Paustovsky : Streams Where Trout Play

We shall not speak about love, because to this day we do not know what it is. Perhaps it is the thick snow falling all night, or the wintry streams where trout play. Or perhaps it is laughter and singing and the smell of old pitch just before dawn when the candles burn down and the stars press against the window-pane to shine in Maria Czerny's eyes. Who knows? Perhaps it is a bare arm on a rough epaulette, fingers stroking cold hair, or Baumweiss's patched tail-coat. It is masculine tears over what the heart never expected, over tenderness, caresses and incoherent whispers amid forest nights. Perhaps it is the return of childhood. Who knows? And perhaps it is despair at parting, when the heart sinks and Maria Czerny convulsively strokes the wallpaper, the tables and the doors of the room which had been a witness to her love. And perhaps finally it is a woman's cry and her swoon when outside in the smoke of torches Napoleon's police jump down from their saddles at sharp shouts of command and come into the house to arrest the marshal on the personal order of the emperor.

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