“Why should I go to the right?” asked the driver in a dissatisfied tone. “Where do you see a road? I am not the owner of these horses that I should use the whip without mercy.”
The driver seemed to me to be in the right.
“In truth,” said I, “why do you think that there is a house not far off?”
“Because the wind blows from that direction,” replied the wayfarer, “and I can smell smoke; that is a sign that there is a village close at hand.”
His sagacity and nicety of smell astonished me. I ordered the driver to go on. The horses moved heavily through the deep snow. The kibitka advanced very slowly, at one moment mounting to the summit of a ridge, at another sinking into a deep hollow, now rolling to one side, and now to the other. It was very much like being in a ship on a stormy sea. Savelitch sighed and groaned, and continually jostled against me. I let down the cover of the kibitka, wrapped myself up in my cloak, and fell into a slumber, lulled by the music of the storm, and rocked by the motion of the vehicle.
I had a dream which I shall never forget, and in which I still see something prophetic when I compare it with the strange events of my life. The reader will excuse me for mentioning the matter, for probably he knows from experience that man is naturally given to superstition in spite of the great contempt entertained for it.
I was in that condition of mind when reality and imagination become confused in the vague sensations attending the first stage of drowsiness. It seemed to me that the storm still continued, and that we were still wandering about the wilderness of snow.... All at once I caught sight of a gate, and we entered the courtyard of our mansion. My first thought was a fear that my father would be angry with me for my involuntary return to the paternal roof, and would regard it as an act of intentional disobedience. With a feeling of uneasiness I sprang out of the kibitka, and saw my mother coming down the steps to meet me, with a look of deep affliction upon her face.
“Hush!” she said to me; “your father is on the point of death, and wishes to take leave of you.”
Struck with awe, I followed her into the bedroom. I looked about me; the room was dimly lighted, and round the bed stood several persons with sorrow-stricken countenances. I approached very gently; my mother raised the curtain and said:
“Andrei Petrovitch, Petrousha has arrived; he has returned because he heard of your illness; give him your blessing.”