“The wind blew from that direction,” replied he, “and I smelt smoke, a sure sign that a house is near.”

His cleverness and the acuteness of his sense of smell alike astonished me.  I bid the driver go where the other wished.  The horses ploughed their way through the deep snow.  The kibitka advanced slowly, sometimes upraised on a drift, sometimes precipitated into a ditch, and swinging from side to side.  It was very like a boat on a stormy sea.

Saveliitch groaned deeply as every moment he fell upon me.  I lowered the tsinofka,[16] I rolled myself up in my cloak and I went to sleep, rocked by the whistle of the storm and the lurching of the sledge.  I had then a dream that I have never forgotten, and in which I still see something prophetic, as I recall the strange events of my life.  The reader will forgive me if I relate it to him, as he knows, no doubt, by experience how natural it is for man to retain a vestige of superstition in spite of all the scorn for it he may think proper to assume.

I had reached the stage when the real and unreal begin to blend into the first vague visions of drowsiness.  It seemed to me that the snowstorm continued, and that we were wandering in the snowy desert.  All at once I thought I saw a great gate, and we entered the courtyard of our house.  My first thought was a fear that my father would be angry at my involuntary return to the paternal roof, and would attribute it to a premeditated disobedience.  Uneasy, I got out of my kibitka, and I saw my mother come to meet me, looking very sad.

“Don’t make a noise,” she said to me.  “Your father is on his death-bed, and wishes to bid you farewell.”

Struck with horror, I followed her into the bedroom.  I look round; the room is nearly dark.  Near the bed some people were standing, looking sad and cast down.  I approached on tiptoe.  My mother raised the curtain, and said—­

“Andrej Petrovitch, Petrousha has come back; he came back having heard of your illness.  Give him your blessing.”

I knelt down.  But to my astonishment instead of my father I saw in the bed a black-bearded peasant, who regarded me with a merry look.  Full of surprise, I turned towards my mother.

“What does this mean?” I exclaimed.  “It is not my father.  Why do you want me to ask this peasant’s blessing?”

“It is the same thing, Petrousha,” replied my mother.  “That person is your godfather.[17] Kiss his hand, and let him bless you.”

I would not consent to this.  Whereupon the peasant sprang from the bed, quickly drew his axe from his belt, and began to brandish it in all directions.  I wished to fly, but I could not.  The room seemed to be suddenly full of corpses.  I stumbled against them; my feet slipped in pools of blood.  The terrible peasant called me gently, saying to me—­

“Fear nothing, come near; come and let me bless you.”