Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy (nice books to read .txt) 📖
- Author: graf Leo Tolstoy
Book online «War and Peace by graf Leo Tolstoy (nice books to read .txt) 📖». Author graf Leo Tolstoy
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.
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 RostĂłv party spent the night at MytĂshchi, 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 MytĂshchi. At ten o’clock that evening the RostĂłv family and the wounded traveling with them were all distributed in the yards and huts of that large village. The RostĂłvs’ 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 RaĂ©vski’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 RostĂłvs. The countess said she had been unable to close her eyes on account of his moaning, and at MytĂshchi 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 MytĂshchi burning—set on fire by MamĂłnov’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 MytĂshchi had been set on fire by MamĂłnov’s Cossacks.”
“But that’s not MytĂshchi, 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 MytĂshchi 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 Sushchévski or the Rogózhski 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 TerĂ©ntich, the count’s valet (as he was called), came up to the group and shouted at MĂshka.
“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 MĂshka.
“But what do you think, Daniel Teréntich? Doesn’t it look as if that glow were in Moscow?” remarked one of the footmen.
Daniel Teréntich 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 Teréntich, 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. Sónya and Madame Schoss, who had not yet undressed, went out with him. Only Natásha and the countess remained in the room. Pétya was no longer with the family, he had gone on with his regiment which was making for Tróitsa.
The countess, on hearing that Moscow was on fire, began to cry. Natásha, 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 Sónya returning from the yard chilled and frightened. “I believe the whole of Moscow will burn, there’s an awful glow! Natásha, do look! You can see it from the window,” she said to her cousin, evidently wishing to distract her mind.
But Natásha looked at her as if not understanding what was said to her and again fixed her eyes on the corner of the stove. She had been in this condition of stupor since the morning, when Sónya, to the surprise and annoyance of the countess, had for some unaccountable reason found it necessary to tell Natásha of Prince Andrew’s wound and of his being with their party. The countess had seldom been so angry with anyone as she was with Sónya. Sónya had cried and begged to be forgiven and now, as if trying to atone for her fault, paid unceasing attention to her cousin.
“Look, Natásha, how dreadfully it is burning!” said she.
“What’s burning?” asked Natásha. “Oh, yes, Moscow.”
And as if in order not to offend SĂłnya and to get rid of her, she turned her face to the window, looked out in such a way that it was evident that she could not see anything, and again settled down in her former attitude.
“But you didn’t see it!”
“Yes, really I
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