From the anthill, the venerable ants began, and they will probably end the anthill, which brings great honor to their constancy and positivity. But man is a frivolous and unseemly creature and, perhaps, like a chess player, loves only one process of achieving a goal, and not the goal itself. And who knows (it’s impossible to vouch for), it may be that the whole goal on earth that mankind is striving for consists only in this continuity of the achievement process, in other words, in life itself, and not in the goal itself, which, of course , there should be nothing more than twice two four, that is, a formula, but twice two four is no longer life, gentlemen, but the beginning of death. At least a person has always somehow been afraid of this twice two four, and now I'm afraid. Suppose a person only does what he searches for these two, two, four, swims across the oceans, sacrifices his life in this search, but to find, to really find, by golly, he’s somehow afraid. After all, he feels that as he finds, then there will be nothing to look for then. Having finished the work, the workers will at least get the money, they will go to the zucchini, then they will go to the unit — well, here are the classes for a week. And where will the person go? At least every time something awkward is noticed in him when such goals are achieved. He loves achievement, but not quite at all, and this, of course, is terribly ridiculous. In a word, man is comic; in all this, obviously, is a pun. But twice, two, four is still an enormous thing. Twice two four - because in my opinion this is only impudence, sir. Twice, two, four looks with a fert, stands across your road with your hands on your sides and spits. I agree that twice two four is an excellent thing; but if you already praise everything, then twice two and five is sometimes a pretty little thing.
And why are you so firmly, so solemnly convinced that only one is normal and positive - in a word, only one prosperity is beneficial to a person? Is not reason wrong in the benefits? After all, maybe a man loves more than one prosperity? Maybe he loves suffering just as much? Perhaps suffering is just as beneficial to him as prosperity? And a person sometimes terribly loves suffering, to passion, and this is a fact. There is nothing to cope with world history; ask yourself if you are a human being and have lived for some time. As for my personal opinion, loving only one prosperity is even somehow indecent. Is it good, is it bad, but sometimes breaking something is also very nice. I’m not really standing here for suffering, and not for prosperity. I stand ... for my whim and for ensuring that he is guaranteed to me when necessary. Suffering, for example, is not allowed in vaudeville, I know that. In a crystal palace, it is unthinkable: suffering is doubt, there is negation, but what kind of a crystal palace can one doubt? Meanwhile, I am sure that a person from real suffering, that is, from destruction and chaos, will never give up. Suffering is the only reason for consciousness. Although I first reported that consciousness, in my opinion, is the greatest misfortune for a person, I know that a person loves him and will not exchange for any satisfaction. Consciousness, for example, is infinitely higher than twice two. After two or two, of course, there will be nothing left, not only to do, but even to recognize. All that can then be is to shut up your five senses and plunge into contemplation. Well, and with consciousness, even if the same result comes out, that is, there will also be nothing to do, but at least you can sometimes chop yourself up, but it still heals. Although retrograde, it’s better than nothing.
https://telegra.ph/Kuda-ideshch-Rossiya1-09-20
At the end of November, at a thaw, at nine in the morning, the train of the Petersburg-Warsaw Railway approached St. Petersburg in full steam. It was so damp and foggy that it dawned on the force; ten steps to the right and left of the road, it was difficult to make out anything from the windows of the car. Of the passengers there were also those returning from abroad; but the departments for the third class were more filled, and everything was small and business-like, not from very distant. Everyone, as usual, was tired, everyone had heavy eyes over night, everyone was stiff, all faces were pale yellow, the color of fog.
In one of the third-class cars, from dawn, they were facing each other, at the window itself, two passengers - both young people, both almost light, both not smartly dressed, both with rather remarkable physiognomies and both who finally wished to enter each other into conversation. If they both knew one thing about the other, which they were especially remarkable at this moment, then, of course, they would have marveled that the incident had so oddly put them against each other in a third-class carriage of a St. Petersburg-Warsaw train. One of them was short, about twenty-seven years old, curly and almost black-haired, with gray small but fiery eyes. His nose was wide and flattened, his face was bony; thin lips continually formed a kind of arrogant, mocking and even evil smile; but his forehead was high and well formed and brightened up the ignorantly developed lower part of the face. His dead pallor was especially noticeable in this face, giving the entire physiognomy of the young man a haggard appearance, despite a rather strong build, and at the same time something passionate, to the point of suffering, not in harmony with the impudent and rude smile and with his sharp, smug look . He was warmly dressed, in a wide, crouched black covered sheepskin coat, and not chilling during the night, while his neighbor was forced to bear on his shaky back all the sweetness of a crude November Russian night, which, obviously, had not been prepared. He wore a rather wide and thick cloak without sleeves and with a huge hood, exactly as they often use on the road, in the winters, somewhere far abroad, in Switzerland or, for example, in Northern Italy, without counting, of course, at the same time, and to such ends along the road as from Eidtkunen to St. Petersburg. But what was good and quite satisfying in Italy was not quite suitable in Russia. The owner of the cloak with a hood was a young man, also about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, a little taller than average, very blond, thick-haired, with hollow cheeks and with a light, pointed, almost completely white beard. His eyes were large, blue and fixed; there was something quiet, but heavy in their gaze, something full of that strange expression, according to which some would guess at first glance a subject of an epileptic illness. The face of the young man, however, was pleasant, thin and dry, but colorless, and now even his dull heart has faded. A skinny bundle from an old, shed foulard dangled in his hands, which seemed to enclose all his treasures. On his feet were thick-soled shoes with boots, - all is not in Russian. A black-haired neighbor in a covered sheepskin coat saw all this, partly there was nothing to do, and finally asked with that indelicate grin, in which sometimes human pleasure is expressed so unceremoniously and carelessly at the failures of one's neighbor:
Конец концов, господа: лучше ничего не делать! Лучше сознательная инерция! Итак, да здравствует подполье! Я хоть и сказал, что завидую нормальному человеку до последней желчи, но на таких условиях, в каких я вижу его, не хочу им быть (хотя все-таки не перестану ему завидовать. Нет, нет, подполье во всяком случае выгоднее!) Там по крайней мере можно... Эх! да ведь я и тут вру! Вру, потому что сам знаю, как дважды два, что вовсе не подполье лучше, а что-то другое, совсем другое, которого я жажду, но которого никак не найду! К черту подполье!
Даже вот что тут было бы лучше: это — если б я верил сам хоть чему-нибудь из всего того, что теперь написал. Клянусь же вам, господа, что я ни одному, ни одному-таки словечку не верю из того, что теперь настрочил! То есть я и верю, пожалуй, но в то же самое время, неизвестно почему, чувствую и подозреваю, что я вру как сапожник.
— Так для чего же писали все это? — говорите вы мне.
— А вот посадил бы я вас лет на сорок безо всякого занятия, да и пришел бы к вам через сорок лет, в подполье, наведаться, до чего вы дошли? Разве можно человека без дела на сорок лет одного оставлять?
— И это не стыдно, и это не унизительно! — может быть, скажете вы мне, презрительно покачивая головами. — Вы жаждете жизни и сами разрешаете жизненные вопросы логической путаницей. И как назойливы, как дерзки ваши выходки, и в то же время как вы боитесь! Вы говорите вздор и довольны им; вы говорите дерзости, а сами беспрерывно боитесь за них и просите извинения. Вы уверяете, что ничего не боитесь, и в то же время в нашем мнении заискиваете. Вы уверяете, что скрежещете зубами, и в то же время острите, чтоб нас рассмешить. Вы знаете, что остроты ваши неостроумны, но вы, очевидно, очень довольны их литературным достоинством. Вам, может быть, действительно случалось страдать, но вы нисколько не уважаете своего страдания. В вас есть и правда, но в вас нет целомудрия; вы из самого мелкого тщеславия несете правду на показ, на позор, на рынок... Вы действительно хотите что-то сказать, но из боязни прячете ваше последнее слово, потому что у вас нет решимости его высказать, а только трусливое нахальство. Вы хвалитесь сознанием, но вы только колеблетесь, потому что хоть ум у вас и работает, но сердце ваше развратом помрачено, а без чистого сердца — полного, правильного сознания не будет. И сколько в вас назойливости, как вы напрашиваетесь, как вы кривляетесь! Ложь, ложь и ложь!
Разумеется, все эти ваши слова я сам теперь сочинил. Это тоже из подполья. Я там сорок лет сряду к этим вашим словам в щелочку прислушивался. Я их сам выдумал, ведь только это и выдумывалось. Не мудрено, что наизусть заучилось и литературную форму приняло...
Но неужели, неужели вы и в самом деле до того легковесны, что воображаете, будто я это все напечатаю да еще вам дам читать? И вот еще для меня задача: для чего, в самом деле, называю я вас «господами», для чего обращаюсь к вам, как будто и вправду к читателям? Таких признаний, какие я намерен начать излагать, не печатают и другим читать не дают. По крайней мере, я настолько твердости в себе не имею да и нужным не считаю иметь. Но видите ли: мне в голову пришла одна фантазия, и я во что бы ни стало ее хочу осуществить. Вот в чем дело.
Есть в воспоминаниях всякого человека такие вещи, которые он открывает не всем, а разве только друзьям. Есть и такие, которые он и друзьям не откроет, а разве только себе самому, да и то под секретом. Но есть, наконец, и такие, которые даже и себе человек открывать боится, и таких вещей у всякого порядочного человека довольно-таки накопится. То есть даже так: чем более он порядочный человек, тем более у него их и есть. По крайней мере, я сам только недавно решился припомнить иные мои прежние приключения, а до сих пор всегда обходил их, даже с каким-то беспокойством. Теперь же, когда я не только припоминаю, но даже решился записывать, теперь я именно хочу испытать: можно ли хоть с самим собой совершенно быть откровенным и не побояться всей правды? Замечу кстати: Гейне утверждает, что верные автобиографии почти невозможны, и человек сам об себе наверно налжет. По его мнению, Руссо, например, непременно налгал на себя в своей исповеди, и даже умышленно налгал, из тщеславия. Я уверен, что Гейне прав; я очень хорошо понимаю, как иногда можно единственно из одного тщеславия наклепать на себя целые преступления, и даже очень хорошо постигаю, какого рода может быть это тщеславие. Но Гейне судил о человеке, исповедовавшемся перед публикой. Я же пишу для одного себя и раз навсегда объявляю, что если я и пишу как бы обращаясь к читателям, то единственно только для показу, потому что так мне легче писать. Тут форма, одна пустая форма, читателей же у меня никогда не будет. Я уже объявил это...
Я ничем не хочу стесняться в редакции моих записок. Порядка и системы заводить не буду. Что припомнится, то и запишу.
Ну вот, например: могли бы придраться к слову и спросить меня: если вы действительно не рассчитываете на читателей, то для чего же вы теперь делаете с самим собой, да еще на бумаге, такие уговоры, то есть что порядка и системы заводить не будете, что запишете то, что припомнится, и т.д., и т.д.? К чему вы объясняетесь? К чему извиняетесь?
— А вот поди же, — отвечаю я.
Тут, впрочем, целая психология. Может быть, и то, что я просто трус. А может быть, и то, что я нарочно воображаю перед собой публику, чтоб вести себя приличнее, в то время когда буду записывать. Причин может быть тысяча.
Chilly?
And he shrugged.
“Very,” the neighbor answered with extreme readiness, “and, mind you, this is still a thaw.” Well, if it were frost? I didn’t even think it was so cold here. Weaned.
- From abroad, what?
- Yes, from Switzerland.
- Few! Ek, after all! ..
The black-haired man whistled and laughed.
A conversation ensued. The readiness of a blond young man in a Swiss cloak to answer all the questions of his naughty neighbor was amazing and without any suspicion of perfect negligence, inappropriateness and idleness of other questions. In response, he announced, by the way, that he had not really been in Russia for a long time, for over four years, that he had been sent abroad due to illness, some strange nervous illness, such as lap or walt dancing, some kind of trembling and convulsions. Listening to him, the black man grinned several times; he laughed especially when the question: “Well, have you been cured?” - the blond replied that “no, they didn’t.”
- heh! Money that must have overpaid for nothing, and we have something here they believe - quipped nigger.
- The true truth! - one man sitting nearby and badly dressed, got involved in the conversation, something like an official who was numb in the groomsman, about forty, of strong build, with a red nose and an acne face, - the truth is, sir, only all Russian forces are donating themselves!
“Oh, how wrong you are in my case,” the Swiss patient intercepted in a quiet and conciliatory voice, “of course I can’t argue, because I don’t know everything, but my doctor gave me one of his last ones to get here and almost two years there at his own expense contained.
- Well, there was nobody to pay, or what, was? - I asked the nigger.
Yes, Mr. Pavlishchev, who kept me there, died two years ago; I then wrote here to Generals Yepanchina, my distant relative, but received no answer. So he came with that.
“Where have you come?”
“That is, where will I stop? .. Yes, I don’t know yet, right ... so ...
- Not yet decided?
And both listeners laughed again.
- And I suppose all this essence is in this knot? - I asked the nigger.
“I’m ready to bet that it’s so,” the red-faced official picked up with an extremely pleased look, “and that there is no further luggage in the luggage cars, although poverty is not a vice, which again cannot be overlooked.”
It turned out that this was also so: the blond young man immediately and with extraordinary haste admitted this.
“Your nodule still has some significance,” the official continued, when he had laughed at it (it’s wonderful that the nodal owner himself finally began to laugh, looking at them, which increased their hilarity), “and although it’s possible to beat, it’s not gold overseas parcels with Napoleonders and Friedrichsdor, below with Dutch arapists, which can be concluded at least only with the shoes that clothe your foreign shoes, but ... if you add to your knot in addition a kind of relative, like, roughly, a general Ep Anchin, then the knot will take on a slightly different meaning, of course, only if General Yepanchin is really a relative and you are not mistaken, out of distraction ... which is very, very characteristic of man, well, at least ... from an excess of imagination.
“Oh, you guessed it again,” the blond young man said, “after all, I am really almost mistaken, that is, almost not a relative; to the point that I, rightly, was not at all surprised at the time that they didn’t answer me there. I was waiting.
- Spent money on franking letters for nothing. Um ... at least innocent and sincere, and this is laudable! Um ... we know General Yepanchin, actually, because the person is well-known; and the late Mr. Pavlishchev, who kept you in Switzerland, was also known, if only it was Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev, because their two cousins. Another hitherto in the Crimea, and Nikolai Andreyevich, the deceased, was a respectable man, and with connections, and four thousand souls at one time had ...
“Exactly so, his name was Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev,” and, answering, the young man gazed intently and inquisitively at the gentleman.
These gentlemen are know-it-alls sometimes, even quite often, in a well-known social stratum. They know everything, all the restless inquisitiveness of their mind and ability rush uncontrollably in one direction, of course, in the absence of more important life interests and views, as a modern thinker would say. By the word "everyone knows," one must understand, however, the area is rather limited: where does he serve someone with whom he is familiar, how much fortune he has, where he was the governor, whom he is married to, how many he took for his wife, who is his cousin, who are second cousins, etc., etc., and all that sort of thing. For the most part, these nerdy go with ragged elbows and receive seventeen rubles a month of salary. People whom they know all the ins and outs of course would not have figured out what interests guide them, and yet many of them are positively comforted by this knowledge, which equals a whole science, and they achieve self-esteem and even the highest spiritual contentment. And science is seductive. I have seen scientists, writers, poets, politicians who have acquired and attained their highest reconciliation and goals in the same science, even having made their careers positively. During the whole of this conversation, swarthy young man yawned, looked out the window without a goal, and was looking forward to the end of the journey. He was somehow absent-minded, something very absent-minded, almost alarmed, even becoming somehow strange: sometimes he listened and did not listen, looked and did not look, laughed and sometimes did not know and did not understand what he was laughing at.
- And let me, with whom I have the honor ... - suddenly an acrid gentleman turned to a blond young man with a bundle.
Prince Lev Nikolaevich Myshkin, - he answered with full and immediate readiness.
- Prince Myshkin? Lev Nikolaevich? I don’t know, sir. So I didn’t even hear it, sir, the official answered in thought, not found anywhere, even the rumor subsided, sir.
- Oh, surely! - the prince answered at once, - now there are no princes of the Myshkins at all, except me; I think I'm the last. As for the fathers and grandfathers, they were with us as one-mansions. My father, however, was a second lieutenant in the army, from the cadets. But I don’t know how Generals Yepanchina also came from the princesses of the Myshkins, also the last of her kind ...
- Hehe hehe! The last of its kind! Hehe! How did you turn it, ”the official giggled.
The black man grinned too. Blond was somewhat surprised that he managed to say a rather, but bad, pun.
“And imagine, I said without thinking at all,” he finally explained in surprise.
“Yes, understand, sir, understand, sir,” the official cheerfully assented.
“And what, prince, did you study sciences there, with a professor?” - Asked suddenly the black man.
- Yes ... studied ...
At that time I was only twenty four years old. My life was already gloomy, promiscuous and lonely until wildness. I didn’t hang out with anyone and even avoided talking and more and more hid in my corner. In my office, in the office, I even tried not to look at anyone, and I very well noticed that my colleagues not only considered me an eccentric, but - everything seemed to me and this - as if they were looking at me with a certain loathing. It occurred to me: why does it not seem to anyone but me that they look at him with disgust? One of our clerks had a disgusting and messy face, and even as if a robber. I would not seem to dare to look at anyone with such an indecent face. The other uniform was so worn out that it smelled foul. Meanwhile, not one of these gentlemen was embarrassed - neither about the dress, nor about the face, or somehow moral. Neither one nor the other imagined that they looked at them with disgust; yes, even if they had imagined, it would have been all the same to them, if only the superiors had not deigned to look. Now it is completely clear to me that because of my unlimited vanity, and therefore my exactingness for myself, I myself looked very often with frenzied discontent, which came to disgust, and therefore, mentally, attributed my gaze to everyone. For example, I hated my face, found it to be vile, and even suspected that it had some kind of mean expression in it, and therefore, every time I was in office, I painfully tried to keep myself as independent as possible so as not to suspect me of being meanness, and face to express as noble as possible. “Let there be an ugly face,” I thought, “but let it be noble, expressive and, most importantly, extremely intelligent.” But I probably also knew with pain that I could never express all these perfections with my face. But worst of all, I found him positively stupid. And I would have completely reconciled on my mind. Even in such a way that I would even agree to a mean expression, so that my face would be terribly smart at the same time.
