Chekhov, 1888

Discussion in 'Bug Reports' started by Filomena D. Estes, Aug 24, 2022.

  1. Filomena D. Estes Keeps coming back

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    The host invited me to tea. I sat down at the table and looked at the face of the girl who handed me the cup, and suddenly I felt as if a wind had blown through my soul, blowing away all the impressions, worries and dust of the day in my soul. I saw the most beautiful and charming face I had ever seen in real life and in my dreams. It turned out that there was a beauty standing in front of me, like a flash of lightning, and I saw it at first sight. I would swear that Marcia, or Marcia, as her father called her, was a real beauty, but I could not prove it. There were times when the clouds gathered at random in the horizon, and the sun behind them tinted them and the sky with all kinds of colors: purple, orange, gold, lavender, dark red; one cloud was like a monk, another like a fish, and another like a Turk with his head wrapped around him. The evening glow fills a third of the sky, lights up the cross on the church and the windowpane on the landlord's house, reflects in the streams and pools, and trembles on the trees; far, far away, a flock of wild ducks fly to somewhere to spend the night against the background of the evening glow. A shepherd boy driving a great many cattle,artificial cherry blossom trees for weddings, a land surveyor riding his carriage across the dam, several lords strolling, all looking at the sunset, and each of them thinking that the scene was very beautiful, but what it was, no one knew, no one could say. I'm not the only one who finds this Armenian girl beautiful. My grandfather, an old-fashioned man of eighty, who had always been indifferent to women and the beauty of nature,large palm trees for sale, looked kindly at Marcia for a full minute and asked, "Is she your daughter, Awitt Nazarec?" It's my daughter. She is my daughter. Replied the master. "A very beautiful young lady," Grandpa praised. The painter will say that the beauty of this Armenian girl is classical and rigorous. It is precisely such a beauty that God knows why, and when you see it, you will be sure that you see the right appearance, that all the movements of the hair, the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the neck, the chest, and the young body, are combined into a complete and harmonious harmony, in which nature has not made a mistake in the smallest detail. For some reason, artificial grass panels ,outdoor ficus tree, you think that an ideal beauty should have a nose like Marcia's, straight and with a small hook, as well as big and black eyes, long eyelashes and delicate eyes. You think her black curls and black eyebrows match the white color of her forehead and cheeks, just as the green reeds match the quiet stream. Marcia's white neck and her young bosom are not yet fully developed, and yet you feel that great creative talent is required to shape them. When you look at her, you will gradually feel a desire to say something to Marcia that is unusually pleasant, sincere and as beautiful as she is. At first I was unhappy and ashamed, for Marcia paid no attention to me and kept looking down at the ground. It seemed to me that there was a special, happy and proud air that separated her from me and protected her closely from my eyes. "It is," I thought, "because I am covered with dust and sunburnt, and because I am only a child." But then I gradually forgot myself and put my heart and soul into the feeling of beauty. I could not remember the dullness of the prairie, the dust, the buzzing of flies, or the taste of tea, but felt a beautiful girl standing across a table from me. My feeling of beauty is a little strange. What Marcia aroused in me was neither desire, nor obsession, nor happiness, but a kind of melancholy that was pleasant but heavy. This melancholy is vague and undefined, as in a dream. For some reason, I suddenly took pity on myself, on my grandfather, on the Armenian, and even on the Armenian girl herself. I have a feeling that all four of us have lost something important and necessary in our lives, something that we can never get back. My grandfather is also a little melancholy. He stopped talking about the pasture and the sheep, but fell silent and stared at Marcia in a trance. After tea, my grandfather lay down to sleep, and I went out and sat down on the porch. This house, like all the other houses in Bakhchi-Surrey, was built in a sunny place, with no trees, no shade, no shadow. The great yards of the Armenians, full of mallow and saltbush, were full of life and joy in spite of the heat. There was a fence in the east and a fence in the west, and behind a low fence, people were threshing. There was a post in the middle of the threshing floor, and twelve horses, tied together in a long radius, ran around the post. A Ukrainian in a long waistcoat and baggy knickerbockers was walking up and down nearby, whipping his horses and shouting in a tone that sounded as if he meant to laugh at the horses and show them power: "Ah-ah-ah, damn it!"! Ah-ah-ah.. It's better not to make you suffer from pestilence! Are you afraid? The horses were purplish red, white, and piebald, and they did not understand why they were forced to walk around in one place on the straw of wheat. They ran unhappily, as if they were struggling, and wagged their tails unhappily. The wind picked up clouds of golden chaff smoke from under their hooves and carried them far beyond the fence. Beside the tall new stacks of wheat, women gathered with rakes in their hands, and a few carts were moving. Behind the Rick,Faux cherry blossom tree, in another yard, there were the same twelve horses running around a pole, and the same Ukrainian whipping and laughing at the horses.

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