It
was written on flimsy grey paper in pencil, which made it difficult to
read. There were sentences unfinished, words misspelt, and the whole of
it in the worst of Russian handwritings. Certain passages, I am, even
now, quite unable to interpret:
It ran as follows:
Dear Ivan Andreievitch--Vera tells me that you are ill again. She has
been round to enquire, I think. I did not come because I knew that if I
did I should only talk about my own troubles, the same as you've always
listened to, and what kind of food is that for a sick man? All the same,
that is just what I am doing now, but reading a letter is not like
talking to a man; you can always stop and tear the paper when perhaps it
would not be polite to ask a man to go. But I hope, nevertheless, that
you won't do that with this--not because of any desire I may have to
interest you in myself, but because of something of much more importance
than either of us, something I want you to believe--something you _must_
believe.... Don't think me mad. I am quite sane sitting here in my room
writing.... Every one is asleep. Every one but not everything.
Pages:
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550