in the world

Chapter 15

My master and I rowed a boat through the streets of the market.The brick shops on both sides flooded the second floor due to flooding.I paddled while my master sat in the stern, clumsily steering the rudder.The rear oars were too deep in the water, and the boat weaved around corners and glides across the calm, murky, brooding water.

"Hey, the water head is really high this time, hell. It's not easy to start work," the master muttered, smoking a cigar, which smelled of burnt cloth.

"Slow down." He called out in panic. "Going to hit a lamppost."

After finally holding the rudder, he scolded: "Give us such a broken boat, you bastard..." He pointed me to the place where the shop needs to be repaired after the water recedes.His face was shaven blue, his lips were cropped short, and he was smoking a cigar. He didn't look like a contractor at all.

He wore a fur coat, boots pulled up to his knees, a hunting bag was slung over his shoulder, and a Rebel double-barreled gun was tucked between his legs; He puffed up his lips and looked around worryingly; then he put his hat back on his head again, looking very young, with a smile on his mustache, recalling some pleasant things, not like a busy person who is thinking about big things in his heart The water receded slowly and I was worried.Obviously, some thoughts unrelated to work were swirling in his mind.

I was slightly overwhelmed with wonder: it was so strange to look at this dead city, densely packed with rows of houses with closed windows—the flooded city seemed to be drifting past our boat.

The sky is gray, and the sun is hidden in the clouds, but sometimes a huge silver-white figure like winter appears from the gaps in the clouds.

The water is also gray and cold, you can't see its flow, it seems to be frozen, sleeping with the dirty yellow shops and empty houses.The pale sun peeked through the gaps in the clouds, and everything around became a little brighter. The gray sky was reflected in the water like a piece of cloth.Our boat drifted between the two skylines, and the stone house drifted, almost invisible, towards the Volga and the Oka.Beside the boat, there were some broken barrels, rotten boxes, baskets, wood chips, hay, and sometimes poles or ropes floating like dead snakes.

In some places, the windows were open.On the roof of the market promenade, shirts and trousers are drying, and felt boots are placed.There is a woman looking out the window into the gray water.A small boat was tied to the iron pillars of the promenade. The red belly of the boat was reflected in the water like a big piece of fat.

The owner pointed his chin at the places where there were people, and explained to me: "This is where the market watchman lives. He climbed to the roof from the window, got into a boat, and went out to patrol to see if there were any thieves. If there were no thieves, he would Just steal it yourself..." He said lazily and quietly, thinking of something else.The surroundings are as quiet as sleep, and the emptiness is unbelievable.The Volga and Oka rivers join to form a large lake.On the distant Maowu mountain, I can vaguely see the colorful urban area.The whole city is immersed in orchards that are still gray and dark, but the branches have sprouted, and the houses and churches are covered with green and warm coats.From the water came the lively Easter bells, and the whole town could be heard ringing.But our side seems to be in an abandoned cemetery.

Our boat rowed from the main street to the old church through two rows of dark woods.The cigar smoke pierced the owner's eyes and disturbed him. The bow and hull of the boat bumped against the tree from time to time, and the owner exclaimed anxiously: "This boat is broken."

"Don't steer the rudder."

"How can there be such a thing?" he murmured. "Two people rowing the boat, of course one rowing the oars and the other steering the rudder. Ah, look, there's a Chinese merchant over there..." I knew the market well; I also knew this ridiculous mall and its messy roof.On the corner of the roof, there are plaster statues of Chinese people sitting cross-legged.Once, some friends and I threw stones at those statues, and I knocked off the heads and arms of some of the statues with the stones.But now, I'm not going to be proud of something like this anymore... "It's so boring," the owner said, pointing to the mall. "If I were to build it..." He pushed his hat back and whistled.

But somehow it seemed to me that if he had built the brick market on this lowland which is flooded every year by the waters of the two rivers, it would be just as dull.

He will also come up with this kind of Chinese mall...

