With the same undue haste Sofia Alexandrovna goes into the garden. She
sees nothing, neither the white Aphrodite nor her roses, on her way to
the little arbour from which, overlooking a corner of the garden, the
road is visible. Vividly green in the sun, a four-sloped roof covers
the arbour, while hangings of coarse cloth, with a red border, serve as
a protection against inquisitive eyes.
Sofia Alexandrovna looks down the road with dark, hungry eyes. She
waits impatiently, listening to the rapid, uneven beat of her heart;
she waits: Borya will surely come in sight.
The wind blows into her face, and partly conceals it with the hangings;
her face is pale, and her eyes are dry. The sun warmly kisses her
slender arms, which lie motionless on the broad, lavender-grey parapet
of the arbour. Everything is bright, green and gay in the fields, but
her eyes are fixed on the grey serpent of dust trailing among the
freedom of the fields.
If they await him like this surely Borya will come.
But there is no sign of him. In vain her hungry glances penetrate the
open waste. There is no Borya. More fixed and piercing grows her glance
of infinite longing upon the road—but there is no Borya.
Everything is as before, as yesterday, as always. Tranquil, serene and
pitiless.