and unsociable. The bullfinch which had hung in a cage near the window, overlooking the orchard, had died—in all probability from the coarse, strong tobacco—and lay with its legs sticking up, its feathers ruffled, and its crimson beak agape.
“Done for!” said Kuzma, and picked up the bullfinch to throw out.
Durnovka, overwhelmed with frozen snow, was so far from all the world on that mournful evening, in the heart of the steppe winter, that he suddenly felt frightened by it. All was over! His burning head was confused and heavy. He would take to his bed at once, and never rise from it again.
The Bride, her bark-shoes screeching on the snow as she walked, approached the porch, carrying a pail in her hand.
“I am ill, Duniushka!” said Kuzma caressingly, in the hope of hearing from her lips a caressing word.
But the Bride replied indifferently, drily: “Shall I bring in the samovar?” And she did not even inquire what was the matter with him. Neither did she ask anything about Ivanushka.