_Moscow,
December._
Ah, the pleasure to have been with you in Paris! I think about it
every night and wish to have you near.
You say to me once, write about my country,--Russia, oh my Russia,
hail! You think only of bombs and Nihilists in _la Russie_, but we
have many good things, museums best in the world, artistes most fine,
ballet splendid, and Slavic music, ah, it make the blood stir. When I
go to opera, and lover makes love to his lady, then I think of--you.
Do you think of Boris walking the streets of Moscow, where roofs are
green as malachite and strange domes grow in the sky like vegetables?
Learn our history, about Ivan the Terrible, about Peter the Great, and
Catherine the great lover. Read, too, our literature, Turgeniev, close
to the heart, Pushkin, melancholy poet, and Artzibasheff ironical. No!
Me I read them to you some day with a tremble of the voice and then
you will surely fall in love with a Muscovite.
Your Aunt she write me come to New York. Perhaps you make me American
when I come over. Why you not say me come yourself? I remind me of the
proverb, “A thousand raps on the door but no salute or invitation from
within.” Your American diplomat he amuse himself very well in Rome. As
you know, he went often to the circus, to see pretty girl there who
look like your enemy, the lady of the gray eyes. That the reason he
not come to Paris, I think. He not want to see you both there at one
time.
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