FROM THE TIME of his disappearance, two days before, Pierre had been living in the empty abode of his dead benefactor, Osip Bazdyev. This was how it had come to pass.
On waking up the morning after his return to Moscow and his interview with Count Rastoptchin, Pierre could not for some time make out where he was and what was expected of him. When the names of the persons waiting to see him were announced to him—among them a Frenchman, who had brought a letter from his wife, the Countess Elena Vassilyevna—he felt suddenly overcome by that sense of the hopelessness and intricacy of his position to which he was particularly liable. He suddenly felt that everything was now at an end, everything was in a muddle, everything was breaking down, that no one was right nor wrong, that there was no future before him, and that there was no possible escape from the position. Smiling unnaturally and muttering to himself, he sat on the sofa in a pose expressive of utter hopelessness, or got up, approached the door, and peeped through the crack into the reception-room, where his visitors were awaiting him, then turned back with a gesture of despair and took up a book. The butler came in for the second time with a message that the Frenchman who had brought the letter from the countess was very desirous of seeing him if only for a minute, and that they had sent from the widow of Osip Alexyevitch Bazdyev to ask him to take charge of some books, as Madame Bazdyev was going away into the country.
“Oh, yes, in a minute; wait … No, no; go and say, I am coming immediately,” said Pierre.
As soon as the butler had left the room, Pierre had taken up his hat, which was lying on the table, and gone out by the other door. He found no one in the corridor. Pierre walked the whole length of the corridor to the staircase, and frowning and rubbing his forehead with both hands, he went down as far as the first story landing. The porter was standing at the front door. A second staircase led from the landing to the back entrance. Pierre went down the back stairs and out into the yard. No one had seen him. But as soon as he turned out at the gates into the street, the coachman, standing by the carriages, and the gate-porter saw him and took off their caps to him. Aware of their eyes fixed on him, Pierre did, as the ostrich does, hiding its head in a bush to escape being seen; ducking his head and quickening his pace he hurried along the street.
Of all the business awaiting Pierre that morning, the task of sorting the books and papers of Osip Alexyevitch seemed to him the most urgent.
He hailed the first cab-driver he came across, and told him to drive to Patriarch's Ponds, where was the house of the widow of Bazdyev.
Continually watching the loaded vehicles moving out of Moscow from all directions, and balancing his bulky person carefully not to slip out of the rickety old chaise, Pierre had the happy sensation of a run-away schoolboy, as he chatted with his driver.
The latter told him that to-day arms were being given out in the Kremlin, and that next day every one would be driven out beyond the Three Hills Gate, and there there was to be a great battle.
On reaching the Patriarch's Ponds, Pierre looked for Bazdyev's house, where he had not been for a long while past. He went up to a little garden gate. Gerasim, the yellow, beardless old man Pierre had seen five years before at Torzhok with Osip Alexyevitch, came out on hearing him knock.
“At home?” asked Pierre.
“Owing to present circumstances, Sofya Danilovna and her children have gone away into the country, your excellency.”
“I'll come in, all the same; I want to look through the books,” said Pierre.
“Pray do, you are very welcome; the brother of my late master—the heavenly kingdom be his!—Makar Alexyevitch has remained, but your honour is aware he is in feeble health,” said the old servant.
Makar Alexyevitch was, as Pierre knew, a brother of Osip Alexyevitch, a half-mad creature, besotted by drink.
“Yes, yes, I know. Let us go in,” said Pierre, and he went into the house. A tall, bald old man in a dressing-gown, with a red nose and goloshes on his bare feet, was standing in the vestibule; seeing Pierre, he muttered something angrily, and walked away into the corridor.
“He was a great intellect, but now, as your honour can see, he has grown feeble,” said Gerasim. “Will you like to go into the study?” Pierre nodded. “As it was sealed up, so it has remained. Sofya Danilovna gave orders that if you sent for the books they were to be handed over.”
Pierre went into the gloomy study, which he had entered with such trepidation in the lifetime of his benefactor. Now covered with dust, and untouched since the death of Osip Alexyevitch, the room was gloomier than ever.
Gerasim opened one blind, and went out of the room on tiptoe. Pierre walked round the study, went up to the bookcase, where the manuscripts were kept, and took one of the most important, at one time a sacred relic of the order. This consisted of the long Scottish acts of the order, with Bazdyev's notes and commentaries. He sat down to the dusty writing-table and laid the manuscripts down before him, opened and closed them, and at last, pushing them away, sank into thought, with his elbow on the table and his head in his hand.
