Chapter 18 Part Five 11-15

eleven Lent is here in the province.The coachman’s business was low, he had nothing to do, and stood on the corner of the street to suffer from the cold. Occasionally, an officer passing by would wave to him desperately, make the sign of the cross, and call out timidly: "My lord, do you want to take a fast car?" Jackdaw Nervously and excitedly calling, the premonition that spring is coming, but the crow's chatter is still blunt and ear-piercing. We parted at night, and it was all the more terrifying.I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't help feeling dreadful.How can I live now, and why should I live?Am I to lie, somehow, in the darkness of this meaningless night, in a provincial town inhabited by thousands of strangers, in this hotel room whose narrow windows are dark all night long? Like a lanky dumb gray monster!Now Avelova is the only dear friend of mine in the whole town.But is she really intimate with me?This intimacy is false and difficult...

Now I am a little late for the editorial office.As soon as Avilova saw me from the anteroom in the hall, she smiled at me happily.She became gentle and lovely again, and stopped laughing at me.Now I often see that she loves me unswervingly, always thinks about me, and cares about me.I often spend nights with her, she plays the piano for me for a long time, I half lie on the sofa and listen, intoxicated in the happiness of music, at the same time the pain of love and the tenderness of forgiveness are always pounding hard in my heart , Tears welled up in my eyes from time to time, I always closed my eyes to prevent the tears from flowing out.I kissed her strong little hand every time I walked into the reception room before I went to the editing room.The editorialist sat smoking a cigarette, a dull, brooding man exiled to Orel, under the watchful eye of the police.He had a rather strange appearance, with a beard like a commoner, wearing a coarse woolen coat with a pleat at the waist, and a pair of high leather boots, which were oiled and had a strong smell, but they smelled good.In addition, he is left-handed, because half of his right arm is gone, and the remaining half is hidden in his sleeve. He uses it to press the paper on the table and writes with his left hand.He sat there for a long time thinking about problems, smoking a cigarette.All of a sudden, he pressed the paper tightly, and began to write vigorously, with powerful movements, quick and agile, like a monkey.Then came a short-legged old man, a foreign critic, wearing a pair of amazing spectacles.He took off his rabbit fur jacket and Finnish hat with earflaps in the hall, leaving only a pair of small high boots, a pair of baggy trousers, and a flannel jacket with a belt around his waist. His body looked so small and so Weak and weak, it seems to be only ten years old.His thick mass of gray hair, which rose formidably in all directions, made him resemble a porcupine; his astonishing pair of spectacles looked formidable as well.When he goes to work, he always carries two boxes in his hand, one containing cigarette paper tubes and the other containing shredded tobacco, and he often rolls cigarettes while working; A pinch of light yellow shredded tobacco was stuffed into the openable brass tube in the cigarette rolling machine, he casually took out the paper tube, put the perch of the cigarette rolling machine on the soft shorts on the chest, then inserted the copper tube into the paper tube, and pressed , a cigarette flicked lightly onto the table.Then came the imposers and proofreaders.The make-up worker came in with a calm demeanor and an easy manner.He is very courteous, taciturn, and has a city in his chest.He was surprisingly thin, with black hair like a gipsy, an olive-green face, a small black mustache, and dead gray lips.His attire was always very neat, clean and new, black trousers, blue jacket with a large starched collar turned over.I sometimes talked to him in the printing shop, and then he would break his silence, stare at me calmly with his dark eyes, and talk like a wind-up chatterbox.His voice is not high, and he always tells the injustice of the world-the world is as black as a crow.The proofreader comes here often, often because he does not understand this or that, or he is not satisfied with the article he has proofread. Sometimes he asks the author to explain, and sometimes he asks for revision: "Please forgive me, the wording here is not appropriate." He is obese, Clumsy, with little curly hair.He always seemed a little wet; nervousness and phobias made him squirm, and everyone could see that this was caused by his excessive drinking.When he bent down for an explanation, he held his alcohol-smelling breath, and with a shiny, swollen hand he pointed at something he didn't understand or thought wrong from a distance, trembling.Sitting in this room, I am absent-mindedly revising other people's manuscripts, often looking out the window and wondering: what should I write, and how should I write it?

Now I secretly have another distress, a sad "unfulfilled" wish.At this time I resumed writing, mostly prose, and resumed publishing.But I don't think about what I write and publish.I was tormented by the desire to write not at all what I could and was writing, but what I could not write.What a rare bliss, and what an effort, to organize the material that life offers into something really worth writing about!And so my life began to turn more and more into a new struggle to conquer this "unattainable", to seek and capture another, equally elusive happiness, which I was obsessed with and dreamed of day and night.

