WOE
THE turner, Grigori Petroff, long reputed the cleverest craftsman and most shiftless muzhik in all Galtchink canton, drove his old woman to the Zemstvo hospital. It was a good thirty versts, on an impossible road, a road too bad for the driver of the mail-car, much less for ne'er-do-well turner Grigori. In the turner's face beat a sharp, icy wind; around whirled white snow-clouds, and it was hard to say whether the snow came from heaven or from earth. The snow concealed fields, telegraph posts, and trees; and when the strongest gusts blew in Grigori's face, he could hardly see the yoke. The exhausted mare barely tottered along. All its strength seemed spent in dragging its hoofs out of the deep snow, and shaking its head. The turner was in a hurry. He fidgeted restlessly on his seat, and occasionally whipped his mare.
“Don't cry, Matrena!” he stammered. “Bear it a little longer! We'll soon, God grant, be at the hospital, and then you'll . . . Pavl Ivanuitch'll give you a powder, or let your blood; perhaps he'll rub some sort of spirit into you. Pavl Ivanuitch
