Chapter 14 Part Four 11-15

eleven Those disturbed reflections when I left home were filled with deep sorrow and tenderness, yearning for all that I had just parted from, pity for that which I left in Baturino to make it lonely and solitary.I even saw and felt that I was not there, saw my deserted room, which seemed to preserve in an almost pious silence what had ended forever—my past self.But in this melancholy there is great joy and happiness, for fantasies are at last realized, freedom won and aspirations determined, and activities and progress made (besides this is completely uncertain and very attractive). These feelings increase with each new station one reaches. Thus, when the past, the abandoned, has not finally given up, yet to go somewhere far away (to a lovely, but almost alien When I went to a place), when the current one that became more and more interesting and more and more obvious had not yet settled down, the original feelings had already faded. You see, I am now with many strange and I got a little acquainted with rude people, knew them all, began to have feelings for them as well as my own, and began to speculate about them, out of asmolov and The smell of Mahe tobacco distinguishes the bundle on a woman's lap from the box under a recruit's arm, which is painted with oak patterns and placed opposite me. I have now discovered that this carriage is quite new and clean, it was trimmed with yellow protruding slats, which warmed the walls of the carriage like a stove. The carriage was very haunted by the smoke of all kinds of tobacco. Tobacco is generally pungent and unpleasant, but this The smoke gives people a pleasant feeling that human beings live in harmony and are protected from the wind and snow outside the window. The telegraph wires outside the window are up and down, swimming endlessly. At this time, I really wanted to blow the snow outside, so I I staggered to the door... The cold air of ice and snow in the field blew to the aisle of the carriage. The surrounding area was covered with white, and now I could no longer distinguish any sleepy places. The snow was finally thinning out, and the sky began to brighten. It was even whiter. At this moment The train was approaching somewhere and was going to stop for a few minutes. It was a deserted little station, silent except for the impatient hissing of the locomotive ahead. But all—whether the temporary stop and the silence of the train, Whether it's the waiting of the hissing locomotive, whether it's the shielding of the station by the railing of the freight car parked on the track ahead of which the ice and snow have melted, and whether it's the hen walking in the middle of the railroad tracks as if at home. There is something profound and unfathomable about the pecking scene. The hen is somehow doomed to spend her life on this little station, and has no interest in where you are going, no matter why you are going or why you are going. With what fantasies and feelings, even though they contain infinitely sublime joys, and are concerned with things so seemingly trivial and common...  

Later, toward dusk, everything converged on one point: until the arrival of the first big station.But before I arrived at the station, I felt cold in the aisle long ago, and it was not until the unsatisfactory dusk fell that I finally saw the colorful lights in front of me, and saw the tracks, signal stations, and switches stretching in all directions. , the spare locomotive, and then the station and the dark, crowded platform... It's not hard to imagine how I rushed into a fragrant, bright little restaurant and started serving the most delicious dishes in the world. The soup is burning my mouth!

The result was rather unexpected: after dinner I sat by the dark window of the car with a cigarette.The carriage was rumbling again, and a large public candle was burning in the street lamp hanging in the corner.In the smoky gloom, I thought, strange however it was, was soon to be the destination of my journey, the Orel I could hardly imagine, but there was still something amazing about the place, that Just follow the station - according to the distance on the big map, north to Moscow, Petersburg, south to Kursk and Kharkov, and mainly to Sevastopol, here, it seems to be preserved forever Looking at the life of my father in his youth... I suddenly said to myself, am I really going to find a job at the "Voice" office now?Of course, there is also one thing that attracts me very much-there is an editorial office and a printing factory.But Kursk, Kharkov, Sevastopol... "No, it's all nonsense!" I said suddenly to myself. "I just stopped by Orel to find out. As soon as I heard the motions from everyone, I would say, I want to think about it, and I want to meet my brother... I came by the way, and I have to go forward. Kharkov!"

