eserted in the square near the church
. . . . Three soldiers were standing silent in a row where the road
began to go downhill. Seeing Ryabovitch, they roused themselves and
saluted. He returned the salute and began to go down the familiar
path.

On the further side of the river the whole sky was flooded with
crimson: the moon was rising; two peasant women, talking loudly,
were picking cabbage in the kitchen garden; behind the kitchen
garden there were some dark huts. . . . And everything on the near
side of the river was just as it had been in May: the path, the
bushes, the willows overhanging the water . . . but there was no
sound of the brave nightingale, and no scent of poplar and fresh
grass.

Reaching the garden, Ryabovitch looked in at the gate. The garden
was dark and still. . . . He could see nothing but the white stems
of the nearest birch-trees and a little bit of the avenue; all the
rest melted together into a dark blur. Ryabovitch looked and listened
eagerly, but after waiting for a quarter of an hour without hearing
a sound or catching a glimpse of a light, he trudged back. . . .

He went down to the river. The General's bath-house and the bath-sheets
on the rail of the little bridge showed white before him. . . . He
went on to the bridge, stood a little, and, quite unnecessarily,
touched the sheets. They felt rough and cold. He looked down at the
water. . . . The river ran rapidly and with a faintly audible gurgle
round the piles of the bath-house. The red moon was reflected near
the left bank; little ripples ran over the reflection, stretching
it out, breaking it into bits, and seemed trying to carry it away.

"How stupid, how stupid!" thought Ryabovitch, looking at the running
water. "How unintelligent it all is!"

Now that he expected nothing, the incident of the kiss, his impatience,
his vague hopes and disappointment, presented themselves in a clear
light. It no longer seemed to him strange that he had not seen the
General's messenger, and that he would never see the girl who had
accidentally kissed him instead of some one else; on the contrary,
it would have been strange if he had seen her. . . .

The water was running, he knew not where or why, just as it did in
May. In May it had flowed into the great river, from the great river
into the sea; then it had risen in vapour, turned into rain, and
perhaps the very same water was running now before Ryabovitch's
eyes again. . . . What for? Why?