Let the crowd brand with contempt
Our unsolved union,
Let human prejudice
You are deprived of family ties.But before the idols of light
I do not bend my knees;
Like you, I don’t know the subject in it
No strong anger, no love.Like you, I’m spinning in noisy fun,
Without distinguishing anyone:
I share with the smart and the crazy,
I live for my heart.We do not value earthly happiness,
We are used to valuing people;
We both will not change ourselves,
But they can’t change us.We recognized each other in the crowd
We get back together and go our separate ways again.
There was love without joys,
The separation will be without sadness.
Analysis of Lermontov's poem "Treaty"
The appearance of the work, dated 1841, is often associated with the name of Countess Evdokia Rostopchina, poetess and childhood friend of Lermontov. According to another version, “The Treaty” is dedicated to an unknown woman who, due to her position, could not enter high society. One way or another, Lermontov’s creation continues the theme of love, not approved by human law.
The poem is a reworking of the youthful work “The Charming One,” which contains a daring challenge to secular conventions and social “prejudice.” When editing a poetic text, the author changes the emphasis, concentrating on the psychological portraits and spiritual kinship of the characters.
The “unsolved union” of two free people is condemned by evil tongues. The anaphora “let”, with which the work begins, emphasizes the disdainful attitude of the couple in love towards the opinion of society, called the “crowd”.
The content of the second and third quatrains demonstrates the common character of the heroes: they are independent, indifferent to the opinions of authorities, who receive the mocking title of “idols of light.” Members of the “unsolved union” are bored with their usual amusements. They are sincere and bold in their judgments. Lermontov's lyrical hero managed to break the circle of absolute loneliness characteristic of early lyrics. A dark romantic has a female double. At the syntax level, this is accentuated by another anaphor - “how are you.”
Among the crowd and “noisy fun,” the heroes were able to find and feel a kindred spirit. The awareness of the choice is emphasized by the title of the work. The relationship between lovers is free of obligations: “we got together and will go our separate ways again.”
In the final quatrains a series of philosophical generalizations appears, and the style becomes aphoristic, capacious, and refined.
The poetic text is permeated by a number of antitheses, which begin with the pairs “anger” - “love”, “smart” - “mad”. The final couplet has become a well-known aphorism, included in the domestic treasury of author's phraseological units. It is also based on an antithesis. The importance of the final thought is emphasized by changes in rhyme: instead of the cross rhyme method, the ring variety is used.
Lermontov's mature lyrics change the focus of attention: external conflict with the “old world” and demonstrative loneliness are replaced by reflection and interest in the psychological portrait.
LOVE WAS WITHOUT JOY, SEPARATION WAS WITHOUT SADNESS.11th.
A story about happiness, faith and last hope(INFINAL)
Miracles and only...
Part one. Miracles don't happen, BUT?..
LOVE WAS WITHOUT JOY, SEPARATION WAS WITHOUT SADNESS.11th.
First Chapter Eight. Then 9. In fact it turned out to be 11th.
It took quite a bit of time and space - DISTANCE from Big Brother's apartment to the train station? - it is not so big, but rather - EXTREMELY SMALL - so that he realizes the epochal nature of the changes that have happened to him over the past two weeks. Just No, no, outwardly he remained the same person... But the spirit with which he returned was completely different.
When he went to visit Big Brother, he had no idea, not to mention the plans written point by point: first, second, third... - that something could happen that happened in a matter of days... Instead of running around various editions and getting acquainted with the capital's bohemia, he went on shopping trips, and visited the bridal salon almost every day. His plans were to communicate with literary bohemians, at least with poetic doormen and Swiss women in the lobby of one or another count's mansion, but an unexpected acquaintance left these plans on paper... And somehow he did not regret it. Maybe for the first time in my life I didn’t regret that I couldn’t put my plans, written before my trip to Moscow, into practice. .
At the station there was the usual crowd of suitcases, burly children, bags with and without wheels, various kinds of trunks, backpacks - even sacks - that was typical for public places of this kind. The hubbub of a flock of monkeys gathered for travel and flights was so great that it couldn’t even be heard over by the electrically amplified, metallic sound of loudspeakers... It was the tip of summer, the very peak of vacations... Just have time to dodge, otherwise they will push you to the ambulance!
Despite a good night's sleep, he felt immensely tired and exhausted...
To the sounds of a very passionate song flowing from the station speakers over the frozen trains
Moon! Moon! Flowers! Flowers!
He waited for the line with the track number of his train to appear on the board, and went out through the underground passage to the platform. A little more and he was already in the carriage. It was possible to relax and draw preliminary conclusions.
“How little has been lived, how much has been experienced!” - as usual, he thought pathetically and quotatively, peering through the cloudy carriage window at the running, screaming, waving passengers; everyone is somehow tense, angry, twitchy.
He believed and did not believe that he would have a family, and even in Moscow: from an external point of view, it was a colossal and stunning success in life, on the other hand, even at that time any successes internally alarmed him:
Firstly, he already understood that you have to pay for everything in life
Secondly, a foreign country, strange people, a completely unfamiliar environment - and there may be new unknown rules of the game, without knowing which he is doomed to lose. All this was terribly scary - but only at times. At times he succumbed to the song mood...
Moon! Moon! Flowers! Flowers! - his unexpected success thundered over the Kursky station like the jubilation of a perestroika song
In the depths of my soul, out of nowhere - (sic!) - suddenly an indifferent confidence settled in - everything will be fine! Everything will be very good! He recognized the taste and smell of victory.
The taste and smell of victory! The taste was bitter and the smell was disgusting.
In life the strongest wins!
He was not the strongest, moreover, he was cowardly, he was an alarmist, he hid his little eyes in the ground, afraid that through them those around him would guess that there was an extraneous vile voice in him...
