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Chapter 49 Hamlet in Higre County (4)
"One of the two daughters was named Vera, just like any other lady; the other was named Sophia. I fell in love with Sophia. The sisters shared a bedroom with two pure wooden beds, yellow in color. There are mignonettes, and badly drawn pen portraits of boyfriend and girlfriend (among them, there is a portrait of a gentleman who stands out, his face is very expressive, and the signature on the painting is also very strong. High expectations in youth, but the result is the same as all of us—nothing), there are portraits of Goethe and Schiller, German books, dried wreaths and other souvenirs. I rarely enter this room, nor I don't like to go in, I don't know why the room stifles my breath. Also - how strange! Sofia is the cutest when I sit with my back on my back, or, when I'm on the balcony, especially in the evening, miss When she or fantasizes about her, she feels cute at this time."

"At that time I looked at the sunset, I looked at the trees, I looked at the small green leaves that were already dark but still clearly reflected in the rosy sky. Fern's favorite passionate and brooding movement; Sophia's mother snoring peacefully on the couch; Vera busily preparing tea in the sunset-lit dining room; the samovar hissing wonderfully , as if there was some happy event; shortbread made a pleasant crackling sound when it was broken, and a spoon made a tinkling sound when it touched a teacup; sound, as if there was some request; from time to time a few scattered raindrops fell from the transparent and soft clouds... I sat, sat, listened, listened, watched, my heart became brighter, It was as if I were in love again. At this moment, under the influence of such an evening, I asked the old woman to marry her daughter, and I was married two months later. It seemed to me that I loved her... By this time, I should know, and now I can't know whether I love Sophia or not."

"She's a kind, intelligent, non-verbal person, and she has a warm heart. But genius knows what, whether it's because of living in the country or something else, in her heart (if she has a heart) There is an incurable wound, a wound that cannot be healed, a wound that has no cause. Of course I only guessed about the existence of this wound after I was married. It was useless for me to think about it! I When I was a child, I raised a titmouse. Once it was caught by a cat. It was finally rescued and the injury was healed. But the titmouse is no longer as healthy as before. It is no longer lively, and it no longer demonstrates singing to others. , very haggard... As a result, one day in the middle of the night, a big mouse got into its open cage and bit off its mouth, and then it decided to die. My wife seemed to be killed by some kind of Like a cat caught by a cat, she too morose and withered, like my unfortunate titmouse. Sometimes she wanted to cheer herself up, to cheer herself up in the fresh air, in the sun, in the free world; she tried, and Shrunken. She loves me, and she has assured me several times that she has no other desires--ah, hell! Her eyes have dimmed. I thought, maybe something happened in the past? I'll look into it, But nothing. Well, now please analyze it for me: If there were omnipotent people, they would probably shrug their shoulders, sigh twice, and live as usual; but I, because I am an ordinary person, would think of hanging beams My wife is deeply absorbed in all spinster interests--beethoven, nocturnal excursions, mignonette, correspondence with friends, yearbooks, etc. She can't get used to it anyway; and yet it's ridiculous for a married woman to be troubled for no reason and sing "Don't Wake Her Up at Dawn" every night."

"So we lived like this for three years. In the fourth year Sophia died of dystocia, and--strangely--I seemed to have a premonition that she would not give me a daughter or a son for the great land. A new resident came. I remember her funeral. It was spring. The chapel in our parish was small and old, with blackened holy banners, nothing on the walls, and a few broken brick floors. A large icon was placed on each choir. The coffin was brought in, and it was placed in the center in front of the main door of the holy shrine, covered with a shabby cloth, and surrounded by three candlesticks. The ceremony began, an old deacon, with a small braid behind his back and a green sash around his waist, recited mournfully at the reading table; the priest was very old, good-looking, and his eyes narrowed Squinting, wearing a purple cassock with yellow patterns, and serving as a deacon to pray. In the open window, the fresh young leaves of birch covered with silver fluttered in the wind, making a rustling sound; the fragrance of grass floated into the house the red flames of candles paled in the bright spring light; the twittering of sparrows was heard all over the chapel, and sometimes a swallow flew in from under the roof and uttered a loud cry. In the golden sun, the hazel heads of several peasants moved up and down quickly, and they were concentrating on praying for the dead; light blue smoke came out from the incense burner. I looked at my wife's lifeless face... ...My God! Even death, even death himself, could not help her, could not heal her wounds, her usual sick, timid, and quiet expression-she seemed to be in the coffin. Not at ease... I am filled with grief. She is a very kind person, but for her own sake, it is better to die!"

