Chapter 6 chapter Five

That evening Anton Sergeyevich had a visitor.He was an elderly gentleman with a reddish English moustache, a trustworthy appearance, very neat in his frock-coat and striped trousers.When Ganin entered, Potyakin was entertaining him with Maggi soup.The air was tinged blue with cigarette smoke. "Mr. Ganin, Mr. Kunitsyn," panted Anton Sergeyevich, his pince-nez flashing, and gently pushed Ganin into an armchair and sat down. "Lev Glebovich, this is my old classmate, who used to write cheating articles for me." Kunitsyn smiled. "That's right," he said in a deep, mellow voice. "But tell me, dear Anton Sergeyevich, what time is it?"

"It's still early, there's still time to sit down for a while." Kunitsyn stood up, straightened his vest, and said, "No, my wife is waiting for me." "In that case I have no right to keep you," said Anton Sergeyevich, spreading his hands and squinting at the visitor through his pince-nez, "give me my regards to your wife, whom I have never had the pleasure of meeting." , but still please give my regards." "Thanks," said Kunitsyn, "I'd love to. Good-bye. I think I took off my coat in the hall." "I'll see you out," said Potyagin. "Excuse me, Lev Glebovich, I'll be right back."

Ganin, alone, settled more comfortably in the old green armchair, smiling thoughtfully.He came to visit the old poet, because he was probably the only one who could understand his turmoil, and he wanted to tell him many things—about a sunset on a Russian road, about a birch forest.He was, after all, the Potyagin whose poems appeared in back bound volumes of such magazines as World Illustrated and Illustrated Review, with little curlicues in their titles. Anton Sergeyevich came back with a sullen face, shaking his head. "He insulted me," he said, sitting down at the table, tapping his fingers on it. "Oh, how he insulted me!"

"What's wrong?" Ganin asked. Anton Sergeyevich took off his pince-nez and wiped them with the edge of the tablecloth. "He despises me, that's all. You know what he said to me just now? He gave me a little sneering sneer, and said: 'You spend your time writing bad poetry, I haven't read a single word. If I had, I would have wasted time I could have been working.' That's what he said to me, Lev Glebovich. I ask you—this Is it wise?" "What does he do?" Ganin asked. "God knows. He's good at making money. Oh, well, you know, he's a..."

"Why is that insulting? He's got one talent and you've got another. Anyway, I'll bet you despise him, too." "But Lev Glebovich," said Potyakin irritably, "isn't it true that I despise him? That's not the bad thing—the bad thing is that a man like him dares to give me money." He opened his clenched fist and dropped a wad of bills on the table. "Too bad I took it. You look at it and enjoy it—twenty marks, hell." The old man seemed to be trembling all over, opened and closed his mouth, twitched his little gray beard under his lower lip, and tapped his fat fingers on the table.Then he sighed with a painful wheeze and shook his head.

"Peter Kunitsyn, yes, I remember. He was good at school, the scoundrel. He was always punctual, kept a watch in his pocket, and used to raise his finger to signify when the bell rang when get out of class was over. Minutes to go. Won a gold medal in high school." "It must be an incredible thing for you to remember," Ganin said thoughtfully. "When you think about it, it's strange to even remember something trivial—even though it's not everyday at all—maybe a few. What happened hours ago." Potyakin gave him a sharp but kind look. "What's the matter with you, Lev Glebovich? Your face looks radiant. Have you fallen in love with someone else? Yes, our memory is a little strange. What a delightful smile you have. , hell."

"I came to see you for a reason, Anton Sergeyevich." "But the only thing I can give you is Kunitsyn. Let him be your example. How were you at school?" "Average," Ganin said, laughing again. "Balashov Gymnasium in Petersburg—have you heard of it?" he went on, insensibly adopting the Potyagin tone that people often have when talking to old people. "I still remember the school playground where we used to play football and there was a pile of firewood under an arch and every now and then the ball would knock off a piece of wood." "We loved playing 'hit and run' and 'Cossacks and Bandits,'" Potjakin said, "and now life is gone," he added abruptly.

