War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy, 1869): Part 3- Musings

Part 1 of this three-part series provided a plot overview of War and Peace, while Part 2 examined its key themes. In this concluding post, I share some musings on this sprawling classic.

Beyond the core themes discussed in the previous post, War and Peace reveals Tolstoy’s vast literary ambition through his reflections on human nature, relationships, and social structures. In this essay, I’ve organized my observations on these reflections into four threads:

• Characters in Motion: How Tolstoy develops his characters

  
  

• The Human Thread: His portrayal of the texture of human relationships

  
  

• The Social Fabric: His insights into society, class, power, and the historical forces shaping collective life

  
  

• Scenes and Structures: An analysis of key episodes—their construction and what they suggest about his thinking

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Characters in motion

The four archetypes

In the previous post, I mentioned one of life's central truths that Pierre calls the "terrible it" —the disconcerting realization that the world is chaotic, and misfortune can strike at any moment. The characters in War and Peace, like all human beings across time and space, have a preferred mode of seeking order in a universe that they can observe is capricious. The joy of reading War and Peace lies in Tolstoy’s rich array of character archetypes, each defined by how they relate to this truth. The following archetypes emerge, typified by both major and minor characters:

The hedonists

The Kuragin family, the father Vasily and his children, Hippolyte, Anatole and Helene typify this tribe. These people live for pleasure that is derived from material objects and social status. Vasily has no qualms about stealing Pierre's inheritance, Hippolyte has no scruples about publicly flirting with Prince Andrey's wife, Helene coldly uses her kind husband for money and Anatole callously seduces Natasha, an innocent sixteen-year-old. Tolstoy observes that neither Vasily nor Anatole is aware of any wrongdoing, and thus, they feel no moral restraint. They simply act in ways that feel natural and fitting to them.

The philophiles

A philophile (from Greek philos, 'loving' + philos, 'friend') finds fulfillment in cultivating friendships, practicing generosity, and sharing meaningful experiences. They seek joy, which differs from pleasure. Joy is the feeling of elation in one's heart arising from selfless acts, heartfelt conversations, or reading an inspiring biography. Pleasure, by contrast, depends on sensory stimuli like food, sex, power, or hoarding. When we recall a joyous moment, we relive its satisfaction. Remembering pleasurable acts, however, often leaves us craving more, often in increasing doses.

The Rostovs embody the pursuit of joy. Like hedonists, they follow their instincts rather than pondering life's meaning. However, their instincts lean toward generosity, connection, and sharing joyful experiences with those they cherish.

The intellectuals

Prince Andrey, unlike the instinct-driven hedonists and philophiles, values reasoning above all else. He contemplates what constitutes a worthy life and acts purposefully to align with that vision. Initially, he joins the military in a staff position, inspired by ideals of valor and noble causes. However, the brutality, chaos, and military politics he witnesses at the Battle of Austerlitz, leaves him disillusioned with war and causes him to retreat into bitter isolation at his estate.

His spirit is rekindled by romantic feelings for Natasha, prompting a renewed search for purpose. This time, he turns to public service, working on governance reforms that the Tsar is championing. He abandons this work after realizing it is theoretical and disconnected from the real-world problems of citizens. After his engagement with Natasha ends, he makes a third attempt at finding meaning, joining the army once more, now in a front-line role.

Despite his intelligence and achievements, Prince Andrey never finds happiness. He searches for logic in the course of human life—a pursuit Tolstoy deems futile, as life inherently defies logic from the perspective of human reasoning. Through the explorations of Pierre, Tolstoy conveys his belief in a higher purpose to the trajectory of human life but it cannot be grasped intellectually.

Princess Marya’s claim that God willed her sister-in-law Lisa to die in childbirth to spare her the sin of being an unfit mother is obviously absurd. Yet Tolstoy suggests that Prince Andrey’s approach, though seemingly more rational, is just as futile. Both attempt to understand a truth that transcends language and lies beyond the reach of cognitive interpretation.

Through the contrasting personality of the Rostov family, Tolstoy implies that a meaningful life is not about intellectual answers to life’s mysteries but about forming connections with other people. For this reason, Prince Andrey is unable to connect with his son, sister, first wife, or Natasha.

Meaning seekers

Unlike hedonists and philophiles, intellectuals and meaning seekers recognize "the terrible it" explicitly and seek the ostensibly hidden explanation behind the randomness of life. However, unlike intellectuals, meaning seekers recognize that life seems random and fickle only when we view it through the prism of the eight Buddhist vicissitudes: gain and loss, fame and disgrace, praise and blame, pleasure and pain. We believe there should be a discernible pattern behind how these eight worldly conditions are allocated. Instead, meaning seekers believe that life has a purpose beyond what is observable or measurable and hence, outside the dichotomy of pleasant and unpleasant inherent within the vicissitudes.

Pierre, the protagonist of War and Peace, belongs to this tribe and is the novel’s most syncretic character. Like the hedonists, he indulges in alcohol, food, and women. Like philophiles, he connects effortlessly with a range of people—from the convivial Rostovs to the aloof Prince Andrey and the curmudgeonly Nikolay Bolkonsky. And like the intellectuals, he is drawn to abstract theorizing, often arriving at the same nihilistic conclusions as his close friend, the relentlessly intellectual Andrey. Yet, he has a persistent but wavering conviction that laws beyond human cognition shape the universe’s course and a grasp of them, however tenuous or imprecise, will lead him to a purposeful life.

The multitudes within us

While the characters in War and Peace broadly align with the four archetypes (hedonists, philophiles, intellectuals and meaning seekers), part of the novel's appeal lies in uncovering the contradictions within them. Human beings are complex, containing multitudes. Vasily Kuragin, for instance, shows a capacity for introspection when he laments the futility of a life built on deception and sin after Pierre's father's death, acknowledging that "everything ends in death." Similarly, Dolokhov, who, driven by jealousy, inflicts severe financial harm on Nikolay Rostov in a card-game, is a devoted son and a caring brother to his hunchbacked sister. His victim Rostov, a kindhearted soul, reneges on his commitment to Sonya, unable to overlook her lack of wealth. Countess Natalya, an otherwise warm and generous woman, viciously and unfairly attacks Sonya for entrapping her son.

Though Tolstoy’s characters sometimes behave inconsistently, they do fall into a binary: those with an inherent core of goodness and honor, like Pierre, the Bolkonskys, the Rostovs, Denisov and those without, such as the Kuragins, Dolokhov, Berg and Boris Drubetskoy. In the latter category, Dolokhov is a particularly odious character. Despite enjoying the Rostovs’ hospitality, he harms each of the siblings: bankrupting Nikolay maliciously in a card game, abetting Anatole in the attempted elopement with Natasha, and failing to protect young Petya from a reckless military mission that leads to his death.