The mail was delivered at noon, and I walked into the reception room, and I saw Avilova's carefully combed and beautiful head, which was always working at the desk, and saw all the things on her that I thought were lovely: her sandals under the table It glowed softly, and the fur shawl that hung around her shoulders also reflected the winter light.A gray winter day was reflected in the windows, with snow falling outside and the deep blue sky turning gray.I picked one of the latest Capital magazines out of the mail and couldn't wait to tear it apart... Chekhov's new short story!As soon as I saw this name, I skimmed it briefly, and couldn't wait to read the beginning carefully, because I had a premonition of enjoyment, and I was so envious.More and more people came and went in and out of the reception room, from advertisers to those who aspired to be home.Among them was a handsome old man, wearing a long fur scarf and a pair of fur gloves, and brought an open packet of cheap manuscript paper. The title on it was: "Songs and Ballads", written in the most polite way in the era of quill pens. written in style.There was also a shy, young officer with bright red cheeks who, when he wrote, made a brief, polite, and express request to read his manuscript from cover to cover, and to publish it with his real name under no circumstances. "If editorial practice permits, please use only the first letter." The officer was followed by an aging priest, sweating from excitement and wearing a fur coat, who wished to publish his work under the pseudonym SPectator. "Rural News".The priest was followed by an official from the county judiciary... The man was very neat, and in the hall he slowly took off his new overshoes, his new leather gloves, his new Khorkoff coat, his new fur top hat, and it was He is a rare skinny, tall, big-toothed and clean person.He took out a white handkerchief and wiped his mustache for about half an hour.I watched his every movement greedily with the keen eye of a writer:

"Well, well, look at how few teeth he has, and a big mustache... look at his bald forehead protruding like an apple, his eyes shining, the cheekbones with a flush like consumptive disease, the soles of his feet And the palms are fat and flat, and the nails are big and round, so he should be so clean, tidy, slow, and pay attention to his appearance!" ————— ① English: Bystander. Before breakfast, the nanny returned from a walk with the children.Avilova knelt down nimbly, took off the white sheepskin cap on the child's head, untied the blue coat lined with white sheepskin, and kissed the little red face; the child was thinking of other things, looked away indifferently, and let She undressed and let her kiss.I found myself envious of it all: the child's contented ignorance, Avelova's motherly happiness, the nanny's peace in her later years.I envy those who in life have something to do, something to worry about, who are not expecting, not inventing for the most fantastic enterprise of all human enterprises called writing; People who have simple, practical, and clear things to do, if they finish one thing today, they can live in peace of mind and leisurely until tomorrow.

After breakfast I go for a walk.In the city during the Lent Festival, the snowflakes are densely packed, falling down drowsily, extra soft and white, giving people the illusion that spring is coming.A coachman drove past me quietly on the snowy field, his expression was so carefree, he probably rushed to drink a few drinks somewhere just now, and now he is still thinking about his luck... It seems that this Isn't that common?But now everything hurts me, not even a fleeting impression.Immediately after the grief, a passion arose within me to make the impression disappear in vain, and a selfish desire to seize it at once, to keep it for myself, and to make something out of it.This passing coachman, his posture, expression, and movements—everything flashed clearly in my mind, and left traces very similar to what flashed by, tormenting my heart in vain for a long time!Further ahead is the gate of a wealthy family. A sedan-style carriage is parked beside the sidewalk. It is painted brightly. The body shines black through the white snowflakes. It was made of cream, and the wheels were sunk in the snow, which was topped with a fluffy fresh snow.As I walked, I looked at the back of the coachman. He had broad shoulders and a thick body. He sat high on the driver's platform, tied his belt under his armpit like a child, and wore a four-cornered velvet hat as thick as a cushion.Suddenly, I found a very cute puppy, lying on the back of the glass door of the carriage, shivering on the fine satin cushion, looking out the window suspiciously, as if about to open its mouth to speak.Its ears are exactly like bows.My heart was stung by lightning joy again: Ah, don't forget-a real bow!

I walked into the library by the way.This is one of the few old libraries with a rich collection of books, but it is deserted and desolate!The house is old, the huge front hall is empty, the stairs leading to the second floor are very gloomy, and the tattered felt on the door is tied with tape.The three halls are full of messy and tattered books from top to bottom. There is also a long counter and a sloping writing desk in the hall.The female administrator was short, flat-chested, and aloof.She was dressed in plain black, her hands were thin and pale, and her middle finger was stained with ink; there was also an unattended teenager at her beck and call, wearing gray overalls and soft mouse-gray hair that hadn't been trimmed for a long time It's time... I went to the "Reader's House". This room is round and full of gas smell. The unknown reader, a thin middle school student, wore a ragged and short overcoat, lowered his head, flipped through a large book in a low voice on purpose, and always used a handkerchief poked out to read it gently. Wipe your nose... who else would sit here but the two of us?Throughout the city we were all equally queer alone and read equally queer books.The middle school student was reading "Field Fu"①. For a middle school student, reading this kind of book is really strange.I asked the stewardess for "Northern Drone", "Moscow Courier", "Polar Star", "Northern Flower", Pushkin's "Contemporaries", and she looked at me many times in bewilderment... ...I have also picked up new books like "Celebrities", purely for the purpose of seeking something to boost my confidence, and comparing myself with famous people out of jealousy... "Celebrities!" How many poets and novelists are there in the world? , The number is innumerable, but how many of them will last forever?Homer, Horace②, Virgil③, Dante, Petrarch④... Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley, Goethe... Racine⑤, Molière⑥... always this book Don Quixote De, always that "Many Lesgo"⑦... I remember, in this room, I read the works of Radishchev⑧ for the first time, and I was so amazed. "I look around, and the suffering of mankind hurts my heart!"

————— ① Refers to the land tax in the ancient Rus era. ②Horace—Roman poet from 65 to 8 BC. ④Virgil—Roman poet from 70 to 19 BC. ⑤ Petrarch (1304-1374), Italian poet. ⑥ Racine (1639-1699), French classicist tragedy writer. ⑦ Molière (1622-1673), French comedy writer. ⑧ "Many Lescaux" is the work of the French writer Prevot (1697-1763). ⑨Alexander' Nikolaevich Radishev (1749-1802), the founder of Russian revolutionary literature. I walked out of the library in the twilight and walked along the darkened streets.Bells were ringing everywhere.I thought of myself, her, and my distant hometown, feeling infinitely sad and sad, and walked to a church.Here too, the courtyard is deserted, empty and dark, with only a few candles lit by the stars, and only a few old men and women.The deacon stood devoutly behind the candle cabinet, motionless, his gray hair parted in a straight line like a farmer's, and his eyes were as shrewd as a businessman's.The sexton trudged with weary feet, here and there to help the sloppy candles, and there to blow out the dying stumps, filling the room with the smell of burnt oil and wax.He put the stubs of the candle into his old fist and squeezed them into a ball.He was evidently weary of our incomprehensible earthly life, with its annual repetition of sacraments, baptisms, communions, weddings, funerals, all festivals, all fasts.The priest only wore a narrow-waisted long-sleeved gown, without a vestment, and his body was so thin that it was uncomfortable to see. He didn't wear a hat on his head, and his hair was loose. He seemed to be at home and like a woman; Standing at the gate of the altar, bowing deeply, the scarf on his chest hangs down to the ground.He sighed and raised his voice and said: "God, the Lord of my life..." The voice echoed in the bleak empty room in the gloom full of mournful and confessional atmosphere.I walked out of the teaching palm quietly, breathed the air of late winter and early spring again, and saw the blue-gray dusk again.A beggar bowed his head in front of me pretending to be obedient, and the thick ashes on his head appeared in front of my eyes.He stretched out his palm, which was bent into the shape of a small spoon, and when he had grasped a five-kopeck piece, he raised his eyes and looked at me, which surprised me: the eyes of an old drunkard, watery, turquoise, Strawberry-style big nose, that is a nose composed of three raised strawberries with many pores! ... Aha, this makes me sad again: a nose made of three strawberries!