Of course, I hated all our office supplies, from the first to the last, and despised everyone, and at the same time, as if I were afraid of them. It happened that I suddenly even put them above myself. It somehow suddenly happened to me then: I despise it, then I put it above myself. A well-developed and decent person cannot be conceited without unlimited exactingness for himself and without despising himself at other moments before hatred. But, whether despising or setting higher, I lowered my eyes almost before everyone I met. I even did experiments: will I stand the look of at least such-and-such on myself, and I always lowered the first one. It tormented me furiously. Before the illness, I was also afraid to be ridiculous, and therefore slavishly adored the routine in everything that concerned the outside; lovingly plunged into a common rut and with all his soul he was frightened of any eccentricity in himself. But where could I stand it? I was painfully developed, as a person of our time should be developed. They were all stupid and looked like each other like sheep in a herd. Perhaps it was only to me alone in the entire office that it constantly seemed to me that I was a coward and a slave; precisely because it seemed that I was developed. But it not only seemed, but it really was so: I was a coward and a slave. I say this without any embarrassment. Every decent person of our time is and should be a coward and a slave. This is his normal condition. I am deeply convinced of this. He is so made and arranged for that. And not at present, from some random circumstances there, but generally at all times a decent person should be a coward and a slave. This is the law of nature of all decent people on earth. If one of them happens to be brave of something, then let it not be comforted and carried away: anyway, before the other it will make a fuss. This is the only and everlasting way out. Only donkeys and their bastards are brave, but even those up to the famous wall. It’s not worth paying attention to them, because they mean absolutely nothing.
Then another circumstance tormented me: it was precisely that no one resembled me and I did not resemble anyone. “I am alone, but they are all,” I thought, and thought about it.
From this it is clear that I was still quite a boy.
Opposites also happened. After all, how it was sometimes disgusting to go to the office: it came to the point that I returned sick many times from service. But suddenly, for no reason, there is a period of skepticism and indifference (I had everything in stripes), and now I myself laugh at my intolerance and disgust, I reproach myself for romanticism. I don’t want to talk to anyone, or I’ll get to the point that I’m not only talking, but I’ll also think to get along with them in a friendly way. All squeamishness suddenly at once for no reason disappeared. Who knows, maybe I have never had it, but was it a flimsy one, from books? I have not yet resolved this issue. Once he even made friends with them, he began to visit them at home, play preference, drink vodka, talk about production ... But here let me make one digression.
We, Russians, in
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But I've never learned anything.
“Why, I am so, for some reason,” added the prince, almost apologizing. - I was not found to be able to systematically teach me because of illness.
- Do you know the Rogozhins? - I asked quickly nigger.
- No, I don’t know, at all. I know very few people in Russia. Are you Rogozhin?
- Yes, I, Rogozhin, Parfen.
- Parthen? But these are not the very Rogozhins ... - the official began with heightened importance.
- Yes, those same ones - quickly and with rude impatience interrupted nigger who did, however, and did not apply to the acne never official, but from the beginning said only one prince.
- Yes ... how is it? - the official was surprised to the point of tetanus and his eyes almost bulged up, and his face immediately turned into something reverent, and obsequious, even frightened - this is the same Semyon Parfenovich Rogozhin, a hereditary honorary citizen who died a month ago and two and a half million capital left?
But here’s what else: for what, why actually do I want to write? If not for the public, then it would be possible to mentally recall everything without translating it to paper.
So, sir; but on paper it will come out somehow more solemnly. There is something inspiring in this, there will be more judgment on oneself, the syllable will be added. In addition: maybe I will really get relief from recording. Today, for example, I have been particularly depressed by a long-standing memory. I remembered it clearly the other day and since then has remained with me as an annoying musical motive that does not want to get rid of. Meanwhile, you need to get rid of him. I have hundreds of such memories; but at times out of a hundred some one is issued and crushes. For some reason I believe that if I write it down, then it will be untied. Why not try it?
Finally: I’m bored, but I’m constantly doing nothing. Recording is really as if work. They say that from work a person is made kind and honest. Well here is a chance at least.
Today it snows, almost wet, yellow, muddy. Yesterday I was walking too, the other day I was walking too. It seems to me that I am about wet snow and recalled that anecdote that now does not want to get rid of me. So, let this be a story about wet snow.
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Who lives longer than forty years, - answer sincerely, honestly? I’ll tell you who lives: fools and villains live. I’ll tell it to all the elders, to all these venerable elders, to all these silver-haired and fragrant elders! I’ll say it to the whole world! I have the right to say so, because I myself will live up to sixty years. I’ll live up to seventy years! I’ll live up to eighty years! .. Wait! Give me a breath ...
I guess you think, gentlemen, that I want to make you laugh? Wrong in this. I am not at all as amused as you think or as it seems to you; however, if you, annoyed by all this chatter (and I already feel that you are annoyed), think about asking me: who am I exactly? - then I will answer you: I am one college assessor. I served to eat something (but only for this), and when last year one of my distant relatives left me six thousand rubles according to my will, I immediately retired and settled in my corner. I used to live in this corner, but now I have settled in this corner. My trashy, nasty room, on the edge of town. My maid is a village woman, old, wicked from stupidity, and she also always smells bad from her. They tell me that the climate in St. Petersburg is becoming harmful to me and that it is very expensive to live in Petersburg with my worthless means. I know all this, I know better than all these experienced and wise advisers and supporters. But I stay in Petersburg; I will not leave Petersburg! That's why I won’t leave ... Eh! but it’s absolutely the same - I’ll leave or I won’t.
How did you know that he left two and a half million net worth to net worth? - interrupted the nigger, not udostoivaya this time to look at the officer. - Oh, you see! (he blinked at the prince) and what is the use of it, that they are immediately henchmen climb? And it’s true that my parent died, and after a month I’m going home from Pskov almost without boots. Neither brother, scoundrel, nor mother, nor money, nor notifications - did not send anything! Like a dog! In a fever in Pskov he spent the whole month.
- And now you have to get a millionaire over and over again, and at least, oh my God! - the official threw up his hands.
- Well then, tell him, please! Rogozhin nodded irritably and viciously at him, “because I won’t give you a dime, even though you walk upside down before me.”
- And I will, and I will go.
- You see! Why, I won’t give it, I won’t give it, I want to dance for a whole week!
- And don't come on! That's what I need; do not give! And I will dance. I’ll throw my wife, small children, and before you I will dance. Flatter, flatter!
- Ugh! - spat nigger. “Five weeks ago, here I am, like you,” he turned to the prince, “with one bundle from my parent I ran to Pskov, to my aunt; but in a fever there he fell down, and without me he will die. Kondrashka knocked down. Eternal memory to a dead man, but he almost killed me before death! Do you believe, prince, by golly! If I hadn’t run away, I would have just killed.
Did you anger him with anything? - answered the prince with some special curiosity examining the millionaire in a sheepskin coat. But although there might have been something interesting in fact in a million and in obtaining an inheritance, the prince was surprised and interested in something else; and Rogozhin himself, for some reason, was especially eager to take the prince to his interlocutors, although he seemed to need an interview more mechanically than morally; somehow more from distraction than from simple-heartedness; from anxiety, from excitement, just to look at someone and bash about something with his tongue. He seemed to be still in a fever, and at least in a fever. As for the official, he hung over Rogozhin, did not dare to breathe, he caught and weighed every word, as if he were looking for a diamond.
“He was angry, he was angry, yes, maybe it was worth it,” answered Rogozhin, “but my brother drove me most of all.” There is nothing to say about mother, the woman is old, Chetyi-Minei reads, sits with the old women, and that Senka-brother decides, so be it. But he didn’t give me something at one time? We understand, sir! It is true, I was then without memory. Also, they say, the telegram was launched. Yes, a telegram to your aunt and come. And she has been widowed there for thirty years and sits with the holy fools from morning to night. The nun is not a nun, but even more so. She scared the telegrams, yes, without printing it, and presented it to the unit, so she has been lying there so far. Only Konev, Vasily Vasilich, helped out, wrote everything off. From the cover of brocade on the coffin of the parent, at night, the brother brushed, gold, trimmed: "They, they say, what kind of money are evon." Why, he can go to Siberia for this alone, if I want, because it is blasphemy. Hey you pea scarecrow! - He turned to the official. - As the law: blasphemy?
- Blasphemy! Sacrilege! - immediately the official assented.
- For this to Siberia?
- To Siberia, to Siberia! Immediately to Siberia!
They all think that I am still sick, ”continued the prince to Rogozhin,“ and I, without saying a word, slowly, still sick, got into the carriage and I was going: open the gate, brother Semyon Semenych! He told the deceased parent me, I know. And what I really annoyed through Nastasya Filippovna with my parent is the truth. Here I am alone. Confused sin.
- Through Nastasya Filippovna? - the official said obsequiously, as if thinking something.
- But you don’t know! - shouted impatiently at Rogozhin.
- An and I know! - the official answered triumphantly.
- Avona! Yes, little is Nastasii Filippovna! And how impudent you are, I’ll tell you, creature! Well, that’s how I knew that some sort of creature like that would immediately hang! He continued to the prince.
- An, maybe I know, sir! - the official braked. - Lebedev knows! You, Your Grace, please reproach me, but what if I prove? And the same Nastasya Filippovna is the one through which your parent wished to inspire you with a viburnum staff, and Nastasya Filippovna is Barashkova, even a noble lady, so to speak, who is also princess in her own way, but she knows one Totsky, Afanasy Ivanovich, only one , a landowner and a capitalist, a member of companies and societies, and the leading friendship on this matter with General Yepanchin ...
“Ege, you are what!” - really surprised at last Rogozhin. “Ugh, hell, he really knows.”
- He knows everything! Lebedev knows everything! I, your Grace, have traveled with Likhachev Aleksashka for two months, and also after the death of my parent, and everything, that is, I know all the corners and alleys, and without Lebedev, has come to the point. Now he is present in the debt department, and then Armans, and Coralia, and Princess Patskaya, and Nastasya Filippovna had a chance to learn, and a lot of things had a chance to learn.
- Nastasya Filippovna? But is she with Likhachev ... ”Rogozhin looked at him viciously, even his lips turned pale and trembled.
N-nothing! N-N-Nothing! As there is nothing! - the official came to his senses and hurried up quickly, - Likhachev couldn’t get by any means, that is, with money! No, it's not like Armans. There is only Totsky. Yes, in the evening at the Big Ali in the French Theater in his own bed sits. The officers there say little between themselves, and even they can’t prove anything: “well, they say, this is the same Nastasya Filippovna,” and that’s all; and as for the future - nothing! Because there is nothing.
“That's all it is,” Rogozhin confirmed gloomily and stupidly, “Zalezhev also told me then.” I then, the prince, in my father’s third-year-old father-in-law, passed across Nevsky, and she left the store, got into the carriage. So I burned here. I meet Zalezhev, he is not my couple, he walks like a clerk from a hairdresser, and lorgnit in the eye, and we at the parent in oiled boots and on lean soup differed. She says that she’s not your couple, she’s said, the princess, and her name is Nastasya Filippovna, the last name of Barashkov, and lives with Totsky, and Totsky now does not know how to get rid of her, that is why he has reached the present, fifty-five, and he wants to marry the first beautiful woman in all of St. Petersburg. Then he suggested to me that today you can see Nastasya Filippovna at the Bolshoi Theater, in ballet, in her box, in the benoir, she will sit. With us, at the parent, try to go to the ballet - one reprisal will kill! However, I, however, secretly escaped for an hour and saw Nastasya Filippovna again; I didn’t sleep all that night. The next morning, the dead man gives me two five-percent tickets, five thousand each, get off, say, yes, sell, yes, seven thousand and five hundred to the Andreevs at the office, demolish, pay, and imagine the rest change from ten thousand without going anywhere; I will wait for you. I sold the tickets, I took the money, but I didn’t go to the Andreev’s office, but went without looking anywhere, to the English store and bought a pair of pendants, one diamond in each, almost like a nut, four hundred rubles should stayed, the name said, believed. With pendants I am to Zalezhev: so and so, let's go, brother, to Nastasya Filippovna. Set off. What’s under my feet then, what’s before me, what’s on my sides — I don’t know anything and don’t remember.
They went right into her room, she herself came to us. That is, then I did not say that I myself am; and “from Parfen, they say, Rogozhin,” says Zalezhev, “to you in memory of yesterday’s meeting; deign to accept. " She opened, looked, grinned: “Thank, says, your friend Mr. Rogozhin for his kind attention,” she bowed and left. Well, that’s why I didn’t die here then! Yes, even if he went, because he thought: “Anyway, I won’t return alive!” And it seemed to me most offensive that this beast Zalezhev had taken over everything. I’m both small and dressed like a lackey, and I stand, silent, I stare at her, that’s embarrassing, and he is fashionable, in lipstick and curled, ruddy, checkered necktie - and it crumbles, and it’s opened up, and so probably she took him here instead of me! “Well, I say, how did we get out, now you don’t dare to think here, you understand!” Laughs: “But will you somehow give a report to Semyon Parfenych now?” I really wanted to go into the water at the same time, I’m not going home, but I think, “It’s all the same anyway,” and he cursed back home.
- Oh! Wow - the official was curving, and even a trembling made his way through it, - and the dead man wasn’t squeezing for ten thousand rubles, ”he nodded to the prince. The prince examined Rogozhin with curiosity; he seemed even paler at that moment.
"Lived"! - spoke Rogozhin. “What do you know?” Immediately, he continued to the prince, he found out about everything, and Zalezhev went to talk to everyone he met. A parent took me, and locked upstairs, and taught for an hour. “It’s just me, he says, that I am preparing you, but I’ll come with you for the night to say goodbye.” What do you think? The gray-haired went to Nastasya Filippovna, bowed to her on the earth, begged and cried; She finally brought him a box, flipped it: “Here, he says, you old beard, your earrings, and now they are ten times more expensive to me, if Parten got them from under such a thunderstorm. Bow, says, and thank Parfyon Semyonitch. " Well, at that time, by mother’s blessing, I got twenty rubles from Seryozha Protushin and went to Pskov by car and set off, but arrived in a fever; the old women began to read me out as holies, and I sat drunk, and then went to the taverns for the last, and in insensibility spent the whole night on the street and lounged, but in the morning there was a fever, and meanwhile the dogs nibbled overnight. I woke up violently.
- Well, well, now, Nastasya Filippovna will sing with us! - rubbing his hands, the official giggled, - now, sir, what a suspension! Now we will reward such pendants ...
“And the fact that if you ever say a word about Nastasya Filippovna, then, God bless you, I’ll carve you for nothing that you and Likhachev went,” cried Rogozhin, grabbing his arm tightly.
“And if you carve, then you won’t reject it!” Seki! Carved, and thus captured ... And here we are!
Indeed, drove into the voxal. Although Rogozhin said that he had left quietly, several people were already waiting for him. They shouted and waved their hats to him.
- Look, and Zalezhev is here! Muttered Rogozhin, looking at them with a triumphant and even as if vicious smile, and suddenly turned to the prince. “Prince, I don’t know why I fell in love with you.” Maybe because I met him at that moment, but I did meet him (he pointed to Lebedev), but I didn’t love him. Come to me, prince. We’ll take these pins off of you, I’ll put you in the first fur coat, I will sew your first coat, a white vest or whatever you like, I’ll fill my pockets with money, and ... we’ll go to Nastasya Filippovna! Will you come or not?
- Listen, Prince Lev Nikolaevich! - Lebedev grasped impressively and solemnly. - Oh, don't miss out! Oh, don't miss out! ..
Prince Myshkin stood up, politely extended his hand to Rogozhin and kindly said to him:
“I will come with great pleasure and thank you very much for having loved me.” Even maybe I’ll come today if I have time. Therefore, I’ll tell you frankly, I really liked you myself, and especially when they talked about diamond pendants. I liked the pendants even before, although you have a gloomy face. I thank you too for the dresses promised to me and for the fur coat, because I really need a dress and a fur coat soon. At the present moment I have almost no money.
- There will be money, by evening, come!
“They will, they will,” the official said, “by evening, before dawn, they will!”
“And to the female, you prince, a big hunter?” Say it earlier!
I, n-n-no! I ... You, maybe, you don’t know, because I don’t even know women due to my natural illness.
“Well, if so,” exclaimed Rogozhin, “you are the prince, you go out holy fool, and God loves people like you!”
“And God loves such,” the official said.
“And you follow me, line,” said Rogozhin to Lebedev, and everyone got out of the car.
Lebedev ended up achieving his goal. Soon the noisy gang departed towards Voznesensky Prospekt. The prince had to turn to Liteiny. It was damp and wet; the prince asked passers-by - there were three versts to the end of the path ahead of him, and he decided to take a cab.
But by the way: what can a decent person talk about with the greatest pleasure?
Answer: about yourself.
Well, so I will talk about myself.
*
And the author of the notes and the very Notes, of course, are fictitious. Nevertheless, such persons as the writer of such notes can not only, but must even exist in our society, taking into consideration the circumstances under which our society generally developed. I wanted to bring to the face of the public, more commonly than usual, one of the characters of the recent past. This is one of the representatives of the still surviving generation. In this passage entitled "Underground", this person recommends himself, his opinion, and as if wants to find out the reasons why it appeared and should have appeared in our midst. In the next passage will come the real "notes" of this person about some events of his life.
