Dearest B______,
It is certainly strange to think that I am now more familiar with the elegant inky black curves of your handwriting then with the sweet melody emitted from your voice. I try sometimes in my study to recall its octave and while my mind struggles tirelessly with this great labor your voice seems silvery and distant, sometimes before I awake I can hear it echo in the wind. I am glad, despite the many leagues between us that we are able to communicate still with each other; it is my hope that the great excitement of living away from home has not worn off and I applaud your courage to strike it out upon your own. I admire such strength it takes to brace the unfamiliar; for despite my brave wordplay I am still very much a coward and seem fated to spend the rest of my days unable to shake this horrid town from my back. I am embarrassed to concede such a fragile thought, but I have made the cautious first steps towards moving beyond these borders I have known for the entirety of my long life. I wouldn’t begin to know how to characterize such feelings I am now encountering, certainly I am fearful; it can only be assumed that such a journey requires money, and I am fretting how my plans might be borne to fruition, after all I am hardly affluent and I do worry so about things I have no control over, but the greater fear is that my attempts will leave me stagnate. I have allowed my life to be paralyzed by a great unknowable terror and in the process of being abated the fullness of my potential has been diminished, I have seen many dear friends, your self included, move on in life and I feel that I am forced to spend eternity toiling over the same mundane tasks.
Two friends, whose absence is surely missed by all who know them, are Boris and Gleb; I had the fortune of meeting them prior to my admittance into the university. Cossack twins, Boris and Gleb remain two of the sharpest minds I had ever encountered; say what you want about these tsarists roaming about, perhaps the rest of that country is filled with ghastly illiterates but for what it is worth they remain some of the most reflective, boisterous people I have encountered, of course they are the only two Cossacks I know. Although, Boris specifically, is possessed by an uncontrollable temper; I witnessed such a provocation into madness one night when his brother Gleb and myself found of a book of verses that he was working on. We shared a discussion about his talent when he stealthy walked through the houses the twins were staying at; hearing snippets of our conversation tumble down the halls. When he came to the back bedroom his coal coloured eyes were burning intently, his face turned red as he bellowed his brother’s name. He snatched from his brother’s trembling hand the book of verse, raised it high above his own head and brought it crashing down upon Gelb’s face. A sound of wet thunder echoed through the now silent room, as Gelb dropped to his knees clutching his now broken nose. Boris had a look of disgust writ across his face and began to curse at his brother in their native tongue, I feared that I would receive the same treatment for my part in offending his sensibilities but he flashed a toothy grin, dropped his arm around my shoulder and invited me into the parlor to have a sip of recently purchased brandy. Ours were pursuits borne of the intellect and it is hard to find the words to describe pleasure that seems so passive upon reflection. We never played cricket, rugby, or raced horses, but we enjoyed the art of conversation and other leisurely pursuits; it seems almost like a lifetime ago when I wished them a safe journey as the two attempted to find their fortune across the sea. Now when I sit in the salon, cigar in hand listening to the latest fool from Eton parroting whatever drivel seems to pass as news I can’t help but feel dismayed, I think my friends would be better served living here embarrassing these tepid intellects with a server tongue lashing rather then playing faro in Monte Carlo. It’s just not the same, dear friend, when I talk in the salons about Marx and Hegel, and the booming gregarious voices of Boris and Gelb are absent; they are quite successful in playing faro from what the have told me but their friendship is sorely missed.
Seasons have an end, but in the frenzied passions of my youth summer seemed to endure in perpetuity; I smile thinking of my bare feat crushing down upon the spent foliage. I miss the golden stream of sunlight cascading through the heavy foliage as my brother and I laboured to ensure that every moment of gaiety could be rung from the tardy summer day. Despite the great yearning it shouldn’t last forever, I see that everything has to end so that something new can blossom from the embers of what passed before. I am quite contented with the fact that I can accept the inevitability of life, because if I couldn’t I might have ended up like my friend Martin; a poor sad man whose love of sprit and unwillingness to welcome tomorrow has sent him crawling into the darkness like some wounded beast. I remember him from the days I spent at Dulwich, he was a generous man who was unfortunately infatuated with a woman who toyed with his emotions. While I hate to paint the entirety of women, as opportune harlots but in this case I am afraid such a seemingly wild description, my sweetest friend, would be accurate. When she had exhausted Martin of all his treasure, she causally tossed him aside on went on to express her love for another; Martin of course was devastated and found solace in the through finely aged spirits. His disposition had changed from good natured to perpetually unhappy; he would tell any one who listened how it was only a matter of time before his sweet would return to him; I don’t know if he truly believed the stories his heart spun but one day I am afraid the burden of his heartbreak became to heavy for him to carry and his family decided it was best that he be placed in a sanitarium. Once released he moved into his father’s modest estate where he imperceptibly left the confines of his bedroom; I had visited him once and had felt such a wave of sadness at the condition in which I found him. His face was sloppy and unshaven; his body had become skeletal and jaundiced with hollow eyes reflecting the passing of the greatness once possessed. My dear friend, I looked at him in such horror because he was no longer the man I would have called brother, he had been devoured by a sadness that I could relate to. I kissed him gently atop his head as I bid him farewell, tears landing gently on the remains of the mighty curls that once grew unabated. Gaunt fingers grasped at my wrist, and he looked up at me with such an agonized expression and said in a feint voice, she’ll return you’ll see, and he let me go collapsing into a fit of tears.
I can understand his sadness, because sometimes I too feel besieged by that same terror; but I bring my friend Martin up as reminder on why we should always look forward to the dawn. Terror it seems has lead me astray, and I have allowed it to deprive me of much but I know that I do want something that could almost be indefinable. I derive no joy working my days away inside a building with no window to look out of, my head remains forever in the clouds and if that only adds to my oddity then so be it, but I love these moment were I put ink to paper, I derive joy when canvas meats the oil from my brushes; and that is the life I should be perusing. I have lately heard the word idealist thrown towards me, and those accusatory voices make it seem like it is a bad thing, but I can only live once and the only life worth having is one found in joy. I hope dear friend, that in a few months you receive from me words that say my journey has begun.
Until that moment I remain as always respectfully yours,
D
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