บทที่ บทที่ 8 · 第7章（2）

But above all--more than his love-making, more than his pleasant talk,

more than his interesting pallor, more even than his bandaged arm--the

silence of the young Hussar excited her curiosity and her imagination.

She could not help confessing to herself that he pleased her very much.

Probably he too, with his acuteness and his experience, had seen that

he interested her. How was it, then, that up to this moment she had

not seen him at her feet; had not received from him any declaration

whatever? And wherefore did she not encourage him with more attention,

and, according to circumstances, even with tenderness? Had she a secret

of her own which would account for her behaviour?

At last, Burmin fell into such deep meditation, and his black eyes

rested with such fire upon Maria, that the decisive moment seemed very

near. The neighbours spoke of the marriage as an accomplished fact, and

kind Praskovia rejoiced that her daughter had at last found for herself

a worthy mate.

The lady was sitting alone once in the drawing-room, laying out

grande-patience, when Burmin entered the room, and at once inquired for

Maria.

"She is in the garden," replied the old lady: "go to her, and I will

wait for you here." Burmin went, and the old lady made the sign of the

cross and thought, "Perhaps the affair will be settled to-day!"

Burmin found Maria in the ivy-bower beside the pond, with a book in

her hands, and wearing a white dress--a veritable heroine of romance.

After the first inquiries, Maria purposely let the conversation drop;

increasing by these means the mutual embarrassment, from which it was

only possible to escape by means of a sudden and positive declaration.

It happened thus. Burmin, feeling the awkwardness of his position,

informed Maria that he had long sought an opportunity of opening his

heart to her, and that he begged for a moment's attention. Maria closed

the book and lowered her eyes, as a sign that she was listening.

"I love you," said Burmin, "I love you passionately!" Maria blushed,

and bent her head still lower.

"I have behaved imprudently, yielding as I have done to the seductive

pleasure of seeing and hearing you daily." Maria recollected the first

letter of St. Preux in 'La Nouvelle Héloïse.'

"It is too late now to resist my fate. The remembrance of you, your

dear incomparable image, must from to-day be at once the torment and

the consolation of my existence. I have now a grave duty to perform,

a terrible secret to disclose, which will place between us an

insurmountable barrier."

[Illustration: "IN THE IVY BOWER."]

"It has always existed!" interrupted Maria; "I could never have been

your wife."

"I know," he replied quickly; "I know that you once loved. But death

and three years of mourning may have worked some change. Dear, kind

Maria, do not try to deprive me of my last consolation; the idea that

you might have consented to make me happy if----. Don't speak, for

God's sake don't speak--you torture me. Yes, I know, I feel that you

could have been mine, but--I am the most miserable of beings--I am

already married!"

Maria looked at him in astonishment.

"I am married," continued Burmin; "I have been married more than three

years, and do not know who my wife is, or where she is, or whether I

shall ever see her again."

"What are you saying?" exclaimed Maria; "how strange! Pray continue."

"In the beginning of 1812," said Burmin, a I was hurrying on to

Wilna, where my regiment was stationed. Arriving one evening late

at a station, I ordered, the horses to be got ready quickly, when

suddenly a fearful snowstorm broke out. Both station master and drivers

advised me to wait till it was over. I listened to their advice, but

an unaccountable restlessness took possession of me, just as though

someone was pushing me on. Meanwhile, the snowstorm did not abate. I

could bear it no longer, and again ordered the horses, and started in

the midst of the storm. The driver took it into his head to drive along

the river, which would shorten the distance by three miles. The banks

were covered with snowdrifts; the driver missed the turning which would

have brought us out on to the road, and we turned up in an unknown

place. The storm never ceased. I could discern a light, and told the

driver to make for it. We entered a village, and found that the light

proceeded from a wooden church. The church was open. Outside the

railings stood several sledges, and people passing in and out through

the porch.

"'Here! here!' cried several voices. I told the coachman to drive up.

"'Where have you dawdled?' said someone to me. 'The bride has fainted;

the priest does not know what to do: we were on the point of going

back. Make haste and get out!'

"I got out of the sledge in silence, and stepped into the church,

which was dimly lighted with two or three tapers. A girl was sitting

in a dark corner on a bench; and another girl was rubbing her temples.

'Thank God,' said the latter, 'you have come at last! You have nearly

been the death of the young lady.'

"The old priest approached me; saying,

"'Shall I begin?'

