There was still one ray of hope. Governor Kraft, of Yakutsk, had the reputation of being a very kind man, and he might reassign Yasha if I begged him to do so. Yasha had been advised to appeal to the Governor, and he sent me on this mission. The Governor’s office was in his home. He received me very kindly, even shook my hand, and invited me to be seated. He was a tall, erect, black-bearded man of middle-age, and he showed every consideration for me as I told my story. I proposed to him to open a sanitary butcher’s shop in Yakutsk if he allowed Yasha to remain there, as the local butchers’ shops were inconceivably filthy. He at first refused to consider my suggestion, but then, apparently on second thoughts, bade me follow him into his private room, where he seated me at a table, and, filling two glasses with wine, invited me to drink with him. I refused, wondering what could be the reason for this extreme friendliness. He drew nearer to me, laid his hands on my coat and removed it. Before I recovered from my astonishment he seized my hand and kissed it. No man had ever before kissed my hand, and I had an idea that it was an action that could only imply immoral intentions. Startled and indignant, I jumped to my feet. “I will give you a thousand roubles, room for a butcher’s shop in the market, and keep your husband in Yakutsk, if you will agree to belong to me,” the Governor declared, trying to calm me. I lost my self-control. “Scoundrels! beasts! you men are all alike!” I shouted. “All! all! all! High and low, you are all depraved.” Seizing my coat, I ran out of the house, leaving the Governor speechless. I rushed to my lodging, locked myself in a room and wept all night. My errand had failed, and I was now faced with the choice between a living death for Yasha and selling myself. I had visions of Kolymsk, a settlement consisting of several scattered huts, inhabited by natives, lost in the vast expanse of the ice-bound steppe, and buried for months under mountains of snow. I could almost hear the howling of the Arctic winds, and the frightful growling of the polar bears. I pictured Yasha in the midst of it, cut off from human companionship, slowly languishing in the monotony of inactivity. Then my thoughts would revert to the other alternative. To live and work with Yasha in outward happiness, and stealthily, in the night, to go to this degenerate Governor! And what if Yasha learned of my secret visits? How should I explain? And of what avail would any explanations be to him? No, it was impossible, impossible! Ah, what a terrible night it was! From visions of the frozen banks of the Arctic waters, my imagination would carry me to the revolting embraces of Governor Kraft, in a fruitless search for a way out.