Interestingly, Tolstoy portrays children as reflections of their parents. Nikolay and Natasha inherit the openhearted generosity of their father and mother: Count Ilya Rostov and Countess Natalya. Prince Andrey mirrors the supercilious, antisocial, yet well-intentioned nature of his father, Prince Nikolay. Similarly, the Kuragin siblings display the same amorality as their father, Vasily. Boris Drubetskoy is forever scheming like his mother, Princess Anna Mikhaylovna.

Beyond familial resemblance, Tolstoy also suggests that even our social networks mirror who we are. The Rostovs’ family friend Marya Dmitrievna, though outwardly intimidating, is deeply loyal—opening her Moscow home to them, advocating for them to Andrey's father and shielding them from scandal after the Anatole incident. Similarly, Denisov, who becomes a lifelong friend of Nikolay, shares his impulsive, emotionally driven nature—most evident when he commandeers supplies from another regiment to feed his starving men. By contrast, Boris, a childhood friend of Nikolay, drifts away from the Rostovs' orbit as as he grows into a scheming adult focused on personal gain.

Small actions, deep impressions

One reason for the monumental length of War and Peace is the painstaking detail with which Tolstoy builds his characters. Through trivial actions of these characters, we gain insight into who they are. Below are some of these revelatory vignettes relating to some of the characters:

 Andrey Bolkonsky

• Tolstoy notes that Andrey’s greatest fear is being ridiculed. This fear underlies his reserved, hypercritical nature—not letting others become a threat to his dignity. Knowing this about him helps us better empathize with his emotional state after his fiancée’s betrayal. Yet Andrey’s strong sense of honor overrides his instinct for self-preservation. On his return from the Austrian court at Brno, he comes upon a chaotic scene: a soldier is driving a makeshift carriage carrying a doctor’s wife, while an irate officer berates them for trying to bypass the line. The woman pleads with Prince Andrey for help. Though he knows intervening might make him look foolish, he steps in and insists the officer let them pass. It is through moments like this that Prince Andrey remains a sympathetic character in War and Peace, despite his flaws.

  
  

• The masochistic side of Andrey's character is revealed when after the fall of Smolensk, he visits Bald Hills, knowing that the sight of his now abandoned childhood home will be extremely painful. We see the same trait, when despite telling Pierre that he wants to forget about the episode with Natasha, he follows Anatole with the intent of finding a pretext to duel him. Perhaps, he is addicted to a level of anguish ingrained in him by a rigid and suffocating father.

  
  

Nikolay Rostov

• Rostov’s tendency to form quick judgments about those he meets is oddly endearing, because it reflects a “heart over head” way of living rather than any malice. He immediately dislikes Pierre at the English Club for failing to return his bow and for not joining the toast to the Tsar—unaware that Pierre is lost in thought, preoccupied by the scandal involving his wife. His first impression of Andrey is equally off; he assumes Andrey is just another bureaucrat with a cushy post. In truth, Andrey, even in his role as adjutant, puts himself in harm’s way.

  
  

• Nikolay's judgmental nature stems from his moral absolutism. He believes certain actions are universally right or wrong regardless of context. Hence, it is very different from Andrey's harshness, which arises from defensiveness. The sight of Boris fraternizing with the French and the Tsar honoring Napoleon triggers him because these acts suggest that the ideals espoused by the Russian establishment may have been mere propaganda—an idea that offends his rigid moral code. This moral simplicity also makes it especially hard for him to break his promise to Sonya.

• The difference in the way Nikolay Rostov and Boris Drubetskoy handle their letters of introduction is revealing. Nikolay casually discards his letter to Prince Bagration, while Boris plans to make full use of his letter to Prince Andrey. Beyond the contrast in their personalities, Rostov’s nonchalance also reflects his higher social status—a privilege Boris does not share.

  
  

• When Nikolay returns home on extended leave from the army, his mother, worried about her husband's handling of their finances, asks his advice on what to do with a promissory note she holds from Boris’s mother. Nikolay replies, “You say it rests with me. Well, I don’t like Anna Mikháylovna and I don’t like Borís, but they were our friends and poor. Well then, this!”, and tears up the note. Though now estranged from his childhood friend Boris, who has grown into a worldly and calculating man, Nikolay remains true to his magnanimous nature.

  
  

Natasha Rostov

• At a dinner party, Natasha boldly interrupts a formal dinner to ask about dessert, even taking on the feared matriarch Marya Dmitriyevna, defying the social expectations of demureness for a young girl. Despite the breach of decorum, her blend of innocence and audacity draws laughter rather than censure. This impulsive streak later leads her into trouble with Anatole.

  
  

• Until the aftermath of the Anatole episode, Natasha appears mostly as a spirited, charming, and worldly young woman. Yet Tolstoy offers glimpses of her contemplative side—first when Prince Andrei overhears her admiring the moon, and later when she muses, “The soul is immortal—well then, if I shall always live, I must have lived before, lived for a whole eternity.” These moments foreshadow the deeper sensibility that emerges later in her life. So it feels natural that, in her marriage to Pierre, while she does not intellectually comprehend her husband's philosophical peregrinations, she is instinctively simpatico with them.

  
  

• After Nikolay deepens his relationship with Sonya by turning their flirtation into serious courtship with a kiss, Natasha intuitively senses that something has changed between them. She discreetly arranges for them to return home in a separate carriage, allowing them time alone. This quiet gesture reveals her emotional intelligence. As Tolstoy notes, she “always saw and noticed everything.”

  
  

Pierre Bezukhov

• Tolstoy highlights Pierre’s universal appeal during his visit to Bald Hills after Andrey’s return from Austerlitz. Even the misanthropic and ultra-nationalist old Prince Nikolay Bolkonsky receives him with warmth and camaraderie—despite Pierre expressing views like “there should be no war.” It’s unlikely anyone else could have voiced such opinions in the prince’s presence without incurring his wrath, but Pierre’s sincerity and openness make him uniquely disarming.

  
  

• Pierre’s declaration of love for Natasha is a cathartic moment: “If I were not myself, but the handsomest, cleverest, best man in the world, and if I were free, I would be on my knees this minute to beg for your hand and your love.” One of the most romantic passages in world literature, it also reveals his deep humility. Despite his wealth and status, he only finds the courage to express his love after Natasha has been condemned by society as a "fallen woman."

