And he moved my things with increased energy. While they were shifting my things, with the wind at my back almost carrying me off my legs, I went towards the second sledge. The sledge was more than a quarter buried in the snow, especially on the side where a cloak had been hung over the two drivers’ heads to keep off the wind; under the cloak it was sheltered and snug. The old man was lying just as before with his legs out, while the storyteller was still telling his story: “So at the very time when the general arrived in the king’s name, that is, to Mariya in the prison, Mariya says to him, ‘General! I don’t want you, and I cannot love you, and you are not my lover; my lover is that same prince.’ … So then”—he was going on, but, seeing me, he paused a moment, and began pulling at his pipe.
“Well, sir, are you come to listen to the tale?” said the other man, whom I have called the counsellor.
“Why, you are nice and cheerful in here!” I said.
“To be sure, it passes the time—anyway, it keeps one from thinking.”
“Don’t you know, really, where we are now?” This question, it struck me, was not liked by the drivers.
“Why, who’s to make out where we are? Maybe we’ve got to the Kalmucks altogether,” answered the counsellor.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“What are we to do? Why, we’ll go on, and maybe we’ll get somewhere,” he said in a tone of displeasure.
“Well, but if we don’t get there, and the horses can go no further in the snow, what then?”
“What then? Nothing.”