Several times Gerasim peeped cautiously into the study and saw that Pierre was sitting in the same attitude.
More than two hours passed by, Gerasim ventured to make a slight noise at the door to attract Pierre's attention. Pierre did not hear him.
“Is the driver to be dismissed, your honour?”
“Oh yes,” said Pierre, waking up from his reverie, and hurriedly getting up. “Listen,” he said, taking Gerasim by the button of his coat and looking down at the old man with moist, shining, eager eyes. “Listen! You know that to-morrow there is to be a battle …”
“They have been saying so …” answered Gerasim.
“I beg you not to tell any one who I am. And do what I tell you..”
“Certainly, sir,” said Gerasim. “Would your honour like something to eat?”
“No, but I want something else. I want a peasant dress and a pistol,” said Pierre, suddenly flushing red.
“Certainly, sir,” said Gerasim, after a moment's thought.
All the rest of that day Pierre spent alone in his benefactor's study pacing restlessly from one corner to the other, as Gerasim could hear, and talking to himself; and he spent the night on a bed made up for him there.
Gerasim accepted Pierre's taking up his abode there with the imperturbability of a servant, who had seen many queer things in his time, and he seemed, indeed, pleased at having some one to wait upon. Without even permitting himself to wonder with what object it was wanted, he obtained for Pierre that evening a coachman's coat and cap, and promised next day to procure the pistol he required. Makar Alexyevitch twice that evening approached the door, shuffling in his goloshes, and stood there, gazing with an ingratiating air at Pierre. But as soon as Pierre turned to him, he wrapped his dressing-gown round him with a shamefaced and wrathful look, and hastily retreated. Pierre put on the coachman's coat, procured and carefully fumigated for him by Gerasim, and went out with the latter to buy a pistol at the Suharev Tower. It was there he had met the Rostovs.
打从家里消失以来，皮埃尔已在过世的巴兹杰耶夫家的空宅院里住了两天了。事情的始末是这样的。