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The human thread

Marriage

Tolstoy’s preoccupation with marriage as an institution is evident in War and Peace, which portrays two unhappy unions and two fulfilling ones. The loveless marriages are between Prince Andrey and Liza, and Pierre and Helene. The nurturing relationships are those of Nikolay and Marya, and Pierre and Natasha. Through these pairings, Tolstoy conveys three ideas about the choice of a spouse.

One, physical attraction leads to poor matches. The unhappy marriages in War and Peace are rooted in it.

Pierre marries Helene, fully aware of her flaws, but swept up by desire. Prince Andrey and Liza lack intellectual compatibility—he is contemplative and serious; she is frivolous and sociable. In the only personal conversation between Andrey and his father, who otherwise have a formal relationship, the elder man subtly acknowledges Andrey's conjugal malaise, telling his son that all women are silly and no choice would have turned out better. After Liza’s death, Andrey again chooses poorly, drawn to Natasha by superficial charm despite having little in common with her.

By contrast, Princess Marya, though not conventionally beautiful, radiates luminosity cultivated by years of spiritual striving—this captivates Nikolay. Pierre, despite his gauche persona and heavy build, wins Natasha’s love with his pristine soul.

Two, choosing whom to marry often involves practical considerations—like economic status, class, and education—that may seem unseemly, but are often necessary foundations for long-term success. The mercenary version of this dynamic appears in Boris Drubetskoy’s calculated proposal to the heiress Julie Karagin, and in Berg’s gratuitous demand for dowry from Count Kirill. But a more benign version is seen in Nikolay’s marriage to Marya. Without financial pressure, he would have honored his earlier promise to Sonya. But unlike Boris, who despises Julie, Nikolay is genuinely attracted to the princess.

Three, a hallmark of a strong match is the recognition of the other person as a fully formed human being instead of an idealized template. Before meeting Princess Marya, Nikolay viewed potential wives in a conventional, almost formulaic way—imagining domestic scenes (tea table, children, family relations) that society deemed appropriate. These fantasies were abstract and interchangeable with any "young lady. With Princess Marya, he cannot force these generic fantasies onto her. This unsettles him because it demands genuine emotional engagement.

Tolstoy notes the process of transition between courtship and marriage where exhilaration of romance is replaced by something more solemn, yet joyful. After Natasha accepts Prince Andrey's proposal, he writes "Something in him had suddenly changed; there was no longer the former poetic and mystic charm of desire, but there was pity for her feminine and childish weakness, fear at her devotion and trustfulness, and an oppressive yet joyful sense of the duty that now bound him to her forever. The present feeling, though not so bright and poetic as the former, was stronger and more serious."

A significant portion of the epilogue is devoted to portraying domestic bliss—an idealized vision that modern readers may find patriarchal, or, even without applying contemporary values, simply cringeworthy. Tolstoy’s model of marriage emphasizes mutual support, with spouses avoiding interference in each other’s separate spheres. Marya knows little of Nikolay’s work as a landlord, but exerts a calming moral influence, stopping him from beating serfs in fits of rage. Natasha, though possessive of Pierre, respects his independence in civic and spiritual matters. The petty squabbles of daily life fade in the warmth of home and hearth.

Natasha “lets herself go,” which find approbation in Tolstoy's worldview, in which the purpose of marriage is family. While the husband’s professional identity matters, a woman’s fulfillment lies in domesticity. This may reflect the social conditioning of the time, particularly for women. Yet the almost utopian portrayal of home life seems more like wishful thinking—an imagined refuge shaped by the turbulence of Tolstoy’s own marriage to Sofia Andreyevna Behrs.

The household

Beyond marriage, Tolstoy is also interested in the family unit—the household. Just as a city has a distinctive vibe, so does each household—an emotional tone shaped by the people, their interactions, daily routines, and physical surroundings. By sharply contrasting the Bolkonsky and Rostov households, Tolstoy accentuates the "vibe" of each.

The head of Bolksonky household, Prince Nikolay is a stern, disciplined, and authoritarian old aristocrat whose life is governed by strict routines and an unyielding belief in activity and intelligence as the highest virtues. He imposes the same rigid structure on his daughter, Princess Marya, whose education he micromanages to eliminate any idleness. His exacting nature and abrasive demeanor inspire fear and respect from everyone around him, from servants, family members and visitors alike. The Bolkonsky household is marked by order but devoid of warmth.

The Rostov household, by contrast, is full of warmth and lacking in order. Tolstoy conveys the family’s open-hearted nature from their very first appearance in the novel, set against the celebration of Saint Natalya’s Day—the name day of the Countess and her daughter:

"Ever since the morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going continually, bringing visitors to the Countess Rostov’s big house on the Povarskaya, so well known to all Moscow."

Friends and acquaintances drift in and out of the Rostov home, with some even staying for extended periods. It is worth noting, in passing, the stark contrast between the party at the Rostovs’ Moscow home and the soirée at Anna Pavlovna’s St. Petersburg salon, which opens the novel. The former radiates warmth and authenticity, while the latter is steeped in artifice. This contrast in social atmosphere may also reflect the broader difference between the two cities: Moscow as the cultural heart of Russia, and St. Petersburg as its political center.

Two vividly detailed scenes capture the harmoniously chaotic rhythm of the Rostov household.

The first is the family's preparation for the New Year's Eve ball, a grand occasion attended by the Tsar himself. The Rostovs, considered somewhat provincial, are to be accompanied by a former maid of honor to the Empress, who will help them navigate the etiquette of high society. Despite a full day of preparations—bathing, perfuming, and dressing—Natasha falls behind, fussing over her mother, Sonya, and herself. The biggest delay comes when her skirt is discovered to be too long, prompting a flurry of last-minute stitching by the maids. After frantic adjustments, the family finally departs, well behind schedule.

Lateness returns, but in a more somber context, in the second scene later in the novel. After the Battle of Borodino, most of Moscow has already evacuated, but the Rostovs remain behind—first because the Countess refuses to leave without Petya, and then because the carts meant to carry their belongings do not arrive, delayed by the Count’s habitual carelessness. On the day of departure, the household is once again in chaos: contradictory orders fly, belongings are packed and repacked, and confusion reigns.

In both scenes, the common thread is the family’s emotional, rather than methodical, response to significant moments—whether swept up in the excitement of a ball or paralyzed by the need to evacuate during war time. Their charm lies in this very messiness, in their open, unguarded way of being.

