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Updated: May 19, 2025
Yet, oh how that steppe, bathed in golden sunshine, draws one to itself and its smooth desolation of sweet, dry grasses as the parched, fragrant expanse rustles under the soughing wind! "You ask about that woman, eh?" queries Konev, whom I find leaning against one of the poplar trunks, and embracing it with an arm. "Yes. From where does she hail?" "From Riazan, she says.
The o's uttered by this peasant are uniformly round and firm they roll forward as a cartwheel trundles along a hot, dusty country road. Then, having, like a calf, plucked and chewed some stalks of the withered grass, he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, bends one fist into the crook of the elbow, and says to Konev with a glance at the well-developed muscle: "Should you care to hit me?"
As for the boy, he wipes his nose and follows him while the dog sniffs at our legs, yawns, and stretches itself by the churchyard wall. "Did you see?" mutters Konev. "Oh yes, I tell you that the folk here are far less amiable than our own folk in Russia... But hark! What is that?"
Overgrown with an untidy sable beard it is, as well as stamped with a look of perpetually grieved surprise. "That must be Konev," I say to myself aloud. Konev it is Konev of the well-remembered eyes. Even at this moment they are regarding me with puckered attention. I throw around me a hasty glance. My own warder is dozing on a shady bench near the entrance.
"Hi, you women! There is, it would seem, some straw about." To this comes from the women's corner the acid reply: "Then go and fetch some." "For you?" "Yes, for us." "Then I must, I suppose." Nevertheless Konev merely remains sitting on the windowsill, and discoursing on the subject of certain needy folk who do but desire to go and say their prayers in church, yet are banded into barns.
"What is it?" drily inquires the woman from Riazan. "Should you like a taste of water-melon?" "I should, thank you." Thereupon, Konev begins to make his way towards the voice. "Yes, bread, soft wheaten bread such as you " Here the other woman whines in beggar fashion: "And give ME a taste, too." "Oh, yes, I will. But where the devil are you?" "And a taste of melon as well?" "Yes, certainly. Hullo!
"You see, she had money, and, but for her restlessness, might have lived a comfortable life enough. As it was, her restlessness " "Time for exercise is up!" shouts the warder. "Who are you?" adds Konev hastily. "Somehow I seem to remember your face; but I cannot place it."
Lower even, and more noticeably, more pretentiously, than the rest does a certain "needy" native of Tula named Konev salute each Cossack. A hardbitten muzhik as sunburnt as a stick of ergot, he has a black beard distributed irregularly over a lean face, a fawning smile, and eyes deep-sunken in their sockets.
You have cut my lip, but that is the worst damage." "Then if you come here again I will lay the whole of your face open." "Vixen! What bumpkinish stupidity!" Konev turns to myself. "And as for you, you go catching at the first thing you find, and have torn my coat." "Then do not insult people." "INSULT people, fool? The idea of anyone insulting a woman like THAT!"
What is going to happen CANNOT be foretold, for at any moment fortune may pity a man, and send him a windfall." As Konev says this his dark, pointed eyebrows will go shooting up his forehead, and his eyes come protruding out of their sockets, as though he himself cannot believe what he has just related.
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