Of an evening, when the misty sun is slanting across the river towards the auburn belt of pines, and distilling pink vapours from the sombre vista to be seen through the shaggy mouth of the ravine, Antipa Vologonov sets out a squat samovar that is dinted of side, and plated with green oxide on handle, turncock, and spout. Then he seats himself at his table by the window.
At intervals I hear the evening stillness broken by questions put in a tone which implies always an expectation of a precise answer.
"Where is Darika?"
"He has gone to the spring for water." The answer is given whiningly, and in a thin voice.
"And how is your sister?
"Still in pain."
"Yes? Well, you can go now."
Giving a slight cough to clear his throat, the old man begins to sing in a quavering falsetto:
Once a bullet smote my breast,
And scarce the pang I felt.
But ne'er the pang could be express'd
Which love's flame since hath dealt!
As the samovar hisses and bubbles, heavy footsteps resound in the street, and an indistinct voice says: