Tolstoy’s other major metaphor in “War and Peace,” less famous than the oak, but ultimately more meaningful for him, is his image of the sky and the relationship between physical beauty and metaphysical mystery. This metaphor is extended across four scenes in the book.
Scene 1
Nikolai Rostov turned away and, as if searching for something, gazed into the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky, and at the sun. How beautiful the sky looked; how blue, how calm, and how deep! How bright and glorious was the setting sun! With what soft glitter the waters of the distant Danube shone. And fairer still were the far away blue mountains beyond the river, the nunnery, the mysterious gorges, and the pine forests veiled in mist to their summits … There was peace and happiness … ‘I would wish for nothing else, nothing, if only I were there,’ thought Rostov. ‘In myself alone and in that sunshine there is so much happiness; but here … groans, suffering, fear, and this uncertainty and hurry … There—they are shouting again, and again they are all running back somewhere, and I will run with them, and it, death, is here above me and around … Another instant and I will never again see the sun, this water, that gorge! …’
At that instant the sun began to hide behind the clouds, and other stretchers came in view before Rostov. And the fear of death and of the stretchers, and love of the sun and of life, all merged into one feeling of sickening agitation.
Scene 2
‘What’s this? Am I falling? My legs are giving way,’ thought he, and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle of the Frenchmen with the gunners ended, whether the red-haired gunner had been killed or not, and whether the cannon had been captured or saved.
But he saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the sky—the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with grey clouds gliding slowly across it. ‘How quiet, peaceful, and solemn, not at all as I ran,’ thought Prince Andrei ‘—not as we ran, shouting and fighting, not at all as the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened and angry faces struggled for the mop: how differently do those clouds glide across that lofty infinite sky! How was it I did not see that lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes! All is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing, but that. But even it does not exist, there is nothing but quiet and peace. Thank God! …’
Scene 3
Towards evening he ceased moaning and became quite still. He did not know how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he again felt that he was alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his head. ‘Where is it, that lofty sky that I did not know till now, but saw today?’ was his first thought. ‘And I did not know this suffering either,’ he thought. ‘Yes, I did not know anything, anything at all till now. But where am I?’ He listened, and heard the sound of approaching horses, and voices speaking French.
He opened his eyes. Above him again was the same lofty sky with clouds that had risen and were floating still higher, and between them gleamed blue infinity. He did not turn his head and did not see those who, judging by the sound of hoofs and voices, had ridden up and stopped near him. It was Napoleon accompanied by two aides-de-camp.
Bonaparte riding over the battlefield had given final orders to strengthen the batteries firing at the Augesd dam, and was looking at the killed and wounded left on the field.
‘De beaux hommes!’ remarked Napoleon, looking at a dead Russian grenadier who with his face buried in the ground and a blackened nape, lay on his stomach with an already stiffened arm flung wide. ‘Les munitions ont des pièces de position sont épuisées,’said an adjutant who had come from the batteries that were firing at Augesd. ‘Faites avancer celles de la réserve,’ said Napoleon, and having gone on a few steps he stopped before Prince Andrei, who lay on his back with the flagstaff that had been dropped beside him. (The flag had already been taken by the French as a trophy.) ‘Voilà une belle mort!’ said Napoleon as he gazed at Bolkonsky.
Prince Andrei understood that this was said of him, and that it was Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as Sire. But he heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. Not only did they not interest him, but he took no notice of them and at once forgot them.
His head was burning, he felt himself bleeding to death, and he saw above him the remote, lofty, and everlasting sky. He knew it was Napoleon—his hero—but at that moment Napoleon seemed to him such a small insignificant creature compared with what was passing now between himself and that lofty infinite sky with the clouds flying over it. At that moment it meant nothing to him who might be standing over him, or what was said of him; he was only glad that people were standing near him, and only wished that they would help him and bring him back to life, which seemed to him so beautiful now that he had today learned to understand it so differently. He collected all his strength, to stir and utter a sound. He feebly moved his leg, and uttered a weak sickly groan which aroused his own pity.
