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IV
LIFE IN THE COUNTRY
rpHE wall clock in the school-room struck seven.
A These seven strokes reached my consciousness
through my slumber, and begat in me the sad
conviction that Dunyåsha, the maid, will be coming now at
once to wake me; but I am still sleeping so sweetly
that I try to convince myself that I have only
imagined those seven repulsive strokes. Turning on
the other side and drawing the coverlet closer about
me, I hasten to enjoy the sweet, brief bliss afforded by
the last little moments of sleep which, as I well know,
will soon come to an end.
And, in fact, the door creaks, and Dunyasha’s heavy
tread becomes audible as she enters the room with a
load of wood. Then comes a series of familiar sounds,
which are repeated every morning: the noise of the
armful of wood flung heavily on the floor, the
snapping of matches, the crackling of the pitch-knot, the
rushing and roaring of the flames—all these
customary sounds reach my hearing through my dreams,
and augment in me the sensation of agreeable
indolence and unwillingness to desert my warm little bed.
"Another minute, just another little minute’s sleep!"
But the crackling of the flame in the stove grows
louder and more even, and turns into a measured,
regular hum.
"’T is time to get up, bdryshyna!" (little mistress),
39
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