. . . I am old and ill now, and my thoughts brood oftenest upon death, every day coming nearer; rarely I think of the past, rarely I turn the eyes of my soul behind me. Only from time to time — in winter, as I sit motionless before the glowing fire, in summer, as I pace with slow tread along the shady avenue — I recall past years, events, faces; but it is not on my mature years nor on my youth that my thoughts rest at such times. They either carry me back to my earliest childhood, or to the first years of boyhood. Now, for instance, I see myself in the country with my stern and wrathful grandmother — I was only twelve — and two figures rise up before my imagination. . . .
But I will begin my story consecutively, and in proper order.
Last updated Tuesday, August 25, 2015 at 14:14