Short stories volume I.
Anguish of suspense made men even desire the arrival
of enemies
Dependent, like other emotions, on surroundings
Devouring faith which is the making of martyrs and
visionaries
Freemasonry made up of those who possess
Great ones of this world who make war
I am learning my trade
Insolent like all in authority
Legitimized love always despises its easygoing brother
Like all women, being very fond of indigestible things
Presence of a woman, that sovereign inspiration
Spirit of order and arithmetic in the business house
Subtleties of expression to describe the most improper
things
Thin veneer of modesty of every woman
Thrill of furious and bestial anger which urges on
a mob to massacre
Chronic passion for cleaning
Greatest shatterer of dreams who had ever dwelt on
earth
Hardly understand at all those bellicose ardors
Key of a door
Kiss of the man without a mustache
Let us be indignant, or let us be enthusiastic
Muscles of their faces have never learned the motions
of laughter
Resisted that feeling of comfort and relief
Unconscious brutality which is so common in the country
What is sadder than a dead house
Did wrong in doing her duty
Don’t talk about things you know nothing about
Impenetrable night, thicker than walls and empty
Love is always love, come whence it may
“My God! my God!” without believing, nevertheless,
in God
Pines, close at hand, seemed to be weeping
Preserved in a pickle of innocence
She was an ornament, not a home
The warm autumn sun was beating down on the farmyard.
Under the grass, which had been cropped close by
the cows, the earth soaked by recent rains, was soft
and sank in under the feet with a soggy noise, and
the apple trees, loaded with apples, were dropping
their pale green fruit in the dark green grass.
The servant, Rose, remained alone in the large kitchen,
where the fire was dying out on the hearth beneath
the large boiler of hot water. From time to
time she dipped out some water and slowly washed her
dishes, stopping occasionally to look at the two streaks
of light which the sun threw across the long table
through the window, and which showed the defects in
the glass.
The fowls were lying on the steaming dunghill; some
of them were scratching with one claw in search of
worms, while the cock stood up proudly in their midst.
When he crowed, the cocks in all the neighboring
farmyards replied to him, as if they were uttering
challenges from farm to farm.
Neither could there be any scruples about an unequal
match between them, for in the country every one is
very nearly equal; the farmer works with his laborers,
who frequently become masters in their turn, and the
female servants constantly become the mistresses of
the establishments without its making any change in
their life or habits.
