my dearest barbara alexievna,—i have to tell you that a sad event has happened in this house—an event to excite one’s utmost pity. this morning, about five o’clock, one of gorshkov’s children died of scarlatina, or something of the kind. i have been to pay the parents a visit of condolence, and found them living in the direst poverty and disorder. nor is that surprising, seeing that the family lives in a single room, with only a screen to divide it for decency’s sake. already the coffin was standing in their midst—a plain but decent shell which had been bought ready-made. the child, they told me, had been a boy of nine, and full of promise. what a pitiful spectacle! though not weeping, the mother, poor woman, looked broken with grief. after all, to have one burden the less on their shoulders may prove a relief, though there are still two children left—a babe at the breast and a little girl of six! how painful to see these suffering children, and to be unable to help them! the father, clad in an old, dirty frockcoat, was seated on a dilapidated chair. down his cheeks there were coursing tears—though less through grief than owing to a long-standing affliction of the eyes. he was so thin, too! always he reddens in the face when he is addressed, and becomes too confused to answer. a little girl, his daughter, was leaning against the coffin—her face looking so worn and thoughtful, poor mite! do you know, i cannot bear to see a child look thoughtful. on the floor there lay a rag doll, but she was not playing with it as, motionless, she stood there with her finger to her lips. even a bon-bon which the landlady had given her she was not eating. is it not all sad, sad, barbara?

makar dievushkin.