"Do you know, Anton Sergeyevich? Today I thought of those old magazines where your poems used to appear, and the birch grove." "Really?" The old man turned to him, giving him a good-natured mocking look. "What a fool I was - I wasted my whole life for those birch trees, I neglected all of Russia. Now, thank God, I'm done with poetry, and I've even said Shame on myself for being a 'poet'. By the way, I messed things up again today, the official even got angry, and I have to go tomorrow." Ganin looked at his feet and said: "When I was in the senior class, my classmates thought I had a lover. What kind of lover was that - a woman in society. They respected me for that. I didn't raise any objections." , because I spread this rumor myself."

"Oh," Potyagin nodded, "you have a certain shrewdness about you, Leveshka, and I like that." "I'm actually ridiculously chaste, and I don't feel bad about it. It's like a special secret, and I'm proud of it, but people think I'm experienced. You know, I'm not stuffy or self-conscious. , I just feel happy to live and wait that way. And my classmates who are full of foul words and gasp when they hear the word 'woman' are all dirty guys with sweaty palms and spots on their faces. Look down on them, the lies they tell about their love adventures are disgusting."

"I must admit," said Potyakin in a lifeless voice, "that my first time was with a maid. She was very soft and sweet, with gray eyes. Her name was Glasha. It was often the case. " "No, I waited," Ganin said softly. "I waited about three years from puberty until I was sixteen. I played hide-and-seek once when I was thirteen with a boy my age. Hiding in a big wardrobe, in the dark, he told me there were some wonderful beauties who would undress for money. I didn't catch what he called them, and I thought he meant 'Master Maid' - by 'princess' and 'place with young women' so they formed a fascinating, mysterious image in my mind. But of course I soon realized how wrong I was, Because I don't see anything attractive about the women who walk up and down Nevsky Street wiggling their asses and calling us schoolboys 'pencil sticks.' After years of chastity, the wait was over. It was in the summer, at our country house."

"Yes, yes," said Potyakin, "I can imagine it, but it's the old-fashioned way: the wonderful sixteenth, love in the woods." Ganin looked at him curiously. "But what could be better than that, Anton Sergeyevich?" "Oh, don't ask me, I don't know, dear fellow. I've put in my poetry everything I should have put in my life, and it's too late to start over. The only thing that comes to mind now is The idea is that when it comes to the final reckoning, it's better to be an upbeat doer. If you must get drunk, get drunk and smash the place." "There is also this factor," Ganin said with a smile. Potyakin thought for a moment. "Lev Glebovich, you just talked about the Russian countryside, and I think you might still see it, but my old bones are going to stay here, if not here then in Paris. I seem to be in a particularly bad mood today, please forgive me." Both fell silent.A train passed by, and in the distance a locomotive screeched mournfully and dejectedly.Outside the glass window without curtains, the night is cold and blue, and the glass reflects the lampshade and the corner of the brightly lit table.Potyagin sat hunched, with his gray head bowed, and was turning a leather cigarette case in his hand.What was going on in his mind it was impossible to know: whether it was about the dullness of his past life; whether old age, sickness and poverty were clearly in his mind like shadows cast on a night window; whether it was about his passport and Paris. ; or still wondering sullenly that the toes of his boots fit exactly into the pattern on the carpet; or how much he wanted a cold beer;But when Kanin looked at his big head drooping, the tufts of hair growing in his ears, and the shoulders arched from years of writing at his desk, he suddenly felt a pang of sadness, lost the ability to talk about Russia. Any wish for summer, trails in the park, not to mention the amazing thing that happened yesterday. "Oh, I must go. Get a good night's sleep, Anton Sergeyevich." "Good night, Levishka," Potyakin sighed, "we had a pleasant talk. At least you don't look down on me for accepting Kunitsyn's money." Only at the last moment, at the door, did Ganin stop and say: "You know what, Anton Sergeyevich? I just started a wonderful relationship, and now I'm going to her, I'm Very happy." Potyakin nodded encouragingly. "Oh, give her my regards. I didn't have the honor of seeing her, but please give her my regards."