Chapter 16 "Anonymous Stories" XV

fifteen In Venice I had pleurisy.Probably in the evening when we were taking the boat from the train station to the Paul Hotel, I caught a cold.I had to lie in bed from the first day, and I lay in bed for about two weeks.During my illness, Zinaida Fyodorovna came to me every morning from her room, drank coffee with me, and then read to me French and Russian books, which we bought in Vienna. a lot of.Some of these books I have already read, some I am not interested in, but there is a lovely, kind voice next to me, so for me, the content of all these books actually converges into one point: I am not alone one person.She used to go out for a walk, and come back, in a pale gray dress and light straw hat, cheerful, warmed by the spring sun, sitting on the edge of my bed, bending her head close to my face, and telling about Venice, or read those books, and I feel better.

At night I feel cold, my chest hurts, and I feel stuffy, but during the day I'm intoxicated with life—I can't find a better word for it.The brightness of the open windows and balcony doors, the warmth of the sun, the shouts from below, the splash of oars, the tinkling of bells, the rumble of cannon at noon, a sense of total freedom, all in me Worked a miracle.It seemed to me that my sides sprouted broad, powerful wings and carried me God knows where.To think that there is now another man whose life goes parallel to mine, and that I am the servant, protector, friend, indispensable traveling companion of a young, beautiful, wealthy, frail, lonely, wronged man Wonderful, and how delightful it is sometimes!Even being sick is pleasant knowing that someone is looking forward to your recovery as if it were a holiday.Once I heard her whispering outside the door to my doctor, and then coming in to see me with tears in my eyes, which was an ominous sign, but I was touched and very relieved.

But then the doctor allowed me to walk around on the balcony.The sun and the breeze from the sea caressed my sick body softly.I watched below the yachts I had long known, drifting steadily and solemnly with feminine grace, as if they were living things, appreciating the splendor of this unique and fascinating culture.The air was filled with the smell of sea water.Someone was strumming the strings somewhere, and two people were singing.How good it is!How different it was from that Petersburg night when the wet snow fell and the faces were savagely beaten!If one looks straight across the canal, one can see the seashore, where the sun shines down on the vast sea where the water and the sky are connected, and the sun casts thousands of golden stars, shining so brightly that one's eyes hurt.My heart yearns for that side, for the kind and beautiful sea, where I dedicated my youth.I want to live!As long as you can live, you don't need anything else!

After two weeks, I was free and could go where I wanted. I like to sit in the sun and listen to the boatmen without being able to understand what they are saying, and look for hours at a little house where Desdemona is said to have lived.It was a simple, dreary, virginal little house, as light as crochet, as if it could be held up in one hand.I stood for a long time beside Canova's grave, looking intently at the sad lion.In the palace of the prince of the Venetian Republic in the Middle Ages, I used to go to the corner and look at the portrait of the unfortunate Marino Fariero painted in black ink.I thought, how good it would be to be a painter, poet, playwright; if I can't do it, then it would be good to indulge in mysticism!A sliver of faith would have been all I wanted besides the serene peace and contentment that filled my soul.

Every evening we eat oysters, drink wine, and take a boat trip.I remember that our black yacht stood still in one place, shaking slightly, and we could vaguely hear the gurgling sound of the running water under the yacht.Starlight and shore lights flickered and quivered here and there on the water.Not far from us, there is a yacht covered with colorful lights, the lights are reflected in the water, and some people are sitting on the yacht, singing.Guitars, violins, mandolins, and voices of men and women wafted through the darkness, and Zinaida Fyodorovna sat next to me pale, serious, almost stern, with a tight expression on her face. Lips, hold your hand tightly.She was thinking about something, she didn't even move her eyebrows, and she didn't listen to me.Her face, her posture, her blank, expressionless eyes, her extremely dim, terrible, and snow-cold memories, accompanied by the surrounding yachts, lights, music, and singing A powerful and enthusiastic cry in the middle: "Jia-mo! . . . Jia-mo!

