Fifty-Two Stories

Agafya cast a sidelong glance at me and hesitantly sat down.

“And I got to thinking you wouldn’t come tonight,” Savka said after a prolonged silence. “Why just sit there? Eat! Or shall I give you a little nip of vodka?”

“What an idea!” said Agafya. “Found yourself some sort of drunkard…”

“Have a drink…It’ll warm up your soul…Here!”

Savka handed Agafya the crooked little glass. She drank the vodka slowly, and ate nothing after it, but just exhaled loudly.

“You brought something…,” Savka went on, untying the bundle and giving his voice a condescendingly jocular tone. “A woman can’t do without bringing something. Ah, a pie and some potatoes…They live well!” he sighed, turning his face to me. “They’re the only ones in the village who still have potatoes after winter!”

In the darkness I could not see Agafya’s face, but from the movements of her head and shoulders it seemed to me that she never took her eyes off Savka’s face. So as not to be the third at their tryst, I decided to take a stroll and got up to go. But at that moment a nightingale in the grove unexpectedly produced two low contralto notes. Half a minute later he let out a high trill and, having thus tested his voice, began to sing. Savka jumped up and listened.

“It’s yesterday’s!” he said. “Hold on!…”

And, tearing from his place, he ran noiselessly to the grove.

“What do you need him for?” I called out behind him. “Let him be!”

Savka waved his hand—meaning “don’t shout”—and disappeared into the darkness. When he wished, Savka could be an excellent hunter and fisherman, but here, too, his talents, like his strength, went to waste. He was too lazy for the standard ways, and all his hunting passion was spent on empty tricks. He caught nightingales not otherwise than with his bare hands, he killed pike with birdshot, or he would stand for long hours on the riverbank, trying with all his might to snag a small fish on a big hook.

Left with me, Agafya coughed and wiped her hand across her forehead several times…She was beginning to feel the effect of the vodka she had drunk.

“How’s your life, Agasha?” I asked her after a prolonged silence, when it finally became awkward to keep silent.

“Good, thank God…Don’t tell anybody, master…,” she suddenly added in a whisper.

“Come now,” I reassured her. “You’re so fearless, Agasha…What if Yakov finds out?”

“He won’t…”

“Well, but what if!”

“No…I’ll be home before him. He’s at the tracks now and will come back once he sees off the mail train, and you can hear the train coming from here…”

Agafya wiped her hand across her forehead again and looked towards where Savka had gone. The nightingale was singing. Some night bird flew low over the ground and, noticing us, got frightened, swished its wings, and flew off across the river.

Soon the nightingale fell silent, but Savka did not come back. Agafya stood up, took a few uneasy steps, and sat down again.

“What’s he doing?” she burst out. “The train’s not coming tomorrow! I’ve got to go now!”

“Savka!” I called. “Savka!”

Not even an echo answered. Agafya shifted restlessly and stood up again.

“It’s time for me to go!” she said in a nervous voice. “The train’s coming now! I know when the trains run!”

The poor girl was not mistaken. Before a quarter of an hour went by, there came a distant noise.

Agafya fixed her gaze on the grove for a long time and moved her hands impatiently.

“Well, where is he?” she said, laughing nervously. “Where the deuce has he gone to? I’ll leave! By God, master, I’ll leave!”

Meanwhile the noise was becoming more distinct. It was already possible to tell the clatter of the wheels from the heavy sighing of the steam engine. A whistle was heard, the train hollowly clattered over the bridge…Another minute, and everything became still.

“I’ll wait another little minute…,” Agafya sighed, resolutely sitting down. “So be it, I’ll wait!”

Finally Savka appeared from the darkness. He noiselessly stepped barefoot over the loose soil of the kitchen gardens and was softly murmuring something.

“There’s luck, thank you very much!” he laughed merrily. “I was just coming up to that same bush, and was just aiming my hand, and he shut up! Ah, dash it all! I waited and waited for him to sing again, then spat on it…”

Savka dropped clumsily to the ground beside Agafya and, to keep his balance, grabbed her by the waist with both hands.

“And what are you scowling at, as if some old witch gave birth to you?” he asked.