My God, how wretched I am!'
'What for?' I asked timidly.
Zinaida made no answer, she simply shrugged her shoulders.
I remained kneeling, gazing at her with intense sadness.
Every word she had uttered simply cut me to the heart.
At that instant I felt I would gladly have given my life, if only she should not grieve.
I gazed at her – and though I could not understand why she was wretched, I vividly pictured to myself, how in a fit of insupportable anguish, she had suddenly come out into the garden, and sunk to the earth, as though mown down by a scythe.
It was all bright and green about her; the wind was whispering in the leaves of the trees, and swinging now and then a long branch of a raspberry bush over Zinaida's head.
There was a sound of the cooing of doves, and the bees hummed, flying low over the scanty grass, Overhead the sun was radiantly blue – while I was so sorrowful...
'Read me some poetry,' said Zinaida in an undertone, and she propped herself on her elbow; 'I like your reading poetry. You read it in sing-song, but that's no matter, that comes of being young. Read me "On the Hills of Georgia." Only sit down first.'