At pale-rose dawn, when the merrily green, harmoniously white birches
bend their wet branches before the windows, just beyond the little
patch of sand by the round flower-bed; at pale-rose dawn—when a fresh
breeze comes blowing from the bathing pond—then wakes Natasha, the
first of the three.
What a joy it is to wake at dawn! To throw aside the cool cover of
muslin, to rest upon the elbow, upon one’s side, and to look out of the
window with large, dark, sad eyes.
Out of the window the sky is visible, seeming quite low over the white
distant birches. A pale vermilion sunrise brightly suffuses its soft
fire through the thin mist which stretches over the earth. There is in
its quiet, gently joyous flame a great tension of young fears and of
half-conscious desires; what tension, what happiness, and what sadness!
It smiles through the dew of sweet morning tears, over white
lilies-of-the-valley, over the blue violets of the broad fields.
Wherefore tears! To what end the grief of night!
There, close to the window, hangs a sprig of sweet-flag, banishing all
evil. It was put there by the grandmother, and the old nurse insists on
its staying there. It trembles in the air, the sprig of sweet-flag, and
smiles its dry green smile.
Natasha’s face lapses into a quiet, rosy serenity.
The earth awakes in its fresh morning vigour. The voices of
newly-roused life reach Natasha. Here the restless twitter of birds
comes from among the swaying damp branches. There in the distance can
be heard the prolonged trill of a horn. Elsewhere, quite near, on the
path by the window, there are sounds of something walking with a heavy,
stamping tread. The cheerful neighing of a foal is heard, and from
another quarter the protracted lowing of sullen cows.