18
PARTISAN REVIEW
Breslau, May 12, 1918.
. . . The profound affinity that binds me to all living nature "en
depit de l'humanite" takes forms that are almost unhealthy, a result,
I suppose, of my nervous condition. Down below, in the courtyard, a
pair of tufted larks have just had a little one, the three others probably
died. And the little one has already learned to run very well. Perhaps
you've noticed the way tufted larks run. They take tiny hurried steps,
not at all like sparrows, which jump with both legs at once. The little
one is beginning to fly too, but he still can't find enough food by
himself, insects and little caterpillars, especially as it is cold these
days. Every evening he appears in the courtyard in front of my
window and lets out little sharp, plaintive cries. The two old ones
answer immediately in a choked and worried voice: "Houeet,
houeet," and they start running allover, looking desperately for food,
in the dusk and the cold, and hurrying to cram it down his beak as
soon as they find it. This goes on now every evening, around eight–
thirty. And when I hear the little plaintive cries under the window,
and.see the worry and the anxious look of the two little parents, my
heart aches. And yet I can do nothing for them, because tufted larks
are yery timid and flyaway when you throw them crumbs of bread,
behaving in this quite differently from pigeons and sparrows, which
run after me like dogs. There is no use telling myself that all
this
is
ridiculous and that I am not responsible for all the hungry tufted
larks, just as I can't weep over the fate of all the buffaloes that are
beaten-as they are here. For
all
my talk, it makes me really ill to see
such things. For instance, if the starling that wears me out with his
prattling from one day's end to the other, stops for a few days, I can't
rest for fear something has happened to
him,
and I wait in torment
for
him
to begin his insipid chattering again and reassure me that
he is well. In
this
way, from the depth of my cell, I am bound by a
thousand little imperceptible ties to thousands of creatures, big and
small, taking to my heart all that concerns them, worrying and suffer–
ing for them, even reproaching myself about them. . . . You too are
one of these birds, one of these creatures with which I live, from afar,
in constant sympathy. I grieve with you that the years are passing
irretrievably and we are not able truly to "live." But be brave and
patient! We will live, and our lives will be filled with great events.
At the moment, we still see only the disappearance of the old world,
of which every day tears off another piece, and that is sweeping on
at every instant toward new catastrophes. . . . And what is even
stranger is that most people are not aware of it, and go on believing
that there is firm ground under their feet....
Yours,
ROSA
