“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 distinguished and wealthier match for Andréy. And they all struggled and suffered and tormented one another and injured their souls, their eternal souls, for the attainment of benefits which endure but for an instant. Not only do we know this ourselves, but Christ, the Son of God, came down to earth and told us that this life is but for a moment and is a probation; yet we cling to it and think to find happiness in it. “How is it that no one realizes this?” thought Princess Márya. “No one except these despised God’s folk who, wallet on back, come to me by the back door,