And now, just like that, he felt that he was winning, that his life, no matter where it continued in the Paradise Center or in the southern capital, was developing well for him... and he could not do anything about it. Not for the first time, he noted with some alarm that somehow everything was going very well for him in life. But from the very Kursk station he was in the grip of some new and extraordinary thoughts.
As soon as the conductor brought bed linen and took the ticket, he immediately climbed onto his top shelf in the compartment next to the toilet, and with great, great pleasure stretched out from one edge of the narrow shelf to the other. It was half past eleven in the morning, the train was leaving the capital very slowly, but everything was swimming and spinning in my head, -
FATE THINK ABOUT ME; SHE CARE ABOUT ME.
And he unexpectedly fell fast asleep again, despite the fact that he slept all night in Big Brother's apartment.
He woke up in the middle of the night: the carriage was snoring together in the semi-darkness to the sound of wheels and steady rocking. There was also some kind of creaking... not only the carriage was rocking, but also the entire dim electric light of the matte lampshades along the aisle; its rays either picked out some gray sheets with black spots, someone’s legs, mounds of the body under the covers, then covered them with darkness... Consciousness somehow slowly and gradually returned to him.
How long did I sleep? - he was surprised. - Damn it!
He remembered how he was in Moscow and that he was now returning home. How tired one must be after a week to sleep like that - first a night in Big Brother's apartment, and then sleep the whole day on the train... Indeed, the Capital was not easy for him. I felt nauseous. After all, he hadn't eaten all day. I was thirsty.
He licked his dry lips and finally remembered Vera, and then some strange and completely inexplicable melancholy squeezed his heart. I repeat, I don’t know why, but from the very Kursk station he felt that he was in the grip of some new thoughts. There was no trace of the euphoric mood that was there when we left.
He felt not just sad, but very sad... The cats scratched in his soul, and it shrank. He breathed deeply and often, but the melancholy did not recede, pressing and pressing on his chest. He looked around - was he in any danger? But everything around was surprisingly calm and deserted... He waited.
Everyone was sleeping like the dead! But one (or one?) was killed more than the others, and with its roar at times it resembled a lion that had eaten its fill of luminal...
Maybe such melancholy took possession of him because he suddenly felt that by parting with Vera, he had lost something very important? And will never find him again? "We are destined to take different roads..."
He was young and tried to cope with this difficult feeling in his own way: he lowered his legs, jumped carefully holding the opposite shelf onto the floor of the car, found his sandals and, chattering his teeth from causeless fear, wandered to the toilet, fortunately this compartment was nearby. And indeed, the movement made it possible, at least a little, to somehow move away from the obsession that had taken possession of the soul. The window in the compartment next to the toilet was open and the fresh night air blew in with all its might... Toilet smells? They punched me in the nose and made me make a grimace...
-... but you can write letters to her all your life? Write and put in a pile, the writer - a barely audible inner voice came to his aid when he turned the handle of the latch, locking himself in the toilet from the inside - it’s not at all necessary to send them... Write and put. And there, without guessing, if the political situation changes, you will publish that pile. This will be a fundamentally new form: a novel about love in unsent letters or “Letters from Nowhere to Nowhere”
After that black hole the despair and hopelessness that had so rapidly sucked him in just a few minutes ago, turned a little gray and shrank, and spat it back out; he felt that panic, having begun unexpectedly in the same way, was leaving his panicked little soul just as unexpectedly...
And after he got rid of the accumulated reserves of urine, he no longer understood what kind of strange attack of melancholy had happened to him... And where did he come from?
... I even had a desire to return, find what I had lost and take it with me. Did he leave something at Big Brother's apartment?
In unsent letters you can write much more sincerely and truthfully what you think and how you imagine it...
It was exactly a day's drive; half of the journey spent in sleep was already behind him, he lay down again and the sound of wheels on the joints of the rails and the measured swaying again lulled him to sleep. But soon he woke up. It was getting light. Most of the passengers in the carriage were still asleep, but he was already on his feet, fresh and cheerful - he stood in splendid isolation next to the toilet, where the upper window of the window was open, or, letting another toilet attendant through, he went out into the smoky vestibule, where the loud clanging sound was in time with the movement of the rail coupling joints.
Always when he returned home from long and not very long trips, for some reason he experienced an unforgettable feeling of euphoria and blissful calmness of all his nervous tops and roots. It was especially intensified on the last spans and stages of the railway; he already knew the names of these stations by heart. All worries, all fears, all the need to do something receded from him and he plunged into idleness like in a warm bath... The blissful smile of an idiot periodically illuminated his face...
Son, how did you lose weight?! - the mother clasped her hands.
... Jumping off the step onto the platform following the yawning conductor, he immediately plunged into the noticeably hot air, into the dry heat; A few steps and my armpits became noticeably wet. After several breaths and sighs, the familiar and familiar taste of salty dust was noticeably felt in the air. And after a dozen steps, gaining strength and speed, from the cheburek shop around the corner of the station building, the fragrant smells of burnt dough and fried onions were brought to the nose. The dog, hungry during the night, climbed onto the trash can with its two front paws and carefully examined its insides... Well, almost like me!
Dad, mother and he lived in a multi-storey building on the southern outskirts of the regional center, while the stations were located almost in the center of the steppe town. He was young and healthy, had plenty of time to lie down and sleep, and decided to save five kopecks, so he walked home, especially since he was not limited in time. He quickly enough went down the street down to the Vonyuchka River, passed the two-story school building, in which the Nazis organized a concentration camp during the war...
It seemed to him that here not only the cars were driving slowly, but also the people were moving leisurely, in the rhythm of a waltz...
And in order to further shorten the pedestrian route, he rushed diagonally along the bank of the Vonyuchka River, accompanied by the dry sound of its tall reeds. The area was not exactly deserted, but on that side there were garages, on this side there was a string of individual houses: a village - a village with a ribbon of mosaic of various fences stretching along it.
Red spot. Lost in thought, he did not notice it, and it appeared right in front of his nose.