General Yepanchin lived in his own house, somewhat away from the Foundry, to the Transfiguration Savior. In addition to this (excellent) house, five sixth of which were rented out, General Yepanchin also had a huge house on Sadovaya, which also brought extraordinary income. In addition to these two houses, he had a very profitable and significant estate near St. Petersburg; there was still some kind of factory in Petersburg district. In the old days, General Yepanchin, as everyone knew, participated in the farms. Now he participated and had a very significant voice in some reputable joint-stock companies. He was known as a man with big money, with great pursuits and with great connections. In other places, he managed to become absolutely necessary, by the way, and in his service. Meanwhile, it was also known that Ivan Fedorovich Yepanchin is a man without education and comes from soldiers' children; the latter, no doubt, could only relate to his honor, but the general, although intelligent was a man, was also not without small, very excusable weaknesses and did not like other hints. But an intelligent and dexterous person, he was indisputable. For example, he had a system not to exhibit, where it was necessary to brush up, and many appreciated it precisely for its simplicity, precisely because he always knew his place. But meanwhile, if only these judges knew what happened sometimes in the soul of Ivan Fedorovich, who knew his place so well! Although he really had both practice, and experience in everyday affairs, and some very remarkable abilities, but he liked to make himself more a performer of someone else’s idea than with his king in his head, a man “without devotion,” and - where does the century go? - even Russian and cordial. In the latter respect, even some funny jokes happened to him; but the general never lost heart, even with the most amusing anecdotes; besides, he was lucky, even in the cards, and he played extremely large and even with the intention of not only not wanting to hide his little seemingly weakness for the cards, which was so essential to him in many cases, but also putting it out. Society he was mixed, of course, in any case, "ace." But everything was ahead, time endured, time endured everything, and everything had to come with time and its course. And for years, General Yepanchin was still, as they say, in the juice itself, that is, fifty-six years old and nothing more, which in any case amounts to blooming age, the age from which, truly, true life begins. Health, complexion, strong, although black, teeth, stocky, dense build, a worried expression of physiognomy in the morning at work, a cheerful evening on the cards or at His Grace - all contributed to the present and future successes and strewn the life of His Excellency with roses.
am a sick man ... I am an evil man. I’m not an attractive person. I think my liver hurts. However, I don’t know a damn thing about my illness and I probably don’t know what hurts me. I am not being treated and have never been treated, although I respect medicine and doctors. Besides, I am also superstitious to the extreme; well, at least enough to respect medicine. (I am educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I don’t want to be treated with anger. This, probably, do not deign to understand. Well, I understand. Of course, I am not able to explain to you to whom exactly I will annoy my anger in this case; I know very well that I can’t “spoil” the doctors by the fact that they are not being treated; I know better than anyone that with all this I will only hurt myself and no one else. But still, if I'm not being treated, it is out of spite. The liver hurts, so let it hurt even more!
I’ve been living like this for a long time - twenty years. Now I'm forty. I used to serve, but now I do not serve. I was an evil official. I was rude and took pleasure in it. After all, I did not take bribes, therefore, I had to reward myself even with this. (Poor sharpness; but I won’t cross it out. I wrote it, thinking that it would come out very sharply; and now, when I saw it myself that I only wanted to vilely fuck it, I wouldn’t delete it on purpose!) When they approached the table at which I was sitting I used to ask petitioners for inquiries, - I gnashed my teeth at them and felt inexorable pleasure when I managed to upset someone. Almost always succeeded. For the most part, all were timid people: it is known - petitioners. But of the Forts, I especially hated one officer. He did not want to submit and disgusted thundered saber. I had a war with him for a year and a half for this saber. I finally got over it. He stopped rattling. However, this happened in my youth. But you know, gentlemen, what was the main point of my anger? Yes, that was the whole thing, that was the most disgusting thing, that every minute, even at the moment of the strongest bile, I was shamefully aware of myself that I was not only not an evil, but not even an embittered person, that I only scare sparrows in vain and amuse myself with this. I have foam at my mouth, but bring me some doll, give me a cup of tea with sugar, and I’ll probably calm down. I’ll even be touched by the soul, though, probably, then I’ll grind your teeth at you and suffer from insomnia for several months from shame. That is my custom.
Now I want to tell you, gentlemen, I wish I don’t want to hear this, why I did not even manage to become an insect. I will tell you solemnly that I wanted to become an insect many times. But even this was not worth it. I swear to you, gentlemen, that being too conscious is a disease, a real, complete disease. Ordinary human consciousness would be enough for human life, that is, half, a quarter less than the portion that goes to the share of the developed person of our unfortunate nineteenth century and, moreover, who has a pure misfortune to live in St. Petersburg, the most abstract and intentional city in all over the globe. (Cities are intentional and unintentional). It would be quite perfect, for example, such a consciousness, which all the so-called immediate people and figures live. I bet you think that I am writing all this from force so as to sharpen about the figures, and even from the force of bad taste I rattle my saber like my officer. But, gentlemen, who can be conceited with their own diseases, and even force them?
However, what am I? - everyone does it; they are also vain diseases, and I, perhaps, are the most. We will not argue; my objection is ridiculous. But still, I am strongly convinced that not only a lot of consciousness, but even all consciousness is a disease. I stand on that. Let's leave it for a minute. Tell me this: why did it happen that, as if on purpose, in those very, yes, in those very minutes in which I was most able to recognize all the intricacies of “all beautiful and high,” as we once said, it happened to me not to be aware anymore, but to do such unsightly deeds, such as ... well, in a word, which, although everyone seems to do, but which, as if on purpose, came to me precisely when I was most aware, what would they absolutely not have to do? The more I was aware of the good and all this “beautiful and high”, the deeper I sank into my mud and the more able I was to completely get stuck in it. But the main feature was that all this seemed to be not by chance in me, but as if he should have been so. As if it was my most normal condition, and not at all a disease or spoilage, so, finally, my hunt went on to fight this spoilage. It ended up that I almost believed (or maybe actually believed) that this, perhaps, is my normal state. And first, at first, how much flour I suffered in this fight! I did not believe that this happened to others, and therefore all my life I kept it to myself as a secret. I was ashamed (maybe even ashamed now); I even realized that I felt some kind of secret, abnormal, petty pleasure to return, it happened, to another nasty St. Petersburg night to my corner and vigorously realize that today I again made a muck that you couldn’t turn it back again, and inwardly, secretly, gnawing, gnawing yourself for it with teeth, sawing and sucking yourself to the point that bitterness finally turned into some shameful, damned sweetness and finally into decisive, serious pleasure! Yes, for pleasure, for pleasure! I stand on that. That's why I started talking, because I probably want to know everything: do others have such pleasures? I will explain to you: the pleasure was precisely from the too vivid consciousness of his humiliation; because you yourself feel that you have reached the last wall; that this is bad, but that it cannot be otherwise; that there is no way out for you, that you will never become another person; that even if there was still time and faith left to change into something else, he probably would not want to redo it; but if he wanted to, he wouldn’t do anything here either, because in reality, there’s nothing to alter. And the main thing and the end of the end is that all this happens according to the normal and basic laws of heightened consciousness and by inertia that directly follows from these laws, and as a result, here you can’t not only alter, but simply do nothing. It turns out, for example, due to heightened consciousness: it’s right that the scoundrel, as if this is a scoundrel, is a consolation, since he himself already feels that he is really a scoundrel. But enough ... Eh, he piled something, but what did he explain? .. What explains the pleasure here? But I will explain myself! I will bring it to the end! I then took the pen in my hands ...
For example, I'm terribly proud. I’m suspicious and touchy, like a hunchback or a dwarf, but, really, there were such moments with me that if it happened that they would give me a slap in the face, then maybe I would even be glad of that. I say it seriously: I probably would have managed to find a kind of pleasure here, of course, the pleasure of despair, but in despair there are the most burning pleasures, especially when you really very much realize the hopelessness of your situation. And then with a slap in the face, yes, then consciousness will crush you about what kind of ointment you were rubbed into. But the main thing, no matter how you scatter, but still it turns out that I am always the first to blame for everything and that, most offensively, I am guilty of no fault and, so to speak, according to the laws of nature. Because, firstly, it’s my fault that I’m smarter than everyone around me. (I constantly considered myself smarter than everyone around me, and sometimes, believe me, even this was a shame. At least I looked all my life to the side and could never look people straight in the eye). Therefore, it’s finally guilty that if there was magnanimity in me, it would only be more agony for me from the consciousness of all its futility. After all, I probably would have been unable to do anything out of my generosity: neither forgive, because the offender may have hit me according to the laws of nature, and the laws of nature cannot be forgiven; nor forget, because although the laws of nature, it’s still insulting. Finally, even if I wanted to be completely inhumane, but, on the contrary, wanted to take revenge on the offender, then I could not avenge anyone in anything, because I probably would not dare to do anything if I could. Why wouldn’t you dare? I want to say two words about this especially.
After all, people who know how to avenge themselves and generally stand up for themselves - how is this, for example, done? After all, as they embrace, let us suppose, a sense of revenge, there is nothing more in their entire being for this time and there will be nothing left but this feeling. Such a gentleman rushes straight to the goal, like a furious bull, bending its horns down, and only the wall stops him. (By the way: such gentlemen in front of the wall, that is, direct people and figures, sincerely give in. For them, the wall is not a challenge, as for us, people who think, and, therefore, do nothing; there is no excuse to return from the road, an excuse in which our brother, as a rule, doesn’t believe himself, but he is always very happy. No, they give in with all sincerity. The wall has for them something reassuring, morally permissive and final, perhaps even something mystical ... But about the wall after). Well, I consider such and such a direct person to be a real, normal person, as the tender mother herself, nature, wanted to see him, kindly giving birth to him on earth. I envy such a person to utter bile. He is stupid, I do not argue with you about this, but maybe a normal person should be stupid, why do you know? Maybe it’s even very beautiful. And I am all the more convinced of the evil, so to speak, suspicion that if, for example, we take the antithesis of a normal person, that is, a person who is intensely aware, who, of course, has come out not from the bosom of nature, but from a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but I suspect this), this retort man sometimes sometimes gives in to his antithesis that he, with all his strengthened consciousness, conscientiously considers himself a mouse, not a person. Even if it’s an intensely conscious mouse, but still a mouse,
а тут человек, а следственно..., и проч. И, главное, он сам, сам ведь считает себя за мышь; его об этом никто не просит; а это важный пункт. Взглянем же теперь на эту мышь в действии. Положим, например, она тоже обижена (а она почти всегда бывает обижена) и тоже желает отомстить. Злости-то в ней, может, еще и больше накопится, чем в l'homme de la nature et de la verite. Гадкое, низкое желаньице воздать обидчику тем же злом, может, еще и гаже скребется в ней, чем в l'homme de la nature et de la verite, потому что l'homme de la nature et de la verite, по своей врожденной глупости, считает свое мщенье просто-запросто справедливостью; а мышь, вследствие усиленного сознания, отрицает тут справедливость. Доходит наконец до самого дела, до самого акта отмщения. Несчастная мышь кроме одной первоначальной гадости успела уже нагородить кругом себя, в виде вопросов и сомнений, столько других гадостей; к одному вопросу подвела столько неразрешенных вопросов, что поневоле кругом нее набирается какая-то роковая бурда, какая-то вонючая грязь, состоящая из ее сомнений, волнений и, наконец, из плевков, сыплющихся на нее от непосредственных деятелей, предстоящих торжественно кругом в виде судей и диктаторов и хохочущих над нею во всю здоровую глотку. Разумеется, ей остается махнуть на все своей лапкой и с улыбкой напускного презренья, которому и сама она не верит, постыдно проскользнуть в свою щелочку. Там, в своем мерзком, вонючем подполье, наша обиженная, прибитая и осмеянная мышь немедленно погружается в холодную, ядовитую и, главное, вековечную злость. Сорок лет сряду будет припоминать до последних, самых постыдных подробностей свою обиду и при этом каждый раз прибавлять от себя подробности еще постыднейшие, злобно поддразнивая и раздражая себя собственной фантазией. Сама будет стыдиться своей фантазии, но все-таки все припомнит, все переберет, навыдумает на себя небывальщины, под предлогом, что она тоже могла случиться, и ничего не простит. Пожалуй, и мстить начнет, но как-нибудь урывками, мелочами, из-за печки, инкогнито, не веря ни своему праву мстить, ни успеху своего мщения и зная наперед, что от всех своих попыток отомстить сама выстрадает во сто раз больше того, кому мстит, а тот, пожалуй, и не почешется. На смертном одре опять-таки все припомнит, с накопившимися за все время процентами и... Но именно вот в этом холодном, омерзительном полуотчаянии, полувере, в этом сознательном погребении самого себя заживо с горя, в подполье на сорок лет, в этой усиленно созданной и все-таки отчасти сомнительной безвыходности своего положения, во всем этом яде неудовлетворенных желаний, вошедших внутрь, во всей этой лихорадке колебаний, принятых навеки решений и через минуту опять наступающих раскаяний — и заключается сок того странного наслаждения, о котором я говорил. Оно до того тонкое, до того иногда не поддающееся сознанью, что чуть-чуть ограниченные люди или даже просто люди с крепкими нервами не поймут в нем ни единой черты. «Может, еще и те не поймут, —
and then a man, and therefore ..., and so on. And, most importantly, he himself, because he considers himself a mouse; no one asks him about this; and this is an important point. Let us now take a look at this mouse in action. Suppose, for example, she is also offended (and she is almost always offended) and also wants revenge. Anger in her, perhaps, will accumulate even more than in l'homme de la nature et de la verite. The ugly, low desire to give the offender the same evil, maybe even scrubbing in it even than in l'homme de la nature et de la verite, because l'homme de la nature et de la verite, by its inherent stupidity, considers his revenge simply justice; and the mouse, due to heightened consciousness, denies justice here. It finally comes to the very thing, to the very act of revenge. The unfortunate mouse, in addition to one initial muck, has already managed to circle around itself, in the form of questions and doubts, so many other mucks; so many unresolved questions brought to one question that inevitably some fatal bourda, some smelly mud, consisting of her doubts, excitements, and, finally, from the spits pouring on her from direct figures, solemnly circling around in the form judges and dictators and laughing at her in all their throats. Of course, it remains for her to give up on everything with her paw and, with a smile of mock contempt, which she herself does not believe, shamefully slip into her own crack. There, in its vile, smelly underground, our offended, nailed and ridiculed mouse immediately plunges into cold, poisonous and, most importantly, eternal rage. For forty years in a row he will recall his insult to the last, most shameful details, and at the same time each time add more shameful details from himself, viciously teasing and irritating himself with his own imagination. She herself will be ashamed of her imagination, but still she will remember everything, go over everything, think up for herself unprecedentedness, under the pretext that she could happen too, and will not forgive anything. Perhaps he will begin to take revenge, but somehow, in fits and starts, because of the stove, incognito, not believing either his right to take revenge, or the success of his revenge and knowing in advance that she will suffer a hundred times more from all her attempts to take revenge, who takes revenge, but he, perhaps, will not scratch himself. On his deathbed, again, he will remember everything, with the percentages accumulated over time and ... But it was in this cold, disgusting half-despair, half-faith, in this conscious burial of himself that he was alive with grief, underground for forty years, in this intensely created and yet partly dubious hopelessness of his position, in all this poison of unfulfilled desires that entered inside, in all this fever of hesitation, decisions made forever and remorse again a minute later - the juice of that strange pleasure about which rum i spoke. It is so subtle, so sometimes unconscious that just a little limited people or even just people with strong nerves will not understand a single feature in it. “Maybe they don’t understand yet, -
you add from yourself, grinning - who have never received a slap in the face - and thus politely hint to me that in my life, perhaps, I also experienced a slap in the face, and therefore I speak as an expert. I bet you think that. But calm down, gentlemen, I did not receive a slap in the face, although I do not care, no matter how you think about it. Maybe I myself regret that in my life there were few slaps in the face. But enough, not a word more about this extremely interesting topic for you.
I continue calmly about people with strong nerves who do not understand the known refinement of pleasures. These gentlemen, with other incidents, for example, although they roar like bulls at the top of their lungs, although this, let us assume, brings them the greatest honor, but, as I already said, they immediately humble themselves against impossibility. Impossibility means a stone wall? What is a stone wall? Well, of course, the laws of nature, the conclusions of the natural sciences, mathematics. So, as they prove to you, for example, what happened from a monkey, there’s nothing to frown at, take it as it is. They will prove to you that, in essence, one drop of your own fat should be more expensive than a hundred thousand like you, and that as a result, all the so-called virtues and duties and other nonsense and prejudices will be resolved in the end, so take it to do something, because twice two - mathematics. Try to object.
“Have mercy,” they will shout to you, “it is impossible to rebel: it is two, two, four, four!” Nature does not ask you; she does not care about your desires and whether you like her laws or not. You must accept it as it is, and, consequently, all its results. A wall, therefore, is a wall ... etc., etc., ” Lord God, what do I care about the laws of nature and arithmetic when for some reason I don’t like these laws and two, two, four? Of course, I will not pierce such a wall with my forehead, if I really do not have the strength to break through, but I will not be at peace with it because I only have a stone wall and I did not have enough strength.
t is as if such a stone wall really is a reassurance and really contains at least some word for the world, only because it is twice two four. About the absurdity of absurdities! Whether it is a matter of understanding everything, recognizing everything, all impossibilities and stone walls; Do not reconcile with any of these impossibilities and stone walls, if you freeze reconciled; to reach by way of the most inevitable logical combinations the most disgusting conclusions on the eternal theme that even in a stone wall it’s as if something is to blame, although again it’s clear that it’s not at all guilty, and therefore silently and powerlessly grinding her teeth, voluptuously freeze in inertia, dreaming that even getting angry, it turns out that you have no one; that there is no object, or maybe never will be, that there is a substitution, fraud, cheating, that it’s just a bastard - it’s not known that anyone is unknown, but, despite all these unknowns and frauds, it still hurts you , and the more you don’t know, the more it hurts!
Ha ha ha after that you will find pleasure in toothache! You cry out with a laugh.
- Well then? and there is pleasure in toothache, I will answer. - My teeth hurt for a month; I know what it is. Here, of course, they are not angry in silence, but they groan; but these are not frank moans, these are moaning with malice, and in malice this is the whole thing. It is in these groans that the pleasure of the suffering is expressed; if he didn’t feel pleasure in them, he would not moan. This is a good example, gentlemen, and I will develop it. These groans express, firstly, all for our consciousness the humiliating aimlessness of your pain; all the legitimacy of nature, which, of course, you do not care about, but from which you still suffer, but it doesn’t. The consciousness is expressed that you have no enemy, and that there is pain; the consciousness that you, with all kinds of Wagenheims, are completely enslaved to your teeth; that someone wants to, and your teeth will cease to hurt, and not want to, will be ill for another three months; and that, finally, if you are still disagreeing and still protesting, then you only have to incinerate yourself or nail your wall more with your fist for your own comfort, and nothing more decisively. Well, it’s from these bloody insults, from these ridicule that nobody knows whose pleasure finally begins, sometimes reaching the highest voluptuousness. I ask you, gentlemen, someday listen to the groans of an educated nineteenth-century man suffering from teeth, on the second or third day of illness, when he begins to no longer groan as he moaned on the first day, that is, not simply because toothache; not like some rude peasant, but like a man touched by development and European civilization groans like a man, "renounced from the soil and folk principles", as they are now expressed. His moans become some kind of nasty, dirty-evil and continue throughout whole days and nights. And he himself knows that he will not bring any benefit to himself with moans; knows best of all that he only in vain tears and annoys himself and others; He knows that even the public in front of which he is trying, and his whole family have already listened to him with disgust, do not believe him a penny and understand to themselves that he could otherwise, easier to moan, without roulades and without twists, and that he is only so angry, with malice, indulges.
Well, voluptuousness is in all these consciousnesses and shame. “Say, I’m bothering you, I’m tearing your heart out, I don’t let everyone in the house sleep. So do not sleep, feel the same every minute that my teeth hurt. I’m for you now not the hero I wanted to appear before, but just an ugly man, a shenapan. Well, let it be! I am very glad that you saw through me. Are you bad at listening to my petty groans? Well, so let it be nasty; now I’ll do it even more badly for you ... ”Do not understand now, gentlemen? No, it’s obvious that we must deeply mature and inquire in order to understand all the bends of this voluptuousness! Are you laughing Very happy, sir. My jokes, gentlemen, of course, of a bad form, are uneven, inconsistent, with self-distrust. But this is because I do not respect myself. Can a conscious person have any respect for himself?
Well, is it possible, is it possible to at least have a little respect for yourself to a person who, even in the very sense of his own humiliation, has encroached on finding pleasure? I am not talking from a sickly repentance now. And in general, I could not bear to say: “Sorry, Dad, I won’t go forward,” not because I wasn’t able to say it, but, on the contrary, maybe because I was too capable of it, and even as? How deliberately and cling to, it happened, in that case, when he himself is neither guilty of sleep nor spirit. It was already all the more dry. At the same time, I again touched my soul, repented, shed tears and, of course, pouted myself, although I did not pretend at all. The heart already somehow crap ... Here even the laws of nature could not be blamed, although nevertheless the laws of nature constantly and most of all my life offended me. It’s disgusting to remember all this, and even then it was disgusting. After all, after a minute I’m already thinking with malice, it happened that all this is a lie, a lie, a disgusting false lie, that is, all these remorse, all these tendernesses, all these vows of rebirth. And ask, why did I distort and torment myself so? Answer: then, that it was boring to sit idly by; So I went to twists. Right, so. Notice better for yourself, gentlemen, then you will understand that this is so. He invented adventures for himself and composed his life in order to at least somehow live. How many times have I happened - well, at least, for example, to be offended, so, not because of what, on purpose; and you know yourself, it happened that you didn’t take offense because of that, let it go on you, but you will bring yourself to that, that in the end, right, you’ll really be offended.
Somehow, all my life I was drawn to throwing such things away, so I began to end and did not have power in myself. Another time I wanted to fall in love, even twice. Suffered, gentlemen, I assure you. In the depths of my soul I can’t believe that you are suffering, the mockery is stirring, but still I am suffering, and even in a real, real way; I’m jealous, I’m losing my temper ... And all from boredom, gentlemen, all from boredom; inertia crushed. Indeed, the direct, legal, immediate fruit of consciousness is inertia, that is, a conscious folded-arms-seat. I already mentioned this above. I repeat, I repeat strenuously: all direct people and figures are therefore active because they are stupid and limited. How to explain this? And here's how: because of their limited nature, they take the immediate and secondary causes as the initial ones, thus they are more likely and easier to convince themselves that they have found an indispensable basis for their work, and they calm down; But this is the main thing. After all, in order to begin to act, one must be completely reassured beforehand, and so that there is no doubt left. Well, how am I, for example, to calm myself? Where do I have the initial reasons that I will rest on, where are the reasons? Where will I get them from? I practice thinking, and as a result, I have every initial reason that immediately drags another, even more initial, and so on to infinity. Such is precisely the essence of all consciousness and thinking. This is again, therefore, the laws of nature. What finally is the result? Yes, the same thing. Remember: just now I was talking about revenge. (You, true, did not delve into). It is said: a man takes revenge, because he finds justice in this. So, he found the original reason, found the basis, namely: justice. Therefore, he is calm from all sides, and consequently, takes revenge calmly and successfully, being convinced that he is doing an honest and fair thing. But I do not see justice here, I do not find any virtue either, and consequently, if I take revenge, it is only out of spite. Anger, of course, could overpower everything, all my doubts, and, therefore, could serve quite successfully instead of the original reason precisely because it was not the reason.
But what should I do if I don’t have anger (I just started this way a while ago). My anger is again subject to chemical decomposition due to these damned laws of consciousness. You look - the object disappears, the reasons evaporate, the culprit is not found, the insult becomes not an insult, but a fatum, a kind of toothache in which no one is to blame, and therefore, again the same solution remains - that is, it’s more painful to nail the wall . Well, you wave your hand, because I did not find the original reason. And try to get carried away with your feeling blindly, without reasoning, without an initial reason, driving away consciousness at least for this time; hate or love, so as not to sit idly by. The day after tomorrow, this is a very late date; you will begin to despise yourself for having inflated yourself. The result: a soap bubble and inertia. Oh gentlemen, because I, perhaps, therefore only consider myself an intelligent person, because I could neither begin nor finish all my life. Let, let me be a talker, a harmless, annoying talker, like all of us. But what to do if the direct and sole purpose of every intelligent person is chatter, that is, deliberate pouring from empty to empty.
Oh, if I had not done anything out of laziness. Lord, how would I respect myself then. I would respect it precisely because at least I am able to have laziness in myself; at least one property would be positive in me, of which I myself would be sure. Question: who is this? Answer: lazy person; but it would be nice to hear about yourself. So, positively defined, then there is something to say about me. “Bummer!” - but this is a rank and an appointment, this is a career, sir. Do not joke, this is so. I am then a member of the very first club by right and I am only engaged in the fact that I constantly respect myself. I knew a gentleman who was proud all his life that he knew a lot about Lafite. He considered it a positive dignity and never doubted himself. He died not only with the deceased, but with a triumphant conscience, and he was absolutely right. And then I would choose a career for myself: it would be a lazy person and a glutton, but not simple, but, for example, sympathizing with everything beautiful and high. How do you like it? I have long imagined this. This "beautiful and tall" strongly crushed my head in my forties; but this is in my forty years, and then - oh, then it would be different! I would immediately find myself and the corresponding activity, namely: drink for the health of all that is beautiful and high. I would find fault with every occasion, to first shed a tear in my glass, and then drink it for everything beautiful and high. I would have turned everything in the world then into the beautiful and the high; in the most undeniable, indisputable rubbish I would find beautiful and high. I would become tear like a wet sponge. The artist, for example, painted a picture of Ge. Immediately I drink for the health of the artist who painted the picture of Ge, because I love everything beautiful and high. The author wrote “as you wish”; I immediately drink for the health of “anyone”, because I love everything “beautiful and high”. I will demand respect for myself, I will pursue the one who will not show me respect.
live calmly, I die solemnly - but this is charm, a whole charm! And then I would have grown such a belly for myself, I built such a triple chin, I would have developed such a sandalwood nose that every person I met would say, looking at me: “That's a plus! this is really positive! ”But as you wish, it’s pleasant to hear such reviews in our negative age, gentlemen.
But all these are golden dreams. Oh, tell me who announced this first, who first declared that man only does dirty tricks because he does not know his true interests; and what if to enlighten him, open his eyes to his real, normal interests, then a person would immediately stop doing dirty tricks, immediately would become kind and noble, because, being enlightened and understanding his real benefits, he would see in good his own benefit, but it is known that no one can act unknowingly against his own benefits, therefore, so to speak, if necessary, would do good? Oh baby! O pure, innocent child! but when, firstly, did it happen, during all these millennia, that a person acted only from one's own benefit? What to do with the millions of facts showing how people knowingly, that is, fully understanding their true benefits, put them on the back burner and threw themselves on the other road, at risk, at random, not being forced by anyone to do anything, but how as if just not wanting the indicated road, and stubbornly, arbitrarily pierced another, difficult, absurd, looking for it almost in the dark. Indeed, it means that they really did this stubbornness and self-will was more pleasant than any benefit ... Benefit! What is the benefit? And do you undertake to determine exactly what exactly the human benefit consists of? But what if it happens that human gain sometimes can not only, but even must consist precisely in that, otherwise, wish yourself something bad and not profitable? And if so, if only this case can be, then the whole rule went to dust. Do you think this happens? You are laughing; laugh, gentlemen, but just answer: are the human benefits perfectly calculated? Are there those who not only failed to meet, but who cannot fit into any classification? After all, gentlemen, as far as I know, you took your entire register of human benefits as an average from statistical numbers and from scientific and economic formulas. After all, your benefits are prosperity, wealth, freedom, peace, and so on and so forth; so that a person who, for example, would explicitly and unknowingly go against all this registry, would, in your opinion, be, and, of course, in my opinion, a obscurantist or completely crazy, would he? But here is what is surprising: why does it happen that all these statistics, sages and lovers of the human race, when calculating human benefits, constantly miss one benefit? They do not even take it into account in the form in which it should be taken, and the whole calculation depends on this. The trouble would not be great, would take it, this benefit, and put it on the list. But the fact is that it is disastrous that this ingenious benefit does not fit into any classification, does not fit into any list. For example, I have a friend
Oh gentlemen! but he’s also a friend to you; and to whom, to whom he is not a friend! In preparation for the case, this gentleman will immediately set out to you, eloquently and clearly, how exactly he must act according to the laws of reason and truth. Not only that: with excitement and passion, she will tell you about real, normal human interests; mockingly reproaching short-sighted fools who do not understand either their own benefits or the true significance of virtue; and - exactly in a quarter of an hour, without any sudden, extraneous excuse, namely, for something so internal that is stronger than all his interests - he will throw a completely different knee, that is, he will clearly go against what he himself said: and against the laws reason, and against one’s own profit, well, in a word, against everything ... I’ll warn you that my friend is a collective person, and therefore it is somehow difficult to blame him alone. That’s it, gentlemen, if there really is something that is almost to every person more expensive than its best benefits, or (so as not to break the logic) there is one such most profitable benefit (it’s overlooked which was just said), which is more important and more beneficial than all other benefits and for which a person, if necessary, is ready to go against all laws, that is, against reason, honor, peace, prosperity - in a word, against all these wonderful and useful things, would only achieve this initial, most profitable ygody that his most expensive.
“Well, all the same, the benefits are the same,” you interrupt me. - Allow me, sir, we’ll explain ourselves, and it’s not a pun, but the fact that this benefit is remarkable because it destroys all our classifications and all the systems compiled by lovers of the human race for the happiness of the human race are constantly breaking. In a word, everything is in the way. But before I tell you this benefit, I want to personally compromise myself, and therefore I boldly declare that all these beautiful systems, all these theories, explain to humanity their real, normal interests so that it, if necessary, in an effort to achieve these interests, would immediately the same kind and noble, for the time being, in my opinion, one logistics! Yes, logistics! After all, to affirm at least this theory of the renewal of the entire human race through the system of its own benefits, because this, in my opinion, is almost the same ... well, at least to affirm, for example, following Buckle, that a person softens from civilization, therefore, becomes less bloodthirsty and less capable of war.
Logically, it seems to him and so it goes. But before that, a person is addicted to the system and to the abstract conclusion that he is ready to deliberately distort the truth, is ready to not see and to hear without hearing, only to justify his logic. Therefore, I take this example, because it is too vivid an example. Yes, look around: blood flows like a river, and even cheered in this way, like champagne. Here you have all of our nineteenth century, in which Buckle lived. Here is Napoleon - both the great and the present. Here you have North America - an eternal union. Here you have, finally, the caricatured Schleswig-Holstein ... And what does civilization soften in us? Civilization develops in man only the versatility of sensations and ... absolutely nothing more. And through the development of this versatility, a person will probably reach the point that he will find pleasure in the blood. After all, this really happened to him. Have you noticed that the most sophisticated bloodsuckers were almost entirely the most civilized gentlemen, whom all these different Attillas and Stenki Razin sometimes did not fit into soles, and if they are not so striking in the eyes as Atilla and Stenka Razin, this is precisely why that they are too common, too ordinary, become familiar. At least from civilization, man has become, if not more bloodthirsty, then probably worse, even bloodthirsty, than before. Previously, he saw justice in bloodshed and with a good conscience exterminated who should; now, even though we consider the bloodshed to be disgusting, we still deal with this disgusting thing, and even more than before.
Which is worse? - decide for yourself. They say that Cleopatra (excuse me for an example from Roman history) loved to stick golden pins in the chest of her slaves and found pleasure in their cries and cramps. You will say that it was at a time, relatively speaking, barbaric; that now the times are barbaric, because (also speaking relatively) and now the pins are stuck; that even now man, although he sometimes learned to see more clearly than in the barbarian times, has not yet learned how to do as his mind and sciences indicate. But still, you are absolutely sure that he will certainly become accustomed when some old, bad habits completely pass and when common sense and science completely re-educate and normalize human nature. Are you sure that then a person himself will cease to voluntarily make mistakes and, so to speak, involuntarily will not want to relate his will to his normal interests. Not only that: then, you say, science itself will teach a person (even if it’s luxury, in my opinion) that he doesn’t have any will or whim in fact, and he never did, but that he himself no more than a kind of piano key or organ brad; and that, in addition, there are still laws of nature in the world; so that whatever he does is done not at all by his will, but by itself, according to the laws of nature. Consequently, these laws of nature should only be discovered, and people will not be responsible for their actions and it will be extremely easy for him to live. All human actions, by themselves, will then be calculated according to these laws, mathematically, like a table of logarithms, up to 108,000, and listed in the calendar; or even better, some well-meaning publications will appear, such as the current encyclopedic vocabulary, in which everything will be so accurately calculated and indicated that there will be no more acts or adventures in the world.
Then, that’s all you say, there will come new economic relations that are completely ready and also calculated with mathematical precision, so that all kinds of questions disappear in an instant, actually because they will get all kinds of answers. Then the crystal palace will line up. Then ... Well, in a word, then the Kagan bird will fly. Of course, there is no way to guarantee (this is what I’m saying now) that it will not be, for example, terribly boring (because well, what to do when everything is listed on the tablet), but everything will be extremely prudent. Of course, from boredom you can’t imagine! After all, gold pins stick out of boredom, but that would be all right. It’s bad (it’s again I say) that something good, perhaps, will be rejoiced at the golden pins. After all, man is stupid, phenomenally stupid. That is, although he is not stupid at all, he is so ungrateful that he cannot find another. After all, for example, I would not be surprised at all if suddenly, for no reason, among a universal future of prudence, a gentleman with an ignoble or, rather, with a retrograde and mocking physiognomy appears, rests his hands on his sides and tells us all: , gentlemen, do we not encounter all this prudence at once, with our feet, with ashes, for the sole purpose that all these logarithms go to hell and that we again live on our own stupid will! That would be nothing, but it’s a shame that after all, he will certainly find followers: this is how a person works. And all this from the most empty reason, which, it seems, is not worth mentioning: precisely because a person, always and everywhere, no matter who he was, liked to act as he wanted, but not at all as commanded him reason and gain; you can want it against your own benefit, and sometimes it should positively (this is my idea). Your own, free and free desire, your own, even the wildest whim, your own imagination, sometimes irritated even to the point of madness - that’s all there is the same, missed, most profitable benefit, which under any classification does not fit and from which all systems and theories are constantly scattered to hell.
And why did all these sages come from that a person needs some kind of normal, some kind of virtuous desire? Why did they certainly imagine that a person must necessarily have a prudently profitable desire? A man needs only one independent desire, whatever this independence may cost and no matter what. Well, the devil knows the desire ...
Ha ha ha Why, desire, in fact, if you want, and no! - you interrupt with laughter. - Science even about this time managed to anatomize a person before, which I already know that desire and the so-called free will are nothing more than ...
- Wait, gentlemen, I myself wanted to start like that. I confess I was even scared. I just wanted to shout that the devil wants to know what he depends on and that, perhaps, thank God, I remembered science and ... settled down. And here you are talking. Indeed, well, if they really ever find the formula of all our desires and whims, that is, what they depend on, according to which laws they happen, how exactly they spread, where they aspire in such and such a case etc., and so on. That is, a real mathematical formula — so then, then, at once, a person, perhaps, will stop wanting, and even, perhaps, will probably stop. Well, what kind of hunt do you want on a tablet? Not only that: he will immediately turn from a person to an organ brad or something like that; because what is a man without desires, without will and without desires, if not a brad in an organ shaft? What do you think? Let's count the probabilities - can this happen or not?
Um ... - you decide, - our desires for the most part are erroneous from an erroneous view of our benefits. That is why we sometimes want pure nonsense, because in this nonsense we see, by our stupidity, the easiest way to achieve any pre-determined benefits. Well, and when all this will be explained, calculated on a piece of paper (which is very possible, because it is infamous and pointless to believe in advance that a person will never know other laws of nature), then, of course, there will be no so-called desires. After all, if one wants to stumble ever completely with reason, then we will then reason, and not want to, in fact, because after all, one cannot, for example, while maintaining reason, want nonsense and thus go against the reason and wish oneself harmlessly .. And since all desires and reasonings can really be calculated, because someday they will open the laws of the so-called our free will, then, and, in addition to jokes, something like a tablet can be arranged, so we really we will want for this t blichke. After all, if, for example, someday, they’ll calculate and prove to me that if I showed such a cookie, it was because I couldn’t help showing it and that I had to show it with such a finger, so then in me will there be something free, especially if I’m a scientist and have I finished a science course somewhere? After all, then I can count on my whole life for thirty years; in a word, if that works out, then we really have nothing to do; all the same it will be necessary to accept. And indeed, we must, without getting tired, repeat ourselves that without fail at such and such a moment and in such and such circumstances nature is not asking us; that you need to take it the way it is, and not the way we fantasize, and if we really strive for a tablet and a calendar, well, and ... well, at least even for a retort, then what to do, we must accept and retort! not that she herself will take without you ...
