one is seeing correct features; that hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck,
bosom, and every movement of the young body all go together
in one complete harmonious accord in which nature has not
blundered over the smallest line. You fancy for some reason that
the ideally beautiful woman must have such a nose as Masha's,
straight and slightly aquiline, just such great dark eyes, such
long lashes, such a languid glance; you fancy that her black curly
hair and eyebrows go with the soft white tint of her brow and
cheeks as the green reeds go with the quiet stream. Masha's
white neck and her youthful bosom were not fully developed,
but you fancy the sculptor would need a great creative genius to
mold them. You gaze, and little by little the desire comes over
you to say to Masha something extraordinarily pleasant, sincere,
beautiful, as beautiful as she herself was.
At first I felt hurt and abashed that Masha took no notice of
me, but was all the time looking down; it seemed to me as
though a peculiar atmosphere, proud and happy, separated her
from me and jealously screened her from my eyes.
"That's because I am covered with dust," I thought, "am sun-
burnt, and am still a boy."
But little by little I forgot myself, and gave myself up entirely
to the consciousness of beauty. I thought no more now of the
dreary steppe, of the dust, no longer heard the buzzing of the
flies, no longer tasted the tea, and felt nothing except that a
beautiful girl was standing only the other side of the table.
I felt this beauty rather strangely. It was not desire, nor ecsta-
cy, nor enjoyment that Masha excited in me, but a painful
though pleasant sadness. It was a sadness vague and undefined
as a dream. For some reason I felt sorry for myself, for my grand
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