And in a kind of trance, he came almost close to this incomprehensible, but very large red blot on the path. And suddenly he felt very unpleasant. My first thought is blood. Well, let it bleed! Even if he gets his soles dirty in it, he will wipe them on that dry grass over there, an island of which was visible ahead along the course...
But why so many? From somewhere deep in my soul a viscous and viscous fear began to rise
“I’m not afraid,” he said in a whisper to himself, being no more than half a meter from this bloody stain, but trying not to look at the red mess with crimson streaks...
This dog was just crushed by a car! - as always, an unexpectedly stupid thought came, perhaps coming from a heart-rending dog barking.
Wow! Where is her corpse?
It is clear that everything was going too well there in Moscow for this good to continue here. Anxious forebodings from such an unpleasant meeting from the very first day of returning home filled the vulnerable soul. He got goosebumps and thought that - exactly! - Surely something bad happened to his mother or father... While he was having fun there in the capital of the south...
No longer realizing what he was doing, he turned his back on the bloody stain and walked back, trying not to look back... Although for some reason he was so tempted to look again. He reached the corner house and still looked back. His face stretched out, his eyes widened - he saw nothing on the path... maybe the spot was further away? Yes! It was further away and now that part of the path was simply not visible.
Oddly enough, everyone at home was not only alive, but also healthy, and they didn’t even blame him for not calling them. They were happy too. What about the red spot? It was forced out of consciousness once and for a long time!
- … - - … - - … -
- … - - … - - … -
- … - - … - - … - - … - - … - - … -
“You must write to her about your boundless love,” a quiet and melodious voice told him.
You weirdo, you don’t love her! - Hoarse intervened
What do you know about Love?
Nothing. But I know a thing or two about hate
So what do you know about hatred?
He sat down at the table, took a ballpoint pen and began to write:
“Dear, dear Vera!
How are you? Mine is just terrible. But what I had to experience in the train car that was taking me away from you was simply unbearable. Until the train departed, I kept my cool, and only when I got into the carriage did I feel pain, so painful that it was impossible to express in words. Not so much physically, but psychologically. My heart was bursting with anguish. I couldn't look people in the eyes. I must have had scary eyes. I thought: I can’t stand it - I’ll cry, but I lulled my pain, I rocked it to the beat of the train, I endured it, gritting my teeth...
When you said late in the evening of our farewell that you didn’t want to live, that you wanted to fall asleep for a month, I didn’t understand you enough. And only on the train did it dawn on me, because I suddenly felt the same thing... The same thing. There is nothing new under the sun.
Those days that I was with you were like a “wonderful fairy-tale dream, like an extravaganza that I never dreamed of even in my wildest dreams, but the awakening turned out to be terrible. I never thought that it would be so scary, so hard And when I said goodbye, and when I was driving to Kursk, it continued, and then sobering set in. The whole day on the train I thought about you, only about you, about you alone.
Only when I found myself alone and with no meetings ahead did I realize what a fool I had been. I should have crawled on my knees in front of you and kissed the dust at your feet, but instead I was angry and indignant... For what? For what? Oh, God, what a fool I am! Wasn't every word of yours beautiful, every look of yours charming, every desire of yours magnificent? But apparently this can only be understood from a distance.
And on the train taking me away from you, it seemed to me that if I didn’t see you in the future, I would die. How sad it all is!
But as you can see, I am alive, although two whole days have passed. But I still love you and, probably, this is until the end, I remembered a lot, I remember you at every step - your songs sounded in me. Songs of the last evening that we spent alone with you.
Everything small, empty, insignificant goes away, only the bright, lofty, romantic remains in memory. This week is almost like a legend. BUT this is indeed true - after all, this was happiness!
Happiness that I didn’t look for, didn’t suspect, didn’t think about, didn’t dream of. But now it came to me - I think: this is forever. I know: this is forever. This is a holiday that will always stay with me. This the whole world- huge and beautiful. And if you need my life, take it! Take her... After what I went through, felt next to you, everything else is vegetation. Sun! - dear beautiful sun - if you feel hard or sad, or something bad happens, - you know: you have a friend who is happy to do everything for you - as long as you feel good, you just have to call... I remain with sincere respect and genuine love, your P*"... While he was poring over the text of the letter, dusk deepened outside the window, and he wrote the last lines in the deepening semi-darkness.
He turned on the light and re-read what he wrote in the letter, and he liked it himself. True, it turned out somehow unfinished, well, at least because he really wanted to sleep, and he was completely exhausted... For someone, writing a letter was as easy as writing in a bathhouse, but for him it was painful work... Spiritual prostatitis!
Of course, he would never have said so many beautiful and sonorous words to her, but finding himself in the silence of his lonely cell, they poured out of him like peas from a pod cracked lengthwise. Tomorrow morning he will run about his evening school business and casually drop a letter in the mailbox of the Central Post Office. At the same time he will call Vera there...
In general, it was an indescribable feeling: if she had been there, he would never have written like that... I mean, he wouldn’t have said it. No suns, no bunnies on the fingers... but they fell onto the paper right away, and it was a little pleasure to see them written...
Well, how much can you lie! - Hoarse croaked, - no one will believe you that you fell in love at first sight...
What if this is really love?
I can even prove it to you logically! Otherwise, why would we just get together with her like that, go and submit an application to the registry office on the third day. Please remember how it was with us:
· First day, visit to the apartment and silent acquaintance.
· Second - meeting at the Botanical Garden and shopping
· Third day - submitting an application to the registry office
Could this have happened if there was nothing between us at all? If we didn't like each other at first sight?
Upon arrival, he was overwhelmed by the burning worries of the fast-flowing last days of the summer vacation: the traditional August teachers' council, first in the evening school, at which the task of recruiting additional contingents was set with a slam of his fist on the table, and he went through the machine plant, the meat factory, the canal construction, the household goods factory, etc. P.
