Short Fiction, Aleksandr Kuprin [the speed reading book txt] 📗

deep, and the road had scarcely been laid yet. Vassily harnessed three horses tandem fashion: the first was a small roan horse, which age had plentifully speckled with white, a cunning little animal and wonderfully good at remembering the way; behind it came a black mare⁠—dependable but lazy⁠—who needed the whip as much as she needed her oats; while between the shafts was a home-bred bay mare, meek and hardworking, Mashka by name.

Vassily packed the sledge with straw, covered it with sacking, and, after helping in the Saint, settled himself on the front seat in true Russian fashion: one leg in the sledge, and the other hanging outside, to serve as brake on the sharp turns. He had six lines made of ropes in his hands, and two whips; a shortish one, tucked into his boot, and a long one, which he held in his hand, letting the lash trail far behind the sledge, where it traced a winding pattern on the snow.

Vassily’s troika was by no means showy, but you couldn’t have found a better one. The two front horses had little bells tied to their collars, chosen to jingle in tune, while under the douga the shaft horse had a Valda bell with a mellower tone. The noise they made could be heard for five versts round; everybody could tell that the travellers were honest folks who had nothing to hide. Looking at the horses you wouldn’t have thought much of them; yet, in the long run, the most celebrated trotters couldn’t have kept up with them. The little white horse ran with its head held low, watching the snow; where the road took a turn it did not need the rein to know which way to go. Vassily sometimes dozed on his seat, but even dozing he was on the alert and if the little bells jingled out of tune with the larger shaft bell, he was awake in a second. Should one of the horses shirk its bit, or not pull honestly, or let the others do its work, Vassily would immediately remind it of its duty with his whip, and should one of them take too much on itself, a jerk of the lines would damp its ardour and things would run smoothly again. The horses’ gait was even and steady, they might have been wound-up mechanisms; only their ears occasionally twitched back. And the little bells jingled in tune on the long snowy road.

Several times they met robbers. Suddenly, from under a bridge, would appear some young highwaymen and bar the way:

“Stop! Pull up your horses, driver! Whom have you there? A rich nobleman? A prosperous trader? A fat priest?⁠ ⁠…”

And Vassily would answer:

“Open your eyes, you stupid louts! Can’t you see who sits there?”

The bandits would look closer and fling themselves on their knees.

“Forgive us, scoundrels that we are, Blessed Saint! What fools to have made such a mistake! Forgive us⁠—be merciful!”

“God will forgive,” would answer St. Nicholas. “Still, you should not attack, and rob, and kill people. Fearful will be the answer you will have to give in the next world!”

“Oh, we are sinners, Father, desperate sinners⁠ ⁠… But you, Most Merciful One, remember us, vile wretches, in your prayers⁠ ⁠… And may you travel in peace.”

“Peace to you, too, in your camp, dear robbers.”

Thus did Vassily drive the Saint for many days and nights. They stopped to feed the horses at the houses of other stage-drivers, friends of Vassily’s⁠—he had friends and acquaintances everywhere. Thus they passed through the government of Saratov, through the lands given to the colonists, through little Russia, and beyond, where foreign lands began.

Meanwhile, Arius-the-Giant had come forth from his lofty mansion and stooping, put his ear to the damp ground. He listened long, then rose, blacker than a thunder cloud, and called his servants:

“My men, my faithful men! I felt that St. Nicholas was on his way here, and it is Vassily, the stage-driver, who is bringing him. If Nicholas should arrive before Holy Week, we are lost⁠—all of us⁠—like so many black beetles. Do all you can⁠—do all you know how⁠—to delay him for a day or two. If you don’t, I will have your heads cut off. Not one shall escape. But the one who is smart enough to do my bidding, I will cover with gold and precious stones and give as wife my only, my beautiful daughter, Heresy.”

And the servants ran, they flew, to carry out his orders.

Meanwhile Vassily and the Saint were crossing foreign lands. The population was queer and uncivil and wouldn’t speak Russian. They were tattered and swarthy, with faces that looked as if they had been scraped and eyes that glared from under their brows like the eyes of wolves.

One day’s journey away. Tomorrow they would be at the Nikitsky Cathedral in time for Mass. They stopped for the night in a village, in the isba of the local stage-driver⁠—a stern man, rough and unsociable.

The travellers asked for oats to feed the horses.

“I haven’t any oats left,” was the answer.

“Never mind, Vassily,” said the Saint. “Just take the empty bag from under the seat and shake it into the manger.”

Vassily obeyed and from the bag poured heavy, golden wheat. It filled the mangers.

The travellers then asked for food. The man answered by signs that he had none to give them.

“Well,” said the Saint, “if there is nothing there’s nothing to be done. Have you any bread left, Vassily?”

“Yes, Father, a little crust, but it is very stale.”

“Never mind⁠—we will crumble it into water and we shall call it a broth.”19

After supper, they said their prayers and lay down to sleep⁠—the Saint on a bench and Vassily on the floor. The Saint fell asleep as sweetly as a baby, but Vassily could not sleep. His heart was uneasy⁠ ⁠… Finally he got up and went to have a look at his horses. He entered the stables and then rushed out, trembling and haggard with fright, and woke the