皮埃尔回到莫斯科，与拉斯托普钦伯爵会见后的次日，醒来之后，很久都闹不清楚自己在哪里，人们要他干什么。有人向他禀告，在接待室里，一长串等候他的名人中，包括一名法国人，他带来了海伦·瓦西里耶夫娜的信件，于是，一种混乱的垂头丧气的心情（他容易受到这种感情支配）又突然把他控制住了。他忽然觉得，一切到现在都完了，一切都乱作一团，一切都毁了，无所谓对也无所谓错，前途无望，也没有摆脱当前处境的出路。他不自然地傻笑，小声嘟囔着什么，时而无奈地在沙发上坐下，时而起身走向门口，透过门缝往接待室里瞧瞧，时而又挥挥手踱回来抓起一本书看。管家再次进来禀报皮埃尔：给伯爵夫人带信的法国人非常想见他，哪怕是一分钟也行，同时，巴兹杰耶夫的遗孀请他去接受图书，因为巴兹杰耶娃女士要到乡间去了。
“啊，是的，马上，等一等……不，不，你先去说我就来。”
皮埃尔对管家说。
但是，当管家一出房间，皮埃尔就拿起桌上的帽子，便从后面的门走出了书斋，走廊里一个人也没有。他穿过长长的走廊到了楼梯口，皱着眉头用双手抹了抹额头，下到第一道平台。守门人守在大门口。皮埃尔来到的这道台阶又有梯级通向后门。皮埃尔顺着这阶梯走到了院子里。谁也没有看见他。但当他走出后门到了街上时，站在马车旁的车夫和看院子的人看见了老爷，向他脱帽致敬。皮埃尔感到众人投过来的目光，像驼鸟把头埋在灌木丛中以免被人看见一样，低下头，并加快了步伐，沿着大街走去。
在皮埃尔今天早晨要做的事情中，收拾整理约瑟夫·阿列克谢耶维奇的图书文件对他说来是最重要的。
他雇了他碰到的第一辆马车，吩咐车夫赶到总主教湖去，巴兹杰耶夫遗孀的家就在那里。
他不停地四处张望从四面八方开出来的驶离莫斯科的车辆，挪动自己笨重的躯体，以免滑下咿哑作响的破旧车厢，他体会到了逃学的孩子的高兴心情，同车夫聊了起来。
车夫告诉他，今天在克里姆林宫分发武器，明天民众统统赶到城外三座山，那里要打一场大仗。
抵达总主教湖，皮埃尔找到了他已很久未去过的巴兹杰耶夫家。他走近住宅的便门。格拉西姆，就是那个黄脸无须的小老头儿，他五年前同约瑟夫·阿列克谢耶维奇在托尔若克时见到过的，出来应门。
“有家吗？”皮埃尔问。
“由于目前的时局关系，索菲娅·丹尼洛夫娜带着孩子到托尔若克乡下去，爵爷。”
“我还得进来，我要请理一下书籍。”皮埃尔说。
“请吧，欢迎大驾，亡主——愿他升入天堂——他的弟弟马卡尔·阿列克谢耶维奇留下了，可是，不瞒您说，他身体虚弱。”老仆人说。
马卡尔·阿列克谢耶维奇，正如皮埃尔所知，是神志不大清醒的嗜酒如命的人，是约瑟夫·阿列克谢耶维奇的弟弟。
“对，对，我知道。咱们进去吧，进去吧……”皮埃尔说着进了屋。一个高大秃顶红鼻子的老头，身穿外套，光脚穿套鞋站在前厅。看见皮埃尔，他不满地嘟哝了几句，走到了走廊里。
“以前可聪明来着，可现在，您瞧，虚弱不堪，”格拉西姆说。“去书斋要不要得？”皮埃尔点头。“书斋封起来还没有动过。索菲娅·丹尼洛夫娜吩咐如您那儿来人，这边就发书。”
皮埃尔走进这间最阴暗的书斋。他在慈善家生前曾惶恐不安地来过这里。从约瑟夫·阿列克谢耶维奇逝世起就无人动过的，现今已积满灰尘的书斋，比从前更加阴暗。
格拉西姆打开一扇护窗板，踮着足走出了书斋。皮埃尔在书斋转了一圈，走到放手稿的书橱前面，取出一件当年曾是非常重要的共济会的圣物。这是附有慈善家注释的《苏格兰教律》真本。他在尘封的写字台前坐下，把手稿摊在面前一会儿翻阅，一会儿合上，最后把手稿从面前推开，把头撑在胳膊肘上，沉思起来。
格拉西姆悄悄往书斋看了好几次，看见皮埃尔始终是那个样子坐着，两个多小时过去了。格拉西姆大胆在门边弄出了响声，以引起皮埃尔的注意。皮埃尔却听不见。
“您要不要打发马车夫走？”
“噢，是的，”皮埃尔回过神来，边说边急忙起身，“听着，”皮埃尔说，抓住格拉西姆外衣的钮扣，从头到脚地打量这个小老头，亮着湿润的兴奋的眼睛，“听我说，你知道明天将打仗吗？
“都在说呢。”格拉西姆回答……
“我请您对谁都别说我是谁。并且照我的话去做……”
“遵命，”格拉西姆说，“您要不要吃东西？”
“不，但我需要别的东西。我要一套农民的衣服和一支手枪。”皮埃尔说，脸突然发红。
“遵命。”格拉西姆想了想说。
这一天的剩余时间，皮埃尔独自一人在慈善家的书斋里度过，不安地从这头走到那头，格拉西姆听得出来，他在自言自语，最后就睡在书斋里为他安排的床铺上，度过了一夜。
素来就有仆人伺候人的习惯的，一生见过许多稀奇古怪事情的格拉西姆，对皮埃尔迁来暂住并不吃惊，而且，有一个人让他伺候似乎很满意。当晚，他连想也不想这些东西有什么用处，就给皮埃尔搞来一件车夫大褂和毡帽，并答应第二天搞到他要的手枪。马卡尔·阿列克谢耶维奇，这天晚上趿着套鞋两次来到房门口，停下来讨好地看着皮埃尔。但当皮埃尔转身看他时，他便又害羞又生气地裹紧外套匆忙走开。就在皮埃尔身穿格拉西姆搞来并蒸煮过的车夫大褂，同他一道去苏哈列夫塔楼买手枪时，碰到了罗斯托夫一家人。
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