(real surname - Grinevsk and y)
08/23/1880, Sloboda Vyatka province. - 07/08/1932, Stary Krym
Russian writer

You become an artist
when you create yourself
what you want to see or hear.

A. Morua

Green did not like to talk about himself. Having already become famous, he answered the questions of the curious and the questionnaires of magazines extremely dryly and briefly. In general, he was silent, restrained, even stiff, and could not stand those who climbed into the soul. Only in the last years of his life in the "Autobiographical Tale" did he talk about his difficult and not at all romantic fate.
“Is it because the first book I read as a five-year-old boy was “Gulliver’s Journey to the Land of the Lilliputians” ... or the desire to distant countries was innate, but only I began to dream of a life of adventure from the age of eight”.
If we add to this that the first word that Sasha Grinevsky put together from letters, sitting on his father's lap, was the word "sea", then everything else is self-evident. Like all boys in those years, he avidly read the novels of F. Cooper, J. Verne, R. Stevenson, G. Emar; he liked to wander with a gun through the forests surrounding the city, imagining himself a wild hunter. And of course, he tried to escape to America.
He had nothing to lose: for impudent poetry and many pranks, the student Grinevsky was expelled from the real school. At home, too, it was sad: poverty, eternal reproaches and beatings of his father.
At the age of sixteen, having graduated from the city school with sin in half, Alexander finally decided to become a sailor. He put on over-the-knee waders, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and set out from Vyatka for Odessa. His many years of wanderings and ordeals began, about which one can briefly say this: the Russian land is unkind to dreamers and inventors.
“I was a sailor, a loader, an actor, rewrote roles for the theater, worked in gold mines, at a blast furnace, in peat bogs, in fisheries; was a lumberjack, a tramp, a clerk in the office, a hunter, a revolutionary, an exile, a sailor on a barge, a soldier, a digger ... "
What Greene so calmly lists was, in fact, a real hell. And he could escape from it only when he realized that the stories that he composed for his random companions and for himself could be written down.
For a long time he did not believe that he could be on a par with real writers, those who so admired him in his youth. The first story (“The Merit of Private Panteleev”, 1906) and the first book (“The Hat of Invisibility”, 1908) are still an attempt to write, “like everyone else.” Only in the story "Reno Island" were found the coordinates of the land that it would be in vain to look for on the map and which belonged only to him. Since then, despite any twists and turns of fate and historical upheavals, every year more and more confident Alexander Grin creates his own world, closed to outsiders, but visible "with the inner eyes of the soul".
Three most terrible years- 1918, 1919, 1920 - in the midst of death, famine and typhus, Green pondered and wrote "Scarlet Sails" - his answer to the revolution. A tiny potbelly stove warmed Alexander Stepanovich when his first novel, The Shining World (1923), was being born. He believed that people once flew and would fly again like birds. Greene was no longer alone. He found a girlfriend, faithful and devoted to the end, as in his books.
In 1924, Grin and his wife Nina Nikolaevna moved from Petrograd to Feodosia. He always dreamed of living in a city by the warm sea. The most peaceful and happy years of his life passed here, the novels The Golden Chain (1925) and The Wave Runner (1926) were written here.
But by the end of the 1920s, publishers who had previously been willing to publish Green's books stopped taking them altogether. There was no money, and the efforts of friends about the placement of an already ill writer in a sanatorium did not help either. Green fell ill, in fact, from malnutrition and from longing, because for the first time life seemed to him "expensive nowhere". He did not know that his real glory was yet to come.
The era has passed "by his iron", and Greene wrote "about storms, ships, love, recognized and rejected, about fate, the secret ways of the soul and the meaning of the case". The features of his heroes combined hardness and tenderness, and the names of the heroines sounded like music.
How did he do it? And it's very simple. He knew that “our suburban nature is a serious world no less than the banks of the Orinoco ...” that a person who contains the whole world is wonderful. He simply looked more intently than others, and therefore could see in the Siberian taiga - the equatorial forest, and on the Petrograd street with dark houses - pagodas surrounded by palm trees.
"Everything is open to everyone"- he says through the mouth of his hero. Another author in another country around the same time said: "Where our magical fantasy could create a new world, it stops"(G. Meyrink).
Green didn't stop. Don't stop either. And then, sooner or later, in old age or in the prime of life, on the embankment of the old city on a warm summer night or just in the silence of an apartment, you may hear silent words: "Good evening friends! Is it boring on a dark road? I'm in a hurry, I'm running ... "

Margarita Pereslegina

WORKS OF A.S. GRIN

COLLECTED WORKS: In 6 volumes / Entry. Art. V. Vikhrova; Afterword Vl.Rossels; Il. S. Brodsky. - M.: Pravda, 1965.

COLLECTED WORKS: In 6 volumes / Foreword. V. Vikhrova; Artistic S. Brodsky. - M.: Pravda, 1980.
The first collected works included mainly the best stories and novels of Greene and his " Autobiographical story».
In the second, one of the latest novels "Jesse and Morgiana" and many stories (not always of equal value) from magazines of the early 20th century and 1920-30s were added.

COLLECTED WORKS: In 5 volumes / Entry. Art., comp. V. Kovsky. - M.: Artist. lit., 1991-1997.

The collection compiled at the turn of the century, in addition to all the known works of Green, also included the novel "The Treasure of the African Mountains", poems and the poem "Lee".

SCARLET SAILS: Extravaganza / Khudozh. A. Dudin. - M.: Sovremennik, 1986. - 47 p.: ill. - (Adolescence).
The light and calm power of this book is beyond the power of words, except those chosen by Green himself. Suffice it to say that this is a story about a miracle that two people performed for each other. A writer is for all of us.

