Yalta.
All these days I was angry with you and therefore did not answer your letter for a long time, but as desired! I started this letter a long time ago, but I didn't send it all.
Here's the thing: who am I in your eyes? It's hard not to get yourself to answer this question for you. I understand that my arrival was not a good idea, but you should have said so with all the straightforwardness I hope I deserved. How dare you ask after our meeting: "Well, now your bad mood has passed? At first, I thought it was an accident, or that I misinterpreted your words. But the more I think, the less I doubt it. Did I involuntarily touch a hidden side of your life, or did you deliberately let me know that I was just like the others to you? But, Kostik, don't expect to be able to join me in your "multitude" that I don't care about. One thing I know is that this is not how we will meet anymore.
P.S. I also like very much the "Pan" from Rubel's side. So you think it's a combination of sensuality and rationality? Of course! Everyone sees himself in his favorite artist.
(The letter is not dated)
Yalta.
Now I am sitting in my room, trying to put aside the heavy thoughts and feel the overall impression of beauty that surrounds me. And it succeeds? - Ask you. Yes, to my surprise. The big window of my room is densely overgrown with wild grapes, in the room - green twilight, and only in the mornings bunnies break through this living curtain. I always have flowers, and now in one vase - red, and in the other - the palm roses.
Did I write to you about the country house where I give lessons? It's so lovely. It's semicircular, and when you sit in the living room, it's an illusion that you're riding on a big steamboat: the sea is all around, and his restless noise bursts through the windows. From other rooms you can see almost all of Yalta, the entire amphitheater of the city - purple mountains, and at their foot, along the slope - white, buried in the greenery of the country house.
Yes, I want to pee mortally. My double, who stands next to me when I look at the paintings, now almost never leaves me, and I see all this charm with his eyes. However, I wouldn't write the sea - and not just because it's too beautiful. It changes every minute, and stopping it on canvas means, I think, replacing one time with another. After all, the artist has his own special time, which distinguishes him from the photographer, who can take an instant photo. No, when I see the sea, I don't want to write, I want to fly. And I even feel - you, of course, ironically smile - behind your shoulders are big light wings. You have to see the sea - sooner or later!
I am writing to you now and I doubt again: is it true that you love my letters? Maybe this is also your "delicacy"? I am afraid that your delicacy holds your sincerity captive. In response to my outpourings I get two or three dry words, and it discourages me from writing to you (which, it seems, cannot be judged by this long letter). Maybe my claims are not tactful, but understandable. Write it down!
(The letter is not dated)
30.06.1914. Yalta.
So you wish me to "feel the thirst for life"? And why did you decide that I do not have it? Because of my "moods"? Yes, I just don't know how to make me happy with this thirst, which is imbued with my whole being! It is easy to judge - if you find other examples unconvincing - at least by my love of nature. An ordinary, daily repetitive bathing experience in the sea is like a holiday every time.
Unwittingly smiling, squinting and wince like an old lady, you carefully descend the hot pebbles that hurt your bare feet - and with your head in the waves that rock gently but strongly! And how good it is to stretch out in the sun, covering your head with a felt hat! Thirst for life! Yes, I have at least to add it! Too bad I can't pass it on canvas, though I have to admit that I couldn't resist and began to write - as usual and on everything. I don't have time, I leave home at eight in the morning, come back in the evening and work only for an hour or two, even before school. Oh, my God, I want to study! After all, I'm twenty years old, it's a lot, it's a killer lot! If there is ever a small opportunity - I will give up everything! It is decided. I would have done so long ago, but painting courses are private and expensive. Meanwhile, I have absolutely no means, and I am not even sure that I will be able to settle in St. Petersburg by myself.
My friend, aren't you bored with my long letters? Try to get out of your case of delicacy and write to me frankly about it. We will definitely, surely see each other in the autumn. Is it true that you miss me? Do you remember what you called me?
21. 08.1914. Yalta.
Are you asking me how I live? Like everyone else - from one telegram release to another! There is panic among the visitors: everyone is running home. Sevastopol is in a state of war. Because of mobilization, there is almost no passage. I lost half my lessons, and soon, no doubt, I will lose all the others. For me, this war is like snow on my head, although I have long heard about its inevitability. I am a bad politician, it's easier to say, I don't understand anything about politics, especially external politics. And I should have!
My dear, you are not in danger of going to war? Today I saw you in a dream, sad, pale - and all day I remember you with anxiety. Write me your views on this war. I never liked German bourgeoisie, and if we talk about sympathies impartially - I would not like to see Germans as allies of Russia. But is there really no way to eradicate the instinct of physical violence in a person?
Well, goodbye so far, Kostik. I kiss you warmly. Write, please. It is so hard for me now and I want a little joy of your letters. Give me a telegram if you are called.
To be continued...