"On the road from the flourishing village
A young girl came over the dewy fields."
"He can sing," muttered my master, shaking his head and smiling.
And Kleshtchkov poured forth his song, clear as the music of a reed:
"And the beautiful maiden answered him:
'An orphan am I, no one wants me.'"
"Good!" whispered my master, blinking his reddening eyes. "Phew! it is devilish good!"
I looked at him and rejoiced, and the sobbing words of the song conquered the noise of the tavern, sounded more powerful, more beautiful, more touching every moment.
I live solitary in our village.
A young girl am I; they never ask me out.
Oie, poor am I, my dress it is not fine;
I am not fit, I know, for a brave young man.
A widower would marry me to do his work;
I do not wish to bow myself to such a fate.
My master wept undisguisedly; he sat with his head bent; his prominent nose twitched, and tears splashed on his knees. After the third song, agitated and dishevelled, he said:
"I can't sit here any longer; I shall be stifled with these odors. Let us go home."
But when we were in the street he said: