Chapter 6 Krylov

Krylov ① Bakhromkin, a civil engineer of the fifth rank, sat beside his desk, depressed because he had nothing to do.Just this evening, at a ball at an acquaintance's house, he happened to meet a woman whom he had fallen in love with twenty or twenty-five years ago.This lady had been a wonderful beauty at first, and it was easy to fall in love with her, as easy as to expose the shortcomings of a neighbor.What Bakhromkin remembered most clearly were her big sky-blue eyes, as if they were covered with soft sky-blue velvet.He remembered her long golden hair with a hint of chestnut, like ripe rye in a field, undulating in the wind before a thunderstorm. ... At that time, the beauty was unattainable, her expression was serious, and she seldom smiled. However, once she smiled, "she could use her smile to relight a candle that was going out..." But now, she has become a thin , frail and nagging old woman with dull eyes and yellowed teeth. ……Ugh!

"It's really unreasonable!" Bachromkin thought to himself, drawing with a pencil on the paper. "No evil will can ruin people like nature. If this beauty knew that she would become so wretched in the future, she would be scared to death..." Bakhromkin thought for a long time, but then suddenly jumped Get up, as if bitten by a snake. ... "Lord Jesus!" He was taken aback. "This is a rare thing! I can actually draw?!" On the paper he scribbled on, among the rough lines and strokes, there appeared a beautiful head of a woman, who happened to be the woman he had loved before.

Generally speaking, this painting is very poorly drawn, but the delicate and stern eyes, the soft facial contours, and the thick undulating hair are very vivid. ... "What a surprise!" Bakhromkin continued to wonder. "I can draw! I have lived fifty-two years in the world, and never thought I had any talents, but in old age, suddenly, thank God, never expected, talents appeared! It is unimaginable!" Bakhromkin didn't believe himself anymore, so he picked up a pencil and drew the head of an old woman next to the beautiful head. ... This time, it was like painting that young woman, and it was very similar. ... "Strange!" He shrugged. "Not bad, hell! How? So I'm a painter! So I've got a talent! How could I not have known it before? That's the strange thing!"

Even if Bakhromkin found a sum of money in an old waistcoat, even if he got the news that he had been promoted to the fourth rank of civil servant, he would not be as surprised and delighted as he is now when he finds out that he has creative abilities.He bent over the table for a full hour, drawing heads, trees, fires, and horses. ... "Very good! Amazing!" he exclaimed. "As long as you learn the skills again, you will be perfect." At this moment, he could not go on drawing any more, and admiration ceased, for a footman came into the study, carrying a little table with supper on it.After eating a partridge and drinking two large glasses of burgundy, he was limp and brooding. . . . He recalled those fifty-two years without even once thinking that he had any talents of his own.Yes, all his life he had been fascinated by the beauty of art.As a young man he appeared on the amateur stage, played instruments, sang, and painted sets. ...And, until old age, he read books constantly, loved the theater, and copied down good poems as souvenirs. ... He has always been good at one-liners, eloquence, and criticism. ... Obviously, there is a fire of genius, but it is buried by various mundane affairs. ... "Anything can happen," thought Bahromkin, "perhaps I can write poems and novels! Indeed, if I had discovered my talent before it was too late in my youth, I would have become a Painter or poet, what kind of situation would that be? Huh?"

And his imagination pictured for him another life, quite different from that of millions of other people.It cannot be compared with the life of common people. "People don't give them titles and decorations, and that's right..." he thought to himself. "They are not bound by all official titles and decorations. . . . and only outstanding figures can judge their activities. . . . " At this moment, Bakhromkin recalled an event in the distant past. ... His mother was a nervous and eccentric woman, and once she was walking with him, and when she met a drunk and disreputable man on the stairs, she kissed his hand. "Mom, why are you doing this?" he said in surprise.

"It's a poet!" she replied.In his opinion, she was right. . . . If she kissed the hand of a general or a privy councillor, it would be flattery, condescension, and nothing could be imagined worse for a cultured woman, but kissing a poet, painter, or The composer's hand, that is a matter of course. ... "That's an unusual life of freedom..." thought Bakhromkin, going up to his bed. "And what about their honor and fame? No matter how outstanding I am in the agency, and no matter what official position I climb, but my reputation can't get out of this ant nest. ... They are completely different. ... …Whether poets or painters sleep peacefully or get drunk, they don’t even know that, in the city and in the country, there are always people who recite their poems or look at their paintings.  … Who doesn’t know Anyone with their names will be considered uneducated and ignorant"...mauvais ton..." Bakhromkin was so weak that he had no strength at all, so he sat down on the bed and almost nodded his head at the listener. . . . The footman went up to him and carefully took off his clothes.

"Well, yes, . . . it was an extraordinary life. . . . Railways are forgotten sooner or later, but Phidias and Homer are always remembered. . . . Tregia Kowski ⑤ wrote terribly, but even he was remembered.... Alas!... How cold!... What if I were a painter now? Then I would What does it feel like?" While the page was taking off his day shirt and putting on his pajamas, he took the opportunity to paint a picture in his mind. ... At this time he, the painter or the poet, is walking home step by step in the dark. ... Talented people often don't have a carriage, so whether you like it or not, you have to walk. . . . He, the poor man, walked step by step, wearing a faded reddish-brown overcoat, probably without boots on his feet. ... There was a doorman dozing off at the door of the apartment, and the rude beast opened it without even looking at him. ... There, among the people of society, the name of a poet or a painter is venerated, but that veneration does him no good: the porter is not kinder for it, the servants are not kinder, the family members are more sympathetic. Not forgiving. ... Although his name is respected, but he himself is looked down upon. ...and now he was exhausted and hungry, and at last he went into his dark and stuffy room. . . . He wanted something to eat, something to drink, but, woohoo!Grouse and Burgundy did not. ... He was so sleepy that his eyelids were closed and his head was drooping on his chest, but his bed was hard and cold and smelled like a hotel. ...He had to pour water for himself, undress himself with his own hands, ...walking up and down on the cold floor with bare feet. . . . at last he fell asleep trembling, knowing that he had no cigars, no carriage, . ... Bakhromkin shook his head, lay down on the spring mattress, and quickly covered himself with an eiderdown quilt.

"Fuck it!" he thought, lying comfortably on the verge of falling asleep. "Screw him.....Fortunately I didn't have that...didn't discover my talent when I was young...." The footman blew out the lamp and went out on tiptoe. "Notes" ① Quoted from the fable poem "The Rooster and the Pearl" by the Russian writer Krylov. ——Russian text editor's note ②Refers to the red wine produced in Bourgogne, France. ③The hero is an engineer, and his job is probably to repair railways. ④An ancient Greek sculptor in the fifth century BC. ——Russian text editor's note

⑤ Trekiakovsky (1703-1769), Russian poet, linguist and literary theorist.His poems are ancient and difficult to understand. ——Russian text editor's note