flight from your room, and passed through the courtyard--yes,
looking as vernal-like as a bird in spring. What rapture it gave
me to see you! Ah, little Barbara, little Barbara, you must never
give way to grief, for tears are of no avail, nor sorrow. I know
this well--I know it of my own experience. So do you rest quietly
until you have regained your health a little. But how is our good
Thedora? What a kind heart she has! You write that she is now
living with you, and that you are satisfied with what she does.
True, you say that she is inclined to grumble, but do not mind
that, Barbara. God bless her, for she is an excellent soul!

But what sort of an abode have I lighted upon, Barbara Alexievna?
What sort of a tenement, do you think, is this? Formerly, as you
know, I used to live in absolute stillness--so much so that if a
fly took wing it could plainly be heard buzzing. Here, however,
all is turmoil and shouting and clatter. The PLAN of the tenement
you know already. Imagine a long corridor, quite dark, and by no
means clean. To the right a dead wall, and to the left a row of
doors stretching as far as the line of rooms extends. These rooms
are tenanted by different people--by one, by two, or by three
lodgers as the case may be, but in this arrangement there is no
sort of system, and the place is a perfect Noah's Ark. Most of
the lodgers are respectable, educated, and even bookish people.
In particular they include a tchinovnik (one of the literary
staff in some government department), who is so well-read that he
can expound Homer or any other author--in fact, ANYTHING, such a
man of talent is he! Also, there are a couple of officers (for
ever playing cards), a midshipman, and an English tutor. But, to
amuse you, dearest, let me describe these people more
categorically in my next letter, and tell you in detail about