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Gusev

Anton Chekhov

IT was getting dark; it would soon be night.

Gusev, a discharged soldier, sat up in his hammock and said in an undertone:

"I say, Pavel Ivanitch. A soldier at Sutchan told me: while they were sailing a big fish came

into collision with their ship and stove a hole in it."

The nondescript individual whom he was addressing, and whom everyone in the ship's

hospital called Pavel Ivanitch, was silent, as though he had not heard.

And again a stillness followed. . . The wind frolicked with the rigging, the screw throbbed,

the waves lashed, the hammocks creaked, but the ear had long ago become accustomed to

these sounds, and it seemed that everything around was asleep and silent. It was dreary. The

three invalids -- two soldiers and a sailor -- who had been playing cards all the day were

asleep and talking in their dreams.

It seemed as though the ship were beginning to rock. The hammock slowly rose and fell

under Gusev, as though it were heaving a sigh, and this was repeated once, twice, three

times. . . . Something crashed on to the floor with a clang: it must have been a jug falling

down.

"The wind has broken loose from its chain. . ." said Gusev, listening.

This time Pavel Ivanitch cleared his throat and answered irritably:

"One minute a vessel's running into a fish, the next, the wind's breaking loose from its

chain. Is the wind a beast that it can break loose from its chain?"

"That's how christened folk talk."

"They are as ignorant as you are then. They say all sorts of things. One must keep a head on

one's shoulders and use one's reason. You are a senseless creature."

Pavel Ivanitch was subject to sea-sickness. When the sea was rough he was usually ill-

humoured, and the merest trifle would make him irritable. And in Gusev's opinion there

was absolutely nothing to be vexed about. What was there strange or wonderful, for

instance, in the fish or in the wind's breaking loose from its chain? Suppose the fish were as

big as a mountain and its back were as hard as a sturgeon: and in the same way, supposing

that away yonder at the end of the world there stood great stone walls and the fierce winds

were chained up to the walls . . . if they had not broken loose, why did they tear about all

over the sea like maniacs, and struggle to escape like dogs? If they were not chained up,

what did become of them when it was calm?

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Gusev pondered for a long time about fishes as big as a mountain and stout, rusty chains,

then he began to feel dull and thought of his native place to which he was returning after

five years' service in the East. He pictured an immense pond covered with snow. . . . On one

side of the pond the red-brick building of the potteries with a tall chimney and clouds of

black smoke; on the other side -- a village. . . . His brother Alexey comes out in a sledge

from the fifth yard from the end; behind him sits his little son Vanka in big felt over-boots,

and his little girl Akulka, also in big felt boots. Alexey has been drinking, Vanka is

laughing, Akulka's face he could not see, she had muffled herself up.

"You never know, he'll get the children frozen . . ." thought Gusev. "Lord send them sense

and judgment that they may honour their father and mother and not be wiser than their

parents."

"They want re-soleing," a delirious sailor says in a bass voice. "Yes, yes!"

Gusev's thoughts break off, and instead of a pond there suddenly appears apropos of

nothing a huge bull's head without eyes, and the horse and sledge are not driving along, but

are whirling round and round in a cloud of smoke. But still he was glad he had seen his own

folks. He held his breath from delight, shudders ran all over him, and his fingers twitched.

"The Lord let us meet again," he muttered feverishly, but he at once opened his eyes and

sought in the darkness for water.

He drank and lay back, and again the sledge was moving, then again the bull's head without

eyes, smoke, clouds. . . . And so on till daybreak.

The first outline visible in the darkness was a blue circle -- the little round window; then

little by little Gusev could distinguish his neighbour in the next hammock, Pavel Ivanitch.

The man slept sitting up, as he could not breathe lying down. His face was grey, his nose

was long and sharp, his eyes looked huge from the terrible thinness of his face, his temples

were sunken, his beard was skimpy, his hair was long. . . . Looking at him you could not

make out of what class he was, whether he were a gentleman, a merchant, or a peasant.

Judging from his expression and his long hair he might have been a hermit or a lay brother

in a monastery -- but if one listened to what he said it seemed that he could not be a monk.

He was worn out by his cough and his illness and by the stifling heat, and breathed with

difficulty, moving his parched lips. Noticing that Gusev was looking at him he turned his

face towards him and said:

"I begin to guess. . . . Yes. . . . I understand it all perfectly now."

