My alarm was unnecessary. The police officer turns out to be devoted to literature and himself an author; he has come to pay his respects to me. He went home to fetch his play, and I believe intends to regale me with it. He is just coming again and preventing me from writing to you.... ... My greetings to Nastyusha and Boris. I should be genuinely delighted for their satisfaction to fling myself into the jaws of a tiger and call them to my aid, but, alas! I haven’t reached the tigers here: the only furry animals I have seen so far in Siberia are many hares and one mouse. Stop! The police officer has returned. He has not read me his drama though he brought it, but regaled me with a story. It’s not bad, only too local. He showed me a nugget of gold. He asked for some vodka. I don’t remember a single educated Siberian who has not asked for vodka on coming to see me. He told me he had a mistress, a married woman; he gave me a petition to the Tsar about divorce to read.... * * * * * How glad I am when I am forced to stop somewhere for the night! I no sooner roll into bed than I am asleep. Here, travelling and not sleeping at night, one prizes sleep above everything. There is no greater enjoyment in life than sleep when one is sleepy. In Moscow, in Russia generally, I never was sleepy as I understand the word now. I went to bed simply because one had to. But now! Another observation. On a journey one has no desire for spirits. I can’t drink. I smoke a great deal. One’s mind does not work well. I cannot put my thoughts together. Time flies rapidly, so that one scarcely notices it, from ten o’clock in the morning to seven o’clock in the evening. Evening comes quickly after morning. It’s just the same when one is seriously ill. The wind and the rain have made my face all scaly, and when I look in the looking-glass I don’t recognize my once noble features. I am not going to describe Tomsk. All the towns are alike in Russia. Tomsk is a dull and intemperate town. There are absolutely no good-looking women, and the disregard for justice is Asiatic. The town is remarkable for the fact that governors die in it. If my letters are short, careless, or dry, don’t be cross, for one cannot always be oneself on a journey and write as one wants to. The ink is bad, and there is always a hair or a splodge on one’s pen. TO HIS SISTER. KRASNOYARSK, May 28, 1890. What a deadly road! It was all we could do to crawl to Krasnoyarsk and my trap had to be repaired twice. The first thing to be broken was the vertical piece of iron connecting the front of the carriage with the axle; then the so-called circle under the front broke. I have never in all my life seen such a road--such impassable mud and such an utterly neglected road. I am going to write about its horrors to the _Novoye Vremya_, and so won’t talk about it now.