War and Peace
of how he had saved the life of a Pole (in general, the saving of
life continually occurred in the captain’s stories) and the Pole had
entrusted to him his enchanting wife (parisienne de cœur) while himself
entering the French service. The captain was happy, the enchanting
Polish lady wished to elope with him, but, prompted by magnanimity, the
captain restored the wife to the husband, saying as he did so: “I have
saved your life, and I save your honor!” Having repeated these words the
captain wiped his eyes and gave himself a shake, as if driving away the
weakness which assailed him at this touching recollection.
Listening to the captain’s tales, Pierre—as often happens late in the
evening and under the influence of wine—followed all that was told him,
understood it all, and at the same time followed a train of personal
memories which, he knew not why, suddenly arose in his mind. While
listening to these love stories his own love for Natásha unexpectedly
rose to his mind, and going over the pictures of that love in his
imagination he mentally compared them with Ramballe’s tales. Listening
to the story of the struggle between love and duty, Pierre saw before
his eyes every minutest detail of his last meeting with the object of
his love at the Súkharev water tower. At the time of that meeting it had
not produced an effect upon him—he had not even once recalled it. But
now it seemed to him that that meeting had had in it something very
important and poetic.
“Peter Kirílovich, come here! We have recognized you,” he now seemed
to hear the words she had uttered and to see before him her eyes, her
smile, her traveling hood, and a stray lock of her hair... and there
seemed to him something pathetic and touching in all this.
Having finished his tale about the enchanting Polish lady, the captain
asked Pierre if he had ever experienced a similar impulse to sacrifice
himself for love and a feeling of envy of the legitimate husband.
Challenged by this question Pierre raised his head and felt a need to
express the thoughts that filled his mind. He began to explain that he
understood love for a woman somewhat differently. He said that in all
his life he had loved and still loved only one woman, and that she could
never be his.
“Tiens!” said the captain.
Pierre then explained that he had loved this woman from his earliest
years, but that he had not dared to think of her because she was too
young, and because he had been an illegitimate son without a name.
Afterwards when he had received a name and wealth he dared not think of
her because he loved her too well, placing her far above everything in
the world, and especially therefore above himself.
When he had reached this point, Pierre asked the captain whether he
understood that.
The captain made a gesture signifying that even if he did not understand
it he begged Pierre to continue.
“Platónic love, clouds...” he muttered.
Whether it was the wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, or the
thought that this man did not, and never would, know any of those who
played a part in his story, or whether it was all these things together,
something loosened Pierre’s tongue. Speaking thickly and with a faraway
look in his shining eyes, he told the whole story of his life: his
marriage, Natásha’s love for his best friend, her betrayal of him, and
all his own simple relations with her. Urged on by Ramballe’s questions
he also told what he had at first concealed—his own position and even
his name.
More than anything else in Pierre’s story the captain was impressed by
the fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mansions in Moscow, and that
he had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there
concealing his name and station.
When it was late at night they went out together into the street. The
night was warm and light. To the left of the house on the Pokróvka a
fire glowed—the first of those that were beginning in Moscow. To the
right and high up in the sky was the sickle of the waning moon and
opposite to it hung that bright comet which was connected in Pierre’s
heart with his love. At the gate stood Gerásim, the cook, and two
Frenchmen. Their laughter and their mutually incomprehensible remarks in
two languages could be heard. They were looking at the glow seen in the
town.
There was nothing terrible in the one small, distant fire in the immense
city.
Gazing at the high starry sky, at the moon, at the comet, and at the
glow from the fire, Pierre experienced a joyful emotion. “There now,
how good it is, what more does one need?” thought he. And suddenly
remembering his intention he grew dizzy and felt so faint that he leaned
against the fence to save himself from falling.
Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate with
unsteady steps and returning to his room lay down on the sofa and
immediately fell asleep.
CHAPTER XXX
The glow of the first fire that began on the second of September was
watched from the various roads by the fugitive Muscovites and by the
retreating troops, with many different feelings.
The Rostóv party spent the night at Mytíshchi, fourteen miles from
Moscow. They had started so late on the first of September, the road
had been so blocked by vehicles and troops, so many things had been
forgotten for which servants were sent back, that they had decided to
spend that night at a place three miles out of Moscow. The next morning
they woke late and were again delayed so often that they only got as far
as Great Mytíshchi. At ten o’clock that evening the Rostóv family and
the wounded traveling with them were all distributed in the yards and
huts of that large village. The Rostóvs’ servants and coachmen and the
orderlies of the wounded officers, after attending to their masters, had
supper, fed the horses, and came out into the porches.
In a neighboring hut lay Raévski’s adjutant with a fractured wrist. The
awful pain he suffered made him moan incessantly and piteously, and his
moaning sounded terrible in the darkness of the autumn night. He had
spent the first night in the same yard as the Rostóvs. The countess said
she had been unable to close her eyes on account of his moaning, and at
Mytíshchi she moved into a worse hut simply to be farther away from the
wounded man.
