Book Eleven: 1812 - Chapter XXIX

by Leo Tolstoy

　　When the French officer went into the room with Pierre the latteragain thought it his duty to assure him that he was not French andwished to go away, but the officer would not hear of it. He was sovery polite, amiable, good-natured, and genuinely grateful to Pierrefor saving his life that Pierre had not the heart to refuse, and satdown with him in the parlor- the first room they entered. ToPierre's assurances that he was not a Frenchman, the captain,evidently not understanding how anyone could decline so flatteringan appellation, shrugged his shoulders and said that if Pierreabsolutely insisted on passing for a Russian let it be so, but for allthat he would be forever bound to Pierre by gratitude for saving hislife.

　　Had this man been endowed with the slightest capacity for perceivingthe feelings of others, and had he at all understood what Pierre'sfeelings were, the latter would probably have left him, but theman's animated obtuseness to everything other than himself disarmedPierre.

　　"A Frenchman or a Russian prince incognito," said the officer,looking at Pierre's fine though dirty linen and at the ring on hisfinger. "I owe my life to you and offer you my friendship. A Frenchmannever forgets either an insult or a service. I offer you myfriendship. That is all I can say."

　　There was so much good nature and nobility (in the French sense ofthe word) in the officer's voice, in the expression of his face and inhis gestures, that Pierre, unconsciously smiling in response to theFrenchman's smile, pressed the hand held out to him.

　　"Captain Ramballe, of the 13th Light Regiment, Chevalier of theLegion of Honor for the affair on the seventh of September," heintroduced himself, a self-satisfied irrepressible smile puckering hislips under his mustache. "Will you now be so good as to tell me withwhom I have the honor of conversing so pleasantly, instead of being inthe ambulance with that maniac's bullet in my body?"

　　Pierre replied that he could not tell him his name and, blushing,began to try to invent a name and to say something about his reasonfor concealing it, but the Frenchman hastily interrupted him.

　　"Oh, please!" said he. "I understand your reasons. You are anofficer... a superior officer perhaps. You have borne arms against us.That's not my business. I owe you my life. That is enough for me. I amquite at your service. You belong to the gentry?" he concluded witha shade of inquiry in his tone. Pierre bent his head. "Yourbaptismal name, if you please. That is all I ask. Monsieur Pierre, yousay.... That's all I want to know."

　　When the mutton and an omelet had been served and a samovar andvodka brought, with some wine which the French had taken from aRussian cellar and brought with them, Ramballe invited Pierre to sharehis dinner, and himself began to eat greedily and quickly like ahealthy and hungry man, munching his food rapidly with his strongteeth, continually smacking his lips, and repeating- "Excellent!Delicious!" His face grew red and was covered with perspiration.Pierre was hungry and shared the dinner with pleasure. Morel, theorderly, brought some hot water in a saucepan and placed a bottle ofclaret in it. He also brought a bottle of kvass, taken from thekitchen for them to try. That beverage was already known to the Frenchand had been given a special name. They called it limonade de cochon(pig's lemonade), and Morel spoke well of the limonade de cochon hehad found in the kitchen. But as the captain had the wine they hadtaken while passing through Moscow, he left the kvass to Morel andapplied himself to the bottle of Bordeaux. He wrapped the bottle up toits neck in a table napkin and poured out wine for himself and forPierre. The satisfaction of his hunger and the wine rendered thecaptain still more lively and he chatted incessantly all throughdinner.

　　"Yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a fine votive candle forsaving me from that maniac.... You see, I have bullets enough in mybody already. Here is one I got at Wagram" (he touched his side)"and a second at Smolensk"- he showed a scar on his cheek- "and thisleg which as you see does not want to march, I got that on the seventhat the great battle of la Moskowa. Sacre Dieu! It was splendid! Thatdeluge of fire was worth seeing. It was a tough job you set usthere, my word! You may be proud of it! And on my honor, in spite ofthe cough I caught there, I should be ready to begin again. I pitythose who did not see it."

　　"I was there," said Pierre.

　　"Bah, really? So much the better! You are certainly brave foes.The great redoubt held out well, by my pipe!" continued the Frenchman."And you made us pay dear for it. I was at it three times- sure as Isit here. Three times we reached the guns and three times we werethrown back like cardboard figures. Oh, it was beautiful, MonsieurPierre! Your grenadiers were splendid, by heaven! I saw them closeup their ranks six times in succession and march as if on parade. Finefellows! Our King of Naples, who knows what's what, cried 'Bravo!' Ha,ha! So you are one of us soldiers!" he added, smiling, after amomentary pause. "So much the better, so much the better, MonsieurPierre! Terrible in battle... gallant... with the fair" (he winked andsmiled), "that's what the French are, Monsieur Pierre, aren't they?"

