Peasant Tales of RussiaNemirovich-Danchenko, Vasilii Ivanovich
General
Peasant Tales of Russia
Nemirovich-Danchenko, Vasilii Ivanovich
Tales -- Russia
The five years of struggles through which she had passed, those years of
prayers and struggles, all disappeared; she no longer saw her black
garments; even the walls of her cell had fallen; a whole world lay open
before her. Yes, it was the past which transported her to its magic
circle; she saw her youth again. Her sister Nina, with gentle trusting
eyes, came to her and embraced her with her tender arms in order to tell
her in broken tones a young girl's secrets. There was five years'
difference between the two sisters; the younger one was eighteen. She,
the elder, seemed somewhat too serious for her age; that perhaps was
owing to the influence of her mother, to her continual visits to
convents, and to that atmosphere of incense, prayer and meditation which
had surrounded her from her earliest infancy. The younger sister grew up
quite different; she was a butterfly who needed the sun, blue sky and
flower-beds; her laughter rang clear, contagious and musical. Helene
herself who had received the nickname "the nun," yielded to the charm of
this child-like gaiety. What she loved best in the world was to sit at
her window in the evening, listening to her sister telling her in her
gentle voice her great joys and her little sorrows. Why then one day had
she suddenly risen and pushed her away? Why had some words of her
favourite made her treat harshly, were it only for a moment, this dear
little bird who came to seek protection with her? What had the child
said that its memory should still burn in her heart to-day?
Nina, with blushing and tears, had confessed to her that for two years
she had been in love. When she uttered the name of the man she loved
Helene had pushed her away so abruptly that the poor little thing had
fallen against a piece of furniture. The "nun" remembered her mad fit of
anger; without being touched by her sister's sobs, she shut herself in
her room, refusing to open the door each time that Nina came and knocked
at it.
On the morrow her anger had cooled and been succeeded by a sad
tenderness, a profound remorse for her harshness. She went to her
sister's room and found her asleep without having undressed, her cheeks
still showing the traces of tears. She bent over her to embrace her.
Nina flung her arms around her, whispering in her ear, with tears of joy
this time:
"I knew that you would not long be vexed with me; there was no reason
why you should be, I am no longer a child; I am eighteen; I could not
hide it from you any longer."
"But he--how does he feel towards you?" interrupted Helene.
As she put this fateful question, she pressed her hand to her heart as
though she feared it would betray her by its beating.
"I think ... he also loves me; he is so attentive, so affectionate in
his manner."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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