When I was living in Petersburg,—many years ago,—whenever I had occasion to hire a public cabman I entered into conversation with him.
I was specially fond of conversing with the night cabmen,—poor peasants of the suburbs, who have come to town with their ochre-tinted little sledges and miserable little nags in the hope of supporting themselves and collecting enough money to pay their quit-rent to their owners.
So, then, one day I hired such a cabman…. He was a youth of twenty years, tall, well-built, a fine, dashing young fellow; he had blue eyes and rosy cheeks; his red-gold hair curled in rings beneath a wretched little patched cap, which was pulled down over his very eyebrows. And how in the world was that tattered little coat ever got upon those shoulders of heroic mould!
But the cabman's handsome, beardless face seemed sad and lowering.
I entered into conversation with him. Sadness was discernible in his voice also.
"What is it, brother?" I asked him.—"Why art not thou cheerful? Hast thou any grief?"
The young fellow did not reply to me at once.
"I have, master, I have," he said at last.—"And such a grief that it would be better if I were not alive. My wife is dead."
"Didst thou love her … thy wife?"
The young fellow turned toward me; only he bent his head a little.