There was love without joy, / Separation will be without sadness
From the poem "Agreement" (1841) by M. Yu. Lermontov (1814-1841) Original: ... Without joys:
We recognized each other in the crowd
Let's get together and break up again
There was love without joy
Separation will be without sadness
Encyclopedic Dictionary of winged words and expressions. - M.: "Lokid-Press". Vadim Serov. 2003 .
See what "There was love without joy, / Separation will be without sorrow" in other dictionaries:
- (1814 1841) poet, writer I'm not afraid of death. Oh no! I'm afraid to disappear completely. There was love without joy, Separation will be without sorrow. In nature, opposite causes often produce the same effects: the horse equally falls to its feet from stagnation ... ... Consolidated encyclopedia of aphorisms
SORROW, sadness, wives. 1. only units Mournfully preoccupied, joyless, sad mood, feeling. “I look like a madman at a black shawl, and sadness torments my cold soul.” Pushkin. “There was love without joy, separation will be without sorrow.” Lermontov ... ... Dictionary Ushakov
sex in big city. Season 3 Cover of the DVD edition of the third season. Country ... Wikipedia
Antonyms- (from Greek anti - 'against' + onyma - 'name') - pairs of words of one part of speech with opposite meaning. The psychological basis of A.'s existence is association by contrast; logical - opposite and contradictory concepts. Mapping relationships... Stylistic encyclopedic dictionary of the Russian language
This article or section describes some linguistic phenomenon in relation to the Russian language only. You can help Wikipedia by adding information about this phenomenon in other languages and typological coverage ... Wikipedia
- a famous poet. ?. CHILDHOOD (1783-1797) The year of Zhukovsky's birth is determined differently by his biographers. However, despite the evidence of P. A. Pletnev and Ya. K. Grot, indicating the birth of Zh. in 1784, it must be considered, like Zh. himself ... ...
- - was born on May 30, 1811 in Sveaborg, recently annexed to Russia, where his father, Grigory Nikiforovich, served as a junior doctor in the naval crew. Grigory Nikiforovich received his last name when he entered the seminary from his educational ... ... Big biographical encyclopedia
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- - was born on May 26, 1799 in Moscow, on Nemetskaya Street in the house of Skvortsov; died January 29, 1837 in St. Petersburg. On his father's side, Pushkin belonged to an old noble family, descended, according to the genealogy, from a native "from ... ... Big biographical encyclopedia
MOTIVES of Lermontov's poetry. The motif is a stable semantic element in lit. text, repeating within a series of folklore (where the motif means the minimum unit of plot composition) and lit. artistic prod. Motive m. b. considered in the context of all creativity ... ... Lermontov Encyclopedia
THERE WAS LOVE WITHOUT JOY, PARTING WILL BE WITHOUT SORRY.11th.
A Tale of Happiness, Faith, and Last Hope (NON-FINISH)
Miracles and more...
Part one. Miracles do not happen, BUT? ..
THERE WAS LOVE WITHOUT JOY, PARTING WILL BE WITHOUT SORRY.11th.
First Chapter Eight. Then 9. Actually it turned out: 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 already, but rather - EXTREMELY SMALL - so that he realizes the epochal nature of the changes that have occurred to him over the past two weeks. Only 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 plans, written point by point: first, second, third ... - there was no idea that what happened in a matter of days could happen ... Instead of running around various editorial offices and acquaintance with the metropolitan bohemia, he was engaged in shopping trips, and he was in the bridal salon almost every day. His plans were to communicate with literary bohemia, at least with poetic porters 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 his life he did not regret that he could not put his plans, written before the trip to Moscow, into reality. .
The station was dominated by the usual flea market of suitcases, weeping children, bags with and without wheels, various kinds of trunks, backpacks - up to and including sacks. The hubbub of the monkey flock that had gathered for moving and flights was so great that it could not even be overshadowed by the electrically amplified, metallic sound of the loudspeakers ... It was the top of summer, the peak of holidays ... Just have time to dodge, otherwise they will push you to the ambulance!
Despite a well-slept night, he felt immensely tired and squeezed out like a lemon ...
To the sounds of a very passionate song pouring 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 scoreboard, and went out through the underpass to the platform. A little more and he was already in the car. It was possible to relax and sum up the preliminary results.
“How little has been lived, how much has been experienced!” - as usual, he thought pathetically and quotatively, peering through the muddy carriage window at the passengers running past, screaming, waving their hands; all some 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, already at that time all sorts of successes alarmed him internally:
Firstly, he already understood that you have to pay for everything in life.
Secondly, a foreign country, strangers, a completely unfamiliar environment - and there may be new unknown rules of the game, without knowing which he is doomed to lose. All this frightened to eerily - but only at times. At times he succumbed to the song mood ...
Moon! Moon! Flowers! Flowers! - his unexpected luck thundered over the Kursk railway station with the jubilation of a perestroika song
In the depths of my soul, no one knows where - (sic!) - an indifferent confidence suddenly settled - 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 one of bitterness and the smell - disgusting.
