Having sold during the first few days every part of my costume, without which it was still possible to go about, I passed from the town into the quarter called "Yste,"[1] where were the steamship wharves--a quarter which during the navigation season fermented with boisterous laborious life, but now was silent and deserted, and indeed we were in the last days of October. Dragging my feet along the moist sand, and obstinately scrutinising it with the desire to discover in it any sort of fragment of food, I wandered alone among the deserted buildings and warehouses, and thought how good it would be to get a fair bellyful. In our present state of culture hunger of the mind is more quickly satisfied than hunger of the body. You wander about the streets, you are surrounded by buildings not bad-looking from the outside and-- you may safely say it--not so badly furnished inside, and the sight of them may excite within you stimulating ideas about architecture, hygiene, and many other wise and high-flying subjects. You may meet warmly and neatly dressed folks--all very polite, and turning away from you tactfully, not wishing offensively to notice the lamentable fact of your existence. Well, well, the mind of a hungry man is always better nourished and healthier than the mind of the well-fed man--and there you have a situation from which you may draw a very ingenious conclusion in favour of the ill fed! [1] River's mouth. The evening was approaching, the rain was falling, and the wind blew violently from the north. It whistled in the empty booths and shops, blew into the plastered window-panes of the taverns, and whipped into a foam the wavelets of the river which splashed noisily on the sandy shore, casting high their white crests, racing one after another into the dim distance, and leaping impetuously over one another's shoulders.... It seemed as if the river felt the proximity of winter, and was running at random away from the fetters of ice which the north wind might well have flung upon her that very night. The sky was heavy and dark, down from it swept incessantly scarcely visible drops of rain, and the melancholy elegy in nature all around me was emphasised by a couple of battered and misshapen willow-trees, and a boat, bottom upwards, that was fastened to their roots. The overturned canoe with its battered keel, and the old and miserable trees rifled by the cold wind ... everything around me bankrupt, barren, and dead, and the sky flowing with undryable tears ... everything around waste and gloomy ... it seemed as if everything were dead, leaving me alone among the living, and me also a cold death awaited. And I was then eighteen years old--a good time!