Голод
Part I
Shehasnobookwithher;notasinglepageofabook,andyetshefumblesinherpockets,looksdownrepeatedlyatherhands,turnsherheadandscrutinizesthestreetsbehindher,exertshersensitivelittlebraintotheutmostintryingtodiscoverwhatbookitisIamtalkingabout.Herfacechangescolour,hasnowone,nowanotherexpression,andsheisbreathingquiteaudibly—eventheverybuttonsonhergownseemtostareatme,likearowoffrightenedeyes.
"Don’tbotherabouthim!"sayshercompanion,takingherbythearm."Heisdrunk;can’tyouseethatthemanisdrunk?"
StrangeasIwasatthisinstanttomyself,soabsolutelyapreytopeculiarinvisibleinnerinfluences,nothingoccurredaroundmewithoutmyobservingit.Alarge,browndogsprangrightacrossthestreettowardstheshrubbery,andthendowntowardstheTivoli;hehadonaverynarrowcollarofGermansilver.Fartherupthestreetawindowopenedonthesecondfloor,andaservant-maidleantoutofit,withhersleevesturnedup,andbegantocleanthepanesontheoutside.Nothingescapedmynotice;Iwasclear-headedandready-witted.Everythingrushedinuponmewithagleamingdistinctness,asifIweresuddenlysurroundedbyastronglight.Theladiesbeforemehadeachabluebird’swingintheirhats,andaplaidsilkribbonroundtheirnecks.Itstruckmethattheyweresisters.
Theyturned,stoppedatCisler’smusic-shop,andspoketogether.Istoppedalso.
