We know, for example, that by eleven o’clock Nikolai was asleep, having escaped into the depth of darkness, for sleep was his only refuge from depression. And I am certain that Aleksandra, who had been sleeping so poorly, was tossing and turning next to him, madly listening for that midnight whistle that was never to be heard. Otherwise, we know that the only other prisoner who was awake was Dr. Botkin, who sat at the large desk off the living room, writing a prophetic letter to some friend, a certain Sasha. Botkin never finished the letter, of course; it languishes in the Moscow archives, exactly where the doctor broke off… My dear, good friend Sasha, I am making a last attempt at writing a real letter – at least from here – although that qualification, I believe is utterly superfluous. I do not think that I was fated at any time to write anyone from anywhere. My voluntary confinement here is restricted less by time than by my earthly existence. In essence I am dead – dead for my children, for my work… I am dead but not yet buried, or buried alive – whichever, the consequences are nearly identical… My children may hold out hope that we will see each other again in this life… but I personally do not indulge in that hope… and I look the unadulterated reality right in the eye… The day before yesterday, as I was peacefully reading Saltykov-Shchedrin, whom I greatly enjoy, I suddenly saw a vision of my son Yuri’s face, Yuri who died in battle in 1914.
