A sign of life, at least, I want to send you from here, my dear, while
I am waiting for the samovar, and a young Russian in a red shirt is
struggling, with vain attempts, to light a fire; he blows and sighs,
but it will not burn. After complaining so much before about the
scorching heat I waked up today between Twer and here, and thought I
was dreaming when I saw the land and its fresh green covered far and
wide with snow. Nothing surprises me any more so when I could no
longer be in doubt about the fact I turned quietly on my other side to
continue sleeping and rolling on, although the play of the
green-and-white colors in the morning red was not without charm. I do
not know whether the snow still lies about Twer; here it is all
melted, and a cool, gray rain is drizzling down on the sheet of roofs.
Russia certainly has a perfect right to claim green as her color. Of
the four hundred and fifty miles hither I slept away one hundred and
eighty, but of the other two hundred and seventy every hand's-breadth
was green, of all shades. Cities and villages, especially houses, with
the exception of the stations, I did not notice; bushy forests,
chiefly birches, cover swamps and hills, fine growth of grass under
them, long meadows between. So it goes for fifty, one hundred, one
hundred and fifty miles. I don't remember to have noticed any fields,
or any heather or sand; lonely grazing cows or horses waken in one now
and then the conjecture that there are people, too, in the
neighborhood. Moscow looks from above like a corn-field, the soldiers
green, the furniture green, and I have no doubt that the eggs lying
before me were laid by green hens. You will want to know how I happen
to be here; I have asked myself the same question, and presently
received the answer that variety is the spice of life. The truth of
this profound observation is especially obvious when one has been
living for ten weeks in a sunny hotel-room, looking out upon stone
pavements. Besides, one's senses become somewhat blunted to the joys