A Russian Proprietor, and Other StoriesTolstoy, Leo, graf
General
A Russian Proprietor, and Other Stories
Tolstoy, Leo, graf
Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Tolstoy, Leo, graf, 1828-1910 -- Translations into English
He must hide. He went toward the pond. The frogs made him tremble as they
hastily sprang from under his very feet into the water. There,
notwithstanding his wet feet, he crouched down on his heels, and, began to
recall all he had done,--how he had crept through the hedge, found her
window, and at last caught a glimpse of a white shadow; how several times,
while on the watch for the least noise, he had hastened away from the
window; how at one moment it seemed to him that doubtless she was waiting
for him with vexation in her heart that he was so dilatory, and the next
how impossible it seemed that she would make an appointment with him so
easily; and how, finally coming to the conclusion, that, through the
embarrassment naturally felt by a country maiden, she was only pretending
to be asleep, he had resolutely gone up to the window, and seen clearly her
position, and then suddenly, for some occult reason, had run away again;
and only after a powerful effort of self-control, being ashamed of his
cowardice, he had gone boldly up to her and touched her on the hand.
The watchman again coughed, and, shutting the squeaky gate, went out of the
garden. The window in the young girl's room was shut, and the wooden
shutters inside were drawn.
The count was terribly disappointed to see this. He would have given a good
deal to have a chance to begin it all over again; he would not have acted
so stupidly.
"A marvellous girl! what freshness! simply charming! And so I lost her.
Stupid beast that I was."
However, as he was not in the mood to go to sleep yet, he walked, as chance
should lead, along the path, through the linden alley, with the resolute
steps of a man who has been angry. And now for him also this night brought,
as its gifts of reconciliation, a strange, calming melancholy, and a
craving for love.
The clay path, here and there dotted with sprouting grass or dry twigs, was
lighted by patches of pale light where the moon sent its rays straight
through the thick foliage of the lindens. Here and there a bending bough,
apparently overgrown with gray moss, gleamed on one side. The silvered
foliage occasionally rustled.
At the house there was no light in the windows; all sounds were hushed,
only the nightingale filled with his song all the immensity of silent and
glorious space.
"My God! what a night! what a marvellous night!" thought the count,
breathing in the fresh fragrance of the garden. "Something makes me feel
blue, as though I were dissatisfied with myself and with others, and
dissatisfied with my whole life. But what a splendid, dear girl! Perhaps
she was really offended." Here his fancies changed. He imagined himself
there in the garden with this district maiden in various and most
remarkable situations; then his mistress Mina supplanted the maiden's
place.
"What a fool I am! I ought simply to have put my arm around her waist, and
kissed her."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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