It is
ghostly to see the way they glide along without a sound, for the
sledges wear no bells.
One may drive with perfect safety at a breakneck pace, for they all
drive down on one side of the street and up on the other. Nor will an
idvosjik hesitate to use his whip about the head and face of another
idvosjik who dares to turn without crossing the street.
He stops his horse with a guttural trill, as if one should say
"Tr-r-r-r-r" in the back of the throat. It sounds like a gargle.
The horses are sharp-shod, but in a way quite different from ours. The
spikes on their shoes are an inch long, and dig into the ice with
perfect security, but it makes the horses look as if they wore French
heels. Even over ice like sheer glass they go at a gallop and never
slip. It is wonderful, and the exhilaration of it is like driving
through an air charged with champagne, like the wine-caves of Rintz.
Our troika was like a chariot in comparison with these sledges. It was
gorgeously upholstered in red velvet, and held six--three on each
seat. The robes also were red velvet, bordered and lined with black
bear fur.
Pages:
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197