At midnight a little steamer arrived; we went to look at it, and seized the opportunity to ask if there was anything to eat. We were told that to-morrow we should be able to get dinner, but that now it was late, the kitchen fire was out, and so on. We thanked them for “to-morrow”--it was something to look forward to anyway! But alas! the captain came in and told us that at four o’clock in the morning the steamer was setting off for Kultuk. We thanked him. In the refreshment bar, where there was not room to turn round, we drank a bottle of sour beer (thirty-five kopecks), and saw on a plate some amber beads--it was salmon caviare. We returned home, and to sleep. I am sick of sleeping. Every day one has to put down one’s sheepskin with the wool upwards, under one’s head one puts a folded greatcoat and a pillow, and one sleeps on this heap in one’s waistcoat and trousers.... Civilization, where art thou? To-day there is rain and Lake Baikal is plunged in mist. “Interesting,” Semaskho would say. It’s dull. One ought to sit down and write, but one can never work in bad weather. One has a foreboding of merciless boredom; if I were alone I should not mind but there are two lieutenants and an army doctor with me, who are fond of talking and arguing. They don’t understand much but they talk about everything. One of the lieutenants, moreover, is a bit of a Hlestakov and a braggart. When one is travelling one absolutely must be alone. To sit in a chaise or in a room alone with one’s thoughts is much more interesting than being with people. * * * * * Congratulate me: I sold my own carriage at Irkutsk. How much I gained on it I won’t say, or mother would fall into a faint and not sleep for five nights. Your Homo Sachaliensis, A. CHEKHOV. TO HIS MOTHER. STEAMER “YERMAK,” June 20, 1890. Greeting, dear ones at home!