Yes, but here is a comma for me! Gentlemen, you excuse me for philosophizing; there are forty years of underground! let me fantasize. You see, reason, gentlemen, there is a good thing, it is indisputable, but reason is only reason and satisfies only the rational ability of a person, and desire is a manifestation of all life, that is, all human life, and with reason, and with all scratches. And although our life in this manifestation often comes out rubbish, but still life, and not just the extraction of the square root. After all, for example, I naturally want to live in order to satisfy all my ability to live, and not in order to satisfy only my rational ability, that is, one twentieth of all my ability to live. What does the mind know? Reason knows only what it has managed to find out (perhaps it will never know otherwise; though it is not a consolation, but why not express it?), And human nature acts whole, everything that is in it, consciously and unconsciously, and even lying, but live. I suspect, gentlemen, that you look at me with regret; you repeat to me that an enlightened and developed person, in a word, such as a future person will not, cannot knowingly want something unprofitable for himself, that this is mathematics. I completely agree, really mathematics. But I repeat to you for the umpteenth time, there is only one case, only one when a person can deliberately, consciously wish himself even harmful, stupid, even stupid, namely: to have the right to wish himself even the stupidest and not to be bound by the duty to wish one only smart. After all, this is stupid, because it is a whim, and indeed, gentlemen, it may be most beneficial for our brother from all that is on earth, especially in other cases.
And in particular, it can be more profitable than all the benefits, even if it brings us obvious harm and contradicts the most sensible conclusions of our reasoning for benefits, because in any case it preserves the most important and most valuable thing to us, that is, our personality and our personality . Others here claim that this is, in fact, the most expensive thing for a person; desire, of course, can, if it wants, converge with reason, especially if you do not abuse it, but use it sparingly; it is both useful and even sometimes commendable. But the desire very often and even for the most part completely and stubbornly disagrees with reason and ... and ... and you know that this is useful and even sometimes very commendable? Gentlemen, suppose that a person is not stupid. (Indeed, one cannot say this about him in any way, if only for one reason, that if he is stupid, then who will be smart then?) But if he is not stupid, then he is monstrously ungrateful! Ungrateful phenomenally. I even think that the best definition of a person is: a creature on two legs and an ungrateful one. But that's not all; this is not his main flaw; his main shortcoming is constant insanity, constant, starting from the Flood to the Schleswig-Holstein period of human destinies. Injustice, and, consequently, imprudence; for it has long been known that imprudence does not otherwise occur than from unrighteousness.
Try to take a look at the history of mankind; Well, what will you see? Majestically? Perhaps, though majestically; one colossus of Rhodes, for example, what it costs! It is not without reason that Mr. Anaevsky testifies of him that some say that he is a work of human hands; others claim that it was created by nature itself. Colorful? Perhaps, though motley; dismantle only full uniforms for military and state uniforms only in all centuries and among all peoples - this is just what it costs, and you can completely break your leg with military uniforms; no historian can stand it. Monotonous? Well, perhaps, it’s monotonous: they fight and they fight, and now they fight, and before they fought, and then they fought, you must admit that this is even too monotonous. In a word, everything can be said about world history, everything that only the most frustrated imagination can come to mind. One cannot be said alone, which is prudent. You’ll choke on the first word. And even here’s the thing that happens every minute: constantly in life there are such benevolent and prudent people, such wise men and lovers of the human race, who precisely set themselves the goal of behaving as benevolent and prudent as their whole life, so to speak, to shine their neighbor, in fact in order to prove to them that it is really possible to live in the world both well-intentioned and prudent. So what? It is well known that many of these lovers, whether sooner, later or later, at the end of their life, cheated on themselves by making some kind of anecdote, sometimes even from the most indecent ones. Now I ask you: what can be expected from a person as from a creature gifted with such strange qualities? Yes, shower him with all the earthly goods, drown in happiness completely with your head, so that only the bubbles jump on the surface of happiness, as on water; give him such economic contentment that he really has nothing left to do except to sleep, eat gingerbread cookies and bother about the end of world history, - so he is here to you, man, and here, from one ingratitude, from one libel an abomination will do.
He would risk even gingerbread and purposely wish the most pernicious nonsense, the most non-economic nonsense, solely in order to add his pernicious fantastic element to all this positive prudence. It is her fantastic dreams, her vulgar stupidity that she wants to keep for herself only in order to confirm for herself (it’s really very necessary) that people are still people, not piano keys, on which the laws of nature themselves play, but they threaten to finish the game so much that it’s impossible to want anything past the calendar. But not only that: even if he really would have turned out to be a piano key, if he had not even been able to prove it to him by the natural sciences and mathematics, he would not have come to this, but would have done something on the contrary, solely out of one ingratitude; actually to insist on his own. And in the event that he does not have the means, he will invent destruction and chaos, invent various misery and insist on his own! The curse will be released around the world, and since only one person can curse (this is his privilege, most distinguishing him from other animals), because he, perhaps, will reach his own curse, that is, he will really be convinced that he is a person, not piano key! If you say that all this can be calculated on a plate, and chaos, and gloom, and a curse, so one possibility of preliminary calculation will stop everything and reason will take its toll - so a person will deliberately become crazy about this case so as not to have reason and insist on your own! I believe in it, I am responsible for it, because after all the whole thing is human, it seems, really it is all that the person constantly proves to himself that he is a person, not a brad! at least with his sides, yes he proved; even by troglodytstvo, yes proved.
https://allandorra.mirtesen.ru/blog/43660247458/Huawei-is-doing-this-by-embracing-Linux
https://www.plurk.com/p/nhrxdb
And after that, how not to sin, not to praise that this is not yet and that even the devil wants to know what depends on ...
You shout to me (if only you still dignify me with your shout) that after all, here no one will take my will off me; that they’re just trying to somehow arrange it so that my will, with my own will, coincides with my normal interests, with the laws of nature and with arithmetic.
“Oh, gentlemen, what kind of free will there will be when it comes to tablets and arithmetic, when there will be only one, two, two, four in progress?” Twice two and without my will four will be. Is it your own will!
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When I was in S County, I often had to visit Dubovskie Oregordy near the gardener Savva Stukac, or simply Savka. These gardens were my favorite place for the so-called “general” fishing, when, leaving home, you do not know the day and hour in which you will return, take all fishing tackle with you and stock up on provisions. As a matter of fact, I was not so interested in fishing as serene reeling, food at the wrong time, a conversation with Savka and long confrontations with quiet summer nights. Savka was a guy about 25 years old, tall, handsome, healthy, like flint. He was known as a sensible and sensible man, he was literate, rarely drank vodka, but as a worker this young and strong man was not worth a penny. Along with strength, heavy, invincible laziness poured in his muscles, strong as a rope. He lived, like everyone else in the village, in his own hut, used the allotment, but did not plow, did not sow, and did not engage in any craft. The old woman his mother was scrubbing under the windows, and he himself lived like a bird of heaven: in the morning he did not know what he would eat at noon. It’s not that he didn’t have enough will, energy or pity for his mother, but just like that, he didn’t feel a desire for work and didn’t recognize his benefits ... The whole figure breathed serenity, an inborn, almost artistic passion for living in vain, through the sleeves. When Savka’s young, healthy body was physiologically attracted to muscular work, the guy for a short while devoted himself to some free but absurd profession like turning pegs to nothing or running around with women. His favorite position was concentrated stillness. He was able to stand idle for hours at a time without moving and looking at one point. He moved on inspiration only when the opportunity presented itself to make some quick, impetuous movement: grab the running dog by the tail, tear off the headscarf from the woman, and jump over a wide pit. It goes without saying that with such stinginess on the movements Savka was a goal like a falcon and lived worse than any other mare. Over time, the arrears had to accumulate, and he, healthy and young, was sent by the world to the old man’s place, to the watchman and scarecrow of public gardens. No matter how laughed at him about his premature old age, but he did not blow a mustache. This place, quiet, convenient for still contemplation, was just by its nature.
I happened to be at this very Savka on one of the good May evenings. I remember that I was lying on a torn, worn cavity almost at the very hut, from which there was a thick and stuffy smell of dry herbs. With my hands under my head, I looked ahead of myself. At my feet lay wooden forks. Behind them, a black spot was cut into the eyes of the little dog Savka - Kutka, and no further, like fathoms two from Kutka, the land broke off into a steep bank of the river. Lying I could not see the river. I saw only the tops of the vine, crowding on this bank, but winding, like a gnawed edge of the opposite bank. Far beyond the coast, on a dark hillock, like frightened young partridges, huddled against each other in the hut of the village in which my Savka lived. Beyond the hillock the evening dawn burned out. There was only one pale crimson strip, and even that began to twitch in small clouds, like coal ashes.
To the right of the garden, softly whispering and occasionally shivering from the accidentally incoming wind, an alder grove darkened, an immense field stretched to the left. Where the eye could not distinguish the field from the sky in the darkness, the light flickered brightly. Away from me sat Savka. Tucking his legs in Turkish and dangling his head, he looked thoughtfully at Kutka. Our hooks with live bait were already standing in the river for a long time, and we had no choice but to indulge in the rest, which Savka had never loved, so tired and always rested. The dawn had not yet completely gone out, and the summer night already embraced nature with its undead, lulling affection.
Everything froze in the first, deep sleep, only some night bird, unknown to me, lingeringly and lazily uttered a long articulate sound in the grove, similar to the phrase: "Have you seen Niki-tu?" And immediately answered herself: "I saw ! saw! saw!"
“Why are nightingales not singing this today?” I asked Savka.
He slowly turned to me. His features were large, but clear, expressive and soft, like a woman's. Then he looked with his meek, brooding eyes at the grove, at the vine, slowly pulled a pipe from his pocket, put it in his mouth and scribbled it with a nightingale. And immediately, as if in response to his squealing, on the opposite bank pulled the corncrake.
- Here you have the nightingale ... - Savka grinned. - Derg-derg! Derg-derg! As if pulling the hook, but I suppose he also thinks that he is singing.
“I like this bird ...” I said. - You know? During the flight, the corostel does not fly, but runs on the ground. It flies only through rivers and seas, otherwise everything is on foot.
“Look, you dog ...” muttered Savka, glancing respectfully towards the screaming coronet.
Knowing how much Savka was to listen to, I told him everything I knew about the coronet from hunting books. From the corostel I imperceptibly switched to the flight.
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But then it began to rain, it became cold. We went to Italy, and I telegraphed my father so that, for heaven’s sake, he would send me eight hundred rubles in Rome to me. We stayed in Venice, in Bologna, in Florence and in every city we would certainly end up in an expensive hotel, where they fought separately for lighting, for servants, for heating, for bread for breakfast, and for the right to dine not in common the hall. We ate an awful lot. In the morning we were served café complet 3. At one o’clock, breakfast: meat, fish, some scrambled eggs, cheese, fruit and wine. At six o’clock, an eight-course dinner with long intermissions, during which we drank beer and wine. At nine o’clock tea. Before midnight, Ariadne announced that she was hungry and demanded soft-boiled ham and eggs. We ate with her for company. And in between meals, we ran to museums and exhibitions, with a constant thought, as if not to be late for lunch or breakfast. I yearned for the paintings, I was drawn to lie home, I got tired, looked through the eyes of a chair and hypocritically repeated after others: “What a charm! How much air! ”We, like well-fed boas, paid attention only to shiny objects, shop windows mesmerized us, and we admired the fake brooches and bought a lot of unnecessary, insignificant things.
It was the same in Rome. It was raining, a cold wind was blowing. After a fat breakfast, we went to inspect the temple of Peter and, thanks to our satiety and, perhaps, bad weather, he did not make any impression on us, and, convicting each other in indifference to art, we almost quarreled.
Money came from my father. I went to get them, I remember, in the morning. Lubkov also came with me.
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A third-year medical student, Stepan Klochkov, went from corner to corner in the cheapest number of furnished Lisbon rooms and zealously trained his medicine. The relentless, intense cramming in his mouth went dry and sweat came out on his forehead.
At the window, tucked at the edges with ice patterns, his tenant sat on a stool, Anyuta, a small, slender brunette of about 25, very pale, with meek gray eyes. Bending her back, she embroidered red thread on the collar of a man's shirt. The work was in a hurry ... The corridor clock hoarsely struck two in the afternoon, and the license plate had not yet been cleaned. A crumpled blanket, scattered pillows, books, a dress, a large dirty basin filled with soap slops, in which cigarette butts were floating, rubbish on the floor - everything seemed to be dumped into one pile, deliberately mixed, crumpled ...
- The right lung consists of three lobes ... - Klochkov crammed. - Borders! The upper lobe on the front wall of the chest reaches 4 to 5 ribs, on the side surface to the 4th rib ... back and to spina scapulae 1 ...
Klochkov, trying to imagine what he had just read, raised his eyes to the ceiling. Not having a clear idea, he began to probe his upper ribs through his vest.
“These ribs look like piano keys,” he said. - In order not to get confused in the bill, you definitely need to get used to them. We'll have to study on the skeleton and on a living person ... Well, Anyuta, let me orient myself!
Annie left the embroidery, took off her blouse and straightened. Klochkov sat against her, frowned and began to count her ribs.
- Um ... The first rib is not felt ... It is behind the collarbone ... This will be the second rib ... So ... This is the third ... This is the fourth .... Um .... So ... What are you squeezing?
- Your fingers are cold!
- Well, well ... you will not die, do not lie ... Therefore, this is the third rib, and this is the fourth ... Skinny you look like that, and the ribs are barely felt. This is the second ... this is the third ... No, you get confused and can not imagine clearly ... I have to draw. Where is my coal?
Klochkov took a piece of coal and drew several parallel lines corresponding to the ribs on his chest near Anyuta.
- Excellent. Everything at a glance ... Well, sir, and now you can knock. Get up!
Annie stood up and lifted her chin. Klochkov started tapping and was so immersed in this lesson that he did not notice how Anyuta's lips, nose and fingers turned blue from the cold. Anyuta trembled and was afraid that the medic, having noticed her trembling, would stop drawing with coal and knocking, and then, perhaps, she would pass the exam badly.
“Now everything is clear,” said Klochkov, ceasing to knock. - You sit and don’t wash the coal, but for the time being I’ll still memorize a little more.
And the doctor again began to walk and cram. Annie, as if tattooed, with black stripes on her chest, cringed from the cold, sat and thought. She spoke very little at all, she was always silent and thought everything, thought ...
For all six to seven years of her reeling in furnished rooms, such as Klochkov, she knew five people. Now all of them have already finished the courses, entered the people and, of course, as decent people, have long forgotten it. One of them lives in Paris, two by doctors, the fourth artist, and the fifth, they say, is already a professor. Klochkov - the sixth ... Soon this one will finish the course, will be released to the people. Undoubtedly, the future is beautiful, and a big man will probably come out of Klochkov, but the present is very bad: Klochkov has no tobacco, no tea, and four pieces of sugar are left. It is necessary to finish the embroidery as soon as possible, carry it to the customer, and then buy a quarter and tea and tobacco for the received quarter.
“May I come in?” - was heard outside the door.
Annie quickly threw a woolen shawl over her shoulders. Entered the artist Fetisov.
“And I’m asking you,” he began, turning to Klochkov and looking atrociously from under the hair hanging over his forehead. - Do me a favor, lend me your beautiful girl for an hour or two! I’m writing, you see, a picture, but without a model you can’t do it!
- Ah, with pleasure! - agreed Klochkov. - Go on, Anyuta.
- What I did not see there! Anyuta said quietly.
- Well, full! A man asks for art, and not for any trifles. Why not help if you can?
Annie began to dress.
“What are you writing?” Asked Klochkov.
- Psyche. A good story, but somehow it does not work out; I have to write everything from different models. Yesterday I wrote one with blue legs. Why, I ask, do you have blue legs? This, they say, stockings molt. And you are still cramming! Happy man, have patience.
- Medicine is such a thing that it is impossible without cramming.
- Um ... Sorry, Klochkov, but you live terribly pig-like! Damn knows how you live!
- So how? Otherwise, you can’t live ... From dad I get only twelve a month, and with this money it’s wise to live a decent life.
- That's right ... - said the artist and grimaced with disgust, - but you can still better live ... A developed person must necessarily be an aesthetic. Is not it? And what the hell do you have here! The bed is not tidied, slop, rubbish ... yesterday's porridge on a plate ... pah!
“It's true,” the medic said, and embarrassed, “but Anyuta had no time to clean it today.” Busy all the time.
When the artist and Anyuta left, Klochkov lay on the sofa and began to cram while lying, then accidentally fell asleep and
Lastours castles are made up of four Cathar castles, the Orbeil Valley’s “inseparable guardian brothers”, creating a unique defense complex surrounded by cypress trees.
The castles are located in the French commune of Lastours in the Aude department, just a 20-minute drive from Carcassonne.
Each castle has its own name: Cabaret, Surdespine, and Regina Tower or Queen Tower (Tour Régine), all of which are close to each other, whilst Quertinheux is on a separate hilltop nearby.
There are ruins of the small, one-nave, St. Peter’s church made in the Romanesque style, presumably dating back to the 11th century, below Quertinheux.
All four castles constitute a single entity, although they are not a single structure. Their main architectural feature is that they are “embedded” in the rocks.
Cabaret Castle is located to the north of the complex and is the largest of the four castles. It consists of three parts: a polygonal dungeon (an architectural term meaning “the main tower of the castle”), a main block, and a curtain (an architectural term meaning “wall connecting two towers”, the main and secondary). A narrow spiral staircase leads to the main tower, from the top of which you can come across one of the most beautiful views of the other three castles.