The "vibe" of a household, largely set by its head, is not a superficial detail but a powerful force that shapes the inner lives of its members. Prince Andrey’s emotional reserve and Princess Marya’s skittish disposition both stem from their upbringing in a home devoid of warmth. After the patriarch's death, the courage Marya shows in fleeing from the French demonstrates the old man's dampening effect on her personality. The contrasting "vibes" of the Bolkonsky and Rostov households make Natasha and Andrey seem fundamentally mismatched. Though Countess Rostov cannot fault the match on grounds of wealth or status, she, like Nikolay, senses a deeper emotional incompatibility between them.

Yet during Andrey and Natasha’s courtship, the Rostovs experience a familiar shift: seeing someone in a light they never imagined.This change occurs for the Rostovs when the aloof and patrician Andrey, now Natasha’s fiancé, becomes a regular presence in their home, participating in the rhythms of daily domestic life and engaging in ordinary conversation.

In addition to the Bolkonskys and the Rostovs, Tolstoy takes a brief detour to portray the household "vibe" of “Uncle” , a friend of the Rostovs who, perhaps unsurprisingly, shares their openheartedness. Yet in one respect, Uncle’s household stands apart. Unlike the Rostovs, who, like much of the Russian aristocracy, embrace French culture and fashion, Uncle lives in the traditional Russian way.

In Uncle's household, the music and dance are traditional Russian folk forms, the food comes fresh from the farm, and the focus is on warm hospitality rather than impressing guests. He shuns formal position and authority, yet carries out his civic duties with quiet selflessness. Through this vignette, Tolstoy conveys the “salt of the earth” authenticity of Russian culture and when Natasha joins Uncle in a folk dance, he subtly underscores her deep-rooted mismatch with Andrey.

Coming of Age

Tolstoy depicts the transformative journey from childhood to adulthood marked by self-discovery, identity formation, and increasing independence through the lens of the Rostov children.

A rite of passage for young adults who grow up in protected loving environments is encountering meanness for the first time in the working world. Something similar happens to Rostov after he falls off his horse and is pursued by French soldiers: “He remembered his mother’s love for him, his family’s, his friends’, and the enemy’s intention to kill him seemed impossible.” In this moment, Tolstoy captures not only a young man’s rite of passage but also foreshadows the devastating events to come rooted in the dehumanization of others.

We live in two worlds—one made up of those who have known us since childhood (family and early friends), and the other formed by people we meet later in life (friends, spouses, colleagues). Even when we are estranged from someone in the first group, there's a bond rooted in shared experience—something no new relationship can replicate. Tolstoy describes this sentiment when Nikolay returns home for vacation the year after Austerlitz: " Rostov was transported back into that world of family life and childhood which meant nothing to anyone else but gave him some of the sweetest pleasures in his life, where burning your arm with a ruler as a token of love did not seem a silly thing to do". This is the first time in his life that Nikolay has a frame of reference to compare this old life with.

Natasha, used to being the adored little girl at home, wonders at her transformation to a young woman after accepting Andrey's proposal. “Is it possible that I-the ‘chit of a girl,’ as everybody called me,” thought Natasha—“is it possible that I am now to be the wife and the equal of this strange, dear, clever man whom even my father looks up to? Can it be true? Can it be true that there can be no more playing with life, that now I am grown up, that on me now lies a responsibility for my every word and deed? 

Adulthood often brings a quiet but significant separation from the family we were born into. Personal goals begin to take precedence over the needs of parents and siblings. Five years after joining the army, Nikolay has grown so accustomed to the structured ease of peacetime military life that he hesitates to return home even as his mother’s letters grow increasingly desperate about the family’s financial troubles.

The Christmas of 1810 marks a pivotal moment in the Rostov siblings’ coming-of-age journey. It is the last time they gather as a joyful family under their parents' roof. Their conversation drifts between nostalgia and quiet melancholy, as they recall cherished childhood memories. Natasha and Nicholas admit to feeling an inexplicable sadness, as though the best moments of their lives are already behind them, foreshadowing the difficult time that lie ahead. Their reminiscences, tinged with a dreamlike haze, carry a wistful undertone. Nikolay, now being asked to manage the family’s finances and Natasha engaged to an older man, can sense that their carefree days under parental protection is coming to an end.

Adulthood also brings with it moral relativism, a term that has a negative connotation but merely recognizes that ethical values can vary meaningfully across contexts. It is unfair to judge Nikolay for breaking a promise made in youthful indiscretion though Tolstoy lets him off the hook by introducing the plot device of Sonya releasing him. After Nikolay confesses his true feelings to an older lady who takes a motherly interest in arranging his match with Marya, Tolstoy writes"he knew that by resigning himself now to the force of circumstances and to those who were guiding him, he was not only doing nothing wrong, but was doing something very important—more important than anything he had ever done in his life." Nikolay was taking the irreversible step from being a frivolous young man to becoming the head of a family.

The most tragic coming-of-age story in War and Peace is that of Petya Rostov. Like many boys on the cusp of manhood, he seeks to define himself by emulating role models who embody the idealized masculine archetype of his time and culture. When a French drummer boy is taken prisoner, Petya tries to maintain a stoic distance, though he feels deep compassion and secretly considers giving the boy money. His internal struggle between who he aspires to be and who he truly is is a common one—typically resolved with time and maturity. But Petya never gets that chance.

The texture of human ties

Beneath the sweep of history in War and Peace lies a quieter story—of bonds formed, strained, and reshaped by time. Below are some gems from this epic:

• Alluding to a warm conversation between Andrey and Pierre, Tolstoy writes "Even in the very warmest, friendliest and simplest of relationships you need either flattery or praise in the way that you need grease to keep wheels turning".

  
  

• When Countess Natalya Rostov, Nikolay's mother, finds that her friend Anna Mikhaylovna cannot afford to outfit her son for the army, she gets her husband to front the money. Tolstoy records this moment thus "They wept for their friendship, their kind-heartedness and the unfortunate need for lifelong friends to soil their hands with anything as sordid as money, and they wept also for their lost youth".

  
  

• When the Countess Rostov receives news of Nikolay's injury at Austerlitz and his subsequent promotion to the officer rank, Tolstoy describes her motherly sentiment thus "The age old experience of people the world over which tells us that babies in their cradles grow up bit by bit into men meant nothing to the countess. Every single stage in Nikolay’s ascent to manhood had come as a shock to her."

