September 3rd.
The reason why I did not finish my last letter, Makar Alexievitch, was
that I found it so difficult to write. There are moments when I am glad
to be alone--to grieve and repine without any one to share my sorrow:
and those moments are beginning to come upon me with ever-increasing
frequency. Always in my reminiscences I find something which is
inexplicable, yet strongly attractive--so much so that for hours together
I remain insensible to my surroundings, oblivious of reality. Indeed,
in my present life there is not a single impression that I
encounter--pleasant or the reverse--which does not recall to my mind
something of a similar nature in the past. More particularly is this the
case with regard to my childhood, my golden childhood. Yet such moments
always leave me depressed. They render me weak, and exhaust my powers of
fancy; with the result that my health, already not good, grows steadily
worse.
However, this morning it is a fine, fresh, cloudless day, such as we
seldom get in autumn. The air has revived me and I greet it with joy.
Yet to think that already the fall of the year has come! How I used
to love the country in autumn! Then but a child, I was yet a sensitive
being who loved autumn evenings better than autumn mornings. I remember
how beside our house, at the foot of a hill, there lay a large pond, and
how the pond--I can see it even now!--shone with a broad, level surface
that was as clear as crystal. On still evenings this pond would be at
rest, and not a rustle would disturb the trees which grew on its banks
and overhung the motionless expanse of water. How fresh it used to seem,
yet how cold! The dew would be falling upon the turf, lights would be
beginning to shine forth from the huts on the pond’s margin, and the
cattle would be wending their way home. Then quietly I would slip out
of the house to look at my beloved pond, and forget myself in
contemplation. Here and there a fisherman’s bundle of brushwood would be
burning at the water’s edge, and sending its light far and wide over
the surface. Above, the sky would be of a cold blue colour, save for a
fringe of flame-coloured streaks on the horizon that kept turning ever
paler and paler; and when the moon had come out there would be wafted
through the limpid air the sounds of a frightened bird fluttering, of a
bulrush rubbing against its fellows in the gentle breeze, and of a fish
rising with a splash. Over the dark water there would gather a thin,
transparent mist; and though, in the distance, night would be looming,
and seemingly enveloping the entire horizon, everything closer at hand
would be standing out as though shaped with a chisel--banks, boats,
little islands, and all. Beside the margin a derelict barrel would be
turning over and over in the water; a switch of laburnum, with yellowing
leaves, would go meandering through the reeds; and a belated gull
would flutter up, dive again into the cold depths, rise once more, and
disappear into the mist. How I would watch and listen to these things!
How strangely good they all would seem! But I was a mere infant in those
days--a mere child.
Yes, truly I loved autumn-tide--the late autumn when the crops are
garnered, and field work is ended, and the evening gatherings in the
huts have begun, and everyone is awaiting winter. Then does everything
become more mysterious, the sky frowns with clouds, yellow leaves strew
the paths at the edge of the naked forest, and the forest itself turns
black and blue--more especially at eventide when damp fog is spreading
and the trees glimmer in the depths like giants, like formless, weird
phantoms. Perhaps one may be out late, and had got separated from one’s
companions. Oh horrors! Suddenly one starts and trembles as one seems to
see a strange-looking being peering from out of the darkness of a hollow
tree, while all the while the wind is moaning and rattling and howling
through the forest--moaning with a hungry sound as it strips the leaves
from the bare boughs, and whirls them into the air. High over the
tree-tops, in a widespread, trailing, noisy crew, there fly, with
resounding cries, flocks of birds which seem to darken and overlay the
very heavens. Then a strange feeling comes over one, until one seems to
hear the voice of some one whispering: “Run, run, little child! Do not
be out late, for this place will soon have become dreadful! Run, little
child! Run!” And at the words terror will possess one’s soul, and one
will rush and rush until one’s breath is spent--until, panting, one has
reached home. At home, however, all will look bright and bustling as we
children are set to shell peas or poppies, and the damp twigs crackle in
the stove, and our mother comes to look fondly at our work, and our old
nurse, Iliana, tells us stories of bygone days, or terrible legends
concerning wizards and dead men. At the recital we little ones will
press closer to one another, yet smile as we do so; when suddenly,
everyone becomes silent. Surely somebody has knocked at the door?... But
nay, nay; it is only the sound of Frolovna’s spinning-wheel. What shouts
of laughter arise! Later one will be unable to sleep for fear of the
strange dreams which come to visit one; or, if one falls asleep, one
will soon wake again, and, afraid to stir, lie quaking under the
coverlet until dawn. And in the morning, one will arise as fresh as a
lark and look at the window, and see the fields overlaid with hoarfrost,
and fine icicles hanging from the naked branches, and the pond covered
over with ice as thin as paper, and a white steam rising from the
surface, and birds flying overhead with cheerful cries. Next, as the sun
rises, he throws his glittering beams everywhere, and melts the thin,
glassy ice until the whole scene has come to look bright and clear and
exhilarating; and as the fire begins to crackle again in the stove, we
sit down to the tea-urn, while, chilled with the night cold, our black
dog, Polkan, will look in at us through the window, and wag his tail
with a cheerful air. Presently, a peasant will pass the window in his
cart bound for the forest to cut firewood, and the whole party will feel
merry and contented together. Abundant grain lies stored in the byres,
and great stacks of wheat are glowing comfortably in the morning
sunlight. Everyone is quiet and happy, for God has blessed us with a
bounteous harvest, and we know that there will be abundance of food for
the wintertide. Yes, the peasant may rest assured that his family will
not want for aught. Song and dance will arise at night from the village
girls, and on festival days everyone will repair to God’s house to thank
Him with grateful tears for what He has done.... Ah, a golden time was
my time of childhood!...
Carried away by these memories, I could weep like a child. Everything,
everything comes back so clearly to my recollection! The past stands out
so vividly before me! Yet in the present everything looks dim and dark!
How will it all end?--how? Do you know, I have a feeling, a sort of
sure premonition, that I am going to die this coming autumn; for I feel
terribly, oh so terribly ill! Often do I think of death, yet feel that
I should not like to die here and be laid to rest in the soil of St.
Petersburg. Once more I have had to take to my bed, as I did last
spring, for I have never really recovered. Indeed I feel so depressed!
Thedora has gone out for the day, and I am alone. For a long while past
I have been afraid to be left by myself, for I keep fancying that there
is someone else in the room, and that that someone is speaking to me.
Especially do I fancy this when I have gone off into a reverie, and then
suddenly awoken from it, and am feeling bewildered. That is why I have
made this letter such a long one; for, when I am writing, the mood
passes away. Goodbye. I have neither time nor paper left for more, and
must close. Of the money which I saved to buy a new dress and hat, there
remains but a single rouble; but, I am glad that you have been able to
pay your landlady two roubles, for they will keep her tongue quiet for a
time. And you must repair your wardrobe.
Goodbye once more. I am so tired! Nor can I think why I am growing so
weak--why it is that even the smallest task now wearies me? Even if work
should come my way, how am I to do it? That is what worries me above all
things.