everybody that he always walks alone. Reserved though I myself
am, he is even worse. As for his family, it consists of a wife
and three children. The eldest of the latter--a boy--is as frail
as his father, while the mother--a woman who, formerly, must have
been good looking, and still has a striking aspect in spite of
her pallor--goes about in the sorriest of rags. Also I have heard
that they are in debt to our landlady, as well as that she is not
overly kind to them. Moreover, I have heard that Gorshkov lost
his post through some unpleasantness or other--through a legal
suit or process of which I could not exactly tell you the nature.
Yes, they certainly are poor--Oh, my God, how poor! At the same
time, never a sound comes from their room. It is as though not a
soul were living in it. Never does one hear even the children--
which is an unusual thing, seeing that children are ever ready to
sport and play, and if they fail to do so it is a bad sign. One
evening when I chanced to be passing the door of their room, and
all was quiet in the house, I heard through the door a sob, and
then a whisper, and then another sob, as though somebody within
were weeping, and with such subdued bitterness that it tore my
heart to hear the sound. In fact, the thought of these poor
people never left me all night, and quite prevented me from
sleeping.

Well, good-bye, my little Barbara, my little friend beyond price.
I have described to you everything to the best of my ability. All
today you have been in my thoughts; all today my heart has been
yearning for you. I happen to know, dearest one, that you lack a
warm cloak. To me too, these St. Petersburg springs, with their
winds and their snow showers, spell death. Good heavens, how the
breezes bite one! Do not be angry, beloved, that I should write