The Bishop and Other Stories - Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich
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Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - The evening service was being celebrated on the eve of Palm Sunday in the Old Petrovsky Convent. When they began distributing the palm it was close upon ten o'clock, the candles were burning dimly, the wicks wanted snuffing; it was all in a sort of mist. In the twilight of the church the crowd seemed heaving like the sea, and to Bishop Pyotr, who had been unwell for the last three days, it seemed that all the faces - old and young,…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - The evening service was being celebrated on the eve of Palm Sunday in the Old Petrovsky Convent. When they began distributing the palm it was close upon ten o'clock, the candles were burning dimly, the wicks wanted snuffing; it was all in a sort of mist. In the twilight of the church the crowd seemed heaving like the sea, and to Bishop Pyotr, who had been unwell for the last three days, it seemed that all the faces - old and young, men's and women's - were alike, that everyone who came up for the palm had the same expression in his eyes. In the mist he could not see the doors; the crowd kept moving and looked as though there were no end to it. The female choir was singing, a nun was reading the prayers for the day. How stifling, how hot it was! How long the service went on! Bishop Pyotr was tired. His breathing was laboured and rapid, his throat was parched, his shoulders ached with weariness, his legs were trembling. And it disturbed him unpleasantly when a religious maniac uttered occasional shrieks in the gallery. And then all of a sudden, as though in a dream or delirium, it seemed to the bishop as though his own mother Marya Timofyevna, whom he had not seen for nine years, or some old woman just like his mother, came up to him out of the crowd, and, after taking a palm branch from him, walked away looking at him all the while good-humouredly with a kind, joyful smile until she was lost in the crowd. And for some reason tears flowed down his face.
Autorenporträt
One of the finest authors of all time is Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, a Russian playwright and short-story writer who lived from 29 January 1860 to 15 July 1904. His four plays from his theatrical career are considered classics, and writers and critics highly regard his best short stories. Chekhov is sometimes listed as one of the three key figures in the development of early modernism in theater, together with Henrik Ibsen and August Strindberg. Chekhov was a medical practitioner by trade. "Medicine is my lawful wife," he once stated, "and literature is my mistress." Chekhov delivers a "theatre of mood" and a "submerged life in the text" in place of traditional action in these four works, which poses a challenge to both the playing group and the spectator. Chekhov's plays evoked a little eerie mood for the audience while remaining simple and easy to follow. At initially, Chekhov wrote stories to get money, but as his desire to express himself creatively grew, he introduced formal changes that helped shape the development of the contemporary short story. He insisted that an artist's job was to pose questions, not to provide answers, and offered no apology for the challenges this presented to readers.