"'Begin--begin, reverend father,' I replied, absently.

"The young lady was raised up. I thought her rather pretty. Oh, wild,

unpardonable frivolity! I placed myself by her side at the altar. The

priest hurried on.

"Three men and the maid supported the bride, and occupied themselves

with her alone. We were married!

"'Kiss your wife,' said the priest.

"My wife turned her pale face towards me. I was going to kiss her, when

she exclaimed, 'Oh! it is not he--not he!' and fell back insensible.

"The witnesses stared at me. I turned round and left the church without

any attempt being made to stop me, threw myself into the sledge, and

cried, 'Away!'"

"What!" exclaimed Maria. "And you don't know what became of your

unhappy wife?"

"I do not," replied Burmin; "neither do I know the name of the village

where I was married, nor that of the station from which I started.

At that time I thought so little of my wicked joke that, on driving

away from the church, I fell asleep, and never woke till early the

next morning, after reaching the third station. The servant who was

with me died during the campaign, so that I have now no hope of ever

discovering the unhappy woman on whom I played such a cruel trick, and

who is now so cruelly avenged."

"Great heavens!" cried Maria, seizing his hand. "Then it was you, and

you do not recognise me?" Burmin turned pale--and threw himself at her

feet.

THE UNDERTAKER.

The last remaining goods of the undertaker, Adrian Prohoroff,

Story 4. THE UNDERTAKER

the hearse, and the gaunt pair, for the fourth time, dragged

the vehicle along from the Basmannaia to the Nikitskaia, whither the

undertaker had flitted with all his household. Closing the shop, he

nailed to the gates an announcement that the house was to be sold or

let, and then started on foot for his new abode. Approaching the small

yellow house which had long attracted his fancy and which he at last

bought at a high price, the old undertaker was surprised to find that

his heart did not rejoice. Crossing the strange threshold, he found

disorder inside his new abode, and sighed for the decrepit hovel, where

for eighteen years everything had been kept in the most perfect order.

He began scolding both his daughters and the servant for being so slow,

and proceeded to help them himself. Order was speedily established.

The case with the holy pictures, the cupboard with the crockery, the

table, sofa, and bedstead, took up their appropriate corners in the

back room. In the kitchen and parlour was placed the master's stock

in trade, that is to say, coffins of every colour and of all sizes;

likewise wardrobes containing mourning hats, mantles, and funeral

torches. Over the gate hung a signboard representing a corpulent cupid

holding a reversed torch in his hand, with the following inscription:

"Here coffins are sold, covered, plain, or painted. They are also let

out on hire, and old ones are repaired."

The daughters had retired to their own room, Adrian went over his

residence, sat down by the window, and ordered the samovar to be got

ready.

The enlightened reader is aware that both Shakespeare and Walter Scott

have represented their gravediggers as lively jocular people, for the

sake, no doubt, of a strong contrast. But respect for truth prevents me

from following their example; and I must confess that the disposition

of our undertaker corresponded closely with his melancholy trade.

Adrian Prohoroff: was usually pensive and gloomy. He only broke silence

to scold his daughters when he found them idle, looking out of window

at the passers by, or asking too exorbitant prices for his products

from those who had the misfortune (sometimes the pleasure) to require

them. Sitting by the window drinking his seventh cup of tea, according

to his custom, Adrian was wrapped in the saddest thoughts. He was

thinking of the pouring rain, which a week before had met the funeral

of a retired brigadier at the turnpike gate, causing many mantles to

shrink and many hats to contract. He foresaw inevitable outlay, his

existing supply of funeral apparel being in such a sad condition. But

he hoped to make good the loss from the funeral of the old shopwoman,

Tiruhina, who had been at the point of death for the last year.

Tiruhina, however, was dying at Basgulai, and Prohoroff was afraid that

her heirs, in spite of their promise to him, might be too lazy to send

so far, preferring to strike a bargain with the nearest contractor.

These reflections were interrupted unexpectedly by three freemason

knocks at the door. "Who is there?" enquired the undertaker. The door

opened and a man, in whom at a glance might be recognised a German

artisan, entered the room, and with a cheery look approached the

undertaker.

"Pardon me, my dear neighbour," he said, with the accent which even now

we Russians never hear without a smile; "Pardon me for disturbing you;

I wanted to make your acquaintance at once. I am a bootmaker, my name

is Gottlieb Schultz, I live in the next street--in that little house

opposite your windows. To morrow I celebrate my silver wedding, and I

want you and your daughters to dine with me in a friendly way."

