Letters

ALL: In ninteenth 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.

PIERRE: 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.

Should have been me...

I am a most ridiculous man!

And Natasha is in town -

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

And I fill my mind with rot

While my heart is empty.

And I've been studying the cabal

And I've calculated the number of the beast

It is Napoleon.

I will kill him one day.

He is not a great man.

None of us are great men.

We are just caught in the wave of history.

Nothing matters.

Everything matters.

It's all the same.

If only I could not see it;

This dreadful, terrible it.

ALL: In ninteenth century Russia, we write letters.

We write letters. (We write letters!)

We put down in writing what is happening in our minds.

NATASHA: 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!

PIERRE and NATASHA: I see nothing but the candle in the mirror.

No visions of the future, so lost and alone.

NATASHA: And what of Princess Mary?

MARY: Dear Natasha,

I'm in deep despair at the misunderstanding there is between us.