene in particular.

Petya ought to have known that he was in the forest, in Denisov’s party, a mile from the road, that he was sitting on a wagon captured from the French with horses tethered by it, and that under him sat the Cossack Likhachev, sharpening his saber, that the big black spot to the right was the guardhouse, and the bright red spot down to the left was the dying campfire, that the man who had come for the bowl was a hussar who wanted a drink; but he knew nothing of that and did not want to know. He was in a magic kingdom, in which there was nothing resembling reality. Maybe the big black spot was indeed the guardhouse, but maybe it was a cave that led into the very depths of the earth. Maybe the red spot was a fire, but maybe it was the eye of a huge monster. Maybe he is indeed sitting on a wagon now, but it very well may be that he is sitting, not on a wagon, but on a terribly tall tower, from which, if you fell, it would take you a whole day, a whole month, to reach the earth—you would keep falling and never get there. Maybe it is simply the Cossack Likhachev sitting under the wagon, but it very well may be that he is the kindest, bravest, most wonderful, most excellent man in the world, whom nobody knows. Maybe it was indeed a hussar who came for water and went back into the hollow, but maybe he just vanished from sight, vanished completely, and never was.

Whatever Petya might have seen now, nothing would have astonished him. He was in a magic kingdom in which everything was possible.

He looked at the sky. The sky was as magical as the earth. The sky was clearing, and clouds raced over the treetops, as if uncovering the stars. Sometimes it seemed that the clouds dispersed and a black, clear sky appeared. Sometimes it seemed that these black patches were clouds. Sometimes it seemed that the sky rose high, high above his head; sometimes the sky came right down, so that he could touch it with his hand.

Petya began to close his eyes and rock.

Drops dripped. Quiet talk went on. Horses neighed and scuffled. Someone snored.

“Ozhik, zhik, ozhik, zhik …” whistled the saber being sharpened. And suddenly Petya heard a harmonious chorus of music, playing some unknown, solemnly sweet hymn. Petya was musical, like Natasha, and more so than Nikolai, but he had never studied music or thought about music, and therefore the melodies that unexpectedly came to his head were especially new and attractive to him. The music played more and more audibly. The melody grew, passing from one instrument to another. What is known as a fugue was going on, though Petya had not the slightest idea of what a fugue was. Each instrument, now resembling a violin, now trumpets—but better and clearer than violins and trumpets—each instrument played its own part and, before finishing its motif, merged with another, starting out almost the same, and with a third, and with a fourth, and they all merged into one and scattered again, and merged again, now solemn and churchly, now brightly brilliant and victorious.

“Ah, yes, it’s me dreaming,” Petya said to himself, rocking forward. “It’s in my ears. And maybe it’s my music. Well, again. Go on, my music! Now!…”

He closed his eyes. And on all sides, as if from far away, sounds trembled, began to harmonize, scattered, merged, and again all joined in the same sweet and solemn hymn. “Ah, how lovely that is! As much as I like and however I like,” Petya said to himself. He attempted to conduct this huge chorus of instruments.

“Softer, softer now, fade away.” And the sounds obeyed him. “Fuller now, merrier. More, more joyful.” And swelling, solemn sounds rose from an unknown depth. “Now, voices, join in!” Petya ordered. And voices, first men’s, then women’s, came from far away. The voices grew, grew in a measured, solemn effort. Petya felt frightened and joyful hearkening to their uncommon beauty.

The song merged with the solemn, victorious march, and drops dripped, and bzhik, zhik, zhik … whistled the saber, and again the horses scuffled and neighed, not disrupting the chorus, but entering into it.

Petya did not know how long it went on; he enjoyed it, was surprised all the while at his enjoyment and sorry there was no one to share in it. He was awakened by Likhachev’s gentle voice.

“It’s ready, Your Honor, you’ll split a Frenchman right in two.”

Petya woke up.

“It’s getting light already, really getting light!” he cried.

The formerly invisible horses could now be seen down to their tails, and a watery light was coming through the bared branches. Petya shook himself, jumped up, took a rouble from his pocket and gave it to Likhachev, swung the saber to try it out, and put it in the scabbard. The Cossacks were untying the horses and tightening their saddle girths.

“And here’s the commander,” said Likhachev.

Denisov came out of the guardhouse and, calling Petya, told him to get ready.

Death and rebirth of a soul (p. 1080). One of the amazing things about the book was how Tolstoy mixes physical life and death (e.g., the scene with Prince Andrei’s return, Liza’s death, and the birth of his child) with life and death of a soul. Natasha’s rebirth after the death of her brother Petya is an example of the latter:

The wound in the mother’s soul could not heal. Petya’s death tore away half of her life. A month after the news of Petya’s death, which had found her a fresh and cheerful fifty-year-old woman, she came out of her room an old woman—half-dead and taking no part in life. But the same wound that half killed the countess, this new wound called Natasha to life.

