knitted brow, and for the lack of two front teeth, which immediately attracted one’s attention because his lips were short and constantly parted.
He wore a Sunday shirt with bright red gussets, striped print drawers, and heavy boots with wrinkled legs.
The interior of Vanka’s hut was not as narrow and gloomy as that of Churis’s, though it was fully as stifling, as redolent of smoke and sheepskin, and showing as disorderly an array of peasant garments and utensils.
Two things here strangely attracted the attention—a small damaged samovar standing on the shelf, and a black frame near the icon, with the remains of a dirty mirror and the portrait of some general in a red uniform.
Nekhliudof looked with distaste on the samovar, the general’s portrait, and the loft, where stuck out, from under some rags, the end of a copper-mounted pipe. Then he turned to the peasant.
“How do you do, Yepifán?” said he, looking into his eyes.
Yepifán bowed low, and mumbled, “Good morning, ’slency,” with a peculiar abbreviation of the last word, while his eyes wandered restlessly from the prince to the ceiling, and from the ceiling to the floor, and not pausing on anything. Then he hastily ran to the loft, dragged out a coat, and began to put it on.
“Why are you putting on your coat?” asked Nekhliudof, sitting down on the bench, and evidently endeavoring to look at Yepifán as sternly as possible.
“How can I appear before you without it, ’slency? You see we can understand …”