War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [595]
“Pyotr Kirilych, come here, I recognized you,” he now heard the words she had said, saw before him her eyes, her smile, her traveling bonnet, a stray lock of hair…and something touching, something deeply moving, appeared to him in all this.
Having finished his story about the enchanting Polish woman, the captain turned to Pierre with the question whether he had ever experienced the same feeling of self-sacrifice for the sake of love and envy of the lawful husband.
Challenged by this question, Pierre raised his head and felt it necessary to voice the thoughts that occupied him; he began to explain that he understood love for a woman somewhat differently. He said that he loved and had loved only one woman in all his life and that that woman could never belong to him.
“Tiens!”‡611 said the captain.
Then Pierre explained that he had loved this woman from a very early age, but had not dared to think of her, because she was too young and he was an illegitimate son without a name. Later, when he had acquired a name and wealth, he had not dared to think of her because he loved her too much, placed her too high above the whole world, and the more so, therefore, above himself. Reaching this point in his story, Pierre turned to the captain with the question whether he understood it.
The captain made a gesture which said that, even if he did not, he still asked him to go on.
“L’amour platonique, les nuages…”*612 he murmured.
The wine he had drunk, or the need for openness, or the thought that this man did not and never would know any of the persons active in his story, or all of it together, loosened Pierre’s tongue. And with a maundering mouth, his unctuous eyes looking somewhere into the distance, he told his whole story: his marriage, the story of Natasha’s love for his best friend, and her betrayal, and all his own uncomplicated relations with her. Urged on by Ramballe’s questions, he even told him what he had concealed at first—his social position—and even revealed his name to him.
Of all that Pierre told him, the captain was most struck by the fact that Pierre was very rich, that he had two mansions in Moscow, and that he had abandoned everything, and had not left Moscow, but had stayed in the city, concealing his name and rank.
Late at night they went outside together. The night was warm and bright. To the left of the house the first Moscow fire, started on the Petrovka, glowed brightly. To the right, high in the sky, was a young crescent moon, and opposite the crescent hung that bright comet which in Pierre’s soul was connected with his love. By the gate stood Gerasim, the cook, and two Frenchmen. Their laughter and talk in mutually incomprehensible languages could be heard. They were looking at the glow that was visible in the city.
There was nothing terrible about a small, distant fire in a huge city.
Looking at the high, starry sky, at the crescent moon, at the comet, and at the glow, Pierre experienced a joyful tenderness. “See how good it is! What more does one need?!” he thought. And suddenly, remembering his intention, his head whirled, he felt sick, and had to lean on the fence so as not to fall.
Without saying good-bye to his new friend, Pierre left the gates with unsteady steps and, going back to his room, lay down on