The Great Chaos of 1812

14: Letters

In 19th century Russia, we write letters, we write letters. We put down in writing what is happening in our minds. Once it's on the paper, we feel better, we feel better. It's like some kind of clarity when the letter's done and signed.

    Dear Andrey,

Dear old friend, how goes the war? Do we march on the French splendidly? Do our cannons crack and cry? Do our bullets whistle and sing? Does the air reek with smoke? I wish I were there, with death at my heels.

Dolokhov is recovering. He will be alright, the good man. And Natasha is in town: your bride to be, so full of life and mischief. I should visit. I hear she is more beautiful than ever. How I envy you and your happiness.

Here at home, I drink and read and drink and read and drink. But I think I finally found it, what my heart has needed. For I've been studying the Kabal, and I've calculated the number of the beast: it is Napoleon! Six hundred three score and six. And I will kill him one day. He's no great man. None of us are great me. We're caught in the wave of history. Nothing matters. Everything matters, it's all the same. Oh, if only I could not see it. This dreadful, terrible "it".

In 19th century Russia, we write letters, we write letters. We put down in writing what is happening in our minds.

     Dear Andrey-

What more can I write after all that has happened? What am I to do, if I love him and the other one too? Must I break it off? These terrible questions.

I see nothing but the candle in the mirror. No visions of the future, so lost and alone. And what of Princess Mary-?

     Dear Natasha,

I'm in deep despair at the misunderstanding there is between us. Whatever my father's feelings might be, I beg you to believe that I can not help loving you. He is a tired old man, and must be forgiven. Please come see us again.

    Dear Princess Mary-

Oh! What am I to write? How do I choose? What do I do? I shall never be happy again.

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These terrible questions.

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I'm so alone here.

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So alone in here.

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And I see nothing!

I see nothing but the candle in the mirror. No visions of the future, so lost and alone. In 19th century Russia, we write letters, we write letters. We put down in writing what is happening in our minds.

******

      Dear Natalie,

A love letter. A love letter. A love letter.

A letter from him, from the man that I love.

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A letter which I composed.

******

(A love letter. A love letter. A love letter.)

-Natalie, Natalie, Natalie, I must love you or die. Natalie, Natalie, Natalie, if you love me, say yes and I will come and steal you away. Steal you out of the dark. Natalie, Natalie, Natalie, I want nothing more.

Natalie, Natalie, Natalie, I must love you or die. Natalie, Natalie, Natalie, if you love me, say yes and I will come and steal you away. Steal you out of the dark. Natalie, Natalie, Natalie, I want nothing more.

Just say yes. Just say yes. Just say yes.

Yes! Yes, I love him! How else could I have his letter in my hand? I read it twenty times, thirty times, forty times, each and every word. I love him. I love him.