When I opened the door of the coach I felt fearful of encountering an old woman suffering with the asthma, an ugly one who could not bear the smell of tobacco smoke, one who gets seasick every time she rides in a carriage, and little angels who are continually yelling and screaming for God knows what.

Sometimes you may have hoped to have a beautiful woman for a traveling companion; for instance, a widow of twenty or thirty years of age (let us say, thirty-six), whose delightful conversation will help you pass away the time.  But if you ever had this idea, as a reasonable man you would quickly dismiss it, for you know that such good fortune does not fall to the lot of the ordinary mortal.  These thoughts were in my mind when I opened the door of the stagecoach at exactly eleven o’clock on a stormy night of the Autumn of 1844.  I had ticket No. 2, and I was wondering who No. 1 might be.  The ticket agent had assured me that No. 3 had not been sold.

It was pitch dark within.  When I entered I said, “Good evening,” but no answer came.  “The devil!” I said to myself.  “Is my traveling companion deaf, dumb, or asleep?” Then I said in a louder tone:  “Good evening,” but no answer came.

All this time the stagecoach was whirling along, drawn by ten horses.

I was puzzled.  Who was my companion?  Was it a man?  Was it a woman?  Who was the silent No. 1, and, whoever it might be, why did he or she not reply to my courteous salutation?  It would have been well to have lit a match, but I was not smoking then and had none with me.  What should I do?  I concluded to rely upon my sense of feeling, and stretched out my hand to the place where No. 1 should have been, wondering whether I would touch a silk dress or an overcoat, but there was nothing there.  At that moment a flash of lightning, herald of a quickly approaching storm, lit up the night, and I perceived that there was no one in the coach excepting myself.  I burst out into a roar of laughter, and yet a moment later I could not help wondering what had become of No. 1.

A half hour later we arrived at the first stop, and I was just about to ask the guard who flashed his lantern into the compartment why there was no No. 1, when she entered.  In the yellow rays I thought it was a vision:  a pale, graceful, beautiful woman, dressed in deep mourning.

Here was the fulfillment of my dream, the widow I had hoped for.

I extended my hand to the unknown to assist her into the coach, and she sat down beside me, murmuring:  “Thank you, sir.  Good evening,” but in a tone that was so sad that it went to my very heart.

“How unfortunate,” I thought.  “There are only fifty miles between here and Malaga.  I wish to heaven this coach were going to Kamschatka.”  The guard slammed the door, and we were in darkness.  I wished that the storm would continue and that we might have a few more flashes of lightning.  But the storm didn’t.  It fled away, leaving only a few pallid stars, whose light practically amounted to nothing.  I made a brave effort to start a conversation.