Regen um Mitternacht/Gewalt und Zärtlichkeit (German Edition)

$ Kindle Edition. Die Wahrsagerin/Am Scheideweg (German Edition). Kindle Edition. Regen um Mitternacht/Gewalt und Zärtlichkeit (German Edition). $
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Streu, Polster, Bettend, Bettzeug. Geschirr, anspannen, Kabelbaum, Joch, Gespann, Gurtwerk, vorspannen, spannen. Anton Chekhov 31 Kuzka brushed the hay off it with his sleeve, put it on, and timidly he crawled into the cart, still with an expression of terror on his face as though he were afraid of a blow from behind. The driver gave a tug at the reins and the cart rolled out of the yard. Schrecken, Schreck, Grauen, Entzetzen, Entsetzen. The postman, ready to set off, in his cap and his coat, with a rusty sword in his hand, was standing near the door, waiting for the driver to finish putting the mail bags into the cart which had just been brought round with three horses.

The sleepy postmaster sat at his table, which was like a counter; he was filling up a form and saying: So look here, Ignatyev, let him get into the mail cart and take him with you to the station: It's better for him to drive with you free than for me to hire horses for him. At the entrance of the postoffice there was the dark outline of a cart and three hors es. The horses were standing still except that one of the tracehorses kept uneasily shifting from one leg to the other and tossing its head, making the bell clang from time to time.

Two silhouettes were moving lazily beside it: The latter was smoking a short pipe; the light of the pipe moved about in the darkness, dying away and flaring up again; for an instant it lighted up a bit of a sleeve, then a shaggy moustache and big copper-red nose, then sternlooking, overhanging eyebrows. The postman pressed down the mail bags with his hands, laid his sword on them and jumped into the cart. The student clambered irresolutely in after him, and accidentally touching him with his elbow, said timidly and politely: The postmaster came out of the post-office just as he was, in his waistcoat and slippers; shrinking from the night dampness and clearing his throat, he walked beside the cart and said: Give my love to your mother, Mihailo.

Give my love to them all. And you, Ignatyev, mind you don't forget to give the parcel to Bystretsov.

The big bell clanged something to the little bells, the little bells gave it a friendly answer. The cart squeaked, moved. The big bell lamented, the little bells laughed. Standing up in his seat the driver lashed the restless tracehorse twice, and the cart rumbled with a hollow sound along the dusty road. The little town was asleep. Houses and trees stood black on each side of the broad street, and not a light was to be seen. Narrow clouds stretched here and there over the starspangled sky, and where the dawn would soon be coming there was a narrow crescent moon; but neither the stars, of which there were many, nor the halfmoon, which looked white, lighted up the night air.

It was cold and damp, and there was a smell of autumn. The student, who thought that politeness required him to talk affably to a man who had not refused to let him accompany him, began: Look to the right. Do you see three stars side by side in a straight line? That is the constellation of Orion, which, in our hemisphere, only becomes visible in September. Apparently the constellation of Orion did not interest him. He was accustomed to see the stars, and probably he had long grown weary of them.

The student paused for a while and then said: It's time for the dawn to begin. Do you know what time the sun rises? The mail cart drove out of the town. Now nothing could be seen on either side of the road but the fences of kitchen gardens and here and there a solitary willow-tree; everything in front of them was shrouded in darkness. Here in the open country the half-moon looked bigger and the stars shone more brightly.

Then came a scent of dampness; the postman shrank further into his collar, the student felt an unpleasant chill first creeping about his feet, then over the mail bags, over his hands and his face. The horses moved more slowly; the bell was mute as though it were frozen. There was the sound of the splash of water, and stars reflected in the water danced under the horses' feet and round the wheels.

But ten minutes later it became so dark that neither the stars nor the moon could be seen.

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The mail cart had entered the forest. Prickly pine branches were continually hitting the student on his cap and a spider's web settled on his face. Wheels and hoofs knocked against huge roots, and the mail cart swayed from side to side as though it were drunk. Anton Chekhov 35 "Keep to the road," said the postman angrily. My face is scratched all over by the twigs!

