Chapter 13 Thirteen

Autumn was deep, and the ships stopped sailing, and I entered an icon workshop as an apprentice.The next day, the kind, slightly alcoholic old housewife said to me in a Vladimir city accent: "Now the days are short and the nights are long. You go to the shop in the morning to do odd jobs, and in the evening - you can learn." She put me in the service of a short, fast-footed shopkeeper, a young fellow with a pretty, sweet face.Every morning, I walked with him through the whole city in the cold dawn, from Ilica Street, where the shops were still closed, to Nijni Market.The store is located on the second floor of the market. It is a dark room converted from a warehouse with an iron door; there is a small window facing the iron-covered verandah.

The shop is full of large and small holy images and niches, some are smooth, some are carved with "grape" ball patterns, and there are yellow leather-bound Slavic books used in churches, etc.Next to our shop, there is another similar shop.There was a black-bearded merchant there who also sold icons and books.He was a relative of the famous Old School scribes along the Krzenets, a tributary of the Volga.He had a son, a thin, lively kid about my age, with a small, gray face like an old man's, and mouse eyes. After opening the shop door, I had to go to the small restaurant to make boiling water and drink tea, then tidy up the shop and wipe the dust off the goods.After that, he stood on the veranda, taking care not to let the buyer go to the shop next door.

"Buyers are fools," the shopkeeper told me confidently. "As long as it's cheap, it doesn't matter where you buy it. I don't know if it's good or bad." He quickly packed the small wooden boards of the icon with a snapping sound, boasting of his proficiency in business, he taught me: "It's made in the village of Msjora, it's cheap, and it's worth three and a half inches wide and four inches high." ... the value of six inches wide and seven inches high... Do you know the names of the saints? Remember: Vonifati prevents alcoholism, the Great Martyr of Varvara prevents dental disease and violent death, Vasily the righteous People are free from malaria... Do you know Our Lady? Look: Our Lady of Lamentation, Our Lady of the Three Hands, Our Lady of the Omen of Abalatskaya, Our Lady of Don't Cry, Our Lady of Sorrows, Our Lady of Kazan, Our Lady of Protection, Our Lady of the Seven Arrows... "I quickly memorized the prices of various icons of different sizes and finishes, and also the difference between Madonnas.But it is not easy to remember the role of the saints.

Sometimes, standing at the door of the shop and thinking about something, the shopkeeper suddenly came to test my knowledge: "What is the name of the saint who protects women with dystocia?" If I answered wrongly, he asked contemptuously: "What do you do with a head?" It was more difficult to get a buyer, and I don't like those grotesquely painted icons, and I feel ashamed to sell them.According to what my grandmother said, the Madonnas in my mind are young, beautiful, kind-hearted women, and so are the Madonnas in magazine illustrations, but these Madonnas in the icons are so old, ugly and vicious, with long and crooked noses, and stick-like bodies. hand.

Wednesdays and Fridays were market days, and business was brisk, and there were always many country folks and old women, sometimes whole families, walking on the porch, old Christians from the other side of the Volga, suspicious and gloomy mountain people.Sometimes I see heavy men in old sheepskins and home-woven rough wool walking slowly on the verandah, as if afraid of sinking into the ground. It is really embarrassing and awkward for me to stand in front of such people.They had to block their way, turning around at the feet of their heavy leather boots, and whispering like a mosquito: "What do you want, old man?" - Annotated hymns, Yevren Syrin's Books, Books of Kirill, Books of the Holy Rules, Books of the Hour, you have everything, please look at it. Icons are available in high and low prices, genuine goods, dark colors. You can also order them to order, all kinds of saints and virgins are available. You can draw. Are you planning to order a birthday icon, or an icon to protect the Zunfu? Our workshop is the first in Russia, and the business is also the first in the city."

The unpredictable, inexplicable buyer looked at me for a long time like a dog, without making a sound, and suddenly pushed me aside with a wooden hand, and walked to the next shop.At that time, the shopkeeper wiped his big ears and shouted angrily: "Let go, you businessman..." From the shop next door, there was a soft and sweet voice, and a charming quarrel: "Honey, we don't make sheepskin, The boot trade, the gift of God, which is more precious than gold and silver, of course it is priceless..." "Damn it," murmured the shopkeeper, sighing enviously. "Tricked the redneck. You learn, learn."

I study hard, no matter what the job is.As long as you get your hands on it, you should always do it well.But to attract buyers, to discuss business, I can't do it.These quiet, melancholy-looking peasants, always bowed their heads as if frightened by something, and cowardly old women, arouse my pity, and I want to secretly tell them that the real price of the icon can be reduced by two Ten kopecks of empty heads.They all looked poor and hungry, but it was strange to see them paying three and a half rubles for a hymn.Hymns were their most bought book. Stranger still was their knowledge of the value of books and icons.One day, I greeted an old man with white hair into the shop, and he said to me crisply: "Young man, you said that your icon workshop is the first in Russia, it is not true.