The invitation was accepted. The undertaker asked the bootmaker to sit

down and have a cup of tea, and thanks to Gottlieb Schultz's frank

disposition, they were soon talking in a friendly way.

"How does your business get on?" enquired Adrian.

"Oh, oh," replied Schultz, "one way and another I have no reason to

complain. Though, of course, my goods are not like yours. A living man

can do without boots, but a corpse cannot do without a coffin."

"Perfectly true," said Adrian, "still, if a living man has nothing to

buy boots with he goes barefooted, whereas the destitute corpse gets

his coffin sometimes for nothing."

Their conversation continued in this style for some time, until at last

the bootmaker rose and took leave of the undertaker, repeating his

invitation.

Next day, punctually at twelve o'clock, the undertaker and his

daughters passed out at the gate of their newly-bought house, and

proceeded to their neighbours. I do not intend to describe Adrian's

Russian caftan nor the European dress of Akulina or Daria, contrary

though this be to the custom of fiction-writers of the present day.

I don't, however, think it superfluous to mention that both, maidens

wore yellow bonnets and scarlet shoes, which they only did on great

occasions.

The bootmaker's small lodging was filled with guests, principally

German artisans, their wives, and assistants. Of Russian officials

there was only one watchman, the Finn Yurko, who had managed, in spite

of his humble position, to gain the special favour of his chief. He had

also performed the functions of postman for about twenty-five years,

serving truly and faithfully the people of Pogorelsk. The fire which,

in the year 1812, consumed the capital, burnt at the same time his

humble sentry box. But no sooner had the enemy fled, when in its place

appeared a small, new, grey sentry box, with tiny white columns of

Doric architecture, and Yurko resumed his patrol in front of it with

battle-axe on shoulder, and in the civic armour of the police uniform.

He was well known to the greater portion of the German residents near

the Nikitski Gates, some of whom had occasionally even passed the night

from Sunday until Monday in Yurko's box.

Adrian promptly made friends with a man of whom, sooner or later, he

might have need, and as the guests were just then going in to dinner

they sat down together.

Mr. and Mrs. Schultz and their daughter, the seventeen-year-old

Lotchen, while dining with their guests, attended to their wants and

assisted the cook to wait upon them. Beer flowed. Yurko ate for four,

and Adrian did not fall short of him, though his daughters stood upon

ceremony.

The conversation, which was in German, grew louder every hour.

Suddenly the host called for the attention of the company, and opening

a pitch-covered bottle, exclaimed loudly in Russian:

"The health of my good Louisa!"

The imitation champagne frothed. The host kissed tenderly the fresh

face of his forty-year old spouse and the guests drank vociferously the

health of good Louisa.

"The health of my dear guests!" cried the host opening the second

bottle. The guests thanked him and emptied their glasses. Then

one toast followed another. The health of each guest was proposed

separately; then the health of Moscow and of about a dozen German

towns. They drank the health of the guilds in general, and afterwards

of each one separately; The health of the foremen and of the workmen.

Adrian drank with a will and became so lively, that he himself proposed

some jocular toast.

Suddenly one of the guests, a stout baker, raised his glass and

exclaimed:

"The health of our customers!"

This toast like all the others was drunk joyfully and unanimously. The

guests nodded to each other; the tailor to the bootmaker, the bootmaker

to the tailor; the baker to them both and all to the baker.

Yurko in the midst of this bowing called out as he turned towards his

neighbour:

"Now then! My friend, drink to the health of your corpses."

Everybody laughed except the undertaker, who felt himself affronted and

frowned. No one noticed this; and the guests went on drinking till the

bells began to ring for evening service, when they all rose from the

table.

The party had broken up late and most of the guests were very

hilarious. The stout baker, with the bookbinder, whose face looked as

if it were bound in red morocco, led Yurko by the arms to his sentry

box, thus putting in practice the proverb, "One good turns deserves

another."

The undertaker went home drunk and angry.

"How, indeed," he exclaimed aloud. "Is my trade worse than any other?

Is an undertaker own brother to the executioner? What have the infidels

to laugh at? Is an undertaker a hypocritical buffoon? I should have

liked to invite them to a housewarming; to give them a grand spread.

But no; that shall not be! I will ask my customers instead; my orthodox

corpses."

