Natasha opens the gate and goes quickly down the road in the direction
of the distant railway station. Having walked as far as the hillock by
the river, one and a half versts away, Natasha pauses and looks into
the distance.
A clear view of the road is to be had from this hillock. Somewhere
below, among the meadows, a curlew gives a sharp cry. The pleasant
smell of the damp grass fills the air.
The sun is rising. Suddenly everything becomes white, bright, and
clear. Joyousness fills the great open expanse. On the top of the
hillock the morning wind blows more strongly and more sweetly. It seems
to have forgotten its desolation and its grief.
The grass is quite wet with dew. How gently it clings to her ankles. It
is resplendent in its multi-coloured, gem-like, tear-like glitter.
The red sun rises slowly but triumphantly above the blue mist of the
horizon. In its bright red flame there is a hidden foreboding of quiet
melancholy.
Natasha lowers her glance upon the wet grass. Sweet little flowers! She
recognizes the flower of faithfulness, the blue periwinkle.
Here also, quite near, reminiscent of death, is the black madwort. But
what of that? Is it not everywhere? Soothe us, soothe us, little blue
flowers!
“I will not pluck a single one of you; not one of you will I plait into
my wreath.”
She stands, waiting, watching.
Were he to show himself in the road she would recognize him even in the
distance. But no—there is no one. The road is deserted, and the misty
distances are dumb.