The first icon workshop in Russia is Rogozhinai in Moscow." I walked aside in embarrassment, and he walked slowly forward without going to the shop next door. "Have you hit a snag?" the shopkeeper asked me sarcastically. "You didn't tell me about Rogozhin's workshop..." He scolded: "This kind of hypocrisy is based on the rivers and lakes. They know everything, old dog..." He is beautiful, fat, self-respecting, and hates country people.When he is happy, he often tells me: "I am very smart, I like cleanliness, I like perfume, the smell of divine incense, but in order to pinch five kopecks for the proprietress, I have to bow down to these smelly country bumpkins. You think I Love this thing? What's a redneck? A redneck is a stink caterpillar, a ground lice, but..." He fell into a rueful silence.

But I like the country people. In each of them, I can feel the mysterious smell of Yakov. Once, a rough man in a short leather jacket and a cloak with sleeves came into the shop. He took off the furry hat on his head, then turned his back to the side where the magic lamp was lit, and crossed himself with two fingers. , and then tried not to look at the holy image in the dark, and without saying a word, glanced around, and then said: "A hymn with annotations." He rolled up the sleeves of his cloak, moved his chapped, earth-colored lips that were about to bleed, and read the inside seal: "Is there any older one?"

"The old ones cost thousands of rubles, you know..." "Know." The countryman rubbed his fingers and turned the pages of the book.Everywhere he touched, black fingers were left. The shopkeeper stared at his skull in disgust and said, "The holy books are ancient, and God hasn't changed His words..." "Well, I know, God hasn't changed, It was Nikon that changed." Saying that, the customer closed the book and walked out silently. Sometimes such mountain people argue with the shopkeeper.I know very well that they are much more familiar with the holy book than the treasurer.

"Infidels in the mud," complained the shopkeeper. I have also seen countrymen who are not satisfied with the new edition of the book, but they still read it with respect and touch it carefully, as if the book would turn into a bird and fly away from his hand.I feel very comfortable seeing this situation, because I also feel that the book is a kind of miracle. The author's soul is hidden there. Open the book and release the soul, and it will talk to me mysteriously. Some old men and old women often sell old books or old manuscripts from before the Nikon era.The manuscripts were copied in regular script by the hermit women of the old school in the region of the Irgiz and Krzhenets rivers.Sometimes unedited copies of the Literary Books, old icons, crucifixes, enamelled copperplates from the northern coastal regions, or It was a silver spoon given to the restaurant owner by the Duke of Moscow.They looked around and quietly took these things out from under their clothes. Our shopkeeper and the boss next door are very careful about this kind of seller, and compete desperately with each other.Antiques bought for a few rubles or tens of rubles can be sold to rich old believers for a few hundred rubles in the market. The shopkeeper taught me: "Keep an eye out for these strange creatures from the forest, magicians, and keep your eyes open, they are the gods of wealth." When such sellers came, the shopkeeper sent me for the learned Pyotr Vasiliich, expert in ancient books, icons, and all other antiques. The appraiser was a tall old man with a long beard like Vasily the Righteous, intelligent eyes, and a kindly face.He had a metatarsal bone cut off in one foot, so he walked with a very long stick in one hand and limped.No matter in winter or summer, he always wears a thin coat like a Taoist robe and a strange velvet hat like a pot; he is very energetic, with a straight back, and when he walks into the shop, he hangs his shoulders and hums softly.He often made the sign of the cross with two fingers, and murmured prayers and hymns.This pious appearance and Long Zhong's old state immediately convinced the seller of this appraiser. "What's the matter with you?" asked the old man. "Someone is selling this icon, saying it's from Stroganovsk..." "What?" "From Stroganovsk." "Oh... I'm deaf. God plugged one of my ears so I wouldn't listen to that Nikon nonsense..." He took off his hat and looked at the icon flat, straight, horizontal, vertical Look, then squinted at the slit mouthpiece and muttered, "These damned Nikons, they know we love quaint stuff, and they make all kinds of fakes, it's all the devil's stuff. Now even The false icons are so ingeniously made, hey, they are so ingenious. At a casual glance, they must be from Stroganovsk, Usciuzhina, or Suzdal. But with care At first glance, it turned out to be a fake." If he said "fake," it was a valuable treasure.He also told the shopkeeper in all kinds of slang, how much this icon or this book can be paid for.As far as I know: "Sad and Sad" is ten rubles, "Nikon Tiger" is twenty-five rubles.I feel ashamed to see the way of deceiving the seller, but the ingenious trick of the appraiser is also very interesting to watch. "These black-hearted disciples of the Nikon Tigers can do anything. They have the guidance of the devil. Look at the ground, it's the real thing. The clothes are also made by the same hand, but look at the face, the style of writing is different, completely different Yes. Such an ancient master as Simon Ushakov, although he was a pagan, the icons that come out of his hands are all painted with one hand, and the clothes, faces, and even the fire marks are all burned with his own hands. The primers are all painted by hand. But these godless people can't do it. Painting icons used to be a sacred work, but now it's just a craft, so, people who believe in God At last he laid the icon lightly on the counter, put on his hat and said, "Sin. Sin." That said, buy it. After hearing his sweet words like a long river, the seller admired the old man's knowledge and asked respectfully: "Old man, how about this holy image?" "This icon is from the hands of Nikon." "It's impossible. Both our father-in-law and great-grandfather worship this icon..." "But Nikon is still a man before your great-grandfather." The old man held the icon before the eyes of the seller, and said in a serious tone: "Look, this smiling face, is this an icon? It's a portrait, an unprofessional craft, a Nikon thing. This kind of thing , I have no energy. Why should I lie? I have suffered for justice all my life. I have lived to this age, and I will soon go to the knee of God. I will go against my conscience? It is impossible." He pretended to be wronged because others doubted his eyesight, walked out of the shop and stood on the porch, it seemed that the old man Longzhong would die soon.The shopkeeper bought the icon for a few rubles, and the seller made a deep bow to Pyotr Vasilyitch and went away.I was sent to a restaurant to make tea. When I came back, the connoisseur had become a vigorous and happy person. He looked at the purchase with affection and taught the shopkeeper: "Look, how solemn this icon is, how beautifully written it is." The workmanship is meticulous, the air is full of dignity, and there is no smoke and fire at all..." "Who painted it?" The shopkeeper asked happily, bouncing around. "It's too early for you to know that." "How much can a person who knows the goods pay?" "Maybe I'll show it to someone..." "Oh, Pyotr Vasilyitch..." "If you sell it, you'll get fifty rubles, and I'll keep the rest." "Ah Quinn..." "Don't, yo..." They drank tea, talked about the price shamelessly, and looked at each other with liar eyes. The shopkeeper was clearly in the hands of the old man.When the old man left, he would say to me: "Be careful, you are not allowed to tell the proprietress about this business." When the deal for the sale of the icon was settled, the shopkeeper asked the old man: "Is there any news in town, Pyotr Vasiliich?" So, the old man parted his beard with his yellow hands, exposing his greasy lips, and talked about the life of a rich merchant, the prosperity of business and drinking, illness and marriage, the change of heart between husband and wife, and so on.He told such greasy stories as fluently and skillfully as a skilled cook frying pancakes.There was a hissing laugh from time to time during the conversation.The shopkeeper's round face turned brown with envy and ecstasy, and his eyes were covered with fantasy clouds.He sighed and said bitterly: "Everyone lives a real life, but I..." "Everyone has his own life," the appraiser whispered. "Some lives are struck by angels with a silver hammer, and others by demons with the back of an axe..." This stout old man knew everything—the life of the city, the merchants, the officials , priests, and petty citizens know everything about them.His eyes are as sharp as an eagle's, and there is something like a wolf or a fox.I was always trying to annoy him, but he was staring at me from a distance, as if seeing through a fog.It seemed to me that there was an unfathomable emptiness surrounding him. If I approached him, I would fall into nowhere.I felt again that the old man had something in common with