• Russian bureaucrat Mikhail Speransky, appointed by the Tsar to lead governance reforms, forges a connection with Prince Andrey by tacitly implying that only the two of them are intelligent enough to see how foolish everyone else is.

  
  

• The moment children begin to assert their own agency is bittersweet for parents. Tolstoy captures this poignantly when Natasha expresses dismay that her parents are prioritizing the transport of furniture over offering a ride to wounded soldiers fleeing the imminent French attack on Moscow. Her father, moved to tears, embraces his ashamed wife and says with joy, “The eggs are teaching the hen.”

  
  

• On the way home from their neighbor’s estate, in a tender moment, Nikolay hops out of his carriage midway and runs over to Natasha’s to confide his decision to marry Sonya. Years later, in scenes depicting the siblings’ domestic lives, their deepest bonds have shifted to their respective spouses. Tolstoy subtly points to the way marital ties often supplant those of the parental family—a theme echoed decades later in Ozu’s Tokyo Story.

  
  

The nature of the mind

Tolstoy’s characters are not just swept along by history—they are shaped by the weather within. War and Peace explores the nature of the mind, an important theme in a book that is fundamentally about man's search for meaning and happiness:

• Buddhist scholar Joseph Goldstein recounts a humorous story about a yogi at the Barre Meditation Center who asked staff to reroute overflying planes so his practice would not be disturbed!The delusion that we are the center of the universe distorts our perspective. A similar distortion affects Nikolay during his first deployment, when the Russians begin retreating not longer after marching into Austria. He imagines that the regiment commander has positioned his squadron dangerously close to the front lines solely to punish him for a past personal dispute.

  
  

• Living in imagined future states is a human frailty. Tolstoy captures the vividness of such fantasies through Prince Andrey’s daydreams on the eve of Austerlitz. In his mind, the battle begins poorly, chaos spreading among the commanders. Then, like Napoleon at Toulon, his moment of glory arrives. He steps forward, confidently presenting a brilliant strategy. Awed by his insight but paralyzed by fear, the others hesitate—so he takes command himself. Leading a regiment, he single-handedly turns the tide and wins the battle. In the end, he envisions replacing Kutuzov.

  
  

• We often avoid asking questions because we fear the disquiet that knowledge will bring. When Natasha sees Nikolay visibly vexed following his large gambling loss to Dolokhov, she senses something is wrong but chooses not to ask. Later, after her failed elopement with Anatole, Count Rostov also refrains from probing the cause of his daughter’s distress.

  
  

• Our perception of the world outside is shaped by how we are feeling inside.  After his injury at Austerlitz and the death of his wife, Prince Andrey, in a bitter mood, makes several cynical remarks to Pierre. He declares that serfs are better left in their animal state and that abolishing serfdom will only soothe the consciences of aging landowners who mask past cruelty with present-day severity. When Pierre meets him again on the eve of Borodino, he finds the same icy tone—this time fueled by Andrey’s anger over Natasha’s betrayal and the devastation wrought by the Russians, including the abandonment of his childhood home. And yet, it is the same Prince Andrey who finds kinship with an oak tree when Natasha rekindles in him a long-dormant sense of romance.

• Men of leisure often require structure; without it, they are prone to drift into dissipation. The idea that too much freedom can yield diminishing returns feels intuitively true. Tolstoy explores this through each of his three male protagonists. Nikolay Rostov welcomes the return to military discipline after a chaotic vacation marked by romantic entanglements, financial irresponsibility, and reckless gambling that leaves him in debt. Prince Andrey maintains his sense of purpose by immersing himself in military service, civic projects, and the management of his estate. Pierre, who struggles the most with dissolution, finally finds clarity and restraint only during his imprisonment, when external constraints impose the structure he could never impose on himself.

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The social fabric

Class

Nineteenth-century Russia was a feudal society in which a landowning aristocracy wielded significant power over a vast population of serfs bound to the land. The characters in War and Peace, both major and minor, are primarily drawn from the aristocracy with the serfs serving merely as background props for the main drama. To modern readers, scenes in which serfs rejoice at their masters’ ballroom dances, dress up to entertain them, or praise Nikolay’s benevolent rule may come across as patronizing. Yet in Tolstoy’s defense, he was probably just describing the milieu in which he lived.

The passivity of the serfs and lower classes is captured poignantly when Prince Andrey finds Alpatych inconsolable at the now-abandoned Bald Hills estate. Tolstoy writes, “All the interests of his life for more than thirty years had been bounded by the will of the prince, and he never went beyond that limit.”  Yet Tolstoy weaves in two subtle narratives that testify to the presence of undercurrents that would boil over a century later.

The first involves a serf named Daniel, who has a defiant temperament and yells at Count Rostov for letting a wolf escape during a hunting expedition. Though Daniel carries himself with scornful independence, the class hierarchy remains unchallenged. Tolstoy remarks, “Nicholas knew that this Daniel, disdainful of everybody and who considered himself above them, was all the same his serf and huntsman.”

The second example occurs at Bogucharovo, where the serfs refuse to help Princess Marya flee from the advancing French, believing that the invaders will liberate them.

Beyond the relationship between landlords and serfs, class distinctions shape interactions across all levels of society. In one scene, Boris finds Andrey at Olmütz subtly mocking a general by speaking Russian with a French accent—a gesture that reflects how language can be used as a marker of class dominance, much like the elevated status of colonial languages such as Spanish in Latin America or English in India.

In hierarchical societies, class distinctions persist through a subtle and complex language—speech patterns, posture, clothing, and cultural references—that insiders instantly recognize, even if they cannot articulate it. Marshal Davout, the notoriously cruel French commander, sees in Pierre a man of his own class and, in that brief moment of connection, spares his life. Similarly, when Princess Marya meets Nikolay at Boguchárovo, she immediately recognizes him as one of her own.

Barracks to boardrooms

When we think of soldiers who fought in an earlier era, we subconsciously attribute their actions on the battlefield as the totality of their professional lives . A recurring theme in War and Peace is that the army was a career for these soldiers and while this does not diminish their heroism, these men were pursuing professional advancement. Tolstoy highlights four dynamics of internal politics within the army that would resonate with a modern day corporate slave.

First, is the invisible organization chart, the unofficial yet powerful networks of influence, trust, and communication that operate beneath the formal company hierarchy. In one incident, the regimental commander at Braunau is initially abrasive toward Dolokhov and Timokhin but grows more respectful upon learning that, despite their junior rank, they are known to Kutuzov, who treats them with indulgent paternalism. In the same vein, Andrey advises Boris Drubetskoy to ingratiate himself with the Tsar's court because though Kutozov, formally in charge, was sidelined and the real power lay there.

