Authors, Russian -- Biography; Gorky, Maksim, 1868-1936; Russia -- Social life and customs
And so we three went out at dawn over the silver-green, dewy fields. On
our left, beyond the Oka, above the ruddy sides of the Hill of Dyatlov,
above white Nijni-Novgorod, on the hillocks in the gardens, on the
golden domes of churches, rose the lazy Russian sun in its leisurely
manner. A gentle wind blew sleepily from the turbid Oka; the golden
buttercups, bowed down by the dew, sway to and fro; lilac-colored bells
bowed dumbly to the earth; everlasting flowers of different colors
stuck up dryly in the barren turf; the blood-red blossoms of the flower
called "night beauty" opened like stars. The woods came to meet us like
a dark army; the fir-trees spread out their wings like large birds;
the birches looked like maidens. The acrid smell of the marshes flowed
over the fields. My dog ran beside me with his pink tongue hanging out,
often halting and snuffing the air, and shaking his foxlike head, as
if in perplexity. Grandfather, in grandmother's short coat and an old
peakless cap, blinking and smiling at something or other, walked as
cautiously as if he were bent on stealing. Grandmother, wearing a blue
blouse, a black skirt, and a white handkerchief about her head, waddled
comfortably. It was difficult to hurry when walking behind her.
The nearer we came to the forest, the more animated grandfather became.
Walking with his nose in the air and muttering, he began to speak,
at first disjointedly and inarticulately, and afterward happily and
beautifully, almost as if he had been drinking.
"The forests are the Lord's gardens. No one planted them save the
wind of God and the holy breath of His mouth. When I was working on
the boats in my youth I went to Jegoulya. Oh, Lexei, you will never
have the experiences I have had! There are forests along the Oka, from
Kasimov to Mouron, and there are forests on the Volga, too, stretching
as far as the Urals. Yes; it is all so boundless and wonderful."
Grandmother looked at him askance, and winked at me, and he, stumbling
over the hillocks, let fall some disjointed, dry words that have
remained forever fixed in my memory.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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