‘We must go to the right,’ he said decidedly. ‘The wind was blowing on our left before, but now it is straight in my face. Drive to the right,’ he repeated with decision.
Vasíli Andréevich took his advice and turned to the right, but still there was no road. They went on in that direction for some time. The wind was as fierce as ever and it was snowing lightly.
‘It seems, Vasíli Andréevich, that we have gone quite astray,’ Nikíta suddenly remarked, as if it were a pleasant thing. ‘What is that?’ he added, pointing to some potato bines that showed up from under the snow.
Vasíli Andréevich stopped the perspiring horse, whose deep sides were heaving heavily.
‘What is it?’
‘Why, we are on the Zakhárov lands. See where we’ve got to!’
‘Nonsense!’ retorted Vasíli Andréevich.
‘It’s not nonsense, Vasíli Andréevich. It’s the truth,’ replied Nikíta. ‘You can feel that the sledge is going over a potato-field, and there are the heaps of bines which have been carted here. It’s the Zakhárov factory land.’
‘Dear me, how we have gone astray!’ said Vasíli Andréevich. ‘What are we to do now?’
‘We must go straight on, that’s all. We shall come out somewhere – if not at Zakhárova then at the proprietor’s farm,’ said Nikíta.
Vasíli Andréevich agreed, and drove as Nikíta had indicated. So they went on for a considerable time. At times they came onto bare fields and the sledge-runners rattled over frozen lumps of earth. Sometimes they got onto a winter-rye field, or a fallow field on which they could see stalks of wormwood, and straws sticking up through the snow and swaying in the wind; sometimes they came onto deep and even white snow, above which nothing was to be seen.
The snow was falling from above and sometimes rose from below. The horse was evidently exhausted, his hair had all curled up from sweat and was covered with hoar-frost, and he went at a walk. Suddenly he stumbled and sat down in a ditch or water-course. Vasíli Andréevich wanted to stop, but Nikíta cried to him:
‘Why stop? We’ve got in and must get out. Hey, pet! Hey, darling! Gee up, old fellow!’ he shouted in a cheerful tone to the horse, jumping out of the sledge and himself getting stuck in the ditch.
The horse gave a start and quickly climbed out onto the frozen bank. It was evidently a ditch that had been dug there.
‘Where are we now?’ asked Vasíli Andréevich.
‘We’ll soon find out!’ Nikíta replied. ‘Go on, we’ll get somewhere.’
‘Why, this must be the Goryáchkin forest!’ said Vasíli Andréevich, pointing to something dark that appeared amid the snow in front of them.
‘We’ll see what forest it is when we get there,’ said Nikíta.
He saw that beside the black thing they had noticed, dry, oblong willow-leaves were fluttering, and so he knew it was not a forest but a settlement, but he did not wish to say so. And in fact they had not gone twenty-five yards beyond the ditch before something in front of them, evidently trees, showed up black, and they heard a new and melancholy sound. Nikíta had guessed right: it was not a wood, but a row of tall willows with a few leaves still fluttering on them here and there. They had evidently been planted along the ditch round a threshing-floor. Coming up to the willows, which moaned sadly in the wind, the horse suddenly planted his forelegs above the height of the sledge, drew up his hind legs also, pulling the sledge onto higher ground, and turned to the left, no longer sinking up to his knees in snow. They were back on a road.
‘Well, here we are, but heaven only knows where!’ said Nikíta.
The horse kept straight along the road through the drifted snow, and before they had gone another hundred yards the straight line of the dark wattle wall of a barn showed up black before them, its roof heavily covered with snow which poured down from it. After passing the barn the road turned to the wind and they drove into a snow-drift. But ahead of them was a lane with houses on either side, so evidently the snow had been blown across the road and they had to drive through the drift. And so in fact it was. Having driven through the snow they came out into a street. At the end house of the village some frozen clothes hanging on a line – shirts, one red and one white, trousers, leg-bands, and a petticoat – fluttered wildly in the wind. The white shirt in particular struggled desperately, waving its sleeves about.
‘There now, either a lazy woman or a dead one has not taken her clothes down before the holiday,’ remarked Nikíta, looking at the fluttering shirts.
III
AT the entrance to the street the wind still raged and the road was thickly covered with snow, but well within the village it was calm, warm, and cheerful. At one house a dog was barking, at another a woman, covering her head with her coat, came running from somewhere and entered the door of a hut, stopping on the threshold to have a look at the passing sledge. In the middle of the village girls could be heard singing.
