in the world

Chapter 2

Gloomy and silent as the grave,

Walk in no man's land.

Behind him was a dark cloud-like army chasing and shouting: "Where is Rome? Where is majestic Rome?"

I already know that Rome is a capital city, but what kind of nation are the Huns?

I have to figure it out.

I found a good opportunity and asked the master.

"Hun?" he repeated in surprise. "The devil knows what this is? It's probably a meaningless thing..." He shook his head disapprovingly.

"You're full of useless stuff, and that's not a good thing, Peshkov."

Whether it is good or bad, but I want to know it.

I think the priest Solovyov in the team must know what the Huns are. I met him in the yard, so I stopped him and asked.

He was frail and sickly, with red eyes, no eyebrows, a yellow beard, a pale face, and a violent temper.He leaned his black cane on the ground and said to me: "What does this have to do with you?"

Lieutenant Nesterov replied venomously:

"What did you say?"

So I decided that I had to ask the pharmacist in the pharmacy, who was always kind to me, about the Huns.He has an intelligent face, with a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his big nose.

"The Huns," the pharmacist Pavel Golitberg told me. "The Huns are a nomadic people like the Kyrgyz. There is no such people anymore, and they are now extinct."

I feel sad and frustrated, not because the Huns are extinct, but because the meaning of the word that has bothered me for so long turns out to be so simple and leads me nowhere.

But I'm still grateful for the Huns.Since I have had a lot of trouble with this term, my heart has become much more at ease, and thanks to this Attila I have been brought closer to the pharmacist Golitberg.

This person can explain all difficult nouns very colloquially.He has a key that unlocks all locks of knowledge.He straightened the glasses with two fingers, stared at my eyes through the thick glass, as if driving some small nails into my forehead, and said to me: "Good friend, a noun is like a tree. In order to understand why these leaves are not like that but like this, we must first understand how the tree grows, we must learn. My friend, a book is like a beautiful garden; there is everything in the garden: there is Some are pleasant to see, some are useful..." I used to go to that pharmacy to buy baking soda and bitter earth for adults suffering from chronic "heartburn" and bay ointment and laxatives for children , I went to find him by the way.His brief teachings made my attitude towards books more correct.

Unknowingly, I treat books like a drunkard treats alcohol, and become a king who can't live without him for a day.

Books made me see a different kind of life, a kind of strong emotion and desire that stimulates people to do great things and break laws.I can see that those people around me are neither capable of doing great things nor breaking the law. They live as if they have nothing to do with the world written in the book.What is meaningful in their lives? — This is inexplicable.I don't want to live this kind of life... I know that, I don't want to... I know from the description of the pictures that there are no potholes and rubbish in the streets of Prague, London, Paris, there are just Straight and wide roads, houses and churches are also different.There were no six-month winters where one had to stay indoors, nor was there a Lent where only sauerkraut, pickled mushrooms, oat flakes, potatoes, and that nasty linseed oil were allowed.Reading is not allowed during Lent, and the "Painting Forum" was put away by them; this kind of empty fasting life was forced upon me again.Comparing this kind of life with the ones I have seen in the book now, I feel its poverty and deformity even more.As soon as I have a book to read, my mood is good, my energy is refreshed, and I can work quickly, because I have a goal in my heart: finish the work earlier, so I can have more time to read the book.But after the books were confiscated, I became bored and sluggish, suffering from a kind of amnesia I never had before.

I remember that at such a time of boredom, a strange thing happened: One night, when everyone was going to bed, there was a church bell humming.Everyone in the house was startled, and half-naked people jumped to the window and asked each other: "Is there a fire? ... Is it an alarm bell?"

In the other houses, there was also bustle, with doors banging and banging.Someone is leading a harnessed horse running in the yard.The old woman shouted that there had been robbers in the church.

The master tried to stop her:
"That's enough, Mom... Didn't you hear it clearly, this is not an alarm bell."

"Then the bishop is dead..."

Victor climbed out of bed, and while he was getting dressed, he muttered, "I know what happened, I know."

