It was a clear, sunny, but freezing March day. The gutters were flowing,
the house-porters were picking at the ice. The cabman's sleigh jolted
over the icy snow, and screeched over the stones. The laundress walked
up the street on the sunny side, went to the church, and seated herself
at the entrance, still on the sunny side. But when the sun began to sink
behind the houses, the puddles began to be skimmed over with a glass of
frost, and the laundress grew cold and wretched. She rose, and dragged
herself . . . whither? Home, to the only home where she had lived so
long. While she was on her way, resting at times, dusk descended. She
approached the gates, turned in, slipped, groaned and fell.

One man came up, and then another. "She must be drunk." Another man
came up, and stumbled over the laundress, and said to the potter: "What
drunken woman is this wallowing at your gate? I came near breaking my
head over her; take her away, won't you?"

The porter came. The laundress was dead. This is what my friend told
me. It may be thought that I have wilfully mixed up facts,--I encounter
a prostitute of fifteen, and the story of this laundress. But let no one
imagine this; it is exactly what happened in the course of one night
(only I do not remember which) in March, 1884. And so, after hearing my
friend's tale, I went to the station-house, with the intention of
proceeding thence to the Rzhanoff house to inquire more minutely into the
history of the laundress. The weather was very beautiful and sunny; and
again, through the stars of the night-frost, water was to be seen
trickling in the shade, and in the glare of the sun on Khamovnitchesky
square every thing was melting, and the water was streaming. The river
emitted a humming noise. The trees of the Neskutchny garden looked blue
across the river; the reddish-brown sparrows, invisible in winter,
attracted attention by their sprightliness; people also seemed desirous
of being merry, but all of them had too many cares. The sound of the
bells was audible, and at the foundation of these mingling sounds, the
sounds of shots could be heard from the barracks, the whistle of rifle-
balls and their crack against the target.

I entered the station-house. In the station some armed policemen
conducted me to their chief. He was similarly armed with sword and
pistol, and he was engaged in taking some measures with regard to a
tattered, trembling old man, who was sta