AFTER HIS INTERVIEW with his wife, Pierre had set off for Petersburg. At the station of Torzhok there were no horses, or the overseer was unwilling to let him have them. Pierre had to wait. Without removing his outdoor things, he lay down on a leather sofa, in front of a round table, put up his big feet in their thick overboots on this table and sank into thought.

“Shall I bring in the trunks? Make up a bed? Will you take tea?” the valet kept asking.

Pierre made no reply, for he heard nothing and said nothing. He had been deep in thought since he left the last station, and still went on thinking of the same thing—of something so important that he did not notice what was passing around him. Far from being concerned whether he reached Petersburg sooner or later, or whether there would or would not be a place for him to rest in at this station, in comparison with the thoughts that engrossed him now, it was a matter of utter indifference to him whether he spent a few hours or the rest of his life at that station.

The overseer and his wife, his valet, and a peasant woman with Torzhok embroidery for sale, came into the room, offering their services. Without changing the position of his raised feet, Pierre gazed at them over his spectacles, and did not understand what they could want and how they all managed to live, without having solved the questions that absorbed him. These same questions had possessed his mind ever since that day when he had come back after the duel from Sokolniky and had spent that first agonising, sleepless night. But now in the solitude of his journey they seized upon him with special force. Of whatever he began thinking he came back to the same questions, which he could not answer, and from which he could not escape. It was as though the chief screw in his brain upon which his whole life rested were loose. The screw moved no forwarder, no backwarder, but still it turned, catching on nothing, always in the same groove, and there was no making it cease turning.

The overseer came in and began humbly begging his excellency to wait only a couple of hours, after which he would (come what might of it) let his excellency have the special mail service horses. The overseer was unmistakably lying, with the sole aim of getting an extra tip from the traveller. “Was that good or bad?” Pierre wondered. “For me good, for the next traveller bad, and for himself inevitable because he has nothing to eat; he said that an officer had thrashed him for it. And the officer thrashed him because he had to travel in haste. And I shot Dolohov because I considered myself injured. Louis XVI. was executed because they considered him to be a criminal, and a year later his judges were killed too for something. What is wrong? What is right? What must one love, what must one hate? What is life for, and what am I? What is life? What is death? What force controls it all?” he asked himself. And there was no answer to one of these questions, except one illogical reply that was in no way an answer to any of them. That reply was: “One dies and it's all over. One dies and finds it all out or ceases asking.” But dying too was terrible.

The Torzhok pedlar woman in a whining voice proffered her wares, especially some goatskin slippers. “I have hundreds of roubles I don't know what to do with, and she's standing in her torn cloak looking timidly at me,” thought Pierre. “And what does she want the money for? As though the money could give her one hairsbreadth of happiness, of peace of soul. Is there anything in the world that can make her and me less enslaved to evil and to death? Death, which ends all, and must come to-day or to-morrow—which beside eternity is the same as an instant's time.” And again he turned the screw that did not bite in anything, and the screw still went on turning in the same place.

His servant handed him a half-cut volume of a novel in the form of letters by Madame Suza. He began reading of the sufferings and the virtuous struggles of a certain “Amélie de Mansfeld.” “And what did she struggle against her seducer for?” he thought, “when she loved him. God could not have put in her heart an impulse that was against His will. My wife—as she was once—didn't struggle, and perhaps she was right. Nothing has been discovered,” Pierre said to himself again, “nothing has been invented. We can only know that we know nothing. And that's the highest degree of human wisdom.”

Everything within himself and around him struck him as confused, meaningless, and loathsome. But in this very loathing of everything surrounding him Pierre found a sort of tantalising satisfaction.

“I make bold to beg your excellency to make room the least bit for this gentleman here,” said the overseer, coming into the room and ushering in after him another traveller, brought to a standstill from lack of horses. The traveller was a thickset, square-shouldered, yellow, wrinkled old man, with grey eyelashes overhanging gleaming eyes of an indefinite grey colour.