Then - the city teachers' council, at which somewhere at the end, towards the end, he was presented with a series of awards - Certificate of honor, and although it was completely unclear to him why and for what, everything happened exactly this way and not otherwise.
At the school teachers' council:
Search! - in a peremptory tone - otherwise someone will have to be laid off! We have a shortage.
The town was dusty and hot. The weather situation could have been corrected by rain, but every morning it became cloudlessly sunny. Under the heat of its rays, the poplar foliage quickly turned brown and curled into curls. She hung on the trees without falling down, and the trees seemed like iron idols thoroughly fucked with rust...
He went to the elevator, where he spoke with the head of the personnel department. The fact is that one of the students from his class - a huge big girl, a mother of two children - wrote a letter of resignation from evening school, her senior year.
A polite, but complicated conversation took place due to its severity, where he tried to shift responsibility to the personnel department, citing the example of the personnel department of a machine plant, where for not attending evening school they could not only be deprived of a bonus, but simply kicked out of work.
On way back he walked past the editorial office and couldn’t resist jumping into it. On the one hand, he was terrified by the meeting with Dubov, on the other hand, it was nice for someone who had escaped here a year and a half ago as a free man to climb the creaky wooden steps... It seems that they have dried out even more... At least They should be watered with water!
However, there was no change in the area. From the speaker could be heard the cheerful voice of the only and unsinkable radio correspondent, whose position he coveted, however, knowing full well in his mind that he would never get it.
Potapych, nicknamed “Slippers” (-....\.....\/...) was offendedly happy. He smiled sincerely, but was still sulking and could not forgive that the talentedly slippery employee had slipped away from the tight editorial embrace... -... -
Been back for a long time?
From Moscow
How do you know?
I know everything! If I didn't know everything, I wouldn't be sitting at this table. Well, how is it in Moscow - did you see Hunchback live? It's true that he has a damn mark on his head.
While Potapych was saying this... who was he telling? - it seems to the historian that he said that he was going to Moscow. This means that it was the historian who spilled the beans. We must take this into account for the future and be more careful and silent with him...
Birthmark... full baldness?
He shrugged...
What were you doing there then? Did you go to the Mausoleum?
He hesitated whether to tell Nikolaevich or not. To say that means tomorrow morning all the dogs of the Paradise Center will already be barking with bells and whistles about him and at him, not to say - Potapych may be completely and irrevocably offended. Frankly speaking, he tried not to lose connections with Potapych, especially since he now held the key position of executive secretary plus his connections with the regional newspaper. After all, sooner or later you will have to flee from Moscow, right?
He could never even imagine that Potapych would soon be gone... And this unexpected meeting... Peace be upon him! And may you rest in peace! But then Potapych was alive. And not just alive, but alive with a knife... And this unexpected death...
And then he found a compromise. He blurted out that he would move to Moscow, not immediately but gradually... One lie led to another. He lied that he was looking for an apartment and found something suitable not in Moscow, but on the side - in Klin. Electric trains run every half hour. Grandma is a front-line soldier... She has no relatives, and she is very happy to have a guest... He will live with her for now... Free
He made it all up as he went along, and at some point Potapych believed him. “Let's go have a smoke!”
You're a smart guy! - Potapych told him when they entered through the wide open gate into the printing yard and sat down under the cherries. - How can you not understand that no one is waiting for you there with open arms? Here you are a respected person, your articles were noticed in the city party committee, you are trusted in the district executive committee, finally, Dubovoy made you the head of the department... and there - and there - he shrugged his shoulders expressively, raising them almost to his hanging ears - there you will be nobody! Ugh!
Potapych spat and rubbed the yellow spit from smoking with the sole of an imported sandal
I want to tell you even more? You can make more connections and acquaintances here than there. And do you know why? Yes, because in the summer they all hang out here on the South Shore of K*! This is the only way they roam around resorts and sanatoriums! Yura Baldogoev has already gotten a job as an electrician at the Writers' Union orphanage in - ... - ...
He grinned: Potapych also sometimes made vulgar and obscene jokes about the great and mighty... However, who is to blame for the fact that there is such a mighty bunch of words in him that naturally beg for swearing provocation?!
Can you imagine... He is currently preparing a book for publication next year...
How did his wife let him go from under her skirt? - he quipped, curling his lips
nicknamed “Bolda”, aka “Hold my mac” was the talk of the town
... Then he walked home past the post office, turned around the market, and along a shady street behind the city party committee went down to the Vonyuchka River
The party town hall, lined with scarce blue spruce trees at the front and on the sides, brought back memories of a recent anecdotal incident. When he had worked in the district for 11 months, Potapych came to him with a blank sheet of paper prepared in advance:
Come on - write!
And he dictates the text of his application for candidate membership in the party. He opened his mouth in shock and the hand with the handle he had taken into service hung in the air...
Why are you frozen like a statue? Let me write while I’m kind... I’ll give you a recommendation, Dubovy will give you a recommendation... Lena? Lena won't give you...
And Potapych cackled like a stallion, pleased with the vulgar pun that suddenly popped up: No, she won’t give you away, she’s faithful! - and he winked with his right eye... - Faithful wife! We don't have her...
“As long as I’m alive,” Lena told me at parting, “you won’t be in the Union of Journalists!”
He was always surprised at what a great diplomat Potapych was in life, and wanted to involuntarily imitate him. He knew how much he hated the deputy editor, and once asked him the reasons for such not entirely clear hatred
Yes, you see, this p... p... bitch,” Potapych grimaced, “she’s pawning everything that’s going on in our city party committee... And I even know who she’s pawning to!”
“What’s going on here?” - he was surprised, - “to pawn? Orgies? Booze?” - but he bit his tongue in time, and instead of his “stupid question” he gave feigned surprise: Ah, that’s it! - he said.
But Potapych always began his communication with Lena with a compliment, sprinkled jokes and behaved like a shabby village suitor with a balalaika... Lena could not even think that he was ready to strangle her with his own hands...
