Poems in Prose
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Poems in Prose - Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
LANGUAGE
POEMS IN PROSE.
THE VILLAGE.
IT is the last day of July: for a thousand versts on every side lies Russia,—home.
The whole sky is a shadowless blue; one little cloud only floats upon it and melts away. A windless, sultry calm; the air like warm milk.
The larks trill, the doves coo, the swallows sweep by with their swift and noiseless flight; the horses neigh and crop the grass; the dogs stand about, gently wagging their tails, but not barking.
There is a mingled smell of smoke, hay, tar, and leather.
The hemp is ripe, and gives forth its penetrating but pleasant odor.
In a deep, gently-sloping ravine grow rows of thick-topped, weather-beaten willows. Below them flows a brook; in its bed the stones quiver beneath the rippling surface of the water. In the distance, where earth and sky join, is to be seen the blue line of a broad river.
On one side of the ravine are a number of neat little barns and storehouses, their doors all carefully closed; on the other side, half a dozen peasants’ huts built of fir logs and boards. Every roof is surmounted by a bird-house on the top of a tall pole; on the gables are tin horses’ heads with stiff manes. The rough panes of glass shimmer with all the colors of the rainbow. On the window-shutters are vases of flowers painted in a very primitive fashion. Before the houses stand heavy benches, with here and there a cat curled up in a ball, with pointed, transparent cars; behind the high threshold is the cool, dark interior.
I am lying on a horse-blanket close to the edge of the ravine, amid scattered heaps of the fragrant new-mown hay. The busy peasants have spread the hay out before the houses, that it may dry in the summer sun; then it goes into the barn;—it is delightful to sleep upon.
Curly-headed children peep out from under heaps of hay; busy hens pick about after beetles and flies; a young dog is rolling on the grass.
Brown-haired lads in long, white blouses, belted at the waist, and with heavy boots on, are leaning against a cart and laughing together, and chaffing one another.
A young, round-faced woman looks out of the window, and laughs half at the boys and half at the children frolicking in the hay.
Another young woman is drawing with her stout arms a great dripping bucket out of the well. The bucket sways and trembles on the rope and lets fall long, sparkling drops.
An old woman is standing before me; she has on a new checked dress and new leather shoes.
Three rows of large glass beads encircle her withered, sunburnt throat; her gray hair is covered with a red and yellow-striped kerchief, which hangs low over her dull eyes.
But the old eyes smile pleasantly, the whole of her wrinkled face smiles, the old creature must be nearly eighty years old. . . . Yet one can still see that she was beautiful as a