discs and tassels; they were being driven by a smart
young driver, in a blue tunic without sleeves, a yellow
striped silk shirt, and a low felt hat with peacock’s
feathers round the crown. Beside him sat a girl
of the artisan or merchant class, in a flowered silk
jacket, with a big blue handkerchief on her head—and
she was simply bubbling over with mirth. The
driver was laughing too. I drew my horse on one
side, but did not, however, take particular notice
of the swiftly passing, merry couple, when, all at
once, the young man shouted to his ponies....
Why, that was Tarhov’s voice! I looked round....
Yes, it was he; unmistakably he, dressed up as a peasant,
and beside him—wasn’t it Musa?
But at that instant their ponies quickened their pace,
and they were out of my sight in a minute. I
tried to put my horse into a gallop in pursuit of
them, but it was an old riding school hack, that shambled
from side to side as it moved; it went more slowly
galloping than trotting.
‘Enjoy yourselves, my dear friends!’ I
muttered through my teeth.
I ought to observe that I had not seen Tarhov during
the whole week, though I had been three times to his
rooms. He was never at home. Baburin and
Punin I had not seen either.... I had not been
to see them.
I caught cold on my ride; though it was very warm,
there was a piercing wind. I was dangerously
ill, and when I recovered I went with my grandmother
into the country ‘to feed up,’ by the doctor’s
advice. I did not get to Moscow again; in the
autumn I was transferred to the Petersburg university.
1849
Not seven, but fully twelve years had passed by, and
I was in my thirty-second year. My grandmother
had long been dead; I was living in Petersburg, with
a post in the Department of Home Affairs. Tarhov
I had lost sight of; he had gone into the army, and
lived almost always in the provinces. We had
met twice, as old friends, glad to see each other;
but we had not touched on the past in our talk.
At the time of our last meeting he was, if I remember
right, already a married man.
One sultry summer day I was sauntering along Gorohov
Street, cursing my official duties for keeping me
in Petersburg, and the heat and stench and dust of
the city. A funeral barred my way. It consisted
of a solitary car, that is, to be accurate, of a decrepit
hearse, on which a poor-looking wooden coffin, half-covered
with a threadbare black cloth, was shaking up and
down as it was jolted violently over the uneven pavement.
An old man with a white head was walking alone after
the hearse.
I looked at him.... His face seemed familiar....
He too turned his eyes upon me.... Merciful heavens!
it was Baburin! I took off my hat, went up to
him, mentioned my name, and walked along beside him.
‘Whom are you burying?’ I asked.
‘Nikander Vavilitch Punin,’ he answered.
