CHAPTER XVII
Yevsey often entered a house occupied by a physician and a journalist upon whom he was assigned to spy. The physician employed a wet-nurse named Masha, a full, round little woman with merry sky-blue eyes, who was always neat and clean, and wore a white or blue sarafan with a string of beads around her bare neck. Her full-breasted figure gave the impression of a luscious, healthy creature, and won the fancy of Yevsey, who imagined that a strong savory odor, as of hot rye-bread, emanated from her. She was an affectionate little person. He loved to question her about the village and hear her replies in a rapid sing-song. He soon came to know all her relatives, where each one lived, what was the occupation of each, and what the wages.
He paid her one of his visits five days later after Sasha had explained the cause of the uprising. He found her sitting on the bed in the cook's room adjoining the kitchen. Her face was swollen, her eyes were red, and her lower lip stuck out comically.
"Good morning," she said sullenly. "We don't want anything. Go. We don't want anything."
"Did the master insult you?" Yevsey asked. Though he knew the master had not insulted her, he regarded it as his professional duty to ask just such questions. His next duty was to sigh and add, "That's the way they always are. You've got to work for them your whole life long."
Anfisa Petrovna, the cook, a thin, ill-tempered body, suddenly cried out:
"Her brother-in-law was killed, and her sister was knouted. She had to be taken to the hospital."
"In St. Petersburg?" Yevsey inquired quietly.
"Yes."
Masha drew in a full breast of air, and groaned, holding her head in her hands.