He didn’t understand how to get out of this binding that had been placed against the wall (okay, at least not by firing squad!) and carefully sweating
Potapych, listen, but - I read the CPSU Program... And it’s written there in black and white...
What, what did you read? - Potapych interrupted him sharply
Ka-Pe-eS-eS program...
Listen, dear friend. I’ve been in the party for 15 years - not for more than a year now, and I’ve never read it and don’t intend to... Why do you need it? Why are you littering your bright brains with all kinds of garbage?.. A party card is a bread card... You don’t want to die of hunger, do you?..
...crossed the bridge and further along the interspersed strip of individual buildings he reached a microdistrict of high-rise buildings... And at that time he wondered why he lied to Potapych... For some reason he had great respect for him. But he lied. However, if the wedding does not take place...
Oh you! Pale sickness. Brother Pogankin. - suddenly the hoarse one woke up inside. - People want to have a party, but they are refused admission! They offer you something, but you turn your snout up!? Why did you spit in the well? You - ...... And then the hoarse one added to his address the very word that made Nikolai Vasilyevich in such stupid delight, who wrote golden words with wings
And he also thought deeply about the phenomenon that everyone around him, except his father and mother, perceived him as a careerist, ready to go over the heads of millions and millions of ordinary people for the sake of his career. Soviet people, workers and winners...
Although it was precisely his career that was exactly what he least aspired to in his life.
As his second task, he sat down to put his writing works in relative order, regretting that the whole month had almost passed in vain - but what happened in the capital constantly stood before his inner gaze, and then he decided to put it all into a plan: life itself gives me living prototypes, and now my task is to simply express them verbally, he decided. But he could no longer fully concentrate on his verbiage...
Who wouldn’t be horrified when looking into the well of their subconscious? And who would not marvel at the fidelity to the concept of original sin - the dominant principle of all world religions?! He was no exception...
He placed in front of him a piece of paper listing the titles of his plans:
· In the celebration of humanity... - (First draft done)
· Fish - blue beast - (plan only)
· Confession of an Underbed Creature - (only the title and nothing more)
· The journey of Ivan Flogistonovich Vaughn to areas not so remote as phantasmagoric - (Three separate scenes)
· A fairy tale about a small bouquet of gift flowers - (I took the typescript to the editorial office of one literary and artistic magazine of the USSR Writers' Union)
· Please joke, comrade director! .
· Sin of Mister Policeman
· Roads that don’t take us
· Cross-country running - (about two hundred pages of typescript)
· Scarlet Youth
· - … - - … - - … -
· The Fool and Others (play)
Without even looking into the text, these titles alone could shock not only readers, but also seasoned literary consultants who are accustomed to everything. And it’s good that in life they never looked anywhere. But the whole trick: not only the titles, but also the texts themselves were strange. With all the hatred for the System, in which, in response to the works sent out, he was sent politely insensitive carbon stamps: “your work was not of interest to the editors,” one of them stood out for its aphorism: “Your story is ... - - ... -”
- … - - … - - … -
A strange thing - this is our life with you, dear reader!
Why do people suffer undeservedly? - Denis Diderot writes to his friend Sophie three hundred years ago. - This is one of those questions that has not yet been answered.
Life is a strange thing
strange thing - man,
a strange thing is love.
So three hundred years flashed by like a rocket. And the words of Denis Diderot seem to have been written yesterday evening... Most of these reviewers and literary consultants are already lying in the damp earth and none of them even have a thought in their skulls that one of their countless replies, to which they left in the publishing rush and editorial bustle my autograph in the middle of an A4 sheet, is still kept in my folder with the title: “Correspondence with various editions”... Considering this piece of paper, at best, worthy of instant toilet use, 50 years of storage awaits. Already, half of the magazines themselves are gone, and those that remain stink and rot like stumps on the ashes...
What was it? The creativity of a madman? Half-crazy? And is creativity in general...
What happened to him in the capital did not fit into any of these plans. Certainly. They will refuse him, of course, he will be left alone...
Why does it have to be one?
Because at heart he is a monk...
A vague image of the main character of the new story dawned in his imagination...
What will he call his new work?
And quite unexpectedly it came up:
CHERTANGEL
Indeed, but here... if there were names in the Soviet calendar - Dekabrin and Oktyabrina, Tractor and Traktorina, Monolit, Kommunar and Vladlena, Yumanita, Krasnoslav and Krasarma and even Dazdraperma (Long live the First of May) - then why not Chertangel ?
Chertangel Petrovich Ivanov! - sounds... Chertangel Petrovich Ivanov, a hereditary member of worker and peasant origin! Sounds like forever! U Soviet power the power is great!
A creature in which, in an incomprehensible and unknown way, both the properties of a devil and the traits of an angel are combined... This creature could be like a chessboard, where black and white alternate, or just gray ash from Dad’s half-smoked cigarette...
A wild work that deserves to be kicked in the ass - nothing less!
Three days later, Vera received his first kind letter, and over the phone she said that she liked its contents. And the strange thing is that he was happy. He didn’t walk back home from the call center, but flew as if on wings... At home he immediately sat down and wrote a second letter:
I wrote these terms two weeks ago. Not yet knowing that you and I would have two meetings, but even now, I was re-reading them. I can sign every word, under every comma, sign with my blood, I didn’t send them because I went myself, I went at my behest hearts... If you have loved at least once in your life, you will understand me, believe me, forgive me and not judge me. My love becomes deeper and stronger...
Two hours ago my mother came to see me.
- I missed you…
I was only gone for five days, less than a week, and I blew my nose unsuccessfully. Blood flowed from the left nostril. A blood vessel has probably burst, a small artery, and I’m lying on the bed with my chin up,
“I missed you,” he says...
- Mom, mommy, you have to get used to the idea that I’m already a cut-off piece...
- Why?
- Because this is my destiny.
