“Help me, for the love of heaven, help me!” chattered Marya, breathing as if she had been thrown into icy water. “Help me, kinsmen ———”
The houseful of children suddenly began to cry, and, seeing them, Sasha did the same. A drunken cough echoed without, and into the hut came a tall, black-bearded muzhik wearing a winter cap. In the dim lamp-light his face was barely visible, and all the more terrible. It was Kiriak, He went straight to his wife, flourished his arm, and struck her with his clenched fist in the face. Marya did not utter a sound, the blow seemed to have stunned her, but she seemed to dwindle; a stream of blood flowed out of her nose.
“It's a shame, a shame,” muttered the old man, climbing on the stove. “And before our visitors! It's a sin!”
The old woman kept silence, and, bent in two, seemed lost in thought. Fekla rocked the cradle. Kiriak seized Marya's hand, dragged her to the door, and, to increase her terror, roared like a beast. But at that moment he saw the visitors, and stopped.
“So you've come!” he began, releasing his wife. “My own brother and his family. . . .”
He prayed a moment before the image, staggered, opened his red, drunken eyes, and continued —
“My brother and family have come to their parents' house . . . from Moscow, that means . . .
