The Black Monk

Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
Cover of the book The Black Monk by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, Library of Alexandria
View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart
Author: Anton Pavlovich Chekhov ISBN: 9781465589910
Publisher: Library of Alexandria Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint: Language: English
Author: Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
ISBN: 9781465589910
Publisher: Library of Alexandria
Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint:
Language: English
ANDREY VASSILITCH KOVRIN, who held a master’s degree at the University, had exhausted himself, and had upset his nerves. He did not send for a doctor, but casually, over a bottle of wine, he spoke to a friend who was a doctor, and the latter advised him to spend the spring and summer in the country. Very opportunely a long letter came from Tanya Pesotsky, who asked him to come and stay with them at Borissovka. And he made up his mind that he really must go. To begin with — that was in April — he went to his own home, Kovrinka, and there spent three weeks in solitude; then, as soon as the roads were in good condition, he set off, driving in a carriage, to visit Pesotsky, his former guardian, who had brought him up, and was a horticulturist well known all over Russia. The distance from Kovrinka to Borissovka was reckoned only a little over fifty miles. To drive along a soft road in May in a comfortable carriage with springs was a real pleasure. Pesotsky had an immense house with columns and lions, off which the stucco was peeling, and with a footman in swallow-tails at the entrance. The old park, laid out in the English style, gloomy and severe, stretched for almost three-quarters of a mile to the river, and there ended in a steep, precipitous clay bank, where pines grew with bare roots that looked like shaggy paws; the water shone below with an unfriendly gleam, and the peewits flew up with a plaintive cry, and there one always felt that one must sit down and write a ballad. But near the house itself, in the courtyard and orchard, which together with the nurseries covered ninety acres, it was all life and gaiety even in bad weather. Such marvellous roses, lilies, camellias; such tulips of all possible shades, from glistening white to sooty black — such a wealth of flowers, in fact, Kovrin had never seen anywhere as at Pesotsky’s.
View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart
ANDREY VASSILITCH KOVRIN, who held a master’s degree at the University, had exhausted himself, and had upset his nerves. He did not send for a doctor, but casually, over a bottle of wine, he spoke to a friend who was a doctor, and the latter advised him to spend the spring and summer in the country. Very opportunely a long letter came from Tanya Pesotsky, who asked him to come and stay with them at Borissovka. And he made up his mind that he really must go. To begin with — that was in April — he went to his own home, Kovrinka, and there spent three weeks in solitude; then, as soon as the roads were in good condition, he set off, driving in a carriage, to visit Pesotsky, his former guardian, who had brought him up, and was a horticulturist well known all over Russia. The distance from Kovrinka to Borissovka was reckoned only a little over fifty miles. To drive along a soft road in May in a comfortable carriage with springs was a real pleasure. Pesotsky had an immense house with columns and lions, off which the stucco was peeling, and with a footman in swallow-tails at the entrance. The old park, laid out in the English style, gloomy and severe, stretched for almost three-quarters of a mile to the river, and there ended in a steep, precipitous clay bank, where pines grew with bare roots that looked like shaggy paws; the water shone below with an unfriendly gleam, and the peewits flew up with a plaintive cry, and there one always felt that one must sit down and write a ballad. But near the house itself, in the courtyard and orchard, which together with the nurseries covered ninety acres, it was all life and gaiety even in bad weather. Such marvellous roses, lilies, camellias; such tulips of all possible shades, from glistening white to sooty black — such a wealth of flowers, in fact, Kovrin had never seen anywhere as at Pesotsky’s.

More books from Library of Alexandria

Cover of the book The Rough Road by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book The Slanderer by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Taboo, Magic, Spirits: A Study of Primitive Elements in Roman Religion by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Historical Romances: Under the Red Robe, Count Hannibal, a Gentleman of France by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Cyril of Jerusalem, Gregory Nazianzen by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Andersonville, Volume III: A Story of Rebel Military Prisons by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book The House of Walderne: A Tale of the Cloister and the Forest in the Days of the Barons' Wars by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Roughing It by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Selected Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book The Courtships of Queen Elizabeth: A History of the Various Negotiations for Her Marriage by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Faustus: His Life, Death, and Doom by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Bayard: the Good Knight Without Fear and Without Reproach by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Mooswa & Others of the Boundaries by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book Valentine by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
Cover of the book A Text-book of Diseases of Women by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov
We use our own "cookies" and third party cookies to improve services and to see statistical information. By using this website, you agree to our Privacy Policy