A wound in the soul, coming from the rending of the spiritual body, strange as it may seem, gradually closes like a physical wound. And once a deep wound heals over and the edges seem to have knit, a wound in the soul, like a physical wound, can be healed only by the force of life pushing up from inside.

This was the way Natasha’s wound healed. She thought her life was over. But suddenly her love for her mother showed her that the essence of life—love—was still alive in her. Love awoke, and life awoke.

Pierre and God (pp. 1103-1104).

That which he had been tormented by before, which he had constantly sought, the purpose of life—now did not exist for him. It was not that this sought-for purpose of life happened not to exist for him only at the present moment, but he felt that it did not and could not exist. And this very absence of purpose gave him that full, joyful awareness of freedom which at that time constituted his happiness.

He could have no purpose, because he now had faith—not faith in some rules, or words, or thoughts, but faith in a living, ever-sensed God. Before he had sought for Him in the purposes he set for himself. This seeking for a purpose had only been a seeking for God; and suddenly he had learned in his captivity, not through words, not through arguments, but through immediate sensation, what his nanny had told him long ago: that God is here, right here, everywhere. In captivity he had learned that God in Karataev was much greater, more infinite and unfathomable, than in the Arkhitekton of the universe recognized by the Masons. He experienced the feeling of a man who has found what he was seeking under his own feet, while he had been straining his eyes looking far away from himself. All his life he had looked off somewhere, over the heads of the people around him, yet there was no need to strain his eyes, but only to look right in front of him.

Formerly he had been unable to see the great, the unfathomable and infinite, in anything. He had only sensed that it must be somewhere and had sought for it. In all that was close and comprehensible, he had seen only the limited, the petty, the humdrum, the meaningless. He had armed himself with a mental spyglass and gazed into the distance, where the petty and humdrum, disappearing in the distant mist, had seemed to him great and infinite, only because it was not clearly visible. Thus he had looked at European life, politics, Masonry, philosophy, philanthropy. But even then, in moments he regarded as his own weakness, his mind had penetrated this distance, and there, too, he had seen the petty, the humdrum, the meaningless. Now he had learned to see the great, the eternal, and the infinite in everything, and therefore, in order to see it, to enjoy contemplating it, he had naturally abandoned the spyglass he had been looking through until then over people’s heads, and joyfully contemplated the ever-changing, ever-great, unfathomable, and infinite life around him. And the closer he looked, the calmer and happier he became. The terrible question “Why?” which formerly had destroyed all his mental constructions, did not exist for him now. Now, to this question “Why?” a simple answer was always ready in his soul: because there is God, that God without whose will not a single hair falls from a man’s head.

Pierre and Natasha (p. 1112). The description of Pierre seeing Natasha for the first time after the war and Prince Andrei’s death:

“But no, it can’t be,” he thought. “This stern, thin, pale, aged face? It can’t be her. It’s only a reminiscence of that one.” But just then Princess Marya said: “Natasha.” And the face, with its attentive eyes, with difficulty, with effort, like a rusty door opening—smiled, and from that open door there suddenly breathed and poured out upon Pierre that long-forgotten happiness of which, especially now, he was not even thinking. It breathed out, enveloped, and swallowed him whole. When she smiled, there could no longer be any doubt: it was Natasha, and he loved her.

“What force moves people?” (pp. 1179-1215). I won’t go into the philosophy here, but it’s the third large component of the book: war, peace, and philosophy. Tolstoy doesn’t provide any answers, only rejects false truths and asks deeper questions, the core one being, “What force moves people?” He proposes that, while as individuals, we can control small things about our actions, like whether I choose to raise my arm, I cannot control my actions in larger events, those that have a greater connection with the external world. The essay is nuanced, but this passage describes this aspect of his view most directly:

Thus our notion of freedom and necessity gradually decreases or increases, depending on the greater or lesser connection with the external world, the greater or lesser distance in time, and the greater or lesser dependence on causes in which we examine the phenomenon of human life.

So that, if we examine a man in such a situation that his connection with the external world is most fully known, the period between the time of judgment and the time of committing the act is longest, and the causes of the act are most accessible, then we get the notion of the greatest necessity and the least freedom. But if we examine a man in least dependence on external conditions, if his action is committed in the moment closest to the present, and the causes of his action are inaccessible to us, then we will get the notion of the least necessity and the greatest freedom.

But neither in the one case nor in the other, however we may change our point of view, however we may try to grasp what connection the man finds himself in with the external world, or however inaccessible it seems to us, however much we lengthen or shorten the period of time, however intelligible or unfathomable the causes are for us—we can never imagine either total freedom or total necessity.