Short Fiction by Leo Tolstoy (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

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 hoarfrost, and he went at a walk. Suddenly he stumbled and sat down in a ditch or watercourse. 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 snowdrift. 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.

Here in the village there seemed to be less wind and snow, and the frost was less keen.

“Why, this is Gríshkino,” said Vasíli Andréevich.

“So it is,” responded Nikíta.

It really was Gríshkino, which meant that they had gone too far to the left and had travelled some six miles, not quite in the direction they aimed at, but towards their destination for all that.

From Gríshkino to Goryáchkin was about another four miles.

In the middle of the village they almost ran into a tall man walking down the middle of the street.

“Who are you?” shouted the man, stopping the horse, and recognizing Vasíli Anderéevich he immediately took hold of the shaft, went along it hand over hand till he reached the sledge, and placed himself on the driver’s seat.

He was Isáy, a peasant of Vasíli Andréevich’s acquaintance, and well known as the principal horse-thief in the district.

“Ah, Vasíli Andréevich! Where are you off to?” said Isáy, enveloping Nikíta in the odour of the vodka he had drunk.

“We were going to Goryáchkin.”

“And look where you’ve got to! You should have gone through Molchánovka.”

“Should have, but didn’t manage it,” said Vasíli Andréevich, holding in the horse.

“That’s a good horse,” said Isáy, with a shrewd glance at Mukhórty, and with a practised hand he tightened the loosened knot high in the horse’s bushy tail.

“Are you going to stay the night?”

“No, friend. I must get on.”

“Your business must be pressing. And who is this? Ah, Nikíta Stepánych!”

“Who else?” replied Nikíta. “But I say, good friend, how are we to avoid going astray again?”

“Where can you go astray here? Turn back straight down the street and then when you come out keep straight on. Don’t take to the left. You will come out onto the high road, and then turn to the right.”

“And where do we turn off the high road? As in summer, or the winter way?” asked Nikíta.

“The winter way. As soon as you turn off you’ll see some bushes, and opposite them there is a way-mark⁠—a large oak, one with branches⁠—and that’s the way.”

Vasíli Andréevich turned