The fittest wins in life!
He was not the strongest, moreover, he was cowardly, he was an alarmist, he hid his eyes in the ground, afraid that through them those around him would guess the presence of an extraneous vile voice in him ...
And now, like this, he felt that he was winning, that his life, no matter where it continued in the Ray Center or in the southern capital, was going well for him ... and he could not do anything about it. It was not the first time that he noted with some anxiety 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 himself 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 floating and circling in my head, -
FATE THINKS OF ME; SHE CARES ABOUT ME.
And he suddenly fell fast asleep again, despite sleeping all night in Big Brother's apartment.
He woke up in the middle of the night: the car was snoring in unison in the semi-darkness to the sound of wheels and measured rocking. There was also some kind of creaking… not only the carriage was swaying, but the whole dim electric light of the frosted ceiling lamps along the aisle; its rays sometimes snatched out some gray sheets with black spots, someone's legs, bumps of the body under the covers, then covered them with darkness ... Consciousness somehow with slow steps and gradually returned to him.
How much did I sleep? he wondered. - Damn it!
He remembered how he had been in Moscow and that he was now returning home. How tired one must be in 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 sick. After all, he hadn't eaten all day. I wanted to drink.
He licked his parched lips and finally remembered Vera, and then some strange and completely inexplicable longing 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. That euphoric mood that was at the departure, was not in sight.
He felt not just sad, but very sad... The cats scraped in his soul, and she shrank. He breathed deeply and often, but the melancholy did not recede, pressed and pressed his chest. He looked around to see if he was in some kind of 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 gorged itself on a luminal...
Maybe such a longing took possession of him, because he suddenly felt that, having parted with Vera, he had lost something very important? And never find him again? "Different roads are destined for us..."
He was young and tried to cope with this heavy feeling in his own way: he lowered his legs, jumped carefully holding on to the opposite shelf on the floor of the car, found his sandals and, clattering his teeth from causeless fear, wandered into the toilet, since this compartment was nearby. And indeed, the movement allowed at least a little, but somehow to move away from the delusion that had taken possession of the soul. The window in the compartment next to the toilet was open and fresh night air blew in with might and main ... Toilet smells? Shibanuv in the nose, forced to make a grimace ...
- ... but you can write letters to her all your life? To write and stack in a pile, the writer came to his aid, a barely audible inner voice, when he turned the handle of the latch, closing himself in the toilet from the inside, - it is absolutely not necessary to send them ... Write and stack. And there, without guessing, if political situation will change, you will publish that pile. It will be fundamental new form: a love story in unsent letters or "Letters from Nowhere to Nowhere"
After that, that black hole the despair and hopelessness that had so swiftly sucked him in just a few minutes ago, turned a little gray and shrank, and spat it back out; he felt that panic, just as suddenly starting, just as suddenly leaves his soul of an alarmist ...
And after he got rid of the accumulated urine reserves, he no longer understood what kind of strange attack of anguish happened to him .... And where did he come from?
… B even had a desire to return, find the lost and take it with you. 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 the way spent in a dream was already behind him, he lay down again and the sound of wheels at the junctions of the rails, and the measured swaying again put him to sleep. But soon he woke up. It was getting light. Most of the passengers in the car were still asleep, but he was already on his feet, fresh and alert - he stood in splendid isolation next to the toilet, where the upper window vent was open, or skipping the next toilet went out into the smoky vestibule, where it clanged loudly in time with the movement along rail coupling joints.
Whenever he returned home from distant and not very trips, for some reason he experienced an unforgettable feeling of euphoria and blissful calm of all his nerves and roots. It especially intensified on the last spans and stages of the railway track, 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 as if into a warm bath ... The blissful smile of the idiot periodically illuminated his face ...
Son, how did you lose weight?! mother threw up her hands.
... Jumping off the footboard onto the platform after the yawning conductor, he immediately plunged into the noticeably hot air, into the dry heat; a few steps and in the armpits became noticeably wet. After a few breaths-sighs, such a familiar and familiar taste of salt dust was perceptibly felt in the air. And after a dozen steps gaining strength and speed from the cheburechnaya around the corner of the station building, the fragrant smells of burnt dough and fried onions were brought to the nose. Hungry during the night, the dog, having climbed onto the urn with two front paws, carefully examined its insides ... Well, almost like me!
Dad, mother and he lived in a multi-storey building on the southern outskirts of the District Center, while the stations were located almost in the center of the steppe town. He was young and healthy; He quickly went down the street down to the Stinky River, passed the two-story building of the school, in which during the war the Nazis organized a concentration camp ...
It seemed to him that here not only cars are moving slowly, but also people are moving slowly, in the rhythm of a waltz ...
And in order to shorten the walking path even more, he rushed obliquely along the bank of the Stinky River to the dry noise of its tall reeds. The area was not that deserted, but on the other side there were garages, on this side a string of individual houses stretched: a village - a village with a ribbon of various fences stretching along a ribbon of mosaics.
Red spot. Thinking, he did not notice it, and it appeared in front of his very nose.