　　The captain was so naively and good-humoredly gay, so real, and sopleased with himself that Pierre almost winked back as he lookedmerrily at him. Probably the word "gallant" turned the captain'sthoughts to the state of Moscow.

　　"Apropos, tell me please, is it true that the women have all leftMoscow? What a queer idea! What had they to be afraid of?"

　　"Would not the French ladies leave Paris if the Russians enteredit?" asked Pierre.

　　"Ha, ha, ha!" The Frenchman emitted a merry, sanguine chuckle,patting Pierre on the shoulder. "What a thing to say!" he exclaimed."Paris?... But Paris, Paris..."

　　"Paris- the capital of the world," Pierre finished his remark forhim.

　　The captain looked at Pierre. He had a habit of stopping short inthe middle of his talk and gazing intently with his laughing, kindlyeyes.

　　"Well, if you hadn't told me you were Russian, I should have wageredthat you were Parisian! You have that... I don't know what, that..."and having uttered this compliment, he again gazed at him in silence.

　　"I have been in Paris. I spent years there," said Pierre.

　　"Oh yes, one sees that plainly. Paris!... A man who doesn't knowParis is a savage. You can tell a Parisian two leagues off. Paris isTalma, la Duchenois, Potier, the Sorbonne, the boulevards," andnoticing that his conclusion was weaker than what had gone before,he added quickly: "There is only one Paris in the world. You have beento Paris and have remained Russian. Well, I don't esteem you theless for it."

　　Under the influence of the wine he had drunk, and after the dayshe had spent alone with his depressing thoughts, Pierreinvoluntarily enjoyed talking with this cheerful and good-natured man.

　　"To return to your ladies- I hear they are lovely. What a wretchedidea to go and bury themselves in the steppes when the French armyis in Moscow. What a chance those girls have missed! Your peasants,now- that's another thing; but you civilized people, you ought to knowus better than that. We took Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Naples, Rome,Warsaw, all the world's capitals.... We are feared, but we areloved. We are nice to know. And then the Emperor..." he began, butPierre interrupted him.

　　"The Emperor," Pierre repeated, and his face suddenly became sad andembarrassed, "is the Emperor...?"

　　"The Emperor? He is generosity, mercy, justice, order, genius-that's what the Emperor is! It is I, Ramballe, who tell you so.... Iassure you I was his enemy eight years ago. My father was anemigrant count.... But that man has vanquished me. He has taken holdof me. I could not resist the sight of the grandeur and glory withwhich he has covered France. When I understood what he wanted- whenI saw that he was preparing a bed of laurels for us, you know, Isaid to myself: 'That is a monarch,' and I devoted myself to him! Sothere! Oh yes, mon cher, he is the greatest man of the ages past orfuture."

　　"Is he in Moscow?" Pierre stammered with a guilty look.

　　The Frenchman looked at his guilty face and smiled.

　　"No, he will make his entry tomorrow," he replied, and continued histalk.

　　Their conversation was interrupted by the cries of several voices atthe gate and by Morel, who came to say that some Wurttemberg hussarshad come and wanted to put up their horses in the yard where thecaptain's horses were. This difficulty had arisen chiefly becausethe hussars did not understand what was said to them in French.

　　The captain had their senior sergeant called in, and in a sternvoice asked him to what regiment he belonged, who was his commandingofficer, and by what right he allowed himself to claim quarters thatwere already occupied. The German who knew little French, answered thetwo first questions by giving the names of his regiment and of hiscommanding officer, but in reply to the third question which he didnot understand said, introducing broken French into his own German,that he was the quartermaster of the regiment and his commander hadordered him to occupy all the houses one after another. Pierre, whoknew German, translated what the German said to the captain and gavethe captain's reply to the Wurttemberg hussar in German. When he hadunderstood what was said to him, the German submitted and took his menelsewhere. The captain went out into the porch and gave some orders ina loud voice.

