old age is not always a blessing, my beloved one! At this very
moment everything is standing awry to my eyes, for a man needs
only to work late overnight in his writing of something or other
for, in the morning, his eyes to be red, and the tears to be
gushing from them in a way that makes him ashamed to be seen
before strangers. However, I was able to picture to myself your
beaming smile, my angel--your kind, bright smile; and in my heart
there lurked just such a feeling as on the occasion when I first
kissed you, my little Barbara. Do you remember that, my darling?
Yet somehow you seemed to be threatening me with your tiny
finger. Was it so, little wanton? You must write and tell me
about it in your next letter.

But what think you of the plan of the curtain, Barbara? It is a
charming one, is it not? No matter whether I be at work, or about
to retire to rest, or just awaking from sleep, it enables me to
know that you are thinking of me, and remembering me--that you
are both well and happy. Then when you lower the curtain, it
means that it is time that I, Makar Alexievitch, should go to
bed; and when again you raise the curtain, it means that you are
saying to me, "Good morning," and asking me how I am, and whether
I have slept well. "As for myself," adds the curtain, "I am
altogether in good health and spirits, glory be to God!" Yes, my
heart's delight, you see how easy a plan it was to devise, and
how much writing it will save us! It is a clever plan, is it not?
And it was my own invention, too! Am I not cunning in such
matters, Barbara Alexievna?

Well, next let me tell you, dearest, that last night I slept
better and more soundly than I had ever hoped to do, and that I