nearer and nearer, one’s soul felt easier and easier, one’s heart throbbed with joy, one heaved deep sighs as though one could breathe freely at last, and leapt on the wet slippery bank.... Thank God! At Ilya Markovitch’s, the converted Jew’s, I was told that I could not drive at night; the road was bad; that I must remain till next day. Very good, I stayed. After tea I sat down to write you this letter, interrupted by the visit of the “president.” The president is a rich mixture of Nozdryov, Hlestakov and a cur. A drunkard, a rake, a liar, a singer, a story-teller, and with all that a good-natured man. He had brought with him a big trunk stuffed full of business papers, a bedstead and mattress, a gun, and a secretary. The secretary is an excellent, well-educated man, a protesting liberal who has studied in Petersburg, and is free in his ideas; I don’t know how he came to Siberia, he is infected to the marrow of his bones with every sort of disease, and is taking to drink, thanks to his principal, who calls him Kolya. The representative of authority sends for a cordial. “Doctor,” he bawls, “drink another glass, I beseech you humbly!” Of course, I drink it. The representative of authority drinks soundly, lies outrageously, uses shameless language. We go to bed. In the morning a cordial is sent for again. They swill the cordial till ten o’clock and at last they go. The converted Jew, Ilya Markovitch, whom the peasants here idolize--so I was told--gave me horses to drive to Tomsk. The “president,” the secretary and I got into the same conveyance. All the way the “president” told lies, drank out of the bottle, boasted that he did not take bribes, raved about the scenery, and shook his fist at the tramps that he met. We drove fifteen versts, then halt! The village of Brovkino.... We stop near a Jew’s shop and go to take “rest and refreshment.” The Jew runs to fetch us a cordial while his wife makes us some fish-soup, of which I have written to you already. The “president” gave orders that the _sotsky_, the _desyatsky_, and the road contractor should come to him, and in his drunkenness began reproving them, not the least restrained by my presence. He swore like a Tatar. I soon parted from the “president,” and on the evening of the 15th of May by an appalling road reached Tomsk. During the last two days I have only done seventy versts; you can imagine what the roads are like! In Tomsk the mud was almost impassable. Of the town and the manner of living here I will write in a day or two, but good-bye for now--I am tired of writing. * * * * * There are no poplars. The Kuvshinnikov General was lying. I have seen no nightingales. There are magpies and cuckoos. I received a telegram of eighty words from Suvorin to-day.