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Clasping my hands under my head I looked before me. At my feet was lying a wooden fork. Behind it Savka's dog Kutka stood out like a black patch, and not a dozen feet from Kutka the ground ended abruptly in the steep bank of the little river.
When Savka's young, healthy body had a physical craving for muscular work, the young man abandoned himself completely for a brief interval to some free but nonsensical pursuit, such as sharpening skates not wanted for any special purpose, or racing about after the peasant women. His favorite attitude was one of concentrated immobility.
"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."
Ah, pie and potatoes.... They live well," he sighed, turning to me. "They are the only ones in the whole village who have got potatoes left from the winter!" In the darkness I did not see Agafya's face, but from the movement of her shoulders and head it seemed to me that she could not take her eyes off Savka's face.
Agafya, intoxicated by the vodka, by Savka's scornful caresses, and by the stifling warmth of the night, was lying on the earth beside him, pressing her face convulsively to his knees. She was so carried away by her feelings that she did not even notice my arrival. "Agasha, the train has been in a long time," I said.
When she had gone another hundred paces she looked round once more and sat down. "You ought at least to hide behind a bush..." I said to Savka. "If the husband sees you..." "He knows, anyway, who it is Agafya has come from.... The women don't go to the kitchen garden at night for cabbages we all know that." I glanced at Savka's face.
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