Emma Watson Pussy
War And Peace
"I ought to give them something!" he thought, and felt in his
pocket. "No, better not!" said another, inner voice.
There was not a room to be had at the inn, they were all occupied.
Pierre went out into the yard and, covering himself up head and all,
lay down in his carriage.
Scarcely had Pierre laid his head on the pillow before he felt
himself falling asleep, but suddenly, almost with the distinctness
of reality, he heard the boom, boom, boom of firing, the thud of
projectiles, groans and cries, and smelled blood and powder, and a
feeling of horror and dread of death seized him. Filled with fright he
opened his eyes and lifted his head from under his cloak. All was
tranquil in the yard. Only someones orderly passed through the
gateway, splashing through the mud, and talked to the innkeeper. Above
Pierres head some pigeons, disturbed by the movement he had made in
sitting up, fluttered under the dark roof of the penthouse. The
whole courtyard was permeated by a strong peaceful smell of stable
yards, delightful to Pierre at that moment. He could see the clear
starry sky between the dark roofs of two penthouses.
"Thank God, there is no more of that!" he thought, covering up his
head again. "Oh, 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..." thought he.
They, in Pierres mind, were the soldiers, those who had been at the
battery, those who had given him food, and those who had prayed before
the icon. They, those strange men he had not previously known, stood
out clearly and sharply from everyone else.
"To be a soldier, just a soldier!" thought Pierre as he fell asleep,
"to enter communal life completely, to be imbued by what makes them
what they are. But how cast off all the superfluous, devilish burden
of my outer man? There was a time when I could have done it. I could
have run away from my father, as I wanted to. Or I might have been
sent to serve as a soldier after the duel with Dolokhov." And the
memory of the dinner at the English Club when he had challenged
Dolokhov flashed through Pierres mind, and then he remembered his
benefactor at Torzhok. And now a picture of a solemn meeting of the
lodge presented itself to his mind. It was taking place at the English
Club and someone near and dear to him sat at the end of the table.
"Yes, that is he! It is my benefactor. But he died!" thought Pierre.
"Yes, he died, and I did not know he was alive. How sorry I am that he
died, and how glad I am that he is alive again!" On one side of the
table sat Anatole, Dolokhov, Nesvitski, Denisov, and others like
them (in his dream the category to which these men belonged was as
clearly defined in his mind as the category of those he termed
they), and he heard those people, Anatole and Dolokhov, shouting and
singing loudly; yet through their shouting the voice of his benefactor
was heard speaking all the time and the sound of his words was as
weighty and uninterrupted as the booming on the battlefield, but
pleasant and comforting. Pierre did not understand what his benefactor
was saying, but he knew (the categories of thoughts were also quite
distinct in his dream) that he was talking of goodness and the
possibility of being what they were. And they with their simple, kind,
firm faces surrounded his benefactor on all sides. But though they
were kindly they did not look at Pierre and did not know him.
Wishing to speak and to attract their attention, he got up, but at
that moment his legs grew cold and bare.
He felt ashamed, and with one arm covered his legs from which his
cloak had in fact slipped. For a moment as he was rearranging his
cloak Pierre opened his eyes and saw the same penthouse roofs,
posts, and yard, but now they were all bluish, lit up, and
glittering with frost or dew.
"It is dawn," thought Pierre. "But thats not what I want. I want to
hear and understand my benefactors words." Again he covered himself
up with his cloak, but now neither the lodge nor his benefactor was
there. There were only thoughts clearly expressed in words, thoughts
that someone was uttering or that he himself was formulating.
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