The wind breathed a
feeling of expectancy--sweet, tender, evanescent, like the day-dream
of a Russian maiden who has not yet known the secrets of love. With
delicate gossamer fingers it gently caressed the barren hill that
frowned above the Oka, uttering its gentle poignantly-stirring song
at the same time.
Larks warbled. From all around echoed the happy cries of birds; the
vernal air thrilled and vibrated in great running arpeggios to the
wonder-music of the winds. The river alone preserved a rigid silence.
Vilyashev brooded a long while beside the swiftly running waters; but
at sunset's approach he rose hastily, and returned to the tumulus.
The sky was wrapped in its evening shroud of deep, mysterious
darkness. Set brightly against the sombre background of the tumulus-
crowned hill stood shining silver birch trees and dark shaggy firs:
they now looked wan and spectral in the fading light. For a fleeting
moment the world glowed like a huge golden ball; then the whole
countryside was one vast vista of green, finally merging into a deep
illimitable purple. Down the valley crept the mist, trailing its
filmy veils over point and peak and ridge. The air throbbed with the
cries of geese and bitterns. The hush of the spring-time night set in
and covered the world--that hush that is more vibrant than thunder,
that gathers the forest sounds and murmurs to itself, and weaves them
all into a tense, vernal harmony.
Pages:
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86