The old man stirred his lips and said softly: 

“It would be all right to have a look at the grandchildren.”

“What grandchildren?” asked the old woman, and she looked angrily at him; “perhaps there are none.”

“Well, but perhaps there are.  Who knows?”

“And thereby you can judge,” Yegor hurried on, “what is the enemy without and what is the enemy within.  The foremost of our enemies within is Bacchus.”  The pen squeaked, executing upon the paper flourishes like fish-hooks.  Yegor hastened and read over every line several times.  He sat on a stool sprawling his broad feet under the table, well-fed, bursting with health, with a coarse animal face and a red bull neck.  He was vulgarity itself:  coarse, conceited, invincible, proud of having been born and bred in a pot-house; and Vasilisa quite understood the vulgarity, but could not express it in words, and could only look angrily and suspiciously at Yegor.  Her head was beginning to ache, and her thoughts were in confusion from the sound of his voice and his unintelligible words, from the heat and the stuffiness, and she said nothing and thought nothing, but simply waited for him to finish scribbling.  But the old man looked with full confidence.  He believed in his old woman who had brought him there, and in Yegor; and when he had mentioned the hydropathic establishment it could be seen that he believed in the establishment and the healing efficacy of water.

Having finished the letter, Yegor got up and read the whole of it through from the beginning.  The old man did not understand, but he nodded his head trustfully.

“That’s all right; it is smooth...” he said.  “God give you health.  That’s all right....”

They laid on the table three five-kopeck pieces and went out of the tavern; the old man looked immovably straight before him as though he were blind, and perfect trustfulness was written on his face; but as Vasilisa came out of the tavern she waved angrily at the dog, and said angrily: 

“Ugh, the plague.”

The old woman did not sleep all night; she was disturbed by thoughts, and at daybreak she got up, said her prayers, and went to the station to send off the letter.

It was between eight and nine miles to the station.

II

Dr. B. O. Mozelweiser’s hydropathic establishment worked on New Year’s Day exactly as on ordinary days; the only difference was that the porter, Andrey Hrisanfitch, had on a uniform with new braiding, his boots had an extra polish, and he greeted every visitor with “A Happy New Year to you!”

It was the morning; Andrey Hrisanfitch was standing at the door, reading the newspaper.  Just at ten o’clock there arrived a general, one of the habitual visitors, and directly after him the postman; Andrey Hrisanfitch helped the general off with his great-coat, and said: 

“A Happy New Year to your Excellency!”