you have lost a great deal at cards, as also that you are afraid of my
being angry at that. Yet, so long as you can tide over this crisis, I
shall not think much of it, and you need not be uneasy, I have grown
accustomed to no longer relying, so far as the children are concerned,
upon your gains at play, nor yet--excuse me for saying so--upon your
income. Therefore your losses cause me as little anxiety as your gains
give me pleasure. What I really grieve over is your unhappy passion
itself for gambling--a passion which bereaves me of part of your tender
affection and obliges me to tell you such bitter truths as (God knows
with what pain) I am now telling you. I never cease to beseech Him that
He may preserve us, not from poverty (for what is poverty?), but from
the terrible juncture which would arise should the interests of the
children, which I am called upon to protect, ever come into collision
with our own. Hitherto God has listened to my prayers. You have never
yet overstepped the limit beyond which we should be obliged either
to sacrifice property which would no longer belong to us, but to the
children, or--It is terrible to think of, but the dreadful misfortune
at which I hint is forever hanging over our heads. Yes, it is the heavy
cross which God has given us both to carry.
'Also, you write about the children, and come back to our old point
of difference by asking my consent to your placing them at a
boarding-school. You know my objection to that kind of education. I
do not know, dear, whether you will accede to my request, but I
nevertheless beseech you, by your love for me, to give me your promise
that never so long as I am alive, nor yet after my death (if God should
see fit to separate us), shall such a thing be done.
'Also you write that our affairs render it indispensable for you to
visit St. Petersburg. The Lord go with you! Go and return as, soon as
possible. Without you we shall all of us be lonely.
'Spring is coming in beautifully. We keep the door on to the terrace
always open now, while the path to the orangery is dry and the
peach-trees are in full blossom. Only here and there is there a little
snow remaining. The swallows are arriving, and to-day Lubotshka brought
me the first flowers. The doctor says that in about three days' time I
shall be well again and able to take the open air and to enjoy the April
sun. Now, au revoir, my dearest one. Do not be alarmed, I beg of you,
either on account of my illness or on account of your losses at play.
End the crisis as soon as possible, and then return here with the
children for the summer. I am making wonderful plans for our passing of
it, and I only need your presence to realise them.'
The rest of the letter was written in French, as well as in a strange,
uncertain hand, on another piece of paper. I transcribe it word for
word:
'Do not believe what I have just written to you about my illness. It is
more serious than any one knows. I alone know that I shall never leave
my bed again. Do not, therefore, delay a minute in coming here with the
children. Perhaps it may yet be permitted me to embrace and bless them.
It is my last wish that it should be so. I know what a terrible blow
this will be to you, but you would have had to hear it sooner or
later--if not from me, at least from others. Let us try to, bear the
Calamity with fortitude, and place our trust in the mercy of God. Let
us submit ourselves to His will. Do not think that what I am writing is
