How I thank you for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar
Alexievitch! How fresh and pleasant, how full of verdure, was
everything! And I had not seen anything green for such a long
time! During my illness I used to think that I should never get
better, that I was certainly going to die. Judge, then, how I
felt yesterday! True, I may have seemed to you a little sad, and
you must not be angry with me for that. Happy and light-hearted
though I was, there were moments, even at the height of my
felicity, when, for some unknown reason, depression came sweeping
over my soul. I kept weeping about trifles, yet could not say why
I was grieved. The truth is that I am unwell--so much so, that I
look at everything from the gloomy point of view. The pale, clear
sky, the setting sun, the evening stillness--ah, somehow I felt
disposed to grieve and feel hurt at these things; my heart seemed
to be over-charged, and to be calling for tears to relieve it.
But why should I write this to you? It is difficult for my heart
to express itself; still more difficult for it to forego self-
expression. Yet possibly you may understand me. Tears and
laughter! . . . How good you are, Makar Alexievitch! Yesterday
you looked into my eyes as though you could read in them all that
I was feeling--as though you were rejoicing at my happiness.
Whether it were a group of shrubs or an alleyway or a vista of
water that we were passing, you would halt before me, and stand
gazing at my face as though you were showing me possessions of
your own. It told me how kind is your nature, and I love you for
it. Today I am again unwell, for yesterday I wetted my feet, and
took a chill. Thedora also is unwell; both of us are ailing. Do
not forget me. Come and see me as often as you can.--Your own,