The sun had already sunk behind the fence of the vineyards, and its broken rays glittered through the translucent leaves when Olénin returned to his host’s vineyard. The wind was falling and a cool freshness was beginning to spread around. By some instinct Olénin recognized from afar Maryánka’s blue smock among the rows of vine, and, picking grapes on his way, he approached her. His highly excited dog also now and then seized a low-hanging cluster of grapes in his slobbering mouth. Maryánka, her face flushed, her sleeves rolled up, and her kerchief down below her chin, was rapidly cutting the heavy clusters and laying them in a basket. Without letting go of the vine she had hold of, she stopped to smile pleasantly at him and resumed her work. Olénin drew near and threw his gun behind his back to have his hands free. “Where are your people? May God aid you! Are you alone?” he meant to say but did not say, and only raised his cap in silence.
He was ill at ease alone with Maryánka, but as if purposely to torment himself he went up to her.
“You’ll be shooting the women with your gun like that,” said Maryánka.
“No, I shan’t shoot them.”
They were both silent.
Then after a pause she said: “You should help me.”
He took out his knife and began silently to cut off the clusters. He reached from under the leaves low down a thick bunch weighing about three pounds, the grapes of which grew so close that they flattened each other for want of space. He showed it to Maryánka.
“Must they all be cut? Isn’t this one too green?”
“Give it here.”
Their hands touched. Olénin took her hand, and she looked at him smiling.