She sat silent and pensive.
"And you yourself," I asked, "what happened to you?"
She seemed to recover her senses and passed her hand over her brow.
"I can't remember what happened at first," she answered, "or how I went home. With all the others, of course . . . somebody must have led me . . . and in the evening Drosida Petrovna said:
"'Now this mustn't be—you don't sleep, and at the same time you lie there as if made of stone. That's not right—cry—there must be relief—your heart must have relief.'
"'I can't, Auntie,' I said, 'my heart burns like a live coal, and there is no relief.'
"'Well,' she said, 'then the flagon can't be avoided.'
"She filled a glass out of her bottle for me."
"'Till now I did not allow you to have it, and dissuaded you, but now it can't be avoided. Pour it on the coal—take a sip.'"
"'I don't want to,' I said.
"'Little fool! Who wants it at first. It is bitter—bitter. But the poison of sorrow is more bitter. The coal must be drenched with this poison—it will be slaked for a moment—sip, sip quickly.'"