Keep more to the right! The cart suddenly bounded as though in the throes of a convulsion, began trembling, and, with a creak, lurched heavily first to the right and then to the left, and at a fearful pace dashed along the forest track. The horses had taken fright at something and bolted. The student, violently shaken, bent forward and tried to find something to catch hold of so as to keep his balance and save himself from being thrown out, but the leather mail bags were slippery, and the driver, whose belt the student tried to catch at, was himself tossed up and down and seemed every moment on the point of flying out.

Through the rattle of the wheels and the creaking of the cart they heard the sword fall with a clank on the ground, then a little later something fell with two heavy thuds behind the mail cart. The driver and the student were both breathless. The postman was not in the cart. He had been thrown out, together with his sword, the student's portmanteau, and one of the mail bags. Zuckung, Konvulsion, Krampf, Zusammenziehung, Gliederzucken. Knarren, knarre, knarrst, knarrt, knirschen, fletschen. Lord have mercy on us! Cursed filly; it is only a week since she has run in harness. She goes all right, but as soon as we go down hill there is trouble!

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She wants a touch or two on the nose, then she wouldn't play about like this. After replacing the luggage the driver for no reason whatever led the horses for a hundred paces, grumbled at the restless tracehorse, and jumped up on the box. It was the first time in his life that he had driven by night in a mail cart, and the shaking he had just been through, the postman's having been thrown out, and the pain in his own back struck him as interesting adventures.

He lighted a cigarette and said with a laugh: I very nearly flew out, and I didn't even notice you had been thrown out. I can fancy what it is like driving in autumn! I take this post and drive back again at once. On bright summer and gloomy autumn nights, or in winter when a ferocious snowstorm whirled howling round the mail cart, it must have been hard to avoid feeling frightened and uncanny. No doubt more than once the horses had bolted, the mail cart had stuck in the mud, they had been attacked by highwaymen, or had lost their way i n the blizzard.

Abenteuer, Gefahren, Geschick, Schicksale. Barmherzigkeit, Gnade, Mitleid, Nachsicht. Anton Chekhov 37 "I can fancy what adventures you must have had in eleven years! Meanwhile it began to get light. The sky changed colour imperceptibly; it still seemed dark, but by now the horses and the driver and the road could be seen. The crescent moon looked bigger and bigger, and the cloud that stretched below it, shaped like a cannon in a gun-carriage, showed a faint yellow on its lower edge.

Soon the postman's face was visible. It was wet with dew, grey and rigid as the face of a corpse. An expression of dull, sullen anger was set upon it, as though the postman were still in pain and still angry with the driver. The nights are cold in September, but as soon as the sun rises it isn't cold. Shall we soon reach the station? The morning came on rapidly. The moon turned pale and melted away into the dull grey sky, the cloud turned yellow all over, the stars grew dim, but the east was still cold-looking and the same colour as the rest of the sky, so that one could hardly believe the sun was hidden in it.

The chill of the morning and the surliness of the postman gradually infected the student. He looked apathetically at the country around him, waited for the warmth of the sun, and thought of nothing but how dreadful and horrible it must be for the poor trees and the grass to endure the cold nights. The sun rose dim, drowsy, and cold. The tree-tops were not gilded by the rays of the rising sun, as usually described, the sunbeams did not creep over the earth and there was no sign of joy in the flight of the sleepy birds.

The cold remained just the same now that the sun was up as it had been in the night. Kriechen, kriecht, krieche, kriechst, schleichen, schleiche, schleicht, schleichst. Behind those windows, he thought, people were most likely enjoying their soundest morning sleep not hearing the bells, nor feeling the cold, nor seeing the postman's angry face; and if the bell did wake some young lady, she would turn over on the other side, smile in the fulness of her warmth and comfort, and, drawing up her feet and putting her hand under her cheek, would go off to sleep more soundly than ever.

