“It is good you bring something besides talk,” grumbled Wassili, as he led the way under the overhanging roof of the shed and along through the gloom to the door of the kitchen. Ilya stumbled along after him, blundering among the kettles and other gear and making such a racket that Wassili cursed him for having too many legs. But Ilya, in a gay mood, chuckled into his beard and was only concerned lest he lose his footing and have a tumble that would break the precious bottle in his pocket. They entered the kitchen, which had its windows hung with old blankets to keep the light hidden. There was a wall-stove and a cooking stove with ovens built of stone. A candle burned on the table. There were partridge feathers in a sink and the remnants of cabbages that had been cut up on a board. A big earthen jar of gooseberry jam stood open on the table and beside it a fat yellow bowl full of white honey, which gave off a sweet odor and made Ilya think of bees in the fields in summer. Wassili sat down and rested his elbows on the table. His pockmarked face had a glum look, and his pale yellow whiskers bristled with belligerency for Ilya, as if the _moujik_ were in for trouble unless his story should be of sufficient import for the visit. Wassili’s blue caftan, pale and washed out like the garment of a Chinese coolie, was strapped about him with a bit of scarlet cloth which had once been embroidered. His feet were wrapped in skins, ready to be slipped into the big boots standing limply by the bench upon which he sat. He had not put them on when he went out to admit Ilya. “Let us be merry while we can,” began Ilya, anxious to improve the atmosphere of the kitchen as represented by the scowling Wassili. So Ilya threw himself down sprawlingly on a bench opposite Wassili, and loosened the old rope about his coat. Then he pulled his bottle from his pocket with a flourish of good-fellowship and slammed it down upon the table with a thump. “We will all be dead in time that will come soon enough, so I will have a glass of tea and a spice-cake before I talk with the Excellence.” “The wind is full of news,” said Wassili sadly, but the sight of the bottle put him in slightly better humor. He leaned down and squinted across it, to gauge its contents. “How is the health of Excellence?” asked Ilya, his courage bolstered by a sudden remembrance of his own importance and a desire to return to the subject of statecraft in connection with Michael Kirsakoff. Without answering, Wassili poured himself a generous draft from the bottle into a thick glass, and nodding to Ilya in place of speaking a health, tossed the liquor off with a clicking sound in his throat and a harsh appreciative grunt. “Bring the spice-cakes and the glasses for tea,” he called out to the other room. An old serving woman peered into the kitchen, appraised Ilya with critical eyes, and then shambled away for the cakes and glasses. Ilya’s yellowed teeth grinned across the table at Wassili.