[Translation of the Foregoing Letter in Russian]

I am very glad that "The Story of the Seven Who Were Hanged" will be
read in English. The misfortune of us all is that we know so little,
even nothing, about one another-neither about the soul, nor the life,
the sufferings, the habits, the inclinations, the aspirations of one
another. Literature, which I have the honor to serve, is dear to me
just because the noblest task it sets before itself is that of wiping
out boundaries and distances.

As in a hard shell, every human being is enclosed in a cover of body,
dress, and life. Who is man? We may only conjecture. What constitutes
his joy or his sorrow? We may guess only by his acts, which are
oft-times enigmatic; by his laughter and by his tears, which are often
entirely incomprehensible to us. And if we, Russians, who live so
closely together in constant misery, understand one another so poorly
that we mercilessly put to death those who should be pitied or even
rewarded, and reward those who should be punished by contempt and
anger -how much more difficult is it for you Americans, to understand
distant Russia? But then, it is just as difficult for us Russians to
understand distant America, of which we dream in our youth and over
which we ponder so deeply in our years of maturity.

The Jewish massacres and famine; a Parliament and executions; pillage
and the greatest heroism; "The Black Hundred," and Leo Tolstoy-what a
mixture of figures and conceptions, what a fruitful source for all
kinds of misunderstandings! The truth of life stands aghast in
silence, and its brazen falsehood is loudly shouting, uttering