And since it is not allowed, people have no business. It makes no difference to me, it's true, only I don't like it, and I don't wish it. When, a little later, the horses stopped at the entrance of the station the student thanked him and got out of the cart. The mail train had not yet come in. A long goods train stood in a siding; in the tender the engine driver and his assistant, with faces wet with dew, were drinking tea from a dirty tin teapot.

The carriages, the platforms, the seats were all wet and cold. Until the train came in the student stood at the buffet drinking tea while the postman, with his hands thrust up his sleeves and the same look of anger still on his face, paced up and down the platform in solitude, staring at the ground under his feet. With whom was he angry? Was it with people, with poverty, with the autmn nights? From the village, which stood up high on the steep river-bank, its trellis-like skeleton could be seen, and in foggy weather and on still winter days, when its delicate iron girders and all the scaffolding around was covered with hoar frost, it presented a picturesque and even fantastic spectacle.

Kutcherov, the engineer who was building the bridge, a stout, broad-shouldered, bearded man in a soft crumpled cap drove through the village in his racing droshky or his open carriage. Now and then on holidays navvies working on the bridge would come to the village; they begged for alms, laughed at the women, and sometimes carried off something.

But that was rare; as a rule the days passed quietly and peacefully as though no bridge-building were going on, and only in the evening, when camp fires gleamed near the bridge, the wind faintly wafted the songs of the navvies. And by day there was sometimes the mournful clang of metal, dondon-don. It happened that the engineer's wife came to see him. She was pleased with the river-banks and the gorgeous view over the green valley with trees, churches, flocks, and she began begging her husband to buy a small piece of German alms: They bought sixty acres of land, and on the high bank in a field, where in earlier days the cows of Obrutchanovo used to wander, they built a pretty house of two storeys with a terrace and a verandah, with a tower and a flagstaff on which a flag fluttered on Sundays -- they built it in about three months, and then all the winter they were planting big trees, and when spring came and everything began to be green there were already avenues to the new house, a gardener and two labourers in white aprons were digging near it, there was a little fountain, and a globe of lookingglass flashed so brilliantly that it was painful to look at.

The house had already been named the New Villa. They came from the New Villa. The horses were sleek, graceful beasts, as white as snow, and strikingly alike. His wife Stepanida, his children and grandchildren came out into the street to look at them. By degrees a crowd collected. The Lytchkovs, father and son, both men with swollen faces and entirely beardless, came up bareheaded. Kozov, a tall, thin old man with a long, narrow beard, came up leaning on a stick with a crook handle: They ought to be in a plough and with a whip, too.

And afterwards, while they were blowing up the fire at the forge, the coachman talked while he smoked cigarettes. The peasants learned from him various details: On the new estate, he told them, they were not going to plough or to sow, but simply to live for their German aprons: Anton Chekhov 41 pleasure, live only to breathe the fresh air. When he had finished and led the horses back a crowd of boys followed him, the dogs barked, and Kozov, looking after him, winked sarcastically.

Kozov was a solitary man, a widower; he had a dreary life he was prevented from working by a disease which he sometimes called a rupture and sometimes worms he was maintained by his son, who worked at a confectioner's in Harkov and sent him money; and from early morning till evening he sauntered at leisure about the river or about the village; if he saw, for instance, a peasant carting a log, or fishing, he would say: And as he said these things he would wink as though he knew something. At the New Villa they burned Bengal lights and sent up fireworks in the evenings, and a sailing-boat with red lanterns floated by Obrutchanovo.

One morning the engineer's wife, Elena Ivanovna, and her little daughter drove to the village in a carriage with yellow wheels and a pair of dark bay ponies; both mother and daughter were wearing broad-brimmed straw hats, bent down over their ears. This was exactly at the time when they were carting manure, and the blacksmith Rodion, a tall, gaunt old man, bareheaded and barefooted, was standing near his dirty and repulsive-looking cart and, flustered, looked at the ponies, and it was evident by his face that he had never seen such little horses before.

