The rain seemed to have set in with the appearance to last for sometime. The dust of the high-road was now converted into a thick paste of mud, and with every moment it became more difficult for the horses to pull through it. Tchichikoff already began to feel uneasy at not seeing anything yet of Sobakevitch's estate, for, according to his calculations, they ought to have been there long ago. He tried again to look through the glass holes of his leather curtains; but to no purpose, it seemed as if an Egyptian darkness surrounded them.
"Selifan!" he at last shouted and popped his head out through the curtain.
"What does your glory wish?" replied Selifan.
"Look about you, don't you see the village yet?"
"No, your glory, I cannot see it anywhere." After having spoken thus, Selifan belaboured his horses once more and began a song—no, rather a tune, like the "Lieder ohne Worte" of Mendelsohn Bartholdy—without an end. In this tune were comprised all the sounds of approbation and reproach addressed to all the horses by their drivers, throughout the vast expanse of the Russian Empire, from one extremity to the other; suitable under all circumstances just as it comes to the mind and upon the tongue, naturally, without choice or preparation.
Meanwhile, Tchichikoff began to feel that his britchka was balancing about on all sides, and dealt him many an unpleasant shaking and severe knocks; these unpleasant sensations brought him to the conclusion that they must have deviated from the high-road, and were now driving over some uneven field. Selifan seemed also to be under the same impression, however, he did not say a word about it.
"You blunderbuss, upon what road are you driving me now?" Tchichikoff inquired angrily.
"What am I to do, your glory! it is so very dark, indeed, I cannot even see my whip!" Saying this, he drove the britchka so carelessly that it was nearly upset from the sudden shock, and Tchichikoff was obliged to cling with both hands to his seat. Then, and not till then, it was that he conjectured his coachman Selifan was not sober.
"Stop, stop, you will upset me!" he cried out to him.
"Oh, no, your glory! how could I? how could I upset your honour?" said Selifan. "It is a bad thing to be upset, I know it well myself; how could I therefore upset you, I certainly shall not upset you." Hereupon he began cautiously to turn the britchka round and round again, until he had at last succeeded in turning it all upon one side. Tchichikoff fell out of his carriage and lay there with his hands and feet deeply imbedded in the mud. Selifan had, however, succeeded in stopping his troika, though the horses would have done so, no doubt, from their own accord, for they seemed very much exhausted.