“What next!  She wouldn’t have died if she hadn’t come till to-morrow....  If only she would sit quiet and listen, but she always wants to be slobbering....  You can’t have a good talk when she’s here.”

“Are you expecting Darya?” I asked, after a pause.

“No... a new one has asked to come this evening...  Agafya, the signalman’s wife.”

Savka said this in his usual passionless, somewhat hollow voice, as though he were talking of tobacco or porridge, while I started with surprise.  I knew Agafya....  She was quite a young peasant woman of nineteen or twenty, who had been married not more than a year before to a railway signalman, a fine young fellow.  She lived in the village, and her husband came home there from the line every night.

“Your goings on with the women will lead to trouble, my boy,” said I.

“Well, may be....”

And after a moment’s thought Savka added: 

“I’ve said so to the women; they won’t heed me....They don’t trouble about it, the silly things!”

Silence followed....  Meanwhile the darkness was growing thicker and thicker, and objects began to lose their contours.  The streak behind the hill had completely died away, and the stars were growing brighter and more luminous....  The mournfully monotonous chirping of the grasshoppers, the call of the landrail, and the cry of the quail did not destroy the stillness of the night, but, on the contrary, gave it an added monotony.  It seemed as though the soft sounds that enchanted the ear came, not from birds or insects, but from the stars looking down upon us from the sky....

Savka was the first to break the silence.  He slowly turned his eyes from black Kutka and said: 

“I see you are dull, sir.  Let’s have supper.”

And without waiting for my consent he crept on his stomach into the shanty, rummaged about there, making the whole edifice tremble like a leaf; then he crawled back and set before me my vodka and an earthenware bowl; in the bowl there were baked eggs, lard scones made of rye, pieces of black bread, and something else....  We had a drink from a little crooked glass that wouldn’t stand, and then we fell upon the food....  Coarse grey salt, dirty, greasy cakes, eggs tough as india-rubber, but how nice it all was!

“You live all alone, but what lots of good things you have,” I said, pointing to the bowl.  “Where do you get them from?”

“The women bring them,” mumbled Savka.

“What do they bring them to you for?”

“Oh... from pity.”

Not only Savka’s menu, but his clothing, too, bore traces of feminine “pity.”  Thus I noticed that he had on, that evening, a new woven belt and a crimson ribbon on which a copper cross hung round his dirty neck.  I knew of the weakness of the fair sex for Savka, and I knew that he did not like talking about it, and so I did not carry my inquiries any further.  Besides there was not time to talk....  Kutka, who had been fidgeting about near us and patiently waiting for scraps, suddenly pricked up his ears and growled.  We heard in the distance repeated splashing of water.