Who will bear my sorrow?...

   Evening twilight. Large, wet snow lazily swirls nearby streetlamps just lit and accumulates in a thin layer atop roofs, the backs of horses, shoulders, caps. The coachman Jonah Potapov is all white, like a ghost. He is hunched over, only as far as it is possible for a living body to bend itself, sits upon the horses and does not move. If an entire snowdrift falls upon him, then it would happen, it seems, he would not find it a necessity to shake the snow off himself… his horse is also white and motionless. With her motionlessness, clumsy form and stick-like, straight legs, she even bears a close resemblance to a penny gingerbread horse. She, in all likelihood, is lost in thought. Of who had ripped her from the plow, from the habitual gray landscapes and threw her here into this maelstrom, full of wondrous lights, incessant noise and running people, that is impossible not to think about…
   Jonah and his horsey have not moved in a long time already. They left from home still before lunch, but the initiative was all nope and none. But an evening haze descends here upon the city. The dullness of the lamp fires cede their place to living color and the street noise becomes louder.
    —Coachman, to Vyborg! — hears Jonah. — Coachman!       
       Jonah shakes himself off and through eyelashes, stuck together with snow, he sees a soldier with a hooded greatcoat.
   — To Vyborg! — the soldier repeats. — Are you sleeping, or what? To Vyborg!  
  As a sign of consent Jonah takes the reigns, resulting in layers of snow to pour down the back of the horse and his shoulders… The soldier sits down in the sleigh. The coachman smacks his lips, cranes out his neck like a swan, lifts himself up and slightly more by habit, than necessity, cracks the whip. The horse also cranes out its neck, bends its stick-like legs, and indecisively moves from its place…
   — Where are you going, beast! — the very first thing Jonah hears cries out of the darkness, masses shifting to and fro. — To where in hell are they going? Keep towards the right!
   —You have no idea how to drive! Keep right! — the soldier gets angry. The coachman fights with the carriage, spitefully glares and shakes the falling snow from his sleeve, having crossed the road and bumped with his shoulder into the horsey’s snout. Jonah shifts on the horses as if on needles, pokes on the sides with his elbows and drives with his eyes, like one possessed, as if he does not understand, where he is or why he is here.
   — All such lowlifes! — the soldier quips. — This way they aim to collide with you or fall under the horse. They have planned it.
    Jonah glances at the passenger and his lips are shaking… evidently he wants to say something, but nothing leaves his throat, except hoarseness.
   —What? — the soldier asks. Jonah bends his mouth into a smile, tenses his throat and croaks:
   —But, sir, its just that…a son passed away this week.
   — Hm!… Why did he pass away? Jonah turns around  his whole torso to the passenger and says:
   —And who really knows that? Must be, from a fever… he lied down in a hospital three days and died. The will of God.
   —Turn back around, demon! — resounds in the darkness.   
—Have you lost it, old dog? Keep your eyes on the road!

