The Bride thought it over. “That’s as you like—”
Deniska set the shoes on the windowsill and went away, without making any further mention of money. And half an hour later the knocking of bark-shoes coated with snow became audible on the porch. Deniska had returned with Syery—and Syery, for some unknown reason, was girt about the hips, over his kazak coat, with a red belt. Kuzma came out to receive them. Deniska and Syery crossed themselves for a long time toward the dark corner, then tossed back their hair and raised their faces.
“Matchmaker or not, yet a fine man!” began Syery without haste, in an unusually easy and pleasant tone. “You have an adopted daughter to marry off. I have a son who wants a wife. In good agreement, for their happiness, let us discuss the matter between us.”
“But she has a mother, you know,” said Kuzma.
“Her mother is no housewife; she’s a homeless widow, her cottage is dilapidated, and no one knows where she is,” replied Syery, still maintaining his tone. “Consider her as an orphan!” And he made a low, stately reverence.
Repressing a sickly smile, Kuzma ordered the Bride to be summoned.
“Run, hunt her up,” Syery commanded Deniska, speaking in a whisper as if they were in church.
“Here I am,” said the Bride, emerging from behind the door in back of the stove and bowing to Syery.
Silence ensued. The samovar, which stood on the floor, its grating glowing red through the darkness, boiled and bubbled. Their faces were not visible, but it could be felt that all of them were perturbed.
“Well, daughter, how is it to be? decide,” said Kuzma.