"What do you understand, Pavel Ivanitch?"

"I'll tell you. . . . It has always seemed to me strange that terribly ill as you are you should be

here in a steamer where it is so hot and stifling and we are always being tossed up and

down, where, in fact, everything threatens you with death; now it is all clear to me. . . . Yes.

. . . Your doctors put you on the steamer to get rid of you. They get sick of looking after

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poor brutes like you. . . . You don't pay them anything, they have a bother with you, and you

damage their records with your deaths -- so, of course, you are brutes! It's not difficult to get

rid of you. . . . All that is necessary is, in the first place, to have no conscience or humanity,

and, secondly, to deceive the steamer authorities. The first condition need hardly be

considered, in that respect we are artists; and one can always succeed in the second with a

little practice. In a crowd of four hundred healthy soldiers and sailors half a dozen sick ones

are not conspicuous; well, they drove you all on to the steamer, mixed you with the healthy

ones, hurriedly counted you over, and in the confusion nothing amiss was noticed, and

when the steamer had started they saw that there were paralytics and consumptives in the

last stage lying about on the deck. . . ."

Gusev did not understand Pavel Ivanitch; but supposing he was being blamed, he said in

self-defence:

"I lay on the deck because I had not the strength to stand; when we were unloaded from the

barge on to the ship I caught a fearful chill."

"It's revolting," Pavel Ivanitch went on. "The worst of it is they know perfectly well that you

can't last out the long journey, and yet they put you here. Supposing you get as far as the

Indian Ocean, what then? It's horrible to think of it. . . . And that's their gratitude for your

faithful, irreproachable service!"

Pavel Ivanitch's eyes looked angry; he frowned contemptuously and said, gasping:

"Those are the people who ought to be plucked in the newspapers till the feathers fly in all

directions."

The two sick soldiers and the sailor were awake and already playing cards. The sailor was

half reclining in his hammock, the soldiers were sitting near him on the floor in the most

uncomfortable attitudes. One of the soldiers had his right arm in a sling, and the hand was

swathed up in a regular bundle so that he held his cards under his right arm or in the crook

of his elbow while he played with the left. The ship was rolling heavily. They could not

stand up, nor drink tea, nor take their medicines.

"Were you an officer's servant?" Pavel Ivanitch asked Gusev.

"Yes, an officer's servant."

"My God, my God!" said Pavel Ivanitch, and he shook his head mournfully. "To tear a man

out of his home, drag him twelve thousand miles away, then to drive him into consumption

and. . . and what is it all for, one wonders? To turn him into a servant for some Captain

Kopeikin or midshipman Dirka! How logical!"

"It's not hard work, Pavel Ivanitch. You get up in the morning and clean the boots, get the

samovar, sweep the rooms, and then you have nothing more to do. The lieutenant is all the

day drawing plans, and if you like you can say your prayers, if you like you can read a book

or go out into the street. God grant everyone such a life."

"Yes, very nice, the lieutenant draws plans all the day and you sit in the kitchen and pine for

home. . . . Plans indeed! . . . It is not plans that matter, but a human life. Life is not given

twice, it must be treated mercifully."

"Of course, Pavel Ivanitch, a bad man gets no mercy anywhere, neither at home nor in the

army, but if you live as you ought and obey orders, who has any need to insult you? The

officers are educated gentlemen, they understand. . . . In five years I was never once in

prison, and I was never struck a blow, so help me God, but once."

"What for?"

"For fighting. I have a heavy hand, Pavel Ivanitch. Four Chinamen came into our yard; they

were bringing firewood or something, I don't remember. Well, I was bored and I knocked

them about a bit, one's nose began bleeding, damn the fellow. . . . The lieutenant saw it

through the little window, he was angry and gave me a box on the ear."

"Foolish, pitiful man . . ." whispered Pavel Ivanitch. "You don't understand anything."

He was utterly exhausted by the tossing of the ship and closed his eyes; his head alternately

fell back and dropped forward on his breast. Several times he tried to lie down but nothing

came of it; his difficulty in breathing prevented it.

"And what did you hit the four Chinamen for?" he asked a little while afterwards.

"Oh, nothing. They came into the yard and I hit them."

