Chapter 37 Tumbleweed Journey Sketch

Tumbleweed ① Journey Sketch I returned from my all-night prayers.The clock in the belfry of the monastery of the Holy Mountain struck a soft and melodious prelude, and then struck twelve.The large courtyard of the monastery is located on the bank of the Donets River at the foot of the holy mountain, surrounded by tall houses used as guest rooms, like a wall.Now, at night, with only the dim hanging lamps, the lights in the windows, and the stars illuminating the courtyard, the place looked like a boiling hodgepodge, full of activity and sound, in the strangest confusion. .The whole courtyard, from one end to the other, was densely packed with carts, carts, carts, carts, and caravans, and beside them were black horses, white horses, and horses with horns. bull.People were coming and going, novices in black robes running around.Strips of light and shadows cast from the windows moved over the cars, people's heads, and horses' heads.All of this took on extremely strange and unpredictable shapes in the thick darkness: sometimes a raised carriage pole stretched straight into the sky, sometimes fiery eyes appeared on the horse's face, and sometimes a growth appeared on the novice monk. Pair of black wings. ... The air was filled with the sound of talking, the snorting and chewing of horses, the crying of children, the creaking of carriages.Newcomers and late carts poured into the courtyard gate.

On the steep hillside grew pine trees, stacked one upon another, bent over the roof of the guest room, gazed at the yard, and listened with astonishment as if gazing into an abyss.In the depths of the dark forest, cuckoos and nightingales kept calling. ...Looking at this commotion and listening to this noise, one feels that in this seething hodgepodge nobody understands anyone, everyone is looking for something and can't find it, and there are so many big carts People, covered carriages, and people may not be able to escape from this yard from now on. Every time St. John's Day and St. Nicholas' Day, more than 10,000 people gather on the holy mountain.Not only the guest rooms are full of people, but even the bakery, tailor shop, carpentry workshop, carriage house... are also full.Those who arrived at night, waiting for their assigned place to spend the night, gathered by the walls, by the wells, or in the narrow passages of the guest rooms, like swarms of autumn flies.The novices, young and old, were constantly on the move, with no rest, no hope of changing shifts.Be it during the day or late at night, they always give people the impression that they are anxious about something and are in a hurry to get on their way.Despite their fatigue, their faces were uniformly lively and attentive, their voices friendly and their movements quick. . . . They had to find lodgings for everyone who came here by car or on foot, lead them there, and feed them.To the deaf, insane, or endlessly questioning, they had to explain at length why there were no rooms available, what time prayers were said, where wafers were sold, and so on.They had to run around, deliver things, talk non-stop, and besides, they had to be polite and considerate, trying to make the Greeks in Mariupol, who lived more comfortably than the Ukrainians, live with other Greeks and not let Bach The "upper class" bourgeois in Mut or Lysychansk lived with the peasants so as not to annoy them.From time to time there was a cry: "Father, please give me some kvass! Please give me some hay!" or: "Father, may I drink water after confession?" Either send the hay, or answer: "Madame, please ask the priest who confessed. I have no right to allow you." Then came a new question: "Where is the priest who confessed?" And the novice Again it was necessary to explain where the priest's cell was. . . . In spite of this busyness, they find time to go to church, to serve in the noble chambers, to answer at length a host of frivolous and not-so-frivolous questions that educated pilgrims like to ask.It is difficult to understand when these active men in black have time to sit down and rest, and when they are free to sleep, watching them run all day and night.

I came back from praying all night and walked to the guest room where I was assigned to stay. There was a monk in charge of the dormitory standing at the door.On the steps beside him, there were several men and women in urban attire crowding there. "Sir," said the person in charge of the dormitory, stopping me, "please allow this young man to spend the night in your room! Please! There are so many people coming, and there are no more vacancies. It's a shame!" He pointed to a short man in a light overcoat and a straw hat.I agreed, and my random roommate followed me.Every time I opened the padlock on the door, whether I wanted to or not, I had to see a picture hanging on the doorpost, level with my face.The name of the painting is "Meditation on Death", and it depicts a monk kneeling on the ground, looking at a coffin and a skeleton lying inside.Behind the monk stood another skeleton, larger, with a scythe in his hand.