- How do you know what your destiny is? Maybe your destiny is to live in Ust-Kh*?
… There’s a lot I don’t understand. However, I don’t strive for this. All my adult life I dreamed of great achievements, of great deeds, I dreamed of laying my life on the altar of the fatherland - but this is how it turns out in reality! - brought my life to your feet, yes, take it: “Take it! What is life to me without you?” - and I made a wish. Do you remember how Vysotsky said:
...And I made a wish: to come out of the battle alive!...
From the sky in the frequent rain, “Stars are falling.
And I remember the first day when our hands explained themselves faster than our eyes and lips, faster than words, when my hand instantly told yours what was filled with thought and expressed much later - after sleepless nights, bitter and joyful thoughts, meetings and partings, - long before all this, it had already become clear to our hands: - I am a creative slave, you are my mistress!
... we left VDNKh arm in arm. For the first time in my life I held a woman's (beloved) arm. This alone would make me happy for the rest of my life. - I need so little: My thoughts were confused, I didn’t know what to do: cry, or laugh with happiness, cry because I didn’t know this before, or laugh because finally - I learned what happiness is, thoughts were confused.
“I’m almost glad,” I said.
- Outrageous!
- I'm almost happy...
- Why almost?
- Well, okay: I'm happy!
In the lilac, no, rather purple sky above us - first in balls, and then in bouquets of hundreds of multi-colored stars, volleys of fireworks bloomed. Moscow saluted us. Golden, orange, red, white... I raised my head, leaning on the faithful hand of a man whom I knew for only the second day in my life, but whom I already trusted even more than myself.
Not keeping up with your steps, I stumbled - somehow I didn’t want to part with this delightful starry waterfall. At one point, inhaling the blue, sour air, filled with spent powder gases, I wished: let it happen.
If you marry me, it means I'll take off. Der aspera ad astra or through thorns to the stars. If you don’t take it, it means my Motherland doesn’t need me, it doesn’t love me.
And then I will go wherever my eyes look. At least I’m emigrating abroad. Exile, mastery, silence... That’s what I wished for, not realizing that I was already wounded through and through, deeply and to the very heart, and, perhaps, mortally ill...
Sunshine, dear sunshine! It's already 12 o'clock at night. The eyes stick together, as if the eyelashes are smeared with glue. My head can't think of anything anymore. And if I wrote something stupid and was in a hurry, I’m sorry. Sorry and fix it! You are free to control everything: my words, my destiny, and my life. And I love you!
I kiss you deeply
Forever yours P*”
He worked on the letters as on manuscripts: even if nothing worked out with the wedding, he was sure that they would not be lost, but would be included in some other work of his. So, from his boyhood, his life was mixed up with imagination...
Indeed, in most of the plans of the Human Tragicomedy there was practically no material, but there were only bare, and therefore very unpleasant thoughts, and sometimes just one single line of several sentences without continuation, but for him this thought was of a SPECIAL KIND.
Which one exactly?
For an outsider, the Human Tragicomedy was, beyond any doubt, empty; and thoughts meant absolutely nothing: but for me, if I wrote it down, it meant a lot... Why? Because for me, behind the words there arose some incomprehensible, inexpressible, but really felt sensation... Sometimes not a feeling, but a mood...
He sat at the typewriter and sadly retyped from a university textbook:
Lenin amazed with his modesty and extraordinary simplicity. He did not like to draw attention to himself, neither by his clothes, nor by his demeanor, nor by his speech - anything outwardly ostentatious. Workers and peasants said about him: “This one is ours!”
Ugh, what crap am I writing! But we need to write - we need to prepare the class for final exams. This year he had a graduating class, they all had to write final essays. And he, knowing full well that none of the students could master it on their own - most were only able to rewrite the text of the textbook word for word... And some made a bunch of mistakes...
At the same time, the topics were brought from the city administration in sealed envelopes, and it was necessary to make preparations for all the topics... He, of course, understood that...
Out of boredom, he wondered what Lenin really was like. If he was a living person, and not the incarnation of God on earth, then it is clear that he had shortcomings, it is clear that there were other descriptions of his behavior, etc.
Essay on the topic: "Lenin - Man with a capital letter"
Or maybe he became a man with a capital letter, because the rest of us are Central Nervous system did you do it with a little one?
Another topic is about Bazarov...
4. Goes to Odintsova.
Declaration of love.
Lightning with a reddish tint suddenly cut through the dark sky. The darkness that followed the flash seemed even thicker and blacker than it had been before; some knocks and grunts were heard from the neighbor’s balcony...
Sharra-rah! - thunder rumbled with some ominous hissing; Apparently he caught a cold, poor thing. And he couldn’t clear his throat.
“But I didn’t close the loggia door!” - a picture immediately appeared in my imagination that plunged me into sheer horror: a gust of wind tears it off its hinges and throws it over the railing of the loggia down. Through the rectangular hole that remained from it, a powerful draft flies like a squiggle along with water, splashes, water lashes across the floor in streams... I caught myself and, without slippers, with bare feet, rushed through the hallway into the large room, where lightning struck again, and behind the door on the loggia I saw extremely clearly - some dark figure. I couldn’t distinguish the face, but for some reason it clearly seemed that it was a woman, not a man... Where else did this come from?
By inertia, I continued to move and stopped at the door of the loggia, which - thank God! - was not torn off; it was tightly closed. But a face stuck to her glass. Face of a Black Woman
And with panic rising in my throat, I shouted:
Who are you? - my horror intensified so much that I began to choke, trying to stop my heartbeat...
Her lips moved, and without hearing anything, I still understood from her lips that she said: “Read it, it might come in handy!”
Are you fool?! - I screamed and backed away. I felt truly scared, the way one can only be scared in a nightmare. I don’t remember how I ended up in my room again.
and - I realized that it was, indeed, a dream, and I was lying in my bed and in the approaching pre-dawn twilight I saw the objects of my room - a dark orange lampshade, two bottles standing .... But outside the window, it was really pouring rain; its veil curtained the horizon, and the drops drummed loudly on the windowsill...
