As Nikíta entered the house she was offering her guest a small tumbler of thick glass which she had just filled with vodka.

“Don’t refuse, Vasíli Andréevich, you mustn’t! Wish us a merry feast. Drink it, dear!” she said.

The sight and smell of vodka, especially now when he was chilled through and tired out, much disturbed Nikíta’s mind. He frowned, and having shaken the snow off his cap and coat, stopped in front of the icons as if not seeing anyone, crossed himself three times, and bowed to the icons. Then, turning to the old master of the house and bowing first to him, then to all those at table, then to the women who stood by the oven, and muttering: “A merry holiday!” he began taking off his outer things without looking at the table.

“Why, you’re all covered with hoarfrost, old fellow!” said the eldest brother, looking at Nikíta’s snow-covered face, eyes, and beard.