"What!" exclaimed the servant, who at that moment was taking off the

undertaker's boots. "What is that, sir, you are saying? Make the sign

of the cross! Invite corpses to your housewarming! How awful!"

"I will certainly invite them," persisted Adrian, "and not later than

for to-morrow. Honour me, my benefactors, with your company to-morrow

evening at a feast; I will offer you what God has given me."

With these words the undertaker retired to bed, and was soon snoring.

It was still dark when Adrian awoke. The shopkeeper, Triuhina, had died

in the night, and her steward had sent a special messenger on horseback

to inform Adrian of the fact. The undertaker gave him a _grivenik_ [a

silver fourpenny bit] for his trouble, to buy _vodka_ with; dressed

hurriedly, took an _isvoshchik_, and drove off to Rasgulai. At the gate

of the dead woman's house the police were already standing, and dealers

in mourning goods were hovering around, like ravens who have scented

a corpse. The defunct was lying in state on the table, yellow like

wax, but not yet disfigured by decomposition. Hear her, in a crowd,

were relations, friends, and domestics. All the windows were open;

wax tapers were burning; and the clergy were reading prayers. Adrian

went up to the nephew, a young shopman in a fashionable _surtout_,

and informed him that the coffin, tapers, pall, and the funeral

paraphernalia in general would promptly arrive. The heir thanked him in

an absent manner, saying that he would not bargain about the price, but

leave it all to his conscience. The undertaker, as usual, vowed that

his charges should be moderate, exchanged significant glances with the

steward, and left to make the necessary preparations.

The whole day was spent in travelling from Rasgulai to the Nikitski

Grates and back again. Towards evening everything was settled, and

he started home on foot after discharging his hired _isvoshchik._ It

was a moonlight night, and the undertaker got safely to the Nikitski

Grates. At Yosnessenia he met our acquaintance, Yurko, who, recognising

the undertaker, wished him good-night. It was late. The undertaker was

close to his house when he thought he saw some one approach the gates,

open the wicket, and go in.

"What does it mean?" thought Adrian. "Who can be wanting me again? Is

it a burglar, or can my foolish girls have lovers coming after them?

There is no telling," and the undertaker was on the point of calling

his friend Yurko to his assistance, when some one else came up to the

wicket and was about to enter, but seeing the master of the house run

towards him, he stopped, and took off his three cornered hat. His face

seemed familiar to Adrian, but in his hurry he had not been able to

see it properly.

"You want me?" said Adrian, out of breath. "Walk in, if you please."

"Don't stand on ceremony, my friend," replied the other, in a hollow

voice, "go first, and show your guest the way."

Adrian had no time to waste on formality. The gate was open, and he

went up to the steps followed by the other. Adrian heard people walking

about in his rooms.

"What the devil is this?" he wondered, and he hastened to see. But

now his legs seemed to be giving way. The room was full of corpses.

The moon, shining through the windows, lit up their yellow and blue

faces, sunken mouths, dim, half-closed eyes, and protruding noses. To

his horror, Adrian recognised in them people he had buried, and in

the guest who came in with him, the brigadier who had been interred

during a pouring rain. They all, ladies and gentlemen, surrounded the

undertaker, bowing and greeting him affably, except one poor fellow

lately buried gratis, who, ashamed of his rags, kept at a distance in

a corner of the room. The others were all decently clad; the female

corpses in caps and ribbons, the soldiers and officials in their

uniforms, but with unshaven beards; and the tradespeople in their best

caftans.

"Prohoroff," said the brigadier, speaking on behalf of all the

company, "we have all risen to profit by your invitation. Only those

have stopped at home who were quite unable to do otherwise; who have

crumbled away and have nothing left but bare bones. Even among those

there was one who could not resist--he wanted so much to come."

At this moment a diminutive skeleton pushed his way through the

crowd and approached Adrian. His death's head grinned affably at the

undertaker. Shreds of green and red cloth and of rotten linen hung on

him as on a pole; while the bones of his feet clattered inside his

heavy boots like pestles in mortars.