I walked down Bollhofstrasse and looked at the darkening sky.There was an incomprehensible, comforting beauty in the silhouettes of old roofs reflected in the sky, which tormented me.Has anyone written about the subject of old roofs?The street lamps came on, warming the shop windows, moving black shadows appeared on the sidewalk, the dusk turned blue like a sunscreen, and the city became soft and comfortable... I followed like a detective Pedestrians one by one, staring at their backs, their overshoes, trying to understand and capture what is in them, trying to go deep into their hearts... Write!You should write about roofs, overshoes, and backs, not for "struggling against tyranny and violence, defending the oppressed and impoverished people, creating vivid models, and depicting a huge picture of society, the era, its emotions and thoughts!" I quickened my pace and came to the Orlik River.Evening has turned into night, and the gas lamps on the bridge are on.There was a homeless man under the lamp, dressed as a cat, with his hands under his armpits, looking at me like a dog, trembling all over, and muttered blankly: "My lord!" He stood upright on the snow with bare feet, the soles of his feet were red from the cold, Wearing nothing but a ragged cotton shirt and pink shorts, his puffy lids were acne-prone, and his eyes were cloudy, as if covered with layers of ice.I seized on this impression as quickly as a thief, kept it in my mind, and gave him a ten-kopeck piece for it... Life is terrible!But is it really "scary"?Or maybe it's something else entirely, what's there to be "scary" about?The other day I gave five kopecks to a similar bum, and innocently exclaimed: "It's terrible you live like this!" You can't imagine how rude, hard, and vicious he responded to my stupid remark hoarsely shouted: "Nothing to fear, young man!" I walked across the bridge, and there was a pork shop on the ground floor of a building over there, with brightly lit windows filled with all kinds of enemas and hams, even You can barely see the interior of the day-lit store, where these things hang from top to bottom, too. "Social comparison!" I sarcastically said as I walked past the shiny windows, thinking I would deliberately provoke someone... On Moskva Street, I went into a coachman's teahouse and sat in a hot, crowded room, Observe those bright red faces, those red beards, the tray in front of me, the tray is rusty and peeling off, and there are two white teapots on it, with a wet rope tied to the lid and the handle... Is it to observe the daily life of the people ?You're wrong - just watch that tray, this wet rope!

twelve I sometimes go to the train station.It was dark outside the Arc de Triomphe, and the desolate night in other counties began.I have a picture of a small town I've never seen, that doesn't exist, that I imagined, but that I've literally spent my entire life in.I saw the wide snow-covered street, several black and dilapidated houses in the snow, and the red light in one of them... I happily repeated to myself: yes, yes, just write like this, just like this three Words: snow, broken house, magic lamp... nothing else! ——The cold wind in the field has already brought the roar of locomotives, the sound of exhaust steam, and the smell of coal, which gives people a sweet feeling, stirs people's hearts, and creates a longing for the distance and the vast world. emotion.A black carriage was speeding towards the front with passengers—could it be that the Moscow mail train had arrived?Indeed, the commissary was crowded, lively, brightly lit, smelling of kitchens and samovars; Tatar waiters flitted about, flapping the backs of their frock coats.Without exception, these people have bow legs, dark faces, broad cheekbones, horse eyes, round heads like cannonballs, and blue-gray hair cut short... A group of businessmen sat around a large table, eating horseradish Stir in cold sturgeon.These eunuchs wore fox fur coats, and they all had mother-in-law faces—broad, taut skin, saffron-coloured, slender eyes... The book booths at the station have always fascinated me, and I am like a hungry wolf Walk around it, leaning over to see the handwriting on the yellow and gray spine of the Suvorin edition.All this aroused my endless longing for travel and train rides, longings turned into sad thoughts, missing her, and the person who gave me unspeakable happiness during the journey, I hurried outside and sat down. The last sled flew back to town, to the editorial office.Pain in the heart and quickness of action are always so cleverly combined!I sat on the sled, ups and downs with the sled on the bumpy road, bumping up and down.I raised my head - it turned out to be a moonlit night, and the dark winter clouds were floating, and behind it was a pale face that appeared and disappeared, shining white light, flickering.It is so lofty and so indifferent to everything!The cloud moved, sometimes revealing it, sometimes covering it--it was always like that, indifferent!I threw my head back and stared at it until my neck ached.I'm trying to figure out what it's like when it suddenly emerges from behind a cloud and shines brightly.The white mask of the dead?What exactly does the light from within look like?Is it hard fat?Yes, yes, the light of stearin!I will say that no matter where I am in the future!I met Avelova in the lobby, and she exclaimed, "Oh, that's great! Come to the concert with me!" She was beautiful in a black dress with lace, shoulders, arms, The top curve of her breasts was exposed, making her appear smaller and slender.Her hair had been permed at the barbershop, and she had put on a little makeup, so her eyes looked brighter and darker.I helped her into the fur coat, trying not to suddenly kiss the naked body, the fragrant curls, they were so close to me... In the lobby of the "Noble Club" the chandelier illuminated the stage.The stage was filled with the stars of the capital: a beautiful female singer and a burly dark-haired male singer.The male singer, like all singers, was in amazing health and had the energy of a colt.His big feet were clad in shiny patent leather shoes, and his tuxedo was oddly fitted, revealing a white chest and white tie.He sang the provocative and majestic song with boldness, resoluteness and a bit aggressive momentum.The female singers met him at different times, either hastily answering his questions, or interrupting him with coquettish, plaintive, sad, carnival, happy and laughing tricks...