Regina Tower is round with a spiral staircase leading to the top.
Quertinheux Castle is a complex structure, an “architectural synthesis” of Cabaret Castle and Regina Tower.
Surdespine is a castle with a dominant square tower, the stone of which has a pinkish color.
There is the medieval village of Cabaret at the foot of the castles where archaeologists discovered the remains of a town and houses with stables, forges, workshops, and cobbled streets. The main period of archaeological excavations was from 1992-1998. The archaeologist Maria Elise Gardel guided the work. This is a special place, which appeared literally from nowhere, where it is pleasant to wander around, plunging into the world of the past.
One can access the castles through the main entrance, where there is an exhibition about the archaeological sites as well as a souvenir shop. A Michelin-starred restaurant and free parking are near the entrance.
Belvedere is an ideal place for those who do not have time or the desire to “storm” the castles. It has an observation deck with panoramic views of the entire complex (the place is also wheelchair accessible).
History
The first mention of the present “Lastours Castles” dates back to 585 when its name was “Caput Arietis Castra”. The land was in the possession of a Cabaret Lord’s family in 1063 whose wealth came mainly from the development of iron mines.
Lastours was a hotbed of Catharism, there is evidence that the Cabaret Lords were zealous followers of this religion.
The fortress belonged to Pierre-Roger during the Albigensian Crusade. The castles resisted the attacks of Simon de Monfort, the fifth Earl of Leicester, in 1209, and Humbert de Beaujeu’s attacks in 1227. The fortress surrendered in 1229 and they destroyed it along with the medieval village.
The King of France, Saint-Louis (Saint-Louis) confirmed his power and potency: as a result, four stone fortresses appeared on a rocky ridge. He built the Queen's Tower by the order of the king separately to confirm his superiority.
These royal castles have been fully adapted to new means of attack. A small royal garrison occupied each tower.
The “Lastours” name appeared after the revolution when the castles were abandoned.
The French Ministry of Culture declared the location to be a cultural heritage site in 1905.
Prices:
Adults: €8
Children (6-15 years) – €3.50
Family (1 adult and 2 children) – €12
Children up to 6 years old – free of charge
A conversation ensued. The readiness of the blond young man in a Swiss cloak to answer all the questions of his naughty neighbor was amazing and without any suspicion of perfect negligence, inappropriate and idleness of other questions. In response, he announced, by the way, that he had not really been in Russia for a long time, for over four years, that he had been sent abroad due to an illness, some strange nervous illness, such as a rap or dance, some tremors and convulsions. Listening to him, the black man grinned several times; he laughed especially when the question: “Well, have you been cured?” - the blond replied that “no, they didn’t.”
- heh! Money that must have the gift of overpaid, but we somehow believe they are - quipped nigger.
- The true truth! - one gentleman sitting nearby and badly dressed, got into a conversation, something like an official who was numb in the groomsman, about forty years old, strong build, with a red nose and an acne face, - the truth is, sir, only all Russian forces are donated for free!
“Oh, how wrong you are in my case,” the Swiss patient intercepted in a quiet and conciliatory voice, “of course I can’t argue, because I don’t know everything, but my doctor gave me one of his last ones to get here and almost two years there at his own expense contained.
- Well, there was nobody to pay, or what, was? - I asked the nigger.
- Yes, Mr. Pavlishchev, who kept me there, died two years ago; I then wrote here to Generals Yepanchina, my distant relative, but received no answer. So he came with that.
“Where have you come?”
“That is, where will I stop? .. Yes, I don’t know yet, right ... so ...
- Not yet decided?
And both listeners laughed again.
- And I suppose all this essence is in this knot? - I asked the nigger.
“I’m ready to bet that it’s so,” the red-faced official picked up with an extremely pleased look, “and that there is no further luggage in the luggage cars, although poverty is not a vice, which again cannot be overlooked.”
It turned out that this was also so: the blond young man immediately and with extraordinary haste admitted this.
“Your nodule still has some significance,” the official continued, when he had laughed at it (it’s wonderful that the nodal owner himself finally began to laugh, looking at them, which increased their hilarity), “and although it’s possible to beat, it’s not gold overseas parcels with Napoleonders and Friedrichsdor, below with Dutch arapists, which can be concluded at least only with the shoes that clothe your foreign shoes, but ... if you add to your knot in addition a kind of relative, like, roughly, a general Ep Anchin, then the knot will take on a slightly different meaning, of course, only if General Yepanchin is really a relative and you are not mistaken, out of distraction ... which is very, very characteristic of man, well, at least ... from an excess of imagination.
Eh bien, mon prince. Gênes et Lucques ne sont plus que des apanages, des estates, de la famille Buonaparte. Non, je vous préviens que si vous ne me dites pas que nous avons la guerre, si vous vous permettez encore de pallier toutes les infamies, toutes les atrocités de cet Antichrist (ma parole, j'y crois) - je ne vous connais plus , vous n'êtes plus mon ami, vous n'êtes plus my faithful slave, comme vous dites 1. Well, hello, hello. Je vois que je vous fais peur 2, sit down and talk.
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Oh, you guessed it again, ”the blond young man said,“ because I really almost make a mistake, that is, almost not a relative; to the point that I, rightly, was not at all surprised at the time that they didn’t answer me there. I was waiting.
- Spent money on franking letters for nothing. Um ... at least innocent and sincere, and this is laudable! Um ... we know General Yepanchin, actually, because the person is well-known; and the late Mr. Pavlishchev, who kept you in Switzerland, was also known, if only it was Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev, because their two cousins. Another hitherto in the Crimea, and Nikolai Andreyevich, the deceased, was a respectable man, and with connections, and four thousand souls at one time had ...
“Exactly so, his name was Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev,” and, answering, the young man gazed intently and inquisitively at the gentleman.
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On the deck of the ship going from Odessa to Sevastopol, some gentleman, quite handsome, with a round beard, came up to me to smoke, and said:
- Pay attention to these Germans who are sitting near the cabin. When the Germans or the British converge, they talk about the prices of wool, about the harvest, about their personal affairs; but for some reason, when we Russians converge, we only talk about women and high matters. But the main thing is about women.
The face of this gentleman was already familiar to me. The day before, we were returning in one train from abroad, and in Volochisk I saw how he stood with a lady, his companion, during a customs inspection, in front of a mountain of suitcases and baskets filled with a ladies' dress, and how he was embarrassed and depressed, when you had to pay a fee for some kind of silk rag, and his companion protested and threatened to complain to someone; then, on the way to Odessa, I saw how he carried either pies or oranges into the ladies' department.
It was a little damp, swaying slightly, and the ladies went to their cabins. The gentleman with a round beard sat beside me and continued:
- Yes, when the Russians converge, they only speak of high matters and women. We are so intelligent, so important that we speak the truths and can only solve matters of a higher order. The Russian actor does not know how to play pranks; he plays thoughtfully in vaudeville; so do we: when we have to talk about trifles, we interpret them only from a higher point of view. This is a lack of courage, sincerity and simplicity. We talk about women so often because it seems to me that we are unsatisfied. We look too ideally at women and make demands that are incommensurable with what reality can give, we get far from what we want, and as a result of dissatisfaction, frustrated hopes, heartache, and what hurts anyone says that . Aren't you bored with continuing this conversation?
“No, not at all.”
“In that case, let me introduce myself,” said my interlocutor, lifting himself slightly: “Ivan Ilyich Shamokhin, a Moscow landowner in some way ... I know you well.”
He sat and continued, affectionately and sincerely looking in my face:
- Some constant philosopher, like Max Nordau, would explain these constant conversations about women with erotic insanity or the fact that we are serfs and so on, but I look at this matter differently. I repeat: we are dissatisfied because we are idealists. We want the creatures that give birth to us and our children to be above us, above everything else. When we are young, we poeticize and idolize those we fall in love with; love and happiness with us are synonyms. In Russia, marriage is not despised for love, sensuality is ridiculous and disgusting, and the most successful are those novels and novels in which women are beautiful, poetic and exalted, and if a Russian has long been admired by the Raphael Madonna or is concerned about female emancipation, I assure you you, there is nothing false. But the trouble is this. As soon as we get married or get together with a woman, it takes about two or three years, when we already feel disappointed, deceived; we agree with others, and again disappointment, again horror, and in the end we are convinced that women are deceitful, petty, vain, unjust, undeveloped, cruel - in a word, not only not higher, but even immeasurably lower than us men. And we, unsatisfied, deceived, have no choice but to grumble and go about talking about what we have so cruelly deceived.
While Shamokhin spoke, I noticed that the Russian language and the Russian atmosphere gave him great pleasure. This is probably because he greatly missed his homeland abroad. Praising the Russians and attributing them a rare idealism, he did not speak badly of foreigners, and this was in his favor. It was also noticeable that his heart was not right and he wanted to talk more about himself than about women, and that I couldn’t avoid listening to some long story that looked like a confession.
And in fact, when we demanded a bottle of wine and drank a glass, he began like this:
- I remember, in some Veltman story, someone says: “That's the story!” And the other answers him: “No, this is not a story, but only an introduction to the story.” So what I have said so far is only an introduction, but I actually want to tell you my latest novel. Guilty, I’ll ask again: are you not bored to listen?
I said that it was not boring, and he continued:
- The action takes place in the Moscow province, in one of its northern districts. The nature here, I must tell you, is amazing. Our estate is located on the high bank of a fast river, at the so-called birky place, where the water rumbles day and night; Imagine a large old garden, cozy flower gardens, an apiary, a garden, below a river with curly willow, which looks a bit dull in big dew, it is turning gray, and on the other side of the meadow, behind a meadow on a hill, is a terrible, dark forest. In this forest, saffron mushrooms will be born apparently invisibly, and moose live in the most often. I’ll die, they will hammer me in a coffin, and everything seems to me to be dreaming of early mornings, when, you know, it hurts my eyes from the sun
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So said in July 1805 the famous Anna Pavlovna Scherer, the maid of honor and the approximate empress Maria Feodorovna, meeting the important and official prince Vasily, who first arrived on her evening. Anna Pavlovna coughed for several days, she had the flu, as she said (flu was then a new word used only by rare ones). In the notes sent out in the morning with a red footman, it was written without distinction in all:
“Si vous n'avez rien de mieux à faire, Monsieur le comte (or mon prince), et si la perspective de passer la soirée chez une pauvre malade ne vous effraye pas trop, je serai charmée de vous voir chez moi entre 7 et 10 heures. Annette Scherer »3.
- Dieu, quelle virulente sortie! 4 - answered, not at all embarrassed by such a meeting, the prince came in, in a courtly, embroidered uniform, in stockings, shoes and stars, with a bright expression of a flat face.
He spoke that exquisite French language, which our grandfathers not only spoke, but thought, and with those quiet, patronizing intonations that are characteristic of a significant person who has grown old in the light and at court. He went to Anna Pavlovna, kissed her hand, substituting her his perfumed and radiant bald head to her, and sat quietly on the sofa.
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When I met and for the first time I had to talk to her, what struck me first of all was her rare and beautiful name - Ariadne. It went so to her! She was a brunette, very thin, very thin, flexible, slim, extremely graceful, with elegant, highly noble features. Her eyes also shone, but her brother shone coldly and sweetly, like candy canes, youthful, beautiful, proud shone in her eyes. She conquered me on the first day of my acquaintance - and it could not be otherwise. The first impressions were so powerful that I still do not part with illusions, I still want to think that nature, when she created this girl, had some kind of wide, amazing design. Ariadne’s voice, her steps, her hat and even the prints of her legs on the sandy shore, where she secured minnows, aroused in me joy, a passionate thirst for life. By my beautiful face and beautiful forms, I judged my spiritual organization, and every word of Ariadne, every smile delighted me, bribed me and made me assume an exalted soul in her. She was affectionate, talkative, cheerful, easy to use, poetically believed in God, poetically talked about death, and there was such a wealth of shades in her mental warehouse that she could even give her own flaws some special, cute properties. Suppose she needed a new horse, but no money — well, then, what trouble? You can sell something or pawn, and if the clerk swears that nothing can be sold or pledged, then you can tear off the iron roofs from the wings and lower them to the factory or at the hottest time to drive the working horses to the market and sell them for nothing. These unbridled desires sometimes led to despair the entire estate, but she expressed them with such grace that in the end she was forgiven and allowed everything, like the goddess or Caesar's wife. My love was touching, and soon everyone noticed: my father, and neighbors, and men. And everyone sympathized with me. When it happened, I treated the workers with vodka, then they bowed and said:
- God grant you to marry Kotlovichy young lady.
And Ariadne herself knew that I love her. She often came to us on horseback or on a sharaban and sometimes spent whole days with me and with my father. She made friends with my old man, and he even taught her to ride a bike - that was his favorite pastime. I remember how one evening they were going to ride and I helped her get on the bike, and at that time she was so good that it seemed to me that, touching her, I burned my hands, I trembled with delight, and when they both, the old man and she, beautiful, slender, rolled along the highway nearby, the oncoming black horse on which the clerk rode rushed to the side, and it seemed to me that she rushed because she was also struck by beauty. My love, my worship touched Ariadne, touched her, and she longed to be as enchanted as I was, and to answer me with love too. It's so poetic!
But she could not really love, like me, because she was cold and already quite spoiled. A demon was already sitting in it, day and night whispering to her that she was charming, divine, and she, definitely not knowing why, in fact, she was created and for what life was given to her, she imagined herself in the future as a very rich and noble, she dreamed of balls, races, livery, a luxurious living room, her salon and a swarm of counts, princes, envoys, famous artists and artists, and all this worships her and admires her beauty and toilets ... This thirst for power and personal success and these constant thoughts all in one direction dampen people, and Ari floor was cold: and to me, and to nature, and music. Meanwhile, time passed, and there were no messengers, Ariadne continued to live with her brother's spirit, things were getting worse, so she had nothing to buy dresses and hats for herself and had to be cunning and dodging to hide her poverty.
How on purpose, when she was still living in Moscow with her aunt, a certain prince Maktuev, a rich man, but completely insignificant, got married to her. She flatly refused him. But now sometimes the worm of remorse tormented her: why she refused. Just as our man was blowing with disgust at kvass with cockroaches and still drinking, so she grimaced squeamishly at the memory of the prince and still told me:
- Whatever you say, but in the title there is something inexplicable, charming ...
She dreamed of a title, of brilliance, but at the same time she did not want to miss me. No matter how you dream about the messengers, but still the heart is not a stone and it is a pity for your youth. Ariadne tried to fall in love, pretended to love, and even swore love to me. But I am a nervous, sensitive person; when they love me, then I feel it even at a distance, without assurances and oaths, it immediately blew cold, and when she spoke to me of love, it seemed to me that I heard the singing of a metal nightingale. Ariadne herself felt that she didn’t have enough gunpowder, she was annoyed, and more than once I saw her cry. And then, you can imagine, she suddenly hugged me impulsively and kissed me - it happened in the evening, on the shore - and I saw through my eyes that about
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These gentlemen are know-it-alls sometimes, even quite often, in a well-known social stratum. They know everything, all the restless inquisitiveness of their mind and ability rush uncontrollably in one direction, of course, in the absence of more important life interests and views, as a modern thinker would say. By the word "everyone knows," one must understand, however, the area is rather limited: where does he serve someone with whom he is familiar, how much fortune he has, where he was the governor, whom he is married to, how many he took for his wife, who is his cousin, who are second cousins, etc., etc., and all that sort of thing. For the most part, these nerdy go with ragged elbows and receive seventeen rubles a month of salary. People whom they know all the ins and outs of course would not have figured out what interests guide them, and yet many of them are positively comforted by this knowledge, which equals a whole science, and they achieve self-esteem and even the highest spiritual contentment. And science is seductive. I have seen scientists, writers, poets, politicians who have acquired and attained their highest reconciliation and goals in the same science, even having made their careers positively. During the whole of this conversation, swarthy young man yawned, looked out the window without a goal, and was looking forward to the end of the journey. He was somehow absent-minded, something very absent-minded, almost alarmed, even becoming somehow strange: sometimes he listened and did not listen, looked and did not look, laughed and sometimes did not know and did not understand what he was laughing at.
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- Avant tout dites-moi, comment vous allez, chère amie? 5 Calm me, - he said, without changing his voice and in a tone in which indifference and even mockery shone through decency and participation.
- How can you be healthy ... when you suffer morally? Is it possible, having a feeling, to remain calm in our time? Said Anna Pavlovna. “You have been with me all evening, I hope?”
- And the holiday of the English messenger? Today is the middle. I need to show up there, ”said the prince. - The daughter will pick me up and take me.
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- I thought this holiday was canceled, Je vous avoue que toutes ces fêtes et tous ces feux d'artifice commencent à devenir insipides 6.
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“If you knew that you want it, you would have canceled the holiday,” the prince said out of habit, like a regular clock, saying things that he did not want to be believed.
- Ne me tourmentez pas. Eh bien, qu'a-t-on décidé par rapport à la dépêche de Novosilzoff? Vous savez tout 7.
- How do you say? Said the prince in a cold, bored tone. - Qu'a-t-on décidé? On a décidé que Buonaparte a brûlé ses vaisseaux, et je crois que nous sommes en train de brûler les nôtres 8.
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At the end of November, at a thaw, at nine in the morning, the train of the Petersburg-Warsaw Railway approached St. Petersburg in full steam. It was so damp and foggy that it dawned on the force; ten steps to the right and left of the road, it was difficult to make out anything from the windows of the car. Of the passengers there were also those returning from abroad; but the departments for the third class were more filled, and everything was small and business-like, not from very distant. Everyone, as usual, was tired, everyone had heavy eyes over night, everyone was stiff, all faces were pale yellow, the color of fog.
