S.A.O.S. -6 more heat, more dust, more jolting roads. Listening to the two mum- bling voices, I felt as if I had long, long ago seen the Armenian, the cupboard full of crockcry, the flies and the windows on which the hot sun beat, and that I should cease to see them only in the far distant future. I conceived a loathing for the steppe, the sun and the flies.
A Ukrainian woman wearing a shawl brought in a tray of tea things and thcn the samovar. The Armenian went slowly out into the lobby.
'Masha, Masha!' he shouted. 'Come and pour the tea! Where are you, Masha ?'
Hurried footsteps were heard, and in came a girl of about sixteen wearing a simple cotton dres and a white shawl. Rinsing the crockery and pouring the tea, she stood with her back to me, and all I noticed was that she was slim-waisted and barefoot, and that her small heels were covered by long trousers.
The master of the house offered me tea. As I sat downwn at table I glanced at the face of the girl who was handing me my glau, and suddenly felt as ifa fresh breeze had blownwn over my spirits and dispelled all the day's impressions, all the dreariness and dust. I saw the enchant- ing features of the loveliest face I have ever encountered either dream- ing or waking. Here was a truly beautiful girl—and I took this in at first glance, like a lightning flash.
Though I am ready to swear that Masha^^r 'Massya', as her father called her in his Armenian accent—was a real beauty, I ^ot prove it. Clouds sometimes jostle each other at random on the horizon, and the hidden sun paints them and the sky every possible hue—crimson, orange, gold, lilac, muddy pink. One cloud resembles a monk, another a fish, a third a turbaned Turk. Embracing a third of the sky, the setting sun glitters on a church cross, and on the windows of the manor house. It is reflected in the river and the ponds, it quivers on the trees. Far, far away, against the sunset a flock of wild ducks flies off to its night's rest. The boy herding his cows, the s^^eyor driving along the mill dam in his chaise, the ladies and gentlemen who are out for a stroll—all gaze at the sunset, all find it awesomely beautiful. But wherein does that beauty lie? No one knows, no one say.
I was not alone in finding the Armenian girl beautiful. My old grandfather, a man of eighty—tough, indifferent to women and the beautics of nature—gazed at her tenderly for a full minute.
'Is that your daughter, Avet Nazarovich?' he asked.
'Yes, she is,' the Armcnian answered.
'A fine-looking young lady.'
An artist would have called the Armenian girl's beauty classic and severe. To contemplate such lovelinett is to be imbued, heaven knows why, with the conviction that the regular features, that the hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck and figure, together with all the motions of the yowtg body, have been tmerringly combined by nature in a har- monious whole without a single discordant note. You somehow fancy that the ideally beautiful woman must have a nose just like hers, straight but slightly aquiline, the same big, dark eyes, the same long lashes, the same languorous glance. The curly black hair and eye- brows seem ideally suited to the delicate white skin of the forehead and cheeks, just as green reeds and quiet streams go together. Her white neck and youthful bosom are not fully developed, but only a genius could sculpt them, you feel. As you gaze you gradually con- ceive a wish to say something exceedingly pleasant, sincere and beauti- ful to the girl—something as beautiful as herself.
At first I was offended and disconcerted by Masha taking no notice of me, but casting her eyes do^ all the time. It was as ifsome special aura, proud and happy, segregated her from me, and jealously screened her from my gaze.
'It must be because I'm covered with dust, because I'm swtb^nt, because I'm only a boy,' I thought.
But then I gradually forgot myself and surrendered entirely to the sensation of beauty. I no longer remembered the dreary steppe and the dust, no longer heard the flies buzzing, no longer tasted my tea. All I was conscious ofwas the beautiful girl standing on the other side of the table.
My appreciation of her beauty was rather remarkable. It was not desire, not ecstasy, not pleasure that she aroused in me, but an oppres- sive, yet agreeable, melancholia—a sadness vague and hazy as a dream. I somehow felt sorry for myself, for my grandfather, for the Armenian —and even for the girl. I felt as if we had all four lost, irrecoverably, something vitally important. Grandfather too grew sad. He no longer spoke ofsheep and grazing, but was silent, and glanced pensively at the girl.
After tea Grandfather took his nap, and I went out and sat on the porch. This house, like all the others at Bakhchi-Salakh, caught the full heat of the swt. There were no trees, no a-wnings, no shadows. Overgro^ with goose-foot and wild mallow, the Armenian's big yard was lively and cheerful despite the intense heat. Threshing was in progress behind one of the low hurdles intersecting the large expanse at various points. Twelve horses, hameued abreast and forming a single long radius, trotted round a pole fixed in the exact centre of the threshing area. Beside them walked a Ukrainian in a long waistcoat and broad, baggy trousers, cracking his whip and shouting as ifto tease the animals and flaunt his power over them.
'Come on there, da^fi you. Aha! Come on, rot you! Afraid, are you?'
The horses—bay, grey and skewbald—had no idea why they were being forced to rotate in one spot and tread do^ wheat straw. They moved reluctantly, as though with difficulty, lashing their tails olfendedly. The wind raised great clouds of golden chaff from under their hoofs and bore it far away acrou the hurdles. Women with rakes swarmed near the tall new ricks, and carts went to and fro. In a second yard beyond those ricks another dozen such horses trotted round their pole, while a similar Ukrainian cracked his whip and mocked them.
The steps on which I was sitting were hot. Owing to the heat glue was oozing here and there from the wood of the slender banisters and window-frames. In the streaks of shade beneath the steps and shutters tiny red beetles huddled together. The sun baked my head, chest and back, but I paid no attention to it, being conscious only of the rap of bare feet on the wooden floor of the lobby and the other rooms behind me. Having cleared away the tea, Masha ran do-wn the steps, disturbing the air as she pased, and flew like a bird to a small, g^my outhouse—it must be the kitchen—whence proceeded the smell of roast mutton and the sound of angry Armenian voices. She disappeared through the dark doorway, where her place was taken by a bent, red- faced old Armenian woman wearing baggy green trousers, and angrily scolding someone. Then Masha suddenly reappeared in the doorway, flushcd from the kitchen's heat, and carrying a big black loaf on her shoulder. Swaying gracefully under the bread's weight, she ran acrou the yard to the threshing floor, leapt a hurdle, plunged into a golden cloud of chaff, and vanished behind the carts. The Ukrainian in charge of the horses lowered his whip, stopped talking to them, and gazed silcntly towards the carts for a minute. Then, when the girl once more darted past the horses and j^ped the hurdle, he followed her with his eyes, shouting at his horses in a highly aggrieved voice.
'Rot, you hell-hounds!'
After that I continually heard her bare feet, and saw her rushing round the place with a grave, preoccupied air. Now she ran downwn the steps, pauing me in a gust of air, now to the kitchen, now to the threshing floor, now through the gate, and I could hardly turn my head fast enough to watch.
The more often I caught sight of this lovely creature the more melancholy I became. I felt sorry for myself, for her, and for the Ukrainian mournfully watching her as she ran through the chaff to the carts. Did I envy her beauty? Did I regret that the girl was not mine and never would be, that I was a stranger to her? Did I have an inkling that her rare beauty was accidental, superfluous, and—like everything else on earth—transitory? Was my grief that peculiar sen- sation which the contemplation of true beauty arouses in any human being? God only knows.