head wrapped in a sheepskin half-coat, on the corner of the oven, fast asleep. The frightened hen, which had alighted on the oven and had not yet calmed down, was walking over Davýdka's back, without waking him.
Not finding any one in the hut, Nekhlyúdov was on the point of leaving, when a protracted, humid sigh betrayed the peasant.
"Oh, who is there?" cried the master.
On the oven was heard another protracted sigh.
"Who is there? Come here!"
Another sigh, a growl, and a loud yawn were the answer to the master's call.
"Well, will you come?"
Something stirred on the oven. There appeared the flap of a worn-out sheepskin; a big foot in a torn bast shoe came down, then another, and finally the whole form of Davýdka the White sat up on the oven, and lazily and discontentedly rubbed his eyes with his large fist. He slowly bent his head, yawned, gazed at the hut, and, when he espied the master, began to turn around a little faster than before, but still so leisurely that Nekhlyúdov had sufficient time to pace three times the distance from the puddle to the loom, before Davýdka got off the oven.
Davýdka the White was actually white; his hair, his body, and face,—everything was exceedingly white. He was tall and very stout, that is, stout like a peasant, with his whole body, and not merely with his belly; but it was a flabby, unhealthy obesity. His fairly handsome face, with its dark blue, calm eyes and broad, long beard, bore the imprint of infirmity. There was neither tan nor ruddiness in his face; it was of a pale, sallow complexion, with a light violet shade under his eyes, and looked suffused with fat, and swollen. His hands were swollen and sallow, like those of people who suffer with the dropsy, and were covered with fine white hair. He
