The Horse-Stealers and other stories

vited to restore the church in the cemetery. He had been born in the town, had been at school, had grown up

e into the chief street, a hotel of four storeys stood facing one; in old days there was an ugly grey fence just there; but nothing—neither fences nor houses —had change

mself. “Uzelkov the architect who divorced his wife? He used to

remembe

ew about it. Think, now! Shapkin the attorney managed my divorce for me, the rascal

Nikola

Well, is he ali

fice. He is very well off. He has two houses in Kirpitch

f the hotel and sauntered slowly towards Kirpitchny Street it was midday. He found Shapkin at his office and scarcely recognized him. From the o

e forgotten me,” began Uzelkov.

ognized, and was struck all of a heap. There followe

you care for champagne? Perhaps you would like oysters? My dear fellow, I have had so

no time to spare. I must go at once to the cemetery and ex

my angel, you seem to be afraid of me and hold me at arm’s length? Sit a little nearer! There is no need for you to be afraid of me nowadays. He-he! . . . At one time, it is true, I was a cunni

k, and with a pair of horses drov

the fee were a good one, as, for instance, in your case. What did you pay me then? Five or six thousand! That was worth taking trouble for, wasn’t it? You went off to Petersburg and left the whole thing in my hands to do the best I could, and, though Sofya Mihailovna, your wife, came only of a merchant family, she was proud and dignified. To bribe her to take the guilt on herself was difficult, awfully difficult! I would go to negotiate with her, and as soon as she saw me she calle

thousand she had from me

ge for yourself, Boris Petrovitch, weren’t you the very person for me to get money out of? . . . You were a wealthy man and had everything you wanted. . . . Your marriage was an idle whim, and so was your divorce. You were making a lot of money. . . . I remember you made a scoop of twenty

w did Sofya Mihailov

perhaps she loved you; but, do you know, she took to drink. . . . As soon as she got her money she was off driving about with officers. It was drunkenness, dissipation,

m her . . . sometimes she would take offence at something and

. drunk. ‘Take back your cursed money,’ she said, and flung a roll of notes in my face. . . . So she could not keep it up. I picked

you put t

ouple of months later I was going home one night in a nasty drunken condition. . . . I lighted a candle, and lo and behold! Sofya Mihailovna was sitting on my sofa, and she was drunk, too, and in a frantic state—as wild as

. . . gav

I remember,

couldn’t or wouldn’t have given it her, you might have

e to write, considering that she wrote to you hers

that I had no thoughts to spare for letters. . . . But you were an outsider, y

thought very differently. . . . Now maybe I’d give her a thousand roubles, but then even that ten-rouble note

avenue. The bare cherry-trees and acacias, the grey crosses and tombstones, were silvered with hoar-frost, every little grain of sno

etty one,” said Uzelk

. . And over there, beyond that iron monument on the ri

ght and walked through the d

to a little slab of white marble. “A

f his cap too, and another bald patch gleamed in the sunlight. There was the stillness of the tomb all

“It’s nothing to her now that she took the blame on herse

Uzelkov as

ateful the past, it w

pointed to h

could have given death points and won the game if we had had

e tears would have tasted sweet and refreshing. A moisture came into his eyes and there was a lump in his throat, but . . . Shapkin

with the priest and hastened away to weep. . . . He stole up to the grave secretly, furtively, looking round him every minute. The little

weep!” thou

e worked up his feelings, the tears did not flow nor the lump come in his throat. After