"There is no bone like this," said my roommate, pointing to the place on the skeleton where the pelvis should be. "Generally speaking, you know, the food for the people's mind is not first-rate," he added, with a long and sad snort in his nose, presumably to show me that I wanted to be with someone who knew what it was Food for thought when dealing with people. I was looking for matches and lighting a candle when he snorted again and said, "In Kharkov I went to the autopsy several times and saw bones. I even went to the morgue.I'm not in your way, am I? "

My room was small and narrow, without table and chairs, and in the whole room there was only a chest of drawers in front of the window, a stove, and two small wooden couches.The sleeping couches are placed against the wall, facing each other, leaving a narrow aisle in the middle.On the nap cot lay a small faded mattress and my luggage.There were originally two sleeping couches, so it can be seen that this room was originally intended for two people, so I explained this to my roommate. "But Mass will strike in a little while," said he, "and I won't hinder you long."

He still thought he was in my way and felt awkward, so he walked towards his small sleeping couch with guilty steps, sighed guiltily, and sat down.I didn't take a good look at him until the dim, lifeless flame of the oil candle stopped flickering and burned quite vigorously, illuminating both of us.He was a young man of about twenty-two, with a handsome round face and boyish dark eyes, dressed in the city, dressed in cheap gray, and from his complexion and narrow shoulders he seemed Not self-employed.He seems to be a difficult person to identify.He should neither be regarded as a college student, nor as a businessman, nor as a worker.One does not want to look at his handsome face and those boyishly kind eyes to think that he is an oily vagabond, of whom there are innumerable numbers in all those remote priorys where boarding is provided. Often, they pass off as a student expelled from a religious school for seeking the truth, or a choir singer who has lost his throat. . . . There was something characteristic, typical, and terribly familiar about his face, but what it was I could never understand or remember.

He was silent for a long time, thinking about something on his mind.I didn't pay much attention when he made his comments about the bones and the mortuary, he just thought I was angry and unhappy that he was staying in the house.He took out a sausage from his pocket, turned it in front of his eyes for a while, and said hesitantly: "I'm sorry, I want to trouble you. . . . Do you have a knife?" I gave him a pocket knife. "This sausage is bad," he said, frowning, cutting himself a small piece. "The little shops here are full of nasty things, but the prices are terribly expensive. . . . I would like to ask you to taste some, but you may not agree to eat such things. Would you like to eat some?"

There is also a special smell that can be heard from his accent, which is very similar to the features on his face. As for what it is, I am still at a loss.I wanted to convince him that I wasn't angry at all, so I took the little piece of sausage he offered me.That piece of sausage was really hard to swallow.One would have to have the teeth of a fine breed dog on a leash to deal with it.As we moved our gums, we began to chat.We started off complaining to each other about how long church services were. "The rules here are about the same as on Mount Athos," I said, "but on Mount Athos the all-night prayers are usually ten hours, and fourteen hours on big festivals. You should go there and pray!"

"That's right!" said my roommate, shaking his head. "I've lived here three weeks. You know, there's church every day, every day. . .couldn't sleep at all. Psalms during the day, special services, vespers. . . Not suitable. . . . The monks give you a room, food and drink, and then you know, people will be ashamed not to go. It may not matter if you stand for a day or two, but it is too hard to stand for three weeks! It is very hard! You Are you going to stay here long?" "I'm leaving tomorrow evening." "I'm staying for another two weeks."

"But according to the rules, it seems that you can't live here for so long?" I said. "Yes, that's true. Anyone who stays too long and always begs for food from the monks will be driven out. Just think about it, if those who have no home and no job are allowed to live here as long as they like stay long, then there won't be a vacant room here, and the whole monastery will be eaten up. That's true. But the monks make an exception for me, and I don't think they'll drive me away for a while. Will you You know, I'm a newcomer..." "How do you say that?"

