RUDIN
He began reading the inscriptions on the walls—the ordinary distraction of weary travellers; suddenly the door creaked and the superintendent came in.
‘There are no horses for Sk———, and there won’t be any for a long time,’ he said, ‘but here are some ready to go to V———.’
‘To V———?’ said Rudin. ‘Why, that’s not on my road at all. I am going to Penza, and V——— lies, I think, in the direction of Tamboff.’
‘What of that? you can get there from Tamboff, and from V——— you won’t be at all out of your road.’
Rudin thought a moment.
‘Well, all right,’ he said at last, ‘tell them to put the horses to. It is the same to me; I will go to Tamboff.’
The horses were soon ready. Rudin carried his own portmanteau, climbed into the cart, and took his seat, his head hanging as before. There was something helpless and pathetically submissive in his bent figure . . . And the three horses went off at a slow trot.
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