Thirteen I often get up before dawn.Looking at the watch, it was not yet seven o'clock.I really want to get into the hot bed and lie down for a while.The room was shrouded in a gray-white cold air, and the whole hostel was still asleep. In the silence, I heard a teahouse brushing clothes with a brush at the end of the corridor. The brush made a sound of bumping on the buttons, a sound that could only be heard in the early morning.I was overwhelmed with dread that another day was wasted, and a sense of urgency to get down to my desk and write as soon as possible!So I hurried to ring the bell, and the ding ding rang in the corridor for a long time.This inn, this dirty pantry where the brushes are being scrubbed, this crude tin wash-basin that shoots a stream of cold water obliquely in your face--how unaccustomed, how repulsive it all is!I only wore a thin pajamas, how pitifully thin I was in my young body!The window sill outside the glass window was covered with a layer of granular snow, and a pigeon was curled up on it, it was frozen!Suddenly, a happy and bold decision ignited my heart: I can’t postpone it any longer, just today, go back to Baturino, go back to my hometown, go back to my lovely hometown!I hurried through my tea and managed to arrange some books on the small table next to the wash-basin, next to the door of the next room, where lived a languid woman and her eight-year-old child.After this I was thrown back into the routine of the morning routine.Preparing for writing, nervously selecting the impressions accumulated in my mind, looking for something that seems to be certain in my heart to conceive... I am waiting for this moment, but I am already afraid that things will end like this again: I looked forward to it, and then my heart became more restless, my hands became more cold, and I fell into complete despair. Finally, I ran back to the city and the editorial department.My mind is a mess again, free-wheeling, disorganized, and grotesque thoughts, feelings, and imaginations torment me... Among them, self and personal considerations always dominate—is it true that no matter how hard I try to observe others, they always lead to Not interested in me?I thought: It’s nothing, maybe writing a novel really starts with the self?How to write it?Like "Childhood, Youth"?Or even simpler: "I was born in such and such a place, such and such a year..." But, God, how dry, how boring, and how unreal!To know that what I experience is not these at all!It sounds ashamed and embarrassing to say, but the fact is this: I was born in the universe, in the infinite time and space, a solar system seemed to be formed in the universe at some point, and then there appeared a solar system called the sun. Things, and later the earth...but what is this?What do I know about it but empty words?The earth began as a luminous mass of gas... After billions of years, this gas became a liquid, and then the liquid became a solid, and since then it seems that two million years later, single-celled organisms appeared on the earth : algae, flagellates...then invertebrates, molluscs...then amphibians...then amphibians followed by giant reptiles...then cave dwellers, who invented fire...and after that came what Rhodes, Assyria, and Egypt, who seem to know only pyramids plus mummies... and Artaxerxes, who ordered the Hellespont to be attacked...Pericles and Aspar Sea ⑤, Thermopylae ⑥, Marathon ⑦... But all these were preceded by a long period of legend, when Abraham ⑧ went