“What’s the use of sinning? We shall all have to die! … Fold a coat for a pillow,” he said, turning to the porter, “or the blood will get to his head.” And he tied the cord round his waist over his sheepskin, and taking up the lantern, went to see after the horses.
Elijah, pale, dishevelled, his shirt pulled out of place, was gazing round the room as if he were trying to remember where he was. The porter picked up the broken bits of glass, and stuck a coat into the hole in the window to keep out the draught. The Elder again sat down to his bowl.
“Ah, Elijah, Elijah! I’m sorry for you, really! What’s to be done? There’s Harúshkin … he, too, is married. Seems it can’t be helped!”
“It’s all on account of that fiend, my uncle, that I’m being ruined!” Elijah repeated, dryly and bitterly. “He is chary of his own! … Mother says the steward told him to buy a substitute. He won’t; he says he can’t afford it. As if what my brother and I have brought into his house were a trifle! … He is a fiend!”
Doútlof returned, said his prayers in front of the icons, took off his outdoor things, and sat down beside the Elder. The cook brought more kvass and another spoon. Elijah was quiet, and closing his eyes lay down on the folded coat. The Elder, shaking his head silently, pointed to him. Doútlof waved his hand.
“As if one was not sorry! … My own brother’s son! … One is not only sorry, but it seems they also make me out a villain towards him. … Whether it’s his wife … she’s a cunning little woman though she’s so young … that has put it into his head that we could afford to buy a substitute! … Anyhow, he’s reproaching me. But one does pity the lad! …”
“Ah! he’s a fine lad,” said the Elder.