　　When he returned to the room Pierre was sitting in the same place asbefore, with his head in his hands. His face expressed suffering. Hereally was suffering at that moment. When the captain went out andhe was left alone, suddenly he came to himself and realized theposition he was in. It was not that Moscow had been taken or thatthe happy conquerors were masters in it and were patronizing him.Painful as that was it was not that which tormented Pierre at themoment. He was tormented by the consciousness of his own weakness. Thefew glasses of wine he had drunk and the conversation with thisgood-natured man had destroyed the mood of concentrated gloom in whichhe had spent the last few days and which was essential for theexecution of his design. The pistol, dagger, and peasant coat wereready. Napoleon was to enter the town next day. Pierre stillconsidered that it would be a useful and worthy action to slay theevildoer, but now he felt that he would not do it. He did not knowwhy, but he felt a foreboding that he would not carry out hisintention. He struggled against the confession of his weakness butdimly felt that he could not overcome it and that his former gloomyframe of mind, concerning vengeance, killing, and self-sacrifice,had been dispersed like dust by contact with the first man he met.

　　The captain returned to the room, limping slightly and whistling atune.

　　The Frenchman's chatter which had previously amused Pierre nowrepelled him. The tune he was whistling, his gait, and the gesturewith which he twirled his mustache, all now seemed offensive. "Iwill go away immediately. I won't say another word to him," thoughtPierre. He thought this, but still sat in the same place. A strangefeeling of weakness tied him to the spot; he wished to get up and goaway, but could not do so.

　　The captain, on the other hand, seemed very cheerful. He paced upand down the room twice. His eyes shone and his mustache twitched asif he were smiling to himself at some amusing thought.

　　"The colonel of those Wurttembergers is delightful," he suddenlysaid. "He's a German, but a nice fellow all the same.... But he's aGerman." He sat down facing Pierre. "By the way, you know German,then?"

　　Pierre looked at him in silence.

　　"What is the German for 'shelter'?"

　　"Shelter?" Pierre repeated. "The German for shelter is Unterkunft."

　　"How do you say it?" the captain asked quickly and doubtfully.

　　"Unterkunft," Pierre repeated.

　　"Onterkoff," said the captain and looked at Pierre for someseconds with laughing eyes. "These Germans are first-rate fools, don'tyou think so, Monsieur Pierre?" he concluded.

　　"Well, let's have another bottle of this Moscow Bordeaux, shallwe? Morel will warm us up another little bottle. Morel!" he called outgaily.

　　Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked atPierre by the candlelight and was evidently struck by the troubledexpression on his companion's face. Ramballe, with genuine distressand sympathy in his face, went up to Pierre and bent over him.

　　"There now, we're sad," said he, touching Pierre's hand. "Have Iupset you? No, really, have you anything against me?" he asked Pierre."Perhaps it's the state of affairs?"

　　Pierre did not answer, but looked cordially into the Frenchman'seyes whose expression of sympathy was pleasing to him.

　　"Honestly, without speaking of what I owe you, I feel friendship foryou. Can I do anything for you? Dispose of me. It is for life anddeath. I say it with my hand on my heart!" said he, striking hischest.

　　"Thank you," said Pierre.

　　The captain gazed intently at him as he had done when he learnedthat "shelter" was Unterkunft in German, and his face suddenlybrightened.

　　"Well, in that case, I drink to our friendship!" he cried gaily,filling two glasses with wine.

　　Pierre took one of the glasses and emptied it. Ramballe emptiedhis too, again pressed Pierre's hand, and leaned his elbows on thetable in a pensive attitude.

　　"Yes, my dear friend," he began, "such is fortune's caprice. Whowould have said that I should be a soldier and a captain of dragoonsin the service of Bonaparte, as we used to call him? Yet here I amin Moscow with him. I must tell you, mon cher," he continued in thesad and measured tones of a man who intends to tell a long story,"that our name is one of the most ancient in France."

　　And with a Frenchman's easy and naive frankness the captain toldPierre the story of his ancestors, his childhood, youth, andmanhood, and all about his relations and his financial and familyaffairs, "ma pauvre mere" playing of course an important part in thestory.

　　"But all that is only life's setting, the real thing is love-love! Am I not right, Monsieur Pierre?" said he, growing animated."Another glass?"

　　Pierre again emptied his glass and poured himself out a third.

　　"Oh, women, women!" and the captain, looking with glistening eyes atPierre, began talking of love and of his love affairs.

　　There were very many of these, as one could easily believe,looking at the officer's handsome, self-satisfied face, and noting theeager enthusiasm with which he spoke of women. Though all Ramballe'slove stories had the sensual character which Frenchmen regard as thespecial charm and poetry of love, yet he told his story with suchsincere conviction that he alone had experienced and known all thecharm of love and he described women so alluringly that Pierrelistened to him with curiosity.

