War and Peace
CHAPTER XXVI
In the middle of the summer Princess Mary received an unexpected letter
from Prince Andrew in Switzerland in which he gave her strange and
surprising news. He informed her of his engagement to Natásha Rostóva.
The whole letter breathed loving rapture for his betrothed and tender
and confiding affection for his sister. He wrote that he had never loved
as he did now and that only now did he understand and know what life
was. He asked his sister to forgive him for not having told her of his
resolve when he had last visited Bald Hills, though he had spoken of it
to his father. He had not done so for fear Princess Mary should ask her
father to give his consent, irritating him and having to bear the brunt
of his displeasure without attaining her object. “Besides,” he
wrote, “the matter was not then so definitely settled as it is now.
My father then insisted on a delay of a year and now already six months,
half of that period, have passed, and my resolution is firmer than ever.
If the doctors did not keep me here at the spas I should be back in
Russia, but as it is I have to postpone my return for three months. You
know me and my relations with Father. I want nothing from him. I have
been and always shall be independent; but to go against his will and
arouse his anger, now that he may perhaps remain with us such a short
time, would destroy half my happiness. I am now writing to him about
the same question, and beg you to choose a good moment to hand him the
letter and to let me know how he looks at the whole matter and whether
there is hope that he may consent to reduce the term by four months.”
After long hesitations, doubts, and prayers, Princess Mary gave the
letter to her father. The next day the old prince said to her quietly:
“Write and tell your brother to wait till I am dead.... It won’t be
long—I shall soon set him free.”
The princess was about to reply, but her father would not let her speak
and, raising his voice more and more, cried:
“Marry, marry, my boy!... A good family!... Clever people, eh? Rich,
eh? Yes, a nice stepmother little Nicholas will have! Write and tell him
that he may marry tomorrow if he likes. She will be little Nicholas’
stepmother and I’ll marry Bourienne!... Ha, ha, ha! He mustn’t be
without a stepmother either! Only one thing, no more women are wanted
in my house—let him marry and live by himself. Perhaps you will go
and live with him too?” he added, turning to Princess Mary. “Go in
heaven’s name! Go out into the frost... the frost... the frost!”
After this outburst the prince did not speak any more about the matter.
But repressed vexation at his son’s poor-spirited behavior found
expression in his treatment of his daughter. To his former pretexts
for irony a fresh one was now added—allusions to stepmothers and
amiabilities to Mademoiselle Bourienne.
“Why shouldn’t I marry her?” he asked his daughter. “She’ll
make a splendid princess!”
And latterly, to her surprise and bewilderment, Princess Mary
noticed that her father was really associating more and more with the
Frenchwoman. She wrote to Prince Andrew about the reception of his
letter, but comforted him with hopes of reconciling their father to the
idea.
Little Nicholas and his education, her brother Andrew, and religion
were Princess Mary’s joys and consolations; but besides that, since
everyone must have personal hopes, Princess Mary in the profoundest
depths of her heart had a hidden dream and hope that supplied the chief
consolation of her life. This comforting dream and hope were given her
by God’s folk—the half-witted and other pilgrims who visited
her without the prince’s knowledge. The longer she lived, the more
experience and observation she had of life, the greater was her wonder
at the short-sightedness of men who seek enjoyment and happiness here
on earth: toiling, suffering, struggling, and harming one another, to
obtain that impossible, visionary, sinful happiness. Prince Andrew had
loved his wife, she died, but that was not enough: he wanted to bind
his happiness to another woman. Her father objected to this because he
wanted a more distinguished and wealthier match for Andrew. And they
all struggled and suffered and tormented one another and injured their
souls, their eternal souls, for the attainment of benefits which endure
but for an instant. Not only do we know this ourselves, but Christ, the
Son of God, came down to earth and told us that this life is but for
a moment and is a probation; yet we cling to it and think to find
happiness in it. “How is it that no one realizes this?” thought
Princess Mary. “No one except these despised God’s folk who, wallet
on back, come to me by the back door, afraid of being seen by the
prince, not for fear of ill-usage by him but for fear of causing him
to sin. To leave family, home, and all the cares of worldly welfare, in
order without clinging to anything to wander in hempen rags from place
to place under an assumed name, doing no one any harm but praying for
all—for those who drive one away as well as for those who protect one:
higher than that life and truth there is no life or truth!”
There was one pilgrim, a quiet pockmarked little woman of fifty called
Theodosia, who for over thirty years had gone about barefoot and worn
heavy chains. Princess Mary was particularly fond of her. Once, when in
a room with a lamp dimly lit before the icon Theodosia was talking of
her life, the thought that Theodosia alone had found the true path of
life suddenly came to Princess Mary with such force that she resolved to
become a pilgrim herself. When Theodosia had gone to sleep Princess Mary
thought about this for a long time, and at last made up her mind that,
strange as it might seem, she must go on a pilgrimage. She disclosed
this thought to no one but to her confessor, Father Akínfi, the monk,
and he approved of her intention. Under guise of a present for the
pilgrims, Princess Mary prepared a pilgrim’s complete costume for
herself: a coarse smock, bast shoes, a rough coat, and a black kerchief.
