Excuse this letter’s being like a hotch-potch. It’s incoherent, but I can’t
help it. Sitting in an hotel room one can’t write better. Excuse its being
long, It’s not my fault. My pen ran away with me--besides, I wanted to go
on talking to you. It’s three o’clock in the night. My hand is tired. The
wick of the candle wants snuffing, I can hardly see. Write to me at Sahalin
every four or five days. It seems that the post goes there, not only by sea
but across Siberia, so I shall get letters frequently.
* * * * *
All the Tomsk people tell me that there has not been a spring so cold and
rainy as this one since 1842. Half Tomsk is under water. My luck!