However, it seems that it is not even necessary to stop by.Things turned out better than I had imagined; as if I were being embarrassed, I was a little late at Orel, just as the train for Kharkov was coming from above.And this train, as if on purpose, was so beautiful that it opened my eyes.This is an express train, the locomotive is terribly big and made in America, and all the heavy and large carriages in the whole car are only first and second class. The cell is warm and comfortable, like a world of luxury, and I have felt utterly enchanting bliss in spending a night in such a world (and on a trip to the South at that)...

twelve In Kharkov I immediately encountered a whole new world for me. I am always extremely sensitive to light and air, to their slightest difference, this is one of my characteristics.The first thing that struck me in Kharkov was that the air was softer and the light was a little better than in our hometown.I stepped out of the station and got into a taxi for passengers.It seems that the coachmen here all drive double-set horses, both have loud bells, and they call each other "you" when they talk.I looked around and felt at once that everything was different from our side, everything was softer, brighter, even spring-like.There is also snow here, which is also a piece of white, but the whiteness is different. Although it is also dazzling, it makes people feel comfortable.There was no sun, but there was plenty of light, much more than there should have been in December anyway, and the warmth of the light among the clouds made everything hopeful.In this light and air, whether it is the smell of coal coming out of the station, or the face and voice of the coachman, whether it is the ringing of the bells of the double carriage, or the pasta and sunflower seeds, gray bread and fat sold in the station square The soft cries of women.Everything is milder.Outside the square, there are rows of towering poplars with bare branches, but they still have a special appearance in the south and Little Russia.On the streets of the city, the snow has melted...

And all this is nothing compared to what I saw later that day.It should be noted that I have never had so many new feelings and learned so many things in my life like that day.It often happens that on the first day you go to a certain place, you will encounter many adventures and have many impressions.I did the same that day. My brother was pleasantly surprised when he saw me. It seems that there is something new in my brother.He was a different person in Kharkov than he was in Baturino, and although we were very happy to meet, he seemed to be less cordial to me.How strange was his life in Kharkov!Even though he was a "college student who would never graduate" as his father said, his surname was Arsenyev after all.Where did I find him?In a narrow side street leading to the foot of a hill, in a stone-paved, dirty yard that smelled of coal and Jewish food, in a small room, here was the family of the wealthy tailor Bryumkin. The crowded house... To be honest, even though everything is very new here, I am still surprised.

"It's so nice of you to meet me on Sunday!" said my brother, after kissing me passionately. "But, really, why did you come?" he added at once, trying to speak with the always mocking tone he used so often at home. I replied that I didn't even know why... Of course, I wanted to have a serious discussion at the end, what should I really do?But my brother stopped listening. "Let's think it over!" he said without hesitation, and immediately urged me to wash and change, and go with him to lunch at a small restaurant run by a Polish Mr. Many of my colleagues always had lunch there too... Later we wandered the streets, talking about whatever came to our minds, which in this case was usually clueless.Meanwhile, deeply disturbed by my city clothes, my eyes wandered to these streets that I thought were very luxurious, to the scene around me: the afternoon sun was shining brightly everywhere, the snow was beginning to melt, Su The sky of Musky Avenue towers into the sky, and the white clouds are round, floating in the moist blue sky, and the sky is like a light smoke...

Mr. Lisowski's underground restaurant is very interesting.There were some good and cheap cold cuts on the counter, especially those hot-as-fire, very spicy puff pastry buns, which cost two kopeks apiece.When we sat down at a large separate table, a lot of people started coming up to sit with us.It seemed to me that these people were very strange, and the reason why I looked at them greedily was that they were very different, and they happened to be the characters that my brother had told me many times when he was still in Baturino.My brother hurriedly introduced me to them, and he seemed very happy, even a little proud.Before long, my head became dizzy: firstly, I was not used to such wonderful social occasions, and secondly, because this small underground restaurant was crowded with customers, and the windows of this restaurant were half exposed to the street, and the sunshine was as cheerful as spring. From the light coming in from above, all kinds of feet walking up and down the street can be clearly seen.I was also dizzy from the steaming bowl of borscht and the lively conversation going on at our table.They talked about things that I couldn't figure out, but were very interesting.They spoke of the famous statistician Annensky, whose name was always praised; they spoke of the governor of the Volga, who seemed to flog the starving peasants so that they would no longer dare to go around talking about himself. how I was starving; they also talked about the upcoming Pirogov Congress in Moscow, which is always considered a major event... It is not difficult to imagine how different I am at this lunch; Young and vigorous, full of vigor, with tanned skin like a countryman, strong body, honest personality, listening to people's speeches and reading things with great care and enthusiasm, and even thinking a little bit stupid!My brother is also different.He was a man of another world altogether compared with the others, although he was very close to them.He was younger than everyone else, and seemed a little naive; his appearance was more delicate, and he even spoke a different language.