Often, approaching the chest of drawers containing this secret treasure,
Princess Mary paused, uncertain whether the time had not already come to
put her project into execution.
Often, listening to the pilgrims’ tales, she was so stimulated by
their simple speech, mechanical to them but to her so full of deep
meaning, that several times she was on the point of abandoning
everything and running away from home. In imagination she already
pictured herself by Theodosia’s side, dressed in coarse rags, walking
with a staff, a wallet on her back, along the dusty road, directing her
wanderings from one saint’s shrine to another, free from envy, earthly
love, or desire, and reaching at last the place where there is no more
sorrow or sighing, but eternal joy and bliss.
“I shall come to a place and pray there, and before having time to get
used to it or getting to love it, I shall go farther. I will go on till
my legs fail, and I’ll lie down and die somewhere, and shall at last
reach that eternal, quiet haven, where there is neither sorrow nor
sighing...” thought Princess Mary.
But afterwards, when she saw her father and especially little Koko
(Nicholas), her resolve weakened. She wept quietly, and felt that she
was a sinner who loved her father and little nephew more than God.
BOOK SEVEN: 1810 - 11
CHAPTER I
The Bible legend tells us that the absence of labor—idleness—was a
condition of the first man’s blessedness before the Fall. Fallen man
has retained a love of idleness, but the curse weighs on the race not
only because we have to seek our bread in the sweat of our brows, but
because our moral nature is such that we cannot be both idle and at
ease. An inner voice tells us we are in the wrong if we are idle. If man
could find a state in which he felt that though idle he was fulfilling
his duty, he would have found one of the conditions of man’s primitive
blessedness. And such a state of obligatory and irreproachable idleness
is the lot of a whole class—the military. The chief attraction of
military service has consisted and will consist in this compulsory and
irreproachable idleness.
Nicholas Rostóv experienced this blissful condition to the full when,
after 1807, he continued to serve in the Pávlograd regiment, in which
he already commanded the squadron he had taken over from Denísov.
Rostóv had become a bluff, good-natured fellow, whom his Moscow
acquaintances would have considered rather bad form, but who was liked
and respected by his comrades, subordinates, and superiors, and was well
contented with his life. Of late, in 1809, he found in letters from home
more frequent complaints from his mother that their affairs were falling
into greater and greater disorder, and that it was time for him to come
back to gladden and comfort his old parents.
Reading these letters, Nicholas felt a dread of their wanting to
take him away from surroundings in which, protected from all the
entanglements of life, he was living so calmly and quietly. He felt that
sooner or later he would have to re-enter that whirlpool of life, with
its embarrassments and affairs to be straightened out, its accounts
with stewards, quarrels, and intrigues, its ties, society, and with
Sónya’s love and his promise to her. It was all dreadfully difficult
and complicated; and he replied to his mother in cold, formal letters
in French, beginning: “My dear Mamma,” and ending: “Your obedient
son,” which said nothing of when he would return. In 1810 he received
letters from his parents, in which they told him of Natásha’s
engagement to Bolkónski, and that the wedding would be in a year’s
time because the old prince made difficulties. This letter grieved and
mortified Nicholas. In the first place he was sorry that Natásha, for
whom he cared more than for anyone else in the family, should be lost to
the home; and secondly, from his hussar point of view, he regretted not
to have been there to show that fellow Bolkónski that connection with
him was no such great honor after all, and that if he loved Natásha he
might dispense with permission from his dotard father. For a moment he
hesitated whether he should not apply for leave in order to see Natásha
before she was married, but then came the maneuvers, and considerations
about Sónya and about the confusion of their affairs, and Nicholas
again put it off. But in the spring of that year, he received a letter
from his mother, written without his father’s knowledge, and that
letter persuaded him to return. She wrote that if he did not come and
take matters in hand, their whole property would be sold by auction and
they would all have to go begging. The count was so weak, and trusted
Mítenka so much, and was so good-natured, that everybody took advantage
of him and things were going from bad to worse. “For God’s sake, I
implore you, come at once if you do not wish to make me and the whole
family wretched,” wrote the countess.
This letter touched Nicholas. He had that common sense of a
matter-of-fact man which showed him what he ought to do.
The right thing now was, if not to retire from the service, at any rate
to go home on leave. Why he had to go he did not know; but after his
after-dinner nap he gave orders to saddle Mars, an extremely vicious
gray stallion that had not been ridden for a long time, and when
he returned with the horse all in a lather, he informed Lavrúshka
(Denísov’s servant who had remained with him) and his comrades who
turned up in the evening that he was applying for leave and was going
home. Difficult and strange as it was for him to reflect that he would
go away without having heard from the staff—and this interested him
extremely—whether he was promoted to a captaincy or would receive the