How I thank you for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar
Alexievitch! How fresh and pleasant, how full of verdure, was
everything! And I had not seen anything green for such a long time!
During my illness I used to think that I should never get better, that
I was certainly going to die. Judge, then, how I felt yesterday! True,
I may have seemed to you a little sad, and you must not be angry with me
for that. Happy and light-hearted though I was, there were moments, even
at the height of my felicity, when, for some unknown reason, depression
came sweeping over my soul. I kept weeping about trifles, yet could not
say why I was grieved. The truth is that I am unwell--so much so, that
I look at everything from the gloomy point of view. The pale, clear sky,
the setting sun, the evening stillness--ah, somehow I felt disposed
to grieve and feel hurt at these things; my heart seemed to be
over-charged, and to be calling for tears to relieve it. But why should
I write this to you? It is difficult for my heart to express itself;
still more difficult for it to forego self-expression. Yet possibly
you may understand me. Tears and laughter!... How good you are, Makar
Alexievitch! Yesterday you looked into my eyes as though you could
read in them all that I was feeling--as though you were rejoicing at my
happiness. Whether it were a group of shrubs or an alleyway or a vista
of water that we were passing, you would halt before me, and stand
gazing at my face as though you were showing me possessions of your own.
It told me how kind is your nature, and I love you for it. Today I am
again unwell, for yesterday I wetted my feet, and took a chill. Thedora
also is unwell; both of us are ailing. Do not forget me. Come and see me
as often as you can.--Your own,