Las calles de Moscú fueron testigos del pequeño
mendigo que junto a su padre pedían algunas monedas para sobrevivir. Al
acomodarse frente al restaurant esperaban llamar la atención de los comensales
que entraban y salían del lugar. Un cuento de Antón
Chekhov, Oysters
I NEED no great
effort of memory to recall, in every detail, the rainy autumn evening when I
stood with my father in one of the more frequented streets of Moscow, and felt
that I was gradually being overcome by a strange illness. I had no pain at all,
but my legs were giving way under me, the words stuck in my throat, my head
slipped weakly on one side . . . It seemed as though, in a moment, I must fall
down and lose consciousness.
If I had been
taken into a hospital at that minute, the doctors would have had to write over
my bed: Fames, a disease which is not in the manuals of medicine.
Beside me on the
pavement stood my father in a worn out summer overcoat and a serge cap, from which a bit of white
padding was sticking out. On his feet he had big heavy goloshes. Afraid, vain man, that people would see that his feet
were bare under his goloshes, he had drawn the tops of some old boots up round
the calves of his legs.
This poor,
foolish, queer creature, whom I loved the more warmly the more ragged and dirty
his smart summer overcoat became, had come to Moscow, five months before, to
look for a job as copying-clerk. For those five months he had been walking
about Moscow looking for work, and it was only on that day that he had brought
himself to go into the street to beg for assistance.
Before us was a
big house of three storeys, adorned with a blue signboard with the word
"Restaurant" on it. My head was moving feebly backwards and on one
side, and I could not help looking upwards at the lighted windows of the
restaurant. Human figures were moving about at the windows. I could see the
right side of the orchestrion, two oleographs, hanging lamps . . . . Staring
into one window, I saw a patch of white. The patch was motionless, and its
rectangular outlines stood out sharply against the dark, brown background. I
looked intently and made out of the patch a white placard on the wall.
Something was written on it, but what it was, I could not see. . .
For half an hour
I kept my eyes on the placard. Its white attracted my eyes, and, as it were,
hypnotised my brain. I tried to read it, but my efforts were in vain.
At last the
strange disease got the upper hand.
The sound of the
carriages began to seem like thunder, in the aroma of the street I
distinguished a thousand smells. The restaurant lights and the lamps dazzled my
eyes like lightning. My five senses were overstrained and sensitive beyond the
normal. I began to see what I had not seen before.
"Oysters .
. ." I made out on the placard.
A strange word!
I had lived in the world eight years and three months, but had never come
across that word. What did it mean? Surely it was not the name of the
restaurant-keeper? But signboards with names on them always hang outside, not
on the walls indoors!
"Papa, what
does 'oysters' mean?" I asked in a rough voice, making an effort to turn
my face towards my father.
My father did
not hear. He was keeping a watch on the movements of the crowd, and following
every passer-by with his eyes. . . . From his eyes I saw that he wanted to say
something to the passers-by, but the fatal word hung like a heavy weight on his
trembling lips and could not be moved off. He even took a step after one
passer-by and touched him on the sleeve, but when he turned round, he said,
"I beg your pardon," was overcome with confusion, and moved back.
"Papa, what
does 'oysters' mean?" I repeated.
"It is an
animal . . . that lives in the sea."
I instantly
pictured to myself this unknown marine animal. . . . I thought it must be
something midway between a fish and a crab. As it was from the sea they made of
it, of course, a very nice hot fish soup with savoury pepper and laurel leaves,
or broth with vinegar and fricassee of fish and cabbage, or crayfish sauce, or served it cold with
horse-radish. . . . I vividly imagined it being brought from the market,
quickly cleaned, quickly put in the pot, quickly, quickly, for everyone was
hungry . . . awfully hungry! From the kitchen rose the smell of hot fish and
crayfish soup… (Oysters, a story by
Anton Chekhov in easier English)
Palabras reemplazadas
Alms
Vocabulario
Serge: A twilled
cloth of worsted or worsted and wool, often used for suits.
Goloshes: a pair
of waterproof overshoes.
Crayfish: spiny lobster.
Artículos
relacionados
Recursos
16 Stories, Anton
Chekhov
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