Shumov, the stoker. The shopkeeper admired his profound knowledge both in person and behind the scenes, but like me, sometimes he wanted to annoy the old man and embarrass him. "You look like a great liar to people," he said suddenly, looking defiantly in the old man's face. The old man lazily sneered and replied: "Only God doesn't lie. We live among fools. If he doesn't lie to fools, what's the use of him?" The shopkeeper got excited: "The local people are not all fools, and the businessmen are also from the local people." "We're not talking about business people now. Fools don't become liars, fools are saints, and their brains are asleep..." The old man kept talking more and more, which made people very angry.It seemed to me that he was standing on a grass mound surrounded by mud.It was impossible to make him angry.He is beyond anger, or is good at hiding anger. But he often came to pester me, leaning against me, smiling from behind his beard, and asking, "What do you call that French writer, isn't he Bonos?" I hate misrepresenting people's names, but I had to bear with it for a while, and I replied: "Ponson de Terriery." "Where did he die?" "Don't be stupid, you are not a child." "Yes, not a child. What are you studying?" "Efrem Sirin." "Which one of your ordinary writers, this Yefrem, writes better?" I fell silent. "What do ordinary writers generally write?" He still refused to give up. "Everything that happens in life is written." "Well, then, write about dogs and horses. Dogs and horses are everywhere." The shopkeeper laughed.I'm annoyed.I feel sad, unhappy, if I want to leave them, the shopkeeper will stop: "where to go?" So, the old man asked me again: "You are very learned, so answer a question. There are a thousand naked people in front of you, five hundred women, and five hundred men, and Adam and Eve are among them. How do you find Adam and Eve?" ?" He asked me this question for a long time, and finally, he said triumphantly: "Silly boy, Adam and Eve were not born, they were created. They don't have belly buttons." The old man has many such "questions" and often puts me stumped. When I first came to the shop to do odd jobs, I once told the shopkeeper a few books I had read.But now they're making it hard for me with these stories.The shopkeeper turned it into something obscene and told Peter Vasiliich.The old man asked some shameless questions to help him add fuel.They talked in vain, and threw some shameless words on Eugenie Grandet, Lyudmila, and Henry IV like throwing garbage. I understood that their jesting was not out of malice, but purely for idle amusement, but it did not lighten my heart.They create something filthy, and then burrow into it like pigs, dirtying the beautiful (what they don't understand and think is funny), snorting triumphantly. The market and the people who live there, the merchants and shopkeepers, are all idle playing malicious games and living their strange lives.When country people from other places want to go somewhere in the city and ask them for directions, they always deliberately tell others the wrong way.This kind of thing has long been commonplace, and even liars don't bother to take pleasure in it. They caught two mice, tied their tails in knots, put them on the ground, and were very happy to see the mice go in opposite directions and bite each other.Sometimes oil was poured on the mouse and it was burned to death.Sometimes a broken foreign metal bucket is hung on the dog's tail, and the dog barks in surprise, dragging the broken foreign metal bucket and running around, and people watch and laugh loudly. There are many such pastimes.All people—especially country folk—seem to be there for the amusement of the market.They have a perpetual desire to ridicule, to upset, and to embarrass people in their dealings with people.I wonder why nothing I have read mentions this violent tendency to tease people in everyday life. Among the entertainments of the market, there is one that is particularly hateful and hateful. Downstairs from our shop, there is a shop specializing in fur and felt boots.There was a guy there who was a gourmet who surprised the whole Nijni market. The owner of the shop seemed to boast of the strength of the horse and the ferocity of the dog, as proud of the skill of his fellow.He used to make a bet with the proprietors of the neighboring shops: "Who wants to bet ten rubles on the host? I'll tell our Mishka to eat ten pounds of ham in two hours." But everyone knew that Mishka had this ability, so they said: "Don't bet on the host, we bought ham and told him to eat it." "But clean meat, no bones." After a languid