Tikhon Ilitch was at home. In a Russian shirt of cotton print, huge and powerful, swarthy of countenance, with white beard and grey frowning brows, he was sitting with the samovar and brewing himself some tea.
“Ah! how are you, brother?” he exclaimed in welcome, but with his brows still contracted. “So you have crawled out through God’s snow? Look out: isn’t it rather early?”
“I was so deadly bored, brother,” replied Kuzma, as they kissed each other.
“Well, if you were bored, come and warm yourself and we’ll have a chat. …”
After questioning each other as to whether there were any news, they began in silence to drink tea, after which they started to smoke.
“You are growing very thin, dear brother!” remarked Tikhon Ilitch as he inhaled his smoke and scrutinized Kuzma with a sidelong glance.
“One does get thin,” replied Kuzma quietly. “Don’t you read the newspapers?”
Tikhon Ilitch smiled. “That nonsense? No, God preserve me.”
“If you only knew how many executions there are!”
“Executions? That’s all right. Haven’t you heard what happened near Eletz? At the farm of the Bykoff brothers? Probably you remember—those fellows who can’t pronounce their letters right? Well, those Bykoffs were sitting, just as you and I are sitting together now, playing checkers one evening. Suddenly—what was it? There was a stamping on the