“Who cares … What’s there to be sorry about? If it’s a sin, it’s a sin, but I’d rather be struck down by lightning than live such a life. I’m young, healthy, and my husband’s hunchbacked, hateful, harsh, worse than that cursed Dyudya. Before I got married, I never had enough to eat, I went barefoot, so I left that wicked lot, got tempted by Alyoshka’s riches, and got snared like a fish in a net, and it would be easier for me to sleep with a viper than with that mangy Alyoshka. And your life? I don’t even want to look at it. Your Fyodor drove you away from the factory back to his father and found himself another woman; they took your boy from you and put him into bondage. You work like a horse and never hear a kind word. It’s better to pine away unmarried all your life, better to take fifty kopecks from the priest’s son, to beg for alms, better to go head first down a well …”
“It’s a sin,” Sofya whispered again.
“Who cares.”
Somewhere behind the church the same three voices—two tenors and a bass—started up a melancholy song again. And again it was impossible to make out the words.
“Night owls …” laughed Varvara.
And she began to tell in a whisper how she spends nights out with the priest’s son, and what he says to her, and what sorts of friends he has, and how she had spent time with traveling officials and merchants. The melancholy song called up a free life, Sofya began to laugh, she felt it was sinful, and scary, and sweet to listen, and she was envious and sorry that she had not sinned herself when she was young and beautiful …
In the old cemetery church it struck midnight.
“Time for bed,” said Sofya, getting up, “or else Dyudya will catch us out.”
The two women slowly went into the yard.
“I left and didn’t hear what he told afterwards about Mashenka,” said Varvara, making up a bed under the window.
“She died in jail, he says. Poisoned her husband.”
Varvara lay down beside Sofya, thought a little, and said softly:
“I could do in my Alyoshka and not regret it.”
“You’re babbling, God help you.”
As Sofya was falling asleep, Varvara pressed herself to her and whispered in her ear:
“Let’s do in Dyudya and Alyoshka!”
Sofya gave a start but said nothing, then opened her eyes and gazed at the sky for a long time without blinking.
“People would find out,” she said.
“No, they wouldn’t. Dyudya’s old already, it’s time he died, and they’ll say Alyoshka died of drink.”
“It’s scary … God would kill us.”
“Who cares …”
The two women lay awake and thought silently.
“It’s cold,” said Sofya, beginning to tremble all over. “Must be nearly morning … Are you asleep?”
“No … Don’t listen to me, dear heart,” Varvara whispered. “I’m bitter against the cursed lot of them, and don’t know what I’m saying myself. Sleep, dawn’s already coming … Sleep …”
They both fell silent, calmed down, and soon went to sleep.
The old woman was the first to wake up. She roused Sofya, and they went to the shed to milk the cows. Hunchbacked Alyoshka came, thoroughly drunk, without his accordion; his chest and knees were covered with dust and straw—he must have fallen down on his way. Staggering, he went to the shed and, without undressing, dropped into a sledge and at once began to snore. When the rising sun flamed brightly on the crosses of the church and then on the windows, and the shadows of the trees and the well-sweep stretched across the yard over the dewy grass, Matvei Savvich jumped up and started bustling about.
“Kuzka, get up!” he cried. “It’s time to harness the cart! Look lively!”
The morning turmoil began. A young Jewess in a brown dress with ruffles led a horse into the yard for watering. The well-sweep creaked pitifully, the bucket banged … Kuzka, sleepy, sluggish, covered with dew, sat in the cart, lazily putting on his frock coat and listening to the splashing of water from the bucket in the well, and he shuddered from the cold.
“Auntie,” Matvei Savvich shouted to Sofya, “nudge my lad, so he’ll go and harness up!”
And just then Dyudya shouted out the window:
“Sofya, take a kopeck from the Jewess for the watering! No keeping them away, mangy Yids.”
In the street sheep were running up and down, bleating; women shouted at the shepherd, and he played his pipe, cracked his whip, or answered them in a heavy, hoarse bass. Three sheep ran into the yard and, unable to find the gate, poked about at the fence. The noise awakened Varvara, she gathered up her bedding and went to the house.
“You might at least drive the sheep out!” the old woman shouted at her. “A fine lady!”
“What else! I should start working for you Herods!” Varvara growled, going into the house.
They greased the cart and harnessed the horses. Dyudya came out of the house, an abacus in his hands, sat down on the porch, and began counting up how much the traveler owed for the night, the oats, and the watering.
“You’re putting in a lot for oats, grandpa,” said Matvei Savvich.