In one of the third-class cars, from dawn, they were facing each other, at the window itself, two passengers - both young people, both almost light, both not smartly dressed, both with rather remarkable physiognomies and both who finally wished to enter each other into conversation. If they both knew one thing about the other, which they were especially remarkable at this moment, then, of course, they would have marveled that the incident had so oddly put them against each other in a third-class carriage of a St. Petersburg-Warsaw train. One of them was short, about twenty-seven years old, curly and almost black-haired, with gray small but fiery eyes. His nose was wide and flattened, his face was bony; thin lips continually formed a kind of arrogant, mocking and even evil smile; but his forehead was high and well formed and brightened up the ignorantly developed lower part of the face. His dead pallor was especially noticeable in this face, giving the entire physiognomy of the young man a haggard appearance, despite a rather strong build, and at the same time something passionate, to the point of suffering, not in harmony with the impudent and rude smile and with his sharp, smug look . He was warmly dressed, in a wide, crouched black covered sheepskin coat, and not chilling during the night, while his neighbor was forced to bear on his shaky back all the sweetness of a crude November Russian night, which, obviously, had not been prepared. He wore a rather wide and thick cloak without sleeves and with a huge hood, exactly as they often use on the road, in the winters, somewhere far abroad, in Switzerland or, for example, in Northern Italy, without counting, of course, at the same time, and to such ends along the road as from Eidtkunen to St. Petersburg. But what was good and quite satisfying in Italy was not quite suitable in Russia. The owner of the cloak with a hood was a young man, also about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, a little taller than average, very blond, thick-haired, with hollow cheeks and with a light, pointed, almost completely white beard. His eyes were large, blue and fixed; there was something quiet in their gaze, but heavy, something full of that strange expression, according to which some would guess at first glance in the subject a mild illness. The face of the young man, however, was pleasant, thin and dry, but colorless, and now even his dull heart has faded. A skinny bundle from an old, shed foulard dangled in his hands, which seemed to enclose all his treasures. On his feet were thick-soled shoes with boots, - all is not in Russian. A black-haired neighbor in a covered sheepskin coat saw all this, partly there was nothing to do, and finally asked with that indelicate grin, in which sometimes human pleasure is expressed so unceremoniously and carelessly at the failures of one's neighbor:
- Chilly?
And he shrugged.
“Very,” the neighbor answered with extreme readiness, “and, mind you, this is still a thaw.” Well, if it were frost? I didn’t even think it was so cold here. Weaned.
- From abroad, what?
- Yes, from Switzerland.
- Few! Ek, after all! ..
The black-haired man whistled and laughed.
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I did not answer him. Then somehow, being in an excellent location and slightly tipsy, he said:
- I noticed you like Ariadne Grigoryevna. I wonder why you are yawning.
I felt embarrassed by these words, and, embarrassed, I expressed to him my view of love and women.
“I don't know,” he sighed. - In my opinion, a woman is a woman, a man is a man. Although Ariadna Grigoryevna, as you say, is poetic and sublime, but this does not mean that she should be outside the laws of nature. You yourself see, she is already at that age when she needs a husband or lover. I respect women no less than yours, but I think that well-known relationships do not exclude poetry. Poetry in itself, and a lover in itself. It’s the same as in agriculture: the beauty of nature in itself, and the income from forests and fields in itself.
When I and Ariadne were fishing for minnows, Lubkov was lying right there on the sand and joking with me or teaching me how to live.
- I am surprised, sir, how can you live without a novel! He said. “You are young, beautiful, interesting,” in a word, a man is at least somewhere, but you live as a monk. Oh, these old me are already 28 years old! I’m almost ten years older than you, and which of us is younger? Ariadna Grigoryevna, who?
“Of course you are,” Ariadne answered him.
And when he was tired of our silence and the attention with which we looked at the floats, he went into the house, and she spoke, looking at me angrily:
- In fact, you are not a man, but some kind, forgive me, goddamn mess. A man must be carried away, go crazy, make mistakes, suffer! A woman will forgive you for her insolence and arrogance, but she will never forgive this your judiciousness.
She was seriously angry and continued:
- To be successful, one must be decisive and courageous. Lubkov is not as handsome as you, but he is more interesting than you and will always be successful with women, because he does not look like you, he is a man ...
And even some kind of bitterness was heard in her voice. Once at dinner, she, not turning to me, began to say that if she were a man, she would not be sour in the village, but would go travel, live in the winter somewhere abroad, for example, in Italy. Oh Italy! Then my father involuntarily added fuel to the fire; he talked for a long time about Italy, how good it is, what a wonderful nature, what museums! Ariadne suddenly had a burning desire to go to Italy. She even punched the table and her eyes flashed: go!
And then conversations began, how good it would be in Italy - ah, Italy, oh yes oh - and so every day, and when Ariadne looked over my shoulder, from her cold and stubborn expression I saw that in her dreams she had already subdued Italy with all its salons, notable foreigners and tourists, and that it is no longer possible to keep it. I advised to wait a bit, to postpone the trip for a year or two, but she frowned with disgust and said:
“You are reasonable, like an old woman.”
Lubkov was for the trip. He said that it would be very cheap and that he would also love to go to Italy and rest there from family life. I, I repent, behaved naively as a gymnasium student. Not out of jealousy, but out of a premonition of something terrible, extraordinary, I tried, whenever possible, not to leave them alone, and they made fun of me; for example, when I entered, they pretended to have just kissed, etc.
But one fine morning her chubby, white brother spirits up to me and expresses a desire to speak with me in private. It was a man without will; Despite his upbringing and delicacy, he could not resist in any way, so as not to read someone else's letter, if it lay on the table in front of him. And now in a conversation, he admitted that he had accidentally read Lubkov's letter to Ariadne.
“I learned from this letter that she will soon go abroad.” Dear friend, I am very excited! Explain to me for God's sake, I do not understand anything!
When he said this, he was breathing heavily, breathing right in my face, and he smelled of boiled beef.
“Sorry, I dedicate you to the secrets of this letter,” he continued, “but you are Ariadne’s friend, she respects you!” Perhaps you know something. She wants to leave, but with whom? Mr. Lubkov is also going to go with her. Sorry, but this is even strange on the part of Mr. Lubkov. He is a married man, has children, and yet declares his love, Ariadne writes “you”. Sorry, but this is weird!
I got colder, my arms and legs were numb, and I felt pain in my chest, as if they had put a triangular stone there. Kotlovich, exhausted, sank into a chair, and his hands hung like whips.
“What can I do?” I asked.
- Inspire her, convince ... Judge: what is Lubkov for her? Is he a couple to her? Oh god, how terrible, how terrible! He continued, clutching his head. “She has such wonderful parties, Prince Maktuev and ... and others.” The prince adores her and no further than on Wednesday last week, his late grandfather Hilarion positively, like twice two, confirmed that Ariadne would be his wife. Positively! Grandfather Hilarion is already dead, but he is an amazingly smart person. We invoke his spirit every day.
After this conversation, I did not sleep all night, I wanted to shoot myself. In the morning I wrote five letters and that's it
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Prince Vasily always spoke lazily, as an actor speaks of the role of an old play. Anna Pavlovna Scherer, on the contrary, despite her forty years, was full of excitement and impulses.
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Being an enthusiast became her social position, and sometimes, when she didn’t even want to, she became an enthusiast not to deceive the expectations of people who knew her. A restrained smile, constantly playing on the face of Anna Pavlovna, although she did not go to her obsolete features, expressed, like spoiled children, the constant consciousness of her sweet lack, from which she does not want, cannot and does not find it necessary to correct herself.
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In the middle of a conversation about political action, Anna Pavlovna got excited.
“Ah, don't tell me about Austria!” I don’t understand anything, maybe, but Austria never wanted and does not want a war. She is betraying us. Russia alone must be the savior of Europe. Our benefactor knows his high calling and will be faithful to him. Here is one thing I believe in. Our good and wonderful sovereign has the greatest role in the world, and he is so virtuous and good that God will not leave him, and he will fulfill his calling to crush the hydra of the revolution, which is now even worse in the person of this murderer and villain. We alone must atone for the blood of the righteous. Who do we hope for, I ask you? .. England with its commercial spirit will not understand and cannot understand the whole height of the soul of Emperor Alexander. She refused to cleanse Malta. She wants to see, looking for the back thought of our actions. What did they say to Novosiltsev? Nothing.
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In Tiflis, I received a letter from my father. He wrote that Ariadna Grigorievna of such a date had left abroad with the intention of living there all winter. A month later, I returned home. It was already autumn. Each week, Ariadne sent letters to my father on fragrant paper, very interesting, written in beautiful literary language. I am of the opinion that every woman can be a writer. Ariadne described in great detail how difficult it was for her to reconcile with her aunt and to extort a thousand rubles from her on the road, and for how long she searched in Moscow for her distant relative, an old woman, to persuade her to go together. This overkill of details really rendered composition, and I realized, of course, that she had no companion. A little later, and I received a letter from her, also fragrant and literary. She wrote that she missed me, my beautiful, clever, loving eyes, reproachfully friendly that I was ruining my youth, pussycat in the village, while I could, like her, live in paradise, under palm trees, breathe in myself aroma of orange trees. And she signed like this: "Ariadne thrown by you." Then two days later another letter of the same kind and the signature: "forgotten by you." My head twisted. I loved her passionately, she dreamed of me every night, and then there was "abandoned", "forgotten" - what is it for? for what? - and then there’s village boredom, long evenings, sticky thoughts about Lubkov ... The unknown tormented me, poisoned me days in the night, it became unbearable. I could not stand it and went.
Ariadne called me to the Abbey. I arrived there on a clear, warm day after the rain, the drops of which still hung on the trees, and stopped in the same enormous dépendance 1 barracks, where Ariadne and Lubkov lived. They were not at home. I went to the local park, wandered through the alleys, then sat down. An Austrian general passed by, his hands clasped back, with the same red stripes that our generals wear. They drove the baby in a stroller, and the wheels screeched along the damp sand. A decrepit old man with jaundice passed, a crowd of English women, priests, then again an Austrian general. War musicians who had just arrived from Fiume, with sparkling trumpets, were dragging themselves to the booth; music began to play. Have you ever been to Abbey? This is a dirty Slavic town with only one street, which stinks and on which after rain it is impossible to pass without galoshes. I read so much and with such tenderness about this paradise on earth that when I later, having picked up my trousers, carefully crossed the narrow street and from boredom I bought hard pears from an old woman who, recognizing Russian in me, said “cheaters”, “Twenty”, and when I asked myself in bewilderment, where should I finally go and what should I do here, and when I certainly met Russians who were deceived just like me, I became embarrassed and ashamed. There is a quiet bay, along which go steamboats and boats with multi-colored sails; from here you can see both Fiume and the distant islands, covered with a lilac haze, and it would be picturesque if the view of the bay was not blocked by the hotels and their dépendance 2 ridiculous bourgeois architecture, which greedy bargainrs built up on this whole green coast, so for the most part you see nothing in paradise, except for windows, terraces and platforms with white tables and black footman tailcoats. There is a park, which you will now find in any foreign resort. And the dark, motionless, silent greens of palm trees, and the bright yellow sand in the alleys, I have bright green benches, and the sparkle of roaring soldiers' pipes, and the red stripes of the general — all this bothers in ten minutes. Meanwhile, you must somehow live here for ten days, ten weeks! Lurking involuntarily in these resorts, I became more and more convinced how uncomfortable and boring it was to live well-fed and rich, how languid and weak their imagination, how inconsiderate their tastes and desires. And how many times happier are those old and young tourists who, having no money to live in hotels, live wherever they have to, admire the view of the sea from the heights of the mountains, lying on the green grass, walk, see forests, villages close by, observe customs countries, hear her songs, fall in love with her women ...
While I was sitting in the park, it was getting dark, and at dusk my Ariadne appeared, graceful and elegant, like a princess; Lubkov followed her, dressed in everything new and wide, probably bought in Vienna.
“Why are you so angry?” He said. - What am I doing to you?
Seeing me, she cried out with joy, and if it had not been in the park, probably would have thrown herself on my neck; she firmly shook my hands and laughed, and I also laughed and almost cried with excitement. Interrogations began: as in the village, what is the father, did I see my brother and so on. She demanded that I look into her eyes and ask if I remember minnows, our little quarrels, picnics ...
“In fact, how good it all was,” she sighed. - But here we do not live bored. We have many friends, my dear, my good! Tomorrow I will introduce you here to one Russian family. Just please buy yourself another hat. - She looked at me and grimaced. “Abbey is not a village,” she said. - Here it was necessary comme il faut.
Then we went to a restaurant. BUT
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They did not understand, they could not understand the selflessness of our emperor, who wants nothing for himself and wants everything for the good of the world. And what did they promise? Nothing. And what they promised, and that will not happen! Prussia has already declared that Bonaparte is invincible and that all of Europe cannot do anything against him ...
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And I do not believe in a single word either Gardenenberg or Gaugvits. Cette fameuse neutralité prussienne, ce n'est qu'un piège 9. I believe in God alone and in the high destiny of our sweet emperor. He will save Europe! .. - She suddenly stopped with a smile of mockery at her ardor.
“I think,” said the prince, smiling, “that if you were sent instead of our dear Wincenzerode, you would have attacked the consent of the Prussian king.” You are so eloquent. Will you give me some tea?
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Now. “A propos,” she added, calming herself again, “today I have two very interesting people, le vicomte de Mortemart, il est allié aux Montmorency par les Rohans 10, one of the best surnames in France. This is one of the good immigrants from the real ones. And then l'abbé Morio; 11 do you know this deep mind? He was adopted by the sovereign. You know?
- BUT! I will be very glad, ”said the prince. “Tell me,” he added, as if he had just remembered something and was especially careless, while what he asked was the main purpose of his visit, “it is true that l'impératrice-mère 12 wishes to appoint Baron Funke first Secretary to Vienna? C'est un pauvre sire, ce baron, à ce qu'il paraît 13. - Prince Vasily wanted to identify his son in this place, which through the Empress Maria Feodorovna tried to deliver the baron.
Anna Pavlovna almost closed her eyes as a sign that neither she nor anyone else could judge what the Empress liked or liked.
“Monsieur le baron de Funke a été recommandé à l'impératrice-mère par sa soeur 14,” she only said in a sad, dry tone. While Anna Pavlovna called the Empress, her face suddenly presented a deep and sincere expression of devotion and respect, combined with the sadness that happened to her every time she mentioned her high patron in conversation. She said that Her Majesty deigned to show beoncoup d'estime 15 to Baron Funke, and again her look turned into sadness.
The prince fell silent with indifference, Anna Pavlovna, with her characteristic court and female dexterity and quickness of tact, wanted to click the prince because he dared to speak about the person recommended by the empress in such a way, and at the same time console him.
“Mais à propos de votre famille,” she said, “you know that your daughter, since she leaves, is fait les délices de tout le monde.” On la trouve belle comme le jour 16.
The prince leaned in a sign of respect and gratitude.
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But what an aunt! She said suddenly, looking at me with a smile. - We quarreled a little, and she drove off to Meran. What?
Then, when we walked with her in the park, I asked:
- What kind of aunt were you talking about this morning? What kind of aunt?
“It's a lie to save,” Ariadne laughed. “They should not know that I am without a companion.” - After a moment of silence, she snuggled up to me and said: - Dear, dear, make friends with Lubkov! He is so unhappy! His mother and wife are just awful.
She told you to Lubkov, and, going to bed, said goodbye to him just like with me, “until tomorrow”, and they lived on different floors - this gave me hope that they were all nonsense and no romance, and meeting with him, I felt easy. And when he once asked me to borrow three hundred rubles, I gave them with great pleasure.
Every day we walked and just walked. They wandered around the park, then ate, then drank. Every day, conversations with the Russian family. Little by little I got used to the fact that if I enter the park, I will certainly meet the old man with jaundice, the priest and the Austrian general, who carried with him a pack of small cards and, wherever possible, sat down and played solitaire, nervously twitching his shoulders. And the music played all the same. At home in the village I was ashamed of the peasants, when I went on a picnic with the company on weekdays or fished, and here I was ashamed of footmen, coachmen, and oncoming workers; it seemed to me that they were looking at me and thinking: “Why aren’t you doing anything?” And I felt this shame from morning to evening, every day. Strange, unpleasant, monotonous time; it varied except that Lubkov borrowed one hundred or fifty guilders from me, and suddenly came to life from money, like a morphine morphine, and began to laugh noisily at his wife, at himself or at creditors.
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And let me, with whom I have the honor ... - suddenly an acrid gentleman turned to a blond young man with a bundle.
“Prince Lev Nikolaevich Myshkin,” he answered with full and immediate readiness.
- Prince Myshkin? Lev Nikolaevich? I don’t know, sir. So I didn’t even hear it, sir, the official answered in thought, not found anywhere, even the rumor subsided, sir.
- Oh, surely! - the prince answered at once, - now there are no princes of the Myshkins at all, except me; I think I'm the last. As for the fathers and grandfathers, they were with us as one-mansions. My father, however, was a second lieutenant in the army, from the cadets. But I don’t know how Generals Yepanchina also came from the princesses of the Myshkins, also the last of her kind ...
- Hehe hehe! The last of its kind! Hehe! How did you turn it, ”the official giggled.
The black man grinned too. Blond was somewhat surprised that he managed to say a rather, but bad, pun.
“And imagine, I said without thinking at all,” he finally explained in surprise.
“Yes, understand, sir, understand, sir,” the official cheerfully assented.
“And what, prince, did you study sciences there, with a professor?” - Asked suddenly the black man.
- Yes ... studied ...
“But I've never learned anything.”
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“I often think,” Anna Pavlovna went on after a moment of silence, moving closer to the prince and smiling affectionately to him, as if by showing that the political and secular conversations were over and now sincere, “I often think how sometimes the happiness of life is unfairly distributed. Why did the fate of these two glorious children give you (excluding Anatole, your lesser, I do not like him, ”she interposed peremptorily, raising her eyebrows),“ such lovely children? ” And you, right, value them the least, and therefore they are not worth it.
And she smiled her ecstatic smile.
- Que voulez-vous? “Lafater aurait dit que je n'ai pas la bosse de la paternité 17,” said the prince.
- Stop joking. I wanted to talk seriously with you. You know, I'm not happy with your little son. Be said between us (her face took on a sad expression), Her Majesty spoke about him and pity you ...
