LITMIR.BIZ

      Princess Marya went back to her room with the sad, frightened expression which rarely left her and made her unlovely, unhealthy face even less lovely, and sat down at her writing desk, adorned with miniature portraits and cluttered with notebooks and books. The princess was as disorganised as her father was organised. She put the geometry notebook down and impatiently unsealed the letter. Though she was not yet reading, but merely weighing, as it were, the pleasure to come, as she turned over the small pages of the letter her face was transformed; she became visibly calmer, she sat in her favourite armchair in the corner of the room, beside an immense pier glass, and began reading. The letter was from the princess’s closest friend since her childhood: this friend was that same Julie Akhrosimova who had been at the name-day celebrations at the Rostovs’ house. Marya Dmitrievna Akhrosimova’s estate bordered on Prince Bolkonsky’s and she spent two months of the summer in the country. The prince respected Marya Dmitrievna, although he made fun of her. Marya Dmitrievna addressed nobody but the prince with formal politeness, and she held him up as an example to all modern-day people.

      Julie wrote as follows:

      Chère et excellente amie. What a fearful and terrible thing separation is! However much I try to tell myself that half of my existence and my happiness lies in you, that despite the distance that separates us, the bonds that unite our hearts are indissoluble, my heart revolts against fate and, for all the pleasures and distractions by which I am surrounded, I cannot suppress a certain secret sadness that I have felt in the depths of my heart since the time of our separation. Why are we not together, like last summer, in our large study, on the blue divan, on the divan of ‘confessions’? Why can I not, as I did three months ago, draw new moral strength from your glance, so gentle, calm and astute, which I loved so much and which I see before me as I write to you?

      Having read to this point, Princess Marya sighed and glanced round into the pier glass that stood on her right. The mirror reflected her unlovely, weak body and thin face. The eyes, always sad, now regarded themselves in the mirror with especial hopelessness. “She is flattering me,” the princess thought, then turned away and continued reading. Julie, however, was not flattering her friend: the princess’s eyes, large, deep and radiant (sometimes it seemed as if beams of warm light radiated from them), really were so fine that very often, despite the plainness of all the rest of her face, these eyes became more alluring than beauty itself. But the princess had never seen the fine expression of her eyes, the expression that they assumed in those moments when she was not thinking about herself. Her face, like everybody else’s, assumed an artificial, unnatural, foolish expression whenever it looked at itself in the mirror. She continued reading:

      The whole of Moscow is talking of nothing but the war. One of my two brothers is already abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are on the march to the border. Our dear sovereign is leaving St. Petersburg, and it is assumed that he intends to expose his own precious life to the fortunes of war. God grant that the ogre of Corsica who is subverting the order of Europe may be overthrown by the angel whom the Almighty in His mercy has set over us as our ruler. In addition to my brothers, this war has also deprived me of one of the connections that lie closest to my heart. I speak of the young Nikolai Rostov, who in his enthusiasm was unable to endure inaction and left the university in order to join the army. I confess to you, dear Marya, that despite his extreme youth, his departure for the army was a great sorrow for me. This young man, about whom I spoke to you last summer, has in him so much of the nobility and genuine youthful valour that one encounters so rarely in our times among the old men of twenty. In particular, he has such an open and feeling heart. He is so pure and full of poetry that my relations with him, for all their fleeting nature, have been one of the sweetest consolations of my own poor heart, which has already suffered so much. I will tell you some time about our parting and all that was said at that parting. It is all still too fresh … Ah! my dear friend, you are fortunate not to know these scalding delights, these scalding sorrows. You are fortunate because the latter are ordinarily stronger than the former. I know very well that Count Nikolai is too young to become anything other than a friend to me. But this sweet friendship, these relations that are so poetic and so pure, have been my heart’s necessity. But enough of that.

      The main news with which the whole of Moscow is occupied is the death of old Count Bezukhov and his legacy. Can you believe that the three princesses received some mere trifle, Prince Vasily received nothing at all and Pierre is the heir to everything and, in addition, has actually been declared a legitimate son and therefore Count Bezukhov and the owner of the largest fortune in Russia! They say that Prince Vasily played a quite disgusting role in this whole business and that he departed for St. Petersburg in a state of great confusion. I confess to you that I have a very poor understanding of all these affairs to do with last wills and testaments; I only know that since the young man whom we all knew by the simple name of Pierre became the Count Bezukhov and the owner of one of the finest fortunes in Russia, I have been amusing myself by observing the change in the tone of the mamans who have marriageable daughters and of the young ladies themselves with regard to this gentleman who, let it be said in parentheses, has always seemed to me quite insignificant. Only my maman continues to criticise him with her usual harshness. Since everyone has been amusing themselves for two years now by seeking out fiancés for me, whom for the most part I do not even know, Moscow’s matrimonial gossip now makes me the Countess Bezukhova. But you understand that I do not desire that in the least. On the subject of marriages, do you know that recently the universal aunty, Anna Mikhailovna, confided to me in the very strictest secrecy a scheme to arrange your marriage? And to none other than Prince Vasily’s son Anatole, whom they wish to settle by marrying him to a wealthy noble spinster, and the parents’ choice has fallen on you. I do not know how you will regard this matter, but I considered it my duty to forewarn you. They say that he is very good-looking and a great hothead. That is all I was able to learn about him.

      But enough idle chatter. I am finishing my second page, and maman has sent for me in order to go to dinner at the Apraksins’.

      Read the mystical book that I am sending you. It is immensely popular here. Although there are some things in it which are hard for the feeble human intellect to comprehend, it is an excellent book, reading it calms and exalts the soul. Goodbye. My compliments to your father and my greetings to Mademoiselle Bourienne. I embrace you with all my heart.

      Julie

      P.S. Send me news of your brother and his delightful wife.

      The princess thought for a moment, smiling pensively, so that her face, lit up by her radiant eyes, was totally transformed, then suddenly, getting up and walking with ungainly steps across to the desk, she took out a sheet of paper and her hand began moving across it rapidly. This is

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