Nekhliudof went into the hut. The uneven smoke-begrimed walls of the dwelling were hung with various rags and clothes; and, in the living-room, were literally covered with reddish cockroaches clustering around the holy images and benches.
In the middle of this dark, fetid apartment, not fourteen feet square, was a huge crack in the ceiling; and in spite of the fact that it was braced up in two places, the ceiling hung down so that it threatened to fall from moment to moment.
“Yes, the hut is very miserable,” said the bárin , looking into the face of Churis, who, it seems, had not cared to speak first about this state of things.
“It will crush us to death; it will crush the children,” said the woman in a tearful voice, attending to the stove which stood under the loft.
“Hold your tongue,” cried Churis sternly; and with a slight smile playing under his mustaches, he turned to the master. “And I haven’t the wit to know what’s to be done with it, your excellency—with this hut and props and planks. There’s nothing to be done with them.”
“How can we live through the winter here? Okh, okh! Oh, oh!” groaned the old woman.
“There’s one thing—if we put in some more props and laid a new floor,” said the husband, interrupting her with a calm, practical expression, “and threw over one set of rafters, then perhaps we might manage to get through the winter. It is possible to live; but you’d have to put some props all over the hut, like that: but if it gets shaken, then there won’t be