In the darkness of the night one of the servants noticed, above the high
body of a coach standing before the porch, the small glow of another
fire. One glow had long been visible and everybody knew that it was
Little Mytíshchi burning—set on fire by Mamónov’s Cossacks.
“But look here, brothers, there’s another fire!” remarked an orderly.
All turned their attention to the glow.
“But they told us Little Mytíshchi had been set on fire by Mamónov’s
Cossacks.”
“But that’s not Mytíshchi, it’s farther away.”
“Look, it must be in Moscow!”
Two of the gazers went round to the other side of the coach and sat down
on its steps.
“It’s more to the left, why, Little Mytíshchi is over there, and this is
right on the other side.”
Several men joined the first two.
“See how it’s flaring,” said one. “That’s a fire in Moscow: either in
the Sushchévski or the Rogózhski quarter.”
No one replied to this remark and for some time they all gazed silently
at the spreading flames of the second fire in the distance.
Old Daniel Teréntich, the count’s valet (as he was called), came up to
the group and shouted at Míshka.
“What are you staring at, you good-for-nothing?... The count will be
calling and there’s nobody there; go and gather the clothes together.”
“I only ran out to get some water,” said Míshka.
“But what do you think, Daniel Teréntich? Doesn’t it look as if that
glow were in Moscow?” remarked one of the footmen.
Daniel Teréntich made no reply, and again for a long time they were all
silent. The glow spread, rising and falling, farther and farther still.
“God have mercy.... It’s windy and dry...” said another voice.
“Just look! See what it’s doing now. O Lord! You can even see the crows
flying. Lord have mercy on us sinners!”
“They’ll put it out, no fear!”
“Who’s to put it out?” Daniel Teréntich, who had hitherto been silent,
was heard to say. His voice was calm and deliberate. “Moscow it is,
brothers,” said he. “Mother Moscow, the white...” his voice faltered,
and he gave way to an old man’s sob.
And it was as if they had all only waited for this to realize the
significance for them of the glow they were watching. Sighs were heard,
words of prayer, and the sobbing of the count’s old valet.
CHAPTER XXXI
The valet, returning to the cottage, informed the count that Moscow was
burning. The count donned his dressing gown and went out to look. Sónya
and Madame Schoss, who had not yet undressed, went out with him. Only
Natásha and the countess remained in the room. Pétya was no longer
with the family, he had gone on with his regiment which was making for
Tróitsa.
The countess, on hearing that Moscow was on fire, began to cry. Natásha,
pale, with a fixed look, was sitting on the bench under the icons just
where she had sat down on arriving and paid no attention to her father’s
words. She was listening to the ceaseless moaning of the adjutant, three
houses off.
“Oh, how terrible,” said Sónya returning from the yard chilled and
frightened. “I believe the whole of Moscow will burn, there’s an awful
glow! Natásha, do look! You can see it from the window,” she said to her
cousin, evidently wishing to distract her mind.
But Natásha looked at her as if not understanding what was said to her
and again fixed her eyes on the corner of the stove. She had been in
this condition of stupor since the morning, when Sónya, to the surprise
and annoyance of the countess, had for some unaccountable reason found
it necessary to tell Natásha of Prince Andrew’s wound and of his being
with their party. The countess had seldom been so angry with anyone as
she was with Sónya. Sónya had cried and begged to be forgiven and now,
as if trying to atone for her fault, paid unceasing attention to her
cousin.
“Look, Natásha, how dreadfully it is burning!” said she.
“What’s burning?” asked Natásha. “Oh, yes, Moscow.”
And as if in order not to offend Sónya and to get rid of her, she turned
her face to the window, looked out in such a way that it was evident
that she could not see anything, and again settled down in her former
attitude.
“But you didn’t see it!”
“Yes, really I did,” Natásha replied in a voice that pleaded to be left
in peace.
Both the countess and Sónya understood that, naturally, neither Moscow
nor the burning of Moscow nor anything else could seem of importance to
Natásha.
The count returned and lay down behind the partition. The countess went
up to her daughter and touched her head with the back of her hand as she
was wont to do when Natásha was ill, then touched her forehead with her
lips as if to feel whether she was feverish, and finally kissed her.
“You are cold. You are trembling all over. You’d better lie down,” said
the countess.
“Lie down? All right, I will. I’ll lie down at once,” said Natásha.
When Natásha had been told that morning that Prince Andrew was seriously
wounded and was traveling with their party, she had at first asked many
questions: Where was he going? How was he wounded? Was it serious? And
could she see him? But after she had been told that she could not see
him, that he was seriously wounded but that his life was not in danger,
she ceased to ask questions or to speak at all, evidently disbelieving
what they told her, and convinced that say what she might she would
still be told the same. All the way she had sat motionless in a corner
of the coach with wide open eyes, and the expression in them which the