"I'm Jewish, converted. . . . I was converted to Orthodox not long ago." Only then did I understand what I couldn't understand on his face before: the thick lips, the way the right corner of the mouth and the right eyebrow were raised when he spoke, and the unique shine in the eyes that only Jews have.I also understood what was going on with his peculiar accent. . . . I also learned from later conversations that his name was Alexander Ivanitch, formerly Isaac.He was from the Mogilev Province, and had come from Novochirkask to the Holy Mountain.He was converted to Orthodoxy in Novochirkassk. After eating the sausage, Alexander Ivanitch got up, raised his right eyebrow, and prayed to the idol.Later, when he sat down on the napping couch and briefly narrated his long experience to me, his eyebrows were still raised like that. "I've loved reading since I was little," he began, sounding less like talking about himself than about a dead great man. "My parents were poor Jews who ran a small business, you know, and lived like beggars, filthy. Generally speaking, people there are poor and superstitious, and they don't like to study, because education, very Naturally, keep people away from religion....They are fanatical believers....My parents would never let me be educated, hope that I also do business, and don't read anything except "Talmud".... …You will agree, though, that not everyone can spend their whole lives struggling over a morsel of bread, rolling in the rubbish, and repeating the Talmud. Sometimes some officers and landowners visited my father to the tavern, and told a lot of things that I hadn't even dreamed of at the time. Well, of course, those things are alluring, and make people full of envy. I cried and asked to be sent to school, but They taught me only the Jewish script and nothing else. Once I found a Russian newspaper and brought it home with the intention of making a kite. I don’t know Russian. Of course, this kind of fanaticism is inevitable, because every nation instinctively loves its own national identity, but at that time I didn’t understand this truth, so I was quite angry.  …” Formerly Issa When K had finished his polite remark, he raised his right eyebrow even higher in delight, and squinted at me like a rooster looks at a grain of corn, as if he wanted to say, "Now you've got to believe me. Is he a learned man?" He also spoke of religious fanaticism, of his irresistible thirst for knowledge, and then added: "What can I do? I made up my mind and ran to Smolensk. There I had a cousin." Brother, I do tin work and make tin boxes. Of course, I was apprenticed to him because I couldn't make a living, I was barefoot, and my clothes were in rags. . . I read in the evenings and on Saturdays. That's what I did, but the police found that I didn't have an ID, and they sent me home to my father. . . . " Aleksandr Ivanitch sighed, shrugging his shoulders. tone. "What is to be done!" he went on, and the more vividly the past resurfaced in his mind, the stronger his Jewish accent became. "My parents punished me and handed me over to my grandfather. He was an old Jew and a fanatic. But I fled at night to Shklov. In Shklov, my My uncle caught me; I fled again to Mogilev, stayed there two days, and went to Starodub with a companion." Later the speaker mentioned in his recollections the cities of Gomel, Kyiv, Whitechapel, Uman, Balta, Bingeri, and finally he came to Odessa. "In Odessa, I wandered for a week, couldn't get a job, was starving, and then some Jews who walked around the city buying old clothes took me in. By then I could already read, write, and count , know how to calculate grades, want to go to some school to study, but have no money. What to do! I walked around Odessa city for half a year, buying old clothes, but those Jews, those crooks, didn’t pay me wages, I In a fit of anger, I left. Then I went to Perekop by ship." "Why go there?" "So it went. A Greek promised me a job there. In a word, I wandered like this until I was sixteen, without a permanent job or roots, and then I came to Poltava. A Jewish college student there heard that I wanted to study, so he wrote me a letter and asked me to give it to a college student in Kharkov. Of course, I went to Kharkov. The college students there discussed For a while, started helping me with my exams so I could get into technical school. You know, I have to tell you, those college students I met were so nice, I'll never forget them until I die. Not to mention they feed me, I lived, and they led me on the right path, taught me to think, and pointed me to the purpose of