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Everything he saw from the carriage window, everything in that

cold pure air, in the pale light of the sunset, was as fresh, and

gay, and strong as he was himself: the roofs of the houses

shining in the rays of the setting sun, the sharp outlines of

fences and angles of buildings, the figures of passers-by, the

carriages that met him now and then, the motionless green of the

trees and grass, the fields with evenly drawn furrows of

potatoes, and the slanting shadows that fell from the houses, and

trees, and bushes, and even from the rows of potatoes-everything

was bright like a pretty landscape just finished and freshly

varnished.

"Get on, get on!" he said to the driver, putting his head out of

the window, and pulling a three-rouble note out of his pocket he

handed it to the man as he looked round. The driver's hand

fumbled with something at the lamp, the whip cracked, and the

carriage rolled rapidly along the smooth highroad.