Its muzzle, young-looking, with the nether lip drawn up like that of a fish, nostrils distended and ears pressed back from fear, kept up for a few seconds near Nikíta’s shoulder and then began to fall behind.
‘Just see what liquor does!’ said Nikíta. ‘They’ve tired that little horse to death. What pagans!’
For a few minutes they heard the panting of the tired little horse and the drunken shouting of the peasants. Then the panting and the shouts died away, and around them nothing could be heard but the whistling of the wind in their ears and now and then the squeak of their sledge-runners over a windswept part of the road.
This encounter cheered and enlivened Vasíli Andréevich, and he drove on more boldly without examining the way-marks, urging on the horse and trusting to him.
Nikíta had nothing to do, and as usual in such circumstances he drowsed, making up for much sleepless time. Suddenly the horse stopped and Nikíta nearly fell forward onto his nose.
‘You know we’re off the track again!’ said Vasíli Andréevich.
‘How’s that?’
‘Why, there are no way-marks to be seen. We must have got off the road again.’
‘Well, if we’ve lost the road we must find it,’ said Nikíta curtly, and getting out and stepping lightly on his pigeon-toed feet he started once more going about on the snow.
He walked about for a long time, now disappearing and now reappearing, and finally he came back.
‘There is no road here. There may be farther on,’ he said, getting into the sledge.
It was already growing dark. The snow-storm had not increased but had also not subsided.
‘If we could only hear those peasants!’ said Vasíli Andréevich.
‘Well they haven’t caught us up. We must have gone far astray. Or maybe they have lost their way too.’
‘Where are we to go then?’ asked Vasíli Andréevich.
‘Why, we must let the horse take its own way,’ said Nikíta. ‘He will take us right. Let me have the reins.’
Vasíli Andréevich gave him the reins, the more willingly because his hands were beginning to feel frozen in his thick gloves.
Nikíta took the reins, but only held them, trying not to shake them and rejoicing at his favourite’s sagacity. And indeed the clever horse, turning first one ear and then the other now to one side and then to the other, began to wheel round.
‘The one thing he can’t do is to talk,’ Nikíta kept saying. ‘See what he is doing! Go on, go on! You know best. That’s it, that’s it!’
The wind was now blowing from behind and it felt warmer.
‘Yes, he’s clever,’ Nikíta continued, admiring the horse. ‘A Kirgiz horse is strong but stupid. But this one – just see what he’s doing with his ears! He doesn’t need any telegraph. He can scent a mile off.’
Before another half-hour had passed they saw something dark ahead of them – a wood or a village – and stakes again appeared to the right. They had evidently come out onto the road.
‘Why, that’s Gríshkino again!’ Nikíta suddenly exclaimed.
And indeed, there on their left was that same barn with the snow flying from it, and farther on the same line with the frozen washing, shirts and trousers, which still fluttered desperately in the wind.
Again they drove into the street and again it grew quiet, warm, and cheerful, and again they could see the manure-stained street and hear voices and songs and the barking of a dog. It was already so dark that there were lights in some of the windows.
Half-way through the village Vasíli Andréevich turned the horse towards a large double-fronted brick house and stopped at the porch.
Nikíta went to the lighted snow-covered window, in the rays of which flying snow-flakes glittered, and knocked at it with his whip.
‘Who is there?’ a voice replied to his knock.
‘From Krestý, the Brekhunóvs, dear fellow,’ answered Nikíta. ‘Just come out for a minute.’
Someone moved from the window, and a minute or two later there was the sound of the passage door as it came unstuck, then the latch of the outside door clicked and a tall white-bearded peasant, with a sheepskin coat thrown over his white holiday shirt, pushed his way out holding the door firmly against the wind, followed by a lad in a red shirt and high leather boots.
‘Is that you, Andréevich?’ asked the old man.
‘Yes, friend, we’ve gone astray,’ said Vasíli Andréevich. ‘We wanted to get to Goryáchkin but found ourselves here. We went a second time but lost our way again.’
‘Just see how you have gone astray!’ said the old man. ‘Petrúshka, go and open the gate!’ he added, turning to the lad in the red shirt.
‘All right,’ said the lad in a cheerful voice, and ran back into the passage.
‘But we’re not staying the night,’ said Vasíli Andréevich.
‘Where will you go in the night? You’d better stay!’
‘I’d be glad to, but I must go on. It’s business, and it can’t be helped.’
‘Well, warm yourself at least. The samovar is just ready.’
‘Warm myself? Yes, I’ll do that,’ said Vasíli Andréevich. ‘It won’t get darker. The moon will rise and it will be lighter. Let’s go in and warm ourselves, Nikíta.’