He threw the cigar overboard, and at the same time spat in disgust, and said: "It's boring, Peshkov, it's boring. There's no one to talk to about just uneducated people. If you want to brag, who will you brag to? No one, they are all carpenters, stonemasons, peasants, liars..." He looked at the beautiful white mosque on the right side protruding from the water on a hill, as if thinking of something The Forgotten Thing, went on: "I'm drinking beer now, and smoking cigars, like the Germans. The Germans, man, they're capable, good fellows. The beer is nice to drink, but the cigars aren't used to. After smoking too much, my wife would mutter: "You have a strange smell, like a saddler." Hey, brother, if you are alive, you must do everything you can... Well, you come to steer the rudder..." He put the oar on the side of the boat , picked up the gun, and fired a shot at a Chinese statue on the roof.The portrait of the Chinese was undamaged, and the shot fell on the roof and walls, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

"Miss," said the shooter without regret, reloading the gun.

"How do you treat the girls, have you broken the precept? Haven't you? I fell in love when I was 13 years old..." He talked about his first love with the architect's maid when he was an apprentice, just like a dream.

The gray water gently splashed, washing the corners of the house.There is a vast expanse of water behind the church, shining with turbid light waves, and a few black branches of willow trees are exposed on the water surface.

In the icon workshop, the songs of the seminary were constantly sung: the green sea, the violent sea... This green sea is probably fatal loneliness... "I can't sleep at night," the master said. "Sometimes I get up from the bed and stand at the door of her room, shivering like a puppy. The room is very cold. My boss goes to her room every night. Maybe I will be caught by him, but I am not afraid. Really..." He seemed to be inspecting an old dress to see if it could be worn again, and said thoughtfully: "She saw me, took pity on me, opened the door and called me: 'Come in, Little Fool'..." I've heard a lot of stories like this, and although there are some interesting things in them, I'm tired of hearing them.Everyone, about their first "love", almost always talked about it very lingeringly and sadly, without any bragging or obscenity.So I think it's the best place in a storyteller's life.There are many people who seem to have only such a little benefit in life.

The master smiled, shook his head, and sighed in amazement: "You can't say this to my wife, you must never say it. What's so great about it? But it's always something that can't be said. You see, it's really interesting... ..." He seemed to be talking not to me, but to himself.If he doesn't say it, I will.In such silence and desolation it was impossible not to speak, sing, or play the accordion.Otherwise, in this dead city drowned in gray cold water, deep and eternal sleep.

"First, don't get married early." He taught me. "Brother, getting married is a lifelong event. To live, live where you want, live where you want, and do whatever you want. This is your freedom. You can live in Persia as a Muslim, or you can live in Moscow as a policeman, Suffering, stealing—it can all be changed. But, brother, wife is like the weather, you can't change it... Really. She can't throw it away like a boot..." His complexion changed, he frowned, looked at the gray water, wiped his protruding nose with a finger, and murmured: "Yes, brother...be careful. You kowtow to everyone, even if you can bend and stretch... But each has his own trap in front of him..." We rowed into the thickets of Lake Meshchersky, which joins the Volga.

"Row slowly." The master ordered, aiming the gun at the bushes.

After hitting a few skinny wild ducks, he told me:
"Row to Kunavino. I'll stay there until dark. Go home and tell me I've been held up by contractors..." He disembarked on a street in the middle of the city, where The water has risen.I passed the market, and went back to Pointer Street, and moored the boat, and sat in the boat looking out at the confluence of the two great rivers, the city, the ships, and the sky.The sky is like the plump wings of a big bird, covered with clouds like white feathers.In the blue abyss between the clouds, the golden sun peeped out, and when its light reflected the earth, everything on the earth changed.Everything around is moving in a healthy and reliable way.The rushing river gently floats countless rafts.On the raft, bearded countrymen stood upright, shaking their long wooden oars, and yelling at each other and when they encountered ships.A small steamer was dragging an empty barge against the current, and the water rocked the steamer as if trying to take it off.The steamer, like a barracuda, shook its head, panting, and turned its wheels vigorously against the sudden rush of the waves.There were four people sitting side by side on the barge, with their legs hanging over the side of the boat, and one of them was wearing a red coat.The four of them sang at the same time, the lyrics were unclear, but the tone was familiar.

