Chapter 30 Chapter 12 Isayev Isayev (2)

He remembered Albert showing him two copulating flies.The male fly sits on the back of the female fly.Albert held the pair of flies in his palm. "Look," he cried.Pinch the wing of the male fly with your fingertips, pull it lightly, and the wing will fall off.However, the fly was unmoved.Albert tore off the second wing.The backs of male flies are bare.It still does its own thing.It's weird enough.Albert dropped the two flies to the ground in disgust and crushed them with his feet. He imagined staring into the eyes of the fly as its wings were ripped off.He can be sure that the eyes of flies can see, but they just turn a blind eye to him.The whole body and mind of the male fly seems to be devoted to doing that thing, to the female fly.Thinking of this, he trembled all over, wishing he could wipe out all the flies in the world.

He didn't know much about a child's reaction to doing that.But doing it terrified him.The whispers and secret smiles of the people around him seemed to suggest to him that one day he would have to do that too. "I won't do it, I won't do it!" He wanted to take a deep breath. "Not doing what?" asked those looking at him.Everyone's eyes widened in an instant, looking at him in bewilderment. "My God, what is this weird boy talking about?" Inside the folder were a leather-bound diary, five school workbooks, twenty or twenty-five loose sheets of paper fastened with pins, and a stack of letters bound with rubber bands.There were also some loose-leaf books: essays by Blanqui and Ishukin, essays by Pisayev.A selection of French editions of Cicero's On Duty is oddly included.He skimmed through the book.On the last page of the book, he suddenly found some inscriptions in a handwriting he could not recognize.The happiness of the people should be the supreme criterion, and below that, in paler ink, is written, like father, like son.

A motto, a motto, who gave it to whom? He picked up the diary.Before I read it, I flipped through it like shuffling a deck of cards.The second half of his son's life was illusory, but only the words in this diary are real.He glanced at the earliest date, June 29, 1866, the anniversary of the saint of the same name as Pavel.The diary was, of course, a gift, and Pavel had no memory of who gave it as a gift. In 1866, it was only Anne who stood out in his memory.That year, he met Anya and fell in love with his future wife. 1866 was the year they completely ignored Pavel. As if suddenly touching a hot plate, he opened the first page of the diary alertly and ready to withdraw at any time.On this page, Pavel recounts his day.The writing is quite difficult, and one can tell at a glance that he is a novice in diary.No denunciations, no charges.He closed the diary with relief.I'll take a good look at it when I get back to Dresden, he thought to himself, from start to finish.

As for the letters, most of them were from him.The one he opened most recently was the last one Pavel received before his death. "I sent fifty rubles to Apollon Grigorievich," he read. "We can give you so much right now, please stop squeezing Apollon Grigorievich. You should learn to live on your own." These were his last words to Pavel, how narrow-minded!That's what Maximov saw!No wonder he reminded him to stop reading letters!What a shame!He should have burned the letters so they never existed. He found that story.Maximov had read it aloud to him.Maximov was right: as the hero of the story, Sergei is a failure.This young hero was exiled to Siberia by the authorities for leading the student uprising.The story was quite long, more than what Maximov had told him.After the landowner in the story was killed, Sergei and his Marfa spent some days avoiding pursuers.They were either hiding in barns or in cowsheds.The peasants who gave them shelter, fed them, and listened numbly to their doctrines.At first, the two just lay side by side, maintaining a pure comradeship with each other.As time goes by, love grows.It was a sensual and slightly guilty love.Pavel clearly recorded a passionate scene.A page of text was heavily ticked off by Pavel, and that paragraph described Sergey's confession to Marfa.Sergei told Marfa in his youthful and enthusiastic tone that he felt more for Marfa than ordinary comrades during the revolutionary struggle, and she captured his heart.Written here, followed by a very interesting paragraph.Sergey tells Marfa about his lonely childhood.He has no siblings, and his childish clumsiness with women.At the end of the segment, Marfa stammers out a confession of love. "You can... you can..." she said.

He turned a few pages forward. "I have no parents," Sergei said to Marfa. "My father, my real father, was an aristocrat who was exiled to Siberia for sympathizing with the revolution. He died when I was seven. My mother remarried. Her new husband didn't like me and was a little older , he rushed me to the non-commissioned officer school. I was the youngest student in the class. It was there that I learned to defend my rights. Later, when they moved back to Petersburg and settled down, they called me Afterwards, my mother died, and I was alone, living with my stepfather. He was a morose man who didn't talk much all day. I was alone, and the only friends I had were some servants. . I feel from them the suffering of the people.”

It's not true, not at all!What a distortion of all these words! "He didn't like me at that time!" If a seven-year-old child is unfriendly, people can still feel sad and sad, but they still sincerely want to protect him, but when he is so suspicious and indifferent, how can people love him? Love it!He clings to his mother like a leech and resents leaving him for even a minute.During the half of the time when he was sleeping alone, he would always call his mother in the next room, and the small voice yelled stubbornly, telling his mother to come over and help him beat the mosquitoes, which had bitten him.

He put the manuscript aside and thought to himself, a noble father!poor child!The truth is much crueler than that, and the cruelest of all facts.Still, who expects an angel who can write stories to care about all the harsh realities?When I was twenty-two years old, didn't I have a lot of dedication? He also wanted to say one more thing to the child, a very important point, but unfortunately the child would never hear it.He wanted to say, if God has given you the power to write, then hide the source of this power in your heart.You write because you had a lonely childhood, because you lacked love. (Although this is not true. He still wants to say——we love you, we love you, you choose not to be loved by us. Nonsense! A monkey playing the piano is much better than this.) We You can’t write everything, he wants to say——we can write about pain, we can write about lack, and in your heart, you should know this very well!As for your so-called real father, a real father who sympathizes with the revolution, that's nonsense!Isayev is a clerk, just a clerk.If he is still alive, if you are still following him, you are just following in his footsteps as a clerk.That way, you won't have such regrets. (Yes, yes, he heard the boy's high voice say—but I'll live!)

Young men in white play French croquet and you stand among them with your green sword, come back!poor child!I want to see you, see you on the streets of Petersburg, see you turning around here, waving there, every time it makes my heart flutter.Everywhere, everywhere, my heart is torn to pieces like Orpheus.The time of youth, the time of golden fortune. All you leave me is: pick up your relics and mend my broken heart.Poet, lyre player, magician, resurrected master, these are the titles I have earned.And what about the facts?Just a pair of cold shoulders hunched over the desk, a painful heart thinking slowly, a heart that thinks slowly like a tortoise.

I am too late.I failed to lift the wooden lid of the coffin and kiss your smooth and cold forehead.If my lips could be as gentle as a blind man's fingertips, even if I just kissed you lightly, you might not leave with such resentment.Die in the name of Isaev, I, an old man, an old pilgrim, stay behind you, follow a pattern of gray over purple, follow an echo. I am here, but your father Isayev is not.If you drown, and you catch Isayev, the hand you catch will only be a phantom.In Semipalatinsk’s city hall, you might still see his signature in boxes behind the stairs, among dusty old documents.Except for this clue to recall, the man you remember hugging your widow and child, you can never find any trace of him again.