Bruch, brechen, Ruptur, Schisma, Spaltung. Stepanida, Rodion's wife, a stout woman, came running out of the hut; her kerchief slipped off her grey head; she looked at the carriage facing the sun, and her face smiled and wrinkled up as though she were blind. Stepanida suddenly burst into tears and bowed down to the ground. Rodion, too, flopped to the ground, displaying his brownish bald head, and as he did so he almost caught his wife in the ribs with the fork.

Elena Ivanovna was overcome with confusion and drove back. II The Lytchkovs, father and son, caught in their meadows two cart-horses, a pony, and a broad-faced Aalhaus bull-calf, and with the help of red-headed Volodka, son of the blacksmith Rodion, drove them to the village.

They called the village elder, collected witnesses, and went to look at the damage.


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Let them get out of it if they can, the engineers! Do you think there is no such thing as law? Send for the police inspector, draw up a statement! He shouted louder and louder, and his beardless face seemed to be more and more swollen. Leave them free, and they will ruin all the meadows! You've no sort of right to ill-treat people! We are not serfs now! Anton Chekhov 43 "We got on all right without a bridge," said the elder Lytchkov gloomily; "we did not ask for it. What do we want a bridge for? We don't want it! And meanwhile quite a crowd had gathered in the village round the thoroughbred bull-calf and the horses.

The bullcalf was embarrassed and looked up from under his brows, but suddenly lowered his muzzle to the ground and took to his heels, kicking up his hind legs; Kozov was frightened and waved his stick at him, and they all burst out laughing. Then they locked up the beasts and waited. On getting the five roubles the Lytchkovs, father and son, the village elder and Volodka, punted over the river in a boat and went to a hamlet on the other side where there was a tavern, and there had a long carousal. Their singing and the shouting of the younger Lytchkov could be heard from the village.

Their women were uneasy and did not sleep all night. Rodion did not sleep either. They have insulted the gentleman. Oh, they've insulted him. It's a bad business. He was wearing a red cotton shirt and high boots; a setter dog with its long tongue hanging out, followed behind him. Ever since the early spring your cattle have been in my copse and garden every day.

Everything is trampled down; the pigs have rooted up the meadow, are ruining everything in the kitchen garden, and all the undergrowth in the copse is destroyed. There is no getting on with your herdsmen; one asks them civilly, and they are rude. Damage is done on my estate every day and I do nothing -- I don't fine you or make a complaint; meanwhile you impounded my horses and my bull calf and exacted five roubles.

A week ago one of your people cut down two oak saplings in my copse. You have dug up the road to Eresnevo, and now I have to go two miles round. Why do you injure me at every step? What harm have I done you? For God's sake, tell me! My wife and I do our utmost to live with you in peace and harmony; we help the peasants as we can. My wife is a kind, warm-hearted woman; she never refuses you help. That is her dream -- to be of use to you and your children. You reward us with evil for our good. You are unjust, my friends. I ask you earnestly to think it over.

We treat you humanely; repay us in the same coin. The peasants stood a little longer, put on their caps and walked away. Rodion, who always understood everything that was said to him in some peculiar way of his own, heaved a sigh and said: On reaching home Rodion said his prayer, took off his boots, and sat down on the bench beside his wife. Stepanida and he always sat side by side when they were at home, and always walked side by side in the street; they ate and they drank and they slept always together, and the older they grew the more they loved one another. It was hot and crowded in their hut, and there were children everywhere -- on the floors, in the windows, on the stove.

In spite of her advanced years Stepanida was still bearing children, and now, looking at the crowd of children, it was hard to distinguish German calf: Seufzen, Seufzer, Gier, Sucht. Anton Chekhov 45 which were Rodion's and which were Volodka's. Volodka's wife, Lukerya, a plain young woman with prominent eyes and a nose like the beak of a bird, was kneading dough in a tub; Volodka was sitting on the stove with his legs hanging. Coin or no coin, we shall have to collect ten kopecks from every hut. We've offended the gentleman very much. I am sorry for him. What is it to you? If we have to, we can cross by the boat.