The master told me to run up to the attic to see if there was a fire.I ran upstairs and climbed through the skylight to the roof without seeing the fire.In the silent and cold night air, the bells rang slowly and one after another, and the market lay sleepily on the ground.Unseen people ran past in the dark, creaking on the snow, and the runners of the sleds creaked.The bell was ringing more and more eeriely.I went back into the living room and said, "You can't see the fire."

"Pah, really," said the master in his coat and hat, pulling up his large collar, and hesitantly began to put his feet in his goloshes again.The housewife advised him: "Don't go out, hey, don't go out..." "Stop talking nonsense."

Victor also got dressed and teased everyone:

"I know..."

The two brothers went out into the street, and the women told me to make a samovar, and then I went to the window to look.Almost immediately, however, the master came back and rang the bell outside.He ran up the stairs, without saying a word, opened the door of the vestibule, and said roughly, "The Tsar has been assassinated."

"Killed." The old woman called out.

"Dead. The officer told me... what now?"

The doorbell rang again, and Victor came back. He listlessly undressed and said angrily, "I thought it was a war."

Afterwards they all sat down to tea, and talked slowly, but carefully, in low voices.The street was silent, and the clocks did not ring.For two whole days, they chatted quietly. They didn't know where they had been, and some guests had come here, and they talked about it in detail.I'd like to know what happened, but the hosts put away the papers and won't let me read them.I asked Sidorov, why was the Tsar assassinated?He whispered: "You are not allowed to talk nonsense about such things..." This matter was quickly forgotten, and my mind was distracted by daily trivial matters, and after a while, I encountered a very unfortunate thing .

One Sunday, when the masters went out to worship early in the morning, I lit the samovar and went to tidy up the house.At this moment the oldest child ran into the kitchen, unplugged the samovar, and took it under the table to play.The charcoal fire in the samovar was very hot, and as soon as the water drained out, the samovar started welding.I was still in the living room when I heard a strange noise from the samovar. I ran to the kitchen to see, oh, it’s terrible, the whole copper samovar has turned green and is shaking, as if it will fly off the floor soon.

The mouth of the faucet came out of the weld and fell limply; the lid was on one side; molten tin was dripping from under the handle; the purple and blue samovar looked exactly like a drunkard.When I splashed it with water, it snorted and collapsed miserably on the floor.

The outside doorbell rang.I opened the door; the old woman immediately asked me if the samovar was ready, and I answered curtly, "It is ready."

This sentence was only uttered in a moment of panic and fear, and she said that I was laughing, so the crime was aggravated.I received a severe beating, and the old woman tied a handful of pine firewood and showed her prestige.The beating didn't hurt very much, but many wooden thorns were deeply pierced under the skin of the back.By evening, my back was swollen as high as a pillow.At noon the next day, the master had to send me to the hospital.

A tall, skinny doctor examined my injuries and said calmly in a low voice, "This is a kind of lynching. I have to write a medical report."

The master blushed, and rustled his feet against the floor; said something in a low voice to the doctor, who, looking over his head, answered simply, "I can't do that, it won't do."

But then came to me again:
"Are you going to report?"

I'm in pain, but I say:
"No, hurry up and treat me..."

I was taken to another room and lay on the operating table. The doctor took a cold pliers that were easy to touch on the skin, and while clamping the thorn, he said jokingly: "My friend, they made your skin so smooth." It's quite excellent, now your skin is watertight..." After the itchy operation, he said: "42 thorns have been clamped out, brother, remember well, you can brag about it. Come back at this time tomorrow, and I will change the gauze for you. Do you often get beaten?"

I thought about it, and replied:

"Before, I had to suffer a little more..."

The doctor laughed loudly:

"It's going to be all right, my friend, it's all going to be all right."

The doctor took me to my master and said to him:
"Please take it back, it's already wrapped. I'll change the gauze tomorrow. This kid is an optimist, so you're lucky..." When we got into the carriage and went back, the master said to me, "I was beaten before. , Peshkov. What can I do? I was beaten too, boy. You have me for you, but no one for me, no one. There are people everywhere, but not even Not a bastard. Oh, bastard..." He swore until the carriage was at the door.I kind of sympathize with him.I am very grateful to him because he talks to me like a human being.

