*** with melancholy apprehensions. The horses stopped at the little post-house. On entering the room, I at once recognized the pictures representing the history of the Prodigal Son; the table and bed stood in their old places, but there were now no flowers on the sills, and everything showed symptoms of decay and neglect. The station-master was sleeping under his sheepskin coat; my arrival awoke him; he raised himself. It was Sampson Virin, indeed: but how he had aged! Whilst he was arranging the papers to copy my order for horses, I looked at his gray hairs, at the deep wrinkles on a long-unshaven face, on his bent form, and could not help wondering how it was possible that three or four years had changed him, hale as he used to be, into a feeble old man.
"Dost thou recognize me?" asked I; "we are old friends.
"Maybe," answered he, gruffly; "this is the high road, many travellers have halted here."
"Is thy Dounia well?" I continued.
The old man frowned. "God knows," answered he.
"Then she is married, I suppose," said I.
The old man feigned not to hear me, and continued reading my padarojnaya[1] in a whisper. I ceased interrogating him, and asked for some tea. A feeling of curiosity disquieted me, and I was hoping that some punch would loosen the tongue of my old acquaintance.
I was not mistaken; the old man did not refuse the proffered glass. I observed that the rum was dispelling
- ↑ An official order for post-horses.—Tr.