to the Promised Land with his herds... "By faith Abraham was called When I was there, I went out as ordered, and went to the place where I wanted to get an occupation in the future. When I went out, I didn’t know where I was going⑨…” Yes, I don’t know!Me, too! "By faith, when called, he commanded to go out..." What do you believe?Believe in the bliss of God-given love. "When you go out, you don't know where you are going..." No, you know, to seek a kind of happiness, which is lovely, beautiful, and joyful, that is, the emotion of love, which is life... Knowing that I, too, always live by things that evoke love, joy... ————— ①An alias for the kingdom of slavery Babylon. ②An early slavery state formed in Mesopotamia at the end of the third millennium BC. ③Achaemenides of ancient Persia was the emperor. ④The ancient Greek name of the Dardanelles. ⑤ Pericles was the leader of the thriving period of slavery in Athens from about 490 to 429 BC, and Aspasia was his wife. ⑥The Battle of Thermopylae was a glorious deed of the ancient Greeks fighting for independence. ⑦ The first major battle of the Hippo-Persian War from 500 to 499 BC. ⑧According to the "Bible" legend is the ancestor of Europeans. ⑨ See "Bible? New Testament? Hebrews" Chapter 11, Section 8. Behind the door by the small table could be heard the voices of the woman and the child, the pedal under the washbasin sounded, and the water rushed out; when the tea was ready, the woman coaxed the child: "Koschenka, eat bread! "I stood up and paced up and down the room.It was the same Koschenka... Mother went out after giving him tea, and did not come back until noon.After returning home, I cooked on the kerosene stove, and went out again after feeding the children.This Koschenka had become the common boy of the tenants, and it was very tiresome to watch him wander about the room all day, looking now at one lodger and now at another.As long as there are people at home, he will go in, say something timidly, and sometimes try to please others, but no one listens to him, and some even drive him out, saying impatiently: "Hey, go, go." Don't get in your way here, little brother!" In one room lived a little old lady, very serious and respectable, who considered herself superior to all the other lodgers.She never looked anyone in the eye as she walked down the corridor.From time to time, even often, she went to the toilet, hung the door, and splashed the water in it.The lady had a big, broad-backed pug with a greasy crease in the neck, bulging, shining gooseberry eyes, a snub nose greedy, and a cock between two tusks. The toad-like tongue and raised chin exude an air of arrogance and disdain.Usually, it has only one expression on its face——except for single-minded tyranny, there is no other expression.However, it is violent to the extreme.If Koschenka had been kicked out of his room for any reason, and had met this pug in the hallway, one would have heard a hoarse, wheezing breath in his throat, which soon turned into an angry The rage, and finally the loud and ferocious barking, frightened Koschenka into crying hysterically... I sat down at the table again, tormented by the poverty of life, by the poignant complexity of everyday life.Now I'm going to write about Koscinka and things like that.Once, for example, a seamstress, an elderly petty bourgeois, came to stay for a week at the Nicolina's.She always cuts on the table, and the table is full of scraps of cloth, and then she spreads the cut fabrics