The whole family greeted me like a birthday party.The women got to the bottom of it and asked how the doctor treated me and what he said.They listened in amazement, smacked their tongues, and frowned.I wonder how much interest they have in sickness, pain, and all things unpleasant.

I saw that they were satisfied that I did not want to sue them.I took this opportunity to ask permission to borrow a book from the tailor's wife.They didn't dare to refuse me, only the old woman sighed in surprise: "What a ghost."

A day later, I came to the tailor's wife.She said to me with a pleasant face: "I heard that you were sick and went to the hospital. You see, others are talking nonsense."

I kept silent and told her the truth. I felt embarrassed. Why did I let her know such a cruel and sad thing?It's great that she's different from everyone else.

Now I read books again: the thick books of Dumas, Ponson de Terrier, Montepan, Zaconna, Gaborio, Aimar, Bagobe, etc., I read them one by one. Native quickly swallowed it whole.What a joy to feel myself as if I were a man living an extraordinary life.This life excites me and excites me.The homemade wax table gave off a dim red light again. I read all night, so my eyes were a little broken. The old woman said to me very affectionately: "Bookworm, just watch, your eyeballs will burst and you will become blind." .”

But it soon became clear to me that, in such a well-written, varied and intricate book, with all the different countries and cities and the events taking place, the message was one: Bad luck for good people , being bullied by the wicked, the wicked are often luckier and smarter than the good, but in the end, there is always an elusive thing that defeats the wicked, and the good will surely win the final victory.Stuff related to "love" is also disgusting. All men and women talk about love in the same language.Not only was it disgusting to watch, but it aroused vague suspicions.

Sometimes I can guess who will win and who will lose after reading the first few pages, and once the story line is understood, I try to use my imagination to unbutton the characters in the book.As soon as I put down the book, I began to think about it, like doing exercises in an arithmetic textbook, and I became more and more able to guess which protagonist went to the happy heaven and which went to prison.

But behind all this one could also glimpse a living truth that meant a lot to me, another quality of life, another relationship between people.I understand that in Paris, whether it is a coachman, a laborer, a soldier, all "lower society" people are completely different from Nizhny, Kazan, Perm, etc.: there, People in the "inferior society" can speak boldly to gentlemen, and their attitude towards them is much more casual and free.For example, there is a soldier there (but among the soldiers I know, there is no one like him, neither Sidorov, the Vyat soldier on the ship, let alone Yermokhin), who is better than these people. More like a man; there was something about Smoore in him, but not so fierce and wild as Smoore.Another example is that there is a shopkeeper there, but he is better than all the shopkeepers I know.Even the priests in the book are not like the ones I know, they are much kinder and more sympathetic to people.In short, according to the book, the whole life in a foreign country is much more interesting, much lighter, and much better than what I know.In foreign countries there are not so many savage fights, no such violent teasing as the Viat soldiers, nor such violent prayers as the old wives.

What is especially remarkable is that although there are some villains, misers, and rascals in the book, there is absolutely no indescribable cruelty and penchant for playing tricks that I am familiar with and often see.Although the villains in the book are fierce, they are all fierce for a reason. It is generally understandable why they are so fierce.But the kind of vicious behavior I saw was purposeless and meaningless, and it wasn't for gaining any benefit from it, it was just for venting.

This difference between Russian life and foreign life became more apparent with each new book, and I felt a dazed dismay about the authenticity of old books with dirty corners and yellowed pages.

At this time, I suddenly got a novel by Goncourt called "The Sangano Brothers", and I read it in one go all night.I was amazed that there was something here that I had never experienced before, so I re-read this ordinary and sad story.In this book, there is no intricacies, no apparent interest.The first few pages, like the biographies of saints and sages, are blunt and dry, with precise diction and no exaggeration at all.It aroused an unpleasant sense of surprise in me at first, but the essay, organized in plain and concise sentences, stuck well in my mind.The tragedy of the two circus brothers develops step by step.My hands trembled unconsciously from the joy of reading this book.I burst into tears when I thought of the unfortunate entertainer who had broken both legs and climbed to the garret where his brother was secretly practicing his beloved art.

