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 Sukharev 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 Kirilovich, 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 women 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.
“Platonic 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, Natasha’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 Pokrovka 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 Gerasim, 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.

1. While reviewing his guard in front of the palace of Schonbrunn, October 12, 1809, Napoleon was approached by a young man carrying a petition. This young idealist, Friedrich Staps, drew a dagger and attempted to kill the Emperor. He was seized, imprisoned, and then executed the next day.
2. Borodino.
3. The French called the battle of Borodino la Moskowa and the Frenchman naturally gives the date New Style, as September seventh, whereas the Russians called it August twenty-sixth.—A.M.
4. Captain Ramballe in enumerating the attractions of Paris mentions indiscriminately the famous tragedian Talma (a favorite of Napoleon’s), the actress Duchenois, the comedian Potier, the Sorbonne (the University of Paris), and the boulevards.—A.M.
5. The Rostóvs at Mytíshchi. Natásha sees Prince Andrew
   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 Rostov party spent the night at Mytishchi, 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 Mytishchi. At ten o’clock that evening the Rostov family and the wounded traveling with them were all distributed in the yards and huts of that large village. The Rostovs’ 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 Raevski’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 Rostovs. The countess said she had been unable to close her eyes on account of his moaning, and at Mytishchi 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 Mytishchi burning—set on fire by Mamonov’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 Mytishchi had been set on fire by Mamonov’s Cossacks.”
   “But that’s not Mytishchi, 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 Mytishchi 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 Sushchevski or the Rogozhski 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 Terentich, the count’s valet (as he was called), came up to the group and shouted at Mishka.
   “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 Mishka.
   “But what do you think, Daniel Terentich? Doesn’t it look as if that glow were in Moscow?” remarked one of the footmen.
   Daniel Terentich 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 Terentich, 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.
   THE VALET, returning to the cottage, informed the count that Moscow was burning. The count donned his dressing gown and went out to look. Sonya and Madame Schoss, who had not yet undressed, went out with him. Only Natasha and the countess remained in the room. Petya was no longer with the family, he had gone on with his regiment which was making for Troitsa.1
   The countess, on hearing that Moscow was on fire, began to cry. Natasha, 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 Sonya returning from the yard chilled and frightened. “I believe the whole of Moscow will burn, there’s an awful glow! Natasha, do look! You can see it from the window,” she said to her cousin, evidently wishing to