The night of the salon, the calèche with Natasha and Prince Andrei traveled the lit streets of Moscow to Zinaida Volkonskaya’s grand apartments on Tverskaya Street. As Prince Andrei walked with Natasha to the door of Zinaida’s salon, he felt the buildings crowd the sky. The raw air on his newly washed skin brought him close to old thoughts of nights on the battlefield, no specific battlefield really, but all of them brought together under a single sky. And as he anticipated Natasha’s singing, a profound feeling that the infinity of life could be brought out by art pushed its way into this small and unimportant moment.