　　It was plain that l'amour which the Frenchman was so fond of was notthat low and simple kind that Pierre had once felt for his wife, norwas it the romantic love stimulated by himself that he experienced forNatasha. (Ramballe despised both these kinds of love equally: theone he considered the "love of clodhoppers" and the other the "love ofsimpletons.") L'amour which the Frenchman worshiped consistedprincipally in the unnaturalness of his relation to the woman and in acombination of incongruities giving the chief charm to the feeling.

　　Thus the captain touchingly recounted the story of his love for afascinating marquise of thirty-five and at the same time for acharming, innocent child of seventeen, daughter of the bewitchingmarquise. The conflict of magnanimity between the mother and thedaughter, ending in the mother's sacrificing herself and offeringher daughter in marriage to her lover, even now agitated thecaptain, though it was the memory of a distant past. Then he recountedan episode in which the husband played the part of the lover, andhe- the lover- assumed the role of the husband, as well as severaldroll incidents from his recollections of Germany, where "shelter"is called Unterkunft and where the husbands eat sauerkraut and theyoung girls are "too blonde."

　　Finally, the latest episode in Poland still fresh in the captain'smemory, and which he narrated with rapid gestures and glowing face,was of how he had saved the life of a Pole (in general, the savingof life continually occurred in the captain's stories) and the Polehad entrusted to him his enchanting wife (parisienne de coeur) whilehimself entering the French service. The captain was happy, theenchanting Polish lady wished to elope with him, but, prompted bymagnanimity, the captain restored the wife to the husband, saying ashe did so: "I have saved your life, and I save your honor!" Havingrepeated these words the captain wiped his eyes and gave himself ashake, as if driving away the weakness which assailed him at thistouching recollection.

　　Listening to the captain's tales, Pierre- as often happens late inthe evening and under the influence of wine- followed all that wastold him, understood it all, and at the same time followed a trainof personal memories which, he knew not why, suddenly arose in hismind. While listening to these love stories his own love for Natashaunexpectedly rose to his mind, and going over the pictures of thatlove in his imagination he mentally compared them with Ramballe'stales. Listening to the story of the struggle between love and duty,Pierre saw before his eyes every minutest detail of his last meetingwith the object of his love at the Sukharev water tower. At the timeof that meeting it had not produced an effect upon him- he had noteven once recalled it. But now it seemed to him that that meetinghad had in it something very important and poetic.

　　"Peter Kirilovich, come here! We have recognized you," he now seemedto 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... andthere seemed to him something pathetic and touching in all this.

　　Having finished his tale about the enchanting Polish lady, thecaptain asked Pierre if he had ever experienced a similar impulse tosacrifice himself for love and a feeling of envy of the legitimatehusband.

　　Challenged by this question Pierre raised his head and felt a needto express the thoughts that filled his mind. He began to explain thathe understood love for a women somewhat differently. He said that inall his life he had loved and still loved only one woman, and that shecould never be his.

　　"Tiens!" said the captain.

　　Pierre then explained that he had loved this woman from his earliestyears, but that he had not dared to think of her because she was tooyoung, and because he had been an illegitimate son without a name.Afterwards when he had received a name and wealth he dared not thinkof her because he loved her too well, placing her far above everythingin the world, and especially therefore above himself.

　　When he had reached this point, Pierre asked the captain whetherhe understood that.

　　The captain made a gesture signifying that even if he did notunderstand it he begged Pierre to continue.

　　"Platonic love, clouds..." he muttered.

　　Whether it was the wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, orthe thought that this man did not, and never would, know any ofthose who played a part in his story, or whether it was all thesethings together, something loosened Pierre's tongue. Speakingthickly and with a faraway look in his shining eyes, he told the wholestory 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 firstconcealed- his own position and even his name.

　　More than anything else in Pierre's story the captain wasimpressed by the fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mansions inMoscow, 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 Pokrovkaa fire glowed- the first of those that were beginning in Moscow. Tothe right and high up in the sky was the sickle of the waning moon andopposite to it hung that bright comet which was connected inPierre's heart with his love. At the gate stood Gerasim, the cook, andtwo Frenchmen. Their laughter and their mutually incomprehensibleremarks in two languages could be heard. They were looking at the glowseen in the town.

　　There was nothing terrible in the one small, distant fire in theimmense city.

　　Gazing at the high starry sky, at the moon, at the comet, and at theglow from the fire, Pierre experienced a joyful emotion. "There now,how good it is, what more does one need?" thought he. And suddenlyremembering his intention he grew dizzy and felt so faint that heleaned against the fence to save himself from falling.

　　Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate withunsteady steps and returning to his room lay down on the sofa andimmediately fell asleep.