The speaker's face was flushed, and his eyes were dimmed. "Finally," he went on, "I got rid of my depression after my wife's death, and I decided to take comfort in my career. I took office in the provincial capital. But in the big room of the official office Here, I have a terrible headache, my eyesight is failing, and it happens to be due to other things ... I quit. I want to go to Moscow, but first, there is not enough money; second ... I have already told you However, I am in peace with the world. This can be said to be too sudden, or I can be said to have this idea long ago. Spiritually, I have long been in peace with the world, but my head is still held high I consider my simplicity of mind to be influenced by country life and misfortunes.... On the other hand, I have long noticed that almost all my neighbors, young and old, at first I am horrified at being learned, having been abroad, and other virtues of my education. Now I am completely used to seeing it, and I start to be rude or indiscreet to me. ...and I forgot to tell you: During the first year of my marriage, I tried to write because of loneliness, and I sent an article to a magazine, if I remember correctly, it was a novella ; but after some time, I received a polite letter from the editorial office, in which there was a passage saying: My intelligence is certain, but I lack genius, which is what is needed in literature. And, I have heard it said that a good young Muscovite criticized me incidentally at the governor's evening, saying that I was a worthless person with exhausted talents. But my mostly spontaneous deceit continued, and therefore, You know, I hate to 'slap' myself. Finally one morning, I finally woke up. Here's what happened: The county sheriff came to my house and he wanted my attention to a broken bridge that I was not capable of repairing This magnanimous overseer of order served a piece of dried sturgeon as an appetizer, and at the same time reproached me for my negligence in the tone of an elder, but he also understood my situation and advised me to just ask the farmers to pile up some dung; He smoked and talked about the upcoming elections. At that time, there was a man named Orbasanov who wanted to get the honorary title of governor of the province. He was a big talker, and another Corruptionist. Besides, he is not distinguished in wealth and reputation. I expressed my opinion about him, and I said it very rudely. To be honest, I despise this Mr. Orbasanov. The county police chief looked at me , patted me on the shoulder kindly, and said kindly: 'Hey, Vasily Vasilyevich, you and I are not qualified to discuss such people?... Do your duty.'

"Come on," I asked angrily, "what's the difference between me and Mr. Orbasanov?" The police chief stopped smoking, opened his eyes wide, and burst out laughing. Funny,' laughed the tears out and said, 'Say something like this... ah! What's the matter?' Until he left, he was still laughing at me, occasionally touching my body with his arm, and calling me by my name. He Finally went. It was the last drop I was missing, my glass was almost overflowing. I walked around the room a few times, stopped in front of the mirror, looked at my disfigured face for a long time, stuck out my tongue, I shook my head impatiently. Tears fell from my eyes, and I saw clearly, more clearly than looking at my own face in the mirror, what an ordinary, ordinary person I am!"

The speaker was silent for a while. "In one of Voltaire's tragedies," he went on despondently, "a nobleman rejoices at reaching the culmination of misfortune. There is nothing tragic in my lot, but to tell the truth, I've been in these kinds of moods. I've felt the venomous ecstasy of cold despair. I've been lounging all morning in my own bed cursing the day of my birth and it's been such a good time, I can't stop fighting just yet But in fact, please think, poverty has kept me in the country which I hate; industry, office, literature--have not haunted me; Ladies with swollen curly hair and feverishly babbling the word 'life', swollen bodies and hypersensitive minds, have not taken any interest in me since I stopped babbling; I don't want to be alone . . . Just started, you know what? I started dropping by. I seemed to be obsessed with self-contempt, deliberately incurring all kinds of trivial humiliation. The servants missed me when the servants delivered the food at the table, people were cold and arrogant They don't talk to me, so I often just deliberately nod in the corner to some stupid rapper who is happy to kiss the dust off my feet when I'm in Moscow And the edge of the coat... I don't want to think that I'm giving myself to the painful pleasure of irony... Come on, what irony is there in solitude! See, that's how I've lived until now..."

"What does it look like," said the sleepy voice of Herr Contagliuchin in the adjoining room dissatisfied, "what fool is talking in the middle of the night?"

The speaker quickly slipped under the covers, looked up in fear, and raised a finger in warning.

"Hush...shh..." he whispered, and then, as if apologizing to the direction in which Kontagliuchen was speaking, he said respectfully: "Got it, got it, I'm sorry..." And then whispered: "It should be He sleeps, and rest restores his strength, so at least tomorrow he will eat as well as before. We can't disturb him. Besides, I have already said what I want to talk about, and you will probably want to sleep too. Good luck. Good night."

The speaker turned away quickly and buried his head in the pillow. "What's your last name?" I asked.

He looked up quickly. "No, come on," he interrupted me, "please don't ask me what my name is, and don't ask anyone else. Just pretend that I'm an unknown person. Besides, I'm an ordinary person, so I don't know my name." I don’t deserve a unique name... But if you must give me a title, it’s Hamlet of Higre County. No matter where, there is such a Hamlet,... goodbye.”

He went to sleep.At dawn the next day, he was no longer in the house.He left before dawn.

(End of this chapter)