these two great birds had met here, not far from the ravine, one evening at twilight.
it was spring; the snow was thawing on the slopes, whilst in the forest and valleys it became grey and mellow; the pine-trees exhaled a pungent odour; and the brook at the bottom of the ravine had awakened.
the sun already gave warmth in the daytime. the twilight was verdurous, lingering, and resonant with life. wolf-packs were astir, and the males fought each other for the females.
this spring, with the sun and the soft breeze, an unwonted heaviness pervaded the male-bird's body. formerly he used to fly or roost, croak or sit silent, fly swiftly or slowly, because there were causes both around and within him: when hungry he would find a hare, kill, and devour it; when the sun was too hot or the wind too keen, he would shelter from them; when he saw a crouching wolf, he would hastily fly away from it.
now it was no longer so.
it was not a sense of hunger or self-preservation now that induced him to fly, to roost, cry, or be silent: something outside of him and his feelings now possessed him.
when the twilight came, as though befogged, not knowing why, he rose from the spot on which he had perched all day and flew from glade to glade, from crag to crag, moving his great wings softly and peering hard into the dense, verdurous darkness. in one of the glades he saw birds similar to himself, a female among them. without knowing why, he threw himself amidst them, feeling an inordinate strength within him and a great hatred for all the other males.
he walked slowly round the female, treading hard on the ground, spreading out his wings, tossing back his head to look askance at the males. one, he who until now had been victor, tried to impede him— then flew at him with beak prepared to strike, and a long silent, cruel fight began. they flew at each other, beating with their bills, chests, wings, and claws, blindly rumpling and tearing each others' feathers and body.
his opponent proved the weaker and drew off; then again he threw himself towards the female and walked round her, limping a little now, and trailing his blood-stained left wing along the ground.
pine-trees surrounded the glade; the earth was bestrewn with dry, withered leaves; the night sky was blue.
the female was indifferent to him and to all; she strode calmly about the glade, pecked at the ground, caught a mouse and quietly swallowed it. she appeared to pay no attention to the males.
it was thus all night long.
but when the night began to pale and over the east lay the greenish- blue outline of dawn, she moved close to him who had conquered the rest, leaned her back against his breast, tipped his injured wing tenderly with her bill—as though she would nurse and dress it; then slowly rising from the ground, she flew towards the ravine.
and he, moving his injured wing painfully but without heeding it, emitting shrill cries of joy, flew after her.
she came down just by the roots of that pine where afterwards they built their nest.
the male perched beside her. he was irresolute and apparently abashed.
the female strutted several times round him, scenting him again. then, pressing her breast to the ground, tail uplifted, her eyes half-closed—she waited. the male threw himself towards her, seized her comb with his bill, clapping the ground with his heavy wings; and through his veins there coursed such a wonderful ecstasy, such invigorating joy, that he was dazzled, feeling nothing else save this delicious rapture, croaking hoarsely and making the ravine reverberate with a dull echo that ruffled the stillness of the early morn.
the female was submissive.