And he, in a kind of trance, almost came close to this incomprehensible, but very large red blot on the path. And suddenly he felt very uncomfortable. The first thought is blood. Well, let the blood! Even if he gets his soles dirty in it, he will wipe them on that dry grass over there, an island of which could be seen ahead of the course ...
But why so many? From somewhere in the depths of my soul, a viscous and viscous fear began to rise.
And I'm not afraid, - he said in a whisper to himself, being no further 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 machine! - came as always an unexpectedly stupid thought, which may have come from a dog barking heart-rendingly.
Wow! Where is her body?
It is clear that everything went too well there in Moscow for this good to continue here. Anxious premonitions from such an unpleasant meeting from the very first day of returning home overwhelmed the vulnerable soul. He was covered with goosebumps and thought that - for sure! - something bad must have happened to his mother or father ... While he was having fun there in the southern capital ...
No longer understanding what he was doing, he turned his back to the bloody stain and went back, trying not to look back ... Although for some reason it was so drawn to look again. He reached the corner house and - nevertheless looked back. His face stretched out, his eyes widened - he didn’t see anything on the path ... maybe the spot was further away? Yes! It was further and now that part of the path was simply not visible.
Oddly enough, but at home everyone turned out to be not only alive, but also healthy, and they didn’t even blame him for not calling them. They were happy too. But what about the red spot? It was forced out of consciousness once and for a long time!
- … - - … - - … -
- … - - … - - … -
- … - - … - - … - - … - - … - - … -
You should write to her about your boundless love, - a quiet and melodious voice informed him.
Damn, you don't love her! Throaty intervened.
What do you know about Love?
Nothing. But I know something about hate
So what do you know about hate?
He sat down at the table, took a ballpoint pen and began to write:
“Dear, dear Vera!
How are you? I'm just awful. But what I had to experience in the train car that takes me away from you is simply unbearable. Until the very departure of the train, I behaved well, and only when I got into the car did it hurt me, it hurt so much that it was impossible to put into words. Not so much physically as mentally. The heart was torn from anguish. I couldn't look into people's eyes. I must have had scary eyes. I thought: I can’t stand it - I’ll burst into tears, but I cradled my pain, I rocked it to the beat of the train, I endured it, gritting my teeth ...
When you said late on the evening of our farewell that you did not want to live, that you would like to sleep for a month, I did not understand you enough. And only on the train it dawned 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, an extravaganza that I never dreamed of even in my wildest dreams - but the awakening turned out to be terrible. I never could have imagined that it would be so scary, so hard And when I said goodbye, and when I went to Kursk, it continued, and then the sobering came in. All day on the train I thought about you, only about you, about you alone.
Only when I was alone and when there were no meetings ahead, I realized what a fool I was. I had to crawl in front of you on my knees, and kiss the dust at your feet, and instead I was angry and indignant ... What? For what? Oh my God, what a fool I am! Wasn't every word of yours beautiful, every look of yours charming, every desire of yours magnificent? But this can only be seen from a distance.
And on the train that was taking me away from you, it seemed to me that if I did not see you in the future, I would die. How bitter is all this!
But as you can see, I am alive, although two whole days have already passed. But I still love you and, probably, this is to the end, I remembered a lot, I remember you at every step - your songs sounded in me. Songs last evening that we spent alone with you.
Everything petty, empty, insignificant disappears, only bright, high, romantic remains in the memory. This week is almost like a legend. BUT it is Really, so - after all it also was happiness!
Happiness, which I did not seek, which I did not suspect and did not think about, and did not dream of. But then it came to me - I think: it's forever. I know it's forever. This is a holiday that will always stay with me. It's a whole world - huge and beautiful. And if you want my life - take it! Take it ... After what I experienced, felt next to you, everything else is vegetation. Sun! - sweet beautiful sun - if you are hard or sad, or something bad happens, - you know: you have a friend who is happy to do everything for you - if only you were well, 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, twilight was gathering outside the window, and he was writing the last lines in the gathering twilight.
He turned on the light and reread what he had written in the letter, and he liked it himself. True, it turned out to be somehow unfinished, well, if only because he really wanted to sleep, and he completely exhausted ... It was easy for someone to write a letter like writing in a bathhouse, but for him it was painful work ... Spiritual prostatitis!
Of course, he would never have spoken so many beautiful and sonorous words to her, but once in the silence of his lonely cell, they fell out of him like peas from a pod snapped along. Tomorrow morning he will run about the business of his evening school and casually throw a letter into 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 around, he would never have written like that ... In a sense, he would not have said. No suns, bunnies from fingers ... but on paper they lay down what is called immediately, and it was a little pleasure to see them written ...
Well, how much can you lie! - Hoarsely croaked, - no one will believe you that you fell in love at first sight ...
But is it really love?
I can even prove it to you logically! Otherwise, why would we just take her like that, go and submit an application to the registry office on the third day. Remember, please, how it was for us:
· First day visit to the apartment and silent acquaintance.
