Vladimir Sergeitch Tabatchin, who is the hero of our story, looked for
the last time at the sun and expired.

* * * * *

A week passed.... Birds and corncrakes hovered, whistling, over a
newly-made grave. The sun was shining. A young widow, bathed in tears,
was standing by, and in her grief sopping her whole handkerchief....




MOSCOW,
September 21, 1886.


... It is not much fun to be a great writer. To begin with, it's a dreary
life. Work from morning till night and not much to show for it. Money is as
scarce as cats' tears. I don't know how it is with Zola and Shtchedrin, but
in my flat it is cold and smoky.... They give me cigarettes, as before, on
holidays only. Impossible cigarettes! Hard, damp, sausage-like. Before I
begin to smoke I light the lamp, dry the cigarette over it, and only then I
begin on it; the lamp smokes, the cigarette splutters and turns brown, I
burn my fingers ... it is enough to make one shoot oneself!

... I am more or less ill, and am gradually turning into a dried
dragon-fly.

... I go about as festive as though it were my birthday, but to judge from
the critical glances of the lady cashier at the _Budilnik_, I am not