a Russian, by name Lazarev, and as there were no Esthonians
in the neighborhood, Yanson had practically remained silent for almost
two years. In general, he was apparently not inclined to talk, and was
silent not only with human beings, but even with animals. He would water
the horse in silence, harness it in silence, moving about it, slowly and
lazily, with short, irresolute steps, and when the horse, annoyed by his
manner, would begin to frolic, to become capricious, he would beat it in
silence with a heavy whip. He would beat it cruelly, with stolid, angry
persistency, and when this happened at a time when he was suffering from
the aftereffects of a carouse, he would work himself into a frenzy. At
such times the crack of the whip could be heard in the house, with the
frightened, painful pounding of the horse's hoofs upon the board floor
of the barn. For beating the horse his master would beat Yanson, but
then, finding that he could not be reformed, paid no more attention to
him.

Once or twice a month Yanson became intoxicated, usually on those days
when he took his master to the large railroad station, where there was a
refreshment bar. After leaving his master at the station, he would drive
off about half a verst away, and there, stalling the sled and the horse
in the snow on the side of the road, he would wait until the train
had gone. The sled would stand sideways, almost overturned, the horse
standing with widely spread legs up to his belly in a snow-bank, from
time to time lowering his head to lick the soft, downy snow, while
Yanson would recline in an awkward position in the sled as if dozing
away. The unfastened ear-lappets of his worn fur cap would hang down
like the ears of a setter, and the moist sweat would stand under his
little reddish nose.

Soon he would return to the station, and would quickly become
intoxicated.

On his way back to the farm, the whole ten versts, he would drive at
a fast gallop. The little horse, driven to madness by the whip, would
rear, as if possessed by a demon; the sled would sway, almost overturn,
striking against poles, and Yanson, letting the reins go, would half
sing, half exclaim abrupt, meaningless phrases in Esthonian. But more
often he would not sing, but with his teeth gritted together in an
onrush of unspeakable rage, suffering and delight, he would drive
silently on as though blind. He would not notice those who passed him,
he would not call to them to look out,