upied face. She ran now down the steps, swishing the air about
me, now into the kitchen, now to the threshing-floor, now
through the gate, and I could hardly turn my head quickly
enough to watch her.
And the oftener she fluttered by me with her beauty, the
more acute became my sadness. I felt sorry both for her and for
myself and for the Little Russian, who mournfully watched her
every time she ran through the cloud of chaff to the carts.
Whether it was envy of her beauty, or that I was regretting that
the girl was not mine, and never would be, or that I was a
stranger to her; or whether I vaguely felt that her rare beauty
was accidental, unnecessary, and, like everything on earth, of
short duration; or whether, perhaps, my sadness was that peculi-
ar feeling which is excited in man by the contemplation of real
beauty, God only knows.
The three hours of waiting passed unnoticed. It seemed to
me that I had not had time to look properly at Masha when Kar-
po drove up to the river, bathed the horse, and began to put it in
the shafts. The wet horse snorted with pleasure and kicked his
hoofs against the shafts. Karpo shouted to it: "Ba—ack!" My
grandfather woke up. Masha opened the creaking gates for us,
we got into the chaise and drove out of the yard. We drove in si-
lence as though we were angry with one another.
When, two or three hours later, Rostov and Nahitchevan ap-
peared in the distance, Karpo, who had been silent the whole
time, looked round quickly, and said:
"A fine wench, that at the Armenian's."
And he lashed his horses.
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