I put down the front curtain, wrapped my fur coat around me and dozed, lulled to sleep by the singing of the storm and the slow, swaying motion of the chaise.

I had a dream which I could never since forget and in which I still see a kind of prophecy when I reflect upon the strange vicissitudes of my life. The reader will forgive me, probably knowing from experience how natural it is for man to indulge in superstition, however great his contempt for all vain imaginings may be.

I was in that state of mind and feeling when reality gives way to dreams and merges into them in the shadowy visions of oncoming sleep. It seemed to me the storm was still raging and we were still wandering in the snowy desert…. Suddenly I saw a gateway and drove into the courtyard of our estate. My first thought was fear lest my father should be angry with me for my involuntary return and regard it as an intentional disobedience. Anxious, I jumped down from the chaise and saw my mother, who came out to meet me on the steps, with an air of profound grief.

“Don’t make any noise,” she said. “Your father is ill; he is dying and wants to say good-bye to you.”

Terror-stricken, I followed her to the bedroom. It was dimly lighted; people with sad-looking faces were standing by the bed. I approached the bed quietly; my mother lifted the bed-curtain and said: “Andrey Petrovich! Petrusha has come; he returned when he heard of your illness; bless him.” I knelt down and looked at the sick man. But what did I see? Instead of my father a black-bearded peasant lay on the bed looking at me merrily. I turned to my mother in perplexity, and said to her: “What does it mean? This is not my father. And why should I ask this peasant’s blessing?”—“Never mind, Petrusha,” my mother answered, “he takes your father’s place for the wedding; kiss his hand and let him bless you.”… I would not do it. Then the peasant jumped off the bed, seized an ax from behind his back, and began waving it about. I wanted to run away and could not; the room was full of dead bodies; I stumbled against them and slipped in the pools of blood…. The terrible peasant called to me kindly, saying: “Don’t be afraid, come and let me bless you.” Terror and confusion possessed me…. At that moment I woke up. The horses were standing still; Savelyich held me by the hand, saying: “Come out, sir; we have arrived.”

“Where?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“At the inn. With the Lord’s help we stumbled right against the fence. Make haste, come and warm yourself, sir.”

I stepped out of the chaise. The snowstorm was still raging though with less violence. It was pitch-dark. The landlord met us at the gate, holding a lantern under the skirt of his coat, and let us into a room that was small but clean enough; it was lighted by a burning splinter. A rifle and a tall Cossack cap hung on the wall.

The landlord, a Yaïk Cossack, was a man of about sixty, active and well-preserved. Savelyich brought in the box with the tea things and asked for a fire so that he could make tea, which had never seemed to me so welcome. The landlord went to look after things.

“Where is our guide?” I asked Savelyich.

“Here, your honor,” answered a voice above me.

I looked up and on the shelf by the stove saw a black beard and two glittering eyes.

“You must have got chilled, brother?”

“I should think I did with nothing but a thin jerkin on! I did have a sheepskin coat, but I confess I pawned it yesterday in a tavern; the frost did not seem to be bad.”

At that moment the landlord came in with a boiling samovar; I offered our guide a cup of tea; he climbed down from the shelf. His appearance, I thought, was striking. He was about forty, of medium height, lean and broad-shouldered. Gray was beginning to show in his black beard; his big, lively eyes were never still. His face had a pleasant but crafty expression. His hair was cropped like a peasant’s; he wore a ragged jerkin and Turkish trousers.