Page 203 of 788

"Is not our honest birch tree fairer, which is like a village

woman weeping for her son, or a widow for her husband, who wrings

her hands and lets fall over her shoulders to the ground the

stream of her loose tresses? Mute with grief, how eloquently she

sobs with her form! Count, if you are in love with painting, why

do you not paint our own trees, among which you are sitting?

Really, the neighbours will laugh at you, since, though you live

in the fertile plain of Lithuania, you paint only crags and

deserts."