The Cooks Wedding and Other Stories | Page 5

gave up
his soul to God. . . . The Kingdom of Heaven be his and peace
everlasting. . . . They say he was taken too late. . . . He ought to have
gone sooner. . . ."
Varka goes out into the road and cries there, but all at once someone
hits her on the back of her head so hard that her forehead knocks
against a birch tree. She raises her eyes, and sees facing her, her master,
the shoemaker.
"What are you about, you scabby slut?" he says. "The child is crying,
and you are asleep!"
He gives her a sharp slap behind the ear, and she shakes her head, rocks
the cradle, and murmurs her song. The green patch and the shadows
from the trousers and the baby-clothes move up and down, nod to her,
and soon take possession of her brain again. Again she sees the high
road covered with liquid mud. The people with wallets on their backs
and the shadows have lain down and are fast asleep. Looking at them,
Varka has a passionate longing for sleep; she would lie down with
enjoyment, but her mother Pelageya is walking beside her, hurrying her
on. They are hastening together to the town to find situations.
"Give alms, for Christ's sake!" her mother begs of the people they meet.
"Show us the Divine Mercy, kind-hearted gentlefolk!"
"Give the baby here!" a familiar voice answers. "Give the baby here!"

the same voice repeats, this time harshly and angrily. "Are you asleep,
you wretched girl?"
Varka jumps up, and looking round grasps what is the matter: there is
no high road, no Pelageya, no people meeting them, there is only her
mistress, who has come to feed the baby, and is standing in the middle
of the room. While the stout, broad-shouldered woman nurses the child
and soothes it, Varka stands looking at her and waiting till she has done.
And outside the windows the air is already turning blue, the shadows
and the green patch on the ceiling are visibly growing pale, it will soon
be morning.
"Take him," says her mistress, buttoning up her chemise over her
bosom; "he is crying. He must be bewitched."
Varka takes the baby, puts him in the cradle and begins rocking it again.
The green patch and the shadows gradually disappear, and now there is
nothing to force itself on her eyes and cloud her brain. But she is as
sleepy as before, fearfully sleepy! Varka lays her head on the edge of
the cradle, and rocks her whole body to overcome her sleepiness, but
yet her eyes are glued together, and her head is heavy.
"Varka, heat the stove!" she hears the master's voice through the door.
So it is time to get up and set to work. Varka leaves the cradle, and runs
to the shed for firewood. She is glad. When one moves and runs about,
one is not so sleepy as when one is sitting down. She brings the wood,
heats the stove, and feels that her wooden face is getting supple again,
and that her thoughts are growing clearer.
"Varka, set the samovar!" shouts her mistress.
Varka splits a piece of wood, but has scarcely time to light the splinters
and put them in the samovar, when she hears a fresh order:
"Varka, clean the master's goloshes!"
She sits down on the floor, cleans the goloshes, and thinks how nice it
would be to put her head into a big deep golosh, and have a little nap in
it. . . . And all at once the golosh grows, swells, fills up the whole room.
Varka drops the brush, but at once shakes her head, opens her eyes
wide, and tries to look at things so that they may not grow big and
move before her eyes.
"Varka, wash the steps outside; I am ashamed for the customers to see
them!"
Varka washes the steps, sweeps and dusts the rooms, then heats another

stove and runs to the shop. There is a great deal of work: she hasn't one
minute free.
But nothing is so hard as standing in the same place at the kitchen table
peeling potatoes. Her head droops over the table, the potatoes dance
before her eyes, the knife tumbles out of her hand while her fat, angry
mistress is moving about near her with her sleeves tucked up, talking so
loud that it makes a ringing in Varka's ears. It is agonising, too, to wait
at dinner, to wash, to sew, there are minutes when she longs to flop on
to the floor regardless of everything, and to sleep.
The day passes. Seeing the windows getting dark, Varka presses her
temples that feel as though they were made of wood,