And a stillness followed. . . . The card-players had been playing for two hours with

enthusiasm and loud abuse of one another, but the motion of the ship overcame them, too;

they threw aside the cards and lay down. Again Gusev saw the big pond, the brick building,

the village. . . . Again the sledge was coming along, again Vanka was laughing and Akulka,

silly little thing, threw open her fur coat and stuck her feet out, as much as to say: "Look,

good people, my snowboots are not like Vanka's, they are new ones."

"Five years old, and she has no sense yet," Gusev muttered in delirium. "Instead of kicking

your legs you had better come and get your soldier uncle a drink. I will give you something

nice."

Then Andron with a flintlock gun on his shoulder was carrying a hare he had killed, and he

was followed by the decrepit old Jew Isaitchik, who offers to barter the hare for a piece of

soap; then the black calf in the shed, then Domna sewing at a shirt and crying about

something, and then again the bull's head without eyes, black smoke. . . .

Overhead someone gave a loud shout, several sailors ran by, they seemed to be dragging

something bulky over the deck, something fell with a crash. Again they ran by. . . . Had

something gone wrong? Gusev raised his head, listened, and saw that the two soldiers and

the sailor were playing cards again; Pavel Ivanitch was sitting up moving his lips. It was

stifling, one hadn't strength to breathe, one was thirsty, the water was warm, disgusting. The

ship heaved as much as ever.

Suddenly something strange happened to one of the soldiers playing cards. . . . He called

hearts diamonds, got muddled in his score, and dropped his cards, then with a frightened,

foolish smile looked round at all of them.

"I shan't be a minute, mates, I'll . . ." he said, and lay down on the floor.

Everybody was amazed. They called to him, he did not answer.

"Stephan, maybe you are feeling bad, eh?" the soldier with his arm in a sling asked him.

"Perhaps we had better bring the priest, eh?"

"Have a drink of water, Stepan . . ." said the sailor. "Here, lad, drink."

"Why are you knocking the jug against his teeth?" said Gusev angrily. " Don't you see,

turnip head?'

"What?"

"What?" Gusev repeated, mimicking him. "There is no breath in him, he is dead! That's

what! What nonsensical people, Lord have mercy on us. . . !"

III

The ship was not rocking and Pavel Ivanitch was more cheerful. He was no longer ill-

humoured. His face had a boastful, defiant, mocking expression. He looked as though he

wanted to say: "Yes, in a minute I will tell you something that will make you split your

sides with laughing." The little round window was open and a soft breeze was blowing on

Pavel Ivanitch. There was a sound of voices, of the plash of oars in the water. . . . Just under

the little window someone began droning in a high, unpleasant voice: no doubt it was a

Chinaman singing.

"Here we are in the harbour," said Pavel Ivanitch, smiling ironically. "Only another month

and we shall be in Russia. Well, worthy gentlemen and warriors! I shall arrive at Odessa

and from there go straight to Harkov. In Harkov I have a friend, a literary man. I shall go to

him and say, 'Come, old man, put aside your horrid subjects, ladies' amours and the beauties

of nature, and show up human depravity.' "

For a minute he pondered, then said:

"Gusev, do you know how I took them in?"

"Took in whom, Pavel Ivanitch?"

"Why, these fellows. . . . You know that on this steamer there is only a first-class and a

third-class, and they only allow peasants -- that is the rift-raft -- to go in the third. If you

have got on a reefer jacket and have the faintest resemblance to a gentleman or a bourgeois

you must go first-class, if you please. You must fork out five hundred roubles if you die for

it. Why, I ask, have you made such a rule? Do you want to raise the prestige of educated

Russians thereby? Not a bit of it. We don't let you go third-class simply because a decent

person can't go third-class; it is very horrible and disgusting. Yes, indeed. I am very grateful

for such solicitude for decent people's welfare. But in any case, whether it is nasty there or

nice, five hundred roubles I haven't got. I haven't pilfered government money. I haven't

exploited the natives, I haven't trafficked in contraband, I have flogged no one to death, so

judge whether I have the right to travel first-class and even less to reckon myself of the

educated class? But you won't catch them with logic. . . . One has to resort to deception. I

put on a workman's coat and high boots, I assumed a drunken, servile mug and went to the

agents: 'Give us a little ticket, your honour,' said I. . . ."

"Why, what class do you belong to?" asked a sailor.

"Clerical. My father was an honest priest, he always told the great ones of the world the

truth to their faces; and he had a great deal to put up with in consequence."

