In a neighbouring wood a cuckoo cuckooed. Krista looked at Venik, then yielded to tears, laid her head on Venik’s bosom and sobbed aloud. Venik stroked her hair, stroked her face, and was like one distraught. After this Krista ceased to weep, rose, went to the streamlet, gathered at it “fishes eyes”, and entwined them with her hair, and when Venik saw her it seemed to him that he could go mad with love of her—so dear she was to him.
Then they rose, went forward, and conversed. Venik felt that the previous burden had fallen from him, that his words were once more unfettered, and that he could breathe freely.
Only he still could not say the particular thing he wanted to say; and several times as he thought about it his words again became more constrained. But on the whole they felt freer. Already they could not say that they were going each by himself. Already they almost tripped along together.
So the next time they sat themselves down, under pretence of resting a little, Krista did not again fling herself weeping on to Venik’s bosom, but none the less did Venik take her head in his hands, none the less did he lay her on his bosom, stroke her hair and face, and wipe her eyes, although they were no longer bedimmed with tears.
It drew towards evening as they approached the hill-side. The sun had set, and left but a faint blush in the western heavens; the day was over and had left but a shadow of itself; evening stole upon the world, and with it came faint odours and the song of birds.
When they reached the hill-side and saw the hollow tree at the outskirts of the wood, Venik was like a child once more, and when he had seated himself at the threshold with Krista beside him he said: “Krista, now I feel ill no longer.”
And here it seemed to Venik that never in all his life had he felt his breast so full as it was just then, and that never in all his life he had felt what he then felt. If he had had to explain it all, he would not have succeeded, but when he looked at Krista he thought his looks alone explained it. He was half inclined to weep, but much more to rejoice. The river and the village far below them already veiled themselves in filmy mists; that cuckoo which had cuckooed to them as they sat beside the streamlet under the willows, seemed to have accompanied them even hither; here it cuckooed from the wood.
And it seemed to them, as if they had departed thence but yesterday. Village, river, field, wood, hollow tree—everything
