A wretched, cracked earthen cup, or an
old wooden shoe, hanging by a string to his belt, he uses to ask alms in
the shape of wine. No one refuses him, and he pretends to drink, then
pours the wine on the ground by way of libation. At every step, he falls
and rolls in the mud; he pretends to be most disgustingly drunk. His
poor wife runs after him, picks him up, calls for help, tears out the
hempen hair that protrudes in stringy locks from beneath her soiled cap,
weeps over her husband's degradation, and reproaches him pathetically.
"You wretch!" she says, "see what your bad conduct has reduced us to!
It's no use for me to spin, to work for you, to mend your clothes! you
never stop tearing and soiling them. You have run through my little
property, our six children are in the gutter, we live in a stable with
the beasts; here we are reduced to asking alms, and you're so ugly, so
revolting, so despised, that soon they will toss bread to us as they do
to the dogs. Alas! my poor _mondes_ [people], take pity on us! take pity
on me! I don't deserve my fate, and no woman ever had a filthier, more
detestable husband. Help me to pick him up, or else the wagons will
crush him like an old broken bottle, and I shall be a widow, which would
kill me with grief, although everybody says it would be great good
fortune for me.
Pages:
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154