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During that year after his son's departure, Prince Nicholas
Bolkonski's health and temper became much worse. He grew still
more irritable, and it was Princess Mary who generally bore the
brunt of his frequent fits of unprovoked anger. He seemed carefully
to seek out her tender spots so as to torture her mentally as
harshly as possible. Princess Mary had two passions and consequently
two joys- her nephew, little Nicholas, and religion- and these
were the favorite subjects of the prince's attacks and ridicule.
Whatever was 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," he would say. Or, turning to Mademoiselle Bourienne,
he would ask her in Princess Mary's presence how she liked our
village priests and icons and would joke about them.
He continually hurt Princess Mary's feelings and tormented
her, but it cost 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 thought of that proud word "justice." All the
complex laws of man centered 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 Princess 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
Princess Mary noticed that before his departure they were dissatisfied
with one another.
Soon after Prince Andrew had gone, Princess Mary wrote to
her friend Julie Karagina 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. Oh, my friend! 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, for what cause, 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 persons, or such as are a burden to themselves
and to others, are left living. The first death I saw, and one
I shall never forget- that of my dear sister-in-law- left that
impression on me. Just as you ask destiny why your splendid brother
had to die, so I asked why that angel Lise, who not only never
wronged anyone, but in whose soul there were never any unkind
thoughts, had to die. And what do you think, dear friend? Five
years have passed since then, and already I, with my petty understanding,
begin to see clearly why she had to die, and in what way that
death was but an expression of the infinite goodness of the Creator,
whose every action, though generally incomprehensible to us, is
but a manifestation of His infinite love for His creatures. Perhaps,
I often think, she was too angelically innocent to have the strength
to perform all a mother's duties. As a young wife she was irreproachable;
perhaps she could not have been so as a mother. As it is, not
only has she left us, and particularly Prince Andrew, with the
purest regrets and memories, but probably she will there receive
a place I dare not hope for myself. But not to speak of her alone,
that early and terrible death has had the most beneficent influence
on me and on my brother in spite of all our grief. Then, at the
moment of our loss, these thoughts could not occur to me; I should
then have dismissed them with horror, but now they are very clear
and certain. I write all this to you, dear friend, only to convince
you of the Gospel truth which has become for me a principle of
life: not a single hair of our heads will fall without His will.
And His will is governed only by infinite love for us, and so
whatever befalls us is for our good.
You ask whether we shall spend next winter in Moscow. In spite
of my wish to see you, I do not think so and do not want to do
so. You will be surprised to hear that the reason for this is
Buonaparte! The case is this: my father's health is growing noticeably
worse, he cannot stand any contradiction and is becoming irritable.
This irritability is, as you know, chiefly directed to political
questions. He cannot endure the notion that Buonaparte is negotiating
on equal terms with all the sovereigns of Europe and particularly
with our own, the grandson of the Great Catherine! As you know,
I am quite indifferent to politics, but from my father's remarks
and his talks with Michael Ivanovich I know all that goes on in
the world and especially about the honors conferred on Buonaparte,
who only at Bald Hills in the whole world, it seems, is not accepted
as a great man, still less as Emperor of France. And my father
cannot stand this. It seems to me that it is chiefly because of
his political views that my father is reluctant to speak of going
to Moscow; for he foresees the encounters that would result from
his way of expressing his views regardless of anybody. All the
benefit he might derive from a course of treatment he would lose
as a result of the disputes about Buonaparte which would be inevitable.
In any case it will be decided very shortly.
Our family life goes on in the old way except for my brother
Andrew's absence. He, as I wrote you before, has changed very
much of late. After his sorrow he only this year quite recovered
his spirits. He has again become as I used to know him when a
child: kind, affectionate, with that heart of gold to which I
know no equal. He has realized, it seems to me, that life is not
over for him. But together with this mental change he has grown
physically much weaker. He has become thinner and more nervous.
I am anxious about him and glad he is taking this trip abroad
which the doctors recommended long ago. I hope it will cure him.
You write that in Petersburg he is spoken of as one of the most
active, cultivated, and capable of the young men. Forgive my vanity
as a relation, but I never doubted it. The good he has done to
everybody here, from his peasants up to the gentry, is incalculable.
On his arrival in Petersburg he received only his due. I always
wonder at the way rumors fly from Petersburg to Moscow, especially
such false ones as that you write about- I mean the report of
my brother's betrothal to the little Rostova. I do not think my
brother will ever marry again, and certainly not her; and this
is why: first, I know that 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 because, 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. But I am running on too long and am at the end of my second
sheet. Good-by, my dear friend. May God keep you in His holy and
mighty care. My dear friend, Mademoiselle Bourienne, sends you
kisses.
MARY
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