War and Peace
Princess Mary interrupted him.
“Oh, that would be so dread...” she began and, prevented by agitation
from finishing, she bent her head with a movement as graceful as
everything she did in his presence and, looking up at him gratefully,
went out, following her aunt.
That evening Nicholas did not go out, but stayed at home to settle some
accounts with the horse dealers. When he had finished that business it
was already too late to go anywhere but still too early to go to bed,
and for a long time he paced up and down the room, reflecting on his
life, a thing he rarely did.
Princess Mary had made an agreeable impression on him when he had met
her in Smolénsk province. His having encountered her in such exceptional
circumstances, and his mother having at one time mentioned her to him as
a good match, had drawn his particular attention to her. When he met her
again in Vorónezh the impression she made on him was not merely pleasing
but powerful. Nicholas had been struck by the peculiar moral beauty he
observed in her at this time. He was, however, preparing to go away and
it had not entered his head to regret that he was thus depriving himself
of chances of meeting her. But that day’s encounter in church had, he
felt, sunk deeper than was desirable for his peace of mind. That pale,
sad, refined face, that radiant look, those gentle graceful gestures,
and especially the deep and tender sorrow expressed in all her features
agitated him and evoked his sympathy. In men Rostóv could not bear to
see the expression of a higher spiritual life (that was why he did not
like Prince Andrew) and he referred to it contemptuously as philosophy
and dreaminess, but in Princess Mary that very sorrow which revealed
the depth of a whole spiritual world foreign to him was an irresistible
attraction.
“She must be a wonderful woman. A real angel!” he said to himself.
“Why am I not free? Why was I in such a hurry with Sónya?” And he
involuntarily compared the two: the lack of spirituality in the one and
the abundance of it in the other—a spirituality he himself lacked and
therefore valued most highly. He tried to picture what would happen were
he free. How he would propose to her and how she would become his wife.
But no, he could not imagine that. He felt awed, and no clear picture
presented itself to his mind. He had long ago pictured to himself a
future with Sónya, and that was all clear and simple just because it
had all been thought out and he knew all there was in Sónya, but it was
impossible to picture a future with Princess Mary, because he did not
understand her but simply loved her.
Reveries about Sónya had had something merry and playful in them, but to
dream of Princess Mary was always difficult and a little frightening.
“How she prayed!” he thought. “It was plain that her whole soul was in
her prayer. Yes, that was the prayer that moves mountains, and I am
sure her prayer will be answered. Why don’t I pray for what I want?” he
suddenly thought. “What do I want? To be free, released from Sónya...
She was right,” he thought, remembering what the governor’s wife had
said: “Nothing but misfortune can come of marrying Sónya. Muddles,
grief for Mamma... business difficulties... muddles, terrible muddles!
Besides, I don’t love her—not as I should. O, God! release me from
this dreadful, inextricable position!” he suddenly began to pray. “Yes,
prayer can move mountains, but one must have faith and not pray as
Natásha and I used to as children, that the snow might turn into
sugar—and then run out into the yard to see whether it had done so. No,
but I am not praying for trifles now,” he thought as he put his pipe
down in a corner, and folding his hands placed himself before the icon.
Softened by memories of Princess Mary he began to pray as he had not
done for a long time. Tears were in his eyes and in his throat when the
door opened and Lavrúshka came in with some papers.
“Blockhead! Why do you come in without being called?” cried Nicholas,
quickly changing his attitude.
“From the governor,” said Lavrúshka in a sleepy voice. “A courier has
arrived and there’s a letter for you.”
“Well, all right, thanks. You can go!”
Nicholas took the two letters, one of which was from his mother and
the other from Sónya. He recognized them by the handwriting and opened
Sónya’s first. He had read only a few lines when he turned pale and his
eyes opened wide with fear and joy.
“No, it’s not possible!” he cried aloud.
Unable to sit still he paced up and down the room holding the letter and
reading it. He glanced through it, then read it again, and then again,
and standing still in the middle of the room he raised his shoulders,
stretching out his hands, with his mouth wide open and his eyes fixed.
What he had just been praying for with confidence that God would hear
him had come to pass; but Nicholas was as much astonished as if it were
something extraordinary and unexpected, and as if the very fact that it
had happened so quickly proved that it had not come from God to whom he
had prayed, but by some ordinary coincidence.
This unexpected and, as it seemed to Nicholas, quite voluntary letter
from Sónya freed him from the knot that fettered him and from which
there had seemed no escape. She wrote that the last unfortunate
events—the loss of almost the whole of the Rostóvs’ Moscow property—and
the countess’ repeatedly expressed wish that Nicholas should marry
Princess Bolkónskaya, together with his silence and coldness of late,
had all combined to make her decide to release him from his promise and
set him completely free.