Second, is the unwritten code of conduct, the implicit rules, unstated expectations, and tacit agreements that govern workplace behavior and relationships more powerfully than any formal policy manual ever could. We feel a kind of bemused indulgence toward Nikolay, then just a cadet, who in his first posting runs afoul of the invisible rulebook by publicly accusing an officer, Telyanin, of theft.  His refusal to apologize to the regiment leader is all the more endearing because he had suffered no personal loss—the stolen money belonged to his friend. The victim of the theft, Denisov—an experienced officer attuned to the cultural norms-had warned Rostov against confronting the thief. But he couldn’t explain why, as those norms were tacit and therefore difficult to articulate.

Several years later, we observe that Nikolay Rostov, now an experienced officer, has internalized the implicit norms when an officer named Zdrzhinski tells him a dramatic story about General Raevski inspiring his regiment by bravely leading his two sons into battle at the Saltanov dam. Rostov thought it was unlikely that Raevski actions inspired many soldiers, since in the chaos of battle, most men wouldn’t even notice. He also believed that risking one’s children in war was unnecessary and foolish—he would never do the same with Petya or even his friends. But even though he doubted the story, he stayed quiet because he knew it made the Russian army look good,

Third is the visibility premium, where merit is overshadowed by self-promotion and rewards go to those who appear competent rather than those who truly contribute. In a remarkable demonstration of this, after the Schöngraben engagement, Tushin is reprimanded for losing two of his four cannons instead of being commended for his bravery. Andrey’s defense of Tushin as the battle’s true hero is imprudent since his colleagues were busy claiming credit. In the same battle, Nikolay Rostov-thanks to his aristocratic background—is promoted for an injury sustained while retreating, whereas Tushin, a commoner who led a courageous counteroffensive, is chastised. In fact, one reason Rostov’s regiment—the Pavlograd Hussars—view the kerfuffle with Telyanin negatively is his social class. They believe it entitles him to a comfortable sinecure, making the regiment’s reputation irrelevant to him.

Fourth is false speech—saying what one knows to be untrue for ulterior motives. The Governor of Smolensk, for instance, publicly reassures citizens even as he privately urges the Bolkonskys to evacuate, knowing the city is on the brink of capture. Later, the Governor of Moscow, Count Rostopchin, engages in similar deceit as the Russian army prepares to abandon the city. Meanwhile, Kutuzov’s chief of staff, Bennigsen, argues for defending Moscow—not out of conviction, but to distance his professional reputation from an unpopular decision he knows is best for Russia.

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Scenes and structures

Snow

Tolstoy skillfully uses snow as a backdrop to enhance the emotional resonance of three memorable scenes in War and Peace.

The first is the duel between Pierre and Dolokhov in the desolate snow-covered woods of Sokolniki. The stark, silent landscape contrasts with the fiery passions that sparked the confrontation. The white snow makes the pistols, the crack of gunfire, and the blood all the more vivid, amplifying the sense of coldness, harshness, and drama.

The second takes place during the Battle of Austerlitz, where Dolokhov and his regiment are trapped near a dam under heavy cannon fire. He urges panicked soldiers to flee across a frozen pond even as the ice begins to crack beneath them. When it finally gives way, dozens drown while cannonballs continue to rain down. The fragile ice becomes a striking metaphor for the instability of a soldier’s life—the very ground beneath him always uncertain. This scene may have been inspired by the widely believed (though disputed) tale that Napoleon lured Russian troops onto thin ice and shelled it as they retreated, a moment depicted in Ridley Scott’s film.

The third scene, in contrast to the other two, is one of joy, where the snow accentuates the romantic feelings, both inside Nikolay and Sonya, and the readers. On the Christmas week of 1810, the Rostov siblings plan a festive sleigh ride to a neighbor's estate to show off their costumes. The journey is lively, with Nicholas racing ahead, overtaking other sleighs, and marveling at the magical winter landscape on which moonlight is shining like diamonds. The joy of the evening's celebrations combined with the loss of inhibition from their costumes (Nicolas dressed as a woman and Sonya as a man) leads them to their first and only romantic kiss. The vivid winter setting—sparkling snow, sharp cold, and eerie silence—heightens the scene’s intimacy and magic, contrasting with the warmth of their emotions.

Komurebi

The Japanese term Komorebi, literally means "tree-filtered sunlight" or "sunlight leaking through leaves." This describes the phenomenon of sunlight passing through the gaps between leaves and branches, creating patterns of light and shadow. Beyond its literal meaning, the word carries cultural significance in Japan, alluding to the joy of observing the simple beauty of nature in our everyday lives. The physical environment in War and Peace is an active presence with whom the characters communicate.

Tolstoy notes that some of humanity’s cruelest acts unfold against a backdrop of serene natural beauty. As Rostov flees French gunfire after destroying a bridge over the Danube, he is struck by the contrast between the serene landscape and the surrounding violence. A similar thought occurs to Prince Andrey at Austerlitz, as he lies wounded on the battlefield, gazing up at the calm, infinite sky while chaos rages around him. Tolstoy prefaces Borodino with vivid views of the village, nestled between hills and two rivers—the Kolocha and the Moskva—seen through Pierre’s gaze, who cannot fathom that this peaceful landscape will become a battlefield the next day.

Another striking instance of communion between man and nature occurs when Prince Andrey observes a bare oak tree, its branches lopped off and bark stripped away. The tree mirrors his desolate state of mind, and he imagines it saying: “Spring, and love, and happiness! Are you not weary of the same stupid meaningless tale? I have no faith in your hopes and illusions.”  A few months later, after visiting the Rostovs’ country estate and falling for Natasha, he sees the same oak tree now lush with foliage. This transformation of the tree feels like a call to action—a sign that he, too, can reengage with life and hope.

While Prince Andrey takes inspiration from the oak tree, Pierre finds a personal message for him in a comet. After having finally declared his love for Natasha, on his return home, he sees a comet that many people at the time believed was sign of doom. But to him, the comet's light, glowing brightly among the stars matches how Pierre feels inside: hopeful and giddy. Although Pierre’s external circumstances remain unchanged—he is still married to Helene—the act of professing his long suppressed feelings brings him a sense of exhilaration and catharsis.

