my dearest barbara alexievna,-yes, i am ashamed to meet you, my darling—i am ashamed. at the same time, what is there in all this? why should we not be cheerful again? why should i mind the soles of my feet coming through my boots? the sole of one’s foot is a mere bagatelle—it will never be anything but just a base, dirty sole. and shoes do not matter, either. the greek sages used to walk about without them, so why should we coddle ourselves with such things? yet why, also, should i be insulted and despised because of them? tell thedora that she is a rubbishy, tiresome, gabbling old woman, as well as an inexpressibly foolish one. as for my grey hairs, you are quite wrong about them, inasmuch as i am not such an old man as you think. emelia sends you his greeting. you write that you are in great distress, and have been weeping. well, i too am in great distress, and have been weeping. nay, nay. i wish you the best of health and happiness, even as i am well and happy myself, so long as i may remain, my darling,—your friend,

makar dievushkin.