You are foolish, like a little child; they will teach you no good; don't go! III Elena Ivanovna and her little daughter visited the village on foot. They were out for a walk. It was a Sunday, and the peasant women and girls were walking up and down the street in their brightly-coloured dresses. Rodion and Stepanida, sitting side by side at their door, bowed and smiled to Elena Ivanovna and her little daughter as to acquaintances.

From the windows more than a dozen children stared at them; their faces expressed amazement and curiosity, and they could be heard whispering: The family is fourteen souls in all, and only two bread-winners. We are supposed to be blacksmiths, but when they bring us a horse to shoe we have no coal, nothing to buy it with.

We are worried to death, lady," she went on, and laughed. Bekannte, Bekanntschaften, die Bekanntschaft, Reisebekanntschaften. Anton Chekhov 47 Elena Ivanovna sat down at the entrance and, putting her arm round her little girl, pondered something, and judging from the little girl's expression, melancholy thoughts were straying through her mind, too; as she brooded she played with the sumptuous lace on the parasol she had taken out of her mother's hands.

Here, God sends no rain. The rich put up candles, pay for services; the rich give to beggars, but what can the poor man do? He has no time to make the sign of the cross. He is the beggar of beggars himself; how can he think of his soul? And many sins come from poverty; from trouble we snarl at one another like dogs, we haven't a good word to say to one another, and all sorts of things happen, dear lady -- God forbid! It seems we have no luck in this world nor the next. All the luck has fallen to the rich. And Rodion smiled, too; he was pleased that his old woman was so clever, so ready of speech.

Here my husband and I do not live poorly, we have means, but are we happy? I am young, but I have had four children; my children are always being ill. I am ill, too, and constantly being doctored. I get no sleep; a continual headache gives me no peace. Here I am sitting and talking, but my head is bad, I am weak all over, and I should prefer the hardest labour to such a condition.

My soul, too, is troubled; I am in continual fear for my children, my husband. Every family has its own German beggar: Sonnenschirm, Markise, Sonnendach, Sonnenschutz. I am not of noble birth. My grandfather was a simple peasant, my father was a tradesman in Moscow; he was a plain, uneducated man, too, while my husband's parents were wealthy and distinguished. They did not want him to marry me, but he disobeyed them, quarrelled with them, and they have not forgiven us to this day.

That worries my husband; it troubles him and keeps him in constant agitation; he loves his mother, loves her dearly. So I am uneasy, too, my soul is in pain. Kozov came up, too, and stood twitching his long, narrow beard.

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The Lytchkovs, father and son, drew near. I have not my bit to work. I don't work, and feel as though I were an outsider. I am saying all this that you may not judge from outward appearances; if a man is expensively dressed and has means it does not prove that he is satisfied with his life. And the little girl was just such another as her mother: There was a fragrance of scent about them. I want to help you -- I want to dreadfully -- to be of use, to be a real friend to you. I know your need, and what I don't know I feel, my heart guesses.

I am sick, feeble, and for me perhaps it is not possible to change my life as I would. But I have children. I will try to bring them up that they may be of use to you, may love you. I shall impress upon them continually that their life does not German agitation: Only I beg you earnestly, I beseech you, trust us, live in friendship with us. My husband is a kind, good man. Don't worry him, don't irritate him. He is sensitive to every trifle, and yesterday, for instance, your cattle were in our vegetable garden, and one of your people broke down the fence to the bee-hives, and such an attitude to us drives my husband to despair.

I beg you," she went on in an imploring voice, and she clasped her hands on her bosom -- "I beg you to treat us as good neighbours; let us live in peace! There is a saying, you know, that even a bad peace is better than a good quarrel, and, 'Don't buy property, but buy neighbours. Only, you see, Voronov, a rich peasant at Eresnevo, promised to build a school; he, too, said, 'I will do this for you,' 'I will do that for you,' and he only put up the framework and refused to go on.