When I returned this fine book to my tailor's wife, I asked her to lend me some more like this.

"What is such a book?" She asked with a slight smile.

Her smile embarrassed me, and I couldn't tell what kind of book I wanted.She said: "This is a boring book, wait a minute, I'll get you a more interesting one..." A few days later, she borrowed a copy of "The True Story of a Little Waif" by Greenwood. Give me.The title of this book stings me a bit, but opening the first page immediately evoked an ecstatic smile in my heart, and I kept reading the whole book with this smile, and read some parts two or three times.

It turns out that even in foreign countries, there are sometimes boys who lead such a difficult life.

Well, my life isn't that bad, which is to say, don't be pessimistic.

Greenwood mustered a lot of courage in me.After reading this book, I soon got a book called "Eugenie Grandet", which is already a real "serious book".

The old man Grandet reminded me of my grandfather very clearly.It's a pity that this book is too small, but it's amazing how much truth is hidden in it.

This is a familiar and annoying truth in my life, but this book expresses it in a new kind of harmless and peaceful style.The characters in the books I read before, except Goncourt, were as sharp and accusing as my masters; those books often aroused people's sympathy for sinners and anger for good people.Although they expended a lot of brains and will, they could not achieve their wishes.When I see this kind of person, I always feel a little pitiful.This is because the good man stands motionless from the first page to the last, like the pillars, which do not arouse sympathy, though all evil schemes break upon these pillars.No matter how beautiful and strong a wall is, when a person wants to pick apples from the apple tree behind the wall, he will not appreciate the wall.So I always feel that the most precious and vivid things are hidden behind good deeds... In the novels of Goncourt, Grimwood, Balzac, etc., there are no good people or evil people, but some are just Some of the most vivid ordinary people are just amazingly energetic.They cannot be doubted, and they say and do what they say and do as they are and could not be otherwise.

So I see what a joy a "good, serious" book can bring, but where can I find such a book?On this point my tailor's wife cannot be of much help to me.

"It's a good book." She took a copy of "Two Hands with Roses, Gold, and Blood" by Arsan Gousse, or Bello, Paul.De Kock, Paul Fevar's novels to me.But I was very nervous when I read them.

She liked the novels of Mariette and Werner, but to me they were dull stuff; I didn't like Spielhagen much either.But Auerbach's short stories are very much to my liking; Sue and Hugo are not very attractive, and I value Walter Scott much more than them.What I want is a wonderful book that moves people and makes people happy like Balzac.Even that porcelain figure gradually disliked me.

Whenever I go to her place, I always wear a clean shirt, comb my hair, and try to look as neat as I can, which I may not be able to achieve, but I always expect her to see that I am neat. She will speak more casually and be friendly, don’t show a dull smile on her clean face that always smiles, but she smiled and asked me in a tired and sweet voice: “After reading ?Like it?"

"do not like."

She raised her thin eyebrows slightly, looked at me, sighed, and asked in a nasal voice as usual: "Why is that?"

"I've seen this kind of thing in other books."

"What are you talking about?"

"love……"

She frowned and said with a sweet laugh: "Ah, but there is no novel about love."

She sat in a large armchair, moved her little feet in fur slippers, yawned from time to time, wrapped herself in a long light blue blouse, and tapped her pink fingers on her knees. book cover.

I want to ask her:

"Why don't you move away? Aren't those officers still writing to you, making fun of you..." But I didn't have the courage to say these words to her, hugging a thick book about "love" and a disappointed Sadness is gone.

The people in the yard now talked about this woman even more disgustingly, and made more vicious ridicule.It made me sick to hear the obscenities, which were obviously made up.I sympathized with her secretly and worried about her; but as soon as I walked up to her and saw her sharp eyes, cat-like body and that always happy face, my pity and worry for her disappeared. Dissipated like smoke.

In spring, she suddenly didn't know where she went.A few days later, her husband also moved away.