life. Some of them were brilliant and brilliant, and are now famous. For example, you have heard of Grumacher?" "I haven't heard of it." "You haven't heard of it. . . . He published some insightful articles in the Kharkov newspaper and was about to become a professor. Well, I was reading a lot at the time, and I was in student circles, in that You can't hear vulgar words in the group. I prepared for half a year, but I had to learn all the mathematics courses in the middle school when I applied for the technical school. Grumacher advised me to change to the veterinary school because the students in the sixth grade of the middle school can Enrolled in that school. Of course, I started to prepare. I didn't want to be a veterinarian, but they told me that after the veterinary school, I could go to the third year of the medical department of the university without an exam. I read all the works of Querner , have read Corneli Nebaut ⑤, and alivreouvert ⑥ has read almost all of Curtius ⑦ in Greek. But you know, come and go, ... the students are leaving one after another, we At the same time, I heard that my mother was coming, looking for me all over Kharkov. So I simply left. What should I do? Fortunately, I heard that there is a mining school. So why not apply for this school?You see, the students in the mining school are entitled to work as overseers, which is a very good position, and I know some mine overseers who make fifteen thousand a year.very good. ...and I passed the exam. " Alexander Ivanitch, with a solemn and awed face, enumerated some twenty or so abstruse subjects taught in the mining school, described the conditions at the school, the construction of the mine, and the condition of the workers. ... Then he told a terrible story, which seemed fabricated, but I couldn't believe it, because the narrator was very sincere, and the horror was very real on his Jewish face. "When I was in practice, something happened one day," he said, raising two eyebrows. "I was in a mine in the Donets district at the time. You must have seen how people go down a mine. You remember, when a man whipped a horse, the gates moved, and one bucket was lowered down the shaft on a pulley, and the other The buckets go up, and when the first one comes up, the second one goes down, exactly like the two buckets of the well. Well, once I was in the bucket, and I was going down, but guess what, I heard: Bang! The chain was broken, so I flew to the devil with the bucket and the broken piece of chain. . . . I fell from a height of three yards, with my chest and belly down. heavy, fell to the ground before me, and this shoulder of mine just hit the side of it. You know, I lay there terrified, thinking that I must have fallen to my death, but suddenly I saw a new disaster coming: it turned out that another The raised bucket lost its balanced weight, and fell straight towards me with a clatter.... What can I do? When I saw this, I pressed myself against the wall, huddled up, and waited for the bucket to take on full power at once It hit me on the head with a bang, and I thought of my parents, of Mogilev Province, of Grumacher, . . . I prayed to God, but fortunately . Alexander Ivanitch smiled forcedly, and wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Fortunately, it fell beside me, and only lightly touched this side of my body.... Half of my clothes, shirt, and skin were torn...the force was frightening. Then I passed out. They They lifted me up and sent me to the hospital. I stayed in the hospital for four months, and the doctor said I would get tuberculosis. Now I keep coughing, have chest pains, and my nerves are very abnormal.... Whenever I stay in the room alone I was always terrified. Of course, with my body like this, I couldn't be a foreman. I had to leave the mining school. . . . " "So what do you do now?" I asked. "I have already taken the examination for a village teacher and passed it. Now that I have rejoined the Orthodox Church, I have the right to be a teacher. In Novochirkassk, where I was baptized, people took great care of me and promised to teach me in the parish school. I'll take a seat. I'll be there in a fortnight, and I'll take care of them." Alexander Ivanitch took off his overcoat, and wore only a shirt with a Russian embroidered collar, and a knitted belt. "It's time to go to bed now," he said, putting his coat on the head of the bed and yawning. "You know, I didn't believe in God until recently. I was originally an atheist. As I was lying in the hospital, I thought about religion and started thinking about it. It seems to me that there