“Now, now, Savelyich! Enough, let’s make peace, it was my fault; I see myself that it was my fault. I got up to some mischief yesterday, and I wrongfully offended you. I promise to behave more sensibly in the future and to listen to you. Don’t be angry; let’s make peace.”
“Eh, dearest Pyotr Andreevich!” he replied with a deep sigh. “It’s my own self I’m angry at; it’s my fault all around. How could I have left you alone at the inn! But there it is! The devil put it into my head to go and see the sexton’s wife; she’s my cousin. So there: go to your cousin, wind up in prison. It’s as bad as that!…How can I show my face to the masters? What’ll they say when they find out the little one drinks and gambles?”
To comfort poor Savelyich, I gave him my word that in the future I would not dispose of a single kopeck without his consent. He gradually calmed down, though he still grumbled now and then, shaking his head: “A hundred roubles! It’s no laughing matter!”
I was drawing near to my destination. Around me stretched a dismal wasteland crosscut by hills and ravines. Everything was covered with snow. The sun was setting. Our kibitka drove along the narrow road, or, rather, track, left by peasant sledges. Suddenly the driver started looking to one side, and finally, taking off his cap, turned around to me and said:
“Master, won’t you order me to turn back?”
“Why?”
“The weather’s uncertain: the wind’s picking up a little—see how it’s sweeping off the fresh snow?”
“What’s the harm in that?”
“And do you see that there?” (The driver pointed to the east with his whip.)
“I see nothing but the white steppe and the clear sky.”
“No, there—over there: that little cloud.”
I did in fact see a white cloud on the edge of the horizon, which I took at first for a distant hill. The driver explained to me that the little cloud heralded a storm.
I had heard about the blizzards in those parts and knew that they could bury whole trains of sledges. Savelyich, agreeing with the driver, advised me to turn back. But the wind did not seem strong to me; I hoped to reach the next posting station in good time and told them to speed it up.
The driver went into a gallop; but he kept glancing to the east. The horses raced swiftly. The wind meanwhile was growing stronger by the minute. The little cloud turned into a white storm-cloud, which rose heavily, grew, and gradually covered the sky. Fine snow began to fall—and suddenly thick flakes came pouring down. The wind howled; a blizzard set in. In one moment the dark sky blended with the sea of snow. Everything vanished.
“Well, master,” shouted the driver, “bad luck: it’s a snowstorm.”
I peeked out of the kibitka: everything was dark and whirling. The wind howled with such fierce expressiveness that it seemed animate; Savelyich and I were covered with snow; the horses slowed to a walk—and soon stopped.
“Why don’t you go on?” I asked the driver impatiently.
“Why go on?” he replied, climbing down from the box. “We don’t know where we’ve got to as it is: there’s no road, and darkness all around.”
I started to scold him. Savelyich interceded for him.
“Why on earth didn’t you listen to him?” he said crossly. “You should have gone back to the inn, drunk your tea, slept till morning, the storm would have died down, we would have gone on. What’s the hurry? It’s not as if there’s a wedding!”
Savelyich was right. There was nothing to be done. The snow just poured down. A drift was piling up around the kibitka. The horses stood hanging their heads and shuddering occasionally. The driver walked around and, having nothing to do, kept adjusting the harness. Savelyich grumbled; I looked in all directions, hoping to see at least some sign of a dwelling or a road, but could make out nothing except the hazy whirl of the blizzard…Suddenly I saw something black.
“Hey, driver!” I shouted. “Look: what’s that blackness over there?”
The driver strained his eyes.
“God knows, master,” he said, climbing back into his seat. “Could be a wagon, could be a tree, but it seems like it’s moving. Must be either a wolf or a man.”
I ordered him to drive towards the unknown object, which at once started to move towards us. Two minutes later we came up to a man.
“Hey, my good man!” the driver called to him. “Tell us, do you know where the road is?”
“The road’s right here; I’m standing on a firm strip of it,” the wayfarer said. “But what use is that?”
“Listen, good fellow,” I said to him, “are you familiar with these parts? Can you lead me to a night’s lodgings?”
“I know these parts,” the wayfarer replied. “By God, I’ve roamed and ridden all over them. But you see what the weather’s like: you’re sure to lose your way. Better stay here and wait it out, Maybe the storm will die down and the sky will clear: then we’ll find our way by the stars.”
His coolheadedness encouraged me. I had already resolved to entrust myself to God’s will and spend the night in the middle of the steppe, when the wayfarer suddenly climbed nimbly up to the box and said to the driver:
“Well, by God, there’s a house nearby; turn right and drive on.”
“Why should I go to the right?” the driver asked with displeasure. “Where do you see a road? Oh, yes, yes, of course: why spare another man’s horse?”
The driver seemed right to me.
“In fact,” I said, “what makes you think there’s a house nearby?”
“Because the wind blew from there,” said the wayfarer, “and I smelled smoke. We must be close to a village.”
His shrewdness and keen sense of smell amazed me. I told the driver to go there. The horses stepped heavily through the deep snow. The kibitka moved slowly, now driving up a drift, now sinking into a gully, and tilting now to one side, now to the other. It was like a ship sailing on a stormy sea. Savelyich groaned and kept lurching into me. I lowered the matting, wrapped myself in my fur coat, and dozed off, lulled by the singing of the storm and the rocking of the slowly moving kibitka.
I had a dream, which I can never forget and in which to this day I see something prophetic, when I weigh it against the strange circumstances of my life. The reader will forgive me, for he probably knows from his own experience how natural it is for a man to give himself up to superstition, despite all possible scorn for such prejudices.
I was in that state of mind and feeling when reality, yielding to reverie, merges with it in the vague visions of first sleep. It seemed to me that the storm was still raging and we were still wandering in the snowy desert…Suddenly I saw gates and drove into the courtyard of our estate. My first thought was fear that father might be angry at my involuntary return under the parental roof and would consider it deliberate disobedience. In apprehension I jumped out of the kibitka, and I see mother coming to meet me on the porch with a look of profound grief. “Quiet,” she says to me, “father is ill and dying, and he wishes to bid you farewell.” Stricken with fear, I follow her to the bedroom. I see that the room is faintly lit; by the bed stand people with sorrowful faces. I quietly approach the bed; mother lifts the curtain and says: “Andrei Petrovich, Petrusha is here; he came back, having learned of your illness; give him your blessing.” I knelt down and turned my eyes to the sick man. What’s this?…Instead of my father, I see a muzhik with a black beard lying in the bed and looking merrily at me. In bewilderment I turn to mother, I say to her: “What does this mean? This isn’t father. Why on earth should I ask a blessing from a muzhik?” “Never mind, Petrusha,” mother replied. “He is your proxy father; kiss his hand and let him bless you…” I did not consent. Then the muzhik leaped up from the bed, snatched an axe from behind his back, and started swinging it in all directions. I wanted to flee…and could not; the room became filled with dead bodies; I stumbled over bodies and slipped in pools of blood…The frightful muzhik called to me affectionately, saying: “Don’t be afeared, come, I’ll give you my blessing…” Terror and bewilderment seized me…And just then I woke up. The horses had stopped; Savelyich was pulling me by the arm, saying: “Get out, master: we’ve arrived.”