The peasant seated himself on the boards at her feet, clasped his knees in his hands, lifted his face to her and seriously listened to her words.
“You must raise your voice, when I lower mine, understand?”
“I understand; but, Madam, you ought to hand me some just to give me courage!”
“Foma, give him a glass of brandy!”
And when the peasant emptied it, cleared his throat with pleasure, licked his lips and said: “Now, I can do it,” she ordered, knitting her brow:
“Begin!”
The peasant made a wry mouth, lifted his eyes to her face, and started in a high-pitched tenor:
“I cannot drink, I cannot eat.”
Trembling in every limb, the woman sobbed out tremulously, with strange sadness:
“Wine cannot gladden my soul.”