————— ①The all-Russian Congress of Physicians is held regularly by the "Russian Physicians Memorial N. I. Pirogov Association". Before 1895, it was academic research, and later began to discuss social and political issues. I later learned that many in this group were very typical, both in appearance and in other respects.There are certain aspects of some people that I do not appreciate in my heart: there is one person who is tall and slender.Narrow-chested, very short-sighted, always arched back, often puts one hand in trouser pocket, crosses two legs strangely, and gently shakes the lower leg.The other was fair-haired, with a thin, sallow face, and it seemed to me that he talked too much, although he spoke with enthusiasm and motivation.He didn't look at the cigarettes, but kept dusting the ashes with the bony forefinger of the hand that held the cigarettes.Then there's the man with the sardonic smile who keeps rolling a dirty white bun around the tablecloth with his two fingers, which makes me particularly uncomfortable...but some of the others are very cute , such as the Polish Ganski, his eyes are deep and melancholy.Chapped lips.He kept smoking, puffing and puffing, and from time to time lit the cigarette that was still burning with trembling hands.The other was Krasnopolsky, a tall man with a beautiful mop of hair, like St. John.Then there was Leontovich the Bearded, who was older and more famous as a statistician than everyone else.He is gentle.Quiet, kind, sensible, and above all, he spoke in a pure Ukrainian chest voice, which sounded very pleasing to the ear, all of which immediately fascinated me.There was also a small, pointed-nosed man with spectacles, extremely inattentive, fanatical, always indignant at certain things, but he was so pure and sincere as a child that I fell in love with Leontovich immediately. he.I also like the statistician Wagin the most. I later learned that this person is a statistical addict. From his point of view, it seems that there is nothing in the world except statistics.He was tall and strong, with a mouth full of white teeth.He is a farmer with the appearance of a farmer. He is beautiful and happy. He often laughs loudly. His laughter is hearty and contagious. He speaks in a thick voice with no distinction between a and o...

————— ①One of the twelve disciples of Jesus. fourteen … Every morning, while my brother was at work, I was in the public library.Then I went for a walk on the street, thinking about what I had read, thinking about the people passing by, and I thought, probably, almost everyone of them has their own happiness and peace—everyone has their own work, and they all have a life in some way. Assure.Yet I was tormented by a vague and vain desire to write something, which I did not even know myself, having neither the courage to decide on it nor the ability to set about it, and always This was pushed into the indeterminate future, and to make matters worse, I couldn't live up to my poor, dreamy fantasy of buying a nice laptop.It seems that many things depend on this notebook, which makes it even more painful.Otherwise, the whole life will be changed, and it will become more vigorous and energetic, because no matter what, you can record it in this notebook!At that time, spring had come, and I had just finished reading the anthology of Ukrainian "Folk Songs" edited by Dragomanov, and I was completely fascinated by "Igor's Expedition", which I read by accident.I suddenly understood all the inexpressible beauty in it, and I was taken far away again, from Kharkov, to the Donets sung by Igor's singer, to the young princess Yeshi Rossini I went to the city wall where Ya stood, it was probably an early dawn in ancient times, to the Black Sea in the Cossack era, where there was a strange "white-eyed eagle" standing on the "white rock", and I went to my father. In my youth, to Sevastopol . . .

