Ah… Sourires sincères.
Toujours, avec cet Ami.
« Olya, my dear wife, congratulate me: I have had a haircut!! Yesterday, my boots were cleaned – the first time since my arrival. My clothes haven’t yet had a cleaning. But on the other hand I have been changing my tie every day, and yesterday I washed my head….
I am sending you the announcement from Prague on « Uncle Vanya. » I keep on wondering what to send you and can’t think of a thing. I am living like a monk and dream only of you. Although it is shameful making declarations of love at forty, I cannot restrain myself, little pup, from telling you once again that I love you deeply and tenderly.
I kiss you, embrace you and press you close.
Keep healthy, happy and gay.
Your Antoine »
« My letters to you don’t satisfy me at all. After what you and I have experienced together, the letters mean little; we ought to continue really living. How we sin by not living together! But what’s the sense of talking! God be with you, my blessings upon you, my little German female, I am happy you are enjoying yourself. I kiss you resoundingly.
Your Antonio »
« I haven’t been well these last days, my lamb. I took some castor oil, think I have lost a lot of weight, cough and can’t do a thing. Today I am better, so that tomorrow I shall probably get back to work again…. Solitude, apparently, reacts most perniciously on the stomach. Joking aside, my darling, when shall we get together again? When shall I see you? If only you could come here for the holidays, even for one day, it would be infinitely good. However, you know best. »
« How stupid you are, my kitten, and what a little fool! What makes you so sick, why are you in such a state? You write that life is hollow, that you are an utter nonentity, that your letters bore me, that you feel horror at the way your life is narrowing, etc., etc. You foolish creature! I didn’t write you about the forthcoming play not because I had no faith in you, as you put it, but because I do not yet have faith in the play. It is in its faint dawn in my brain, like the first flush of daybreak, and I still am not clear as to what sort of thing it is, what will come of it and whether it won’t change from one day to the next. If we were together, I would tell you all about it, but is is impossible to write because nothing gets set down properly, I just write all sorts of trash and then become indifferent to the subject. In your letter you threaten never ask me about anything, or to mix into anything; but what is your reason, my sweet? No, you are my own good girl, you will substitute mercy for wrath when you realize once again how much I love you, how near and dear you are to me, how impossible it is to live without you, my silly little goose. Quit having the blues, quit it! And have yourself a good laugh! I am permitted to be depressed, because I live in a desert, without anything to do, don’t see people, am sick practically every week, but you? »
Cet éclat, dans le gris…