Chapter 5

April 12th

DEAREST MISTRESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I pray you, my beloved, to
tell me what ails you. Every one of your letters fills me with
alarm. On the other hand, in every letter I urge you to be more
careful of yourself, and to wrap up yourself warmly, and to avoid
going out in bad weather, and to be in all things prudent. Yet
you go and disobey me! Ah, little angel, you are a perfect child!
I know well that you are as weak as a blade of grass, and that,
no matter what wind blows upon you, you are ready to fade. But
you must be careful of yourself, dearest; you MUST look after
yourself better; you MUST avoid all risks, lest you plunge your
friends into desolation and despair.

Dearest, you also express a wish to learn the details of my daily
life and surroundings. That wish I hasten to satisfy. Let me
begin at the beginning, since, by doing so, I shall explain
things more systematically. In the first place, on entering this
house, one passes into a very bare hall, and thence along a
passage to a mean staircase. The reception room, however, is
bright, clean, and spacious, and is lined with redwood and metal-
work. But the scullery you would not care to see; it is greasy,
dirty, and odoriferous, while the stairs are in rags, and the
walls so covered with filth that the hand sticks fast wherever it
touches them. Also, on each landing there is a medley of boxes,
chairs, and dilapidated wardrobes; while the windows have had
most of their panes shattered, and everywhere stand washtubs
filled with dirt, litter, eggshells, and fish-bladders. The smell
is abominable. In short, the house is not a nice one.

As to the disposition of the rooms, I have described it to you
already. True, they are convenient enough, yet every one of them
has an ATMOSPHERE. I do not mean that they smell badly so much as
that each of them seems to contain something which gives forth a
rank, sickly-sweet odour. At first the impression is an
unpleasant one, but a couple of minutes will suffice to dissipate
it, for the reason that EVERYTHING here smells--people's clothes,
hands, and everything else--and one grows accustomed to the
rankness. Canaries, however, soon die in this house. A naval
officer here has just bought his fifth. Birds cannot live long in
such an air. Every morning, when fish or beef is being cooked,
and washing and scrubbing are in progress, the house is filled
with steam. Always, too, the kitchen is full of linen hanging out
to dry; and since my room adjoins that apartment, the smell from
the clothes causes me not a little annoyance. However, one can
grow used to anything.

From earliest dawn the house is astir as its inmates rise, walk
about, and stamp their feet. That is to say,