As often happens late in the evening when the effects of the wine are making themselves felt, Pierre was able to follow and understand every detail of what the captain was saying while also following his own train of personal memories that happened to have popped up in his imagination. As he listened to all these love stories, his own love for Natasha suddenly came into his mind, and as he ran through all the tokens of that love in his imagination, he was mentally comparing them with Ramballe’s stories. As he listened to a story of conflict between love and duty, Pierre could see before him every last detail of that meeting with the object of his own love at the Sukharev water-tower. At the time he had not been much affected by it, and not once had it come to mind since. But now he thought he could see something deeply significant and very romantic in that meeting.
‘Come on Pyotr Kirillych! I knew it was you!’ He could hear her words now. He could see her eyes, her smile, her travelling cap with a stray curl peeping out from under it . . . and it all seemed so sad and moving now.
When the captain got to the end of his tale about the seductive Polish lady he turned to Pierre and asked whether he had had any experiences like this; did he know of any examples of someone sacrificing himself for love while envying a lawful husband?
Roused by this question, Pierre looked up and felt an irresistible urge to talk about what was on his mind. He started off by explaining that he looked upon love for a woman rather differently. He said that in all his life he had only ever loved one woman, and he still loved her, and this woman could never be his.
‘You don’t say!’ said the captain.
Pierre went on to explain that he had loved this woman from her earliest years, but had not dared to think of her because she was then too young, and besides he had been an illegitimate son with no name of his own. Then, when he had received a name and great riches, he had not dared think of her because he loved her too much, because he put her on a pedestal high above the whole world, and especially above himself. When he got to this point in his story Pierre asked the captain whether he could understand all this.
The captain gestured for him to go on with the story even if he couldn’t understand it.
‘Platonic love . . . Passing clouds . . .’ he muttered. It may have been the wine, or an urge to speak out, or the thought that this man didn’t know, and never could know, any of the people in his story, or all of these things together, but something loosened Pierre’s tongue. With trembling lips and a faraway look in his brimming eyes he came out with the whole story: everything about his marriage, and the story of Natasha’s love for his best friend, and her unfaithfulness, and his own uncomplicated relationship with her. In response to questions from Ramballe he also told him what he had at first been at pains to hide, his position in society, and he even disclosed his name.
The part of the story that really impressed the captain was the fact that Pierre was a very rich man with two palatial houses in Moscow, and when he had abandoned everything, instead of leaving Moscow he had stayed on in the town hiding his name and social standing.
Late at night they went outside together. The night was warm and clear. Over on the left there was a glow from the first fire to break out in Moscow, out in Petrovka. On the right a young crescent moon stood high in the sky, and across the firmament in the opposite direction hovered the shining comet that was connected in Pierre’s heart with his love. At the gateway into the yard stood Gerasim, the cook and two Frenchmen. They could be heard laughing as they carried on a mutually incomprehensible conversation. They were looking across towards the glow of the fire burning in the town.
A small fire a long way away in a huge city was nothing to worry about.
Gazing up at the lofty, starlit sky, the moon, the comet and the glow from the fire, Pierre felt a thrill of joyous and tender emotion. ‘How splendid it all is! What more could anyone want?’ he thought. And then suddenly, when he remembered what his mission was, his head seemed to spin, and he felt so nauseous that he had to lean against a fence to avoid falling down.
Without saying goodnight to his new friend Pierre tottered away from the gate and found his way back to his room, where he lay down on the sofa and fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER 30
The glow from the first fire to break out, on the 2nd of September, was watched from various roads and with mixed feelings by citizens streaming out of Moscow on foot and in vehicles, and also the retreating troops.
