It was bright and refreshing on the terrace. Natasha’s light-coloured
dress suddenly kindled with the pale-rose smiles of the early sun. A
soft breeze blew from the garden. It caressed and kissed Natasha’s
feet.
Natasha seated herself in a wicker chair, and leant her slender rosy
elbows upon the broad parapet of the terrace. She directed her gaze
toward the gate between the hedges beyond which the grey silent road
was visible, gently serene in the pale rose light.
Natasha looked long, intently, with a steady pensive gaze in her dark
eyes. A small vein quivered at the left corner of her mouth. The left
brow trembled almost imperceptibly. The vertical contraction between
her eyes defined itself rather sharply. Equal to the fixity of the
tremulous, ruby-like flame of the rising sun, was the fixed vision of
her very intent, motionless eyes.
If an observer were to give a long and searching look at Natasha as she
sat there in the sunrise, it would seem to him that she was not
observing what was before her, but that her intent gaze was fixed on
something very far away, at something that was not in sight.
It was as though she wished to see some one who was not there, some one
she was waiting for, some one who will come—who will come to-day. Only
let the miracle happen. Yes, the miracle!
V
Natasha’s grey daily routine was before her. It was always the same,
always in the same place. And as yesterday, as to-morrow, as always,
the same people. Eternal unchanging people.
A _muzhik_ walked along with a monotonous swing, the iron heels of his
boots striking the hard clay of the road with a resounding clang. A
peasant woman walked unsteadily by, softly rustling her way through the
dewy grass, showing her sunburnt legs. Regarding the old house with a
kind of awe, a number of sweet, sunburnt, dirty, white-haired urchins
ran by.
Past the house, always past it. No one thought of stopping at the gate.
And no one saw the young girl behind that pillar of the terrace.
Sweet-briar bloomed near the gate. It let fall its first pale-rose
petals on the yellow sandy path, petals of heavenly innocence even in
their actual fall. The roses in the garden exhaled their sweet,
passionate perfume. At the terrace itself, reflecting the light of the
sky, they flaunted their bright rosy smiles, their aromatic shameless
dreams and desires, innocent as all was innocent in the primordial
paradise, innocent as only the perfumes of roses are innocent upon this
earth. White tobacco plants and red poppies bloomed in one part of the
garden. And just beyond a marble Aphrodite gleamed white, like some
eternal emblem of beauty, in the green, refreshing, aromatic, joyous
life of this passing day.
Natasha said quietly to herself: “He must have changed a great deal.
Perhaps I shan’t know him when he comes.”
And quietly she answered herself: “But I would know him at once by his
voice and his eyes.”
And listening intently she seemed to hear his deep, sonorous voice.
Then she seemed to see his dark eyes, and their flaming, dauntless,
youthfully-bold glance. And again she listened intently and gave a
searching look into the great distance. She bent down lightly, and
inclined her sensitive ear toward something while her glance, pensive
and motionless, seemed no less fixed. It was as though she had stopped
suddenly in an attitude, tense and not a little wild.
The rosy smile of the now blazing sunrise timidly played on Natasha’s
pale face.