SCARLET SAILS: Extravaganza / Khudozh. M. Bychkov. - Kaliningrad: Amber Tale, 2000. - 150 p.: ill.
Green's books live on, and each new generation reads them in their own way. Time draws the sea, heroes and sails in a new way - for example, as the artist Mikhail Bychkov saw them.

SCARLET SAILS; RUNNING ON THE WAVES; STORIES // Grin A.S. Selected works; Paustovsky K.G. Selected works. - M.: Det. lit., 1999. - S. 23-356.

SCARLET SAILS; SHINING WORLD; GOLD CHAIN; STORIES. - M.: Artist. lit., 1986. - 512 p. - (Classics and contemporaries).
"Shining World"
The idea that people flew, as they now fly only in a dream, haunted Green for many years. The clumsy flights of the first aviators, which he saw near St. Petersburg, only strengthened this idea. Years later, the hero of the novel "The Shining World" flew free, like a bird.

"Gold chain"
"Mystery" and "Adventure" - these are the magic words that can swirl a person, transfer him to an extraordinary house that looks like a labyrinth, and make him the center of events that he will remember later all his life ...

RUNNING ON THE WAVES: A novel; Stories. - M.: Artist. lit., 1988. - 287 p.: ill. - (Classics and contemporaries).
"Running on the waves"
The sea knows many legends. Green added another to them: about a girl gliding through the waves like a ballroom, and about a ship named after her. The one who stepped on the deck of this ship was expected by a special fate.

JESSE AND MORGIANA: A novel. - M.: ROSMEN, 2001. - 252 p. - (Confusion of feelings).
A novel about two sisters, one of whom is kind and beautiful, and the other is ugly and cruel, probably not best book A. Green. On it lies the shadow of the approaching disease and darkness. But even this thing has a very interesting thoughts about the nature of evil and the psychology of the killer.

THE ROAD TO ANYWHERE: A novel // Grin A.S. Favorites / Il. A.P. Melik-Sarkisyan. - M.: Pravda, 1989. - S. 299-492.
Once at an exhibition, Green was struck by an engraving by an English artist. It depicted a road disappearing behind a desert hill, and was called "The Road to Nowhere." This is how the idea of the last and saddest novel of the writer arose.

ADVENTURER: Stories. - M.: Pravda, 1988. - 480 p.
ABOUT "Secret Paths of the Soul" leading now to happiness, now to death; about the right of everyone to be different from others; about the extraordinary strength of a person who, if necessary, can walk on water or defeat death - you will read about all this in the stories of this collection. And in the end, having met a sunny morning in the attic of an abandoned house, you will understand main idea Green: "Miracles are in us".

SHIPS IN LISS / [Postl. I.Sabinina]. - M.: OLMA-PRESS, 2000. - 351 p.
Contents: Scarlet sails; Stories.

HANDLE: The first complete publication of an unfinished novel / [Publ., foreword. and note. L. Varlamova] // Crimean album: Historical local historian. and lit.-art. almanac. - Feodosia - M .: Ed. house "Koktebel", 1996. - S. 150-179.
Ferrol and his daughter, forced to leave the city, found shelter in the walls of a dilapidated fort on the seashore. The fort became their home, and the girl even grew a small garden.
Unusual flowers bloomed in the garden, the rumor about the beauty of which spread far. But the flower petals closed and began to wither when an unkind person entered the garden.
Green managed to write about half of his last novel, which was so difficult for him. How the events and fates of the heroes could have developed can be imagined from the surviving sketches and fragments of the book.

NOVELS / Foreword V.Amlinsky. - M.: Mosk. worker, 1984. - 416 p.
The book contains the best written by A. Green in this genre. "Captain Duke", "Pied Piper", "Ships in Lissa", "Watercolor", "Father's Wrath", "Velvet Curtain" and other short stories have long become classics.

STORIES; SCARLET SAILS; RUNNING ON THE WAVES. - M.: AST: Olimp, 1998. - 560 p. - (School of classics).

TREASURE OF THE AFRICAN MOUNTAINS: Novels. - M.: ROSMEN, 2001. - 511 p. - (Golden Triangle).
"Treasure of the African Mountains"
“Gent, like Stanley, kept a diary. But in this diary, the reader would find a very small number of geographical notes, even fewer events ... Whole pages were filled with descriptions of unknown flowers, their smell and comparisons with northern flowers. Elsewhere, the expression of the eyes of animals was spoken of. Thirdly, he painted a landscape, noticing unexpected transitions of colors and lines. Sometimes Ghent started talking about the advantage of a quick sight over careful aiming, or told how the sunlight wanders in the tops of the forest, illuminating the foliage.. If Green had a chance to travel through Central Africa together with the expedition of the American journalist Henry Stanley, looking for traces of the missing explorer D. Livingston, he would most likely behave in the same way as the hero Gent he created.

FANDANGO: Novels / Introduction. Art. E.B.Skorospelova. - M.: Det. lit., 2002. - 334 p.: ill. - (School library).

Margarita Pereslegina

LITERATURE ABOUT THE LIFE AND CREATIVITY OF A.S. GRIN

Green A.S. Autobiographical story // Grin A.S. Favorites. - M.: Pravda, 1987. - S. 3-142.

