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| image: wikipedia.org |
I
"WHAT shall I write?" asked Yegor,
dipping his pen in the ink.
Vasilissa had not seen her daughter for four
years. Efimia had gone away to St. Petersburg
with her husband after her wedding, had written
two letters, and then had vanished as if the earth
had engulfed her, not a word nor a sound had come
from her since. So now, whether the aged mother
was milking the cow at daybreak, or lighting the
stove, or dozing at night, the tenor of her
thoughts was always the same: "How is Efimia?
Is she alive and well?" She wanted to send
her a letter, but the old father could not write,
and there was no one whom they could ask to write
it for them.
But now Christmas had come, and Vasilissa could
endure the silence no longer. She went to the
tavern to see Yegor, the innkeeper's wife's
brother, who had done nothing but sit idly at home
in the tavern since he had come back from military
service, but of whom people said that he wrote the
most beautiful letters, if only one paid him
enough. Vasilissa talked with the cook at the
tavern, and with the innkeeper's wife, and finally
with Yegor himself, and at last they agreed on a
price of fifteen copecks.
