In the middle of the summer Princess Mary receives an unexpected letter from Prince Andrew in Switzerland in which he gives her strange and surprising news. He informs her of his engagement to Natásha Rostóva. The whole letter breathes loving rapture for his betrothed and tender and confiding affection for his sister. He writes that he has never loved as he does now and that only now does he understand and know what life was. He asks his sister to forgive him for not having told her of his resolve when he last visited Bald Hills, though he had spoken of it to his father. He had not done so for fear 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, the matter was not then so definitely settled as it is now. His father then insisted on a delay of a year and now already six months, half of that period, have passed, and his resolution is firmer than ever. If the doctors did not keep him at the spas he would be back in Russia, but as it is he has to postpone his 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. He is now writing to his father about the same question, and begs Mary to choose a good moment to hand him the letter and to let him 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, Mary gives the letter to her father. The next day the old prince says 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 is about to reply, but her father will not let her speak and, raising his voice more and more, cries: 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's 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 adds, turning to Mary. Go in heaven's name. Go out into the frost, the frost, the frost. After this outburst the prince does not speak any more about the matter. But repressed vexation at his son's poor-spirited behaviour finds expression in his treatment of his daughter. To his former pretexts for irony a fresh one is now added: allusions to stepmothers.
Mary comforts Andrew with hope of reconciliation and secretly dreams of pilgrim freedom through Theodosia's example. In imagination she already pictures 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. But afterwards, when she sees her father and especially little Koko, Nicholas, her resolve weakens. She weeps quietly, and feels that she is a sinner who loves her father and little nephew more than God. Book Seven, dated 1810 to 1811, waits beyond that confession.
