“What is it, barin?” replied the coachman.
“Can you see the country house anywhere?”
“No, barin.” After which, with a flourish of the whip, the man broke into a sort of endless, drawling song. In that song everything had a place. By “everything” I mean both the various encouraging and stimulating cries with which Russian folk urge on their horses, and a random, unpremeditated selection of adjectives.
Meanwhile Chichikov began to notice that the britchka was swaying violently, and dealing him occasional bumps. Consequently he suspected that it had left the road and was being dragged over a ploughed field. Upon Selifan’s mind there appeared to have dawned a similar inkling, for he had ceased to hold forth.
“You rascal, what road are you following?” inquired Chichikov.
“I don’t know,” retorted the coachman. “What can a man do at a time of night when the darkness won’t let him even see his whip?” And as Selifan spoke the vehicle tilted to an angle which left Chichikov no choice but to hang on with hands and teeth. At length he realised the fact that Selifan was drunk.
“Stop, stop, or you will upset us!” he shouted to the fellow.
“No, no, barin,” replied Selifan. “HOW could I upset you? To upset people is wrong. I know that very well, and should never dream of such conduct.”
Here he started to turn the vehicle round a little—and kept on doing so until the britchka capsized on to its side, and Chichikov landed in the mud on his hands and knees. Fortunately Selifan succeeded in stopping the horses, although they would have stopped of themselves, seeing that they were utterly worn out. This unforeseen catastrophe evidently astonished their driver. Slipping from the box, he stood resting his hands against the side of the britchka, while Chichikov tumbled and floundered about in the mud, in a vain endeavour to wriggle clear of the stuff.
“Ah, you!” said Selifan meditatively to the britchka. “To think of upsetting us like this!”