argument, a thin, beardless young man with high cheekbones, wearing a long woolen coat and a red belt, and covered in flakes of hair came out of the dark cargo room.Silently and respectfully, he took off the hat from his little head and looked at the boss with deep-set blank eyes.The boss looked good, with a thick, stiff beard. "Can I have a Batman ham?" "How long is the time limit?" Mishka whispered solemnly. "Two hours." "Very difficult." "What's so difficult about it?" "Well, two beers, then." "Well," said the proprietor, boasting, "don't think he's empty, but he's had about two pounds of bread in the morning, and he's had his lunch as usual..." Bringing the ham.The audience gathered together, all of them were fat businessmen, wearing heavy fur coats, as big as a weighing scale, with big bellies, and everyone's eyes were very small, with fat eyeballs hanging down, looking bored and sleepy. They put their hands in their sleeves and squeezed into a tight circle, surrounding the eater.Chi Chi prepared a large piece of black bread and a knife, drew a cross piously, sat on the fur bag, put the ham on a wooden box beside him, and looked at it with blank eyes. He cut a thin piece of bread and a thick piece of meat, sandwiched them together neatly, held them to his mouth with both hands, his lips trembling, stretched out his dog-like long tongue to lick his lips, showing his sharp teeth, Then, like a dog, stick your face to the meat. "it has started." "Look at the watch." All the eyes were solemnly looking at the two round muscles around the chin and ear, which were bulged by chewing;Everyone chatted boringly: "It's like eating a bear." "Have you ever seen a bear eat?" "Well, I don't live in the forest, but people often say that, eat like a bear." "People often say: eat like a pig." "Pigs don't eat pork..." They laughed lazily.Those who were sensible came forward and corrected: "Pigs eat everything, even piglets, even their own sisters..." Chishou's face gradually darkened, his ears turned blue, and sunken eyes bulged out of their sockets.He had trouble breathing, only his chin moved evenly. "Come on, Mishka. It's time." Everyone encouraged him.He eyed the rest of the meat uneasily, took a sip of beer, and chewed again.The audience became excited and looked more frequently at the watch in the hands of Mishka's boss.People warned each other: "Bring me the watch, don't let him turn the hands back." "Look at Mishka. Don't let him hide the meat up his sleeve." "I can't finish it in two hours." Mishka's boss called provocatively: "Well, I'll bet on a twenty-five ruble note, Mishka, don't lose." The audience teased the boss, but no one would bet against him. Mishka ate and ate, his face gradually turned the color of ham, and his soft, pointed nose was panting complainingly.He looked very frightening, as if he was about to cry out loudly: "Forgive me..." Or he was caught in the throat by a piece of meat, and fell down to die at the feet of the audience. Finally, he ate it all up, and with his drunken eyes open, he groaned languidly: "Give me some water..." But his boss looked at his watch and scolded: "It's over, you bastard, it's been four minutes... ..." The audience mocked him: "It's a pity that I didn't bet with you, or you would lose." "Still, he's a great kid." "Yeah, he should be sent to the circus..." "Oh, God has turned man into a monster." "Would you like some tea?" Then, like a group of small boats, they sailed into the small restaurant. I want to understand what it is that makes this group of stupid pig-iron people surround such a poor boy, and why this gluttonous and consumptive person makes them happy? Under the long and narrow corridor, there are piles of animal hair, sheepskin, hemp, rope, felt boots, harness, etc., which look gray and boring.Brick columns separate this porch from the walkway.The pillars were thick and ugly, old and stained with street mud.These bricks and brick joints have been counted thousands of times silently in my heart, and their ugly patterns, like a stuffy net, are embedded in my memory. Pedestrians walked slowly along the footpath, and carriages and sledges walked slowly on the street.At the end of the street there were some square red brick two-story shops, and an empty field in front of them was littered with wooden boxes, straw and crumpled wrapping paper.Dirty and well-trodden snow covered all of this, together with man and horse, although they moved there, they seemed to be at a standstill, as if some invisible chains bound them together, They rolled lazily in place.You will suddenly feel that this life has almost no sound, like