my dearest makar alexievitch,—are not you, my friend and benefactor, just a little ashamed to repine and give way to such despondency? and surely you are not offended with me? ah! though often thoughtless in my speech, i never should have imagined that you would take my words as a jest at your expense. rest assured that never should i make sport of your years or of your character. only my own levity is at fault; still more, the fact that i am so weary of life.

what will such a feeling not engender? to tell you the truth, i had supposed that you were jesting in your letter; wherefore, my heart was feeling heavy at the thought that you could feel so displeased with me. kind comrade and helper, you will be doing me an injustice if for a single moment you ever suspect that i am lacking in feeling or in gratitude towards you. my heart, believe me, is able to appraise at its true worth all that you have done for me by protecting me from my enemies, and from hatred and persecution. never shall i cease to pray to god for you; and, should my prayers ever reach him and be received of heaven, then assuredly fortune will smile upon you!

today i am not well. by turns i shiver and flush with heat, and thedora is greatly disturbed about me.... do not scruple to come and see me, makar alexievitch. how can it concern other people what you do? you and i are well enough acquainted with each other, and one’s own affairs are one’s own affairs. goodbye, makar alexievitch, for i have come to the end of all i had to say, and am feeling too unwell to write more. again i beg of you not to be angry with me, but to rest assured of my constant respect and attachment.—your humble, devoted servant,

barbara dobroselova.