On this living river, everything feels familiar to me, everything feels good, and everything is understandable.But behind me, the submerged city seemed like a nightmare, like a story invented by the master, as incomprehensible as himself.

I watched everything to my heart's content, and felt that I had become an adult who could do any job, so I went home.On the way, I looked back at the Volga River from the hills in the inner city, and looked at the opposite bank from a high place. The land seemed wider, as if all people's expectations would be met.

I have books at home.The house where Queen Margot used to live is now home to a large family.Five girls, each more beautiful than the other, two middle school students, they lent me books, I greedily read Turgenev's works, to my surprise: his works are all clear and easy to understand, like the autumn sky It is sunny, and the characters in the works are so pure, and everything that is said in simple words is so beautiful.

I read Pomenrowski's "Essays on Theological School" again, and I was also amazed.

The strangest thing is that this work is very similar to the life of the icon workshop.I fully understand the psychology of doing cruel pranks because you're bored with life.

It is good to read Russian works, and one can often feel something familiar and sentimental in them.It seemed as if hidden in the pages of the book were the bells of Lent, humming softly as the book was opened.

I barely finished Dead Souls, and I did the same with Notes from the House of the Dead; caught my attention, and aroused in me a vague displeasure with such books. I don't like books like "Symbols of the Times", "Steady Progress", "What to Do", "Records of Smolino Village".

But my favorites are Dickens and Walter Scott.I read their works with great interest, often two or three times a book.Walter Scott's book conjures up images of festive Masses in cathedrals, often solemn, if a little tedious.Dickens is a writer to whom I bow my head.

This man had an astonishing mastery of the most difficult art of human love.

Many people gather at the gate every evening. Brothers and sisters from the K. family, and other youngsters, Vyacheslav Semashko, a schoolboy with an upturned nose.Sometimes Mademoiselle Putizina, the daughter of a high official, also came.Everyone is talking about books and poems, which are all kind and familiar to me.I have read more books than all of them.But they talked more about middle school, dissatisfaction with the teachers and so on.After listening to their words, I feel that I am freer than these friends, and I am surprised at their patience.But I still envy them, they are studying there.

My friends are all older than me, but in my opinion, I am more popular, mature and experienced than them.This somewhat embarrassed me, and I wished I could be closer to them.Every night, when I return home with a whole body of dust and filth, my mind is filled with many impressions that are completely different from theirs. Their thinking is very simple.They often talk about other people's daughters, sometimes miss this girl, sometimes love that girl, and want to write poems.But when it comes to composing poems, I often need my help.I ardently practiced my verse, and learned rhyme easily.But for some reason, my poems always have a touch of humor.For Miss Pudizina, who received more poems than anyone else, I often compare her to a vegetable—an onion.

Semashko said to me: "What kind of poem is this? It's like shoe spikes."

I would not lag behind them in anything, and I fell in love with Mademoiselle Putizina.

I don't remember how I confessed my love to her, but it ended badly.On the rotten green water of Xingchi Lake, there is a plank floating. I asked the young lady to sit on this plank and let me paddle, and she agreed.I moved the board to the shore and jumped on it. I could still float on the board alone, but when the lady in full lace and ribbons elegantly stood on the other side of the board, I proudly propped the pole to the shore. As soon as it opened, the damned board wobbled and sank, throwing the lady in the water.With chivalry, I jumped into the water to save her, and immediately lifted her ashore, panic and the green mud of the pool obliterating all of my queen's beauty.

She waved her watery fist, threatening and cursing at me:
"You threw me into the water on purpose."

No matter how sincerely I explained it, she hated me ever since.

In short, life in the city is not very interesting.The old housewife treated me very badly as before, the young housewife looked at me suspiciously, Victor's freckles grew more, his face became redder, I don't know why he was wronged, he would quarrel with anyone at every turn.

The master was very busy with drawing, and the two brothers were too busy, so they called my stepfather to help.

One day, coming back from the market early, about five o'clock, I went into the dining-room and saw the host sitting there drinking tea with a man I had long since forgotten.He stretched out his hand to me: "Hello..." Completely by accident, I was in a daze, and the past feelings burned like fire, burning my chest.

