Читать книгу Letters of Anton Chekhov to His Family and Friends - Антон Чехов, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, Anton Czechow - Страница 19

I wake up at five. The sky is grey. There is a cold, unpleasant wind that reminds one of Moscow. It is dull. I wait for the church bells and go to late Mass. In the cathedral it is all very charming, decorous, and not boring. The choir sings well, not at all in a plebeian style, and the congregation entirely consists of young ladies in olive-green dresses and chocolate-coloured jackets…