Nikolay Rostov was standing meanwhile at his post waiting for the wolf. He was aware of what must be taking place within the copse from the rush of the pack coming closer and going further away, from the cries of the dogs, whose notes were familiar to him, from the nearness, and then greater remoteness, and sudden raising of the voices of the huntsmen. He knew that there were both young and also old wolves in the enclosure. He knew the hounds had divided into two packs, that in one place they were close on the wolf, and that something had gone wrong. Every second he expected the wolf on his side. He made a thousand different suppositions of how and at what spot the wolf would run out, and how he would set upon it. Hope was succeeded by despair. Several times he prayed to God that the wolf would rush out upon him. He prayed with that feeling of passion and compunction with which men pray in moments of intense emotion due to trivial causes. "Why, what is it to Thee," he said to God, "to do this for me? I know Thou art great and that it's a sin to pray to Thee to do this, but for God's sake do make the old wolf come out upon me, and make Karay fix his teeth in his throat and finish him before the eyes of 'uncle,' who is looking this way." A thousand times over in that half-hour, with intent, strained, and uneasy eyes Rostov scanned the thickets at the edge of the copse with two scraggy oaks standing up above the undergrowth of aspen, and the ravine with its overhanging bank, and "uncle's" cap peering out from behind a bush on the right. "No, that happiness is not to be," thought Rostov, "yet what would it cost Him!" It's not to be! I'm always unlucky, at cards, in war, and everything!" Austerlitz, Dolohov flashed in distinct but rapid succession through his imagination. "Only once in my life to kill an old wolf; I ask for nothing beyond!" he thought, straining eyes and ears, looking from left to right, and back again, and listening to the slightest fluctuations in the sounds of the dogs.
Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace. Translated by Constance Garnett. New York: Modern Library Paperback Edition, 2002, 567.
War and Peace is my favorite novel. I read it every year. One of the reasons is that it's the most human novel, the novel that best reflects upon the reader, with a simple clarity, the human spirit and condition. In this passage, for instance, we find an all too recognizable encounter one has with the self: that awful stress born of the gap between hope and reality. I find in Rostov's despair something very familiar. I'm also reminded of the stoic remedies offered for situations like this. Epictetus writes that, "The origin of distress is wishing for something that does not come about." Instead of engaging in such distressful desire, Epictetus counsels to, "Seek not for events to happen as you wish but rather for events to happen as they do and your life will go smoothly."
Eventually Rostov chills out. I think it's in large part because he comes to understand this sentiment. If only we all could.