Second - meeting in the Botanical Garden and shopping
Third day - submitting an application to the registry office
How could this happen if there was nothing between us at all? If we didn't like each other at first sight?
Upon arrival, he was embraced by the burning chores of fast-flowing last days summer vacation: the traditional August teachers' council, first at the evening school, at which the task of recruiting additional contingent was set with a slam of the fist on the table, and he went to the machine plant, meat factory, canal building, household goods factory, etc.
Then - the city teachers' council, at which, somewhere at the end, towards the end, he was awarded in a series of awards - Certificate of honor, and although it was completely incomprehensible to him for what and why, but everything happened just like that, and not otherwise.
At the school council:
Search! - peremptory tone - otherwise someone will have to be reduced! We have a shortage.
The town was dusty and hot. The weather situation could have been corrected by rain, but every morning it became cloudless sunny. Under the heat of its rays, poplar foliage turned brown very quickly and curled into curls. She hung on the trees without falling down, and the trees seemed to be iron idols coolly 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 hefty tall woman, mother of two children - wrote a statement about leaving the evening school, the graduating class.
A polite but difficult conversation took place, where he tried to shift responsibility to the personnel department, citing the personnel department of a machine plant as an example, where for not attending an evening school they could not only be deprived of a bonus, but simply kicked out of work.
On the way back, he walked past the editorial office and could not resist, jumped into it, on the one hand, he was afraid of meeting with Dubov, on the other hand, it was nice to run away from here a year and a half ago a free man climb the creaky wooden steps… It looks like they have dried out even more… If only they were watered with water!
However, there were no changes in the district. From the speaker could be heard the cheerful voice of the only and unsinkable radio correspondent, whose place he longed for, however, knowing full well with his mind that he would never get it.
Potapych, nicknamed "Slippers" (-....\.....\/...) was resentfully glad. He smiled sincerely, but was still pouting and could not forgive that a talentedly slippery employee 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 alive? It's true that he has a damn mark on his head.
While Potapych was saying this... to whom was he talking? - it seems to the historian he said that he was going to Moscow. So it was the historian who blabbed it. We must take into account the future and be more careful and silent with him ...
Birthmark ... in all Baldness?
He shrugged...
What were you doing there then? Did you go to the Mausoleum?
He hesitated whether to tell Nikolayevich or not. To say that means tomorrow in the morning all the dogs of the District Center will already be barking with bells and whistles about him and him, not to say - Potapych can be completely and irrevocably offended. Frankly speaking, he tried not to lose ties 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 the earth rest in peace for you! But then Potapych was alive. And not just alive, but - a lively guy 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, he found something suitable not in Moscow, but on the side - in Klin. Trains run every half hour. Grandmother-front-line soldier... She has no relatives, and she is very happy with the guest... She will live with her for a while... Free
He invented all this on the go, and at some point Potapych believed him. "Let's go smoke!"
You are a smart guy! - Potapych told him when they entered through the wide open gate into the printing house and sat down under the cherries. - How can you not understand that there is no one waiting for you with open arms. Here you are a respected person, Your articles were noticed in the city committee of the party, they trust you in the district executive committee, finally, Dubovy made you the head of the department ... and there - and there - he expressively shrugged his shoulders, raising them almost to his hanging ears - there you will be nobody! Ugh!
Potapych spat and rubbed the spit, yellow from smoking, with the sole of an imported sandal.
Do I even want to tell you more? You can get here more connections and dating - than there. And do you know why? Yes, because in the summer they all hang out here on the South Bank of K *! They roam around resorts and sanatoriums just like that! Won Yura Baldogoev has already got a job as an electrician in Orphanage Union of Writers in - ... - ...
He chuckled: Potapych also sometimes allowed a vulgar and obscene joke on the great and mighty ... However, well, who's to blame that there is such a powerful bunch of words in him that suggest themselves to a swearing provocation ?!
Can you imagine… Now he is preparing a book for publication next year…
How did his wife let go from under her skirt? he quipped, pursing his lips
nicknamed "Balda", he - "Hold my mac" was a byword
... Then he walked home past the post office, went around the bazaar, and along the shady street behind the city party committee went down to the Stinky River
The city committee of the party, planted in front and on the side with scarce blue fir trees, inspired him with a memory of a recent anecdotal incident. When he worked in the district for 11 months, Potapych comes to him with a blank sheet of paper prepared in advance:
Come on, write!
And dictates to him the text of the application for candidate members of the party. He opened his mouth, amazed, and the hand with the handle taken into service hung in the air ...
Well, what froze like statues? Let's write while I'm kind ... I will give a recommendation, Oak will give a recommendation to you ... Lena? Lena won't let you...
And Potapych cackled like a stallion, pleased with the unexpectedly jumping out vulgar pun: No, she will not give you, she is faithful! - and he winked his right eye ... - Faithful wife! She is not with us...
“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 involuntarily wanted to imitate him. He knew how much he hated the deputy editor, and somehow asked him the reasons for such not entirely clear hatred
Yes, you understand, this n ... n ... bitch, - Potapych grimaced, - she pawns everything that is happening in our city committee ... And I even know who she pawns!