The prince did not answer, but she silently, looking significantly at him, waited for an answer. Prince Vasily winced.
- What should I do? He said finally. - You know, I did everything that my father can do for their upbringing, and both came out des imbéciles 18. Hippolytus, at least, was a late fool, and Anatole was restless. Here’s one difference, ”he said, smiling more unnaturally and animatedly than usual, and at the same time he showed something unexpectedly rough and unpleasant in the wrinkles around his mouth.
“And why are children born to people like you?” If you weren’t a father, I couldn’t blame you for anything, ”said Anna Pavlovna, raising her eyes thoughtfully.
- Je suis votre faithful slave, et à vous seule je puis l'avouer. My children are ce sont les entraves de mon existence 19. This is my cross. I explain it to myself. Que voulez-vous? .. 20 - He was silent for a moment, gesturing his humility to a cruel fate.
Anna Pavlovna thought for a moment.
“You never thought about marrying your prodigal son Anatole.” They say, she said, that the old girls are ont la manie des mariages 21. I still do not feel this weakness for myself, but I have one petite personne who is very unhappy with her father, une parente à nous, une princesse 22 Bolkonskaya. - Prince Vasily did not answer, although with the speed of reasoning and memory characteristic of secular people, he showed by the movement of his head that he had taken this information into consideration.
“No, you know that this Anatole costs me forty thousand a year,” he said, apparently unable to keep the sad train of his thoughts. He was silent for a moment. https://zen.yandex.ru/media/id/595d4dd1d7d0a69b431e424a/biarric--korol-pliajei-i-pliaj-korolei-5d74b81f3d008800ad99ec33
“What will happen in five years if this goes so?” Voilà l'avantage d'être père 23. Is she rich, your princess?
- Father is very rich and stingy. He lives in a village. You know, this famous prince Bolkonsky, retired even under the late emperor and nicknamed the Prussian king. He is a very intelligent person, but with strangeness and heavy. La pauvre petite est malheureuse comme les pierres 24. She has a brother, that's what he recently married Lise Meinen, adjutant of Kutuzov. He will be with me today.
“Ecoutez, chère Annette 25,” said the prince, suddenly taking his interlocutor by the hand and bending her for some reason downward. - Arrangez-moi cette affaire et je suis votre faithful slave à tout jamais (brine - comme mon elder m'écrit des 26 reports: peace-er-p). She has a good family name and is rich. All I need.
And he, with those free and familiar graceful movements that distinguished him, took the maid of honor to the lady, kissed her, and, kissing, waved the maid of honor to the maid of honor, lounging on the armchairs and looking to the side.
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Attendez 27, said Anna Pavlovna, thinking. - Today I’ll talk to Lise (la femme du jeune Bolkonski) 28. And maybe it will be settled. Ce sera dans votre famille que je ferai mon apprentissage de vieille fille 29.
one
Well, the prince, Genoa and Lucca are estates of the name of Bonaparte. No, I’m telling you ahead if you don’t tell me that we have a war, if you still allow yourself to defend all the nasty things, all the horrors of this Antichrist (right, I believe that he is the Antichrist), I don’t know you anymore, you it’s not my friend, you’re not my faithful slave, as you say (French).
(In future, translations from French are not specified. Hereinafter, all translations, except those specially indicated, belong to L.N. Tolstoy. - Ed.)
2
I see that I scare you.
3
If you, the count (or the prince), do not mean anything better, and if the prospect of an evening with a poor patient does not scare you too much, then I will be very glad to see you today at home between seven and ten o'clock. Anna Scherer.
four
Lord, what a hot attack!
five
First of all, tell me, how is your health, dear friend?
6
I admit, all these holidays and fireworks are becoming unbearable.
7
Do not torture me. Well, what did they decide on the occasion of the Novosiltsev dispatch? You all know.
eight
What do you think? We decided that Bonaparte burned his ships, and we, too, seem ready to burn ours.
9
This notorious neutrality of Prussia is only a trap.
ten
By the way, - Viscount Mortemar, he is related to Montmorency through the Rogans.
eleven
Abbot Morio.
12
Empress Dowager.
13
Baron, this insignificant creature, as it seems.
14
Baron Funke is recommended to the empress mother by her sister.
15
a lot of respect.
sixteen
Speaking of your family ... is the enjoyment of the whole community. They find her beautiful, like a day.
17
What to do! Lafater would say that I have no bumps of parental love.
18
fools.
nineteen
I am you ... and I can confess to you alone. My children are the burden of my existence.
20
What to do?..
21
have the mania to marry.
22
girl ... our relative, princess.
23
Here is the benefit of being a father.
24
The poor thing is as miserable as stones.
25
Listen, dear Anet.
Why, and I am so, for some reason, ”added the prince, almost apologizing. - I was not found to be able to systematically teach me because of illness.
- Do you know the Rogozhins? - I asked quickly nigger.
- No, I don’t know, at all. I know very few people in Russia. Are you Rogozhin?
- Yes, I, Rogozhin, Parfen.
- Parthen? But these are not the very Rogozhins ... - the official began with heightened importance.
“Yes, those of those very ones,” the black man interrupted him quickly and with impolite impatience, who, however, didn’t even turn to an acrid official once, and from the very beginning he spoke only to one prince.
- Yes ... how is it? - the official was surprised to the point of tetanus and his eyes almost bulged up, and his face immediately turned into something reverent, and obsequious, even frightened - this is the same Semyon Parfenovich Rogozhin, a hereditary honorary citizen who died a month ago and two and a half million capital left?
“How did you know that he left two and a half million net worth to net worth?” - interrupted the nigger, not udostoivaya this time to look at the officer. - Oh, you see! (he blinked at the prince) and what is the use of it, that they are immediately henchmen climb? And it’s true that my parent died, and after a month I’m going home from Pskov almost without boots. Neither brother, scoundrel, nor mother, nor money, nor notifications - did not send anything! Like a dog! In a fever in Pskov he spent the whole month.
26
Arrange this business for me, and I am forever yours ... as my headman writes to me.
27
Wait a moment.
28
Lise (wife of Bolkonsky).
29th
I will begin to learn the craft of an old damsel in your family.
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he present cannot be complete and happy when there is a past, ”he said. - I have left a lot of luggage from the past from the neck. However, if it were money, it wouldn’t be a problem, otherwise it’s like naked, like good ... Believe me, I have only eight francs left, ”he continued, lowering his voice,“ meanwhile, I have to send my wife a hundred and mother as much . Yes, and you have to live here. Ariadne, like a child, does not want to get into a situation and litter money, like a duchess. Why did she buy a watch yesterday? And, tell me, why is it for us to continue to play some goodies out of ourselves? After all, the fact that she and I hide our relations from servants and acquaintances costs us an extra 10-15 francs per day, since I occupy a separate room. What is this for?
A sharp stone turned in my chest. There was no longer any unknown, everything was already clear to me, I was all cold, and at once I had a decision: not to see both of them, to run away from them, to go home immediately ...
“It is easy to get along with a woman,” Lubkov went on, “if you only undress her, and then how hard it all is, what nonsense!”
When I counted the money received, he said:
“If you don't give me a thousand francs on loan, then I will have to die.” This is your only resource for me.
I gave him, and he immediately perked up and began to laugh at his uncle, an eccentric who could not keep his address secret from his wife. Arriving at the hotel, I met the deadlines and paid the bill. It remained to say goodbye to Ariadne.
I knocked on her.
- Entrez! four
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And now I have to get a millionaire over once, and at least, oh my God! - the official threw up his hands.
- Well then, tell him, please! - Rogozhin nodded irritably and viciously at him, “because I won’t give you a dime, even though you walk upside down before me.”
- And I will, and I will go.
- You see! Why, I won’t give it, I won’t give it, I want to dance for a whole week!
- And don't come on! That's what I need; do not give! And I will dance. I’ll throw my wife, small children, and before you I will dance. Flatter, flatter!
- Ugh! - spat nigger. “Five weeks ago, here I am, like you,” he turned to the prince, “with one bundle from my parent I ran to Pskov, to my aunt; but in a fever there he fell down, and without me he will die. Kondrashka knocked down. Eternal memory to a dead man, but he almost killed me before death! Do you believe, prince, by golly! If I hadn’t run away, I would have just killed.
“Did you anger him with anything?” - answered the prince with some special curiosity examining the millionaire in a sheepskin coat. But although there might have been something interesting in fact in a million and in obtaining an inheritance, the prince was surprised and interested in something else; and Rogozhin himself, for some reason, was especially eager to take the prince to his interlocutors, although he seemed to need an interview more mechanically than morally; somehow more from distraction than from simple-heartedness; from anxiety, from excitement, just to look at someone and bash about something with his tongue. He seemed to be still in a fever, and at least in a fever. As for the official, he hung over Rogozhin, did not dare to breathe, he caught and weighed every word, as if he were looking for a diamond.
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Angry, he was angry, yes, maybe it was worth it, answered Rogozhin, but my brother drove me most of all. There is nothing to say about mother, the woman is old, Chetyi-Minei reads, sits with the old women, and that Senka-brother decides, so be it. But he didn’t give me something at one time? We understand, sir! It is true, I was then without memory. Also, they say, the telegram was launched. Yes, a telegram to your aunt and come. And she has been widowed there for thirty years and sits with the holy fools from morning to night. The nun is not a nun, but even more so. She scared the telegrams, yes, without printing it, and presented it to the unit, so she has been lying there so far. Only Konev, Vasily Vasilich, helped out, wrote everything off. From the cover of brocade on the coffin of the parent, at night, the brother brushed, gold, trimmed: "They, they say, what kind of money are evon." Why, he can go to Siberia for this alone, if I want, because it is blasphemy. Hey you pea scarecrow! - He turned to the official. - As the law: blasphemy?
- Blasphemy! Sacrilege! - immediately the official assented.
- For this to Siberia?
- To Siberia, to Siberia! Immediately to Siberia!
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Prince Vasily fulfilled the promise made at the evening with Anna Pavlovna, Princess Drubetskoy, who asked him about her only son Boris. He was reported to the sovereign, and, unlike others, he was transferred to the Semenovsky regiment as a warrant officer. But Boris was never appointed adjutant or a member of Kutuzov’s office, despite all the troubles and machinations of Anna Mikhailovna. Soon after the evening of Anna Pavlovna, Anna Mikhailovna returned to Moscow, directly to her wealthy relatives, the Rostovs, whom she had in Moscow and who had been brought up and lived for years with her adored Borenka, who had just been promoted to the army and was immediately transferred to the guards. The Guard had already left St. Petersburg on August 10, and the son, who had remained for uniforms in Moscow, had to catch up with her on the way to Radzivilov.
The Rostovs had a birthday girl Natalya - a mother and a smaller daughter. In the morning the trains pulled up and drove off, bringing congratulators to the great, famous Moscow house of Countess Rostova on Povarskaya. The countess with a beautiful older daughter and guests who did not cease to replace each other, sat in the living room.
The countess was a woman with an oriental type of thin face, forty-five years old, apparently exhausted by the children, of whom she had twelve people. The slowness of her movements and dialect, stemming from the weakness of her strength, gave her a significant appearance that inspired respect. Princess Anna Mikhailovna Drubetskaya, as a domestic person, sat right there, helping in the process of receiving and engaging guests in conversation. Young people were in the back rooms, not finding it necessary to participate in receiving visits. The count met and accompanied the guests, inviting everyone to dinner.
- I am very, very grateful to you, ma chère or mon cher 1 (he spoke to everyone, without exception, without the slightest shade, both above and below his standing people), for himself and for the dear birthday girls. Look, come have dinner. You will offend me, mon cher. I sincerely ask you from the whole family, ma chère. - These words with the same expression on his full, cheerful and clean-shaven face and with an equally strong shake of the hand and repeated short bows he spoke to everyone without exception and change. Having led one guest, the count returned to this or that which were still in a drawing room; having moved his seats and with the look of a man who loves and knows how to live, well-spread legs and put his hands on his knees, he swayed significantly, offered guesses about the weather, consulted about his health, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in very bad, but self-confident French, and again with a look of a tired, but firm in the fulfillment of his duties, he went to see off, straightening his rare gray hair on his bald head, and again he called for dinner. Sometimes, returning from the front, he went through a flower and a waiter into a large marble hall, where a table was set for eighty couverts, and, looking at the waiters who wore silver and porcelain, spread tables and unfurled tablecloths, called Dmitry Vasilyevich, a nobleman, engaged in all his affairs, and said:
- Well, well, Mitenka, see that everything is fine. So, so, - he said, with pleasure looking around the huge extended table. - The main thing is serving. That's it ... - And he left, sighing smugly, again into the living room.
- Marya L. Karagina with her daughter! - the huge carafe of the exit footman reported the bass entering the living room door. The countess thought and sniffed from a golden snuff-box with a portrait of her husband.
“These visits tortured me,” she said. “Well, I’ll take her last.” Choporn is very. Ask, ”she said to the footman in a sad voice, as if she said:“ Well, get it. ”
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They all think that I am still sick, ”continued the prince,“ Rogozhin continued, “and I, without saying a word, slowly, still sick, got into the carriage and I was going: open the gate, brother Semyon Semenych! He told the deceased parent me, I know. And what I really annoyed through Nastasya Filippovna with my parent is the truth. Here I am alone. Confused sin.
- Through Nastasya Filippovna? - the official said obsequiously, as if thinking something.
- But you don’t know! - shouted impatiently at Rogozhin.
- An and I know! - the official answered triumphantly.
- Avona! Yes, little is Nastasii Filippovna! And how impudent you are, I’ll tell you, creature! Well, that’s how I knew that some sort of creature like that would immediately hang! He continued to the prince.
- An, maybe I know, sir! - the official braked. - Lebedev knows! You, Your Grace, please reproach me, but what if I prove? And the same Nastasya Filippovna is the one through which your parent wished to inspire you with a viburnum staff, and Nastasya Filippovna is Barashkova, even a noble lady, so to speak, who is also princess in her own way, but she knows one Totsky, Afanasy Ivanovich, only one , a landowner and a capitalist, a member of companies and societies, and the leading friendship on this matter with General Yepanchin ...
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A tall, full-bodied, proud-looking lady with a chubby smiling daughter, noisy dresses, entered the living room.
- Chère comtesse, il ya si longtemps ... elle a été alitée, la pauvre enfant ... au bal des Razoumovsky ... et la comtesse Apraksine ... j'ai été si heureuse ... 2 - there were lively women voices, interrupting one another and merging with the noise of dresses and the moving of chairs. That conversation began, which they started up just enough to stand up at the first pause, make noise in dresses, and say: “Je suis bien charmée; la santé de maman ... et la comtesse Apraksine ”3, - and again, making noise with dresses, go into the front, put on a fur coat or cloak and leave. The conversation turned to the main city news of that time - the illness of the famous rich and handsome Catherine’s time old Count Bezukhov and his illegitimate son Pierre, who behaved so indecently at the evening with Anna Pavlovna Scherer.
“I am very sorry for the poor count,” said the guest, “his health was already poor, and now this is the chagrin of his son.” That will kill him!
- What? The countess asked, as if not knowing what the guest was talking about, although she had already heard about fifteen times the reason for Count Bezukhov's disappointment.
- Here is the current education! “Abroad,” the guest continued, “this young man was left to his own devices, and now in St. Petersburg, they say, he has done such terrible things that he and the police were sent from there.”
- Tell me! Said the countess.
“He chose his acquaintances badly,” Princess Anna Mikhailovna intervened. - The son of Prince Vasily, he and one Dolokhov, they, they say, God knows what they did. And both suffered. Dolokhov has been demoted to soldiers, and Bezukhov’s son has been deported to Moscow. Anatoly Kuragin - that father somehow hushed up. But they were sent from Petersburg.
“What the hell have they done?” The countess asked.
“These are perfect robbers, especially Dolokhov,” said the guest. “He is the son of Marya Ivanovna Dolokhova, such a respectable lady, and so what?” You can imagine; the three of them got a bear somewhere, put them in a carriage and drove to the actresses. The police came running to appease them. They caught the quarter and tied his back with his back to the bear and let the bear into the Moika; the bear swims, and the quarter on it.
“Good, ma chère, figure of a quarter,” cried the count, dying with laughter.
- Ah, what a horror! Why laugh here, Count?
But the ladies involuntarily laughed themselves.
“This unfortunate man was saved by force,” the guest continued. - And this is the son of Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov so cleverly amuses himself! She added. - And they said that he was so well brought up and smart. That is where all overseas education brought to. I hope that no one will accept him here, despite his wealth. They wanted to introduce him to me. I resolutely refused: I have daughters.
“Why are you saying that this young man is so rich?” - asked the countess, bending down from the girls, who immediately pretended not to listen. - After all, he has only illegal children. It seems ... and Pierre is illegal.
The guest waved her hand.
“He has twenty of them illegal, I think.” Princess Anna Mikhailovna intervened in the conversation, apparently wanting to show her connections and her knowledge of all secular circumstances.
“That's the thing,” she said significantly and also in a half-whisper. - The reputation of Count Kirill Vladimirovich is known ... He lost his account to his children, but this Pierre was beloved.
“How good the old man was,” said the countess, “last year!” I have never seen a prettier man.
“Now it has changed a lot,” said Anna Mikhailovna. “So I wanted to say,” she continued, “according to my wife, the direct heir to the whole name is Prince Vasily, but Pierre’s father loved him very much, he educated him and wrote to the emperor ... so no one knows if he will die (he’s so bad that this is expected every minute, and Lorrain came from St. Petersburg), who will get this great fortune, Pierre or Prince Vasily. Forty thousand souls and millions. I know this very well, because Prince Vasily himself told me this. Yes, and Kirill Vladimirovich I have a second cousin maternal uncle. He baptized Borya, ”she added, as if not ascribing any significance to this circumstance.
- Prince Vasily arrived in Moscow yesterday. He is going for an audit, they told me, ”said the guest.
“Yes, but entre nous 4,” said the princess, “this is an excuse; he came, in fact, to Count Kirill Vladimirovich, having learned that he was so bad.”
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