a pool of stagnant water.The slides of the sled were sliding, the doors of the shops were opening and closing, and the hawkers were yelling for steamed buns and hot honey water, but these sounds were boring, annoying, and monotonous, and people quickly got used to them and stopped listening to them. to these sounds. The church bells rang like a funeral, and the melancholy sound lingered in the ears forever, as if floating endlessly in the market place from morning to night, putting a cover on all thoughts and feelings, like A copper deposit weighs heavily on the surface of all impressions. From the snow-covered ground, from the gray snowdrifts on the roof, from the flesh-red brick walls of the house, everywhere emanates a cold and dreary loneliness; Floating in the air; the breath exhaled by horses, and the breath exhaled by people are also lonely.Loneliness has a peculiar smell: the stink of sweat, greasy, marijuana oil, burnt steamed buns, and the heavy stink of bituminous coal.This smell, like a stuffy hat, is put on a man's head and pours into his chest, arousing in him a strange feeling of intoxication, a dark desire, making him want to close his eyes and scream, run. Somewhere, banging his head hard against the wall. I studied the faces of the merchants, overnourished, radiant, flushed with cold, as immobile as a dream.They are like fish stranded on the beach, often yawning with their mouths wide open. Business is slow in winter, and in the eyes of businessmen, they don't see the nervous and fierce expression that makes them look alive and attractive in summer.Heavy fur coats restrict movement, pushing people to the ground.He is also lazy to speak, and quarrels when he gets angry.Probably they did this on purpose, just to show each other that they were still alive. I know very well that they are overwhelmed and killed by boredom.I was given the explanation that their cruel and stupid game was nothing more than an ineffective resistance to the dull all-consuming pressure. Sometimes I say these words to Peter Vasiliich.Although he always mocks and teases me, he likes that I love reading, and sometimes he talks to me in a stern and lecturing tone. "I don't like the life of a merchant," I said. He twisted a lock of beard around his long finger, and asked: "Where do you know the life of a merchant? Do you often visit their house? This is the street, and there are no people on the street, only business.People just hurried through the streets and went home again.People wear clothes when they go out, and you can never know a person from the appearance of clothes.People live naked only in their own homes, within the four walls.What the merchants do there, you never know. " "But, isn't the businessman's mind the same whether he is here or at home?" "Who can know what people are thinking?" the old man said in a loud bass with his eyes wide open. "Minds are like lice, too many to count - the old saying has long been said. When some people return to their homes, they may fall to their knees and pray tearfully: God forgive me, I have profaned this holy day.This kind of person treats the family like a monastery, and maybe lives at home with only God and God.right.Each spider knows its own corner, stretches its web, and knows its own weight, so that the web can support it..." When he spoke seriously, his voice seemed to be speaking of important secrets, and became low. And rough. "You like to talk, but it's too early for you to talk. At your age, you don't live by your brain, but by your eyes. So you just watch, remember, and don't talk. Wisdom is for doing things." Yes, for the soul it is faith. Reading is a good thing, but there is a limit to everything. Some people read too much and become pedantic and have no faith..." I think he It seems that he will live forever, and it is hard to imagine that he will age and change. He loved to tell stories of the successes of merchants, robbers, and counterfeiters.I have heard many of these stories from my maternal grandfather.The grandfather talked better than the connoisseur.But they all mean the same thing: riches are always obtained by sins against men, and against God.Peter Vasilyev was not a lover, but when he talked about God, he always had affectionate feelings, sighed, avoided the other party's sight and said: "That's how people deceive God, but Jesus saw it all and flowed." Weeping: My people, poor people, hell awaits you." Once I boldly reminded him: "But you often deceive country people too..." This did not make him angry. "What's my deceit?" he said. "But cheating three or five roubles is no big deal." When he met me reading