Pavel Ivanitch was exhausted with talking and gasped for breath, but still went on:

"Yes, I always tell people the truth to their faces. I am not afraid of anyone or anything.

There is a vast difference between me and all of you in that respect. You are in darkness,

you are blind, crushed; you see nothing and what you do see you don't understand. . . . You

are told the wind breaks loose from its chain, that you are beasts, Petchenyegs, and you

believe it; they punch you in the neck, you kiss their hands; some animal in a sable-lined

coat robs you and then tips you fifteen kopecks and you: 'Let me kiss your hand, sir.' You

are pariahs, pitiful people. . . . I am a different sort. My eyes are open, I see it all as clearly

as a hawk or an eagle when it floats over the earth, and I understand it all. I am a living

protest. I see irresponsible tyranny -- I protest. I see cant and hypocrisy -- I protest. I see

swine triumphant -- I protest. And I cannot be suppressed, no Spanish Inquisition can make

me hold my tongue. No. . . . Cut out my tongue and I would protest in dumb show; shut me

up in a cellar -- I will shout from it to be heard half a mile away, or I will starve myself to

death that they may have another weight on their black consciences. Kill me and I will

haunt them with my ghost. All my acquaintances say to me: 'You are a most insufferable

person, Pavel Ivanitch.' I am proud of such a reputation. I have served three years in the far

East, and I shall be remembered there for a hundred years: I had rows with everyone. My

friends write to me from Russia, 'Don't come back,' but here I am going back to spite

them . . . yes. . . . That is life as I understand it. That is what one can call life."

Gusev was looking at the little window and was not listening. A boat was swaying on the

transparent, soft, turquoise water all bathed in hot, dazzling sunshine. In it there were naked

Chinamen holding up cages with canaries and calling out:

"It sings, it sings!"

Another boat knocked against the first; the steam cutter darted by. And then there came

another boat with a fat Chinaman sitting in it, eating rice with little sticks.

Languidly the water heaved, languidly the white seagulls floated over it.

"I should like to give that fat fellow one in the neck," thought Gusev, gazing at the stout

Chinaman, with a yawn.

He dozed off, and it seemed to him that all nature was dozing, too. Time flew swiftly by;

imperceptibly the day passed, imperceptibly the darkness came on. . . . The steamer was no

longer standing still, but moving on further.

Two days passed, Pavel Ivanitch lay down instead of sitting up; his eyes were closed, his

nose seemed to have grown sharper.

"Pavel Ivanitch," Gusev called to him. "Hey, Pavel Ivanitch."

Pavel Ivanitch opened his eyes and moved his lips.

"Are you feeling bad?"

"No . . . it's nothing . . ." answered Pavel Ivanitch, gasping. "Nothing; on the contrary -- I

am rather better. . . . You see I can lie down. I am a little easier. . . ."

"Well, thank God for that, Pavel Ivanitch."

"When I compare myself with you I am sorry for you . . . poor fellow. My lungs are all

right, it is only a stomach cough. . . . I can stand hell, let alone the Red Sea. Besides I take a

critical attitude to my illness and to the medicines they give me for it. While you . . . you are

in darkness. . . . It's hard for you, very, very hard!"

The ship was not rolling, it was calm, but as hot and stifling as a bath-house; it was not only

hard to speak but even hard to listen. Gusev hugged his knees, laid his head on them and

thought of his home. Good heavens, what a relief it was to think of snow and cold in that

stifling heat! You drive in a sledge, all at once the horses take fright at something and bolt. .

. . Regardless of the road, the ditches, the ravines, they dash like mad things, right through

the village, over the pond by the pottery works, out across the open fields. "Hold on," the

pottery hands and the peasants shout, meeting them. "Hold on." But why? Let the keen, cold

wind beat in one's face and bite one's hands; let the lumps of snow, kicked up by the horses'

hoofs, fall on one's cap, on one's back, down one's collar, on one's chest; let the runners ring

on the snow, and the traces and the sledge be smashed, deuce take them one and all! And

how delightful when the sledge upsets and you go flying full tilt into a drift, face

downwards in the snow, and then you get up white all over with icicles on your

moustaches; no cap, no gloves, your belt undone. . . . People laugh, the dogs bark. . . .

Pavel Ivanitch half opened one eye, looked at Gusev with it, and asked softly:

"Gusev, did your commanding officer steal?"