"Simply frightened," cried the master.

My stepfather looked at me with a smile on his very thin face.His dark eyes seemed larger, and everything about him seemed weak and restrained.I put my hands in his thin, hot fingers.

"Look, we meet again," he coughed.

I walked away boringly, as if I had been beaten.

A discreet and ambiguous relationship developed between us, he called me by my first name, added my paternal title, and spoke as if he were an equal.

"When you go to the shop, please buy me a quarter pound of Laferm tobacco and a hundred Victorson papers, and another pound of boiled sausage..." The money he handed me, always With the warmth in my hand, it is very uncomfortable to hold.Evidently he was consumptive and was not long alive.He knew this himself. He twisted his black and pointed beard, and said in a low voice: "My disease may not be cured. However, if you eat more meat, you will get better. Maybe I will be better." .”

He eats a lot and smokes fiercely, and he never leaves his mouth except when eating.I buy him sausages, ham and sardines every day.But my grandmother's sister, convinced of it, gloated for some reason and said: "It's not enough to treat Death with good things, Death can't always be fooled."

The masters treated the stepfather with an embarrassing concern, and often insisted on persuading him to take this or that medicine, but they laughed at him behind his back: "What a nobleman. He said that the bread crumbs on the table must be cleaned up. It is said that The flies come from the crumbs of the bread.” When the little housewife said this, the old housewife responded: “Yes, a real nobleman. His clothes are shiny and have holes in them, and he is still using them desperately. A brush. A queer man who would not get a speck of dust on his body."

But the master seemed to be comforting them: "Just wait, old hen, he won't be here for long..." The philistines' inexplicable aversion to the nobles unknowingly brought me and my stepfather closer .Venus flytrap is also a poisonous weed, but it is always beautiful.

The stepfather was panting among the group of people, like a fish accidentally dropped into a chicken coop.Although this analogy is a bit absurd, but this kind of life is so absurd.

In him, I began to see "good things" - the characteristics of the person I will never forget. I used all the good things I saw in the book to adorn him and the queen, and I used all the good things I saw in the book to decorate him and the queen. The purest things of fantasies and of oneself are placed upon them.Like "good things", the stepfather is a cold and unapproachable person.He treats everyone in this family equally, and he never speaks first, and when answering other people's questions, he is very polite and concise.I am very satisfied with the way he teaches the master.Standing by the table, bent over, tapped the thick paper with dry nails, and said quietly: "Here, the joists must be connected with iron hooks to reduce the pressure on the wall, otherwise, the joists will break the wall." Crushed."

"That's right, it's hell." The master grumbled.When the father walked away after a while, the wife murmured to him, "I wonder how you let him teach you a lesson."

The stepfather brushed his teeth after dinner at night and rinsed his mouth with his Adam's apple raised. For some reason, this made her very angry.

"I think," she said sourly. "Evgeny Vasilyitch, it's unhealthy for you to throw your head back like that."

He smiled courteously and asked, "Why?"

"……That's it……"

He began to pick his bluish nails with a bovine needle.

"Look, you're still picking your nails." The housewife became uneasy. "I'm about to die, but I'm still..." "Hey." The master sighed. "Old hen, how many such stupid words do you have..." "What did you say?" The wife was upset.

The old woman prayed fervently to God every night: "God, that consumptive ghost is really a burden to me, and Victor has nothing to do with it..." Victor imitated his stepfather's behavior, walking slowly, with aristocratic calm movements of his hands, How to tie his tie well, eat without making a sound, and from time to time he asked rudely: "Maximov, knee, what do you say in French?"

"My name is Yevgeny Vasilyevich," his stepfather reminded him calmly.

"Ah, all right. What's the boobs called?"

At supper Victor ordered his mother: "Ma-me-Donne-Muazzar corned beef."

"Oh, you Frenchman," said the old woman fondly.

The stepfather is like a deaf-mute man, he doesn't look at others at all, he just bites the flesh.

One day, the older brother said to the younger brother.