"You do not recognise me, Prohoroff?" said the skeleton. "Don't

you remember the retired, sergeant in the guards, Peter Petrovitch

Kurilkin, him to whom you in the year 1799 sold your first coffin, and

of deal instead of oak?" With these words the corpse stretched out his

long arms to embrace him. But Adrian collecting his strength, shrieked,

and pushed him away. Peter Petrovitch staggered, fell over, and

crumbled to pieces. There was a murmur of indignation among the company

of corpses. All stood up for the honour of their companion, threatening

and abusing Adrian till the poor man, deafened by their shrieks and

quite overcome, lost his senses and fell unconscious among the bones of

the retired sergeant of the guard.

The sun had been shining for sometime upon the bed on which the

undertaker lay, when he at last opened his eyes and saw the servant

lighting the _samovar._ With horror he recalled all the incidents of

the previous day. Triuchin, the brigadier, and the sergeant, Kurilkin,

passed dimly before his imagination. He waited in silence for the

servant to speak and tell him what had occurred during the night.

"How you have slept, Adrian Prohorovitch!" said Aksima, handing him his

dressing-gown. "Your neighbour the tailor called, also the watchman, to

say that to-day was Turko's namesday; but you were so fast asleep that

we did not disturb you."

"Did anyone come from the late Triuhina?"

"The late? Is she dead, then?"

"What a fool! Didn't you help me yesterday to make arrangements for her

funeral?"

"Oh, my _batiushka!_ [little father] are you mad, or are you still

suffering from last night's drink? You were feasting all day at the

German's. You came home drunk, threw yourself on the bed, and and have

slept till now, when the bells have stopped ringing for Mass."

"Really!" exclaimed the undertaker, delighted at the explanation.

"Of course," replied the servant.

"Well, if that is the case, let us have tea quickly, and call my

daughters."

THE POSTMASTER.

Who has not cursed the Postmaster; who has not quarrelled with

Story 5. THE POSTMASTER

a moment of anger, has not demanded the fatal hook to write his

ineffectual complaint against extortion, rudeness, and unpunctuality?

Who does not consider him a human monster, equal only to our extinct

attorney, or, at least, to the brigands of the Murom Woods? Let us,

however, be just and place ourselves in his position, and, perhaps,

we shall judge him less severely. What is a Postmaster? A real martyr

of the 14th class (i.e., of nobility), only protected by his _tchin_

(rank) from personal violence; and that not always. I appeal to the

conscience of my readers. What is the position of this dictator, as

Prince Yiasemsky jokingly calls him? Is it not really that of a galley

slave? No rest for him day or night. All the irritation accumulated

in the course of a dull journey by the traveller is vented upon the

Postmaster. If the weather is intolerable, the road wretched, the

driver obstinate, or the horses intractable--the Postmaster is to

blame. Entering his humble abode, the traveller looks upon him as his

enemy, and the Postmaster is lucky if he gets rid of his uninvited

guest soon. But should there happen to be no horses! Heavens! what

abuse, what threats are showered upon his head! Through rain and mud

he is obliged to seek them, so that during a storm, or in the winter

frosts, he is often glad to take refuge in the cold passage in order

to snatch a few moments of repose and to escape from the shrieking and

pushing of irritated guests.

If a general arrives, the trembling Postmaster supplies him with

the two last remaining _troiki_ (team of three horses abreast), of

which one _troika_ ought, perhaps, to have been reserved for the

diligence. The general drives on without even a word of thanks. Five

minutes later the Postmaster hears--a bell! and the guard throws down

his travelling certificate on the table before him! Let us realize

all this, and, instead of anger, we shall feel sincere pity for the

Postmaster. A few words more. In the course of twenty years I have

travelled all over Russia, and know nearly all the mail routes. I have

made the acquaintance of several generations of drivers. There are few

postmasters whom I do not know personally, and few with whom I have

not had dealings. My curious collection of travelling experiences I

hope shortly to publish. At present I will only say that, as a class,

the Postmaster is presented to the public in a false light. This

much-libelled personage is generally a peaceful, obliging, sociable,

modest man, and not too fond of money. From his conversation (which

the travelling gentry very wrongly despise) much interesting and

instructive information may be acquired. As far as I am concerned, I

profess that I prefer his talk to that of some _tchinovnik_ (official)

of the 6th class, travelling for the Government.

It may easily be guessed that I have some friends among the honourable

class of postmasters. Indeed, the memory of one of them is very dear

to me. Circumstances at one time brought us together, and it is of him

that I now intend to tell my dear readers.

In the May of 1816 I chanced to be passing through the Government of

----, along a road now no longer existing. I held a small rank, and

was travelling with relays of three horses while paying only for two.

