talked with the cook at the
tavern, and with the
innkeeper's wife, and finally
with Yegor himself, and at
last they agreed on a price of
fifteen copecks.
"Don't hurry me! You are
writing this letter for money,
not for love! Now then,
begin. To our esteemed sonin-law, Andrei Khrisanfltch,
and our only and beloved
daughter Efimia, we send
greetings and love, and the
everlasting blessing of their
parents."
So now, on the second day of
the Christmas festival, Yegor
was sitting at a table in the
inn kitchen with a pen in his
hand. Vasilissa was standing
in front of him, plunged in
thought, with a look of care
and sorrow on her face. Her
husband, Peter, a tall, gaunt
old man with a bald, brown
head, had accompanied her.
He was staring steadily in
front of him like a blind man;
a pan of pork that was frying
on the stove was sizzling and
puffing, and seeming to say:
"Hush, hush, hush!" The
kitchen was hot and close.
"All right, fire away!"
"We wish them a happy
Christmas. We are alive and
well, and we wish the same
for you in the name of God,
our Father in heaven--our
Father in heaven--"
Vasilissa stopped to think,
and exchanged glances with
the old man.
"We wish the same for you in
the name of God, our Father
in Heaven--" she repeated
and burst into tears.
"What shall I write?" Yegor
asked again.
That was all she could say.
Yet she had thought, as she
had lain awake thinking night
"What's that?" asked
Vasilissa, looking at him
angrily and suspiciously.
82