“My dear fellow, what use would it have been for me to write, considering that she wrote to you herself when she was lying in the hospital afterwards?”

“Yes, but I was so taken up then with my second marriage.  I was in such a whirl that I had no thoughts to spare for letters. . . .  But you were an outsider, you had no antipathy for Sofya. . . why didn’t you give her a helping hand? . . .”

“You can’t judge by the standards of to-day, Boris Petrovitch; that’s how we look at it now, but at the time we thought very differently. . . .  Now maybe I’d give her a thousand roubles, but then even that ten-rouble note I did not give her for nothing.  It was a bad business! . . .  We must forget it. . . .  But here we are. . . .”

The sledge stopped at the cemetery gates.  Uzelkov and Shapkin got out of the sledge, went in at the gate, and walked up a long, broad avenue.  The bare cherry-trees and acacias, the grey crosses and tombstones, were silvered with hoar-frost, every little grain of snow reflected the bright, sunny day.  There was the smell there always is in cemeteries, the smell of incense and freshly dug earth. . . .

“Our cemetery is a pretty one,” said Uzelkov, “quite a garden!”

“Yes, but it is a pity thieves steal the tombstones. . . .  And over there, beyond that iron monument on the right, Sofya Mihailovna is buried.  Would you like to see?”

The friends turned to the right and walked through the deep snow to the iron monument.

“Here it is,” said Shapkin, pointing to a little slab of white marble.  “A lieutenant put the stone on her grave.”

Uzelkov slowly took off his cap and exposed his bald head to the sun.  Shapkin, looking at him, took off his cap too, and another bald patch gleamed in the sunlight.  There was the stillness of the tomb all around as though the air, too, were dead.  The friends looked at the grave, pondered, and said nothing.

“She sleeps in peace,” said Shapkin, breaking the silence.  “It’s nothing to her now that she took the blame on herself and drank brandy.  You must own, Boris Petrovitch . . . .”

“Own what?” Uzelkov asked gloomily.

“Why. . . .  However hateful the past, it was better than this.”

And Shapkin pointed to his grey head.

“I used not to think of the hour of death. . . .  I fancied I could have given death points and won the game if we had had an encounter; but now. . . .  But what’s the good of talking!”

Uzelkov was overcome with melancholy.  He suddenly had a passionate longing to weep, as once he had longed for love, and he felt those tears would have tasted sweet and refreshing.  A moisture came into his eyes and there was a lump in his throat, but . . .  Shapkin was standing beside him and Uzelkov was ashamed to show weakness before a witness.  He turned back abruptly and went into the church.

Only two hours later, after talking to the churchwarden and looking over the church, he seized a moment when Shapkin was in conversation with the priest and hastened away to weep. . . .  He stole up to the grave secretly, furtively, looking round him every minute.  The little white slab looked at him pensively, mournfully, and innocently as though a little girl lay under it instead of a dissolute, divorced wife.