"How shall I ever write this letter, for it must be in our own beloved tongue?
I could have written long ago in English, but with you I must write as I speak, only in our dear mother's and father's tongue.

It is so hard to remember it, for everything and every one about me is English, English, English.
The hounds, the horses, the cattle call in English, the very wind sounds English, and I am beginning not only to speak, but to think and feel in English, except when I think of you and of our dear mother and father, and when I speak with old Portnoff, an old Russian nihilist, in the colony near here, and when I hear him tell of the bad old days, then I feel and breathe Russian again.
But Russia and all that old Portnoff talks about is far away and seems like a dream of a year ago.

It is old Portnoff who taught me how to write in Russian.
"I like this place, and oh! I like Jack, that is, Mr.French, my master.

He told me to call him Jack.

He is so big and strong, so kind too, never loses his temper, that is, never loses hold of himself like me, but even when he is angry, speaks quietly and always smiles.