Poor Folk: Chapter 13

Chapter 13

June 22nd.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I have to tell you that a sad
event has happened in this house--an event to excite one's utmost
pity. This morning, about five o'clock, one of Gorshkov's
children died of scarlatina, or something of the kind. I have
been to pay the parents a visit of condolence, and found them
living in the direst poverty and disorder. Nor is that
surprising, seeing that the family lives in a single room, with
only a screen to divide it for decency's sake. Already the coffin
was standing in their midst--a plain but decent shell which had
been bought ready-made. The child, they told me, had been a boy
of nine, and full of promise. What a pitiful spectacle! Though
not weeping, the mother, poor woman, looked broken with grief.
After all, to have one burden the less on their shoulders may
prove a relief, though there are still two children left--a babe
at the breast and a little girl of six! How painful to see these
suffering children, and to be unable to help them! The father,
clad in an old, dirty frockcoat, was seated on a dilapidated
chair. Down his cheeks there were coursing tears--though less
through grief than owing to a long-standing affliction of the
eyes. He was so thin, too! Always he reddens in the face when he
is addressed, and becomes too confused to answer. A little girl,
his daughter, was leaning against the coffin--her face looking so
worn and thoughtful, poor mite! Do you know, I cannot bear to see
a child look thoughtful. On the floor there lay a rag doll, but
she was not playing with it as, motionless, she stood there with
her finger to her lips. Even a bon-bon which the landlady had
given her she was not eating. Is it not all sad, sad, Barbara?

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

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