"Victor, now that you have learned French, I have to find you a lover..." The stepfather smiled silently. I remember that I only saw him laugh like this once.

But the housewife was very upset, threw the spoon on the table, and said to her husband: "You are not ashamed to say such obscene words in front of me."

Sometimes, my stepfather came to look for me on the porch by the back door. Over there, under the stairs to the attic, was my bedroom. I sat on the stairs and read a book facing the window.

"Where are you reading?" He asked, puffing out smoke, and there seemed to be a hissing sound from charred wood in his chest. "What book is this?"

I showed him the book.

"Ah," he said, looking at Li Feng: "I seem to have read this book too. Do you want to smoke?"

We looked out the window at the dirty yard and smoked.He said: "It's a pity that you can't study, you seem to be very talented..." "I'm studying, reading books..." "This is not enough, I need to go to school and have a system..." I want to say to him: "I My lord, you have also been to school and have systematic knowledge, but what is the use of it?"

He seemed to have a little sense of what I meant, and added: "The school can give him a good education for those who are ambitious. Only those with great knowledge can promote social life..." He advised me more than once: "You'd better Get out of here, it's not interesting or useful for you...""I like the workers."

"What... do you like?"

"It's fun to be with them."

"Maybe……"

But once he said: "To be honest, the owners here are very boring, boring..." When I remembered when and how my mother said this, I couldn't help but move away from him, and he asked with a smile. : "Don't you think so?"

"so."

"Well... I can see that."

"After all, the master still makes me like..."

"Yes, he may be a nice guy... but kind of ridiculous."

I want to talk to him about books, but he obviously doesn't like books, and he often advises me: "Don't be fascinated by books. Everything in the books is greatly whitewashed and distorted. Most of the people who write books are from here. A little man, like his master."

This assertion seemed to me bold, and it warmed me to him.

Once he asked me: "Have you read Goncharov's book?"

"Read a copy of The Baradar the Battleship."

"That 'Barada' is boring, but on the whole Goncharov is the smartest writer in Russia. I advise you to read his novel 'Oblomov'. It's his One of the truest, most daring, and, generally speaking, the best books in Russian literature..." About Dickens, he said: "Believe it, this is nonsense... The New Age "The Temptation of St. Anthony," serialized in the newspaper supplement, is a very interesting work—you can read it. You seem to like religion and all things religious, and this "Temptation" will be of use to you..." He took a Stack supplements.I read Flaubert's masterpiece.This work reminds me of many fragments in the biographies of the sages and certain places in the stories told to me by critics.I am not particularly impressed with it, but it is much more interesting than the "Memoirs of Beast Tamer Upirio Farmali" serialized at the same time.

I told the truth to my stepfather, and he said calmly: "It's too early for you to read this kind of book. But don't forget this book..." Sometimes he sat with me for a long time, and he didn't say a word. Said, coughing, puffing out smoke continuously.There was a startling fire in his beautiful eyes.I stared at him quietly, making me forget that this man who was dying so faithfully, simply, and without complaint had once been close to my mother and insulted her.I heard that he now lives with a seamstress, and I feel lost and pitiful when I think of her.She hugged such a grown-up skeleton and kissed such a stinking mouth, why didn't she hate it?Like "good things", this stepfather often unintentionally revealed some truths: "I love hounds, hounds are stupid, but I love them very much, they are very beautiful. Beautiful women are often quite silly..." I Not without pride, he thought: "How would you know that Queen Margot is among the women?"

"Everyone stays together in the same room for a long time, and their faces will change."

Once he said this sentence, I copied it in my notebook.

I expect such epigrams as I expect gifts.In this room, everyone speaks in dry, stale clichés.As soon as I hear extraordinary words, my ears feel comfortable.

I liked that my stepfather never mentioned my mother to me, not even by her name, and I felt for him a feeling that was almost respectful, if not respectful.

Once, I asked him about God. I don't remember what I asked. He glanced at me and said calmly, "I don't know. I don't believe in God."

I remembered Sitanov and told him about him.The stepfather listened attentively, and still said calmly: "He can judge, but those who judge always have faith...I just don't believe it."

"Is this possible?"