“What is going on with us?” - he was surprised, - "to pawn? Orgies? Spots?" - but he bit his tongue in time, and instead of his "gusty question" he gave out feigned surprise: Ah, that's it! - he said.
But Potapych always began his communication with Lena with a compliment, poured jokes and behaved like a shabby village boyfriend with a balalaika ... Lena could not even think that he was ready to strangle her with his own hands ...
He did not understand how to get out of this binding (well, at least not a firing squad!) against the wall and carefully sweating
Potapych, listen, but - I read the Program of the CPSU ... And it is written in black and white ...
What, what did you read? Potapych cut him off sharply.
Ka-Pe-eS-eS program…
Listen dear friend. I've been in the party for 15 years - no, it's been more than a year, and I have never read it and don't intend to ... Why do you need it? Why are you littering your bright brains with various garbage? .. A party card is a bread card ... You don’t want to die of hunger, do you? ..
... I crossed the bridge and further along the patchwork of individual buildings I got to the microdistrict of high-rise buildings ... And at that time he wondered why he had 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! The sickness is pale. Brother Pogankin. - suddenly woke up hoarse inside. - People want to fuck the party, but they are denied admission! They offer you, and you turn up your snout!? Why did you spit in the well? You - ...... And then the hoarse one added the very word to him, from which Nikolai Vasilyevich was so foolishly delighted, who wrote golden words with wings
And he also thought deeply about the phenomenon that everyone around, except for his father and mother, perceived him as a careerist, ready to go over the heads of millions and millions of ordinary Soviet people, workers and winners for the sake of a career ...
Although it was a career that was exactly what he least aspired to in his life.
As his second task, he sat down to put his writings in relative order, regretting that a whole month had almost passed in vain - but what happened in the capital constantly stood before his inner eye, and then he decided to shift it all into a plan: life itself gives me living prototypes, and now my task is just to put them into words - he made a decision. But he could no longer fully concentrate on his verbiage ...
Who wouldn't be horrified by looking into the well of their subconscious? And who does not marvel at the fidelity of the concept of original sin - the dominant principle of all world religions?! He was no exception...
He placed a piece of paper in front of him listing the headings of his designs:
· In the feast of the human... - (First sketch done)
Fish - blue beast - (only concept)
Confessions of a bedridden creature - (header only, nothing else)
· Journey of Ivan Flogistonovich Vaughn in the area not so remote as phantasmagoric - (Three disparate scenes)
Tale of a small bouquet of gift flowers - (brought the typescript to the editorial office of one literary and artistic magazine of the USSR Writers' Union)
· Please joke, comrade director!. .
Sin of Mr. Policeman
Roads that do not choose us
Cross-country running - (about two hundred typescript pages)
Scarlet youth
· - … - - … - - … -
The Fool and the Others (play)
Even without looking into the text, these titles alone could shock not only readers, but also worldly-wise and accustomed to everything literary consultants. And it's good that in life they never looked anywhere. But the whole trick: not only the titles, but the texts themselves were strange. With all the hatred for the System, in which, in response to the works being sent out, he was sent politely insensitive carbon-copy stamps: "your work did not interest the editors", one of them stood out for its aphorism: "Your story - ... - - ... - "
- … - - … - - … -
A strange thing - this is our life with you, dear reader!
Why do people suffer undeservedly? Denis Diderot wrote to his friend Sophie three hundred years ago. This is one of those questions that has not yet been answered.
Strange thing is life
strange thing- Human,
strange thing is love.
So three hundred years flashed by like a rocket. And the words of Denis Diderot seem to have been written last night ... Most of these reviewers and literary consultants are already lying in the damp earth, and none of them even have the thought in their skulls that one of their countless unsubscribes, to which they left in publishing haste and editorial fuss my autograph in the middle of a sheet of A4 format, is still kept in my daddy with the title: "Correspondence with editorial boards" ... Considering this piece of paper, at best, worthy of toilet instant use, 50 years of storage awaits. Already the magazines themselves - half are gone, and those that remain - stink and rot like stumps in the ashes ...
What was it? The work of a madman? Half crazy? And creativity at all ...
What happened to him in the capital did not fit into any of these plans. Certainly. He will be refused, 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 protagonist of the new story dawned in his imagination...
How will he name his new work?
And quite unexpectedly it popped up:
CHERTANGEL
In fact, but here ... if there were names in the Soviet calendar - Dekabrin and Oktyabrina, Tractor and Tractorina, Monolith, Kommunar and Vladlena, Yumanita, Krasnoslav and Krasarma and even - Dazdraperma (Long live the First of May) - so why not be Chertangel ?
Chertangel Petrovich Ivanov! - it sounds ... Chertangel Petrovich Ivanov, a hereditary member of a worker-peasant origin! Sounds like forever! At Soviet power power is great!
A creature in which, in an incomprehensible and unknown way, both the properties of a devil and the features of an angel are combined ... It, this creature, could be like a chessboard, where black and white alternate, or just gray ash from a half-smoked father's cigarette ...