Consequently the Postmaster stood upon no ceremony with me, but I

had often to take from him by force what I considered to be mine by

right. Being young and passionate, I was indignant at the meanness and,

cowardice of the Postmaster when he handed over the _troika_ prepared

for me to some official gentleman of higher rank.

It also took me a long time to get over the offence, when a servant,

fond of making distinctions, missed me when waiting at the governor's

table. Now the one and the other appear to me to be quite in the

natural course of things. Indeed, what would become of us, if, instead

of the convenient rule that rank gives precedence to rank, the rule

were to be reversed, and mind made to give precedence to mind? What

disputes would arise! Besides, to whom would the attendants first hand

the dishes? But to return to my story.

The day was hot. About three versts from the station it began to spit,

and a minute afterwards there was a pouring rain, and I was soon

drenched to the skin. Arriving at the station, my first care was to

change my clothes, and then I asked for a cup of tea.

"Hi! Dunia!" called out the Postmaster, "Prepare the _samovar_ and

fetch some cream."

In obedience to this command, a girl of fourteen appeared from behind

the partition, and ran out into the passage. I was struck by her beauty.

"Is that your daughter?" I inquired of the Postmaster.

"Yes," he answered, with a look of gratified pride, "and such a good,

clever girl, just like her late mother." Then, while he took note of my

travelling certificate, I occupied the time in examining the pictures

which decorated the walls of his humble abode. They were illustrations

of the story of the Prodigal Son. In the firsts a venerable old man

in a skull cap and dressing gown, is wishing good-bye to the restless

youth who naturally receives his blessing and a bag of money. In

another, the dissipated life of the young man is painted in glaring

colours; he is sitting at a table surrounded by false friends and

shameless women. In the next picture, the ruined youth in his shirt

sleeves and a three-corned hat, is taking care of some swine while

sharing their food. His face expresses deep sorrow and contrition.

Finally, there was the representation of his return to his father.

The kind old man, in the same cap and dressing gown, runs out to meet

him; the prodigal son falls on his knees before him; in the distance,

the cook is killing the fatted calf, and the eldest son is asking the

servants the reason of all this rejoicing. At the foot of each picture

I read some appropriate German verses. I remember them all distinctly,

as well as some pots of balsams, the bed with the speckled curtains,

and many other characteristic surroundings. I can see the stationmaster

at this moment; a man about fifty years of age, fresh and strong, in a

long green coat, with three medals on faded ribbons.

I had scarcely time to settle with my old driver when Dunia returned

with the _samovar_. The little coquette saw at a second glance the

impression she had produced upon me. She lowered her large, blue eyes.

I spoke to her, and she replied confidently, like a girl accustomed to

society. I offered a glass of punch to her father, to Dunia I handed a

cup of tea. Then we all three fell into easy conversation, as if we had

known each other all our lives.

The horses had been waiting a long while, but I was loth to part from

the Postmaster and his daughter. At last I took leave of them, the

father wishing me a pleasant journey, while the daughter saw me to the

_telega_. In the corridor I stopped and asked permission to kiss her.

Dunia consented. I can remember a great many kisses since then, but

none which left such a lasting, such a delightful impression.

Several years passed, when circumstances brought me back to the same

tract, to the very same places. I recollected the old Postmasters

daughter, and rejoiced at the prospect of seeing her again.

"But," I thought, "perhaps the old Postmaster has been changed, and

Dunia may be already married." The idea that one or the other might

be dead also passed through my mind, and I approached the station of

---- with sad presentiments. The horses drew up at the small station

house. I entered the waiting-room, and instantly recognised the

pictures representing the story of the Prodigal Son. The table and the

bed stood in their old places, but the flowers on the window sills had

disappeared, while all the surroundings showed neglect and decay.

The Postmaster was asleep under his great-coat, but my arrival awoke

him and he rose. It was certainly Simeon Virin, but how aged! While he

was preparing to make a copy of my travelling certificate, I looked at

his grey hairs, and the deep wrinkles in his long, unshaven face, his

bent back, and I was amazed to see how three or four years had managed

to change a strong, middle-aged man into a frail, old one.

"Do you recognise me?" I asked him, "we are old friends."

"May be," he replied, gloomily, "this is a highway, and many travellers

have passed through here."

"Is your Dunia well?" I added. The old man frowned.

"Heaven knows," he answered.

"Apparently, she is married," I said.