    —Lets go, lets go… — says the passenger. — At this rate we will not get there until tomorrow. Hurry up!
   The driver again cranes out his neck, lifts himself up and, with difficult grace, cracks the whip. A few times then he glances at the passenger, but he closed his eyes and, evidently, was not disposed to listen. Having dropped him off at Vyborg, he stops  next to a tavern, hunches over the horses and again does not stir himself… Wet snow again colors him and the horsey white. An hour passes, another… along the sidewalk, loudly stomping with galoshes and quarreling with each other, three young people pass by: two of them are tall and sknny, the third small and hunchbacked.
   —Coachman, to the Police bridge! — yells the hunchback with a tinkling voice. — I will give you three coins!
  Jonah holds the reins and smacks his lips. Three coins price is not reasonable, it is not worth the price to him… what is a ruble, what is five — for him now it makes no difference, they would only be passengers… The young people walk up to the sleigh shoving and cursing, and all three quickly climb up onto the seat. The resolution of the question begins: which two will sit, and who will be third to stand? After a long argument, wavering, and insults they come to the decision that the hunchback must stand, as he is the most small.
    —Well, let’s go! — tinkles the hunchback, standing and breathing on the back of Jonah’s head. —Crack the whip! Yes and what a cap you have, my friend! Worse in all of St. Petersburg cannot be found…
   — Hee… Hee, hee… — chuckles Jonah. — It is so…
   — Well you, it is so, let’s get a move on! Are you going to drive the whole way like this? Yes? But on the neck…?
   — My head aches terribly…— says one of the lanky ones.           Yesterday at Dukmasov, us two with Vaska drank four bottles of cognac.
   — I do not understand, what do you lie for! — the other lanky one is getting angry. — He lies, like a boar!      
  —Lord punish me, the truth…
   — This is the very same truth as that, which a flea coughs.
   —Hee-hee! — smirks Jonah. — Amu-using sirs!
   —Tfft, why don't you go to hell! ... — says the hunchback indignantly. — Will you get moving, old choler, or not? They really drive like that? Give it a lash with the whip! But, hell! Do it properly!
   Jonah feels the turning body and vocal hum of the hunchback behind his back . He hears the insult directed towards him, he sees people, and the sense of loneliness begins little by little to lift from the chest. The hunchback argues until that time, when he does not choke on his fanciful, six story profanity, and does not erupt with a cough. The skinny ones begin to speak about some Nadezhda Petrovna. Jonah looks around at them. Waiting for a brief pause, he looks around again and mumbles:
   — But what happened to me this week…is that…son died!
    —Everyone will die… — sighs the hunchback, wiping off his lips after a cough. — C'mon, let’s go, let's go! Lord, I absolutely cannot keep going like this! When will he get us there!
   — But you ought to cheer him up a bit.. on the neck!
   —Old choler, do you hear! I would beat you on the neck! … To give deference to our friend, it is like walking on foot! Do you hear, serpent? Or you spit on our words?
   And Jonah hears more, than feels, the sounds of slaps on the back of his head.
   —Gee-ee…— he laughts. —Amusing gentlemen… Lord give them health!
   —Driver, are you married? asks the lanky one.
   —Am I then? Gee … amusing gentlemen! I have one wife now—damp earth… He-ho-ho… graves, that is!... A son it was died here, but I am alive… odd thing, death picked the wrong door… instead of going to me, it chose my son…
   And Jonah turned around to talk about how his son passed away, but the hunchback gently sighs and explains that, thank God, they had finally arrived. Receiving twenty kopeks, Jonah watched for a long time behind the rakes, disappearing in the dark entrance. He is alone again, and again quiet begins for him… briefly subdued grief appears once more and rips open his chest with even greater power. Through the crowd Jonah's eyes run, nervously and tormented, darting across both sides of the street: could not in these thousands of people be found at least one, who would listen to him? But the crowds run, noticing neither him, or melancholy… Gigantic melancholy, knowing no limits. Should you touch the chest of Jonah and pour out melancholy, so it would be, it seems, the entire world would spill out, but nonetheless, it was not visible. It knew how to fit itself in such a meaningless shell, that you would not see it by daylight with a lamp…
   Jonah sees a farmworker with a sack and decides to start a conversation with him.
   —My friend, what time is it now? — he asks.
   —Ten o’ clock… why did you stop here? Get moving!
   —Jonah travels a few steps back, hunches over and gives himself over to melancholy… he already feels turning to anyone is useless. But another five minutes does not pass, when he straightens out, shakes his head, as if he felt a sharp pain, and grabs the reins... it is intolerable for him.
   “To home, — he thinks. — to home!”         

    And the horse, as if it understood his feeling, begins to run in a trot. An hour and a half later, Jonah already sits near a big, dirty stove. People are snoring on the stove, on the floor, on the benches. In the air a “spiral” and stuffiness… Jonah looks at the sleepers, scratches himself and feels bad, that he returned home so early…
   “And I did not go pick up the oats, — the thought, — this is also because of melancholy. A person, who is knowing his business… who is also himself content, and the horse content, is always peaceful…”
   In one of the corners a young driver gets himself up, sleepily groans and reaches for a bucket with water.
   Want to drink? — asks Jonah.
   —Therefore, drink!  
   —So... for health… but, friend, my son died…you heard? This week in the hospital… a story!
   Jonah watches what effect his words produce, but does not see anything. The young man is covering his head and already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself… as the young man wanted to drink, so he also wants to speak. Soon it will be a week, since his son passed away, and he still had not spoken with anyone on the road… it is necessary to speak plainly, with punctuation…it is necessary to tell, how his son got sick, how he was in pain, what he was saying before his death, how he died… it is necessary to describe the burial and the trip to the hospital for the clothing of the deceased. His daughter Anissa stayed in the village… and it is necessary to talk about her…there is so much he can talk about now. A listener has to moan, sigh, wail…  And with women to speak it is even better. Even if they are fools, they howl from two words.
   “I should go look after the horse, — thinks Jonah. — There is always time to sleep… Probably, sleep well…”
   He gets dressed and goes into the barn where his horse is. He thinks of oats, hay, of the weather… About his son, when he is alone, he cannot think… he can to speak with someone about him… but to think himself and imagine his appearance is unbearably terrible…    
   —Are you chewing? — Jonah asks his horse, seeing its shining eyes. —Well, chew, chew… Kolya did not go out to get oats, we will have hay to eat… yes… I have already become too old to go out… my son would go, but not me… he would be a genuine driver…if only he would stay alive…
   —Jonah is quiet for some time and continues:  
   So, brother mare…there is no Kuzma Jonich, he died… he was snatched and died in vain… now, suppose you had a stallion, and you are the stallion’s birth mother, and suddenly, let us say, this stallion dies… is it not a pity? The horse chews, listens and breathes on the hands of its owner… Jonah gets carried away with himself and tells all…