Wild work, for which you have to kick in the ass - not otherwise!
Three days later, Vera received his first kind letter, and by telephone she said that she liked its content. And strangely, he was delighted. He did not go 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. Still not knowing that we would have two meetings with you, but even now, I reread them. hearts ... If you have loved at least once in your life, you will understand me, believe, forgive and not judge. My love grows deeper and stronger...
Mom came to see me two hours ago.
- I missed you…
I was gone only five days, less than a week, I blew my nose unsuccessfully. Blood flowed from the left nostril. Probably a blood vessel burst, the artery is small, I'm lying on the bed, my chin up,
“I miss you,” he says...
- Mom, mommy, you have to get used to the idea that I'm already a cut piece ...
- Why?
- Because I have such a fate.
- How do you know what your destiny is? Maybe your destiny is to live in Ust-X*?
… I don't understand much. However, I don't aspire to it. All my conscious life I dreamed of great accomplishments, 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 my life without you?" - and I made a wish. Do you remember how Vysotsky:
… And I thought: get out of the battle alive!…
From the sky under frequent rain "The 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 fir tree much later - after sleepless nights, bitter and joyful reflections, meetings and partings, - long before all this, it became clear to our hands: - I am a slave, you are my mistress!
… we left hand in hand with VDNKh. For the first time in my life, I held a woman \ (beloved) by the arm. That alone would make me happy for life. - I need so little: Thoughts were confused, I didn’t know what to do: cry, or laugh with happiness, cry because I didn’t know it before or laugh, because finally, I found out what happiness is, thoughts were confused.
"I'm almost glad," I said.
- Outrageous!
I'm almost happy...
- Why almost?
- Well, I'm happy!
In the lilac, not rather lilac sky above us - first with balls, and then with bouquets of hundreds of multi-colored stars, fireworks burst into bloom. Moscow saluted us. Golden, orange, red, white... I lifted my head, leaning on the faithful hand of a man whom I knew together for only the second day in my life, but whom I already believed even more than myself.
Not falling in time with your steps, I stumbled - somehow I didn’t want to part with this amazing starry waterfall. In one moment, inhaling the blue, sour air filled with spent powder gases, I thought: let it be what will be.
If you marry me, then I will go to take off. Der aspera hell asters or through thorns to the stars. If you don’t take it, it means that my Motherland doesn’t need me, it doesn’t love me.
And then I'll go where my eyes look. At least I'm emigrating abroad. Exile, mastery, silence... That's how I thought, not realizing that I was already wounded through and through, deeply and to the very heart, and, perhaps, mortally ill...
Sunshine, sweet sun! It's already 12 o'clock at night. Eyes stick together, as if the eyelashes were smeared with glue. My head doesn't think anymore. And if I wrote stupidity, I hurried, - I'm sorry. Sorry and fix it! You are free to dispose of everything: my words, and my fate, and my life. And I love you!
Kiss me tight
Forever your 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 of his works. So his life from boyish years was mixed up with imagination ...
Indeed, in most of the ideas of the Human Tragicomedy, there was practically no material, but there were only bare, and therefore very unpleasant thoughts, and sometimes even a single line of several sentences without continuation, but for him this thought was a SPECIAL KIND.
What exactly?
To an outsider, The Human Tragicomedy was, without a 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 was some kind of incomprehensible, inexpressible, but really felt some kind of feeling ... Sometimes not a feeling, but a mood ...
He was sitting at a typewriter, and dejectedly retyped from a university textbook:
Lenin struck 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 - by anything outwardly ostentatious. Workers and peasants said about him: "This one is ours!"
Ugh, what garbage I write! And you need to write - you need to prepare the class for the final exams. This year he had a graduation class, they all had to write graduation essays. And he, knowing full well that none of the students could do it on their own - the majority were only able to rewrite the text of the textbook word for word ... And some of them made a lot of mistakes ...
At the same time, topics were brought from the city in sealed envelopes, and it was necessary to make preparations for all topics ... He, of course, understood that ...
Out of boredom, he wondered what Lenin really was. If he was a living person, and not the incarnation of God on earth, then it is clear that he had flaws, it is clear that there were other descriptions of his behavior, etc.
Composition on the topic: "Lenin - Man with capital letter"
Or maybe he became a man with a capital letter, because we are all the rest of the Central Nervous system did - with a small?
Another topic - about Bazarov ...
4. Goes to Odintsova.
Declaration of love.
The dark sky was suddenly cut by lightning with a reddish tinge. The darkness that came after the flash seemed even thicker and blacker than it was before, some knocks and grunts were heard from the neighboring balcony ...
Sharrah! - with some ominous hissing thunder rumbled; He must have caught a cold, poor thing. And he couldn't clear his throat.