"Why is it impossible? You see, I don't believe it..."

He was dying—that was all I could see.I didn't pity him, but for the first time in a dying man, in the mystery of death, I felt a sharp, innocent interest.

A man sits here with his knee touching me, feverish, thinking.He firmly believes that people are divided into categories according to their own views.He spoke everything as if he had the right to judge and judge.There was something in him that I needed, or hinted at, that I didn't.He was a man of immense complexity, with infinite thoughts.No matter how I treat him, he will always be a part of me, living somewhere in me.I think of him, and the shadow of his soul is in my heart.By tomorrow, he will be completely gone, gone without a trace.Everything that was in the center of his brain, I felt, that I could see in his beautiful eyes, would disappear.When he dies, the one living thread that connects me to the world will be broken, and only memories will remain.However, this memory remains completely in my heart, it will always be confined in my heart, and it will never change; and what is alive and changing will disappear... But this is thought.Behind the thoughts, there is another unspeakable thing that produces thoughts, cultivates thoughts, and blatantly forces people to study various phenomena of life, and requires an answer to each phenomenon-why?
"You know, I'll be lying down soon," said the stepfather one rainy day. "I'm so weak that I don't want to do anything..." The next day, while drinking tea in the evening, he was very careful to wipe the crumbs from his lap on the table, and wiped from himself an invisible substance. .The old housewife looked at him suspiciously, and secretly said to her daughter-in-law: "Look, he scratched and wiped himself, how clean he made it..." After two days, he stopped coming to work.The old housewife took a big white envelope and said to me: "This was delivered by a woman at noon yesterday. I forgot to hand it to you. She is a lovely woman. I don't know if she came to you for something. ,real."

In the envelope was a piece of hospital paper with large characters written on it:

Please take time to see me.At the Martynov Hospital.Ye Ma.

The next morning, I was sitting on the edge of my stepfather's bed in the hospital ward.His body is longer than the bed, and his feet in gray socks are resting outside the bed rails. A pair of beautiful eyes are looking vaguely at the yellow wall, falling on my face, and then on a man sitting on the bedside. On the small hand of the woman on the stool, her hands rested on his pillow.The stepfather opened his mouth and wiped half of his face against her hand.The woman was wearing a plain dark dress, with tears hanging on her chubby egg-shaped face, moist blue eyes staring at her stepfather's face motionlessly, thin bones, a large pointed nose, and blackened lips.

"Should call for a priest," she whispered. "But he doesn't agree...he doesn't understand anything..." She withdrew her hands from the pillow and put them on her chest, as if praying.

After waking up for a while, the stepfather looked at the ceiling, as if remembering something, frowned seriously, and then stretched out his thin hand to my side: "Is that you? Thank you. Look... I'm very sad... ..." After saying this, he was tired again, and he closed his eyes.I touched his long purple-nailed fingers.The woman begged softly: "Evgeny Vasilyevich, please promise me."

"You guys know each other." He looked at her and said to me. "Very good man..." He fell silent, opening his mouth wider and wider. Suddenly, he let out a cry like a crow, and his body moved on the bed. He pushed back the quilt and groped around with his bare hands.The woman buried her face in the crumpled pillow and wept loudly.

The stepfather died soon after.As soon as he died, his face became more beautiful.

I helped the woman out of the hospital.She staggered and wailed like a sick man.She crumpled a handkerchief in one hand, took it to her face alternately and wiped her right eye and then her left eye.She squeezed the handkerchief more and more tightly, and gazed at it as if it were the last and most precious thing.

Suddenly she stopped, leaned against me and said reproachfully, "I haven't even survived the winter... Oh, my God, what's going on here."

As he spoke, he stretched out his tear-wet hands to me: "Goodbye. He praised you very much. You will be buried tomorrow."

"Send you to the house?"

She looked around: "No, it's daytime, not night."

I looked at her back at the corner of the alley.She walked slowly, as if she had nothing important to do.

It's August and the leaves are starting to turn yellow.

I didn't have time to go to the funeral of my stepfather, and since then, I haven't seen that woman again...

(End of this chapter)