At this moment, the window was darkened by the head of a peasant woman who passed carrying some linen on a yoke, and presently Davidka’s mother came into the hovel. She was a tall woman, fifty years old, very fresh and lively. Her ugly face was covered with pockmarks and wrinkles; but her straight, firm nose, her delicate, compressed lips, and her keen gray eyes gave witness to her mental strength and energy.
The angularity of her shoulders, the flatness of her chest, the thinness of her hands, and the solid muscles of her black bare legs, made it evident that she had long ago ceased to be a woman, and had become a mere drudge.
She came hurrying into the hovel, shut the door, set down her linen, and looked angrily at her son.
Nekhliudof was about to say something to her, but she turned her back on him, and began to cross herself before the black wooden icon, that was visible behind the loom.
When she had thus done, she adjusted the dirty checkered handkerchief which was tied around her head, and made a low obeisance to the prince.
“A pleasant Lord’s day to you, excellency,” she said. “God spare you; you are our father.”
When Davidka saw his mother he grew confused, bent his back a little, and hung his head still lower.
“Thanks, Arína,” replied Nekhliudof. “I have just been talking with your son about your affairs.”