The hunting episode

War and Peace includes a richly detailed account of a hunting expedition led by Nikolay Rostov, who is home on leave from the army. He leads a chase after a she-wolf and her cubs, recently sighted near the Rostov country estate. Count Rostov, true to his extravagant habits, maintains an extensive hunting operation, now used primarily for his son’s enjoyment. Though the episode may seem tangential to the main plot, its depth suggests that Tolstoy is using it to convey several underlying ideas. Here are a few that stand out:

First, the episode establishes Nikolay as the de facto head of the Rostov household, even while his father is still alive. Until now, he has appeared as a callow youth, preoccupied with pleasure. But as the leader of the hunting party comprising twenty horsemen and 130 dogs, he displays a new seriousness. While hunting is a leisure activity like gambling or partying, it demands focus, and Nikolay approaches it with a gravitas not previously associated with him.

Second, Tolstoy draws a parallel between Nikolay’s hunting instincts and his military acumen. Later in the story, in the prelude to Borodino, as Rostov spots French dragoons chasing Russian Uhlans, he senses the perfect moment to strike—just as in a hunt. He knows that if his regiment, the hussars, charge now, they will succeed; if they hesitate, the chance will vanish. He doesn’t overthink—he acts on instinct.

Third, Tolstoy subtly contrasts father and son. Count Rostov, swathed in fur and flushed with wine, resembles a child on an outing. Nikolay, by contrast, remains stern and composed. The contrast suggests that, although they share similar temperaments, Nikolay possesses a capacity for focused effort, foreshadowing his later evolution into an astute landowner.

Fourth, as in modern sports, social hierarchies momentarily lose their salience in the hunt. In one scene, Daniel, a serf, scolds Count Rostov for letting a wolf escape. The Count, like a reprimanded schoolboy seeking comfort, looks to his servant for reassurance

Fifth, Tolstoy shows how trivial concerns can provoke intense emotions. As Nikolay waits for the wolf to appear, he prays that his dog will catch it in front of their neighbor, “Uncle” (Mikhailo Nikanorovich), a man of modest means. Tolstoy writes: “He prayed with that passionate and shamefaced feeling with which men pray at moments of great excitement arising from trivial causes.”

Sixth, the episode highlights how societal norms compel us to maintain a facade of genteelness, even when everyone is aware of the undercurrents.. Nikolay, Ilagin, and “Uncle” all want their own hound to catch a hare. Outwardly, they treat the hunt as a friendly game. But when “Uncle’s” inexpensive dog succeeds, he revels in the victory, while the others struggle to conceal their disappointment. It takes time for them to resume their prior affectation of indifference.

Finally, two graphic scenes of animal violence, one in which hounds kill a wolf, another a hare, underscore a recurring theme in the novel: the brutal, animalistic side of human beings. These moments echo the carnage at Austerlitz and Borodino, drawing a parallel between the violence of nature and that of war.

Battle

Tolstoy portrays battle through three perspectives:

The first is the imagined experience within the soldier’s mind. This is vividly illustrated through Tushin during the Schöngraben engagement. He names his large, aging cannon “Matvévna” and sees the French swarming their guns like ants. The drunken yet skilled gunner in his crew is “uncle” to him, and Tushin takes pleasure in watching him work. The rhythm of the cannon fire rising and falling at the foot of the hill resembles breathing, and he listens to it attentively. In another instance, Petya, the night before his death gets lost in a dreamlike trance, where the campfire, night sky, and camp sounds blend into an imaginary symphony, making him forget the war around him.

The second is the worm's eye view from the perspective of the battlefield participants. An extraordinary depiction of this is Prince Andrey's action during the battle at Pratzen Heights in Austerlitz, where the French overwhelm the Russians in a surprise frontal attack. Andrey, overcome with shame and fury at the sight of Russian soldiers fleeing, seizes the flag that had fallen and rallies his battalion into a desperate charge. Amid the whistling bullets and collapsing bodies, he leads the assault toward the enemy.

The third is the bird's eye view, the perspective that we associate with war movies. Scenes from two major battles, Austerlitz and Borodino, form the centerpiece of this perspective. Within these battles, the two most graphic descriptions are of events that occur on a hill: the Austerlitz one on Pratzen Heights, described from Andrey's perspective and the Borodino one at the Raevsky Redoubt, from Pierre's.

By shifting between these three lenses, Tolstoy makes the larger point that war defies description.

Of the three views, even allowing for the subjectivity of perception, the worm’s-eye and bird’s-eye views might seem more "real" than the imagined experience. Yet the action is so chaotic that no one truly knows what is happening. In Tolstoy's description of Borodino, the turmoil was so intense that it was impossible to grasp what was unfolding—whether from Napoleon’s vantage point, from the scattered views of his generals, or even from within the famous flèches themselves. Russian and French soldiers, whether dead, wounded, panicked, or enraged, constantly collided and intermingled, without clear awareness of who they were fighting or what they were doing.

Hence any descriptions of these battles by battle participants or spectators are truly their imagined experiences. This is why, when the officer Zdrzhinski describes the Battle of Saltanov in grandiose terms, Rostov listens with quiet skepticism. Tolstoy notes that Rostov “had experience enough to know that nothing happens in war at all as we can imagine or relate it.” Rostov understands that every soldier’s account of battle is full of fabrication and embellishment.

Tolstoy distinguishes between two kinds of imagined experience. One belongs to what Daniel Kahneman calls the "remembering self"—as in Zdrzhinski’s dramatic retelling after the event. The other belongs to the "experiencing self"—the inner world created in the moment, like Tushin’s. This second form is a vital source of resilience for the soldier. To cope with death—an ever-present fear encoded in our biology—the soldier constructs a mental world that both distracts and focuses him.

Pierre witnesses this firsthand at Borodino, encountering two levels of delusion.

The first is a conscious one at the Raevsky Redoubt, reminiscent of Tushin’s inner world. Amid flying bullets and falling comrades, the soldiers joke and laugh. Though initially baffled by Pierre’s incongruous, aristocratic presence, they quickly accept him—like a stray dog that belongs to them.

The second is an unconscious one, where on the eve of the grand battle, where 20,000 men are expected to die, the soldiers, instead of reflecting on the universal issues of life and death, are mostly concerned with the impact of the battle on their careers. This, frankly, is not too different how we lead our own lives, willfully ignoring our existential fragility, while we pursue power and wealth.

Seduction at the opera

Tolstoy masterfully stages Anatole Kuragin’s seduction of Natasha at the opera by interweaving the drama unfolding onstage with the one playing out in the theater box. The four acts of the opera provide a structural rhythm that mirrors the progression of Anatole’s seduction, with each act corresponding to a shift in Natasha’s emotional state—from amused skepticism to finally near-total emotional surrender.

