“Stuff and nonsense. We know what that catarrh really is!” “But the medical man told me.” “Believe him if it suits you--” “I want to subscribe to a newspaper,” you would say to him. “Please let me have ten rubles of my wages on account.” “Hm! Why does a man want to stuff his head with lies? Well, and to tell the truth, I haven’t more than fifteen or twenty kopeks in my pocket--” The Bride would enter the room, with downcast eyes: “We have hardly any flour on hand, Tikhon Ilitch--” “How comes that? Hardly any? Oï, you’re talking nonsense, woman!” And he would contract his brows in a frown. And while he was proving that the flour ought to last for another three days, at least, he kept darting swift glances now at Kuzma, now at the Bride. Once he even inquired, with a grin: “And how do you sleep--all right? are you warm?” And the Bride, who was embarrassed already by his visits, blushed deeply and, bowing her head, left the room, while Kuzma’s fingers turned cold with shame and wrath. “Shame on you, brother Tikhon Ilitch,” he blurted out, turning away to the window. “And especially after what you told me yourself--” “But then why did she blush?” inquired Tikhon Ilitch maliciously, with a perturbed and awkward smile. VIII The most unpleasant thing in the morning was--washing oneself. A frosty atmosphere was brought into the ante-room with the straw; ice that was like broken glass floated in the wash-basin. Kuzma sometimes began to drink his tea after having washed only his hands and, thus fresh from his slumbers, appeared truly an old man. Thanks to lack of cleanliness and the cold, he had grown extremely thin and grey since the autumn. His hands had grown thinner, and the skin on them had become more delicate, shiny, and covered with certain tiny purplish spots. “The old grey horse has gone down a steep hill,” he said to himself.