I have found Drishka. It appears that she is living in the same house as I am. She ran away from Moscow to Petersburg under romantic circumstances: she meant to marry a lawyer, plighted her troth to him, but an army captain turned up, and so on; she had to run away or the lawyer would have shot both Drishka and the captain with a pistol loaded with cranberries. She is prospering and is the same lively rogue as ever. I went to Svobodin’s name-day party with her yesterday. She sang gipsy songs, and created such a sensation that all the great men kissed her hand. Rumours have reached me that Lidia Stahievna is going to be married _par depit_. Is it true? Tell her that I shall carry her off from her husband _par depit_. I am a violent man. Has not anything been collected for the benefit of the Sahalin schools? Let me know.... TO A. F. KONI. PETERSBURG, January 16, 1891. DEAR SIR, ANATOLY FYODOROVITCH, I did not hasten to answer your letter because I am not leaving Petersburg before next Saturday. I am sorry I have not been to see Madame Naryshkin, but I think I had better defer my visit till my book has come out, when I shall be able to turn more freely to the material I have. My brief Sahalin past looms so immense in my imagination that when I want to speak about it I don’t know where to begin, and it always seems to me that I have not said what was wanted. I will try and describe minutely the position of the children and young people in Sahalin. It is exceptional. I saw starving children, I saw girls of thirteen prostitutes, girls of fifteen with child. Girls begin to live by prostitution from twelve years old, sometimes before menstruation has begun. Church and school exist only on paper, the children are educated by their environment and the convict surroundings. Among other things I have noted down a conversation with a boy of ten years old. I was making the census of the settlement of Upper Armudano; all the inhabitants are poverty-stricken, every one of them, and have the reputation of being desperate gamblers at the game of shtoss. I go into a hut; the people are not at home; on a bench sits a white-haired, round-shouldered, bare-footed boy; he seems lost in thought. We begin to talk. I. “What is your father’s second name?” He. “I don’t know.” I. “How is that? You live with your father and don’t know what his name is? Shame!” He. “He is not my real father.” I. “How is that?” He. “He is living with mother.” I. “Is your mother married or a widow?” He. “A widow. She followed her husband here.” I. “What has become of her husband, then?” He. “She killed him.” I. “Do you remember your father?” He. “No, I don’t, I am illegitimate. I was born when mother was at Kara.”