The Schoolmistress, and Other Stories. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

unlucky,” she said, putting down her glass and turning paler still. “It’s a bad omen. It means that some misfortune will happen to us this year.”

      “What a silly thing you are,” I sighed. “You are a clever woman, and yet you talk as much nonsense as an old nurse. Drink.”

      “God grant it is nonsense, but… something is sure to happen! You’ll see.”

      She did not even sip her glass, she moved away and sank into thought. I uttered a few stale commonplaces about superstition, drank half a bottle, paced up and down, and then went out of the room.

      Outside there was the still frosty night in all its cold, inhospitable beauty. The moon and two white fluffy clouds beside it hung just over the station, motionless as though glued to the spot, and looked as though waiting for something. A faint transparent light came from them and touched the white earth softly, as though afraid of wounding her modesty, and lighted up everything – the snowdrifts, the embankment… It was still.