Poor Folk

Chapter 9

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June 11th

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,

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