(Undated) 1918
My beautiful,
Because there’s no getting away from the fact that you are beautiful. I become inarticulate when I look at you- at the splendid ivory column of your neck, of your eyes like smouldering jewels, at your mouth with its voluptuously chiseled lips, palely red, like some fading wine stain.
I may be writing rubbish, but then I am drunk. Drunk with the beauty of my Mitya! All today I was incoherent. I tell you, there is a barbaric splendour about you that conquered not only me, but everyone who saw you. You are made to conquer, Mitya, not to be conquered. You were superb. You could have the world at your feet. Even my mother, who is not easily impressed, shared my opinion. You have also changed, it appears? They said, this evening after you had gone, that you were like a dazzling Gypsy. My sister’s words, not mine. A Gypsy potentate, a sovereign- what you will, but still a Gypsy.
They also said they noticed a new exuberance in you, something akin to sheer animal spirits- that never was there before. You may love me, Mitya, but anyone would be proud to be loved by you, even if they were to be thrown aside and forgotten- for somebody new.
Everyone is vulgar, petty, “mesquin,”1 beyond all words, in comparison with you. It would be an unpardonable impudence to limit you to one life, one love, one interest. Yours are all lives, all loves, all interests! Beloved, my beautiful, I have shown myself naked to you, mentally, physically and morally.
Good God alive! No one in this earth has as much claim to you as I have. No one in this world.
Yours, Lushka
1. Paltry
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