Amlinsky Vl. In the shadow of the sails: Rereading Alexander Grin // Grin A.S. Novels. - M.: Mosk. worker, 1984. - S. 5-22.
Andreev K. Flying over the waves // Andreev K. Adventure seekers. - M.: Det. lit., 1966. - S. 238-286.
Antonov S. A. Green. "The Returned Hell" // Antonov S. In the first person: Stories about writers, books and words. - M.: Sov. writer, 1973. - S. 90-130.
To help the student and teacher: [Comments; Short the chronicle of the life and work of A.S. Green; Materials for the biography; Criticism about the work of A.S. Green; A.S. Green in art, etc.] // Green A.S. stories; Scarlet Sails; Running on the waves. - M.: AST: Olimp, 2000. - S. 369-545.
Vikhrov V. Dream Knight // Grin A.S. Sobr. cit.: In 6 vols. - M.: Pravda, 1965. - Vol. 1. - S. 3-36.
Memories of Alexander Grin / Comp., introductory note. Vl. Sandler. - L.: Lenizdat, 1972. - 607 p.: fotoil.
Galanov B. I take waves and a ship with a scarlet sail ... // Galanov B. A book about books. - M.: Det. lit., 1985. - S. 114-122.
Grin N. Memories of Alexander Grin. - Feodosia - M.: Koktebel, 2005. - 399 p.
Dmitrenko S. Dream, Unfulfilled and reality in the prose of Alexander Grin // Grin A.S. stories; Scarlet Sails; Running on the waves. - M.: AST: Olimp, 2000. - S. 5-16.
Kaverin V. Green and his "Pied Piper" // Kaverin V. Happiness of Talent. - M.: Sovremennik, 1989. - S. 32-39.
Kovsky V. The shining world of Alexander Grin // Grin A.S. Sobr. cit.: In 5 volumes - M .: Khudozh. lit., 1991. - T. 1. - S. 5-36.
Kovsky V. "The Real Inner Life": (Psychological Romanticism of Alexander Grin) // Kovsky V. Realists and Romantics. - M.: Artist. lit., 1990. - S. 239-328.
Paustovsky K. Alexander Green // Paustovsky K. Golden Rose: A Tale. - L .: Det. lit., 1987. - S. 212-214.
Paustovsky K. Life of Alexander Grin // Paustovsky K. Laurel wreath. - M.: Mol. guard, 1985. - S. 386-402.
Paustovsky K. The Black Sea // Paustovsky K. Laurel wreath. - M.: Mol. guard, 1985. - S. 18-185.
In this story, A.S. Green is depicted under the name of the writer Garth.
Polonsky V. Alexander Stepanovich Green (1880-1932) // Encyclopedia for children: T. 9: Rus. Literature: Part 2: XX century. - M.: Avanta +, 1999. - S. 219-231.
Rossels Vl. Green's pre-revolutionary prose // Grin A.S. Sobr. cit.: In 6 vols. - M.: Pravda, 1965. - Vol. 1. - S. 445-453.
Sabinina I. Paladin of dreams // Grin A.S. Ships in Lisse. - M.: OLMA-PRESS, 2000. - S. 346-350.
Skorospelova E. Country of Alexander Grin // Grin A.S. Fandango. - M.: Det. lit., 2002. - S. 5-20.
Tarasenko N. Green's House: Essay-Guide to the A.S. Green Museum in Feodosia and the branch of the museum in Stary Krym. - Simferopol: Tavria, 1979. - 95 p.: ill.
Shcheglov M. Ships of Alexander Grin // Shcheglov M. Literary and critical articles. - M., 1965. - S. 223-230.

M.P.

SCREENSING OF A.S. GRIN’S WORKS

- ART FILMS -

Scarlet Sails. Dir. A. Ptushko. Comp. I. Morozov. USSR, 1961. Cast: A. Vertinskaya, V. Lanovoy, I. Pereverzev, S. Martinson, O. Anofriev, Z. Fedorova, E. Morgunov, P. Massalsky and others.
Assol. TV movie. Based on the story "Scarlet Sails". Dir. B.Stepantsev. Comp. V. Babushkin, A. Goldstein. USSR, 1982. Cast: E. Zaitseva, A. Kharitonov, L. Ulfsak and others.
Running on the waves. Scene. A. Galich, S. Tsanev. Dir. P. Lyubimov. Comp. Ya. Frenkel. USSR-Bulgaria, 1967. Cast: S. Khashimov, M. Terekhova, R. Bykov, O. Zhakov and others.
Shiny world. Dir. B. Mansurov. Comp. A. Lunacharsky. USSR, 1984. Cast: T.Hyarm, I.Liepa, P.Kadochnikov, L.Prygunov, A.Vokach, G.Strizhenov, Y.Katin-Yartsev and others.
Mr decorator. Based on the short story "The Gray Car". Scene. Y. Arabova. Dir. O.Teptsov. Comp. S. Kuryokhin. USSR, 1988. Cast: V. Avilov, A. Demyanenko, M. Kozakov and others.
Gold chain. Dir. A. Muratov. Comp. I. Wigner. USSR, 1986. Cast: V. Sukhachev-Galkin, B. Khimichev, V. Masalskis and others.
Colony Lanfier. Scene. and post. J. Schmidt. Comp. I. Shust. USSR-Czechoslovakia, 1969. Cast: Y. Budraitis, Z. Kotsurikova, B. Beishenaliev, A. Fayt and others.
Screen versions of A.S. Green’s works are not so few, but, alas, there are no truly successful ones among them ...

INTRODUCTION

I NOVEL AND NOVELS

SCARLET SAILS

RUNNING ON THE WAVES

SHINING WORLD

GOLD CHAIN

II STORIES

III CREATIVE METHOD OF A.GREEN

CONCLUSION

Adventurous in their plots, Green's books are spiritually rich and sublime, they are charged with the dream of everything high and beautiful and teach readers courage and the joy of life. And in this Greene is deeply traditional, despite all the originality of his characters and whimsical plots. Sometimes it even seems that he deliberately heavily emphasizes this moralistic traditionalism of his works, their kinship with old books and parables. So, the writer, of course, not by accident, but quite intentionally, concludes two of his stories, "The Pillory" and "A Hundred Verses on the River", with the same solemn chord of old stories about eternal love: "They lived a long time and died in one day..."

