My dear Kolya,
Mother has finally received your letter from Paris. I am happy that you are staying in France. I think I don’t have to describe how badly I want to come to you. I beg you - try to arrange it, show me that yiu are my friend.
I am in good health, very bored in the countryside, I dread winter. My book is finally out, but I haven’t gotten it yet. Neither have I gotten any letters from you, what a shame!
I don’t know anything about our friends: the post barely works. I have been writing a lot, and I don’t like anything I’ve written.
It’s so strange to reminisce: in winter 1907 you asked me to come to Paris in every letter, and now I don’t even know if you want to see me at all. Please know: I do remember you, I love you and I’m always sad without you. I watch wistfully everything that is happening in Russia. God is punishing our country.
Don’t forget me, my dear. Write to me.
Our son is very sweet and well-behaved. He resembles you very closely.
Barely my bride became my wife, purple worlds of the first revolution got us into whirlpool. Me, long ago secretly desiring for death, got into grey purple, silver stars, pearls and amethyst of the snowstorm. My wife followed me, and for her this transition (from ease to difficulties, from permissible to not permissible) was more painful, more difficult than it was for me. See more
After the past snowstorm have opened the iron void of the day, which continued, however, to threaten us with the new Blizzard, to conceal its promises. These were years between revolutions tired and scotched body and soul. Now again the hurricane comes (can not determine the color and the smell yet).
Since they did not allow us to go on the streets, we could not go to the 11 o'clock service at church. See more
After lunch we went into the garden for almost two hours; Alix went out, too. The weather was warm, and about 5 o'clock the sun came out; we sat on the balcony until 6:30. I continued to sort the photographs of my long journey.
From the three sides of the abyss: ahead—the victorious procession of Emperor Wilhelm towards unresisting Russia; to the right—return to the old, general on a white horse, who suffocates life in the name of victory; to the left—the insurrection of the Bolsheviks, anarchy, sea of unnecessary blood, the destruction of Russia and the Revolution.
We are all children, and I am of course no exception. The war is at fault for the four year stagnation in the history of humanity, and that it was seen as the calm before the storm. Special are the military children, for there is a perfect harmony between the righteousness of their actions, and the sin that resides within them. See more
I think that the production of age and the limits of an individual’s life is a matter of history, or a matter of culture, or however you see it - but it is not the work of a cell, which is not in a position to develop age (mental maturity).