Chapter 26 in spring

in spring The snow on the ground has not yet melted, but people already feel the breath of spring in their hearts.If you have ever recovered from a serious illness, you know that happy state of mind: the heart tenses with vague premonitions, the face smiles for no reason.It seems that nature is also experiencing such a mental state today.The earth is icy, and the mud and snow are mixed together, making noises under people's feet, but all around, everything is so happy, kind, and lovely!The air is so clear and clear that if you climb up the loft, or the bell tower, the whole world, from here to there, seems to come under your eyes.The sun was shining brightly, dancing, smiling, and dropping into the puddles with the sparrows.

The ice of the creek swelled and turned black.It has woken up and will make a loud running sound today or tomorrow.The trees were bare, but they were alive and breathing. It's such a good time to take a broom or a shovel to dredge muddy ditches, float a toy boat on the water, or chip away at hard ice with the heel of your shoe.It is also a pleasure to send a dove high into the air, or climb to the top of a tree, and tie there a starling's nest.Yes, in this blissful season, all is well, especially if you are young and nature-loving, if you are not self-willed and neurotic, if you don't have to be shut up between four walls all day to work.If you are sick, if you languish in the office, if you associate with the Muse, it means "engaging in literary and artistic work". Muse is the general name of the nine goddesses of literature, art and science in Greek mythology. , that would be bad.

Yea, it is not to be with the Muse in the spring. Just look at how happy and comfortable ordinary people feel.For example, the gardener Panteley Petrovich, who put on his wide-brimmed straw hat early in the morning, picked up a small cigar butt on the boulevard in the morning, and still refuses to throw it away no matter what.You see, he is standing by the kitchen window, with his hands on his hips, and is telling the cook what kind of boots he bought himself yesterday.Tall and thin, he had been called "little man" by all the servants, and now his whole slender figure exuded pride and dignity.He had a sense of superiority over the natural world, and there was in his gaze the majesty and even contempt of the master, as if, whether sitting in a greenhouse or digging in a garden, he knew something about the kingdom of plants that no one else knew. things.

It was useless if anyone told him that nature was majestic, majestic, full of magical charms, and that those who were proud before it should bow their heads.He felt that he knew all the secrets, all the charms, all the wonders, everything, and that to him the beautiful spring was like a slave girl, like the thin one who sat in the house by the conservatory and fed the children porridge. like women. And what about the hunter Ivan Zakharov?This man, in an old pea coat and barefoot over boots, was sitting on an upturned barrel near the stables, converting corks into gun fillers.He was going to shoot birds that had flown back from the south.His vision showed the road he was about to walk, with all the paths, ponds, and creeks.He closed his eyes and saw a long line of tall, tall trees, under which he stood with his gun, and the chill of the evening and the sweet excitement made him shiver, and his keen hearing strained.Faintly he heard the clucking of a woodcock.As he stood waiting for the birds from the south, he could already hear the bells ringing after vespers in a nearby monastery. ...he felt very at ease.He was incomparably happy, indescribably happy. But now look at Makar Danisitch, a young man who works on General Stremoukhov's estate, like a clerk, Also like a low-level butler.His income is twice that of the gardener, he wears a white bra on his chest, smokes two rubles a catty of tobacco, is always well fed and warmly dressed, and whenever he sees the general, he is always honored to shake his hand Puffy white hands with big diamond rings, but what a misfortune he was for all that!He was always with his books, subscribed to various magazines for twenty-five rubles, and wrote constantly. ...Every evening, after dinner, when everyone was asleep, he started to write, and put all the written things in his big box.Folded trousers and waistcoats were neatly placed at the bottom of the box, and on top were a pack of unopened tobacco, a dozen pill boxes, a small crimson scarf, and a piece of glycerin soap wrapped in yellow paper. and many other things.On the side of the box, there were stacks of papers full of words crouched timidly, and two or three issues of the "Provincial Daily" with the novels and newsletters of Makar Denisich.Everyone in the county thinks he is a writer and a poet, and everyone thinks he is a bit special and doesn't like him, saying that he speaks wrong, walks wrong, and smokes wrong.Once he was summoned to testify in the court of the conciliation judge, he was negligent for a while, and slipped out, saying that he was doing literary work. After he finished speaking, his face flushed red, as if he had stolen someone's chicken.

Now he was wearing a blue overcoat and a plush bonnet, walking slowly along the avenue with a thin cane in his hand. ... He walked about five paces, stopped, and looked intently at the sky, or at an old rook perched on a spruce. The gardener stood there with his hands folded, the hunter had a stern look on his face, but Makar Denisych arched his back, coughed timidly, and looked around sadly, as if the breath and beauty of spring weighed down on him, It was so stuffy that he couldn't breathe! . . . his soul was filled with timid emotions.It was not excitement, joy, hope that spring had produced in him, but only vague desires that disturbed him, and now he walked there without knowing what he needed.Really, what does he need?