In this colorful mixture of traditional and innovative, in this bizarre combination of the book element and the powerful, one-of-a-kind artistic fiction, probably one of the most original features of Green's talent consists. Starting from the books he read in his youth, from a great many life observations, Green created his own world, his own country of imagination, which, of course, is not on geographical maps, but which, undoubtedly, is, which, undoubtedly, exists - the writer firmly believes in this. believed - on the maps of youthful imagination, in that special world where dream and reality exist side by side.

The writer created his own country of imagination, as someone happily said, his "Greenland", created it according to the laws of art, he determined its geographical outlines, gave it shining seas, launched snow-white ships with scarlet sails, tight from the overtaking north- vesta, marked the shores, set up harbors and filled them with human seething, seething passions, meetings, events...

But are his romantic fictions so far from reality, from life? The heroes of Green's story "Watercolor" - an unemployed steamship stoker Klasson and his wife, the laundress Betsy - accidentally find themselves in an art gallery, where they discover a sketch on which, to their deep amazement, they recognize their house, their unsightly dwelling. The path, the porch, the brick wall overgrown with ivy, the windows, the branches of maple and oak, between which Betsy stretched the ropes - everything was the same in the picture ... The artist only threw streaks of light on the foliage, on the path, tinted the porch, windows, brick wall with the colors of early morning, and the stoker and the laundress saw their house with new, enlightened eyes: “They looked around with a proud look, terribly sorry that they would never dare to declare that this housing belongs to them. “We are renting the second year,” flashed through them. Klasson straightened up. Betsy wrapped a handkerchief over her exhausted chest ... The painting by an unknown artist straightened their souls, crumpled by life, "straightened" them.

Grinov's "Watercolor" evokes the famous essay by Gleb Uspensky "Rightened Up", in which the statue of Venus de Milo, once seen by the village teacher Tyapushkin, illuminates his dark and poor life, gives him "happiness to feel like a man." This feeling of happiness from contact with art, with a good book, is experienced by many heroes of Green's works. Recall that for the boy Gray from "Scarlet Sails", the picture depicting the raging sea was "that necessary word in the conversation of the soul with life, without which it is difficult to understand oneself." And a small watercolor - a deserted road among the hills - called "The Road to Nowhere" strikes Tirrey Davenant. The young man, full of bright hopes, resists the impression, although the ominous watercolor "attracts like a well" ... Like a spark from a dark stone, a thought is struck: to find a road that would lead not nowhere, but "here", fortunately, that in that moment Tirraeus dreamed.

And, perhaps, it is more accurate to say this: Green believed that every real person had a romantic spark in his chest. And it's just a matter of blowing it up. When Green's fisherman catches a fish, he dreams of catching a big fish, a big one "like no one has ever caught." A coal miner, heaping a basket, suddenly sees that his basket has blossomed, from the branches he burned, "buds crawled and sprinkled with leaves" ... A girl from a fishing village, having heard a lot of fairy tales, dreams of an extraordinary sailor who will sail after her on a ship with scarlet sails. And her dream is so strong, so passionate that everything comes true. And an extraordinary sailor and scarlet sails.

Green was strange and unusual in the usual circle of realist writers, everyday people, as they were then called. He was a stranger among the Symbolists, Acmeists, Futurists... Green's The Tragedy of the Xuan Plateau, a thing that I left conditionally in the editorial office, warning that it might or might not work, a beautiful thing, but too exotic... "These are lines from a letter from Valery Bryusov, who edited the literary department of the Russian Thought magazine in 1910-1914. They are very revealing, these lines sound like a sentence. Even if Bryusov, a great poet, sensitive and responsive to literary novelty, Green's thing seemed beautiful, but too exotic, which may or may not work, then what was the attitude towards the works of a strange writer in other Russian magazines?

Meanwhile, for Green, his story "The Tragedy of the Xuan Plateau" (1911) was a common thing: he wrote like that. Invading the unusual, "exotic", into the ordinary, familiar in the everyday life of the life around him, the writer sought to sharply indicate the magnificence of her miracles or the enormity of her ugliness. This was his artistic style, his creative style.

Moral freak Bloom, main character the story, dreaming of the times "when a mother does not dare to stroke her children, and whoever wants to smile will first write a will" was not a special literary novelty. The misanthropes, the home-grown Nietzscheans at that time, "on the night after the battle" of 1905, became fashionable figures. The “revolutionary by chance”, Blum, are related in their inner essence to the terrorist Alexei from Leonid Andreev’s “Darkness”, who wished “all lights to go out”, and the notorious cynic Sanin from novel of the same name M. Artsybasheva, and the obscurantist and sadist Trirodov, whom Fyodor Sologub in his "Navii Charms" passed off as a Social Democrat.

Green's plots were defined by time. Despite the exoticism and quirkiness of the patterns of the artistic fabric of the writer's works, many of them clearly feel the spirit of modernity, the air of the day in which they were written. The features of time are sometimes so noticeable, so emphatically written out by Green that in him, a recognized science fiction writer and romantic, they even seem unexpected. At the beginning of the story "Returned Hell" (1915) there is, for example, such an episode: the well-known journalist Galien Mark, sitting alone on the deck of a steamer, is approached with clearly hostile intentions by a certain party leader, "a man with a triple chin, black, combed on a low forehead hair, dressed baggy and coarse, but with a claim to panache, expressed by a huge crimson tie ... ". After such a portrait description, you can already guess what kind of party this leader represents. But Green considered it necessary to say more precisely about this game (the story is being told in the form of notes by Galien Mark).