————— ① Mikhail Petrovich Dragmanov (1841-1895) was a Ukrainian bourgeois liberal, political commentator, historian, and folklorist. That's how I spent the morning, and then went to Mr. Lisovsky's—returned to reality, to the conversations and arguments I had grown accustomed to over meals.Later, my brother and I lay down to rest and chat in our small room.After lunch, a particularly strong smell of Judas meals rushed in through the crack of the door, mixed with a hot, savory lye.Then we do a little work—sometimes I get some statistical and comprehensive work from the agency.Then we went somewhere to visit acquaintances... I love being a guest at the Ganskis.He was a great musician and sometimes he would come and play for us for several evenings.He revealed to me a strange and sublime world, unknown to me until then, sweet and distressing, into which I entered with great excitement and joy at the first music This world, in order to immediately acquire with music the greatest illusion (the fantasy of a mysterious chance of being a supremely happy, omnipotent, omniscient being) that has only music and other poetic inspirations Only then will it be given!It is also surprising to look at Gansky himself, who was an extreme man in his own revolutionary spirit, although in this respect he showed little compared with others and was more reserved.He sat before the piano and played, with the usual ardent and tense passion, his lips blackened with excitement.The music is melodious and melodious, echoing rhythmically in the space, it is loud, elegant, steady, joyful, mysterious, magical and joyful at the same time, and then gradually becomes almost a terrible sound.I imagined a scene of incomprehensible misery, and I kept thinking: in this world of inexplicable joy and deceitful sublime, if Gansky squatted in a narrow four-room room, wearing a gray robe, His lips are burning red, his eyes are dull, and he must go mad if he wants to go on living without music... Ganski once said that when he was a child, he visited Mozart's house in Salzburg and saw his old baby piano with a glass case containing Mozart's skull next to it.I thought, "He's got this insight in his infancy! But what about me?" I felt such pain, so much pain that I could hardly sit still—suddenly wanted to run home at once, hurry up, sit Come down and write a long poem or a novel, write a marvelous work, become famous, become a famous writer, and go to Salzburg at once, and see for yourself this old baby piano and this skull... Among the many other fantasies I had long dreamed of, this one, which has haunted me ever since, finally came true after so many years.I saw Salzburg, but also skulls and old baby pianos.The keys are exactly the same color as the skull, and I always want to pay homage to them, to kiss them, to be close to them.And the skull itself doesn't seem real, it's very small, exactly like a child's... fifteen In early spring I arrived in Crimea. I got a free ticket.I went under someone else's name, pretending to be a railway employee... What a miserable youth I was! I was in one of the night postal trains, which was terribly long.I have never been in such a narrow and dirty car in my life.When the train arrived, it was already overloaded, but on the Kharkov platform, it was stopped by a large group of mobs who had just arrived.They were all looking for work in the South, with bags, knapsacks with bark shoes and foot wraps strapped to them, teapots, and foul-smelling food: russet grouper and hard-boiled eggs . . . Besides, it was getting late, and I was immediately faced with a sleepless night, followed by a long day, and then a new sleepless night... But I still had to go—in that far away place, I My father's youth awaited me. This fantasy of youth, I have had since childhood.This is a very long, sunny autumn.On this day, some things make people very sad, while others make people infinitely happy.This has something to do with my vague conception of the era of the Crimean War: multi-edged bunkers, raids, soldiers of the special era of "serfdom", and Uncle Nikolai Sergeevich's tomb in Malakhov killed in battle.Uncle Nicholas was a handsome colonel, a rich and distinguished man, who was always a legendary hero in our family.But in my imagination, the most important thing on this day is the deserted, shining hill near the sea.Between some stones on this hill grow some small white flowers like snowflakes.The only reason why I imagined the little white flowers growing here is, of course, because I heard my father say something like this when I was a child in winter: "In Crimea, we often only wear uniforms to approve flowers at this time!" But what do I see in reality? I remember that at dawn on the first day, I woke up in a narrow corner, and I had arrived at a station on the steppe, far away from Kharkov.The candles in the corner were dying, and the sun hadn't risen yet, but it was bright and pink.The red light illuminated the people lying in a mess. I was surprised to see this terrible scene, and immediately opened Fuyu.God, what a beautiful morning glow this is!The far east is burning with pink fire, the air is very fresh, and the sky is very clear, which can only be found on the grassland at dawn in early spring!In the silence, the invisible skylark sang heartily and sweetly in the air, welcoming the arrival of spring.To the left and right are the immobile walls of our train.Two steps away from us, in the endless steppe as smooth as a threshing floor, a huge ancient tomb stared at me... I still don't understand why it surprised me so much.It is different from everything else, both in its definite and soft outlines, and chiefly in what it conceals within its outlines.Its vast area can be said to be a rare stunner. In the eyes of outsiders who are alive today, it is so ancient, but at the same time it is so familiar and intimate, just like an ancestor's tomb. "Look, how people were buried in ancient times!" An old man said to me in the corner over there.He did not sleep alone, but sat