Letters from the Heart — War and Peace

During that year after his son's departure, Prince Nicholas Bolkónski's health and temper become much worse. He grows still more irritable, and it is Princess Mary who generally bears the brunt of his frequent fits of unprovoked anger. He seems carefully to seek out her tender spots so as to torture her mentally as harshly as possible. Mary has two passions and consequently two joys, her nephew little Nicholas, and religion, and these are the favourite subjects of the prince's attacks and ridicule. Whatever is spoken of he would bring round to the superstitiousness of old maids, or the petting and spoiling of children. You want to make him, little Nicholas, into an old maid like yourself. A pity. Prince Andrew wants a son and not an old maid. Or, turning to Mademoiselle Bourienne, he would ask her in Mary's presence how she liked our village priests and icons and would joke about them. He continually hurts Mary's feelings and torments her, but it costs her no effort to forgive him. Could he be to blame toward her, or could her father, whom she knew loved her in spite of it all, be unjust? And what is justice? The princess never thinks of that proud word. All the complex laws of man centre for her in one clear and simple law, the law of love and self-sacrifice taught us by Him who lovingly suffered for mankind though He Himself was God. What had she to do with the justice or injustice of other people? She had to endure and love, and that she did.

During the winter Prince Andrew had come to Bald Hills and had been gay, gentle, and more affectionate than Mary had known him for a long time past. She felt that something had happened to him, but he said nothing to her about his love. Before he left he had a long talk with his father about something, and Mary noticed that before his departure they were dissatisfied with one another. Soon after Andrew has gone, Mary writes to her friend Julie Karágina in Petersburg, whom she had dreamed, as all girls dream, of marrying to her brother, and who was at that time in mourning for her own brother, killed in Turkey.

Sorrow, it seems, is our common lot, my dear, tender friend Julie. Your loss is so terrible that I can only explain it to myself as a special providence of God who, loving you, wishes to try you and your excellent mother. Religion, and religion alone, can, I will not say comfort us, but save us from despair. Religion alone can explain to us what without its help man cannot comprehend: why kind and noble beings able to find happiness in life, not merely harming no one but necessary to the happiness of others, are called away to God, while cruel, useless, harmful people remain. She recalls Lise's death as perhaps merciful, notes Andrew's gentler visit, and dismisses Petersburg rumours of his betrothal to the little Rostóva. I do not think my brother will ever marry again, and certainly not her. First, though he rarely speaks about the wife he has lost, the grief of that loss has gone too deep in his heart for him ever to decide to give her a successor and our little angel a stepmother. Secondly, as far as I know, that girl is not the kind of girl who could please Prince Andrew. I do not think he would choose her for a wife, and frankly I do not wish it. They may skip Moscow winter because Napoleon talk enrages her father. She praises Andrew's goodness to peasants and gentry, then closes the second sheet: May God keep you in His holy and mighty care. My dear friend, Mademoiselle Bourienne, sends you kisses. Mary.