“I saw that this man wanted a quarrel,” we read, “and I knew why. In the last issue of Meteor, my article was published, exposing the activities of the Autumn Month Party.”

Green's literary heritage is much broader and more diverse than one might assume, knowing the writer only from his romantic short stories, short stories and novels. Not only in his youth, but also at the time of wide popularity, Green, along with prose, wrote lyrical poems, poetic feuilletons and even fables. Along with romantic works, he published in newspapers and magazines essays and stories of a domestic warehouse. The last book the writer worked on was his Autobiographical Tale, where he depicts his life in a strictly realistic way, in all its genre colors, with all its harsh details.

He began his literary career as a "bytovik", as the author of stories, the themes and plots of which he took directly from the reality around him. He was overwhelmed with life impressions, accumulated in abundance during the years of wandering around the wide world. They urgently demanded an exit and lay down on paper, it seems, in their original appearance, not in the least transformed by fantasy; as it happened, so it was written. In the "Autobiographical Tale", on those pages where Green describes the days he spent at the Ural iron foundry, the reader will find the same pictures of the unsightly customs of the working barracks as in the story "Brick and Music", even some situations and details coincide. And in the partner of the young man Grinevsky, a gloomy and evil "hefty peasant", with whom he sifted coal in sieves from morning until late at night ("75 kopecks a day"), one can easily recognize the prototype of the shaggy and evil, black from the soot Yevstigney.

The story about Yevstigney was included in the writer's first book, The Cap of Invisibility (1908). It contains ten stories, and about almost every one of them we have the right to assume that it is, to one degree or another, written off from nature. From his direct experience, Green knew the bleak life of a working barracks, he was in prison, for months without receiving news from the outside ("At Leisure"), he was familiar with the ups and downs of the "mysterious romantic life" of the underground, as depicted in the stories "Marat" , "Underground", "To Italy", "Quarantine"... There is no such work, which would be called "The Cap of Invisibility", in the collection. But the title is chosen, of course, not by chance. In most of the stories, "illegal immigrants" are depicted, living, in the author's opinion, as if under a cap of invisibility. Hence the name of the collection. A fabulous title on the cover of the book, where life is shown not at all in fairy-tale twists ... This is a very revealing touch for the early Green.

Of course, Grin's impressions of life were not laid down on paper in a naturalistic way, of course, they were transformed by his artistic imagination. Already in his first purely "prosaic", everyday things, the seeds of romance sprout, people with a twinkle of dreams appear. In the same shaggy, hardened Yevstignee, the writer saw this romantic spark. It is lit in the soul by halakha music. Image romantic hero The story "Marat", which opens the "Cap of Invisibility", was undoubtedly prompted to the writer by the circumstances of the famous "Kalyaev case". The words of Ivan Kalyaev, who explained to the judges why he had not thrown a bomb into the carriage of the Moscow governor for the first time (a woman and children were sitting there), are repeated almost verbatim by the hero of Green's story. Green has a lot of works written in a romantic-realistic vein, in which the action takes place in the Russian capitals or in some Okurovsky district, more than one volume. And if Green had gone along this already explored path, he would certainly have developed into an excellent writer of everyday life. Only then would Green not be Green, the most original writer we know him now.

The running formula "Writer N occupies a special place in literature" was invented in time immemorial. But it could have been rediscovered in Green's time. And this would be just the case when a standard phrase, a gray stamp, is filled with vital juices, finds its original appearance, acquires its true meaning. Because Alexander Grin occupies a truly special place in Russian literature. It is impossible to recall any writer similar to him (neither Russian nor foreign). However, pre-revolutionary critics, and later Rappov's, stubbornly compared Green with Edgar Poe, an American romantic of the 19th century, the author of the poem The Raven, popular at the time of Green's youth, each stanza of which ends with the hopeless "Nevermore!" ("Never!").

BIBLIOGRAPHY

1. Green A. Collected. op. in 6 volumes, M., 1980

2. Aliyev E. The problem of the hero in post-October creativity

3. Amlinsky V. In the shade of sails. To the 100th anniversary of the birth of A. Green. " New world", 1980. № 10

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5. Admoni. In "Poetics and Reality", L., 1976

6. Bakhmetyeva V. "Scarlet Sails" set sail (about the film based on the story of the same name by A. Green). "Literature and Life", 1960, September 25

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21. Gorky M. Sobr. op. in 30 volumes, v. 24, M., 1953

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26. Gulev N. Controversial in the theory of romanticism. "Russian Literature", 1966. No. 1

27. Gubko N. I never cheated on art. - In the book: A. Green "Running on the Waves". Stories. L. 1980

28. Danina V. Memories of A. Green. L., 1972 (review of the book), "Star". 1973, No. 9

29. Dmitrevsky V. What is the magic of A. Green? - In the book: A. Green. Gold chain. The road is nowhere. Penza, 1958

30. Dunaevskaya I.K. “Where it is quiet and dazzling”, “Science and Religion” 1993/8,

31. "The ethical and aesthetic concept of man and nature in the work of A. Green", Riga 1988

32. Egorova L. On the romantic movement in Soviet prose.

Sevastopol, 1966

33. Zagvozkina T. Originality of the fantastic in novels

34. A. Green. "Problems of Realism", vol. 1U, Vologda, 1977

35. Zelinsky K. Green. "Red New", 1934, No. 4

36. Kandinsky V.V. “On the spiritual in art”, “Word about science and culture”, Obninsk, 2000

37. Kovsky V. Return to A. Green (about the literary fate of the writer). "Questions of Literature", 1981, No. 10

38. His same: Education by romance. "Literature at school", 1966, No. 1

39. His own: A. Green. Transformation of reality. Frunze, 1966

41. His own: Creativity of A. Green (the concept of man and reality). - Abstract of the dissertation for the degree of candidate of philological sciences. I., 1967

