Natasha, a yellow straw hat upon her head, is now walking in the field.
The ground is hot, the sky is blue, the air is sultry and the wind
asleep; the corn is yellow, the grass is green. Bathed again in the
bright heat, Natasha prods her sweetly fatiguing memories, which cast
into oblivion this dismal day.
She goes on—and there stretches before her, even as on a day long ago,
the hot golden field, with its tall stalks inclining their heads in the
heat. It is the revival of a former stifling, sultry midday.
That was in the days when Natasha still loved the good, human sun, the
source of life and joy, the eternal, the untiring herald of labours and
deeds, of deeds beyond the powers of man.
Oh, the treacherous speech of the Serpent Tempter! He turns our heads
and he entices, and he makes our poor earth seem like some fabulous
kingdom.
Again there is a slight wavering stir in the sea of the heat-exhausted
ears of rye, studded over with little blue flowers which lower timidly
their sweetly-dazed heads from sultriness.
Natasha and her brother Boris are walking together, on an inviting
narrow path among the golden waves of rye.
How high the rye is! One can barely see the green roof of the old house
on the right for the tall stalks, and the semi-circular window in the
mezzanine: and on the left the little grey, rough huts of the village.
Natasha and Boris follow one another. All around them the dry ears of
rye waver and rustle, and among them are the blue-eyed little
cornflowers. The two fragilely slender human silhouettes answered to
the same wavering motion.
Natasha goes ahead. She turns to see why Boris has lagged behind. The
boy, brown and slender, with large burning eyes, attired in his linen
jacket, is gathering the little blue flowers. He has already gathered
almost as many as his hands can hold.