The questioner was an old gentleman in his eightieth year or so, dressed in a splendid flowered silk Kaftan, with a woollen night-cap on his head, warm cotton stockings on his feet, and diamond, turquoise, and ruby rings on his fingers. He was reclining on an atlas ottoman, his face was as wooden as a mummy's, a mere patch-work of wrinkles, he had a dry, thin, pointed nose, shaggy, autumnal-yellow eyebrows, and his large prominent black eyes protected by irritably sensitive eyelids, lent little charm to his peculiar cast of countenance.
"Well! Will nobody answer? Who yawned so loudly behind my back just now?" he asked again, with an angry snort. "Will nobody answer?"
Nobody answered, and yet there was a sufficient number of people in the room to have found an answer between them. In front of the hearth was sitting a young woman about thirty or thirty-five, with just such a strongly-pronounced pointed nose, with just such high raised eyebrows as the old gentleman's, only her face was still red (though the favour of Nature had not much to do with that perhaps) and her eyebrows were still black; but her thin lips were just as hermetically sealed as the old man's, when she was not speaking. This young woman was playing at Patience.
Our story opens in an Italian railway station,
in the spring of 1848. From a train that had just arrived, the
passengers were hastening to secure their places in another that
stood waiting for them. A guard had…
The storm had spent itself, the sea
was calm again, and on its smooth surface tossed empty casks and
shattered masts,—the monuments of shipwrecked vessels. The stormy
petrels had vanished with the tempest,…
Never in my life have I seen such wonderful eyes! One might
construct a whole astronomy out of them. Every changeful mood was
there reflected; so I have called them "Eyes like the Sea."
When first I met pretty…
A blizzard is covering the roads with a thick coating of snow.
The horses are up to their fetlocks in it. The dark-green firs bend
beneath its weight, and what has melted in the midday sun already
hangs from the slender branches of the…
In the days when Kuczuk was the Pasha of Grosswardein, the good
city of Debreczen had a very bad time of it. This whimsical Turk,
whenever some little trifle had put him out of humour with the
citizens of Debreczen, would threaten to ravage…