Chapter 7

From the time he had covered himself with the sackcloth and seated
himself behind the sledge, Nikita had not stirred. Like all those who
live in touch with nature and have known want, he was patient and could
wait for hours, even days, without growing restless or irritable. He
heard his master call him, but did not answer because he did not want to
move or talk. Though he still felt some warmth from the tea he had drunk
and from his energetic struggle when clambering about in the snowdrift,
he knew that this warmth would not last long and that he had no strength
left to warm himself again by moving about, for he felt as tired as a
horse when it stops and refuses to go further in spite of the whip, and
its master sees that it must be fed before it can work again. The foot
in the boot with a hole in it had already grown numb, and he could no
longer feel his big toe. Besides that, his whole body began to feel
colder and colder.

The thought that he might, and very probably would, die that night
occurred to him, but did not seem particularly unpleasant or dreadful.
It did not seem particularly unpleasant, because his whole life had been
not a continual holiday, but on the contrary an unceasing round of
toil of which he was beginning to feel weary. And it did not seem
particularly dreadful, because besides the masters he had served here,
like Vasili Andreevich, he always felt himself dependent on the Chief
Master, who had sent him into this life, and he knew that when dying he
would still be in that Master's power and would not be ill-used by Him.
'It seems a pity to give up what one is used to and accustomed to. But
there's nothing to be done, I shall get used to the new things.'

'Sins?' he thought, and remembered his drunkenness, the money that had
gone on drink, how he had offended his wife, his cursing, his neglect of
church and of the fasts, and all the things the priest blamed him for
at confession. 'Of course they are sins. But then, did I take them on of
myself? That's evidently how God made me. Well, and the sins? Where am I
to escape to?'

So at first he thought of what might happen to him that night, and
then did not return to such thoughts but gave himself up to whatever
recollections came into his head of themselves. Now he thought of
Martha's arrival, of the drunkenness among the workers and his own
renunciation of drink, then of their present journey and of Taras's
house and the talk about the breaking-up of the family, then of his own
lad, and of Mukhorty now sheltered under the drugget, and then of his
master who made the sledge creak as he tossed about in it. 'I expect
you're sorry yourself that you started out, dear man,' he thought. 'It
would seem hard to leave a life such as his!