ceited； handsome face and the eager enthusiasm with which he talked of women。 Although all Ramballe’s accounts of his love affairs were characterised by that peculiar nastiness in which the French find the unique charm and poetry of love； the captain told his stories with such genuine conviction that he was the only man who had tasted and known all the sweets of love； and he described the women he had known in such an alluring fashion that Pierre listened to him with curiosity。
It was evident that l’amour the Frenchman was so fond of was neither that low and simple kind of love Pierre had at one time felt for his wife； nor the romantic love； exaggerated by himself； that he felt for Natasha。 For both those kinds of love Ramballe had an equal contempt—one was l’amour des charretiers； the other l’amour des nigauds。 L’amour for which the Frenchman had a weakness consisted principally in an unnatural relation to the woman； and in combinations of monstrous circumstances which lent the chief charm to the feeling。
Thus the captain related the touching history of his love for a fascinating marquise of five…and…thirty； and at the same time for a charming； innocent child of seventeen； the daughter of the fascinating marquise。 The conflict of generosity between mother and daughter； ending in the mother sacrificing herself and offering her daughter in marriage to her lover； even now； though it was a memory in the remote past； moved the captain deeply。 Then he related an episode in which the husband played the part of the lover； and he—the lover—the part of the husband； and several comic episodes among his reminiscences of Germany； where Unterkunft means asile； where the husbands eat cabbage soup； and where the young girls are too flaxen…haired。
The last episode was one in Poland； still fresh in the captain’s memory； and described by him with rapid gestures and a glowing face。 The story was that he had saved the life of a Pole—the episode of saving life was continually cropping up in the captain’s anecdotes—and that Pole had intrusted to his care his bewitching wife； a Parisian in heart； while he himself entered the French service。 The captain had been happy； the bewitching Polish lady had wanted to elope with him； but moved by a magnanimous impulse； the captain had restored the wife to the husband with the words： “I saved your life； and I save your honour。”
As he repeated these words； the captain wiped his eyes and shook himself； as though to shake off the weakness that overcame him at this touching recollection。
As men often do at a late hour at night； and under the influence of wine； Pierre listened to the captain’s stories； and while he followed and understood all he told him； he was also following a train of personal reminiscences which had for some reason risen to his imagination。 As he listened to those love affairs； his own love for Natasha suddenly came into his mind； and going over all the pictures of that love in his imagination； he mentally compared them with Ramballe’s stories。 As he heard the account of the conflict between love and duty； Pierre saw before him every detail of the meeting with the object of his love at the Suharev Tower。 That meeting had not at the time made much impression on him； he had not once thought of it since。 But now it seemed to him that there was something very significant and romantic in that meeting。
“Pyotr Kirillitch； come here； I recognise you”； he could hear her words now； could see her eyes； her smile； her travelling cap； and the curl peeping out below it … and he felt that there was something moving； touching in all that。
When he had finished his tale about the bewitching Polish lady； the captain turned to Pierre with the inquiry whether he had had any similar experience of self…sacrifice for love and envy of a lawful husband。
Pierre； roused by this question； lifted his head and felt an irresistible impulse to give expression to the ideas in his mind。 He began to explain that he looked upon love for woman somewhat differently。 He said he had all his life long loved one woman； and still loved her； and that that woman could never be his。
“Tiens！” said the captain。
Then Pierre explained that he had loved this woman from his earliest youth； but had not dared to think of her because she was too young； and he had been an illegitimate son； with no name of his own。 Then when he had received a name and wealth； he had not dared think of her because he loved her too much； because he set her too high above all the world； and so even more above himself。 On reaching this point； Pierre asked the captain； did he understand that。
The captain made a gesture expressing that whether he understood it or not； he begged him to proceed。
“Platonic love； moonshine…” he muttered。 The wine he had drunk； or an impulse of frankness； or the thought that this man did not know and never would know； any of the persons concerned in his story； or all together loosened Pierre’s tongue。 With faltering lips and with a faraway look in his moist eye； he told all his story； his marriage and the story of Natasha’s love for his dearest friend and her betrayal of him； and all his own simple relations with her。 In response to questions from Ramballe； he told him； too； what he had at first concealed—his position in society—and even disclosed his name。
