"'"He (the German) started to nag us,
Quite coolly and slowly,
Without heat or hurry;
For that was his way.
And we, tired and hungry,
Stood listening in silence.
He kicked the wet earth
With his boot while he scolded,
Not far from the edge
Of the pit. I stood near him,
And happened to give him
A push with my shoulder:
Then somehow a second
And third pushed him gently....
We spoke not a word,
Gave no sign to each other,
But silently, slowly,
Drew closer together,
And edging the German
Respectfully forward,
We brought him at last
To the brink of the hollow ...
He tumbled in headlong!
'A ladder,' he bellows:
Nine shovels reply.
'Heave-to'—the words fell
From my lips on the instant,
The word to which people
Work gaily in Russia:
'Heave-to,' and 'Heave-to,'
And we laboured so bravely
That soon not a trace
Of the pit was remaining,
The earth was as smooth
As before we had touched it:
And then we stopped short
And we looked at each other."'"
Matròna gets Savyèli to look after her infant Djòma, and while she is away the pigs attacked and killed him. The country police as the custom is in Russia threatened to hold an inquest unless they were bribed: this Matròna could not afford.
"'"My God, give me patience,
And let me not strangle
The wicked blasphemer!"
I looked at the doctor
And shuddered in terror;
Before him lay lancets,
Sharp scissors and knives.
I conquered myself,
For I knew why they lay there.
I answered him trembling,
"I loved little Djòma,
I would not have harmed him."
"And did you not poison him,
Give him some powder?"'"
They refuse to listen to her piteous cries:
"'They have lifted the napkin
Which covered my baby:
His little white body
With scissors and lancets
They worry and torture ...
The room has grown darker,
I'm struggling and screaming,
You butchers! You fiends!
Oh, hear me, just God!
May thy curse fall and strike them!
Ordain that their garments
May rot on their bodies!
Their eyes be struck blind,
And their brains scorch in madness!
Their wives be unfaithful,
Their children be crippled!...
The pope lit his pipe
And sat watching the doctor.
He said, 'You are rending
A heart with a knife.'
I started up wildly:
I knew that the doctor
Was piercing the heart
Of my little dead baby."
Her husband is taken for the army, and Matròna goes, although her time is on her to bring to birth another baby, to plead for him to the Governor's lady. Somewhat to our surprise she wins her cause and gets her husband back again, but the peasants are cured after hearing her story of imagining that any woman could be happy in Russia.
"'The Tsar, little Father,
But never a woman:
God knows, among women
Your search will be endless.'"
So they continue their wanderings, and having heard many grim stories of all sorts, they remain without a solution to their problem, and the only consolation suggested by the author comes in a subtle touch: a son of a psalm-singer, with a knowledge of, and deep sympathy for, all the down-trodden ones, finds exaltation in putting together songs about their pains and greatness:
"In his breast rose throbbingly powers unembraceable,
In his ears rang melody—henceforth undefaceable:
Words of azure radiance, noble in benignity.
Hailing coming happiness and the People's dignity."
Happiness, Nekrassov concludes, can only be won in doing creative work.