Chapter 14 Chapter Thirteen

At this time, Ganin returned to his room and began to pack his luggage.He pulled out two suitcases from under the bed—one with a checkered top, the other brown without a top, faint marks from old labels—and Everything inside fell to the ground.Then he took out a black coat, a small pile of underpants, and a pair of heavy brown leather boots with brass studs from the rattling and creaking black closet.From the bedside table he took out an assortment of colorful little things that had been thrown there at various times: scrunched up dirty handkerchiefs, rusty razor blades around the holes, old newspapers, art postcards, things like Yellow beads like horse teeth, a torn stocking.

He took off his shirt, squatted down among the miserable dusty pile of worthless things, and began to sort out what to bring and what to throw away. He put the coat and clean underwear in the trunk first, then the automatic and a pair of old breeches, which were badly worn at the crotch. He was thinking about what to bring again when he noticed a black leather wallet that had fallen under the chair as he emptied the contents of the suitcase.He picked it up, smiled and imagined what was inside, and when he was about to open it, he told himself that he had to pack it quickly, so he stuffed it into the back pocket of his trousers.Then he started tossing things quickly into the open boxes: dirty underpants mixed together; God only knows how he got the Russian books; Things look and feel very familiar, and their only virtue is to make a man condemned to a long-term homeless life, when he unpacks for the hundredth time, take out these frail, human useless things he loves. Sometimes, it feels like home, even if only a little bit.

After tidying up, Ganin locked the two boxes and put them side by side, stuffed the remains of old newspapers into the waste paper basket, looked around the empty room, and then went to settle the rent with the landlord. Lidia Nikolaevna was sitting upright in an arm-chair reading a book when he entered.Her German terrier slid out of bed and began wagging hysterically at Ganin's feet. Lydia Nikolaevna felt a little sorry to realize that he was really going away this time.She liked Ganin's tall, unrestrained figure; she generally grew accustomed to her lodgers, and their inevitable departure always had a feeling of farewell.

Ganin paid the rent for a week and kissed her hand that was as light as a dead leaf. As he walked down the passage to his room, he remembered that the two dancers had invited him to the party that day, and he decided not to go; if necessary, he could always find a room in the hotel even after midnight. "Mary will be here tomorrow," he cried out in his mind, looking around at ceiling, floor, and walls with a mixture of ecstasy and terror. "I'm going to take her away tomorrow," he thought, his heart agitated by the same joy, and he sighed loudly with all his strength in his heart.

He quickly produced the black leather wallet containing the five letters he had received during his time in the Crimea.For a moment it reminded him of the whole winter in the Crimea from 1917 to 1918: the north-east wind blowing along the Yalta coast, laced with stinging dust; waves on the pavement; haughty and bewildered Bolshevik sailors; Germans in steel helmets like iron mushrooms; bright tricolor chevrons—a day of anticipation, a respite from apprehension; , a thin, freckled whore with a Greek profile walked along the coast; the north-easterly wind again blew the band's music all over the park; and then—at last—his company set off: A troop camp in a small village, where the razors in the little barbershop flicker from morning till night, and someone's cheeks are full of lather, and in the dusty streets little boys look like a millennium Swipe the top as before.And that crazy night raid where you don't know where the shots are coming from or who's flying across the moonlight between the shadows of sloping houses.

Ganin took out the first letter in the bundle of letters—it was just a thick rectangular page with a picture of a young man in a blue tuxedo in the upper left corner, holding a bouquet of pale flowers behind his back, kissing a The hand of the lady, who was as elegant as he was, with long curly hair hanging down her face, and a pink high-waisted dress. This first letter was addressed to him from St. Petersburg to Yalta, and was written a little more than two years after that most blessed autumn. "Lyova, I've been in Poltava for a whole week, and it's very boring. I don't know if I'll see you again, but I very much hope you don't forget me."

The writing is small and round, and it looks like running on tiptoe.Letters are written with a stroke for clarity; the last letter of each word has a small tail slammed to the right; only the letter “я” at the end of the word has a straight line that is moving. Curving down and to the left, it's as if Mary pulled the word back at the last moment; her period is big and decisive, but she rarely uses a comma. "Think about it, I've been looking at snow for a week, cold and white snow. It's cold, bad, and very depressing. Suddenly, a thought flies through my mind like a bird: In far, far away places, people used to live They live a completely different life. They are not like me in the country, living a backwater life on a small farm.

"No, it's too boring here, write to me and tell me something, Liowa, even if it's the most insignificant thing." Ganin remembered receiving this letter, walking up a steep stone path on that distant January evening, past a Tatar picket fence with horses' skulls hanging here and there, remembering his How to sit by a brook of many trickles rushing swiftly over smooth white stones, and gaze at the soft pink sky through the myriad slender but startlingly clear bare branches of an apple tree, where a crescent moon The lower translucent nails gleamed, and at one of the lower cusps of the moon quivered a crystal drop - the first star.

He wrote her that very night—about the star, about the cypress in the garden, about the donkey whose high braying came every morning from the yard behind the Tartar's house.He writes tenderly and dreamily, recalling the wet catkins on the slippery little bridge leading to the pavilion where they first met. Letters traveled a long way on the road in those days—the reply wasn't received until July. "Thank you so much for this beautiful and kind 'Southern' letter. Why are you writing that you still remember me and won't forget me? No? How nice! "It's a fine day today, very fresh after a thunderstorm. Like in Vosklesinsk—remember? Don't you want to walk in those familiar places again? I would—very much. A walk in the park in the autumn rain is How wonderful! Why doesn't bad weather make people sad then?

