The poodle, not knowing he had to do with a learned crow, was fearfully confused and retreated in perplexity, then began barking....

“No, I had better love Gruzdev,” Nadya decided, and she tore up the letter to Gorny.

She fell to thinking of the student, of his love, of her love; but the thoughts in her head insisted on flowing in all directions, and she thought about everything—­about her mother, about the street, about the pencil, about the piano....  She thought of them joyfully, and felt that everything was good, splendid, and her joy told her that this was not all, that in a little while it would be better still.  Soon it would be spring, summer, going with her mother to Gorbiki.  Gorny would come for his furlough, would walk about the garden with her and make love to her.  Gruzdev would come too.  He would play croquet and skittles with her, and would tell her wonderful things.  She had a passionate longing for the garden, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars.  Again her shoulders shook with laughter, and it seemed to her that there was a scent of wormwood in the room and that a twig was tapping at the window.

She went to her bed, sat down, and not knowing what to do with the immense joy which filled her with yearning, she looked at the holy image hanging at the back of her bed, and said: 

“Oh, Lord God!  Oh, Lord God!”

A LADY’S STORY

Nine years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I were riding towards evening in hay-making time to fetch the letters from the station.

The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal of thunder, and saw an angry black storm-cloud which was coming straight towards us.  The storm-cloud was approaching us and we were approaching it.

Against the background of it our house and church looked white and the tall poplars shone like silver.  There was a scent of rain and mown hay.  My companion was in high spirits.  He kept laughing and talking all sorts of nonsense.  He said it would be nice if we could suddenly come upon a medieval castle with turreted towers, with moss on it and owls, in which we could take shelter from the rain and in the end be killed by a thunderbolt....

Then the first wave raced through the rye and a field of oats, there was a gust of wind, and the dust flew round and round in the air.  Pyotr Sergeyitch laughed and spurred on his horse.

“It’s fine!” he cried, “it’s splendid!”

Infected by his gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that in a minute I should be drenched to the skin and might be struck by lightning.

Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, and feels like a bird, thrills one and puts one’s heart in a flutter.  By the time we rode into our courtyard the wind had gone down, and big drops of rain were pattering on the grass and on the roofs.  There was not a soul near the stable.