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,

barbara alexievna.