house—let him marry and live by himself. Perhaps you will go and live with him too?” he added, turning to Princess Márya. “Go in heaven’s name! Go out into the frost … the frost … the frost!”
After this outburst the prince did not speak any more about the matter. But repressed vexation at his son’s poor-spirited behavior found expression in his treatment of his daughter. To his former pretexts for irony a fresh one was now added—allusions to stepmothers and amiabilities to Mademoiselle Bourienne.
“Why shouldn’t I marry her?” he asked his daughter. “She’ll make a splendid princess!”
And latterly, to her surprise and bewilderment, Princess Márya noticed that her father was really associating more and more with the Frenchwoman. She wrote to Prince Andréy about the reception of his letter, but comforted him with hopes of reconciling their father to the idea.
Nikolúshka and his education, her brother André, and religion were Princess Márya’s joys and consolations; but besides that, since everyone must have personal hopes, Princess Márya in the profoundest depths of her heart had a hidden dream and hope that supplied the chief consolation of her life. This comforting dream and hope were given her by God’s folk —the half-witted and other pilgrims who visited her without the prince’s knowledge. The longer she lived, the more experience and observation she had of life, the greater was her wonder at the shortsightedness of men who seek enjoyment and happiness here on earth: toiling, suffering, struggling, and harming one another, to obtain that impossible, visionary, sinful happiness. Prince Andréy had loved his wife, she died, but that was not enough: he wanted to bind his happiness to another woman. Her father objected to this because he wanted a more