Pierre took his feet off the table, stood up and went to lie down on the bed that had been made ready for him, glancing now and then at the newcomer, who, without looking at Pierre, with an air of surly fatigue was wearily taking off his outer wraps with the aid of his servant. The traveller, now clothed in a shabby nankin-covered sheepskin coat with felt highboots on his thin bony legs, sat down on the sofa, and leaning on its back his close-cropped head, which was very large and broad across the temples, he glanced at Bezuhov. The stern, shrewd, and penetrating expression in that glance impressed Pierre. He felt disposed to speak to the traveller, but by the time he had ready a question about the road with which to address him, the traveller had closed his eyes, and folded his wrinkled old hands, on one finger of which there was a large iron ring with a seal representing the head of Adam. He sat without stirring, either resting or sunk, as it seemed to Pierre, in profound and calm meditation. The newcomer's servant was also a yellow old man, covered with wrinkles. He had neither moustache nor beard, not because he was shaved, but obviously had never had any. The old servant was active in unpacking a travelling-case, in setting the tea-table and in bringing in a boiling samovar. When everything was ready, the traveller opened his eyes, moved to the table, and pouring out a glass of tea for himself, poured out another for the beardless old man and gave it him. Pierre began to feel an uneasiness and a sense of the necessity, of the inevitability of entering into conversation with the traveller.

The servant brought back his empty glass turned upside down with an unfinished piece of nibbled sugar beside it, and asked if anything were wanted.

“Nothing. Give me my book,” said the traveller. The servant gave him a book, which seemed to Pierre to be of a devotional character, and the traveller became absorbed in its perusal. Pierre looked at him. All at once the stranger laid down the book, and putting a mark in it, shut it up. Then closing his eyes and leaning his arms on the back of the sofa, he fell back into his former attitude. Pierre stared at him, and had not time to look away when the old man opened his eyes and bent his resolute and stern glance upon Pierre. Pierre felt confused and tried to turn away from that glance, but the gleaming old eyes drew him irresistibly to them.

皮埃尔和妻子反目并且表明态度之后，就启程前往彼得堡。那时托尔若克驿站上没有驿用马匹，也许是驿站站长不愿意供应。皮埃尔不得不等候。他和衣躺在圆桌前面的皮革沙发上，把那双穿着厚皮靴的大腿伸到这张桌子上，沉思起来了。

“请问，要把箱子搬进来吗？请问，要铺床、沏茶吗？”仆人问道。

皮埃尔不回答，因为他什么都听不见，什么都看不见。他在前一站就已陷入沉思状态中，还在继续想到一桩如此重要的事情，以致于丝毫没有注意他周围发生的一切。他不仅漠不关心，是早一点还是迟一点抵达彼得堡，或则是这个驿站是否有他得以休息的地方，而且他在比较那些萦回于脑际的想法的时候：在这个驿站他呆几个钟头，还是呆它一辈子，他也同样是满不在乎的。

驿站长、驿站长夫人、仆役、卖托尔若克刺绣品的农妇，都走进来向他提供帮助。皮埃尔没有改变两腿向上跷起的姿势，他透过眼镜睇着他们，心里不明了他们需要什么，他们尚未解决他所关心的那些问题又怎么能够熬得下去。可是在决斗后，他从索科尔尼克森林走回家去，度过了一个折磨他的不眠之夜，从那天起，萦回于脑际的还是那些老问题，而此时，在孤独而又寂寞的旅行中，这些问题就更加强有力地把他控制住了。无论他开始想到什么事情，他总会回到那些他无法解决，也无法停止向自己提出的问题上来。好像他的头脑中有一颗用以支撑他整个生命的主要螺丝给拧坏了。这颗螺丝钉既拧不进去，也旋不出来，它总是在同一个螺纹中空打转儿，而且不能使它停止旋转。

驿站长走进来了，低首小心地请他大人只消等候两小时，然后拨给大人（听凭命运吧）特快驿马。驿站长显然是在撒谎，他只想向过路旅客索取更多的钱罢了。“这是好，还是坏？”皮埃尔向他自己提问。“对我来说，这是好事，对别的过路旅客来说，这是坏事，对他本人来说，这是不可避免的事，因为他一无所有。他说，为了这一点有个军官揍了他一顿。军官揍他，因为他应该赶路。而我向多洛霍夫开了一枪是因为我认为我自己遭受了侮辱。路易十六被处以死刑，因为人们都认为他是罪人，时隔一年，人们就把处死他的人杀了，也是因为某种缘由吧。什么是好事？什么是坏事？应该爱什么？应该恨什么？为什么而生，我是什么人？何谓生？何谓死？是什么势力支配着一切？”他问自己。在这些问题之中，没有一个得到了解答，只有一个根本不是针对这些问题的、不合乎逻辑的解答不在此列。这个解答如下：“你死了，一切都宣告结束。你死了，一切真相都大白，或则说，你停止发问了。”