. . . "What a contrast of life! Whenever she sits like this, with her hands clasped, motionless, sad, it always seems to me that we are both characters in an old-fashioned novel. Often called "unfortunate woman", "abandoned woman" and so on. Of the two of us, she is the unfortunate abandoned wife, and I am a loyal and sincere friend, a dreamer, or a superfluous person, a frustrated Man, who can do nothing but cough and dream, and perhaps sacrifice himself, ... But now who needs my sacrifice, what needs me to sacrifice? And what else do I have to sacrifice What about?

After wandering around in the evening, we drink tea and chat in her room every time.We were not afraid of touching old wounds that were not yet healed, on the contrary, I often told her about my life at the Orlovs' house, or openly mentioned their relationship, which I knew and could not hide from me. , When encountering this kind of situation, for some reason, I even feel very happy. "Sometimes I hate you," I said. "He plays with temper, despises you, tells lies, and it amazes me secretly that you don't see it, don't understand it, when it's so obvious. You kiss his hand, you kneel before him, you flatter him. . . . " "At that time I . . . kissed his hand and knelt before him because I loved him . . . ” she said, blushing.

"Is it so hard to spot him? What a Sphinx! This Sphinx is nothing more than a lowly servant of the court! I don't want to blame you at all, God help," I went on, feeling that I was a little rough, Lacks the tactful and considerate attitude that is so necessary when touching the soul of others.In the past, before I met her, I didn't realize that I had this shortcoming. "But why didn't you see it?" I repeated, but in a much softer and less assertive voice. "You mean to say you despise my past, and you're right," she said passionately. "You are a special kind of man who cannot be measured by ordinary yardsticks. You are morally extraordinarily strict, and I understand that you cannot forgive. I understand you, if Sometimes I say things that contradict you, but that doesn't mean I don't see things differently from you. I say old nonsense simply because I haven't had time to wear out my old clothes and get rid of my old prejudices That's all. I myself hate and despise my past, despise Orlov and my love. . . . What kind of love is that? It seems ridiculous now," she said, going to the window and looking down at the canal. "That kind of love can only blind one's conscience and confuse one's mind. There is only one meaning in life, and that is struggle. Step on the hideous snake's head with the heel of your shoe, and crush it with a snap! That's the meaning. There's only one. meaning, and nothing else."

I told her the long history of my past, my truly astonishing experiences.I did not say a word, however, about the change that had taken place in me.She listens to me very carefully every time, and rubs her hands when she hears something interesting, as if secretly regretting that she has not had the opportunity to experience such thrills, fears, and joys.But suddenly, she was silent in thought, and remembered her own thoughts.I could see from her face that she wasn't listening to me. I closed the window facing the canal and asked her if she wanted a fireplace. "No, don't give birth. I'm not cold," she said, with a slight smile. "I just feel weak all over. You know, I think I've gotten a lot wiser lately. I've got something unusual and unique now." Thoughts. For example, when I think about the past, about my life at that time, ... about people in general, all these things come together in my mind, and that is the image of my stepmother. She is a rough and shameless woman. , heartless, hypocritical, lascivious, and addicted to morphine. My father was weak and spineless, and out of greed he married my mother, who made her sick with consumption, but loved my second wife, my stepmother. Passionate, crazy in love.... I've had enough! Oh, what's the point of saying that! Well, I mean, everything fits into one image.... I'm really annoyed: why did my stepmother die? I want to see her now! . . . " "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know either..." she said, laughing and shaking her head coquettishly. "Good night. I wish you well. When you are well again we shall set about our work. . . . Now it is time to begin." When I took my leave and took hold of the doorknob, she asked: "What do you think? Does Polya still live with him?" "possible." I went back to my room.We lived like this for a month.One day at noon, the sky was gloomy, and the two of us stood by the window of my room, silently watching the dark clouds moving over from the sea, looking at the blue canal, anticipating that there would be a heavy rain soon.When the thin and dense rain covered the beach like gauze, the two of us suddenly felt bored.That same day we set off for Florence.

"Notes" ①The heroine in Shakespeare's tragedy "Othello". ② Italian sculptor at the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth century. ——Russian text editor's note ③The governor of Venice in the fourteenth century was executed for plotting to establish a democratic republic in Venice. ——Russian text editor's note ④ In Greek mythology, the Sphinx is a monster who asks passers-by to guess riddles, and if they fail to guess correctly, she kills them.