War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy (ebook reader for pc TXT) 📕

to address her here in church, and told her he had heard of her trouble and sympathized with his whole soul. As soon as she heard his voice a vivid glow kindled in her face, lighting up both her sorrow and her joy.

“There is one thing I wanted to tell you, Princess,” said Rostóv. “It is that if your brother, Prince Andréy Nikoláevich, were not living, it would have been at once announced in the Gazette, as he is a colonel.”

The princess looked at him, not grasping what he was saying, but cheered by the expression of regretful sympathy on his face.

“And I have known so many cases of a splinter wound” (the Gazette said it was a shell) “either proving fatal at once or being very slight,” continued Nikoláy. “We must hope for the best, and I am sure⁠ ⁠…”

Princess Márya 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 Nikoláy 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 Márya 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. Nikoláy 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 Andréy) and he referred to it contemptuously as philosophy and dreaminess, but in Princess Márya 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 Márya, 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 Márya 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 Márya 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 Nikoláy, 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!”

Nikoláy 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