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<h2> CHAPTER XII </h2>
<p>As generally happens, Pierre did not feel the full effects of the physical
privation and strain he had suffered as prisoner until after they were
over. After his liberation he reached Orel, and on the third day there,
when preparing to go to Kiev, he fell ill and was laid up for three
months. He had what the doctors termed "bilious fever." But despite the
fact that the doctors treated him, bled him, and gave him medicines to
drink, he recovered.</p>
<p>Scarcely any impression was left on Pierre's mind by all that happened to
him from the time of his rescue till his illness. He remembered only the
dull gray weather now rainy and now snowy, internal physical distress, and
pains in his feet and side. He remembered a general impression of the
misfortunes and sufferings of people and of being worried by the curiosity
of officers and generals who questioned him, he also remembered his
difficulty in procuring a conveyance and horses, and above all he
remembered his incapacity to think and feel all that time. On the day of
his rescue he had seen the body of Petya Rostov. That same day he had
learned that Prince Andrew, after surviving the battle of Borodino for
more than a month had recently died in the Rostovs' house at Yaroslavl,
and Denisov who told him this news also mentioned Helene's death,
supposing that Pierre had heard of it long before. All this at the time
seemed merely strange to Pierre: he felt he could not grasp its
significance. Just then he was only anxious to get away as quickly as
possible from places where people were killing one another, to some
peaceful refuge where he could recover himself, rest, and think over all
the strange new facts he had learned; but on reaching Orel he immediately
fell ill. When he came to himself after his illness he saw in attendance
on him two of his servants, Terenty and Vaska, who had come from Moscow;
and also his cousin the eldest princess, who had been living on his estate
at Elets and hearing of his rescue and illness had come to look after him.</p>
<p>It was only gradually during his convalescence that Pierre lost the
impressions he had become accustomed to during the last few months and got
used to the idea that no one would oblige him to go anywhere tomorrow,
that no one would deprive him of his warm bed, and that he would be sure
to get his dinner, tea, and supper. But for a long time in his dreams he
still saw himself in the conditions of captivity. In the same way little
by little he came to understand the news he had been told after his
rescue, about the death of Prince Andrew, the death of his wife, and the
destruction of the French.</p>
<p>A joyous feeling of freedom—that complete inalienable freedom
natural to man which he had first experienced at the first halt outside
Moscow—filled Pierre's soul during his convalescence. He was
surprised to find that this inner freedom, which was independent of
external conditions, now had as it were an additional setting of external
liberty. He was alone in a strange town, without acquaintances. No one
demanded anything of him or sent him anywhere. He had all he wanted: the
thought of his wife which had been a continual torment to him was no
longer there, since she was no more.</p>
<p>"Oh, how good! How splendid!" said he to himself when a cleanly laid table
was moved up to him with savory beef tea, or when he lay down for the
night on a soft clean bed, or when he remembered that the French had gone
and that his wife was no more. "Oh, how good, how splendid!"</p>
<p>And by old habit he asked himself the question: "Well, and what then? What
am I going to do?" And he immediately gave himself the answer: "Well, I
shall live. Ah, how splendid!"</p>
<p>The very question that had formerly tormented him, the thing he had
continually sought to find—the aim of life—no longer existed
for him now. That search for the aim of life had not merely disappeared
temporarily—he felt that it no longer existed for him and could not
present itself again. And this very absence of an aim gave him the
complete, joyous sense of freedom which constituted his happiness at this
time.</p>
<p>He could not see an aim, for he now had faith—not faith in any kind
of rule, or words, or ideas, but faith in an ever-living, ever-manifest
God. Formerly he had sought Him in aims he set himself. That search for an
aim had been simply a search for God, and suddenly in his captivity he had
learned not by words or reasoning but by direct feeling what his nurse had
told him long ago: that God is here and everywhere. In his captivity he
had learned that in Karataev God was greater, more infinite and
unfathomable than in the Architect of the Universe recognized by the
Freemasons. He felt like a man who after straining his eyes to see into
the far distance finds what he sought at his very feet. All his life he
had looked over the heads of the men around him, when he should have
merely looked in front of him without straining his eyes.</p>
<p>In the past he had never been able to find that great inscrutable infinite
something. He had only felt that it must exist somewhere and had looked
for it. In everything near and comprehensible he had only what was
limited, petty, commonplace, and senseless. He had equipped himself with a
mental telescope and looked into remote space, where petty worldliness
hiding itself in misty distance had seemed to him great and infinite
merely because it was not clearly seen. And such had European life,
politics, Freemasonry, philosophy, and philanthropy seemed to him. But
even then, at moments of weakness as he had accounted them, his mind had
penetrated to those distances and he had there seen the same pettiness,
worldliness, and senselessness. Now, however, he had learned to see the
great, eternal, and infinite in everything, and therefore—to see it
and enjoy its contemplation—he naturally threw away the telescope
through which he had till now gazed over men's heads, and gladly regarded
the ever-changing, eternally great, unfathomable, and infinite life around
him. And the closer he looked the more tranquil and happy he became. That
dreadful question, "What for?" which had formerly destroyed all his mental
edifices, no longer existed for him. To that question, "What for?" a
simple answer was now always ready in his soul: "Because there is a God,
that God without whose will not one hair falls from a man's head."</p>
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