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Lying down I could not see the river; I could only see the tops of the young willows growing thickly on the nearer bank, and the twisting, as it were gnawed away, edges of the opposite bank. At a distance beyond the bank on the dark hillside the huts of the village in which Savka lived lay huddling together like frightened young partridges.
"But how reckless you are, Agasha!... What if Yakov finds out?" "He won't find out." "But what if he does?" "No... I shall be at home before he is. He is on the line now, and he will come back when the mail train brings him, and from here I can hear when the train's coming...." Agafya once more passed her hand over her forehead and looked away in the direction in which Savka had vanished.
Our hooks with live bait on them had long been in the river, and we had nothing left to do but to abandon ourselves to repose, which Savka, who was never exhausted and always rested, loved so much. The glow had not yet quite died away, but the summer night was already enfolding nature in its caressing, soothing embrace.
The river, the copse, both banks, green and washed, trees and fields all were bathed in bright morning light. Through the slim trunks of the trees the rays of the newly risen sun beat upon my back. "So that's how you catch fish?" laughed Savka. "Get up!" I got up, gave a luxurious stretch, and began greedily drinking in the damp and fragrant air. "Has Agasha gone?" I asked.
"Here's a bit of luck; what do you say to that now?" he said gaily. "As soon as I got up to the bush and began taking aim with my hand it left off singing! Ah, the bald dog! I waited and waited to see when it would begin again, but I had to give it up." Savka flopped clumsily down to the ground beside Agafya and, to keep his balance, clutched at her waist with both hands.
To tell the truth, it was not so much the fishing that attracted me as the peaceful stroll, the meals at no set time, the talk with Savka, and being for so long face to face with the calm summer nights. Savka was a young man of five-and-twenty, well grown and handsome, and as strong as a flint. He had the reputation of being a sensible and reasonable fellow.
The nightingale was singing. Some night bird flew low down close to the ground and, noticing us, was startled, fluttered its wings and flew across to the other side of the river. Soon the nightingale was silent, but Savka did not come back. Agafya got up, took a few steps uneasily, and sat down again. "What is he doing?" she could not refrain from saying. "The train's not coming in to-morrow!
I shall have to go away directly." "Savka," I shouted. "Savka." I was not answered even by an echo. Agafya moved uneasily and sat down again. "It's time I was going," she said in an agitated voice. "The train will be here directly! I know when the trains come in." The poor woman was not mistaken. Before a quarter of an hour had passed a sound was heard in the distance.
At that moment there came the sound of unrestrained laughter: the wife, forgetful of everything, sought in her intoxication to make up by a few hours of happiness for the misery awaiting her next day. I dropped asleep. When I woke up Savka was sitting beside me and lightly shaking my shoulder.
Everything was sinking into its first deep sleep except some night bird unfamiliar to me, which indolently uttered a long, protracted cry in several distinct notes like the phrase, "Have you seen Ni-ki-ta?" and immediately answered itself, "Seen him, seen him, seen him!" "Why is it the nightingales aren't singing tonight?" I asked Savka. He turned slowly towards me.
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