on the sewing machine, rolling them up... It is worth noting that when she cuts, she has a big dry mouth, Keep your eyes on the scissors.Sitting by the samovar and drinking tea happily, she tried to find something to please Nigelina; she pretended to be interested in chatting with Nikolaina, and seemed to unconsciously stretch her thick working hand towards the rest of the room. Little baskets of slices of white bread, eyes on prismatic trays of jam!Or the crippled girl on crutches I met the other day on Kalachev Street.All cripples and hunchbacks are challenging and arrogant, but this girl is humble and gentle.She walked towards me with one foot high and one foot low, holding two black crutches tightly in both hands.When she limped forward, she straddled her body rhythmically on the crutches, her shoulders shrugged, and the small black village under her shoulders also trembled. Her eyes were fixed on me... Her fur coat was very Short, like a little girl's, dark chestnut eyes are intelligent, bright, clear, like a little girl.In fact, she has already understood life, the bitterness and mystery of life... some unfortunate people are beautiful and handsome, and their whole hearts can be seen from their faces and eyes! Then I was lost in thinking hard: where should I start writing about my life.Yes, where to start?Even if we don’t talk about the universe in which I was born in a certain moment, I still have to talk about Russia first, so that readers can understand what kind of country I belong to, and what kind of life opportunity brought me into this world.But what do I know about it?The national life of the Slavs, the wars of the Slavs tribes... The Slavs are characterized by tall stature, flaxen hair, bravery, hospitality, worship of the sun god, thunder god and electric god, respecting tree spirits, mermaids, water demons and other "natural forces and Natural phenomena"...what else?A foreigner was called to serve as the Grand Duke, the imperial city sent envoys to the Grand Duke Vladimir, Thor was thrown into the Dnieper River, the whole people wept... Yaroslav the Wise, his sons and grandsons killed each other... and Voucher Volod? Big Wo ②... Besides, I don't know anything about today's Russia!Yes, bankrupt landowners, starving peasants, magistrates, gendarmes, policemen, country priests must be rich and burdened according to the writer's description... What else is there?Orel is one of the oldest towns in Russia, at least one should know about its life, its inhabitants, and what do I know?Streets, cabs, rolled snow, shops, signs, or signs, signs... bishops, prefects... giants, handsome men and beastly sheriff Rashevsky... and Palizin , he is the glory of Orel, one of the pillars of Orel, one of the eccentrics who have been famous in Russia since ancient times.The old man was a hereditary nobleman, a friend of Aksakov and Leskov, and lived in a mansion like a palace in ancient Rus, with walls made of huge logs and hung with rare Ancient icons.He wears a wide double-breasted robe, trimmed with various kinds of fine sheepskin, his hair is trimmed into circles and hangs down, his face is expressionless, his eyes are small, he is very sharp, witty, and knowledgeable. It is said that it is strange... about this Palizine. know what?Nothing left! ————— ①The Grand Duke of Kyiv from 1019 to 1054. ② Since 1176, he has been the Grand Duke of Vladimir and Rostov Suzdal. ③ Fedor Fedorovich Palizin (1851-1923), General of the Imperial Russian