June 22nd.
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?