a book, he often took the book from my hand, questioned critically what I had read, and said to the shopkeeper in a confident tone: "Look, this little thing can understand this kind of book." ." Then he taught me in a sensible and memorable way: "Listen to me, it will do you good. There are two Kirills, both bishops. One is Kirill of Alexandria, the other is Kirill of Jerusalem. The first Kirill is against Nestorian, the sinful heretic, tried his best. According to Nestorian's heresy, the Virgin Mary is a mortal, and cannot give birth to God, but can only give birth to man. According to his name and career, this man is called Christ, which is the Savior. Therefore, the Virgin Mary cannot Called the mother of God, should be called the mother of Christ, understand? This is paganism. Kirill of Jerusalem, against the pagan Ali..." I admired his knowledge of religious history, and he used psalm stroking his beard with a priestly hand, boasting: "I am a general of this kind of knowledge; I went to Moscow before Holy Trinity to argue with those wicked Nikonists, priests, laity I was young then, and I even debated with the Doctors. I got my tongue out, and in a few words I stumped a priest, and the guy had a nosebleed. You see." A flush rose in his face, and his eyes opened like flowers. Probably he considered making his opponent's nosebleed the pinnacle of his success, the brightest ruby ​​in his crown.How fascinated he was talking about this matter: "He is a beautiful, burly priest. He stood in front of the scriptures, with nosebleeds dripping drop by drop. But he didn't realize his ugliness, like a lion in the wild." Fierce, making a loud voice. But I was very calm, every word pierced his heart, lungs and ribs like an awl.... On the other side, like a furnace, they spat out the poisonous tongue unique to heretics... It was a beautiful scene." There were several other connoisseurs who came in and out of the shop from time to time: one of them, Pahomi, wore shiny clothes, had a big belly, a one-eyed face, a wrinkled face, and a nose.A little old man named Lukian, as cunning as a mouse, kind, and full of life.There was a big, grim, black-bearded, coachman-like fellow who used to come with the old man.He had a lifeless, unpleasant, but regular face and dull eyes. When they came, they usually sold things like ancient books, holy images, incense burners, cups and plates, and sometimes they brought the seller—an old woman or an old man from the other side of the Volga.After the deal was done, sitting down at the counter like a crow flying to the fields, drinking tea with rolls and boiled sugar, they talked about the oppression that the Nikonite church gave them: where houses were searched and prayer books were confiscated. Well, here the police close the church and try its owners under the one hundred and three laws.These 103 points often became their topic of conversation, but they talked about it quietly, as if they regarded it as the severe cold of winter, something that was inevitable. When they talked about religious oppression, they kept using such words as police, search, prison, trial, Siberia, etc. Every time they touched my heart, they burned like coals, arousing my sympathy and respect for these old people. Good impression.The various books I have read have taught me to respect people who are determined to achieve their goals, and to cherish a firm spirit. I have completely forgotten the shortcomings of the teachers in this class of life, and only feel their determination to face the challenge calmly. I feel that behind this determination lies the teachers' unchanging belief in their own truth and enduring all suffering for the truth. Determination. Later, I saw many supporters of this and similar old habits among common people and intellectuals, and I realized that this kind of determination is a kind of passivity in human beings who cannot and does not want to move.Why can't they move, because they have been bound like shackles by the words of the ancients and outdated concepts, and have become rigid in these words and concepts.Their will has been solidified and they cannot develop towards tomorrow.When they are thrown from their original place by some external blow, they fall mechanically to the bottom of the mountain like a stone rolling down the mountain. With a blind force of nostalgia, a morbid taste for pain and oppression, they cling to the grave of outdated truths.But if the possibility of pain is taken from them, they become empty, like clouds on a windy day, disappearing without a trace. They are ready to accept all kinds of sufferings with a willingness and with a strong sense of self-appreciation for the faith, which is undoubtedly firm, but it is only reminiscent of wearing old clothes.Old clothes are more or less resistant to the erosion of time because they are soaked in all kinds of filth.Thoughts and feelings are accustomed to narrow prejudices and dogmatic envelopes, even if their wings are ripped off and their hands and feet are removed, they can still live comfortably and happily. This belief based on custom is one of the most lamentable and pernicious phenomena in our lives.