y had five allotments, besides renting other
land. They had six horses, three cows, two calves, and some twenty
sheep. There were twenty-two members belonging to the homestead: four
married sons, six grandchildren (one of whom, Petrushka, was married),
two great-grandchildren, three orphans, and four daughters-in-law with
their babies. It was one of the few homesteads that remained still
undivided, but even here the dull internal work of disintegration which
would inevitably lead to separation had already begun, starting as usual
among the women. Two sons were living in Moscow as water-carriers, and
one was in the army. At home now were the old man and his wife, their
second son who managed the homestead, the eldest who had come from
Moscow for the holiday, and all the women and children. Besides these
members of the family there was a visitor, a neighbour who was godfather
to one of the children.

Over the table in the room hung a lamp with a shade, which brightly lit
up the tea-things, a bottle of vodka, and some refreshments, besides
illuminating the brick walls, which in the far corner were hung with
icons on both sides of which were pictures. At the head of the table
sat Vasili Andreevich in a black sheepskin coat, sucking his frozen
moustache and observing the room and the people around him with his
prominent hawk-like eyes. With him sat the old, bald, white-bearded
master of the house in a white homespun shirt, and next him the son
home from Moscow for the holiday--a man with a sturdy back and powerful
shoulders and clad in a thin print shirt--then the second son, also
broad-shouldered, who acted as head of the house, and then a lean
red-haired peasant--the neighbour.

Having had a drink of vodka and something to eat, they were about to
take tea, and the samovar standing on the floor beside the brick oven
was already humming. The children could be seen in the top bunks and on
the top of the oven. A woman sat on a lower bunk with a cradle beside
her. The old housewife, her face covered with wrinkles which wrinkled
even her lips, was waiting on Vasili Andreevich.

As Nikita entered the house she was offering her guest a small tumbler
of thick glass which she had just filled with vodka.

'Don't refuse, Vasili Andreevich, you mustn't! Wish us a merry feast.
Drink it, dear!' she said.

The sight and smell of vodka, especially now when he was chilled through
and tired out, much disturbed Nikita's mind. He frowned,