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Updated: May 12, 2025
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.
"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.
"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.
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