bent over, smoking his pipe for amusement.His swollen, tearful eyes gleamed under his tattered cowhide hat, his face was wrinkled and ruddy, and his gray beard looked a little dirty. "In ancient times, people were buried like this to make future generations miss them!" He said affirmatively, "These are rich people." He was silent for a while, and added: "Perhaps the Tartars buried us like this? My dear, there are all kinds of people in the world, bad and good..." The dawn of the next day was even more amazing.I suddenly woke up at a station and saw a blissful fairyland.A white summer morning—it's totally summer here.A scene of flowers in full bloom, dewdrops crystal clear and fragrant, a small white station surrounded by roses, a steep cliff with lush trees, and the other side of the cliff is also covered with flowers and plants... When the locomotive is moving, I don't know why it is completely different from the past. It chirps loudly, both like joy and panic.When it went to a vast place again, some wild green hills suddenly appeared in front of me. Behind the hills were the dense grasslands, reaching to the horizon.The distance was filled with smog, a deep blue, almost black, it was still wet and confused, just emerging from the abyss of the damp, dark night.I suddenly knew this place, and I was very pleasantly surprised.I remember, this is it, I recognize it! Sevastopol seems to me almost a tropical city.How magnificent the station is, immersed in the warm, soft air!The rails in front of the station are scorching hot and shining!The sky was hot and pale, and even a little gray, but that said it was the South, rich and happy.The countryman's bags and small things we brought with us have all been wiped out along the way.Now, almost alone, I was the last to leave the train, and I was back to my real name.Tired and hungry, I staggered into the first-class waiting room.At noon, there are empty seats everywhere, the big dining room is exceptionally clean and quiet, the white tables, the vases and candlesticks on the tables are shining brightly (this is the world of some rich people, who have nothing to do or have something to take the special express train here!)… ... I can no longer be frugal like a beggar as I was along the way - I asked for coffee and bread.Although it was all brought to me, he squinted at me and glanced at me—I also looked suspicious.But it doesn't matter, I'm still me, I appreciate the silence, the cleanliness and the heat coming in from the window.I suddenly saw: at the gate facing the platform, there was a colorful thing like a guinea fowl walking into the restaurant suddenly, but very casually... From then on, I thought of the railway station in the south , always connect this colorful thing together. But where was the thing I seemed to be looking for?Sevastopol seems to have neither houses destroyed by artillery, nor quiet and deserted places - the days when my father and Nikolai Sergeyevich were here, their orderlies, food boxes, As well as the mansion provided by the government, there is no trace at all.The city has long since lost sight of them, it has been rebuilt, white, beautiful, and hot, the streets are full of spacious, white-capped carriages, Karaim and Greeks, and the streets are planted with southern The verdant acacia, the magnificent tobacco shop, a monument to Nakhimov with a hunchback erected on the square, and a stone step leading to Earl's Wharf nearby, the steps go straight into the turquoise water, and some armored ships are moored at sea.Only on the other side of the turquoise sea, there is one thing that belongs to my father-the so-called Northern Veterans Cemetery, and only there can I feel sad, feel the beauty of the past that has disappeared, and now this beauty is peaceful, eternal, even Seems to be my own, and it's been forgotten by everyone I keep going.I spent the night in a cheap hotel on the outskirts and left Sevastopol early in the morning.By noon, I had arrived in Balaklava.How strange is this bare, hilly world!There is an endless white road, with bare gray valleys ahead, and the hilltops near and far, like loaves, are equally bare and gray.One mountain top after another, forming a mass of lavender and light gray, dreaming its own hot and mysterious dreams, making one look exhausted... I sat down to rest among some great rocky valleys.In the distance, a Tartar shepherd boy stood with a long hook in his hand beside a large gray flock of sheep, which looked like a heap of pebbles.The shepherd boy chewed.I went up to him, saw him eating cheese and bread, and took out a twenty-copeck piece.He looked at me while chewing, shook his head, and handed me the whole bag that was slung over his shoulder.I took it, and he grinned mildly and happily, his dark-eyed face all lit up, his ears jutting out from under his round cap moved back... and on the white road, a Three sets of carriages passed by us, and the sound of horseshoes and bells kept ringing.On the carriage sat a Tatar coachman, and in the carriage was an old man with black brows and a linen cap, and beside him sat a girl, wrapped up all over, with a yellow and thin face, and black hair. Terrible eyes... indeed, I have seen her more than once, years later, on the marble cross on Yalta Hill, which was set among many other crosses, hidden among pines and roses, in the south Blown by the fresh sea breeze in the bright weather... I spent the night on the steps of an inn near the Baidar Gate.The watchman, knowing that I did not intend to hire horses, refused to let me into the house.Outside the city gates, in the dark abyss, the sea roared all night—a menacing force that bewildered and prematurely drowsy.Sometimes I go under the gate of the city, here is the edge of the land, it is pitch black, the thick fog is wrapped in a strong fragrance, and the waves bring a cool air.Now the noise was silent, now loud, like the noise of the wild woods... The night was vast, a blind and restless being, somehow greedy and miserable, hostile and irrational...