What impressed the captain more than anything else in Pierre’s story was the fact that Pierre was very wealthy； that he had two palatial houses in Moscow； and that he had abandoned everything； and yet had not left Moscow； but was staying in the town concealing his name and station。
Late in the night they went out together into the street。 The night was warm and clear。 On the left there was the glow of the first fire that broke out in Moscow； in Petrovka。 On the right a young crescent moon stood high in the sky； and in the opposite quarter of the heavens hung the brilliant comet which was connected in Pierre’s heart with his love。 At the gates of the yard stood Gerasim； the cook； and two Frenchmen。 Pierre could hear their laughter and talk； incomprehensible to one another。 They were looking at the glow of the fire burning in the town。
There was nothing alarming in a small remote fire in the immense city。
Gazing at the lofty； starlit sky； at the moon； at the comet and the glow of the fire； Pierre felt a thrill of joyous and tender emotion。 “How fair it all is！ what more does one want？” he thought。 And all at once； when he recalled his design； his head seemed going round； he felt so giddy that he leaned against the fence so as not to fall。
Without taking leave of his new friend； Pierre left the gate with unsteady steps； and going back to his room lay down on the sofa and at once fell asleep。
Chapter 30
FROM VARIOUS ROADS； and with various feelings； the inhabitants running and driving away from Moscow； and the retreating troops； gazed at the glow of the first fire that broke out in the city on the 2nd of September。
The Rostovs’ party stopped for that night at Mytishtchy； twenty versts from Moscow。 They had started so late on the 1st of September； the road had been so blocked by waggons and troops； so many things had been forgotten； and servants sent back to get them； that they had decided to halt for the first night five versts from Moscow。 The next morning they walked late； and there were again so many delays that they only reached Great Mytishtchy。 At ten o’clock the Rostov family； and the wounded soldiers travelling with them； had all found places for the night in the yards and huts of the greater village。 The servants； the Rostovs’ coachmen； and the orderlies of the wounded officers； after settling their masters for the night； supped； fed their horses； and came out into the porch of a hut。
In the next hut lay Raevsky’s adjutant with a broken wrist； and the terrible pain made him moan incessantly； and these moans had a grue…some sound in the autumn darkness of the night。 On the first night this adjutant had spent the night in a building in the same yard as the hut in which the Rostovs slept。 The countess declared that she had not closed her eyes all night from that moaning； and at Mytishtchy she had moved into a less comfortable hut simply to get further away from the wounded man。 One of the servants noticed in the dark night sky； above the high carriage standing at the entry； another small glow of fire。 One such glow had been seen long before； and every one knew it was Little Mytishtchy； which had been set on fire by Mamonov’s Cossacks。
“I say； mates； there’s another fire；” said the man。 All of them looked towards the glow。
“Why； they told us Mamonov’s Cossacks had fired Little Mytishtchy。” “Nay！ that’s not Mytishtchy； it’s further。” “Look’ee； it’s in Moscow seemingly。” Two of the men left the porch； went to a carriage and squatted on the step。 “It’s more to the left！ Why； Mytishtchy is away yonder； and that’s quite the other side。”
Several more men joined the first group。
“I say it is flaring；” said one； “that’s a fire in Moscow； my friends； either in Sushtchovsky or in Rogozhsky。”
No one answered this remark。 And for a good while all these men gazed in silence at the flames of this new conflagration glowing far away。 An old man； the count’s valet （as he was called）； Danilo Terentyitch； came up to the crowd and called Mishka。
“What are you gaping at？ … The count may ask for you and nobody to be found； go and put the clothes together。”
“Oh； I only ran out for some water；” said Mishka。
“And what do you say； Danilo Terentyitch？ that’s a fire in Moscow； isn’t it？” said one of the footmen。
Danilo Terentyitch made no reply； and for a long while all were mute again。 The glow spread wider； and flickered further and further away。
“God have mercy！ … a wind and the drought …” said a voice again。
“Look’ee； how it’s spreading。 O Lord！ why； one can see the jackdaws！ Lord； have mercy on us poor sinners！”
“They’ll put it out； never fear。”
“Who’s to put it out？” cried the voice of Danilo Terentyitch； silent till that moment。 His voice was quiet and deliberate。 “Moscow it is； mates；” he said； “it’s she； our mother； the white city …” his voice broke； and he suddenly burst into the sobs of old age。 An