Chapter 8 Pretty Beauty - Venus

Gogol, the Russian playwright said—where?Oh, it was said somewhere - the true muse is a woman in tears behind a veil of laughter. What a wonderful word! So I felt rather strange writing this book.The refreshing floral scent in the air numbs my mind and gives me a headache.The smoke from the fireplace curled into one image: a goblin with a pale beard, looking at me mockingly.Then Cupid, with his chubby jaw, stood on the arm of my chair, on my lap.As I write about my adventures, I can't help smiling, really, laughing hoarsely; I write not with worldly ink, but with the blood that flows from my heart; Being opened, the heart was twisted into a ball, enduring the painful torture, and tears dripped on the manuscript from time to time.

In the Carpathian Mountain Scenic Tourist Area, life is passing slowly.I couldn't see anyone, and no one saw me.The days are so tiresome I could write idyll.I have so much free time that I can paint all the paintings a gallery needs, write a whole season of operas for a theater, and give concertos, trios, and duets to a dozen famous masters.But—what am I talking about? – in the end all I do is open the canvas, flatten the paper, crumple the sheet music and watch me – ha!It is not at all modest to say that this is the whole life portrayal of my friend, Savunin.You can deceive others; but you can't deceive yourself.Yes, I've only scratched the surface, and I'm nothing else: half-knowledgeable, dabbled in painting, poetry, music, and other so-called arts that you can't make a living out of.And in today's society, these works of art bring in as much money as a cabinet minister, no, a minor holder of power.Bottom line, I've been a vinegar-and-a-half my whole life.

Up to that time, I had lived within the circumstances depicted in my paintings and poems—that is, I had never lived beyond a pre-prepared canvas, within a fenced-in field, without a life The first act, the first chapter.Simple people live in that place, and they start their lives as if they never ended.I am also one of them. But what am I talking about? Let me get back to the point: I leaned against the window and found the resting place I had described in my poem: What an enchanting sight, the blue sky above the high peaks, these mountains surrounded by golden sunlight, surrounded by The winding river like a jade belt was cut off.The sky is so clean and blue, and the snow-capped peaks stand up under the blue sky; the hillside covered with trees is so green and fresh, the sheep are grazing on the hillside, and the yellow wheat waves are below the hillside, and the farmer is standing Harvesting crops there, they bent down from time to time and straightened up from time to time.

The house I was in was in what might be called a park or a forest or a wilderness - whatever you wish to call it - which was very remote. No one else lives here except me, a widow from Lviv and the landlady Mrs. Tartakovsky, plus an old dog and a kitten with a limping leg.The landlady was a thin old woman who grew older and thinner every day as the days went by.The cat had been playing with a ball of yarn—which, I supposed, belonged to the pretty widow. I heard that this widow is really beautiful and very young, no more than 24 years old, and very rich.She lives upstairs and I live downstairs.Her green curtains were left hanging, and the balcony was covered with vines.But what about me?I have a cozy terrace covered with honeysuckle, where I read, write, draw, and sing like a bird that lives on a branch.Sometimes when I raise my head, I can see a white robe shining slightly in the gaps between the dense vines from time to time.

I'm actually not at all interested in this pretty widow.I was in love with another woman at the time—and, to tell the truth, I was not at all happy in love with that woman, any more than Mr. Togenberg or Sir in Manon Lescaut, For my love is made of stone. In the moor garden there is a charming meadow where domestic deer graze peacefully.On this meadow there is a stone statue of Venus, who I believe is from Florence.This Venus is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Of course, this doesn't mean anything, because I've seen very few beautiful women, very few, and I'm still a novice in love.

But why do some people make such a high-level generalization-what is more attractive than beauty? Enough is enough: this beautiful Venus, I love her as a man loves his woman, with passion, morbidly, heartily, madly.This woman has a consistent attitude towards men, always with a calm stone smile.Yes, I really adore her. I often lie in the shade of a beech and read when the sun is peeping through the woods.I usually meet cold, cruel lovers at night, kneel before her, bury my face in the cold stone at her feet, and pray to her. The moonlight at this time cannot be described in words. The moon has changed from loss to fullness, rising from the treetops, swaying, and the grass is covered with silver moonlight. My goddess is standing there, becoming more beautiful, just Like bathing in the soft moonlight.