42. Kirkin I. Alexander Grin. Bibliographic index of A.S. Green's works and literature about him in 1906-1977. M.. 1980

43. His own: A.S.Grin in the press and literature about him (1906-1970) Abstract of the dissertation for the degree of candidate of pedagogical sciences. L. 1972

44. On the history of Russian romanticism. M., 1973

45. Kobzev N. Some features of Green's creative method. "Questions of Russian Literature", no. 3, 1969

46. Kobzev N. Alexander Grin's novel (problematics, hero, style) Chisinau, 1983

47. Kudrin V. "The Worlds of A. Green", "Science and Religion" 1993/3

49. Lipelis L. A. Green's World of Heroes. "Questions of Literature", 1973, No. 2

50. Lebedyaeva Ya. He is poetic, he is courageous. "Literature in School". 1960, No. 4

51. Lesnevsky B. Poetry and prose of Alexander Grin (about the book by V. Kharchev "Poetry and prose of Alexander Grin"). "Komsomolskaya Pravda", 1976, April 17

52. Mann Yu. Poetics of Gogol. M., 1978

53. Matveeva I. About the book by L. Mikhailova "A. Green. life, personality, creativity". M., 1980, "Literary newspaper", 1981, No. 52. December 23

54. "Metaphor in language and text", M., 1988

55. Milashevsky V. A. Green. In the book: Milashevsky V. Yesterday, the day before yesterday. M., 1972

56. Miller V. Russian Maslenitsa and Western European carnival.

57. Mikhailova L. Psychology of the unusual. Creative Notes

58. Her own: A. Green. Life, personality, creativity. M., 1972

59. Her own: A. Green, Life, Personality, Creativity. M., 1980

60. Ozhegov S. Dictionary of the Russian language. M., 1978

61. Panova V. About A. Green. L., 1972

62. Paustovsky K. Sobr. op. in 6 volumes, v. 5, M., 1958

63. Problems of traditions and innovation in fiction. Sat. scientific works. Gorky, 1978

64. "Problems of Romanticism", M., 1961

65. Prokhorov E. Alexander Grin. M, 1970

66. Revyakina A. Some problems of romanticism of the XX century and questions of art in the post-October creativity of A. Green. - Abstract of the dissertation for the degree of candidate of philological sciences. M., 1970

67. Her own: 0 creative principles of A. Green. Scientific notes of the Moscow State Pedagogical Institute, 1971, No. 456

68. Review without a signature: A.S. Green. Stories. "Russian wealth". 1910. No. 3

70. His own: Pages of life. M., 1974

71. Russian prose writers, vol. I, L, 1959

72. Saidova M. Poetics of A.S. Green (on the material of romantic short stories). Abstract of the dissertation for the degree of candidate of philological sciences. Dushanbe, 1976

73. Saikin 0, Inspired by a dream. To the 100th anniversary of Green. "Moscow", 1980, No. 8

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75. Dictionary of foreign words, 7th ed., M., 1979

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77. Toporov V.M. “Myth. Ritual. Symbol. Image, M., 1995

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79. Wheelwright.F "Metaphor and Reality", M., 1990

80. Khailov A. In Green's country. "Don", 1963, No. 12

81. Fedorov.F.F "Romantic Artistic World"

82. Fromm.E "The Soul of Man", M., 1992

83. Kharchev V. Poetry and prose of Alexander Green. Gorky, 1978

84. His own: 0 in the style of "Scarlet Sails". "Russian Literature", 1972.

85. Khrapchenko M. The creative individuality of the writer and the development of literature. M., 1970

86. Khrulev V. Philosophical, aesthetic and artistic principles of Green's romanticism. "Philological Sciences", 1971, No. 1

87. Philosophical Dictionary, ed. Frolova I. M. 1980

88. Shogentsukova.N.A. "The experience of ontological poetics" M, 1995. P.26

89. Shcheglov M. Ships of A. Green. "New World", 1956, No. 10

INTRODUCTION

I NOVEL AND NOVELS

SCARLET SAILS

RUNNING ON THE WAVES

SHINING WORLD

GOLD CHAIN

II STORIES

III CREATIVE METHOD OF A.GREEN

CONCLUSION

Adventurous in their plots, Green's books are spiritually rich and sublime, they are charged with the dream of everything high and beautiful and teach readers courage and the joy of life. And in this Greene is deeply traditional, despite all the originality of his characters and whimsical plots. Sometimes it even seems that he deliberately heavily emphasizes this moralistic traditionalism of his works, their kinship with old books and parables. So, the writer, of course, not by chance, but quite intentionally, concludes with the same solemn chord of old stories about eternal love: "They lived a long time and died on the same day..."

Green was strange and unusual in the usual circle of realist writers, everyday people, as they were then called. He was a stranger among the Symbolists, Acmeists, Futurists... Green's The Tragedy of the Xuan Plateau, a thing that I left conditionally in the editorial office, warning that it might or might not work, a beautiful thing, but too exotic... "These are lines from a letter from Valery Bryusov, who edited the literary department of the Russian Thought magazine in 1910-1914. They are very revealing, these lines sound like a sentence. Even if Bryusov, a great poet, sensitive and responsive to literary novelty, Green's thing seemed, although beautiful, but too exotic, which may or may not go, then what was the attitude towards the works strange writer in other Russian magazines?

