The last day of July; for a thousand versts round about lies Russia, the
fatherland.
The whole sky is suffused with an even azure; there is only one little
cloud in it, which is half floating, half melting. There is no wind, it
is warm ... the air is like new milk!
Larks are carolling; large-cropped pigeons are cooing; the swallows dart
past in silence; the horses neigh and munch, the dogs do not bark, but
stand peaceably wagging their tails.
And there is an odour of smoke abroad, and of grass,--and a tiny whiff
of tan,--and another of leather.--The hemp-patches, also, are in their
glory, and emit their heavy but agreeable fragrance.
A deep but not long ravine. Along its sides, in several rows, grow
bulky-headed willows, stripped bare at the bottom. Through the ravine
runs a brook; on its bottom tiny pebbles seem to tremble athwart its
pellucid ripples.--Far away, at the spot where the rims of earth and sky
come together, is the bluish streak of a large river.
Along the ravine, on one side are neat little storehouses, and buildings
with tightly-closed doors; on the other side are five or six pine-log
cottages with board roofs. Over each roof rises a tall pole with a
starling house; over each tiny porch is an openwork iron horse's head
with a stiff mane.[69] The uneven window-panes sparkle with the hues of
the rainbow. Jugs holding bouquets are painted on the shutters. In front
of each cottage stands sedately a precise little bench; on the earthen
banks around the foundations of the house cats lie curled in balls, with
their transparent ears pricked up on the alert; behind the lofty
thresholds the anterooms look dark and cool.
I am lying on the very brink of the ravine, on an outspread horse-cloth;
round about are whole heaps of new-mown hay, which is fragrant to the
point of inducing faintness. The sagacious householders have spread out
the hay in front of their cottages: let it dry a little more in the hot
sun, and then away with it to the barn! It will be a glorious place for
a nap!
The curly heads of children project from each haycock; crested hens are
searching in the hay for gnats and small beetles; a white-toothed puppy
is sprawling among the tangled blades of grass.
Ruddy-curled youths in clean, low-girt shirts, and heavy boots with
borders, are bandying lively remarks as they stand with their breasts
resting on the unhitched carts, and display their teeth in a grin.
From a window a round-faced lass peeps out; she laughs, partly at their
words, and partly at the pranks of the children in the heaped-up hay.
Another lass with her sturdy arms is drawing a huge, dripping bucket
from the well.... The bucket trembles and rocks on the rope, scattering
long, fiery drops.
In front of me stands an aged housewife in a new-checked petticoat of
homespun and new peasant-shoes.
Large inflated beads in three rows encircle her thin, swarthy neck; her
grey hair is bound about with a yellow kerchief with red dots; it droops
low over her dimmed eyes.
But her aged eyes smile in cordial wise; her whole wrinkled face smiles.
The old woman must be in her seventh decade ... and even now it can be
seen that she was a beauty in her day!
With the sunburned fingers of her right hand widely spread apart, she
holds a pot of cool, unskimmed milk, straight from the cellar; the sides
of the pot are covered with dewdrops, like small pearl beads. On the
palm of her left hand the old woman offers me a big slice of bread still
warm from the oven. As much as to say: "Eat, and may health be thine,
thou passing guest!"
A cock suddenly crows and busily flaps his wings; an imprisoned calf
lows without haste, in reply.
"Hey, what fine oats!" the voice of my coachman makes itself heard....
O Russian contentment, repose, plenty! O free village! O tranquillity
and abundance!
And I thought to myself: "What care we for the cross on the dome of
Saint Sophia in Constantinople, and all the other things for which we
strive, we people of the town?"
February, 1878.