The villages seemed no bigger than match-boxes, the forests and gardens were like so much grass.
The whole landscape lay below like a map.
And farther down was the sea, stretching away for fifty or sixty miles.
I fancied I was hanging in mid-air and was going to fly.
It was so beautiful, and made me feel so light!
I turned and said happily to the guide,
'Well, Seyid Oghlu, isn't it lovely?'
But he clicked his tongue and said
'Ah, leddy, you don't know how fed up I am vid all dat.
I sees it every day.' "
"Thank you for the comparison," said Vera with a laugh. "But I simply think that we Northerners can never understand the charm of the sea.
I love the forest.
Do you remember our woods back in Yegorovskoye?
How could you ever be bored by them?
The pine-trees!
And the moss!
And the death-cups — looking as if they were made of red satin embroidered with white beads.
It's so still, so cool."
"It makes no difference to me — I love everything," answered Anna. "But I love best of all my little sister, my dear sensible Vera.
There are only two of us in the world, you know."
She put her arm round her sister and snuggled against her, cheek to cheek.
And suddenly she started.
"But how silly of me!
We sit here like characters in a novel, talking about Nature, and I quite forgot about' my present.
Here, look.
Only I'm afraid you may not like it."
She took from her handbag a small notebook in an unusual binding: on a background of old blue velvet, worn and grey with time, there wound a dull- golden filigree pattern of exquisite intricacy and beauty, apparently the diligent handiwork of a skilful and assiduous artist.
The notebook was attached to a gold chain, thin as a thread, and the sheets inside it had been replaced by ivory plates.
"What a beauty!
It's gorgeous!" said Vera, and kissed her sister. "Thank you.
Where did you get this treasure?"
"In a curiosity shop.
You know my weakness for rummaging in old trash.
That was how I came upon this prayer-book.
See how the ornament here shapes into a cross.
I only found the binding, and everything else — the leaves, clasps and pencil — I had to think up myself.
Hard as I tried to explain my idea to Mollinet, he simply refused to see what I wanted.
The clasps should have been made in the same style as the whole pattern — dull in tone, of old gold, finely engraved — but he's done God knows what.
However, the chain is of genuine Venetian workmanship, very old."
Admiringly Vera stroked the magnificent binding.
"What hoary antiquity!
I wonder how old this notebook is," she said.
"I can only guess.
It must date from the late seventeenth or mid-eighteenth century."
"How strange," said Vera, with a pensive smile. "Here I am holding an object that may have been touched by the hand of Marquise de Pompadour or Marie Antoinette herself.
Oh, Anna, it's so like you, to make a lady's carnet out of a prayer-book.
But let's go and see what's going on inside."
They went into the house across a large terrace paved with flagstone and enclosed on all sides by trellises of Isabella grape-vine.
The black rich clusters smelling faintly of strawberries hung heavily amid the dark green, gilded here and there by the sun.
The terrace was submerged in a green half-light, which cast a pale reflection on the faces of the two women.