When the house was vacant and no new tenants had moved in, I ran to have a look, and saw the bare walls, with traces of squares where paintings had been hung, some bent nails, and scars from nailing.A large brass brooch gleamed in the varnished floor, which was littered with colorful rags, scraps of paper, broken medicine boxes, empty perfume bottles.

I feel sad.I want to see that petite tailor's wife again and tell her how much I appreciate her...  

Before the tailor's wife moved out, a dark-eyed young lady moved downstairs to our master's residence, with a little girl and an elderly mother.

My mother is a white-haired old woman who smokes with an amber cigarette holder in her mouth all day long.The lady is a very beautiful beauty, with a majestic and proud appearance, and she speaks in a low and melodious tone; when looking at people, she holds her head up and narrows her eyes a little, as if others are standing far away and cannot see clearly.A dark-skinned soldier named Chufyaev came to her door almost every day with a thin-legged red-haired horse.The lady wore an iron-blue velvet dress, a pair of flared white gloves, and yellow riding boots on her feet. She walked to the gate, lifted her skirt with one hand, and held a riding whip with a lavender stone embedded in the handle. Stretch out the other small hand, and stroke the nose of the horse, which is baring its teeth kindly.The horse squinted at her with one red eye, trembling all over, raised its hoof and lightly kicked the solid ground.

"Robert, Robelle," she whispered, slapping the horse's beautifully curved neck.

Then she put her foot on Tchufyaev's lap and jumped lightly into the saddle, and the horse galloped triumphantly on the embankment as if dancing.Her posture in the saddle is so calm and sophisticated, it is almost as if she is in the saddle.

She was so strangely beautiful that whenever one saw her, it always filled one's heart with a kind of intoxicating joy, as it did when they first saw her.When I saw her, I thought to myself: Diana Poitiers, Queen Margot, Maiden La Valere, and other beautiful heroines of historical novels must be as beautiful as this lady.

She was often surrounded by a group of officers from the division headquarters stationed in the city.Come to her every night to play piano, violin, guitar, dance, sing.

The most frequent of them was a major named Olesov.He has a fat red face, short legs, graying hair, and a slick body, like a ship's mechanic.He played the guitar well, and he was obedient to his wife like a loyal servant.

As happy and beautiful as her mother was the five-year-old fat girl with curly hair.The big light blue eyes are innocent and quiet, a pair of eyes looking forward to something.Moreover, the little girl always showed a kind of unchildish thoughtfulness.

The old woman, with the silent Tyufyaev and the fat, squinting maid, was absorbed in her housework all day long.Because there was no babysitter, the little girl was almost unsupervised every day on the porch, or playing alone on the pile of logs opposite.I often go to play with this girl in the evening, and I like her very much; she also gets to know me very quickly.Every time I told her a story, she would lie on my arm and drowsy.After she fell asleep, I carried her home and put her to bed.

Not long after, it got to the point where every time before she went to bed, she insisted that I go to say goodbye to her. When I went, she would solemnly stretch out her chubby hand and say, "See you tomorrow. Grandma, what should I say?" talk?"

"God bless you," said the old woman, white smoke coming from her mouth and pointed nose.

"Shangbu will bless you until tomorrow, I'm going to sleep," the little girl learned to say, and got into the lace quilt.

The old woman reminded her:
"Not until tomorrow, but forever."

"Hey, isn't there always tomorrow?"

She likes to use the word "tomorrow" and move everything she likes into the future.She put the flowers and branches she picked on the ground and said: "Tomorrow this place will become a garden..." "I will bury (buy) a hemp (horse) sometime tomorrow, just like my mother." Riding to play..." She is a very clever child, but not very lively; often when she is having a good time, she suddenly thinks deeply and asks unexpectedly: "Why is the hair on the priest's head the same as that of a woman?"

Sometimes she was stung by a nettle, and she pointed to the nettle and said, "Be careful, I will pray to God, and God will spend (punish) you heavily. No matter who you are, God will spend (punish) you." His. Even Mom, he can spend (punish)..." Sometimes, a slight, solemn sadness fell on her, and her blue eyes full of longing looked at the sky, Leaning on my body, I said: "Grandma often gets angry, but mother always laughs. Everyone likes her, so she is always busy, and there are always guests coming to see her. Because of her, my mother looks so good. Beautiful. She's a lovely mother. Uncle Olesov said the same: lovely mother."

