Matryóna. Ah, but a widow's lot is also bitter. It's all right as long as one's young, but who'll care for you when you're old? Oh yes, old age is not pleasure. Just look at me. I've not walked very far, and yet am so footsore I don't know how to stand. Where's my son?
Anísya. Ploughing. But you come in and we'll get the samovár ready; the tea'll set you up again.
Matryóna (sitting down). Yes, it's true, I'm quite done up, my dears. As to extreme unction, that's absolutely necessary. Besides, they say it's good for the soul.
Anísya. Yes, we'll send to-morrow.
Matryóna. Yes, you had better. And we've had a wedding down in our parts.
Neighbor. What, in [spring?] [2]
Matryóna. Ah, now if it were a poor man, then, as the saying is, it's always unseasonable for a poor man to marry. But it's Simon Matvéyitch, he's married that Marína.
Anísya. What luck for her!
Neighbor. He's a widower. I suppose there are children?
Matryóna. Four of 'em. What decent girl would have him! Well, so he's taken her, and she's glad. You see, the vessel was not sound, so the wine trickled out.