"I'm going to stop writing for a while and go for a walk. "Yesterday I still couldn't finish writing this letter. Am I outrageous? Forgive me, dear Leova, and I promise not to do it again." Ganin lowered his hand holding the letter, and sat there for a while lost in thought.How well he remembered her agreeable mannerisms, her husky smile in apology, the transition from a mournful sigh to a look of blazing vigor! In the same letter she wrote: "For a long time I didn't know where you were or what was going on, and I was very worried. Now we must not sever the thin thread that connects us. I have so many things to tell you and ask you, but my thoughts Rambling. I've had a lot of misfortune since those days. Write me and for God's sake write more often. I'll stop there and wish you all the best. I'd love to say more affectionately Goodbye, but maybe I've forgotten how to say it after all this time. Or maybe something's holding me back?"

For many days after receiving this letter he was filled with a feeling of happiness that made him tremble.He couldn't understand how he had broken up with Mary.He remembered only their first autumn together—the rest, all the squabbles and torments seemed pale and meaningless.The lingering night, the customary gleam of the sea at night, the velvety silence of the narrow avenue lined with cypress trees, the moonlight shining on the broad leaves of the magnolia trees—all this could only depress him. Duty kept him in Yalta—the civil war was going on—but there were times when he really meant to drop everything and walk the Ukrainian farms in search of Marie. There was something strange and touching about their letters passing through the then terrible Russia - like cabbage butterflies over the trenches.His second reply was so delayed on the road that Mary could not comprehend why, for she believed that in matters relating to their letters the usual obstacles of those days were somehow absent. "It must seem strange to you that I write to you even though you don't answer--but I don't believe it, and I refuse to believe that you still don't want to write back. You didn't answer because you didn't want to, but simply because Because—well, because you can't write, or because you don't have time or something. Tell me, Leo, remember if it seemed funny when you said that to me once—you said you loved me and it was yours Life, you can't live if you can't love me? Yes, everything passes and things change. Would you like the past to happen again? I think I'm a little too depressed today. … "But today is spring, in every corner "There are mimosas for sale today. "I'll take some for you; it's like a dream, fragile— "Lovely little poem, but I can't remember the beginning, the end, or who wrote it. Now I'm waiting for your letter. I don't know how to say goodbye. Maybe I kissed you. Yes , I think I kissed." Her fourth letter arrived two or three weeks later: "It was a pleasure to receive your letter, Leova. It was a very, very lovely letter. Yes, a man can never forget how deeply and passionately he was loved. You wrote that you would give your whole future for A passing moment - but it's best to meet and test your relationship. "Liova, if you do come, call the telephone exchange here and ask for number thirty-four. They may answer you in German: There is a German military hospital here. Tell them to call me. "Yesterday I went into town for some 'fun'. It was enjoyable, with lots of music and lights. A very funny man with a little yellow beard was trying to get my attention and called me the queen of the ball. Today It's boring, boring. It's a pity that the days go by so stupidly and meaninglessly - when these should have been the best and happiest years of our lives. It seems I'm going to be a hypocrite soon - — I mean a suspicious gentleman. No, it can't be. "Let me break the shackles of love "Let me try to stop thinking! "Fill the cup, fill the wine— "Let me drink it to my heart's content! "Pretty good, isn't it? "Write me back as soon as you get my letter. Will you come here to see me? Impossible? Well, it's a pity. But maybe you can come? What am I talking about: so far away Just to see me. How vain!—don't you think? "I read a poem in an old magazine just now: it's "My Pale Little Pearl" by Krapowitzki. I like it very much. Write and tell me all about it. Kiss you. Here's what I read Another poem by Potyakin: "A full moon shines on forest and brook, "Look at the ripples—how beautifully they shimmer!" "My dear Potyakin," thought Ganin, "how strange. God, how unbelievable. If I had been told then that there are so many people in the world, I would have met him!" Smiling and shaking his head, he unfolded the last letter.He had received the letter the day before he set off for the front.It was a cold January dawn, and he had been feeling sick after drinking coffee made from acorns on the boat. "Liova, my dear, my joy, how I look forward to and wait for your letter! It is so difficult and painful to write to you with such restraint. How can I live without you for three years, How did I survive, and what is the point of living? "I love you. If you come back to me I'll haunt you with kisses. Do you remember: "Write to them "I kiss little Liao Fu with all my heart, "Say I intend to move from Lviv "brought an Austrian steel helmet for his birthday "But write another letter to my father— "My God, where is all that far, bright, dear—like you, I feel we shall meet again—but when, when? "I love you. Come to me. Your letter makes me so happy that I have not yet regained the sense of happiness— "Happiness," Ganin repeated softly, folding the five letters into a neat stack. "Yes—happy. We shall meet again in twelve hours." He stood there motionless, full of secret, beautiful thoughts.He had no doubt that Mary still loved him.Five of her letters lay in his hands.It was dark outside, the knob on his suitcase gleamed, and the abandoned room smelled faintly of dust. There was a noise outside the door, and Alfeolov came in without knocking, while Ganin was still sitting in the same place. "Ah, I'm sorry," he said without showing any particular embarrassment, "I thought you were gone." Ganin played with the folded letter with his fingers and stared blankly at Alfeolov's yellow mustache.The landlady appeared at the door. "Lydia Nikolaevna," continued Alfeorov, twitching his neck and passing the room with the air of a proprietor, "let us move the damned thing out of the way so that we can open the door." The door to my room." He tried his best to move the closet, grunted, and wobbled back helplessly. "I'll do it," Ganin suggested cheerfully.He stuffed the black wallet into his pocket, stood up, went to the closet, and spat in the palm of his hand.