Scene 4
Pierre interrupted him.
‘Do you believe in a future life?’ he asked. ‘A future life?’ Prince Andrei repeated, but Pierre, giving him no time to reply, took the repetition for a denial, the more readily as he knew Prince Andrei’s former atheistic convictions. ‘You say you can’t see a reign of goodness and truth on earth. Nor could I, and it cannot be seen if one looks on our life here as the end of everything. On earth, here on this earth’ (Pierre pointed to the fields), ‘there is no truth, all is false and evil; but in the universe, in the whole universe, there is a kingdom of truth, and we who are now the children of earth are—eternally—children of the whole universe.
Don’t I feel in my soul that I am part of this vast harmonious whole? Don’t I feel that I form one link, one step, between the lower and higher beings, in this vast harmonious multitude of beings in whom the Deity—the Supreme Power if you prefer the term—is manifest?
If I see, clearly see, that ladder leading from plant to man, why should I suppose it breaks off at me and does not go farther and farther? I feel that I cannot vanish, since nothing vanishes in this world, but that I shall always exist and always have existed. I feel that beyond me and above me there are spirits, and that in this world there is truth.’
‘Yes, that is Herder’s theory,’ said Prince Andrei, ‘but it is not that which can convince me, dear friend—life and death are what convince. What convinces is when one sees a being dear to one, bound up with one’s own life, before whom one was to blame and had hoped to make it right’ (Prince Andrei’s voice trembled and he turned away), ‘and suddenly that being is seized with pain, suffers, and ceases to exist … Why? It cannot be that there is no answer. And I believe there is … That’s what convinces, that is what has convinced me,’ said Prince Andrei.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Pierre, ‘isn’t that what I’m saying?’ ‘No. All I say is that it is not argument that convinces me of the necessity of a future life, but this: when you go hand in hand with someone and all at once that person vanishes there, into nowhere, and you yourself are left facing that abyss, and look in. And I have looked in …’
‘Well, that’s it then! You know that there is a there and there is a Someone? There is the future life. The Someone is—God.’
Prince Andrei did not reply. The carriage and horses had long since been taken off, onto the farther bank, and reharnessed. The sun had sunk half below the horizon and an evening frost was starring the puddles near the ferry, but Pierre and Andrei, to the astonishment of the footmen, coachmen, and ferrymen, still stood on the raft and talked.
‘If there is a God and future life there is truth and good, and man’s highest happiness consists in striving to attain them. We must live, we must love, and we must believe that we live not only today on this scrap of earth but have lived and shall live for ever, there, in the Whole,’ said Pierre, and he pointed to the sky. Prince Andrei stood leaning on the railing of the raft listening to Pierre, and he gazed with his eyes fixed on the red reflection of the sun gleaming on the blue waters.
There was perfect stillness. Pierre became silent. The raft had long since stopped, and only the waves of the current beat softly against it below. Prince Andrei felt as if the sound of the waves kept up a refrain to Pierre’s words, whispering: ‘It is true, believe it.’ He sighed, and glanced with a radiant, childlike, tender look at Pierre’s face, flushed and rapturous, but yet shy before his superior friend.
‘Yes, if only it were so!’ said Prince Andrei. ‘However, it is time to get on,’ he added, and stepping off the raft he looked up at the sky to which Pierre had pointed, and for the first time since Austerlitz saw that high everlasting sky he had seen while lying on that battlefield; and something that had long been slumbering, something that was best within him, suddenly awoke, joyful and youthful, in his soul. It vanished as soon as he returned to the customary conditions of his life, but he knew that this feeling which he did not know how to develop, existed within him. His meeting with Pierre formed an epoch in Prince Andrei’s life. Though outwardly he continued to live in the same old way, inwardly he began a new life.