[Footnote 6: The Russians usually address each other by their Christian name and that of their father. Thus Andrei Petrovitch means simply Andrew, son of Peter.] [Footnote 7: The rouble, at that time, was worth about three shillings and four-pence.] [Footnote 8: Diminutive of Arina.] [Footnote 9: Peter, son of Andrew.] [Footnote 10: A sour but refreshing drink made from rye-meal and malt.] [Footnote 11: Brandy.] CHAPTER II. THE GUIDE. My reflections during the journey were not very agreeable. My loss, according to the value of money at that time, was of no little importance. I could not but confess, within my own mind, that my behaviour at the Simbirsk inn was very stupid, and I felt guilty in the presence of Savelitch.’ All this tormented me. The old man sat in gloomy silence upon the seat of the vehicle, with his face averted from me, and every now and then giving vent to a sigh. I wanted at all hazards to become reconciled to him, but I did not know how to begin. At last I said to him: “Come, come, Savelitch, that will do, let us be friends. I was to blame; I see myself that I was in the wrong. I acted very foolishly yesterday, and I offended you without cause. I promise that I will act more wisely for the future, and listen to your advice. Come, don’t be angry, but let us be friends again.” “Ah! father, Peter Andreitch,” he replied, with a deep sigh, “I am angry with myself; I alone am to blame. How could I leave you alone in the inn! But what else could be expected? We are led astray by sin. The thought came into my mind to go and see the clerk’s wife, who is my gossip.[1] But so it was: I went to my gossip, and ill-luck came of it. Was there ever such a misfortune! How shall I ever be able to look in the face of my master and mistress? What will they say when they know that their child is a drunkard and a gambler?” 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.”