I wouldn't have gone back into the big room at that moment for any price. I knew that the door from my room to the loggia was tightly closed and was sure that the Black Woman would not be able to get into my room. Feeling cold, I climbed under the blanket with my head and my teeth did not touch each other due to a strange trembling. I had no desire to talk to this unpleasant ghost. And there was nothing to talk about. At the same time, I listened very carefully to the surrounding sounds. I was brave, but in reality, I was very afraid in these pre-dawn twilights to see her again, and the basis of this fear was that my father and mother, who were sleeping in the large room, might wake up and see this Black Woman.
Or not to see?
For some reason, the last option scared me the most. If I see Chernaya, but they don’t see it, then this is clearly the beginning of a very powerful psychiatric disease... And it is precisely in this moment, when I had to resolve issues related to a possible move to Moscow - oh, no matter how much I wanted it...
The fear that everything would be revealed was even greater than the fear of the Black Woman, and it paralyzed him with trembling, and he unexpectedly calmed down. He realized that he would look at Chernaya and would lie without blinking his eyes that he didn’t see anything...
No, yes, all this is very difficult! Meanwhile, the bad weather was raging outside the window: under the pressure of rain streams, the glass made strange sounds, as if someone was scraping on them...
A pile of papers accumulated on his desk... He remembered his promise to write letters every day.
I will write them to you every day. - he promised. - A letter every day.
But he already knew this for letters - he needed a special mood! Every day a letter failed.
He looked at his plans, written out on a separate sheet of paper with felt-tip pens, the first of which, in the spirit of the dawn of perestroika, was the following:
1. Destined for misfortune- and suddenly this idea somehow turned over and knelt down - Betrothed to Misfortune he read the letters lined with red granular caviar against a background of black granular caviar. He focused his vision and everything returned to its place. What was actually written in red felt-tip pen was: Doomed to misfortune.
In his opinion, all the perestroikas were such Doomed to Misfortune; his intuition told him that they wouldn't succeed. And the whole perestroika is nothing more than the Great October Socialist provocation.
It smelled like something specific: steps into immortality! What are these steps? This is the afterlife, isn't it?
AND THEN HE WROTE HER A SCARY LETTER.
He put a sheet of clean, but slightly rusty paper in front of him and began to write a letter to Vera.
Darling!
Confession. In ancient times, there was, perhaps a bad or perhaps a good custom, of confessing, telling the priest the whole truth as it is, what the worst thing you have done in your life. Now there is no such thing. And thank God! But I want you to become my confessor for a moment, and I will confess to you, I will tell you what is, and how it is, what at one time, maybe out of cowardice, or maybe out of fear, I kept silent for a long time I hesitated and doubted before writing to you about THIS. I started several times and then gave up. But I didn’t want to write about something else without telling you about it either. There are still too few threads that would connect us, and I’m break them. l am afraid to break them with a rude movement, careless stupid words, I love you, if I lose you - sometimes it seems to me that I will survive, but more often than not - I will not be able to live without you. I understand that this is stupid, but nothing I can help myself, I don’t know myself. The mind says one thing, feelings say another.
And yet I decided to write because I love, because I believe, because I hope, because I’m waiting...
So
- Why did not you marry? - the stubborn question hung like an edge in the air.
Botanical Garden. Rosary beds, cloud of butterflies, pause. Silence. How difficult it is to answer this question when there is a sweet, dear creature nearby, when the smell of your hair makes you go crazy, when your tongue in your mouth is like a duo, when your short-cropped nape is next to my lips, and how much will you have to have not to kiss.
Botanical Garden. Rose garden.
… There is not a day when I don’t think about you. Suffering, bitter and painful, worrying about the outcome of your relationship with you; I understand you, but I don’t care! contrary to all understandings, I want, I desperately want you and me to get married...
So why haven't I gotten married yet...
- Why did not you marry?
- Because you interfered?
- How could I interfere? I didn’t even know about you?!
- But all the same, there was something like that - even at a distance... Maybe it was predestination... Every time I met, something didn’t work out... Spiritual affinity, it acts over vast distances...
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - - … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
And if goodbye, then goodbye forever. Yours forever P*.
- … - - … - - … - \-\
The picture was so pitiful that a tear welled up in his eyes. And not just one, but several at once. But he already knew and was firmly convinced that this would be the case! A line of newlyweds and their friends and relatives will pass by him, and he will stand and stand, and hour will go by hour. And the registry office will close... And everyone will look with different, but equally offensive glances at the man under the clock with a bouquet in his hands...
He got up and began pacing around the room, trying to calm down...
Then I reread it and was surprised at what he wrote. But he wrote the truth. And he did it with his voice. And this brought him a little relief. He felt the hour of choice approaching, the moment of truth - and it struck!
You won’t send this letter, weirdo,” the hoarse man croaked, “and you won’t send it, because you’re a weakling, you’re a neurasthenic and a psychopath... The psychiatric hospital has been crying for you for a long time... With bitter tears! Just think: what a magnificent pearl of the Yellow House you will become!
Don't drift! If she loves you, she will understand you,” a quiet and melodic voice intervened. - you don’t need her apartment, registration in Moscow, you need her feeling... And you must check these feelings: whether it really exists or not... So that later you do not bitterly repent of what you have done at the registry office...
A kind of lethargy and apathy fell on him... He lay down on his back and for a long, long time - for several hours in a row - he simply looked at the ceiling. Only an hour later he got up and callously sealed the letter in an envelope.
In recent days, some kind of latent feeling, quite possibly it was intuition, persistently told him that nothing would work out for him, that the matter would end in nothing, despite the fact that there was no direct refusal, something would seriously interfere with him...
MONK - what can be made from it?