And then they made the peasants put the roof on and finish it; it cost them a thousand roubles. Voronov did not care; he only stroked his beard, but the peasants felt it a bit hard. There was the sound of laughter. And she walked more and more quickly, without looking round. Have patience for a couple of years.

You will live here, you will have patience, and it will all come round. Our folks are good and peaceable; there's no harm in them; it's God's truth I'm telling you. Don't mind Kozov and the Lytchkovs, and don't mind Volodka. He's a fool; he listens to the first that speaks. The others are quiet folks; they are silent. Some would be glad, you know, to say a word from the heart and to stand up for themselves, but cannot.

They have a heart and a conscience, but no tongue. What does it matter? And Rodion was troubled by those tears; he almost cried himself. You can have the school, you can have the roads, only not all at once. If you went, let us say, to sow corn on that mound you would first have to weed it out, to pick out all the stones, and then to plough, and work and work. They began singing songs and playing the concertina, and they kept coming closer and closer.

Let us go, mamma. Rodion was utterly overcome; his face broke into profuse perspiration; he took out of his pocket a little crooked cucumber, like a half-moon, covered with crumbs of rye bread, and began thrusting it into the little girl's hands. Zunge, Sprache, die Zunge. Anton Chekhov 51 "Come, come," he muttered, scowling severely; "take the little cucumber, eat it up.

Mamma will whip you. She'll tell your father of you when you get home. And seeing that they were both absorbed in their own thoughts and their own griefs, and not noticing him, he stopped and, shading his eyes from the sun, looked after them for a long time till they disappeared into their copse. His gate was kept bolted even by day, and at night two watchmen walked up and down the garden beating a board; and they gave up employing anyone from Obrutchanovo as a labourer.

As ill-luck would have it someone either a peasant or one of the workmen took the new wheels off the cart and replaced them by old ones, then soon afterwards two bridles and a pair of pincers were carried off, and murmurs arose even in the village. People began to say that a search should be made at the Lytchkovs' and at Volodka's, and then the bridles and the pincers were found under the hedge in the engineer's garden; someone had thrown them down there.

It happened that the peasants were coming in a crowd out of the forest, and again they met the engineer on the road. He stopped, and without wishing them good-day he began, looking angrily first at one, then at another: Whether one asks you or not it makes no difference. Entreaties, and friendliness, and persuasion I see are all useless. But what's the use of talking! It will end by our looking down upon you. There is nothing left! He saw the girls at daybreak. And then he looked at me and he said: I wanted to fall down at his feet, but I hadn't the courage.

God give him health.

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He promised me that before everyone. In our old age. I should always pray for them. Holy Mother, bless them. The Lytchkovs, father and son, went across the river early in the morning and returned to dinner drunk; they spent a long time going about the village, alternately singing and swearing; then they had a fight and went to the New Villa to complain. First Lytchkov the father went into the yard with a long ashen stick in his hands. He stopped irresolutely and took off his hat. Just at that moment the engineer and his family were sitting on the verandah, drinking tea.

Fest, Festival, Feier, pray: Ehre, ehren, beehren, feierliche Einsetzung, Vereidigung. Anton Chekhov 53 Lytchkov the son walked up, too; he, too, was bareheaded and had a stick in his hand; he stopped and fixed his drunken senseless eyes on the verandah. I have lodged a petition. He can kill me now, it seems. He can do anything. Is that the way to treat a father? The father did not even flinch, but hit his son again and again on the head. And so they stood and kept hitting one another on the head, and it looked not so much like a fight as some sort of a game.

And peasants, men and women, stood in a crowd at the gate and looked into the garden, and the faces of all were grave. They were the peasants who had come to greet them for the holiday, but seeing the Lytchkovs, they were ashamed and did not go in. The next morning Elena Ivanovna went with the children to Moscow.

And there was a rumour that the engineer was selling his house. V The peasants had long ago grown used to the sight of the bridge, and it was difficult to imagine the river at that place without a bridge. The heap of rubble left from the building of it had long been overgrown with grass, the navvies were forgotten, and instead of the strains of the "Dubinushka" that they used to sing, the peasants heard almost every hour the sounds of a passing train.