"But I didn't close the loggia door!" - a picture immediately arose in my imagination, plunging me into sheer horror: a gust of wind rips it off its hinges and throws it down over the balcony railing. Through the rectangular hole left from it, an assertive draft flies in a squiggle along with water, splashes, water splashes on the floor in jets ... some kind of dark figure. I couldn’t distinguish the faces, 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 broken; it was tightly closed. But her face stuck to her glass. Face of the Black Woman
And in a panic rising in my throat, I shouted out:
Who are you? - my horror intensified so much that I began to choke, trying to calm my heartbeat ...
Her lips moved, and without hearing anything, I nevertheless understood from her lips that she had said: "Read it, it may come in handy!"
Are you fool?! I screamed and backed off. I was really scared, as it is scary only and only in a nightmare. I don't remember how I ended up in my room again.
and - I realized that it really was a dream, and I was lying in my bed and in the advancing predawn twilight I saw the objects of my room - a dark orange lampshade, two bottles standing .... But outside the window, indeed, it was pouring rain; its veil veiled the horizon, and the drops drummed fractionally on the windowsill...
For no price I would have gone back to the big room at that moment. I knew that the door from my room to the loggia was tightly boarded up and I was sure that the Black Woman could not get into my room. Feeling cold, I crawled under the covers with my head and my tooth did not fall on the tooth from a strange trembling. I had no desire to talk to this unpleasant ghost. Yes, 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 a large room, could wake up and see this Black Woman.
Or not see?
For some reason, the last option scared me the most. If I see the Black one, but they don’t see it, then this is clearly the beginning of a very powerful psychiatric illness ... And it is precisely in this moment when I had to resolve issues related to a possible move to Moscow, oh, as much as I would not like it ..
The fear that everything would be revealed was even greater than the fear of the Black Woman, and it paralyzed the trembling, and he suddenly calmed down. He realized that he would look at Chernaya and would lie without blinking his eyes that he did not see anything ...
No, it's very hard! Outside the window, in the meantime, bad weather was raging: under the pressure of rain jets, the glasses made strange sounds, as if someone was scratching on them ...
A pile of papers accumulated on his desk ... He remembered the promise to write letters every day.
I will write them to you every day. he promised. - Every day by letter.
But for letters, he already knew this - a special mood was needed! Every day the letter failed.
He looked at his plans, written out on separate sheet felt-tip pens, the first of which, in the spirit of the dawn of perestroika, was the idea:
1. Doomed to misfortune- and suddenly this idea somehow turned over and knelt down - Betrothed to misfortune he read the letters lined with red granular caviar against the background of black granular caviar. He focused his vision and everything returned to its place. It was actually written in red marker: Doomed to misfortune.
Such doomed to misfortune, in his opinion, were all perestroika; his intuition told him that they wouldn't succeed. And the whole perestroika is nothing more than the Great October Socialist provocation.
It smelled of something specific: steps to immortality! What are the steps? This is the afterlife, isn't it?
AND THEN HE WROTE HER A TERRIBLE LETTER.
He put a sheet of clean but slightly rusted paper in front of him and began to write a letter to Vera.
Darling!
Confession. In ancient times, it was maybe a bad, or maybe a good custom to confess, to tell the priest the whole truth as it is, which he did in life the worst. 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, kept silent, l for a long time hesitated "and doubted before writing to you about THIS. I started several times, and then quit. But I also didn’t want to write about something else without telling you about it. There are too few more threads that would connect us, and I I'm afraid to break them with a rude movement, careless stupid words, I love you, let me lose you - sometimes it seems to me: I'll survive, but more often - I can't live without you. Ish understand that this is stupid, but nothing I can help myself, I don't know myself, Reason says one thing, feelings another.
And yet I decided to write because I love, because I believe, because I hope, because I wait ...
So
- Why did not you marry? - the stubborn question hung like an edge in the air.
Botanical Garden. Rosary beds, a cloud of butterflies, pause. Silence. How difficult it is to answer this question when there is a sweet, dear being nearby, when the smell of your hair is debilitating, when your tongue is in your mouth like a duo, when your short-cropped nape is next to my lips, and how much will you need to have not to kiss.
Botanical Garden. Rose garden.
… There is no such day when I would not think about you. Tormented, bitter and painful, worried about the outcome of our relationship with you; I understand you, but I don't care! contrary to all understanding - I want, madly want us 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 still, there was something like that - even at a distance ... Maybe this is predestination ... Every time I met, something did not add up ... Spiritual affinity, it acts at great distances ...
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - - … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
- … - \ - … - \ - … - - … - - … - - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … - \ - … - - … -
And if goodbye, then forever goodbye. Yours forever P*.
- … - - … - - … - \-\
The scene was so pitiful that a tear welled up in his eyes. And not just one, but several. But he already knew and was firmly convinced that it would be so! The spouses and their friends and relatives will pass by him in succession, and he will stand and stand, and hour after hour will pass. And the registry office will close ... And everyone will look with different, but equally insulting glances at the person under the clock with a bouquet in their hands ...
He got up and began pacing the room, trying to calm down...
Then I re-read it and was surprised by what he wrote. But he wrote the truth. And he did it with his voice. And that brought him some relief. He felt the hour of choice approaching, the moment of truth - and he struck!