但是死也是很可怕的。

托尔若克的女商贩用小尖嗓子兜售自己的商品，特别是兜售山羊皮便鞋。“我有几百卢布，无处可花，可是她穿着一件破皮袄站在这里，畏葸地望着我，”皮埃尔想道，“干嘛需要这些钱？这些钱的确可以给她增添一丁点儿幸福和心灵上的安慰吗？难道尘世上有什么东西能够使她和我少受一点灾难和死亡的摆布吗？死亡将一切归于终结，死亡不是今天就是明天将要来临，它和永恒相比，反正是瞬息间的经历而已。于是我又使劲地按着那个空转的螺旋，它还在原来那个地方转动着。”

他的仆人给他递上一本裁开一半的书——苏扎夫人的书信体长篇小说。他开始浏阅关于阿梅莉·德芒费尔德的痛苦、为维护高尚品德而奋斗的叙述。“当她正爱着那个引诱她的男人的时候，干嘛她又要和他作斗争？”他想道，“上帝不会赋予她的灵魂以违背他的意志的欲望。我从前的妻子不作斗争，大概她的做法是对的。没有发现什么，”皮埃尔又对自己说，“什么也没有想出来。我们只知道，我们一无所知。这就是人类智慧的高度表现。”

在他看来，他自己身上和他周围的一切都是紊乱的、毫无意义的、令人厌恶的。但是皮埃尔在他对周围一切事物的厌恶情绪中，却发现一种令人激动的喜悦。

“我冒昧请求您大人稍微靠拢些，这是他老人家的位子，”驿站长说道，走进房里来，领着一位因为缺乏马匹而滞留的过路客人。过路客人是个骨骼宽大、皮肤发黄、满面皱纹、敦敦实实的老头，他那炯炯有神的浅灰色的眼睛上面垂下斑白的眉毛。

皮埃尔把他自己的一双腿从桌上移开，站起来，走过去，睡到给他预备的一张床上，不时地望望走进来的人，这个人带着阴沉的、疲惫的面容，不去端详皮埃尔，便在仆人的帮助下很费劲地脱下衣裳。过路客人还披着一件破旧的南京土布吊面的皮袄，瘦骨嶙峋的脚上穿着一双毡靴，他在沙发上坐下来，把那两鬓宽阔的、留有短发的、硕大的脑袋靠在沙发背上，朝别祖霍夫瞥了一眼。严肃、聪明、锐利的眼神，使皮埃尔惊讶不已。他很想和过路客人谈话，但当他要向他问问旅途情况的时候，过路客人闭上了眼睛，叠起他那双满是皱纹的老头儿的手，有个指头上戴着一只刻有骷髅图样的生铁制的大戒指，一动不动地坐着，也许是休息，皮埃尔觉得，过路人也许正在安闲地深思熟虑着什么事。过路客人的仆人满面皱纹，也是个皮肤发黄的老头，他没有胡髭和髯须，看起来不是剃过，而是从来都没有长过胡须。手脚灵便的老仆人打开路上用的食品箱，摆好茶桌，端来沸腾的茶炊。当一切准备停妥，这个年老的过路客人睁开了眼睛，移动脚步，走到桌前，给他自己一杯茶，又给另一位没有胡须的老年人斟一杯茶，把茶递给他。皮埃尔开始感到心情不安，他不得不跟这位过路客人谈谈话，他甚至觉得这是一件少不了的事。

仆人把那只翻过来的空茶杯和没有吃完的糖块端回去，问了问他还要什么。

“不要什么。把书递过来，”过路客人说。仆人递上一本书，皮埃尔觉得这是一部教会的书，过路客人于是埋头于阅读。皮埃尔注视着他。过路客人忽然把书本挪开，夹上书签，合起来，又闭上眼睛，胳膊肘支撑在沙发背上，保持原有的姿势坐下来。皮埃尔望着他，还没有把脸转过来，老头就睁开眼睛，用那坚定而严肃的目光逼视着皮埃尔的面孔。

皮埃尔觉得自己不好意思，想避开这种目光，但是老年人的炯炯有神的眼睛强烈地吸引着他。