There was so little room in the carriage,
the feather in my hat grazed the roof;
we had to sit rather close, my glance met his gaze,
my heart was heavy—I don’t even know why.
The evening was windless; my sadness made it feel
claustrophic beneath the low cloudy sky.
The Bois de Boulogne looked as dim and monochrome
as a pen and ink drawing on the yellowed page
of a lady’s keepsake-album from the last century.
The air from the street smelled of gasoline and lilac,
the silence was becoming tense;
he touched my knee, not by accident this time,
I could tell by the way his hand almost trembled.
Перо задело о верх экипажа.
Я поглядела в глаза его.
Томилось сердце, не зная даже
Причины горя своего.
Безветрен вечер и грустью скован
Под сводом облачных небес,
И словно тушью нарисован
В альбоме старом Булонский лес.
Бензина запах и сирени,
Насторожившийся покой...
Он снова тронул мои колени
Почти не дрогнувшей рукой.