Translation:Rose (Turgenieff)

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Rose  (1878) 
by Ivan Turgenieff, translated from Russian by Wikisource

Last days of August ... autumn is already advancing.
     The sun was setting. Sudden gusts of rain, no thunder and no lightning, just flashed over our broad plain.
     Garden before the house burned and smoked, all bathed in the morning fire and flood of rain.
     She sat at a table in the living room and a stubborn looked pensively at the garden through the half-open door.
     I knew that is accomplished then in her heart, I knew that after a brief, albeit painful, fight it at this very moment, surrendered herself feeling, which could no longer cope better.
     Suddenly she got up, quickly went into the garden and disappeared.
     Now is the time ... sample to another, she did not return.
     Then I got up and went out of the house, went down the avenue by which - I am in no doubt - and she went.
     All was dark around, the night was bearing down. But on the damp sand of the path, even through the bright alley diffuse haze, stood a roundish object.
     I leaned over ... That was a young, almost full-blown rose. Two hours ago I saw this same rose on her breast.
     I carefully picked up a fallen flower in the mud, and returned to the living room, put it on the table before her chair.
     So she returned at last - and easy steps passed the room, sat down at the table.
     Her face brightened, and pale, and, quickly, with a cheerful embarrassment ran along the sides let down, as if eye reduction.
     She saw the rose, snatched it, looked at her wrinkled, stained petals, glanced at me - and her eyes, suddenly stopped and began to shine with tears.
     - What are you crying? - I asked.
     - Yes, that's about the rose. Look what happened to her. Here, I even think to show thoughtfulness.
     - Your tears wash away this dirt, - "I said with a significant expression.
     - Tears do not wash the tears burn - she replied, and turning to the hearth, threw a flower in a dying flame.
     - The fire will burn even more tears - she said, not without daring - and beautiful eyes still glistening with tears, laughter stout and happy.
     I realized that she was burned.

April, 1878
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