“Uncle Pankrát,” she turned to the gloomy man, “I will put the boots here. Is it all right?”
“The devil take them! Throw them into the oven, if you wish,” said the gloomy man, throwing them into another corner.
“Nástka, you are a clever girl,” said the tailor. “A pilgrim has to be made comfortable.”
“Christ save you, girl! That is nice,” said Tíkhonovna. “I am afraid I have put you out, dear man,” she said, turning to Pankrát.
“All right,” said Pankrát.
Tíkhonovna sat down on the bench, having taken off her coat and carefully folded it, and began to take off her footgear. At first she untied the laces, which she had taken special care in twisting smooth for her pilgrimage; then she carefully unwrapped the white lambskin leg-rags and, carefully rubbing them soft, placed them on her wallet. Just as she was working on her other foot, another of awkward Marína’s pots got caught and spilled over, and she again started to scold somebody, catching the pot with the fork.
“The hearth is evidently burned out, grandfather. It ought to be plastered,” said Tíkhonovna.
“When are you going to plaster it? The chimney never cools off: twice a day you have to bake bread; one set is taken out, and the other is started.”
In response to Marína’s complaint about the bread-baking and the burnt-out hearth, the tailor defended the ways of the Chernýshev house and said that they had suddenly arrived in Moscow, that the hut was built and the oven put up in three weeks, and that there were nearly one hundred servants who had to be fed.