在这种信仰的世界上，好象在阳光照不到的石垣下一样，一切新的东西，都生长得缓慢而曲折，发育不良。在这种黑暗的信仰中，爱的光是太少了，而屈辱、怨恨和猜忌却太多了，而仇恨又总是和这些连在一起。这种信仰所燃烧的火，好象是腐物中发出来的Y光。 我深信这一点，是因为我经历了许多痛苦的岁月，自己心里的许多东西都被破坏了，从记忆中剔除掉了。当我最初在寂寞无聊的现实中发现生活的教师的时候，我以为他们是精神力量很伟大的人物，是世界上最优秀的人物。他们差不多每个人都受过审判，坐过牢，在许多地方被驱逐过，同许多囚人一起从这里解到那里。他们都很小心谨慎，悄悄地生活着。 但是我看出这些老头儿们，虽然怨恨尼康派的"精神迫害"，他们自己却也很喜欢甚至甘愿互相压迫。 独眼龙帕霍米喝醉了酒，就喜欢夸耀自己的记忆力，有些书他简直熟得"了如指掌"，好象犹太神校学生熟记《塔木德》一样。无论哪一页，只消用指头一点，点到哪里就从哪里一口气背下去，发出柔软的齆鼻子声音。帕霍米老是注视地板，他的独眼向着地板不安地望来望去，好象在找寻什么贵重的失物。他最常表演的戏法是背梅舍茨基公爵一本叫《俄罗斯葡萄》的书，而他特别熟悉的地方，是"殉道者坚忍刚毅的受难"情节，可是彼得·瓦西里伊奇常常挑剔他的错处。 "你胡说。这和狂信者基普里安无关，与纯贞的季尼斯有关。" "哪有什么季尼斯呀？是季奥尼西……""你别挑剔字眼。" "你不要教训我。" 一分钟之后，他们两人都怒气冲冲，互相凶恶地对望着说："不要脸的饭桶，瞧你这肚子吃得多饱……"帕霍米好象拨算盘子似地回答："你呢，色鬼，山羊，女人的走狗。" 掌柜两手笼在袖子里，阴险地笑着，跟唆使小孩子似的，怂恿着旧礼仪派的拥护者："该这样收拾他。哟，再来一下。" 有一次老头们打起来了，彼得·瓦西里耶夫突然很敏捷地打了同伴一个耳光，打得对方立刻逃跑，然后他很累地揩揩脸上的汗，向逃者叫嚷："等着瞧吧，这罪过要记在你的帐上，该死的东西，害得我这只手犯了罪。" 他特别喜欢责备自己所有的朋友信仰薄弱，说他们都堕落成了"反教堂派"。 "这都是亚历克萨沙在煽动你们，简直是公鸡乱叫。" 反教堂派显然使他受到刺激，而且使他害怕。但是问他这教派的实质如何，他就不很明白地回答："反教堂派是一种最不幸的邪道，只讲理性，不承认上帝。 哼，在哥萨克人中，已经有人除了《圣经》之外什么都不尊敬了。可是这种《圣经》是从萨拉托夫的德国人那儿，从留托尔那儿来的。据说：留托尔就是留特，也就是喜欢作恶。"所以反教堂派又叫做沙洛普特派，也称福音洗礼派。都是从西方来的，那边的邪道。" 他跺着那条残废的腿，冷酷而重声地说："这种新派的家伙，必须驱逐出去，这种家伙，应该捉来用火烧死。但是我们和他不同，我们是真正的罗斯国粹，我们的教派是真正东方原有的俄国教。其他一切都是西方人随意胡诌的邪说。德国人、法国人能够造得出什么好东西？比方一千八百十二年的……"他兴奋起来，忘记了自己跟前是一个孩子，用有力的手抓住我的腰带，时而拉向自己，时而推开，漂亮地、奋昂地、热心地、返老还童似地说："人的理性，#厢逶诟髦忠芩档拿芰种校孟笠恢恍锥*的狼，听从着魔鬼的命令，使上帝所赐的人的灵魂受苦。这些魔鬼的门徒能想出什么好东西？鲍格米勒派尽制造些异端邪说，他们说魔鬼是上帝的儿子，耶稣基督的长兄，你瞧，这不是胡扯吗。因此他们叫人不要服从尊长，不要做工，要离弃妻儿，人什么都不需要，什么规矩也不用守，人只需要照自己的心意过活，照魔鬼的吩咐过活。嗨，又是那位亚历克萨沙，嗳，虫豸……"这时候，掌柜偶然支使我去做旁的事情，我离开老头儿走了。但他独自儿留在廊下，还对着空荡荡的四周继续说下去："唔，没有翅膀的灵魂。唔，天生的瞎眼猫，我逃到什么地方去才能躲开你们呀？" 以后，他仰起头，两手放在膝上，不动地望着冬天的灰色的天空，好半晌没有作声。 他开始对我更注意，更和善，有时他来，我正在读书，他拍拍我的肩头，说："读吧，小家伙，读吧，对你有好处的。你似乎有一点儿聪明；可惜，你不尊重长辈，对任何人都反抗。你想想看，这种顽皮劲儿会把你引到什么地方去呀？小家伙，这会把你引进牢狱里去的。读书是好的，但必须记住，书不过是书，要自己动脑筋才行。鞭身派里有一个叫达尼洛的教诲师，他竟说新书旧书，全都无用，便把书装在袋子里扔进河里了。不错，这当然也是愚蠢的事。这也是亚历克萨沙搞的鬼……"他越发频繁地记起那个亚历克萨沙，有一天，他到铺子里来，板着脸担心地对掌柜说："亚历山大·瓦西里耶夫在这里呀，在城里，是昨天到的。我找了又找，没有找到，他躲起来了呀。我在这里坐一会儿，说不准他会来……"掌柜不友善地回答说："我什么也不知道，任何人也不知道。" 老头儿点了点头说： "正应该这样。对于你，一切人不是买主便是卖主，再不会有别的什么人呀。好，弄杯茶喝喝吧……"我提了一大铜壶开水回来时，铺子里已有几个客人：鲁基安老头儿高兴地微笑着，门后边的暗角里，坐着一个陌生人，穿着暖和的外套，长统毡靴，腰里系一条绿带子，帽子歪歪地掩到眉毛上。他脸上没有什么特点，看上去很文静，而且谦虚，象是一个失了业而且为此十分伤心的掌柜。 彼得·瓦西里耶夫并不向他那边瞧，严厉而重声地说着什么，他抽搐似地一直在用右手碰动帽子，好象要画十字似地举起手来，把帽子往上碰，碰了一下又碰一下，差不多要碰到脑顶心了，然后又拉下来，几乎连眉毛都要掩祝这种神经质的动作，使我记起外号叫"兜里装死鬼的伊戈沙"。 "我们这条泥水河里，游着各种鳕鱼，把水弄得更脏了，"彼得·瓦西里耶夫说。 长得象掌柜的那个汉子，低声而沉静地问："你这是说我吗？" "就算是说你吧……" 这时候，那汉子低声而十分诚恳地问道："唔，那么你怎样说你自己呢，汉子？" "自己的事，我只对上帝说。这是我的事……""不，汉子，这也是我的事，"新客人严正有力地说。"对于真理，不能背过脸去，人不能故意把自己当瞎子，在上帝跟前，在众人跟前，这都是极大的罪过。" 这人称彼得·瓦西里耶夫汉子，我听了很痛快，他的平静而严正的声音，也使我激动。他说话的样子，好象善良的神父在念"主啊，我们生命的主宰。"他一边说，一边渐渐把身子向前弯倒，越出椅子，老在自己的脸前挥舞着手……"不要责备我，我还没有象你那样被罪恶染污……""茶炊开了，在翻腾作响，"老鉴定家轻蔑地说，但那一个不管他的话，继续说下去："只有上帝知道，是什么人更染污了圣灵之泉。兴许就是你们这些咬文嚼字的书呆子的罪过。总而言之，所谓书呆子是一种死板的人，我不是书呆子，我也不会咬文嚼字，我只是一个活着的平凡人……""我可知道你是个怎样的平凡人，我听够了。" "是你们把大家搞糊涂的，很简单的东西让你们搞得乱七八糟，汉子，你们这般书呆子，伪君子……你懂不懂我的话？" "这就是邪道。"彼得·瓦西里耶夫说。那人把手掌放在眼面前，好象念着掌心里写着的字，动着手掌，激烈地说："你们以为把人们从这个牲口棚赶进那个牲口棚，就算对他做了好事吗？可是我——却不以为然。我要说人应该成为自由之身。家庭、妻子、你们的一切，在上帝面前有什么用处呢？所以人们应该摆脱那些互相争夺，打得头破血流的生活，摆脱一切金银财宝，这一切都污秽不洁。灵魂的教主不在地上的原野，是在天国的山谷间。我说，摆脱一切，斩断一切罣碍，打破世俗的网，这种网是反基督派织成的……我走的是正直的大路，我灵魂不动摇，不接受那黑暗的世界……""但是面包、水和衣服，你用不用呢？这也是世俗的东西呀。"老头儿讥刺地说。 但是这些话也没有触动亚历山大，他更加热心地说着，虽然他的嗓子很低，但却象吹喇叭一般："汉子，你最宝贵的是什么？只有上帝是唯一可宝贵的。 站在上帝面前，从你的心头斩断地上的罣碍，放弃一切，上帝会看见你：你是一个人，上帝也是一个。于是你就可以走到上帝身边，这是走近他的唯一的路。这样灵魂才能得救。弃去父母，弃去一切，要是你的眼睛诱惑你，你就把你的眼睛挖掉，为了上帝，物欲死而灵魂活。这样，你的灵魂，便燃烧于永世万年……""那就把你喂臭狗去吧，"彼得·瓦西里耶夫说着站起来。 "我当你从去年起变乖了一点，不料变得更蠢了……"老头儿摇摆着身子，从铺子里走到廊下去。这行动使亚历山大感到了不安，他诧异而慌张地问："你要走吗？……呃……为什么？" 但是和气的鲁基安投着安慰的眼色说： "没有关系……没有关系……" 于是亚历山大就朝着他说： "说到你，也是个世俗的忙人。你也说一些无用的话，这有什么意思呢？什么三呼阿利路亚，二呼阿利路亚……"鲁基安对他笑笑，也走到廊底下去了。现在，他就对着掌柜很自信地说："他们敌不过我的精神，完全敌不过。象火上的烟一样，消失了……"掌柜抬眼向他一望，冷淡地说："我对这类事不过问。" 这人似乎不好意思起来，拉拉帽子喃喃地说："怎能不过问？这是不能不过问的事……"他低头沉默地坐了一下，就被两个老头儿叫去，三人一起，也不告别就走了。 这人好象黑夜的篝火，在我眼前突然闪耀，明亮地燃烧了一下，又熄灭了，使我觉到他的厌世论里，有一种什么真理。 晚上，我找个时间把他的话对作坊里的画工头说了。他是一个沉静和蔼的人，名字叫伊凡·拉里昂诺维奇。他听完我的讲述，对我解释："这好象是一个逃避派。这是一种教派，他们一切都不承认。" "那么他们怎样过日子呢？" "逃避着过日子，永远在四方流浪，所以把他们叫做逃避派。照他们说，我们同土地以及与它有关的一切都没有因缘。因此警察把他们看做危险人物，要捉……"我虽然过着痛苦的生活，但我不明白：怎样可以逃避一切呀？在当时围绕着我的生活之中，我觉得很多有趣味有价值的东西，因此亚历山大·瓦西里耶夫的影子，不久就在我的记忆中淡下去了。 但是在痛苦的时候，他的影子常常出现在我的眼前：他在野外灰黯的路上走着，向森林走去，白色的不做工的手抽搐地提着拐棍，而且喃喃："我走正直的大路，我不顾一切。罣碍——这种东西，把它斩断吧……"同他并排走着的是外祖母在梦中所见的父亲：他手里拿着核桃木的棍子，他后面跟着一条花狗，舌头颤动着……