Then intimidated by the silence, he said aloud: 

“I forgot my bag in the boat.  I’ll go and get it.”

Iakov rose leisurely and went out.  Vassili appeared a moment later.  He bent down towards Malva and said rapidly with anger: 

“What did you want to bring him for?  What shall I tell him about you?”

“What’s that to me?  Am I afraid of him?  Or of you?” she asked, closing her green eyes with disdain.  Then she laughed:  “How you went on when you saw him.  It was so funny!”

“Funny, eh?”

The sand crunched under Iakov’s steps and they had to suspend their conversation.  Iakov had brought a bag which he threw into a corner.  He cast a hostile look at the young woman.

She went on munching her seeds.  Vassili, seating himself on the woodbin, said with a forced smile: 

“What made you think of coming?”

“Why, I just came.  We wrote you.”

“When?  I haven’t received any letter.”

“Really?  We wrote often.”

“The letter must have got lost,” said Vassili regretfully.  “It always does when it’s important.”

“So you don’t know how things are at home?” asked Iakov, suspiciously.

“How should I know?  I received no letter.”

Then Iakov told him that the horse was dead, that all the corn had been eaten before the beginning of February, and that he himself had been unable to find any work.  Hay was also short, and the cow had almost perished from hunger.  They had managed as best they could until April and then they decided that Iakov should join the father far away and work three months with him.  That is what they had written.  Then they sold three sheep, bought flour and hay and Iakov had started.

“How is that possible?” cried Vassali.  “I sent you some money.”

“Your money didn’t go far.  We repaired the cottage, we had to marry sister off and I bought a plough.  You know five years is a long time.”

“Hum,” said Vassili, “wasn’t it enough?  What a tale of woe!  Ah, there’s my soup boiling over!”

He rose and stooping before the fire on which was the saucepan, Vassili meditated while throwing the scum into the flame.  Nothing in his son’s recital had touched him particularly, and he felt irritated against his wife and Iakov.  He had sent them a great deal of money during the last five years, and yet they had not been able to manage.  If Malva had not been present he would have told his son what he thought about it.  Iakov was smart enough to leave the village on his own responsibility and without the father’s permission, but he had not been able to get a living out of the soil.  Vassili sighed as he stirred the soup, and as he watched the blue flames he thought of his son and Malva.  Henceforward, he thought, his life would be less agreeable, less free.  Iakov had surely guessed what Malva was.

Meanwhile Malva, in the cabin, was trying to arouse the rustic with her bold eyes.