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gatehouse. After a while, the gatehouse door opened a bit and someone, invisible in the dark, spoke out:
    “What is it?”
    “Hey there,” said Crouper, approaching him.
    “Oh, you.” The person who’d opened the little gate recognized Crouper.
    Crouper recognized him as well, although this was only the worker’s first year with the miller.
    “I, um, I’m taking the doctor here to Dolgoye, and our runner broke, and it’s not too convenient to fix it out in the wind.”
    “Ah … Just a minute…”
    The little gate closed.
    Several long minutes passed, then behind the gate there was some movement, the bolts clanked, and the gates started to open with a squeak.
    “Enter the yard!” the very same worker shouted in a commanding voice.
    Crouper smacked his lips loudly, directing the sled through the gateposts. It slid into the courtyard and the doctor walked in after it. The worker immediately shut and locked the gates. Though it was dark and snowy, the doctor could nonetheless discern a fairly spacious courtyard with a number of buildings.
    “Mr. Doctor, welcome,” came a woman’s voice from the porch.
    The doctor headed toward the voice.
    “Watch your step, don’t trip,” the voice warned.
    Platon Ilich could barely make out the door, and he tripped on the step; his hand grabbed the woman.
    “Don’t trip,” she repeated, supporting him.
    The woman exuded a sour country warmth. She held a candle, which immediately went out. The woman was the worker’s wife. She led the doctor through the mudroom entrance and opened the door.
    The doctor entered a spacious izba , richly appointed by village standards. Two large kerosene lanterns illuminated the space: there were two ovens, one Russian, one Dutch; two tables, kitchen and dining; benches, trunks, shelves for dishes, a bed in the corner, a radio under a cozy; a portrait of the sovereign in an illuminated, iridescent frame, and portraits of his daughters Anna and Ksenia in the same type of frame. A double-barreled pistol and a Kalashnikov were hung on moose antlers, a tapestry depicting deer at a watering hole was attached to the wall, and a vodka still rested on a wooden stand.
    The miller’s wife, Taisia Markovna, sat at the table; she was a large, portly woman about thirty years old. The table was set with a small round samovar and a two-liter jar of homemade vodka.
    “Welcome, please come in,” the miller’s wife said, rising and adjusting the colorful Pavloposad shawl that had slipped from her round shoulders. “Goodness gracious, you’re all covered in snow!”
    The doctor was indeed completely covered with snow. He looked like a snowman children make at Shrovetide—except for his bluish nose, which protruded from beneath his big, snow-covered fur hat.
    “Avdotia, don’t just stand there, give him a hand,” the miller’s wife ordered.
    Avdotia started brushing the snow off the doctor and helped him to take off his coat.
    “Why on earth were you traveling at night, and in such a snowstorm?” The miller’s wife came from behind the table, her skirt rustling.
    “When we left it was light,” the doctor answered, handing over his heavy, wet clothes, and remaining in his dark-blue three-piece suit and white scarf. “We broke down along the road.”
    “How horrible.” The miller’s wife smiled, approaching the doctor, holding the end of her scarf in her plump white hands.
    “Taisia Markovna,” she bowed to the doctor.
    “Dr. Garin.” Platon Ilich nodded at her, rubbing his hands.
    As soon as he entered the izba he realized that he was freezing, exhausted, and hungry.
    “Have tea with us, it will warm you up.”
    “Gladly.” The doctor took off his pince-nez and squinted at the samovar as he began to wipe the lenses gingerly with his scarf.
    “Where have you come from?” the miller’s wife asked.
    Her voice was deep and pleasant; she spoke in a slight singsong and her accent wasn’t local.
    “I left Repishnaya this morning. It