mostly by the forest, and we should not get lost. . . .'
'As for getting lost, we shouldn't, but the horses can't go on, lady!' answered the coachman. 'And it is Thy Will, O Lord! As though I had done it on purpose!'
'God knows where you have brought me. . . . Well, be quiet. . . . There are people asleep here, it seems. You can go. . . .'
The coachman put the portmanteau on the floor, and as he did so, a great lump of snow fell off his shoulders. He gave a sniff and went out.
Then the little girl saw two little hands come out from the middle of the bundle, stretch upwards and begin angrily disentangling the network of shawls, kerchiefs, and scarves. First a big shawl fell on the ground, then a hood, then a white knitted kerchief. After freeing her head, the traveller took off her pelisse and at once shrank to half the size. Now she was in a long, grey coat with big buttons and bulging pockets. From one pocket she pulled out a paper parcel, from the other a bunch of big, heavy keys, which she put down so carelessly that the sleeping man started and opened his eyes. For some time he looked blankly round him as though he didn't know where he was, then he shook his head, went to the corner and sat down. . . . The newcomer took off her great coat, which made her shrink to half her size again, she took off her big felt boots, and sat down, too.
By now she no longer resembled a bundle: she was a thin little brunette of twenty, as slim as a snake, with a long white face and curly hair. Her nose was long and sharp, her chin, too, was long and sharp, her eyelashes were long, the corners of her mouth were sharp, and, thanks to this general sharpness, the expression of her face was biting. Swathed in a closely fitting black dress with a mass of lace at her neck and sleeves, with sharp elbows and long pink fingers, she recalled the portraits of medi?val English ladies. The grave concentration of her face increased this likeness.
The lady looked round at the room, glanced sideways at the man and the little girl, shrugged her shoulders, and moved to the window. The dark windows were shaking from the damp west wind. Big flakes of snow glistening in their whiteness, lay on the window frame, but at once disappeared, borne away by the wind. The savage music grew louder and louder. . . .
After a long silence the little girl suddenly turned over, and said angrily, emphasizing each word:
'Oh, goodness, goodness, how unhappy I am! Unhappier than anyone!'
The man got up and moved with little steps to the child with a guilty air, which was utterly out of keeping with his huge figure and big beard.
'You are not asleep, dearie?' he said, in an apologetic voice. 'What do you want?'
'I don't want anything, my shoulder aches! You are a wicked man, Daddy, and God will punish you! You'll see He will punish you.'
'My darling, I know your shoulder aches, but what can I do, dearie?' said the man, in the tone in which men who have been drinking excuse themselves to their stern spouses. 'It's the journey has made your shoulder ache, Sasha. To-morrow we shall get there and rest, and the pain will go away. . . .'
'To-morrow, to-morrow. . . . Every day you say to-morrow. We shall be going on another twenty days.'
'But we shall arrive to-morrow, dearie, on your father's word of honour. I never tell a lie, but if we are detained by the snowstorm it is not my fault.'
'I can't bear any more, I can't, I can't!'
Sasha jerked her leg abruptly and filled the room with an unpleasant wailing. Her father made a despairing gesture, and looked hopelessly towards the young lady. The latter shrugged her shoulders, and hesitatingly went up to Sasha.
'Listen, my dear,' she said, 'it is no use crying. It's really naughty; if your shoulder aches it can't be helped.'
'You see, Madam,' said the man quickly, as though defending himself, 'we have not slept for two nights, and have been travelling in a revolting conveyance. Well, of course, it is natural she should be ill and miserable, . . . and then, you know, we had a drunken driver, our portmanteau has been stolen . . . the snowstorm all the time, but what's the use of crying, Madam? I am exhausted, though, by sleeping in a sitting position, and I feel as though I were drunk. Oh, dear! Sasha, and I feel sick as it is, and then you cry!'
The man shook his head, and with a gesture of despair sat down.
'Of course you mustn't cry,' said the young lady. 'It's only little babies cry. If you are ill, dear, you must undress and go to sleep. . . . Let us take off your things!'
When the child had been undressed and pacified a silence reigned again. The young lady seated herself at the window, and looked round wonderingly at the room of the inn, at the ikon, at the stove. . . . Apparently the room and the little girl with the thick nose, in her short boy's nightgown, and the child's father, all seemed strange to her. This strange man was sitting in a corner; he kept looking about him helplessly, as though he were drunk, and rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. He sat silent, blinking, and judging from his guilty-looking figure it was difficult to imagine that he would soon begin to speak. Yet he was the first to begin. Stroking his knees, he gave a cough, laughed, and said:
'It's a comedy, it really is. . . . I look and I cannot believe my eyes: for what devilry has destiny driven us to this accursed inn? What did she want to show by it? Life sometimes performs such
'No, not from far,' answered the young lady. 'I am going from our estate, fifteen miles from here, to our farm, to my father and brother. My name is Ilovaisky, and the farm is called Ilovaiskoe. It's nine miles away. What unpleasant weather!'
'It couldn't be worse.'
The lame boy came in and stuck a new candle in the pomatum pot.
'You might bring us the samovar, boy,' said the man, addressing him.
'Who drinks tea now?' laughed the boy. 'It is a sin to drink tea before mass. . . .'
'Never mind boy, you won't burn in hell if we do. . . .'
Over the tea the new acquaintances got into conversation.
Mlle. Ilovaisky learned that her companion was called Grigory Petrovitch Liharev, that he was the brother of the Liharev who was Marshal of Nobility in one of the neighbouring districts, and he himself had once been a landowner, but had 'run through everything in his time.' Liharev learned that her name was Marya Mihailovna, that her father had a huge estate, but that she was the only one to look after it as her father and brother looked at life through their fingers, were irresponsible, and were too fond of harriers.
'My father and brother are all alone at the farm,' she told him, brandishing her fingers (she had the habit of moving her fingers before her pointed face as she talked, and after every sentence moistened her lips with her sharp little tongue). 'They, I mean men, are an irresponsible lot, and don't stir a finger for themselves. I can fancy there will be no one to give them a meal after the fast! We have no mother, and we have such servants that they can't lay the tablecloth properly when I am away. You can imagine their condition now! They will be left with nothing to break their fast, while I have to stay here all night. How strange it all is.'
She shrugged her shoulders, took a sip from her cup, and said:
'There are festivals that have a special fragrance: at Easter, Trinity and Christmas there is a peculiar scent in the air. Even unbelievers are fond of those festivals. My brother, for instance, argues that there is no God, but he is the first to hurry to Matins at Easter.'
Liharev raised his eyes to Mlle. Ilovaisky and laughed.
'They argue that there is no God,' she went on, laughing too, 'but why is it, tell me, all the celebrated writers, the learned men, clever people generally, in fact, believe towards the end of their life?'
'If a man does not know how to believe when he is young, Madam, he won't believe in his old age if he is ever so much of a writer.'
Judging from Liharev's cough he had a bass voice, but, probably from being afraid to speak aloud, or from exaggerated shyness, he spoke in a tenor. After a brief pause he heaved a sign and said:
'The way I look at it is that faith is a faculty of the spirit. It is just the same as a talent, one must be born with it. So far as I can judge by myself, by the people I have seen in my time, and by all that is done around us, this faculty is present in Russians in its highest degree. Russian life presents us with an uninterrupted succession of convictions and aspirations, and if you care to know, it has not yet the faintest notion of lack of faith or scepticism. If a Russian does not believe in God, it means he believes in something else.'
Liharev took a cup of tea from Mlle. Ilovaisky, drank off half in one gulp, and went on:
