Анна Кареніна

Chapter 11

           

           Hewasstandinginthecoolgranary,stillfragrantwiththeleavesofthehazelbranchesinterlacedonthefreshlypeeledaspenbeamsofthenewthatchroof.Hegazedthroughtheopendoorinwhichthedrybitterdustofthethrashingwhirledandplayed,atthegrassofthethrashingfloorinthesunlightandthefreshstrawthathadbeenbroughtinfromthebarn,thenatthespeckly-headed,white-breastedswallowsthatflewchirpinginundertheroofand,flutteringtheirwings,settledinthecrevicesofthedoorway,thenatthepeasantsbustlinginthedark,dustybarn,andhethoughtstrangethoughts.

           “Whyisitallbeingdone?”hethought.“WhyamIstandinghere,makingthemwork?Whataretheyallsobusyfor,tryingtoshowtheirzealbeforeme?WhatisthatoldMatrona,myoldfriend,toilingfor?(Idoctoredher,whenthebeamfellonherinthefire)”hethought,lookingatathinoldwomanwhowasrakingupthegrain,movingpainfullywithherbare,sun-blackenedfeetovertheuneven,roughfloor.“Thensherecovered,buttodayortomorroworintenyearsshewon’t;they’llburyher,andnothingwillbelefteitherofherorofthatsmartgirlintheredjacket,whowiththatskillful,softactionshakestheearsoutoftheirhusks.They’llburyherandthispiebaldhorse,andverysoontoo,”hethought,gazingattheheavilymoving,pantinghorsethatkeptwalkingupthewheelthatturnedunderhim.“AndtheywillburyherandFyodorthethrasherwithhiscurlybeardfullofchaffandhisshirttornonhiswhiteshoulderstheywillburyhim.

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