Or, in conclusion, there presents itself to me a clear September morning
when thou and I were walking together through the deserted garden, as
yet not wholly out of bloom, of an abandoned palace, on the bank of a
great non-Russian river, beneath the soft radiance of a cloudless sky.
Oh, how shall I describe those sensations?--that endlessly-flowing
river, that absence of people, and tranquillity, and joy, and a certain
intoxicating sadness, and the vibration of happiness, the unfamiliar,
monotonous town, the autumnal croaking of the daws in the tall, bright
trees--and those affectionate speeches and smiles and glances long and
soft, which pierce to the very bottom, and beauty,--the beauty in
ourselves, round about, everywhere;--it is beyond words. Oh, bench on
which we sat in silence, with heads drooping low with happiness--I shall
never forget thee to my dying hour!--How charming were those rare
passers-by with their gentle greeting and kind faces, and the large,
quiet boats which floated past (on one of them--dost thou
remember?--stood a horse gazing pensively at the water gliding by under
its feet), the childish babble of the little waves inshore and the very
barking of distant dogs over the expanse of the river, the very shouts
of the corpulent under-officer at the red-cheeked recruits drilling
there on one side, with their projecting elbows and their legs thrust
forward like the legs of cranes!... We both felt that there never had
been and never would be anything better in the world for us than those
moments--than all the rest.... But what comparisons are these! Enough
... enough.... Alas! yes: it is enough.