The moral monster Blum, the main character of the story, who dreams of the times "when a mother does not dare to stroke her children, and whoever wants to smile will first write a will," was not a special literary novelty. The misanthropes, the home-grown Nietzscheans at that time, "on the night after the battle" of 1905, became fashionable figures. “Revolutionary by chance”, Blum is related in their inner essence to the terrorist Alexei from Leonid Andreev’s “Darkness”, who wished “all lights to go out”, and the notorious cynic Sanin from the novel of the same name by M. Artsybashev, and the obscurantist and sadist Trirodov, whom Fyodor Sologub, in his Navi's Charms, passed off as a Social Democrat.

Green's plots were defined by time. Despite the exoticism and quirkiness of the patterns of the artistic fabric of the writer's works, many of them clearly feel the spirit of modernity, the air of the day in which they were written. The features of time are sometimes so noticeable, so emphatically written out by Green that in him, a recognized science fiction writer and romantic, they even seem unexpected. At the beginning of the story "Returned Hell" (1915) there is, for example, such an episode: to famous journalist Galien Mark, sitting alone on the deck of the ship, is approached with clearly hostile intentions by a certain party leader, “a man with a triple chin, black hair combed over a low forehead, dressed baggy and rude, but with a claim to panache, expressed by a huge crimson tie ... ". After such a portrait description, you can already guess what kind of party this leader represents. But Green considered it necessary to say more precisely about this game (the story is being told in the form of notes by Galien Mark).

“I saw that this man wanted a quarrel,” we read, “and I knew why. In the last issue of Meteor, my article was published, exposing the activities of the Autumn Month Party.”

literary heritage Green is much broader, more diverse than one might assume, knowing the writer only from his romantic short stories, short stories and novels. Not only in his youth, but also at the time of wide popularity, Green, along with prose, wrote lyrical poems, poetic feuilletons and even fables. Along with romantic works, he published in newspapers and magazines essays and stories of a domestic warehouse. The last book the writer worked on was his Autobiographical Tale, where he depicts his life in a strictly realistic way, in all its genre colors, with all its harsh details.

“I saw that this man wanted a quarrel,” we read, “and I knew why. In the last issue of Meteor, my article was published, exposing the activities of the Autumn Month Party.”

Of course, Grin's impressions of life were not laid down on paper in a naturalistic way, of course, they were transformed by his artistic imagination. Already in his first purely "prosaic", everyday things, the seeds of romance sprout, people with a twinkle of dreams appear. In the same shaggy, hardened Yevstignee, the writer saw this romantic spark. It is lit in the soul by halakha music. The image of the romantic hero of the story "Marat", opening the "Cap of Invisibility", was undoubtedly suggested to the writer by the circumstances of the famous "Kalyaev case". The words of Ivan Kalyaev, who explained to the judges why he had not thrown a bomb into the carriage of the Moscow governor for the first time (a woman and children were sitting there), are repeated almost verbatim by the hero of Green's story. Green has a lot of works written in a romantic-realistic vein, in which the action takes place in the Russian capitals or in some Okurovsky district, more than one volume. And if Green had gone along this already explored path, he would certainly have developed into an excellent writer of everyday life. Only then would Green not be Green, the most original writer we know him now.

Alexander Stepanovich Green

Stories included by A.S. Green in the list of works for the collected works of the publishing house "Thought"

http://publ.lib.ruPravda, 1980;

Fate taken by the horns

In the month of December, the moon was surrounded by a double orange halo for two consecutive nights, a phenomenon that accompanies severe frosts. Indeed, the frost set in such that the blind man Ren continually removed thick frost from frozen eyelashes. Ren couldn't see anything, but frost interfered with his habit of blinking, which, now the only life of the eyes, somewhat dissipated the heavy oppression. Wren and his friend Seymour rode in a sleigh along the river, heading from the railway station to the town of B., which lies at the mouth of the river, at its confluence with the sea. Ren's wife, having arrived in B., was waiting for her husband, notified by telegram. They agreed to come here six months ago, when Ren was not yet blind and went on a geological excursion without any forebodings. "We're three kilometers away," Seymour said, rubbing his frost-bitten cheek. “I shouldn't have taken you on this trip,” said Ren, “that's really blind selfishness on my part. After all, I could ride great alone. “Yes, sighted,” said Seymour. “I have to deliver you and hand you over. Besides... He wanted to say that he enjoyed this walk in the lush snow, but remembering that such a remark referred to vision, he said nothing. The snowy landscape really made a strong impression. White plains, in the blue light of the moon, under a black sky - a cold, wintry, starry, silent sky; the constant black shadow of a horse, jumping under its belly, and the clear curve of the horizon gave something of eternity. Fear of seeming suspicious "like all the blind" prevented Ren from asking about the unfinished business. A close meeting with his wife greatly agitated him, absorbing almost all his thoughts and pushing him to talk about what is inevitable. “It would be better if I died on the spot at this moment,” he said sincerely, ending with a sad conclusion the chain of considerations and reproaches to himself. “Think about it, Seymour, what will it be like for her?! A young, very young woman and a mourning, blind husband! I know worries will begin ... And life will turn into a continuous feat of self-denial. Worst of all is habit. I can get used to it, to be convinced, after all, that it is necessary for a young creature to live only for the convenience of a cripple. “You are slandering your wife, Ren,” Seymour exclaimed, not quite naturally, “will she think the way you do now ?! No, but she won't feel very well. I know,” Ren added after a pause, “that I, sooner or later, will be a burden to her ... but she hardly admits it to herself ... “You are becoming a dangerous maniac,” he interrupted jokingly. Seymour. “If she didn’t know what happened to you, I would allow a not very pleasant first, second week. Ren was silent. His wife did not know that he was blind; he did not write to her about it.