Infantry, participated in the Low Earth War and the First World War, and served as the representative of the Russian Army in Paris in 1915. ④ Sergei Mofeyevich Aksakov (1791-1859), a Russian writer. But that's what annoys me: why do I have to know something and someone in detail instead of writing about what I know and feel?I got up again and paced up and down the room.I rejoiced in my exasperation, and seized it as a saviour... Then I saw in my imagination the Svyatogor Monastery, where I had been last spring, on the banks of the Donets Near a courtyard wall, there are camps full of pilgrims of various ethnic groups.I followed a novice around the courtyard, begging him to arrange for me to spend the night somewhere, but in vain, he shrugged his shoulders and ran away, with his hands, feet, hair, and long arms. The hem is all flying.他腰身细软，稚气的脸上布满雀斑，绿眼睛露出惊恐的神色，浅金黄色头发纤细松软，每一根都丝一般的打着卷，极为漂亮……接着看到了那个春天，我似乎在德聂伯河上无休止地航行……后来草原上曙光初露……我似乎从车厢硬席上醒来，硬梆梆的板凳和早晨的寒气弄得我浑身僵硬；玻璃窗上蒙上了一层白色雾气，我往外面看，什么也看不见，简直不知道火车开到了什么地方！正是这一无所知的感觉使我心醉神迷……清晨感觉敏锐，我一骨碌爬起来，打开窗户，胳膊肘支在上面；只是外面是白色的清晨、白色的密密的雾霭，可以闻得到春晨的气息、雾的气息，因火车在飞快奔驰，好象有一床湿漉漉的白被单拍打在手上、脸上…… fourteen 有一天，我不知为什么睡过了头。醒来之后，我依旧躺在床上，望着对面的窗户，望着冬日平静的白色的光辉，头脑和心灵感到少有的宁静、少有的清醒，觉得周围一切都有些渺小、平常。我这样躺了很久，觉得这房间失去了重量，不知要比我小多少，同我毫不相干了。后来，我起了床，洗脸、穿衣之后，照常对着我那张简陋的铁床床头上方的小圣像画个十宇。不管怎么令人惊讶，这幅圣像至今还挂在我的卧室里。这是一块光滑的深橄榄色小木板，日久天长，已经硬化，板上镶着粗糙的银质圣像衣饰，凸起的地方是坐在亚伯拉罕的餐桌旁的三位天使，他们在圆框中望着外面，被烤成褐色的面容具有东方人的粗犷。这是我母亲家族的遗物，是母亲在我走上人生道路时给我的祝福。以后我结束了童年、少年和青年初期类似僧侣般的生活而走向全世。我的尘世生活的蒙昧、隐秘时期，如今看起来是十分特殊的、珍贵的、奇幻的、悠久的时期。它已变成一种独特的、甚至我自己也觉得陌生的生活……对着圣像画过十字以后，我就出门买东西，东西是我躺着想好了的。一路上我回忆起梦境：谢肉节的晚上，我又住在罗斯托夫采夫家，跟父亲一起看马戏。圆形演技场上一共跑出来六匹黑色的波尼马①……它们都配有漂亮的带铃铛的小铜鞍子，嚼子上得严严实实，笼头上的红绒缰绳紧紧地勒在鞍子上，紧得它们粗短的脖子都弯拱起来，马的鬃毛剪得齐齐整整，象黑刷子一般竖着，额鬃间翘着红色的饰缨……它们一样的毛色，一样的个头，一样宽的侧身，一样短的腿，都在赌狠地、执拗地垂下黑色的头，排着整齐的一行，用碎步跑起来，小铃儿叮叮当当摇晃着。它们跑出来以后，猛然停住，咬着嚼环，并且抖动头上的饰缨……穿燕尾服的驯马师喊了半天，鞭子甩了半天，最后才强使它们跪下来，向观众点头致敬。紧接着突然响起一阵欢快、急速的音乐，好象快马奔腾跳跃，追击似地撵着它们顺着演技场的圆圈鱼贯跑过……我走进一家文具店，买了一本厚厚的黑漆布面的笔记本。回家后，喝茶时我想：“算了吧，我就读读书，间或写写东西，不抱任何奢望，简略记点什么——各种思想、感受、见闻……”于是我蘸了蘸墨水，用笔工整地写上； ————— ①波尼马——指八○至一四○厘米高的矮马。 “阿列克谢?阿尔谢尼耶夫。笔记。” 我坐着思考了好久，写什么呢？我一个劲地抽烟，整个房间烟雾腾腾，但是不感到苦恼，只是有些优郁，内心是平静的。最后我写道： “H公爵到编辑部来过，他是著名的托尔斯泰的信徒。他有一份关于图拉省饥民救济捐款和支出情况的报告，要求发表。他很胖，但不魁梧，穿一双高加索式样的软靴，戴一顶卡拉库尔羊皮帽，大衣领子也是卡拉库尔羊羔皮做的。这些穿戴虽然破旧，却很贵重，而且干干净净。灰色软上衣腰里系着皮带i显出圆滚滚的肚子，鼻子上架着金边的夹鼻眼镜。他待人谦逊，但他那端正优雅、油光水滑、白白净净的面孔和冷冰冰的眼睛使我极为不舒服，我立即对他产生恶感。当然，我不是托尔斯泰的信徒，但也完全不象人们所想象的那样。我希望生活和人都美好，能激起爱和欢乐的感情，我只憎恨有碍于爱和欢乐的东西。 “前几天我沿着博尔霍夫大街往上走，看到了一幅太阳西沉的景象：天寒地冻，西边天空渐渐清澈，一片青绿、透明、寒冷的天空映着明净的暮光，照着整个城市，勾起人们一种莫名其妙的惆怅和忧愁。人行道上站着一个衣衫褴褛、脸冻得青紫的老人。他是个流浪乐师，正拉着破旧的手摇风琴；那长笛般的哨声、颤音、沙哑声，那从哨声和沙哑声之中迸发出来的浪漫曲调，那样悠远，带着异国情调和古风，弥漫了这凛冽的黄昏，也使人内心充满忧伤——唤起种种梦想和怜借之情…… “我到处感到苦闷或恐惧。两星期前我看到的一件事至今还历历在目。也是个黄昏。只不过阴沉晦黯。我偶然走进一座不大的教堂，看见传道高台近旁离地板很近的黑暗处，摇曳着烛光。我走近一看，不禁呆若木鸡：三支小蜡烛粘在一口小棺材的前端，凄楚地微弱地照着四边围满纸花的粉红色小棺材，照着躺在里面的黑皮肤、凸前额的婴儿。要不是他的小脸现出瓷器一般的颜色，紧闭的凸眼皮呈雪青色，小嘴嘬成三角形，要不是这永恒的宁静和永世的孤独的气氛，他完全象是睡着了！ “我已写出并发表了两篇小说，不过全是虚构的，令人不快。一篇讲饥饿的农夫，我没有见过这些人，也谈不上怜悯他们；另一篇写的是地主破产这个过时的题材，内容也是臆造的。其实我想写的只是破产地主P的屋前那株高大的银白色杨树，再就是他书房柜子上的鹞鹰标本，它张开驳杂的褐色翅膀，一只闪闪发光的黄玻璃眼睛永远朝下望着，假使写破产，我也只想描写它诗意的一面，写那感伤动人的东西：贫瘠的土地，贫穷残败的庄园，花园，奴仆，马匹，猎狗以及把前房让给后辈而自己栖息后房的'老东家'。还要说说'少东家'：他们不学无术，游手好闲，不名一文，然而自视血统高贵，是高人一等的贵族阶层。贵族式这檐帽、斜领衬衫、灯笼裤、长统靴……聚到一块就是酗酒，抽烟，夸夸其谈，拿古老的装香槟酒的高脚杯喝伏特加，将空弹上进枪膛，狂笑着朝蜡烛开枪，把烛火射灭。这些'少东家'中有个姓口的，完全离开破落的庄园，搬到磨坊去和情妇一起住在小木房里，当然，磨坊早已停业了，这情妇几乎没有鼻子，他们睡在木板床上，铺着麦秸，或者睡'在花园里'，也就是木屋近旁的一棵苹果树下。苹果树枝上还挂着一块破镜子，镜子里映着白云。闲极无聊时，他就坐在树下，用石头去打鸭群，那是磨坊附近水湾里农夫放养的，每扔一块石头，鸭子就立刻嘎嘎直叫，喧闹着成群结队地扑到水中。 “瞎老头格拉西姆是我家的旧仆，跟所有的瞎子一样，走路时微微翘起脸，好象在倾听，凭一根棍子本能地摸索道路。他住在村头一间小破房子里，孤苦伶什，只有一只鹌鹑为伴。那鹌鹑在韧皮编的笼子里一个劲地扑腾，撞到麻布做的顶篷上，日复一日，头上的毛都秃了。格拉西姆虽说眼瞎，可到了夏季，总是一大清早到地里去捉鹌鹑，聆听它们抑扬顿挫的音调，暖风吹拂到瞎子脸上，鸟声随风飘进田野。