"Ah, hello, Makar Danisitch!" Suddenly he heard General Stremoukhov's voice. "Why, hasn't the post office come yet?" "Not yet, my lord," replied Makar Danisitch, looking at the carriage in which the healthy and happy general and his little daughter were riding. "What a fine day! It's perfectly spring!" said the general. "Are you walking? Inspiration perhaps? " His eyes contained this meaning: "No talent! Mediocrity!" "Ah, brother!" said the general, taking the reins. "What a wonderful little piece I read over coffee today! It's really small, only two pages, but it's so cute! It's a pity you don't know French, or I would have read it to you ..." The general hurriedly talked about the content of the story he had read.Makar Danisitch listened, feeling uncomfortable, as if it were his fault that he wasn't the French writer who wrote little things.

"I don't understand what he thinks is good about that article," he thought to himself as he watched the carriage go away. "The content is vulgar and stale. . . . My novel is far more content than it is." Makar started to feel sad.A writer's pride is an ailment like an inflamed soul.Once a person has this disease, he will no longer hear the singing of the birds, see the brilliance of the sun, and turn a blind eye to the spring. ... As long as you touch this sore a little bit, your whole body will shrink into a ball in pain.Disappointed Makar walked forward, stepped out of the garden gate and onto the muddy path.There, Mr. Bubenzov was sitting in a tall carriage, jerking all over, hurrying somewhere.

"Ah, Mr. Writer!" he cried. "Hello!" If Makar Danisitch were only a clerk or a low-level housekeeper, no one would dare to speak to him in such a contemptuous tone, but he is a "writer", and he has no talent and is mediocre! People like Mr. Bubenzov know nothing about art and have no interest in art, but on the other hand, if they have the opportunity to meet ordinary men of letters who lack talent, they will be ruthless.They were willing to forgive everyone, but they could not forgive Makar alone, the frustrated and weird man who accumulated manuscripts in the box.The gardener damaged an old fig tree, causing many expensive melons to rot, but the general didn't mind, he just ate other people's melons and fruits.When Bubenzov was the conciliating judge, the case was heard only once a month, and at the beginning of the trial he was always hesitant, quoting legal provisions, and talking indiscriminately, but all this was forgiven and ignored.Only Makar, because of his lack of talent, wrote some not-so-good poems and novels, people had to pay special attention to them, and couldn't let them go in silence, and had to say a few hurtful words.As for the general's sister-in-law who slaps the maidservant with her own hands, who swears like a washerwoman at cards, the priest's wife who never pays when she loses cards, and the landowner Vlyutin who steals the landowner Sivobrazov's dog, who is that? Never mind, but not long ago the "Provincial Daily" returned a poorly written story of Makar's, and it spread throughout the county, causing ridicule, long-winded discussions, and outrage. Karl Danisich is now called Makarka.

If someone writes badly, people often don't try to explain why it is "bad", but simply say: "This son of a bitch has written another boring thing!" Makar only thinks that people don't know him, they don't want to know him, and it is impossible to know him, which prevents him from enjoying the beauty of spring.For some reason it seemed to him that if only people could understand him, everything would be all right.But how can people in the whole county know whether he has talent?None of them read or read newspapers, or they read very wrongly, or they had better not read at all.How could he explain to General Stremoukhov that French trifles are boring, mediocre, vulgar, trite?Because the General reads nothing but mediocre little things.

Those women made Makar furious too! "Ah, Makar Danisitch!" they used to say to him. "What a pity you didn't go to the fair today! If you had seen how funny those two peasants were fighting, you would have described it!" All these, of course, were trifles, which a philosopher would ignore and ignore, but Makar Danisitch felt very uncomfortable.His soul was filled with the feeling that he was alone, alone, with a melancholy such as only the most lonely and the most sinful can experience. Never in his life had he stood upright with his hands on his hips like the gardener, never once.Perhaps once in a while, say, once every five years, in the woods, or on the avenue, or on a train, he would come across the same loser and eccentric, and he would catch a glimpse of that person's eyes, and suddenly he would come alive, that person Also become active.They talked for a long time, argued, admired, excited, and laughed aloud, so that outsiders would think these two people were crazy.

But, as a rule, even such rare moments are unavoidable. Often, as if in jest, Makar and the frustrated he met often denied each other's talents, denied each other's strengths, envied each other, hated each other, Fighting Qi, finally became an enemy and broke up.Thus wasted their youth, extinguished, without joy, without love and friendship, without peace of mind, without all the things that the gloomy Makar was so fond of describing every evening in moments of inspiration. With the disappearance of youth, spring will pass. "Notes" ①The humble name of Makar.