"Who can tell, Pavel Ivanitch! We can't say, it didn't reach us."

And after that a long time passed in silence. Gusev brooded, muttered something in

delirium, and kept drinking water; it was hard for him to talk and hard to listen, and he was

afraid of being talked to. An hour passed, a second, a third; evening came on, then night,

but he did not notice it. He still sat dreaming of the frost.

There was a sound as though someone came into the hospital, and voices were audible, but

a few minutes passed and all was still again.

"The Kingdom of Heaven and eternal peace," said the soldier with his arm in a sling. "He

was an uncomfortable man."

"What?" asked Gusev. "Who?"

"He is dead, they have just carried him up."

"Oh, well," muttered Gusev, yawning, "the Kingdom of Heaven be his."

"What do you think?" the soldier with his arm in a sling asked Gusev. "Will he be in the

Kingdom of Heaven or not?"

"Who is it you are talking about?"

"Pavel Ivanitch."

"He will be . . . he suffered so long. And there is another thing, he belonged to the clergy,

and the priests always have a lot of relations. Their prayers will save him."

The soldier with the sling sat down on a hammock near Gusev and said in an undertone:

"And you, Gusev, are not long for this world. You will never get to Russia."

"Did the doctor or his assistant say so?" asked Gusev.

"It isn't that they said so, but one can see it. . . . One can see directly when a man's going to

die. You don't eat, you don't drink; it's dreadful to see how thin you've got. It's consumption,

in fact. I say it, not to upset you, but because maybe you would like to have the sacrament

and extreme unction. And if you have any money you had better give it to the senior

officer."

"I haven't written home . . ." Gusev sighed. "I shall die and they won't know."

"They'll hear of it," the sick sailor brought out in a bass voice. "When you die they will put

it down in the Gazette, at Odessa they will send in a report to the commanding officer there

and he will send it to the parish or somewhere. .

Gusev began to be uneasy after such a conversation and to feel a vague yearning. He drank

water -- it was not that; he dragged himself to the window and breathed the hot, moist air --

it was not that; he tried to think of home, of the frost -- it was not that. . . . At last it seemed

to him one minute longer in the ward and he would certainly expire.

"It's stifling, mates . . ." he said. "I'll go on deck. Help me up, for Christ's sake."

"All right," assented the soldier with the sling. "I'll carry you, you can't walk, hold on to my

neck."

Gusev put his arm round the soldier's neck, the latter put his unhurt arm round him and

carried him up. On the deck sailors and time-expired soldiers were lying asleep side by side;

there were so many of them it was difficult to pass.

"Stand down," the soldier with the sling said softly. "Follow me quietly, hold on to my

shirt. . . ."

It was dark. There was no light on deck, nor on the masts, nor anywhere on the sea around.

At the furthest end of the ship the man on watch was standing perfectly still like a statue,

and it looked as though he were asleep. It seemed as though the steamer were abandoned to

itself and were going at its own will.

"Now they will throw Pavel Ivanitch into the sea," said the soldier with the sling. "In a sack

and then into the water."

"Yes, that's the rule."

"But it's better to lie at home in the earth. Anyway, your mother comes to the grave and

weeps."

"Of course."

There was a smell of hay and of dung. There were oxen standing with drooping heads by

the ship's rail. One, two, three; eight of them! And there was a little horse. Gusev put out

his hand to stroke it, but it shook its head, showed its teeth, and tried to bite his sleeve.

"Damned brute . . ." said Gusev angrily.

The two of them, he and the soldier, threaded their way to the head of the ship, then stood at

the rail and looked up and down. Overhead deep sky, bright stars, peace and stillness,

exactly as at home in the village, below darkness and disorder. The tall waves were

resounding, no one could tell why. Whichever wave you looked at each one was trying to

rise higher than all the rest and to chase and crush the next one; after it a third as fierce and

hideous flew noisily, with a glint of light on its white crest.

The sea has no sense and no pity. If the steamer had been smaller and not made of thick

iron, the waves would have crushed it to pieces without the slightest compunction, and

would have devoured all the people in it with no distinction of saints or sinners. The

steamer had the same cruel and meaningless expression. This monster with its huge beak

was dashing onwards, cutting millions of waves in its path; it had no fear of the darkness

nor the wind, nor of space, nor of solitude, caring for nothing, and if the ocean had its

people, this monster would have crushed them, too, without distinction of saints or sinners.

