At this moment, for certain, Vanka's grandfather must be standing at
the gate, blinking his eyes at the bright red windows of the village
church, stamping his feet in their high-felt boots, and jesting with
the people in the yard; his cudgel will be hanging from his belt, he
will be hugging himself with cold, giving a little dry, old man's
cough, and at times pinching a servant-girl or a cook.
"Won't we take some snuff?" he asks, holding out his snuff-box to the
women. The women take a pinch of snuff, and sneeze.
The old man goes into indescribable ecstasies, breaks into loud
laughter, and cries:
"Off with it, it will freeze to your nose!"
He gives his snuff to the dogs, too. Kashtanka sneezes, twitches her
nose, and walks away offended. Viun deferentially refuses to sniff and
wags his tail. It is glorious weather, not a breath of wind, clear,
and frosty; it is a dark eight, but the whole village, its white roofs
and streaks of smoke from the chimneys, the trees silvered with
hoar-frost, and the snowdrifts, you can see it all. The sky
scintillates with bright twinkling stars, and the Milky Way stands out
so clearly that it looks as if it had been polished and rubbed over
with snow for the holidays.
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