And indeed, there on their left was that same barn with the snow flying from it, and farther on the same line with the frozen washing, shirts and trousers, which still fluttered desperately in the wind.
Again they drove into the street and again it grew quiet, warm, and cheerful, and again they could see the manure-stained street and hear voices and songs and the barking of a dog. It was already so dark that there were lights in some of the windows.
Halfway through the village Vasíli Andréevich turned the horse towards a large double-fronted brick house and stopped at the porch.
Nikíta went to the lighted snow-covered window, in the rays of which flying snowflakes glittered, and knocked at it with his whip.
“Who is there?” a voice replied to his knock.
“From Krestý, the Brekhunóvs, dear fellow,” answered Nikíta. “Just come out for a minute.”
Someone moved from the window, and a minute or two later there was the sound of the passage door as it came unstuck, then the latch of the outside door clicked and a tall white-bearded peasant, with a sheepskin coat thrown over his white holiday shirt, pushed his way out holding the door firmly against the wind, followed by a lad in a red shirt and high leather boots.
“Is that you, Andréevich?” asked the old man.
“Yes, friend, we’ve gone astray,” said Vasíli Andréevich. “We wanted to get to Goryáchkin but found ourselves here. We went a second time but lost our way again.”
“Just see how you have gone astray!” said the old man. “Petrúshka, go and open the gate!” he added, turning to the lad in the red shirt.