"Where are we now?" asked Gusev.

"I don't know. We must be in the ocean."

"There is no sight of land. . ."

"No indeed! They say we shan't see it for seven days."

The two soldiers watched the white foam with the phosphorus light on it and were silent,

thinking. Gusev was the first to break the silence.

"There is nothing to be afraid of," he said, "only one is full of dread as though one were

sitting in a dark forest; but if, for instance, they let a boat down on to the water this minute

and an officer ordered me to go a hundred miles over the sea to catch fish, I'd go. Or, let's

say, if a Christian were to fall into the water this minute, I'd go in after him. A German or a

Chinaman I wouldn't save, but I'd go in after a Christian."

"And are you afraid to die?"

"Yes. I am sorry for the folks at home. My brother at home, you know, isn't steady; he

drinks, he beats his wife for nothing, he does not honour his parents. Everything will go to

ruin without me, and father and my old mother will be begging their bread, I shouldn't

wonder. But my legs won't bear me, brother, and it's hot here. Let's go to sleep."

Gusev went back to the ward and got into his hammock. He was again tormented by a

vague craving, and he could not make out what he wanted. There was an oppression on his

chest, a throbbing in his head, his mouth was so dry that it was difficult for him to move his

tongue. He dozed, and murmured in his sleep, and, worn out with nightmares, his cough,

and the stifling heat, towards morning he fell into a sound sleep. He dreamed that they were

just taking the bread out of the oven in the barracks and he climbed into the stove and had a

steam bath in it, lashing himself with a bunch of birch twigs. He slept for two days, and at

midday on the third two sailors came down and carried him out.

He was sewn up in sailcloth and to make him heavier they put with him two iron weights.

Sewn up in the sailcloth he looked like a carrot or a radish: broad at the head and narrow at

the feet. . . . Before sunset they brought him up to the deck and put him on a plank; one end

of the plank lay on the side of the ship, the other on a box, placed on a stool. Round him

stood the soldiers and the officers with their caps off.

"Blessed be the Name of the Lord . . ." the priest began. "As it was in the beginning, is now,

and ever shall be."

"Amen," chanted three sailors.

The soldiers and the officers crossed themselves and looked away at the waves. It was

strange that a man should be sewn up in sailcloth and should soon be flying into the sea.

Was it possible that such a thing might happen to anyone?

The priest strewed earth upon Gusev and bowed down. They sang "Eternal Memory."

The man on watch duty tilted up the end of the plank, Gusev slid off and flew head

foremost, turned a somersault in the air and splashed into the sea. He was covered with

foam and for a moment looked as though he were wrapped in lace, but the minute passed

and he disappeared in the waves.

He went rapidly towards the bottom. Did he reach it? It was said to be three miles to the

bottom. After sinking sixty or seventy feet, he began moving more and more slowly,

swaying rhythmically, as though he were hesitating and, carried along by the current,

moved more rapidly sideways than downwards.

Then he was met by a shoal of the fish called harbour pilots. Seeing the dark body the fish

stopped as though petrified, and suddenly turned round and disappeared. In less than a

minute they flew back swift as an arrow to Gusev, and began zig-zagging round him in the

water.

After that another dark body appeared. It was a shark. It swam under Gusev with dignity

and no show of interest, as though it did not notice him, and sank down upon its back, then

it turned belly upwards, basking in the warm, transparent water and languidly opened its

jaws with two rows of teeth. The harbour pilots are delighted, they stop to see what will

come next. After playing a little with the body the shark nonchalantly puts its jaws under it,

cautiously touches it with its teeth, and the sailcloth is rent its full length from head to foot;

one of the weights falls out and frightens the harbour pilots, and striking the shark on the

ribs goes rapidly to the bottom.

Overhead at this time the clouds are massed together on the side where the sun is setting;

one cloud like a triumphal arch, another like a lion, a third like a pair of scissors. . . . From

behind the clouds a broad, green shaft of light pierces through and stretches to the middle of

the sky; a little later another, violet-coloured, lies beside it; next that, one of gold, then one

rose-coloured. . . . The sky turns a soft lilac. Looking at this gorgeous, enchanted sky, at

first the ocean scowls, but soon it, too, takes tender, joyous, passionate colours for which it

is hard to find a name in human speech.

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