XX

There is a lightness in the air. The road is radiant and tranquil. A

gentle, refreshing breeze softly passes and repasses her. The sun is

warming her old bones, it is caressing her lean back through her dress.

Everything round her rejoices in the green, the golden, and the blue.

The foliage of the birches, of the willows, and of the limes in full

bloom is rustling quietly. From the fields comes the honeyed smell of

clover.

Oh, how light and lovely the air is upon the earth!

How beautiful thou art, my earth, my golden, my emerald, my sapphire

earth! Who, born to thy heritage would care to die, would care to close

his eyes upon thy serene beauties and upon thy magnificent spaces? Who,

resting in thee, damp Mother Earth, would not wish to rise, would not

wish to return to thy enchantments and to thy delights? And what stern

fate shall drive one who is aflame with life-thirst to seek the shelter

of death?

Upon the road where once he walked he shall walk again. Upon the earth,

which still preserves his footprints, he shall walk again. Borya, the

grandmother’s beloved Borya, shall return.

A golden bee flies by. It seems to say, the golden bee, that Borya will

return to the quiet of the old house and will taste the fragrant

honey—the sweet gift of the wise bees, buzzing under the sun upon the

beloved earth. The old grandmother, in her joy, will place before the

ikon of the Virgin a candle of the purest bees’-wax—a gift of the wise

bees, buzzing away among the gold of the sun’s rays—a gift to man and a

gift to God.

Women and girls of the village pass by with their sunburnt, wind-swept

faces. They greet the _barinya_ and look at her with compassion. Elena

Kirillovna smiles at them, and addresses them in her usual gentle

manner:

“Good morning, my dears!”

They pass by. Their loud voices die away in the distance, and Elena

Kirillovna soon forgets them. They will pass by once more that day,

when the time comes. They will pass by. They will return. Upon the

road, where their dusty footprints remain, they will pass by once more.

The Old House, and Other Tales · 第 27 / 122 题