is only one religion that a thinking man can have, and that is Christianity. If you don't believe in Christ, you have nothing else to believe in. . . . Isn't it? Judaism is obsolete, and it exists only because of the peculiarities of the Jewish race. When civilization spreads among the Jews, Judaism will be There will be no trace left. You must have noticed that all the young Jews are atheists. The New Testament is the natural continuation of the Old Testament. Isn't it?" I wanted to know what had caused him to take such a serious and bold step to convert.However, he just repeatedly explained to me that "the New Testament is a natural continuation of the Old Testament". This sentence clearly came from someone else's mouth and was learned by him, which does not explain the problem at all.No matter how hard I try, how I try, I still don't know the reason at all.If he is to be believed, he did accept Orthodoxy out of faith, as he said, but what this faith is, what is its basis, cannot be understood from his words.Nor would it be possible to infer that his conversion was motivated by greed: he wore cheap old clothes, he lived on monastery bread, his prospects were uncertain, and this did not seem like greed. .Then one can only think of it this way: it was that restless spirit which he commonly called curiosity for knowledge which impelled my roommate to convert, and it was this spirit which made him resemble a splinter of wood. Throwing him from city to city like that made him wander. Before I lay down to sleep, I went out into the hall to drink water.When I came back, my roommate was standing in the middle of the room, looking at me in horror.His face was pale, and sweat glistened on his brow. "I'm having a big neurotic attack again," he muttered, smiling sickly. "It's terrible! I've had a major derangement. It's all right, though." He started by talking about the "New Testament" as a natural continuation of the "Old Testament", and Judaism is outdated.He chose a sentence carefully, as if trying to muster all the force of his faith, with which to overwhelm the restlessness of his soul, and to show himself that he had done nothing particularly terrible by throwing away the religion of his ancestors, A man of thought, a breaker of ideas, acts, so he can be as bold as he can be alone in the room and confront his conscience.He is convincing himself, and begging me with his eyes. ... At this moment, a large and ugly candle formed on the oil candle.It was daylight.The dim little window turned blue, and from there one could clearly see the banks of the Donets and the oak forest on the other side.It's time to sleep. "It'll be fun here tomorrow," said my roommate, after I'd put out the candle and lay down. "After early mass, the procession will go by boat from the monastery to the hermitage." He raised his right eyebrow, tilted his head, and after praying facing the idol, he lay down on his little couch without taking off his clothes. "Oh, yes," he said, turning over. "What 'right'?" I asked. "My mother was looking for me in Rostov when I was orthodox in Novochirkassk. She thought I was going to convert." He sighed and went on: "I haven't been to Moji for six years. Leave out Lev. My sister is probably married already." He was silent for a moment, saw that I was still asleep, and began to whisper: Thank God, he will be given a job soon, and he will finally have a home of his own, a stable position, and a reliable daily ration. . ... As for me, I thought sleepily, this person will never have a home of his own, a stable position, and a solid ration.He narrated his fantasies, and spoke of the teaching profession as a paradise. Like most people, he held a prejudice against vagrancy, thinking that it was a strange, abnormal, unexpected thing, just like a disease, and he always wanted to live the daily life of ordinary people, thinking that in this way he could be saved.From his tone, it could be heard that he felt that he was abnormal and felt sorry.He seemed to be justifying and apologizing for himself. Not a foot from me lay a tramp.In the rooms next to ours, in the yard, by the carts, among the pilgrims, there were always hundreds of such wanderers waiting for the morning, and, farther afield, if one could imagine all of Russia , How many tumbleweeds will there be at this time, in order to find a better life, walk along the roads and country roads, or doze off in hotels, small hotels, hotels, or on the grass under the open air, Wait for the dawn. ... As I fell asleep, I thought to myself how surprised people would be if they could find reasons