You won't send this letter, weirdo - the hoarse one croaked, - and you won't send it, because you are a weakling, you are 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 melodious voice intervened. - you don’t need her apartment, a residence permit in Moscow, you need her feelings ... And you must check these feelings: does it really exist or not ... So that later you don’t bitterly repent of your deeds at the registry office ...
Some kind of lethargy and apathy fell upon him ... He lay down on his back and for a long, long time - for several hours in a row, just stared at the ceiling. Only an hour later he got up and insensitively sealed the letter in an envelope.
In recent days, some latent feeling, quite possibly, it was intuition that stubbornly 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 done from it?
To calm down, he began to work on the idea that came to him after returning from Moscow.
All these three days while the letter was going. He calmed down. He was already planning his future in Ust-Kh*: the idea of the South Bank 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 was impossible, but he really wanted to, then probably something could be done. This winter, he will study the geography of the All-Russian resort ... From books and maps, of course ...
Since he was sure that nothing would work out, it was his task to pour what was a witness in the capital into a kind of story: in this way, Fotinya turned into Angelica, and he himself became a kind of gloomy hero - Monk. Young man, not yet a monk at all, his uncle Mukhtar brings to Moscow. Where he accidentally meets Vera. ... He decided to leave the name of the main character forever.
… Having refused a wedding = marriage for unknown reasons (made it necessary to choose between two Faiths - I chose the Orthodox one!) The monk continues to love and run into the capital, watching with a bleeding heart the further development of the life of his beloved Faith
Vera and Angelica discuss the Monk's odd behavior...
... and when he wrote letters, he suddenly began to feel that what he attributed to his hero at some point began to overwhelm him himself. Love? But it was not at all the kind of love that he read about in numerous literary works and sometimes watched on black and white TV ...
After waiting for the desired three days, without much trepidation, he went to the central call center. Immediately, by his voice, by 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, both in Moscow and at home:
Did you read my letter?*
What? she didn't hear from afar.
Did you get my letter? * - he shouted into the phone
So how is it?
Well, what can I tell you? If that's what you really think, then you better not get married.
It’s clear, - he said in a tone doomed to execution ...
The heart sank treacherously. There was love without joy, separation will be without sorrow. Probably, it was necessary to say something, but there were no thoughts or words prepared in advance - he did not prepare 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, he still felt sad and sad in his soul. Everything around me shrank and darkened. He took the phone away from his ear and looked at it tirelessly squeaking ...
A scene flashed through my mind:
“For five seconds in total,” he breathed. - For five seconds and a few words! - the heart froze.
- Do not touch me, Petya - he heard. The voice of his heroine - I have an operation. I have stitches...
And she hung up, and in response, she squeaked in her ear: pee-pee ... "As you say, so be it" - he muttered and gently and reverently kissed the telephone receiver. "It will be like this forever, yes!"
The scene vanished from imagination. He continued to squeeze the handset, which had already stopped beeping - So many hands took this handset, so many dirty ears passed through it - and immediately after this thought he got tired of kissing this handset. All the more gently or reverently. Though it would have been a very nice parting gesture on his part... very poetic and romantic!
But instead, he just hung her on the lever. With some unexpected anger.
Let's, dear reader, let's leave the film 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 - into it ...
You'll still get an infection from this tube ...
No, the great Lenin used to say, - but we will go the other way ...
But how quickly and unexpectedly it all ended!
Let the crowd stigmatize
Our unresolved union
Let human prejudice
You are deprived of family ties.But before the idols of light
I do not bend my knees;
How are you, I don’t know the subject in it
No strong anger, no love.Like you, spinning in noisy fun,
Distinguishing no one:
I share with the smart and the crazy
I live for my heart.We do not appreciate earthly happiness,
We are accustomed to appreciate people;
We both will not change ourselves,
And they can't change us.We recognized each other in the crowd
Let's get back together and break up again.
There was love without joy
Separation will be without sorrow.
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 “Contract” 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 Charmer", which contains a daring challenge to secular conventions, public "prejudices". When editing a poetic text, the author changes emphasis, concentrating on psychological portraits and spiritual relationship 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 nature of the characters: they are independent, indifferent to the opinion of authorities, receiving the derisive title of "idols of light." Members of the “unsolved union” are bored with the usual amusements. They are sincere and bold in their judgments. Lermontov lyrical hero managed to break the circle of absolute loneliness, characteristic of early lyrics. The gloomy romantic has a double in a female form. At the level of syntax, this is accentuated by another anaphora - "how are you."
Among the crowd and "noisy fun" the characters were able to find and feel a kindred spirit. The awareness of the choice is emphasized by the title of the work. The relationship of lovers is free from obligations: "we got together and we will part again."
In the final quatrains, a series of philosophical generalizations appears, and the style becomes aphoristic, capacious, and refined.
The poetic text is permeated with a number of antitheses that begin with the pairs "malice" - "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 antithesis. The importance of the final thought is emphasized by changes in rhyme: instead of a cross-rhyming method, a ring variety is used.
Mature Lermontov's 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.
