Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow Irina Reyfman (snow like ashes .TXT) 📖

everywhere. Plunged as I was in my ruminations, I failed to note that my carriage had long been standing without horses. The coachman who took me there drew me out of my pensiveness. “Sir, Master, a tip!” Although such a collection is not legal, everyone pays willingly in order not to travel according to the decrees.2 The twenty kopecks served me well. Anyone who has traveled by post coach knows that а voucher for horses is an indemnifying letter without which there is a cost to every purse (excepting that of a general, possibly). Taking it out of my pocket, I walked with it in the way people sometimes walk holding a cross to protect themselves.

The stationmaster was snoring when I lightly took him by the shoulder. “Who the devil is pestering me? What an idea it is to travel out of the city at night. There are no horses; it is still very early. Why don’t you go over, then, to the tavern, drink some tea or have a sleep?” Once he spoke, Mr. Stationmaster turned to the wall and again began to snore. What to do? I shook him again by the shoulder.3 “Damn it, as I’ve already said there are no horses,” and Mr. Stationmaster covered his head in the blanket and turned away from me.—“If the horses are all in use,” I reflected, “then it is unfair to be disturbing the sleep of the stationmaster. But if the horses are in the stable….”—I decided to find out whether Mr. Stationmaster was telling the truth. I went out to the courtyard, found the stable, and there discovered up to twenty horses; and while it is true that their bones were showing, they would have dragged me as far as the next station. From the stable, I returned to the stationmaster, shook him much harder. It seemed to me that I had the right to do so after discovering that the stationmaster had lied. He jumped up hastily and before he managed to force his eyes open asked, “Who has arrived? It isn’t….” But he came to his senses when he saw me and said, “Apparently, young fellow, in the past you acquired the habit of treating drivers this way. They used to be beaten with sticks. Times have changed.” The stationmaster lay down in the bed angrily. I wanted to treat him like those drivers of olden times were treated when they were exposed as liars. But the generosity I had exercised in giving a gratuity to the city driver aroused the drivers of Sofia to harness horses for me as fast as possible, and just as I was planning to take it out on the back of the stationmaster, a little harness bell chimed in the courtyard. I remained a good citizen. That is how twenty copper kopecks spared a peace-loving man from prosecution, my children from the example of intemperance in anger; and from this I learned that reason is a slave to impatience.

The horses hurry me along. My coachman has launched into song, a mournful one, as usual. Anyone who knows the melodies of Russian folk songs will admit that they contain something that expresses spiritual anguish of the soul. Practically all the melodies of songs of this kind have a soft tone.—One could learn from the people’s ear for music how to govern. You can find the composition of our nation’s soul in these songs.4 Consider the Russian person: you will find him to be thoughtful. If he wants to dispel boredom or if, as he himself calls it, he wants to have good time, he goes to a tavern. When in his cups he is spontaneous, bold, disagreeable. Should something cross him, he will quickly begin an argument or a fight.—The barge-hauler who visits a tavern with his head hanging and returns bloodied from fisticuffs is able to explain a lot of the Russian history that until now was enigmatic.

My coachman sings.—It was the third hour of the morning. Just like the little bell earlier, now his song effected sleep in me.—O Nature, having wrapped man at birth in the swaddling cloth of bitter sorrow, dragging him through the length of his entire life span across the harsh ridges of fear, grief, and sadness, you gave him sleep as a joy.—One goes to sleep, and everything has ended.—To an unhappy man waking up is unbearable. Oh, how pleasant death is for him. If it truly is an end to bitter sorrow.—All-benevolent Father, would you really avert your gaze from a man who bravely ends a troubled life? To you who are the source of all blessings a sacrifice of this kind is proffered. You alone give strength when one’s nature, shaken, falters. This is the voice of the Father summoning His child to Him. You gave me life, to You I return it, it has already become futile in this world.

TOSNA

When departing from Petersburg, I thought the road would be top quality. All who traveled on it following the sovereign thought so.5 And so it truly was, but only for a short spell. In dry weather, the dirt scattered on the road gave it a smooth surface; once soaked by the rains, it produced heaps of mud in the summer that made the road impassable…. Bothered by the bad road, I quit my carriage and entered the postal cabin with the intention of resting. In the cabin, I found a traveler who, seated at the usual sort of long rustic table in the front corner, was sorting papers and asking the postmaster to order that his horses be provided as soon as possible. In response to my question as to who he was, I learned he was solicitor of the old school, heading to Petersburg with a mass of tattered papers that he was reviewing at that moment. I entered unhesitatingly into conversation with him, and this is the talk we had: “Kind Sir! I, your most humble servant, was