In my excitement of the last few days I have accused myself of many unjust things. Excitement is a poor guide when a man wants to take a sober view of things. I must have been too upset by these unexpected revelations that flowed from the mouths of our Duma Ciceros as freely as abundance from the horn of plenty. If I had been blind, what were our Ciceros doing? Their eyes, at any rate, ought to have been more penetrating. I don’t deny that I am powerless, but unfortunately it is not my fault that I am so. I am what I am. Had I been born a Samson or a Joffre, I should have been a Samson or a Joffre. No man is fool enough, knowing me to be no mathematician, to set me a problem of integral calculus to solve; in the same way, how can I be expected to solve the problem of the Great War and Russian corruption? I didn’t begin the war! I’m not responsible for the filthy mess we have got into, and I don’t see why it should be put upon my shoulders! It’s both absurd and unjust. To tell a man to clear away a mountain, and not give him so much as a spade to do it with! I should like to see those gentlemen tackling the job!
The office has settled down quietly again, thank God, and I’m glad to say the children are well. Mother had a slight stomach trouble, but is better now. The old lady is very tough, and may outlast the lot of us, I shouldn’t wonder. But she has absolutely no memory.
I’ve thought of having the walls in the nursery and the study repapered at my own expense. The paper in my study reminds me of those terrible white July nights, when, like a madman, I used to sit, almost naked, on my windowsill, or paced the floor, barefoot. I used to count each flower in the pattern, and knew each curve and spot by heart.
I was uncertain at first, whether this was the right time for doing it, but on reflection, I came to the conclusion that this was the very best time indeed. Why should one let circumstances get the better of one, and because there’s a war, live like a pig? The war may go on if it likes, but my house and my children are my own.
Jena made me laugh last night when I watched him getting to bed. The little rascal has grown quite fat and rosy of late. He’s a dear boy! When he had finished a prayer I had taught him, in which he prayed for his father and mother and the soldiers at the front, and ended up with the words, “Merciful God, let me wake tomorrow, sinner that I am,” he promptly stood on his head, exposing his naked little body, and turned a somersault with huge delight. I wish all sinners could be like him.
Sashenka approved of my letter to her brother. She thought it showed fine feeling. He hasn’t replied, but I hardly expected him to.