VASYL STEFANYK LOSS ("Shkoda," 1898,Synya knyzhechka)

Romanykha's cow became ill. She lay on the straw and looked about sadly with large grey eyes. The nostrils quivered, the hide wrinkled; she was all aflame with fever. There was a smell of sickness and dumb pain about her. In such instances it's a real pity that the beast can't speak and complain. "You can see it in the eyes that she's a goner. One could, perhaps, help her if it was the blood, but it ain't that; someone's cast an evil eye on her, may his own eyes pop, and now there's no way out for her. Turn to God, maybe He'll console you a bit . . . ," so spoke Ilash, the one who knew about cattle. "Oh, Ilash, my friend, I can see that she's gonna go, but if she goes I might as well go too. I worked all my life to get a cow. I was left without a husband, my son died in the army, and I sweated blood day and night. The winter nights are so long and I'd get home only in the morning, tired so my fingertips were swollen and my eyes felt as if there was sand in them. God alone knows how I saved the money until I had enough . . ." "It's always like that for the poor. Even if you work your hands down to your elbowsnothing will come of it. That's the way it is and what can one do about it? You got to live somehow and that's all. . ." "I just don't know what to do; where to turn; who can help me?" "Hire yourself out for a day or so; so's you can at least have money for a mass and to cook some dinner. Or you can make an offering to Ivan Suchavsky; they say he helps a lot." "Oh, I've already hired myself for a day and have made an offering to Our Lady of Zarvanytsa and to Ivan Suchavsky." "Well, as I've said, maybe God will help you if you turn to Him. May He grant you all of the best." And Ilash left. Romanykha sat by her cow and watched so that she wouldn't die. She gave her all the best she had, but the cow wouldn't eat. She only looked at the old woman and caused her grief. "My little one, my precious one, what ails you? Don't leave an old woman without a drop of milk. Make me just a bit happy." And she petted the cow over the head and under the throat and lamented over her. "Where, oh where, can I get enough for another one? I can no longer put my fingers together nor thread a needle; how can I look for a cow in my old age?" The cow shivered, and Romanykha covered her with her own fur jacket and sat next to her unprotected in the frost. Her teeth were rattling, but she did not leave the cow. "And maybe it's for my sins, that God's punishing me so? For many a time I've sinned on account of you. I'd let you graze someone's furrow, or let you grab someone's pumpkin or a side-shoot here and there. But I never begrudged anyone any milk. If some child were sick, or some woman delivering, I'd go with a pot of milk. And I gave people cheese for their cornmeal. Oh, God, don't punish me, a poor widow. I won't touch anything that isn't mine, but please, spare my cow!" Romanykha lamented thus over her cow far into the night. She sprinkled her with holy water; but nothing helped. The cow stretched her legs out across the whole stall, her sides pumped and she moaned. The old woman petted her, embraced her, talked to her, but really could do nothing. The moon lit the stall through the door and the old woman could see every movement the cow made. Finally the cow stood up. She could hardly stand on her legs. She looked over the stall as if saying good-bye to every little corner. Then she fell on the straw and stretched out like a string. Romanykha kneeled by her and rubbed her down with a handful of straw. She was no longer aware of what was happening to her. Then the cow moaned loudly and started kicking with her legs. Romanykha felt hot; she saw yellow spots in her eyes and bloodied she fell. The cow was kicking the old woman to pieces. They were struggling with death together.