In the first act, the opera’s exaggerated artifice—its painted sets, flamboyant costumes, and melodramatic performances—strikes Natasha as absurd, especially compared to her rural upbringing. But during the intermission, Anatole approaches her, dazzling her with his roguish charm and setting a real off-stage drama in motion.

As the second act plunges into gothic melodrama, Natasha's attention drifts from the stage to Anatole. Each glance exchanged sends a thrill through her. During the next intermission, Anatole’s intimate invitation to a costume tournament and his suggestive remarks about her beauty both excite and unsettle her. By the third act, Natasha is fully immersed in the spectacle. Her earlier misgivings vanish as she joins the applause with enthusiasm—mirroring her deepening emotional involvement in the offstage drama. The fourth act of the opera barely registers. Her focus is now entirely on Anatole, whose presence grows increasingly magnetic. Tolstoy uses the opera’s heightened theatricality to underscore the performative nature of aristocratic society. Much as the audience is swept into the illusion of the performance on stage, Natasha, unwittingly is drawn into the contrived world of the Kuragins.

This theme of artifice versus authenticity runs through War and Peace. As Tolstoy writes, “Among the innumerable subdivisions that can be made in the phenomena of life, one can subdivide them all into those in which content predominates and those in which form predominates.” He places the salon life of Anna Pavlovna and Helene firmly in the second category. For instance, on the very same day the Battle of Borodino is being waged, a performative patriotic letter from the Bishop is read out at Anna Pavlovna's soiree in St. Petersburg.

Marya Dmitriyevna embodies authenticity—bold enough to say what others only think. To Helene, she snaps: “So wives of living men have started marrying again! Perhaps you think you’ve invented a novelty? You’ve been forestalled, my dear—it was thought of long ago. It’s done in all the brothels.”

The capture of Moscow

The capture of Moscow is one of the most richly detailed events in War and Peace. To convey the city’s symbolic weight, Tolstoy writes, “Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother; every foreigner who sees her, even if ignorant of her significance as the mother city, must feel her feminine character.” In a dramatized scene with Napoleon standing at Moscow’s gates, poised to seize it, Tolstoy presents the ancient Asiatic city of the Tsars as the object of his consuming fixation. This heightens the irony of Napoleon’s humiliating retreat—an echo of the disillusionment we all experience on the attainment of a long-coveted goal.

Tolstoy describes the French capture of Moscow in four phases.

The first is the gradual civilian exodus in the days leading up to Borodino and the Russian army’s retreat through Moscow. During this period, the city descends into chaos—wounded soldiers stream in from the battlefield, residents flee, and contradictory rumors spread wildly. Governor Count Rostopchin distributes propaganda broadsheets filled with fabricated reassurances, but few believe him. Many had already begun leaving before Borodino, sensing the city’s impending fall. Whether they stayed or fled,  they carried on with daily life pretending nothing was wrong. Tolstoy likens their behavior to that of a condemned man adjusting his cap before execution—fully aware of the coming disaster, yet clinging to his routines.

He compares Moscow to a beehive that has lost its queen. From the outside it may appear intact, but inside it is lifeless. The remaining people in the city are like lost bees—confused, weakened, and without direction. Tolstoy underscores the city’s abandonment by describing the deserted Rostov estate, now occupied only by a yard porter and a page boy idly playing a clavichord.

The second phase is the day of the retreat itself. As Russian troops withdraw through Moscow, chaos erupts. Soldiers loot shops while officers struggle—and fail—to maintain order. Streets and bridges are jammed, discipline breaks down, and desperate merchants plead for protection, only to be ignored. Tolstoy describes a group of drunk workers breaking into a fight with a tavern keeper. As the crowd grows, their rage turns on the city's departing authorities, whom they see as having forsaken them in a time of crisis. An iconic moment is a peasant woman screaming hysterically on the Moskva Bridge, after General Ermolov orders troops to feign gunfire to disperse the crowd and clear the way.

The third phase is the French occupation. When Murat’s troops enter Moscow in the afternoon, they find a city eerily deserted, save for a few dazed onlookers. After securing the entrance, the French set up camp in the Kremlin and surrounding streets, treating Moscow more like an abandoned battlefield than a living city. Although they enter in an orderly fashion, discipline soon breaks down. Soldiers and officers devolve into marauding bands, looting the city’s wealth.

The great fire that engulfs Moscow becomes a source of mutual blame: the French accuse the Russians, and vice versa. But Tolstoy suggests the destruction was inevitable—a wooden city left abandoned, filled with soldiers lighting fires and no authority to maintain control.

The fourth phase is the French evacuation of Moscow, seen through Pierre’s eyes. The scene is one of disarray—endless lines of French soldiers, carts piled high with loot, and supply wagons clog the roads and bridges. As Pierre’s convoy of prisoners approaches a church, they recoil at the sight of a corpse slumped against the fence, its face blackened with soot.

Tolstoy argues that the abandonment of Moscow by civilians was an act of patriotism because people chose to lose their homes than live under French occupation. Yet, by describing the chaotic nature of the evacuation, he suggests that patriotism in real life does not look like its fanciful descriptions.

Petya Rostov's day out

Petya Rostov is brimming with boyish excitement and patriotic fervor when news arrives that Emperor Alexander I is coming to Moscow. Determined to prove himself a man, he meticulously dresses himself and sneaks out without telling his family, dreaming of boldly declaring his desire to serve Russia directly to the Emperor’s attendants.

However, his grand plans quickly dissolve in the overwhelming chaos of the crowds surging toward the Kremlin. Pushed, shoved, and scolded by peasants and tradesmen, Petya’s carefully cultivated "grown-up" demeanor crumbles as he is swept along helplessly. At one point, he is nearly crushed, fainting from the pressure, only to be revived by a sympathetic onlooker.

Despite the ordeal, Petya’s enthusiasm never wanes. When the Emperor finally appears, the crowd erupts in ecstatic cheers, and Petya, tears in his eyes, shouts himself hoarse—though he isn’t even sure which figure is the Tsar. His devotion reaches a fever pitch when the Emperor throws biscuits from a balcony, sparking a frenzied scramble. Petya knocks over an old woman in his zeal to grab one. Exhausted but exhilarated, Petya returns home more determined than ever to join the army.

Petya’s day out captures the tumultuous threshold between childhood and adulthood—where lofty ideals meet the chaos of the real world.

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This concludes the three-part essay on War and Peace, monumental both in its length and Tolstoy's literary ambition.