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In the silence the distant storm arose once more. The wind returned, like a hurricane now, - the foehn of the spring, with its burning breath warming the still sleeping, chilly earth, the foehn which melts the ivy and gathers fruitful rains. It rumbled like thunder in the forests on the other side of the ravine. It came nearer, swelled, charged up the slopes; the whole mountain roared. In the stable a horse neighed and the cows lowed. Christophe's hair stood on end, he sat up in bed and listened. The squall came up screaming, set the shutters banging, the weathercocks squeaking, made the slates of the roof go crashing down, and the whole house shake. A flower-pot fell and was smashed. Christophe's window was insecurely fastened, and was burst open with a bang, and the warm wind wind rushed in. Christophe received its blast full in his face and on his naked chest.
Romain Rolland, Jean-Christophe, trans. Gilbert Cannan, Holt, 1910, p. 335, vol.3.
TIME: early 20th c.
PLACE: a forest in Switzerland
CIRCUMSTANCE: a storm; Foehn = Chinook
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