and words to prove to them that their life, like every other life, needs no justification. May be happy. In my sleep, I heard the sad bell ringing outside the door, as if she was crying sad tears.The novice shouted several times: "Son of God, Lord Jesus Christ, forgive us! Come to Mass!" When I woke up, my roommate was no longer in the room.The sun is shining, and there are loud voices outside the window.I went out knowing that Mass was over and the procession had already left for the hermitage.People wandered along the shore in groups, feeling idle and having nothing to do, not knowing what to do.At this time they were not allowed to eat or drink, because in the hermitage, evening mass had not yet ended.The small shop in the monastery, where pilgrims used to flock to inquire about the prices of various things, was still closed at this time.Many, tired though bored, wandered off to the hermitage.I also took a path, which led from the monastery to the hermitage, winding like a snake, climbing a high and steep bank, winding among the oaks and pines, and sometimes going uphill, Sometimes downhill.Below, the Donets River glistens, the sun is reflected in the water, and above it is a steep, chalky bank with a verdant green of oak and pine.The trees, one after the other, hung upside down on the slope, and somehow grew almost on the cliff without falling off.Pilgrims follow the path, one after the other.The largest number were Ukrainians from neighboring counties, but many also came from afar, on foot from Kursk and Orel provinces.In this motley rank there were also the Greek landowners of Mariupol, strong, sedate, genial people, very different from their degenerate and emaciated countrymen who populate our southern coastal towns.There were also Donets with red strips on their trousers, Tauridas, and immigrants from Taurida province.There are many pilgrims here who are unknown, like Alexander Ivanitch, who they are and where they come from, it is impossible to recognize them from their faces, their clothes, or their words. of. The path ends at a small wooden pier.From here, to the left, there is a narrow gravel path that leads through a hill to the hermitage.Beside the wooden pier stood two heavy wooden boats, sombre, like the New Zealand canoes in Jules Verne's book.One wooden boat had long rows of seats, covered with carpets, for priests and singers, and the other, without carpets, was for ordinary people.As the procession returned to the abbey by boat, I found myself among the lucky ones who narrowly squeezed into the second boat.There were so many people on this boat that the boat could barely move, and many people had to stand motionless along the way, and they had to protect their hats so as not to be crushed.The scenery on the road is beautiful.On one side the bank was high and steep, with white rocks and overhanging oaks and pines, and people hurried back along the path.On the other bank, the slope is not steep, and there are green pastures and oak forests.Both banks were immersed in the sun, showing a happy and optimistic atmosphere, as if it was thanks to them that this May morning was so beautiful.The reflection of the sun trembled in the rapids of the Donets and spread out in all directions.The long rays of the sun danced erratically on the priest's cassock, on the banner of the god, and on the water splashed by the oars.The singing of the Easter hymns, the splashing of oars, the chirping of birds, all the sounds merged into one harmonious and gentle music in the air.The wooden boat carrying priests and banners went ahead.Standing at the stern of the boat was a novice dressed in black, as stable and motionless as a statue. Only when the procession approached the monastery did I realize that Alexander Ivanitch was among them.He stood in front of the group, his mouth parted in delight, his right eyebrow raised, and he looked at the procession.His face was beaming, probably at such a time, with so many people around and the sky so clear, he was satisfied with himself, with his new faith, with his conscience. After a while, we sat in the room drinking tea, and his face was still beaming with joy.His face showed that he was satisfied with both tea and me, and he respected my upbringing very much, and if he talked about any intellectual problems, he could handle them himself without losing face. ... "Tell me, what psychology books should I read?" He talked politely, wrinkling his nose. "But why do you want to read such a book?" "You can't be a teacher without knowledge of psychology. Before I can teach elementary school students, I