MELIHOVO,
April 8, 1892.


If Shapiro were to present me with the gigantic photograph of which you
write, I should not know what to do with it. A cumbersome present. You say
that I used to be younger. Yes, imagine! Strange as it may seem, I have
passed thirty some time ago, and I already feel forty close at hand. I have
grown old not in body only, but in spirit. I have become stupidly
indifferent to everything in the world, and for some reason or other the
beginning of this indifference coincided with my tour abroad. I get up and
go to bed feeling as though interest in life had dried up in me. This is
either the illness called in the newspapers nervous exhaustion, or some
working of the spirit not clear to the consciousness, which is called in
novels a spiritual revulsion. If it is the latter it is all for the best, I
suppose.

* * * * *

The artist Levitan is staying with me. Yesterday evening I went out with
him shooting. He shot at a snipe; the bird, shot in the wing, fell into a
pool. I picked it up: a long beak, big black eyes, and beautiful plumage.
It looked at me with surprise. What was I to do with it? Levitan scowled,
shut his eyes, and begged me, with a quiver in his voice: "My dear fellow,
hit him on the head with the butt-end of your gun." I said: "I can't." He
went on nervously, shrugging his shoulders, twitching his head and begging
me to; and the snipe went on looking at me in wonder. I had to obey Levitan
and kill it. One beautiful creature in love the less, while two fools went
home and sat down to supper.