In order to console poor Savelitch, I gave him my word that I would never again spend a single copeck[2] without his consent. He calmed down by degrees, although every now and again he still continued muttering, with a shake of the head, “A hundred roubles! It’s no laughing matter!”
I was nearing the place of my destination. On every side of me extended a dreary-looking plain, intersected by hills and ravines. Everything was covered with snow. The sun was setting. The kibitka[3] was proceeding along the narrow road, or, to speak more precisely, along the track made by the peasants’ sledges Suddenly the driver began gazing intently about him, and at last, taking off his cap, he turned to me and said:
“My lord, will you not give orders to turn back?”
“Why?”
“The weather does not look very promising: the wind is beginning to rise; see how it whirls the freshly fallen snow along.”
“What does that matter?”
“And do you see that yonder?”
And the driver pointed with his whip towards the east.
“I see nothing, except the white steppe and the clear sky.”
“There—away in the distance: that cloud.”