格拉西姆说，鹌鹑离捕网愈近，叫声就一下比一下热烈，一下比一下响亮，一下比一下更让捕鸟人紧张，那种揪心的感觉比世上一切东西都美。他就是一个真正的、大公无私的诗人！” fifteen 我不愿到编辑部去吃早饭，于是来到莫斯科大街上，走进一家小酒馆。我喝了几杯伏特加，要了条鲜鱼下酒，我盯着盘里切成薄片的鱼头，心想：“这也值得记下来，鲱鱼有珠母色的腮。”接着我吃了一道沙锅炖的酸白菜焖鱼。酒馆里人客满座，低矮的餐厅里，飘散着薄饼和煎胡瓜鱼的气味和呛人的油烟。白衣跑堂弓着背，仰着后脑勺穿来穿去，象跳舞一般。体现了俄罗斯精神的老板，神气活现地站在柜台后面，斜着眼监视着每一个跑堂，既严厉又笃信上帝，这是他早已演惯了的角色。在小市民围坐的桌子中间，轻轻地走动着几个黑衣修女，她们穿着粗笨的带提靴环的靴子，身材矮小，象白嘴鸦一样。她们默默地向小市民们鞠躬，递上封面上饰有银边十字架的小黑书，小市民们蹙起眉头，从钱包里挑出几枚难看的戈比……这一切似乎是我的梦的继续，伏特加、酸白菜焖鱼和童年的回忆使我微微有些醉意了，泪水不由涌了上来……回到客栈后，我躺下就睡着了。醒来时已是薄暮时分，心情惆怅和懊悔。我对着镜梳了梳头，发现自己的头发太长，艺术家的风度太过分了，看着不舒服，就上理发馆去。理发店里坐着一个矮胖子，围着自罩布，脑袋亮光光的，一双兜风耳，活脱脱象只蝙蝠。理发师在他的上唇和两颊上涂上一层厚得出奇的肥皂泡沫，拿把刺刀灵巧地刮了又涂，涂了又刮。这一次是从下往上刮的，轻轻几下，就草率完事。蝙蝠叉开两腿，抬起半截身子，拉开罩布，弯下腰去，一只手按住胸部，另一只手洗那通红的脸。 “洒点花露水吗？”理发师问。 “要一点。”蝙蝠说。 于是理发师用喷子咝咝地喷了点花露水，又用一条毛巾轻轻地沾了沾蝙蝠的湿润的双颊。 “先生，请！”他揭掉罩布，话音清晰地说。蝙蝠便站起来了，那模样可真吓人：一双大耳伸在大大的脑袋上，面孔又大又瘦，象张红羊皮，刮过的脸上，眼睛发出婴孩一般的亮光，嘴一张，黑洞洞的。他身材矮小，宽肩膀，躯干短得象蜘蛛，而且腿又细，象鞑靼人那样弯着。他塞给理发师一点小费，穿上漂亮的黑大衣，戴上圆顶礼帽，点起一支雪茄，走了。理发师转过身来对我说： “您知道他是谁吗？是头号富商叶尔玛科夫。您知道他一向给多少小费吗？您瞧！” 他伸开手掌，开心地笑着说： “不多不少，两戈比！” 理完发，我又习惯性地上街溜达溜达。孤独和忧愁使我早已养成上教堂的习惯，一看见教堂的庭院，我就进去了。诵经台周围高高的烛台上，成束的蜡烛发出灼热的光，照得教堂里暖融融的，充溢着一种忧郁的节日气氛。台上放着一个铜十字架，十字架上镶着假宝石，神职人员站在台前，满含怜悯和悲伤之情唱道：“主啊，我们在你的十字架前礼拜……”暮色里，一位大个子老头儿站在门口，他穿一件长长的厚呢外衣，一双皮套鞋，身材粗壮结实，象一匹老马。他也跟着唱，似乎在教训什么人，声音低沉而严厉。诵经台旁的人群中站着一个香客，他面前的金黄色的烛光和煦地照着他。他长得象穴居人一样干瘦，清癯发黑的脸孔低垂着，严肃而冷静。又长又黑的头发一绺绺地象原始人、僧人和妇女那样耷拉在两颊上，几乎看不清他的模样。他左手紧握一根长木杖，日积月累，木杖被磨得光亮亮的。他背后背着个黑皮囊，独个站在一旁，一动也不动，和别人保持着距离。我看他，热泪盈眶，胸中升腾起无法抑制的对俄罗斯、对祖国、对她全部蒙昧的古代缅怀和感伤之情。有个人站在我后面，用蜡烛轻轻碰了碰我的肩膀下面，我转过脸一瞧：原来是个老太婆，她穿一件肥大的外衣，披一条大围巾，弓着身子在我背后，暴着一枚牙齿。她说：“敬十字架用的，老爷！”她的小手冻得冰冷僵硬，指甲青紫，我顺从地接着蜡烛，很高兴，于是朝耀眼夺目的烛台迈了一步，笨拙地把这支蜡烛同其它的蜡烛搁在一起。我的笨拙动作使我感到客臊，突然，我起了一个念头；“走！”于是，我后退一步，鞠了躬，迅速而小心翼翼地在黑暗中向大门走去，身后留下教堂中舒适可爱的光明和温暖。台阶上，迎接我的是阴冷的黑暗和在高空中呼啸的风……我戴上帽子，对自己说：“走！”决定到斯摩棱斯克去。 为什么要到斯摩梭斯克去？我想望过勃良斯克的一切，勃良斯克森林，勃良斯克绿林好汉……我拐进一条胡同，走进一家小酒馆。有个无赖正坐在桌旁低着头，借酒装疯，大声叫道：“我自作自受，落得当苦役的下场！”这是一出俄国人惯演的顾影自怜的把戏。另一张桌旁有个人仰着头，嫌恶地望着他，那人蓄着两撇稀疏的小黑胡子，脖子细长，喉包尖而大，在颈前薄薄的皮肤下面蠕动，看来是个小偷。柜台旁有一个高个子女人，酒气醺天，晃晃荡荡地摇着身子，她的连衣裙湿漉漉的，紧贴在两条细腿上，显然是个洗衣妇。她敲着柜台，正向掌柜诉说什么人的卑鄙行径，手指控洗得干干净净，象玻璃一样放亮。一只盛着伏特加的棱形酒杯摆在她面前，她间或端起来拿在手中，却总没喝，一会儿又放下来，接着话题说下去。我想喝点啤酒，可是酒馆里空气霉湿，冲鼻难闻，灯光也太暗，还有水从结了冰的小窗台上，从窗台上的一堆烂抹布上流下来…… 偏巧，阿维洛娃家的餐室里来了几位客人。“啊，我们可爱的诗人！”她说，“你们还不认识吧？”我吻了吻她的手，又同客人们寒暄了一番。同阿维洛娃坐在一起的是一位老先生。满面皱纹，唇髭剪得齐齐整整，还染成了揭色，头上的假发也是褐色的，身穿白丝背心和黑色常礼服。他赶忙站起来，鞠了躬，谦恭地回敬了我，动作出奇地灵活，与他的年龄很不相称。我挺喜欢他的常礼服大襟上镶着黑缏，一见之下不禁动了心，极想自己有那么一件才好。桌子正中坐着一位太太，爱絮絮叨叨又善于词令，她向我伸出象海豹的鳍脚一样结实丰满的手，手光滑得象枕形肉包子一般，上面可以看到手套接缝留下的一行行齿形压痕。她口齿伶俐，说话急促，还多少带点喘息。她完全没有脖子似的，身子相当肥胖，特别是后背和两腋附近。她腰间的紧身束得紧紧的，象卵石一样滚圆、梆硬，肩膀上搭着一块烟灰色毛皮。毛皮的气味掺和着沁人心肺的香水、毛料衣服、温暖的身体的气味，浓烈得真叫人难以透气。 十点钟，客人们起身告辞了，临行恭维了主人一番。 阿维洛娃笑了起来。 “哎，总算走了！到我房里坐坐吧，该把这儿的气窗打开……咳，亲爱的，您怎么啦？”她娇嗔地说，同时向我伸出两只手。 我握着她的手说： “明天我要走了……” 她惶惑地看了看我： "Where are you going?" “斯摩棱斯克。” “为啥？” “我不能再这样过下去了……” “去了斯摩棱斯克又会怎么样呢？来，咱们坐下来吧……这是怎么回事……” 我们坐到沙发上，沙发上罩着的是夏天用的条子斜纹布套。 “您看这斜纹布，”我说，“跟火车上的一模一样。甚至看见这斜纹布我的心就不能平静，连它也催我走呢。” 她往里坐，两只脚就露在我眼前。 “不过，为什么去斯摩棱斯克？”她问，用疑惑不解的眼光盯着我。 “然后去维切布斯克……波洛茨……” “为啥，” “不知道。首先，我很喜欢这几个地名：斯摩梭斯克，维切布斯克，波洛茨克……” "Is this a joke?" “我没开玩笑。难道您不觉得，有些地名可真好听？斯摩棱斯克古时候经常遭到兵燹和围困……它甚至使我感到亲切。我们家族的一批古老的文契就是在那里的一场大火中烧掉的，因此我们失去了一些重大的遗产权和世袭特权……” “事情愈来愈糟了！您很想她吧？她没有给您写信吗？” “没有，不过问题不在这儿。总的来说，奥勒尔的这种生活我不喜欢。'游荡的鹿知道上哪儿去吃草……'这里，我的创作无从着手。我整个上午都只有呆坐着，脑子里一团乱麻，象个疯子似的。我靠什么过日子呢？我们巴图林诺有个大姑娘，是小店主的女儿，已经没有嫁人的希望了，所以就靠尖酸刻薄过日子。我现在也是这样。” “简直是个孩子！”她温柔地说抚摸我的头发。 “发育很快的只是低级动物，”我说。“再说，谁又不是孩子呢？有一次，我乘车到奥勒尔来，同座的是叶列茨区法院的一位法官。他是个可敬而严肃的人，长得象黑桃皇帝……他坐在那里看了好久《新时代》，后来起身，出了车厢就不见了。我有些不放心，也出去了，打开门走到过道上，由于火车轰隆响，他没有听见我开门，也没有见到我。您说我在过道上看见了什么？他在升降台上随着车轮的节奏天不怕地不怕地跳起舞来，两只脚搞出一些最冒险的动作。” 她抬起眼睛望着我，突然意味深长地轻声地问： “咱们一块儿上莫斯科去好吗？愿意吗？” 我浑身一震……满脸通红，喃喃地谢绝了……直到如今，只要我回忆起这一时刻，我就痛惜这一巨大的损失。