I really enjoyed listening to this little girl because she opened up a world I didn't know.She is always happy and talks a lot about her mom.Therefore, before my eyes, a new life was vaguely unfolding, which reminded me of Queen Margot again, and thus strengthened my trust in books and my interest in life.

One evening I was waiting for the hosts who were going for a walk to Ortex, sitting on the porch with the girl dozing off in my hands.Her mother came running on horseback, jumped lightly on the ground, lifted her head slightly, and asked, "What's the matter with her? Is she asleep?"

"Yes."

"Ah, really..."

The soldier, Chufyaev, ran out of the gate and pulled up the horse. The lady tucked the whip into her girdle, stretched out her arms, and said, "Give her to me."

"I'll hug and send it myself."

"Hmm." Madam scolded me like a horse, and stamped her foot on the porch.

The girl woke up, saw her mother in a daze, and reached out to her to hug her.She went with it.

I'm used to being scolded by people, but even this lady wants to scold me, and I really don't like it.She only needs to give a soft order, who can disobey.

A few minutes later the squinting maid called me and said the girl was having a temper and wouldn't go to bed without saying good night.

I walked into the guest room with some pride in front of her mother.The girl sat on her mother's lap, and her mother was undressing her with deft hands.

"Well, you see," she said. "Here comes the monster."

"It's not a monster, it's my little friend..."

"That's what it is. That's great. Give your buddy something, uh, would you like to?"

"Well, I would."

"Great, this is delivered by mom, you go to bed."

"See you tomorrow." She held out her hand to me. "God bless you until tomorrow..." Madam exclaimed in surprise, "Oh, who taught you this...Grandma?"

"Um……"

As soon as the little girl entered, Madam greeted me with her finger:

"What are you getting?"

I don't want anything, I just hope she can lend me some book.

She raised my face with warm and fragrant fingers, and asked me with a pleasant smile: "Oh, you like reading, don't you? Then what books have you read?"

She looks even more beautiful when she smiles.I whispered the names of several novels to her.

"What do you like about these books?" She put her hands on the table and moved her fingers slightly.

A rich fragrance of flowers emanated from her.The strange thing is that there is still horse coquettish in the aroma.Through her long eyelashes she gazed at me thoughtfully, as I had never been looked at before.

The room, filled with exquisite furniture, seemed as narrow as a bird's nest.The windows were covered with thick flower shades, the white tiles on the stove gleamed in the gloom, and a grand piano standing side by side with the stove was also shining brightly.On the wall, there are dark-colored awards printed in large slanted Cyrillic letters in a simple golden frame, and a dark-colored big cherry tree is hung from a rope under each award. .

I told her in as simple and clear a way as possible that I lived a miserable and lonely life, and only when I was studying could I forget all the pain.

"Ah, so that's it?" she said, standing up. "That's a good statement, maybe it's true... Well, well. I will try to lend you the book in the future, but I don't have it now... Well, you take this one..." She picked up a book from the couch A broken book with a yellow cover: "Take it and read it, and when you're done, come get the second volume; there are four volumes in total..." I returned with a copy of "The Secret of Petersburg" by Prince Meschersky; Began to read very seriously.But the "secrets" of Petersburg are far more tasteless than those of Madrid, London, and Paris, as I have seen from the first few pages.The only thing that interests me is this fable about liberty and the club: "I am stronger than you," said liberty. "Because I'm smarter than you."

But the stick answered her:

"No, I am stronger than you, because I am stronger than you."

Fighting and fighting started.

Liberty was beaten with clubs.As I remember, Liberty was seriously injured and died in the hospital.

This book talks about nihilists.I remember that, according to Prince Meschersky, a nihilist is such a vicious person that a chicken would die if he looked at it.I don't understand anything other than the term nihilist, which I take to be a swear word, and it makes me sad.Probably I don't have the ability to read good books.I believe from the bottom of my heart that this is a good book, because I think such a noble and beautiful lady has absolutely no reason to read a bad book.