It would be too painful to me to think that I might be a cause of sorrow
or discord in the family that has been so good to me (she wrote), and my
love has no aim but the happiness of those I love; so, Nicholas, I
beg you to consider yourself free, and to be assured that, in spite of
everything, no one can love you more than does
Your Sónya
Both letters were written from Tróitsa. The other, from the countess,
described their last days in Moscow, their departure, the fire, and
the destruction of all their property. In this letter the countess also
mentioned that Prince Andrew was among the wounded traveling with them;
his state was very critical, but the doctor said there was now more
hope. Sónya and Natásha were nursing him.
Next day Nicholas took his mother’s letter and went to see Princess
Mary. Neither he nor she said a word about what “Natásha nursing him”
might mean, but thanks to this letter Nicholas suddenly became almost as
intimate with the princess as if they were relations.
The following day he saw Princess Mary off on her journey to Yaroslávl,
and a few days later left to rejoin his regiment.
CHAPTER VIII
Sónya’s letter written from Tróitsa, which had come as an answer to
Nicholas’ prayer, was prompted by this: the thought of getting Nicholas
married to an heiress occupied the old countess’ mind more and more. She
knew that Sónya was the chief obstacle to this happening, and Sónya’s
life in the countess’ house had grown harder and harder, especially
after they had received a letter from Nicholas telling of his meeting
with Princess Mary in Boguchárovo. The countess let no occasion slip of
making humiliating or cruel allusions to Sónya.
But a few days before they left Moscow, moved and excited by all that
was going on, she called Sónya to her and, instead of reproaching and
making demands on her, tearfully implored her to sacrifice herself
and repay all that the family had done for her by breaking off her
engagement with Nicholas.
“I shall not be at peace till you promise me this.”
Sónya burst into hysterical tears and replied through her sobs that
she would do anything and was prepared for anything, but gave no actual
promise and could not bring herself to decide to do what was demanded
of her. She must sacrifice herself for the family that had reared and
brought her up. To sacrifice herself for others was Sónya’s habit. Her
position in the house was such that only by sacrifice could she show her
worth, and she was accustomed to this and loved doing it. But in all her
former acts of self-sacrifice she had been happily conscious that they
raised her in her own esteem and in that of others, and so made her more
worthy of Nicholas whom she loved more than anything in the world. But
now they wanted her to sacrifice the very thing that constituted the
whole reward for her self-sacrifice and the whole meaning of her life.
And for the first time she felt bitterness against those who had been
her benefactors only to torture her the more painfully; she felt jealous
of Natásha who had never experienced anything of this sort, had never
needed to sacrifice herself, but made others sacrifice themselves for
her and yet was beloved by everybody. And for the first time Sónya felt
that out of her pure, quiet love for Nicholas a passionate feeling
was beginning to grow up which was stronger than principle, virtue,
or religion. Under the influence of this feeling Sónya, whose life of
dependence had taught her involuntarily to be secretive, having answered
the countess in vague general terms, avoided talking with her and
resolved to wait till she should see Nicholas, not in order to set him
free but on the contrary at that meeting to bind him to her forever.
The bustle and terror of the Rostóvs’ last days in Moscow stifled the
gloomy thoughts that oppressed Sónya. She was glad to find escape
from them in practical activity. But when she heard of Prince Andrew’s
presence in their house, despite her sincere pity for him and for
Natásha, she was seized by a joyful and superstitious feeling that God
did not intend her to be separated from Nicholas. She knew that Natásha
loved no one but Prince Andrew and had never ceased to love him. She
knew that being thrown together again under such terrible circumstances
they would again fall in love with one another, and that Nicholas would
then not be able to marry Princess Mary as they would be within the
prohibited degrees of affinity. Despite all the terror of what had
happened during those last days and during the first days of their
journey, this feeling that Providence was intervening in her personal
affairs cheered Sónya.
At the Tróitsa monastery the Rostóvs first broke their journey for a
whole day.
Three large rooms were assigned to them in the monastery hostelry, one
of which was occupied by Prince Andrew. The wounded man was much better
that day and Natásha was sitting with him. In the next room sat the
count and countess respectfully conversing with the prior, who was
calling on them as old acquaintances and benefactors of the monastery.
Sónya was there too, tormented by curiosity as to what Prince Andrew and
Natásha were talking about. She heard the sound of their voices through
the door. That door opened and Natásha came out, looking excited. Not
noticing the monk, who had risen to greet her and was drawing back the
wide sleeve on his right arm, she went up to Sónya and took her hand.
“Natásha, what are you about? Come here!” said the countess.
Natásha went up to the monk for his blessing, and he advised her to pray
for aid to God and His saint.
As soon as the prior withdrew, Natásha took her friend by the hand and
went with her into the unoccupied room.
“Sónya, will he live?” she asked. “Sónya, how happy I am, and how
unhappy!... Sónya, dovey, everything is as it used to be. If only he
lives! He cannot... because... because... of...” and Natásha burst into
tears.
“Yes! I knew it! Thank God!” murmured Sónya. “He will live.”
Sónya was not less agitated than her friend by the latter’s fear and
grief and by her own personal feelings which she shared with no one.