To calm down, he began to work on a plan that came to him after returning from Moscow.
All these three days while the letter was sent. He calmed down. He was already planning his future in Ust-Kh*: the thought of the South Coast of K*, given to him by Potapych, was deeply embedded in his brain. He planned to find his classmates Galya and Valya, who lived in Ya*. He knew that it was impossible to register there, but if it’s impossible, but you really want to, then perhaps something can be done. This winter he will study the geography of the all-Russian resort... Using books and maps, of course...
Since he was sure that nothing would work out, his task was to transform what the witness was in the capital into some kind of story: thus Fotinya turned into Angelica, and he himself became a certain gloomy hero - the Monk. The young man, not yet a monk at all, is brought to Moscow by his uncle Mukhtar. Where he quite by chance meets Vera. … Name main character he decided to leave forever.
... Having abandoned the wedding = marriage for unknown reasons (put in the need to choose between two Faiths - I chose the Orthodox!) The monk continues to love and visit the capital, watching with a bleeding heart the further development of the life of his beloved Faith
Vera and Angelica discuss the strange behavior of the Monk...
... and when he wrote letters, he suddenly began to feel that what he attributed to his hero at some point began to overwhelm him. Love? But this was absolutely not the kind of love that he read about in numerous literary works and sometimes watched on black and white TV...
After waiting for the required three days, without much trepidation he went to the central negotiation point. Immediately from his voice, from his tone, he realized that Vera had received his terrible letter.
From the receiver he heard practically what he had been preparing himself for a long time ago both in Moscow and at home:
Have you read my letter?*
What? - she didn’t hear from afar.
Did you receive my letter?* - he shouted into the phone
So how is it?
Well, what can I tell you? If you really think so, then you better not get married.
“I see,” he said in the tone of someone doomed to execution...
My heart ached treacherously. There was love without joy, separation will be without sadness. He probably had to say something, but there were no thoughts or words prepared in advance - he had not prepared for the last conversation.
But then Vera, as always, came to his aid, and he heard an icy voice from her:
Goodbye!
And although he was ready for the end of the kisses, his soul still felt sad and sad. Everything around somehow shrank and darkened. He took the telephone receiver away from his ear and looked at it beeping tirelessly...
The usual scene flashed in my head:
“For just five seconds,” he exhaled. - For five seconds and a few words! - my heart froze.
“Don’t touch me, Petya,” he heard. The voice of my heroine - I am having an operation. I have stitches...
And she hung up, and in response she squeaked disgustingly in his ear: pee-pee-pee... “As you say, so it will be,” he muttered and tenderly and reverently kissed the telephone receiver. - “It will be like this forever, yes!”...
The scene disappeared from my imagination. He continued to squeeze the telephone receiver, which had already stopped beeping - This receiver had been picked up by so many hands, so many dirty ears had passed through it - and immediately after this thought he no longer wanted to kiss this telephone receiver. All the more tenderly or reverently. Although it would be a very beautiful farewell gesture on his part... very poetic and romantic!
But instead he simply hung it on the lever. With some unexpected anger.
Let's, dear reader, leave the movie and romance novels- where these spectacular scenes will be fabulously good, but in our gr... gr... sinful life they are usually inappropriate and do not want to fit into it in any way...
You will still get an infection from this tube...
No, the great Lenin used to say, “but we will take a different path...
But how quickly and unexpectedly it all ended!
There was love without joy, / There will be separation without sadness
From the poem “Treaty” (1841) by M. Yu. Lermontov (1814-1841) In the original: ...Without joys:
We recognized each other in the crowd
We get back together and go our separate ways again,
There was love without joys,
The separation will be without sadness
Encyclopedic Dictionary of winged words and expressions. - M.: “Locked-Press”. Vadim Serov. 2003.
See what “There was love without joy, / There will be separation without sadness” in other dictionaries:
- (1814 1841) poet, writer It’s not death that I’m afraid of. Oh no! I'm afraid to disappear completely. There was love without joy, Separation will be without sadness. In nature, opposing causes often produce the same effects: the horse equally falls to its feet from stagnation... ... Consolidated encyclopedia of aphorisms
SADNESS, sadness, women. 1. units only Mournfully preoccupied, joyless, gloomy mood, feeling. “I look like crazy at the black shawl, and my cold soul is tormented by sadness.” Pushkin. “Love was without joy, separation will be without sorrow.” Lermontov... ... Dictionary Ushakova
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Antonyms- (from the Greek anti – ‘against’ + onyma – ‘name’) – pairs of words of the same part of speech with opposite meanings. Psychological basis existence of A. – association by contrast; logical – opposite and contradictory concepts. Matching relationships... Stylistic encyclopedic Dictionary Russian language
This article or section describes some linguistic phenomenon in relation only to the Russian language. You can help Wikipedia by adding information about this phenomenon in other languages and typological coverage... Wikipedia
- - famous poet. ?. CHILDHOOD (1783-1797) The year of birth of Zhukovsky is determined differently by his biographers. However, despite the evidence of P. A. Pletnev and J. K. Grot, indicating the birth of J. in 1784, it must be considered, like J. himself... ...
- - was born on May 30, 1811 in Sveaborg, recently annexed to Russia, where his father, Grigory Nikiforovich, served as a junior doctor for the naval crew. Grigory Nikiforovich received his last name upon entering the seminary from his educational... ... Large biographical encyclopedia
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- - born on May 26, 1799 in Moscow, on Nemetskaya Street in Skvortsov’s house; died January 29, 1837 in St. Petersburg. On his father’s side, Pushkin belonged to an old noble family, descended, according to genealogies, from a descendant “from ... ... Large biographical encyclopedia
MOTIVES of Lermontov's poetry. Motive is a stable semantic element lit. text, repeated within a number of folklore (where the motif means the minimum unit of plot structure) and lit. artist prod. Motive m.b. considered in the context of all creativity... ... Lermontov Encyclopedia
