Abstract
Near Moscow there is a quiet green station or, more accurately, platform on the Usovo branch line of the Belorussia Railroad. To the left from the direction in which the trains run there are tall pines, while to the right, but a few meters away, there is a highway and, past it, a field of rye. If you descend from the platform to the right and cross the highway, you immediately come upon a path trampled in the rye. It leads to the steep bank of the Moscow River, narrow at that point and shaded by trees. Many years ago - have more than twenty-five really passed? - I often had occasion to walk that path; and I loved and remembered it through the long years that followed, when I would ride past it - this happened nearly every year - and invariably look to see whether the path was still there. Was it alive? Did it exist? And it did exist, carrying me back to the past for an instant and making my heart tremble. It was only this year, as I drove past it in a car, that I failed to see the path. It had not been tr...
Published Version
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