Люси Мод Монтгомери – Энн из Зеленых Крыш. Уровень 1 / Anne of Green Gables (страница 2)
"Well now, yes, there's one right below the house.”
"Great. It's my dream to live near a brook. I never expected it, though. Dreams don't often come true, do they? But just now I feel pretty nearly perfectly happy. I can't feel exactly perfectly happy because – well, what color do you call this?”
She twitched one of her long glossy braids over her thin shoulder and held it up before Matthew's eyes.
"It's red, isn't it?” he said.
"Yes, it's red,” she said resignedly. "Now you see why I can't be perfectly happy. Nobody can who has red hair. I hate that red hair. I think to myself, 'Now my hair is black, black as the raven's wing.' But it's not true, it is just plain red and it breaks my heart. Mrs. Spencer says – oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!!!”
They rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the "Avenue.” The "Avenue” was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom.
The child leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above.
"I think you're tired and hungry,” Matthew said.
"Oh, Mr. Cuthbert,” she whispered, "that place, that white place – what was it?”
"Well, the Avenue,” said Matthew. "It is a pretty place.”
"Pretty? Oh, no! It was wonderful, wonderful! I felt it here,” she put one hand on her breast, "it made a queer funny ache. And yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?”
"Well, I just can't recollect.”
"I have it often – whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But you can't call that lovely place the Avenue. We will call it the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight! I'm glad to get home. You see, I never had a real home.”
They drove over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond. From the marsh they heard sweet chorus of the frogs.
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