August 19th.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,-Yes, I AM ashamed to meet you, my
darling--I AM ashamed. At the same time, what is there in all this? Why
should we not be cheerful again? Why should I mind the soles of my feet
coming through my boots? The sole of one’s foot is a mere bagatelle--it
will never be anything but just a base, dirty sole. And shoes do not
matter, either. The Greek sages used to walk about without them, so why
should we coddle ourselves with such things? Yet why, also, should I
be insulted and despised because of them? Tell Thedora that she is a
rubbishy, tiresome, gabbling old woman, as well as an inexpressibly
foolish one. As for my grey hairs, you are quite wrong about them,
inasmuch as I am not such an old man as you think. Emelia sends you
his greeting. You write that you are in great distress, and have been
weeping. Well, I too am in great distress, and have been weeping. Nay,
nay. I wish you the best of health and happiness, even as I am well and
happy myself, so long as I may remain, my darling,--Your friend,