"How is it? Do you like it?" she asked me when I returned Meshchersky's yellow cover novel to her.

I answered "No" embarrassingly, thinking it would make her angry.

But she just laughed and ran behind the curtain, which was her bedroom.From there she fetched a little book bound in hard-covered suede.

"You'll love this one. Just don't get dirty."

This is a collection of Pushkin's poems.I read the book in one breath, with a greedy feeling as one stumbles into a place of beauty that one has never seen.When you walk into a beautiful place, you always want to run through it all at once.This is what I often feel when, after walking for a while on a mossy mound in the woods of a moor, I suddenly see a dry glade open before me, full of flowers and full of sunshine.For a moment you look at the clearing with ecstasy, and then run all over it with ecstasy; joy.

I was struck by the simplicity and harmony of syllables of Pushkin's lines.For a long time thereafter, whenever I read prose, I felt unnatural and difficult to read. The preface of "Ruslan" reminds me of the best stories my grandmother told me, and it seems that these stories have been subtly compressed into one, and some of the sentences in it describe the nuanced truth, which arouses my amazement : There, on a road that no one has traveled, there are traces of animals that have never been seen.

I repeated this beautiful sentence in my mind, and a vaguely familiar path appeared in front of my eyes, and I could clearly see the mysterious path stepping on the grass covered with large dewdrops like heavy mercury. footprints.The melody of the verse, which dresses all it speaks of in splendor and is easily remembered, gradually makes me a happy man, and makes my life a light and cheerful poem, as if a new The bell of life is ringing in my life.Ah, what a blessing it is to be able to read and read alone.

Pushkin's beautiful fairy tales make me feel closer and more understandable than anything else.I read them several times over and over again, and I was able to recite them completely.Lying on the bed, before I fell asleep, I always sang poems with my eyes closed.Sometimes, I adapted these fairy tales and told them to the orderlies. They laughed and cursed kindly.Sidorov patted my head and said softly: "That's great. Oh, that's great..." I was so excited that the hosts noticed it, and the old woman scolded: "This naughty boy studies all day long, and the samovar three It's been a long time since I wiped it. I have to beat him with a stick again..." What is a stick?I used poems to scold at each other: black hearted, bad deeds, old women who practice witchcraft... Madam has become more noble in my eyes, because she is a woman who reads such books.Not like the tailor's wife of the china man.

I took the book to her and handed it to her sadly, and she said confidently: "You like it. Have you ever heard of Pushkin?"

I had read about the poet in a magazine, but I was eager to hear it from her, so I said I hadn't.

After briefly talking about Pushkin's life and death, she smiled like a spring and asked me: "Do you know? How dangerous it is to love a woman."

From everything I've read, I know it's dangerous, but it's fun.I said: "It's dangerous, but everyone loves it. And women are often troubled by it..." She glanced at me through her eyelashes as if she was looking at everything, and said seriously: "Oh, you understand this ?Then I hope you don't forget this sentence."

Then she asked me which poems I liked.

I waved my hands and recited a few songs for her.She listened silently and carefully.After a while, she stood up, walked up and down the room, and said thoughtfully, "You should go to school, sweet little thing. I'll help you out... Is your master related to you?"

I answered yes, and she exclaimed:
"Oh." As if blaming me.

She also lent me a copy of "The Songs of Berenger," which is very fine, with engravings, gilt trim, and a red leather cover.These songs, with their strange combination of heart-piercing pain and insane joy, completely drove me nuts.I can't help feeling chills when I read the bitter words of "The Old Tramp":

Human, why don't you trample me to death,

Like a vermin that harms living things?

yeah you should teach me
How to work for everyone's happiness.

If you can avoid the headwind,

Vermin may become ants;
I may love you as my own brothers.

I am an old vagabond, but I hate you as enemies to the death.

But when I read "The Weeping Husband" next, I laughed until tears fell.What I remember particularly clearly is the words of Belan Rui: Learning to live a happy life is nothing to ordinary people.

……

(End of this chapter)