Russian fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, Russian -- Translations into English
But in general I do not like this tree, and, therefore,
not stopping to rest in the poplar grove, I made my way to the birch
forest, and seated myself under a tree whose branches started near the
ground, and thus could protect me from the rain. Having admired the
surrounding view, I fell asleep--I slept that tranquil, sweet sleep
which is familiar to hunters only.
I can not say how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes the entire
interior of the forest was filled with sunshine, and everywhere the
bright blue sky was flashing through the cheerfully droning leaves; the
clouds disappeared, driven asunder by the wind which had begun to play;
the weather was clear now, and one felt in the air that peculiar, dry
freshness which, filling the heart with a certain vigorous sensation,
almost always predicts a quiet, clear night after a rainy day. I was
about to rise and try my luck at hunting again, when my eyes suddenly
fell on a motionless human figure. I gazed at it fixedly; it was a
young peasant girl. She was sitting some twenty feet away from me, her
head bowed pensively and her hands dropped on her knees; in one hand,
which was half open, lay a heavy bunch of field flowers, and every time
she breathed the flowers were softly gliding over her checkered skirt.
A clear white shirt, buttoned at the neck and the wrists, fell in
short, soft folds about her waist; large yellow beads were hanging down
from her neck on her bosom in two rows. She was not at all bad-looking.
Her heavy fair hair, of a beautiful ash color, parted in two neatly
combed half-circles from under a narrow, dark-red head-band, which was
pulled down almost to her ivory-white forehead; the rest of her face
was slightly tanned with the golden sunburn peculiar to a tender skin.
I could not see her eyes--she did not lift them; but I saw her thin,
high eyebrows, her long lashes; these were moist, and on her cheek
gleamed a dried-up teardrop, which had stopped near her somewhat pale
lips. Her entire small head was very charming; even her somewhat thick
and round nose did not spoil it. I liked especially the expression of
her face; it was so simple and gentle, so sad and so full of childish
perplexity before her own sadness. She was apparently waiting for some
one. Something cracked faintly in the forest. Immediately she raised
her head and looked around; her eyes flashed quickly before me in the
transparent shade--they were large, bright, and shy like a deer’s. She
listened for a few seconds, not moving her wide-open eyes from the
spot whence the faint sound had come; she heaved a sigh, turned her
head slowly, bent down still lower and began to examine the flowers.
Her eyelids turned red, her lips quivered bitterly and a new teardrop
rolled down from under her heavy eyelashes, stopping and sparkling
on her cheek. Thus quite a long while passed; the poor girl did not
stir--only occasionally she moved her hands and listened--listened all
the time.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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