Вітер у вербах
Dulce Domum
Weshallslipthroughallright,withoutanybotherorunpleasantness,andwecanhavealookatthemthroughtheirwindowsifyoulike,andseewhatthey’redoing."
Therapidnightfallofmid-Decemberhadquitebesetthelittlevillageastheyapproacheditonsoftfeetoverafirstthinfallofpowderysnow.Littlewasvisiblebutsquaresofaduskyorange-redoneithersideofthestreet,wherethefirelightorlamplightofeachcottageoverflowedthroughthecasementsintothedarkworldwithout.Mostofthelowlatticedwindowswereinnocentofblinds,andtothelookers-infromoutside,theinmates,gatheredroundthetea-table,absorbedinhandiwork,ortalkingwithlaughterandgesture,hadeachthathappygracewhichisthelastthingtheskilledactorshallcapture—thenaturalgracewhichgoeswithperfectunconsciousnessofobservation.Movingatwillfromonetheatretoanother,thetwospectators,sofarfromhomethemselves,hadsomethingofwistfulnessintheireyesastheywatchedacatbeingstroked,asleepychildpickedupandhuddledofftobed,oratiredmanstretchandknockouthispipeontheendofasmoulderinglog.
Butitwasfromonelittlewindow,withitsblinddrawndown,amereblanktransparencyonthenight,thatthesenseofhomeandthelittlecurtainedworldwithinwalls—thelargerstressfulworldofoutsideNatureshutoutandforgotten—mostpulsated.
