see them!"

Varka washes the steps, sweeps and dusts the rooms, then heats
another stove and runs to the shop. There is a great deal of work:
she hasn't one minute free.

But nothing is so hard as standing in the same place at the kitchen
table peeling potatoes. Her head droops over the table, the potatoes
dance before her eyes, the knife tumbles out of her hand while her
fat, angry mistress is moving about near her with her sleeves tucked
up, talking so loud that it makes a ringing in Varka's ears. It is
agonising, too, to wait at dinner, to wash, to sew, there are minutes
when she longs to flop on to the floor regardless of everything,
and to sleep.

The day passes. Seeing the windows getting dark, Varka presses her
temples that feel as though they were made of wood, and smiles,
though she does not know why. The dusk of evening caresses her eyes
that will hardly keep open, and promises her sound sleep soon. In
the evening visitors come.

"Varka, set the samovar!" shouts her mistress. The samovar is a
little one, and before the visitors have drunk all the tea they
want, she has to heat it five times. After tea Varka stands for a
whole hour on the same spot, looking at the visitors, and waiting
for orders.

"Varka, run and buy three bottles of beer!"

She starts off, and tries to run as quickly as she can, to drive