must first understand their hearts." I told him that reading psychology books is not enough to understand children's minds, and that psychology is a luxury for a teacher who is not yet familiar with the teaching methods of Chinese and arithmetic, just like higher education. Math is just as redundant.He readily assented to my words, and then he spoke of the arduous and onerous job of a teacher, to root out the inclinations of children to be wicked and superstitious, to make them think independently and uprightly, and to instill in them ideas of true religion, individuality, and liberty. How difficult it is to get into their heads.To these words, I answered a few words.He agreed again.In any case he was more than happy to agree with me.Apparently, those many "literary questions" hadn't yet taken firm root in his mind. Before I left, we walked together around the monastery, killing the long hot day.He never takes a step away from me.Whether it was because he was attached to me, or because he was afraid of being alone, God only knows!The hillside is dotted with many small gardens, and I remember we walked into one of them and sat side by side under the yellow acacia bushes. "I'm leaving here in two weeks," he said. "It's time to go too!" "Are you walking?" "From here to Slavyansk, it's a walk, and then take a train to Nikitovka. There is a branch of the Donets Railway that starts from Nikitovka. I will follow this branch Walk to the city of Hatzepitopka, and then a well-known train conductor will take me on the train and go forward.” I thought of the bare and desolate steppe between Nikitovka and Khacepitopka, and I imagined how Alexander Ivanitch walked through it, with doubts, nostalgia for his homeland, Fear of being alone. ... He saw in my face that I was bored, and he sighed. "My sister is probably married," he said, but he shook off these melancholy thoughts at once, and pointed to the top of the rock, "from which you can see the city of Igyum." I walked up the hill with him, but he suffered a small mishap: he stumbled and tore his striped trousers and knocked off the heel of a shoe. "Tsk..." he said, frowning, and took off his leather shoes, revealing his bare feet without socks. "Damn. . . . You know, it's a nuisance . . . for real!" He held the shoe up to his eyes and turned it around, as if in disbelief that the heel was completely ruined.He frowned for a long time, sighed unceasingly, and tapped his lips.In my suitcase I have an old pair of half-high loafers, however fashionable, with pointed toes and straps.I brought these shoes just in case, and I only wear them when it rains.I went back to the room and thought of a very euphemistic sentence, giving him those shoes.He took it and said solemnly: "I should have thanked you, but I know you think thanking is a cliché." He looked at the pointed toes and straps of men's half-high leather shoes, and liked them like a child.He even changed his original plan. "Now I'm not going to go to Novochirkassk in two weeks, but I'll be leaving in one week," he said, voicing his thoughts. "With a pair of leather shoes like this, I won't be embarrassed to meet my godfather. To be honest, I didn't leave here because I didn't have decent clothes. . . . " When the coachman took out my suitcase, I A well-proportioned novice monk with a sneer on his face came in and wanted to clean the room.Alexander Ivanitch, flustered for no reason, asked him timidly, with embarrassment: "Should I still live here, or should I go somewhere else?" He couldn't make up his mind to occupy a whole room by himself, obviously ashamed to live on the Abbey's food any longer.He was very reluctant to break up with me.In order to delay the arrival of loneliness as long as possible, he asked me to allow him to give me a ride. From the monastery there was a road going up the chalky slope, which had been made with great difficulty.The road wound its way up through the roots of austere pine trees hanging upside down. ……先是顿涅茨河在眼前不见了，随后修道院的那个院子以及成千上万的人，再后那些绿色房顶，也都不见了。 ……我往上走去，于是样样东西都象是落进了深渊，消失了。大教堂上的十字架被落日的光辉照得火红，在深渊里闪闪发光，随后也不见了。剩下来的只有松树、橡树、白路。不过后来我的马车走到平坦的原野上，那些树木和道路也都留在下面和后面了。亚历山大·伊凡内奇跳下马车，忧郁地微笑着，用他那对孩子气的眼睛最后看了我一眼，走下坡去，就此离开我，再也见不到面了。 ……圣山的种种印象已经渐渐变成回忆，这时候我看见的都是新的东西。平坦的原野、淡紫色的远方、路旁的小树林、树林后面一个安着风车的磨坊，然而风车停着不动，好象因为这天是假日，人们不准它摇动翼片，它不免感到烦闷无聊似的。 "Notes" ①一些草本植物的总称，生长在草原和沙漠中，其茎折断，被风吹到草原各地。 ②俄国的一种清凉饮料。 ③犹太教口传律法集，为该教仅次于《圣经》的主要经典。 ④拉丁语教科书的作者。 ——Russian text editor's note ⑤柯尔涅里·涅波特（约前１００—约前２７），罗马历史学家，他的历史著作是学拉丁语的人的必读书。 ——Russian text editor's note ⑥法语：不必准备（一读就会）。 ⑦希腊语语法教科书的作者。 ——Russian text editor's note ⑧儒勒·凡尔纳（１８２８—１９０５），法国小说家，著有许多科学幻想冒险小说。