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(1897) [MARC] Author: Jonas Jonsson Stadling Translator: Will Reason With: Gerda Tirén, Johan Tirén
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Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VI. Spring Scenes in Samara

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just as often. The church bell tolled “One.” The lampadka,
burning before the saint in “the holy corner” of the outer
room, spread a dim light, and through a crack in the wooden
partition I could see an ugly old saint staring at me, while on
the oven’s top my hosts snored lustily. I tried to sleep again,
but it was no use. I lit my lamp, looked at my watch—it was
2 a.m.—and tried to read, but my thoughts wandered. I
glanced at the wall, and there was life and motion! I had
already tired myself out in warring with the vermin, which
taught me to suffer in silence. Therefore, I left these travellers
in peace. I thought of the morning, when at last I could get
out of this dark and stifling prison into the fresh air and
light of the sun. I peeped into the other room, and was
surprised to see that the lampadka of the holy Nicholas was
going out, so I decided to let my little lamp, which illumined
no saint with shining halo, but a swarming multitude of ———,
burn on till the sun should supersede both lamp and lampadka.
With longing after the sun and the fresh air I at last fell
asleep.

After spending the night once in another peasant’s house,
my good host asked me in the morning if I had slept well.
When I said “No,” he inquired if I had been visited by “klop.”
Not having heard the word before, I asked what it was. Rising
quickly and running to the wall, he picked off a bug and
brought it to me in his hand. “Vol klop” (this is klop), he said.
He looked astonished when I expressed my strong aversion to
“B flats,” declaring “they are good for cleansing the blood.”

Saturday, March 27.—As I sat at breakfast, the door opened,
and a small, piping voice was heard on the other side of the
partition: “Barin gatav?” (Is the gentleman ready?) “Sei
tschess
” (Immediately). The voice belonged to a little,
lively and agreeable little mushik, who was to drive us over to
Birukoff’s headquarters at Petrovka, some twenty miles away
over the steppes. We found a strong headwind blowing, and
out on the steppes the storm was very bad, so that it was with
the utmost difficulty that I could see the horse in front of us.
It was a wonder to me how Vasutka, my driver, who looked
like a little snow goblin on the sledge, could find the way. In

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