The New Villa has long ago been sold; now it belongs to a government clerk who comes here from the town for the holidays with his family, drinks tea on the terrace, and then goes back to the town again. He wears a cockade on his cap; he German ashamed: Flicken, ausbessern, Fleck, Korrektur. In Rodion's hut there are even more children.

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Volodka has grown a long red beard. They are still as poor as ever. In the early spring the Obrutchanovo peasants were sawing wood near the station. And after work they were going home; they walked without haste one after the other. Broad saws curved over their shoulders; the sun was reflected in them. The nightingales were singing in the bushes on the bank, larks were trilling in the heavens.

It was quiet at the New Villa; there was not a soul there, and only golden pigeons -- golden because the sunlight was streaming upon them -- were flying over the house. All of them -- Rodion, the two Lytchkovs, and Volodka -- thought of the white horses, the little ponies, the fireworks, the boat with the lanterns; they remembered how the engineer's wife, so beautiful and so grandly dressed, had come into the village and talked to them in such a friendly way.

And it seemed as though all that had never been; it was like a dream or a fairy-tale. They trudged along, tired out, and mused as they went. In their village, they mused, the people were good, quiet, sensible, fearing God, and Elena Ivanovna, too, was quiet, kind, and gentle; it made one sad to look at her, but why had they not got on together? Why had they parted like enemies? How was it that some mist had shrouded from their eyes what mattered most, and had let them see nothing but damage done by cattle, bridles, pincers, and all those trivial things which now, as they remembered them, seemed so nonsensical?

How was it that with the new owner they lived in peace, and yet had been on bad terms with the engineer? And not knowing what answer to make to these questions they were all silent except Volodka, who muttered something. Rindvieh, Vieh, Rinder, Rind. Nebel, Dunst, Dampf, Qualm, Schleier.

Anton Chekhov 55 "We lived without a bridge. Stille, Schweigen, Ruhe, Stillschweigen, das Schweigen auferlegen. The first waddled along, looking from side to side, chewing now a straw, now his own sleeve, slapping himself on the haunches and humming, and altogether had a careless and frivolous air; the other, in spite of his lean face and narrow shoulders, looked solid, grave, and substantial; in the lines and expression of his whole figure he was like the priests among the Old Believers, or the warriors who are painted on old-fashioned ikons.

The first was called Andrey Ptaha, the second Nikandr Sapozhnikov. The man they were escorting did not in the least correspond with the conception everyone has of a tramp. He was a frail little man, weak and sicklylooking, with small, colourless, and extremely indefinite features. His eyebrows were scanty, his expression mild and submissive; he had scarcely a trace of a moustache, though he was over thirty.

He walked along timidly, bent forward, with his hands thrust into his sleeves. The collar of his shabby cloth overcoat, which did not look like a peasant's, was turned up to the very brim of his cap, so German brim: Rand, Krempe, Grat, Kante, Saum.

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Anton Chekhov 57 that only his little red nose ventured to peep out into the light of day. He spoke in an ingratiating tenor, continually coughing. It was very, very difficult to believe that he was a tramp concealing his surname. He was more like an unsuccessful priest's son, stricken by God and reduced to beggary; a clerk discharged for drunkenness; a merchant's son or nephew who had tried his feeble powers in a theatrical career, and was now going home to play the last act in the parable of the prodigal son; perhaps, judging by the dull patience with which he struggled with the hopeless autumn mud, he might have been a fanatical monk, wandering from one Russian monastery to another, continually seeking "a peaceful life, free from sin," and not finding it.

In front of them there stretched thirty feet of muddy black-brown mud, behind them the same, and wherever one looked further, an impenetrable wall of white fog. They went on and on, but the ground remained the same, the wall was no nearer, and the patch on which they walked seemed still the same patch. There's a problem loading this menu right now.

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