In mid-July, while exploring a deserted mountain river, Wren was caught in a thunderstorm. He and his companions hurried to the tent, it was pouring rain; the surroundings, in a dark cloak of storm shadow, seemed like a world for which the sun had gone out forever; a heavy blast of thunder blew up the clouds with fiery bushes of lightning; their instantaneous, sparkling ramifications fell into the forest. There were almost no pauses between celestial flashes and thunder peals. The lightning flashed so often that the trees, constantly snatched out of the dusk by their sharp brilliance, seemed to jump and disappear. Ren did not and could not remember that lightning strike into the tree, after which the tree and he fell a short distance from each other. He woke up in deep darkness, blind, with burned shoulder and lower leg. The consciousness of blindness was established only on the third day. Wren fought hard against him, frightened by the hopelessness to which this final conviction of blindness led. The doctors worked diligently and uselessly with him: they could not cure the nervous blindness that struck Wren; nevertheless, they left him some hope that he could recover, that the visual apparatus was intact and only stopped in action, like a mechanism that has all the necessary parts to work. It was beyond Wren's strength to write to his wife about what had happened; despairing of doctors, he stubbornly, concentratedly, passionately waited - like a man sentenced to death awaits pardon - waited for the light. But the light didn't come on. Ren expected a miracle; in his position, a miracle was as natural a necessity as faith in our own strength or ability is for us. The only thing that has changed in his letters to his wife is that they were written on a typewriter. However, on the day of the meeting, he prepared a decision that is characteristic of the vitality of human hopes: to kill himself at the very last moment, when there will no longer be any doubts that the blow of fate will not spare Anna either, when she will stand in front of him, and he will not see her. This was the limit.

When Ren arrived, entered the room, where the voice of Anna, who had not yet returned from the store, was to sound soon, and there was a silence of lonely reflection, the blind man lost heart. Unprecedented excitement seized him. Anguish, fear, grief killed him. He did not see Anna for seven months; or rather, the last time he saw her was seven months ago and could not see her again. From now on, even if he were to live, all that remained for him was the memory of Anna's features, her smile and expression in her eyes, the memory, probably becoming more and more vague, changeable, while the same voice, the same words, the same the clarity of the touch of a close being will repeat that the appearance of this being is the same as he forgot it or almost forgot it. He so clearly imagined all this, which threatened him if he did not crush his skull and get rid of his blindness, that he did not even want to subject himself to the last interrogation about the firmness of his decision. Death smiled at him. But the tormenting desire to see Anna brought heavy tears to his eyes, the stingy tears of a broken, almost finished man. He asked himself what was preventing him, without waiting for the first kiss, which was still merry for her, to put the revolver into action now? Neither he nor anyone else could answer that. Perhaps the last horror of the shot in front of Anna's eyes attracted him with the inexplicable, but undeniable power of the snake's gaze. The ringing in the hallway shook Ren's whole being. He stood up, his legs wobbly. With all the exertion of his will, with all the melancholy of the impenetrable darkness that surrounded him, he intensified to discern at least something in the ominous gloom. Alas! Only fiery sparks, the result of a strong rush of blood to the brain, furrowed this ferocious darkness of despair. Anna entered; he heard her steps very close, now sounding different than when he saw her moving: the sound of steps was heard as if in one place and very loudly. “My dear,” said Anna, “my dear, my dear! Nothing happened. He still didn't see her. Ren put his hand in his pocket. -- Anna! he said hoarsely, pulling the safety catch with his finger. "I'm blind, I don't want to live anymore." Seymour will tell everything... I'm sorry! His hands were shaking. He shot in the temple, but not quite accurately; the bullet shattered the brow ridge and hit the window ledge. Ren lost his balance and fell. Falling, he saw his own hand with a revolver, as if floating in a thick fog. Anna, fussing and screaming in disorder, bent over her husband. He saw her too, but also vaguely, and then the room, but as if in a Chinese drawing, without perspective. It was what he saw that rendered him unconscious, not the pain and not the imminent death. But in all this, due to the tremendous surprise, there was now neither fear nor joy for him. He only had time to say: "It seems that everything worked out ..." - and fell into insensibility. “It was a useful nervous shock,” Dr. Renu said a week later, walking around with a huge scar over his eye. - Perhaps, only it could return to you what is dear to everyone - light.

Forgotten

Tabarin was a very valuable worker for the firm "Air and Light". In his nature, all the qualities necessary for a good tenant were happily combined: passionate love for work, resourcefulness, professional courage and great patience. He succeeded in what others considered impossible. He knew how to catch the corner of the light in the worst weather, if he filmed any procession or passage of dignitaries on the street. Equally well and clearly, and always in an interesting perspective, he shot all the orders, no matter where he came from: from roofs, towers, trees, airplanes and boats. At times, his craft turned into art. Filming popular science films, he could sit for hours at the bird's nest, waiting for the mother to return to the hungry chicks, or at the beehive, preparing to capture the departure of a new swarm. He traveled to all parts of the world, armed with a revolver and a small camera. Hunting for wild animals, the life of rare animals, the battles of the natives, majestic landscapes - everything passed before him, first in life, and then on a transparent tape, and hundreds of thousands of people saw what Tabarin alone saw at first. His contemplative, cold and imperturbable character was the best suited to this occupation. Over the years, Tabarin had forgotten how to accept life in her being; everything that happened, everything that was available to his observation, he assessed as good or bad visual material. He did not notice this, but unconsciously he always and above all weighed the contrasts of light and shadows, the pace of movement, the color of objects, relief and perspective. The habit of looking, the peculiar greed of sight, was his life; he lived with his eyes, resembling a beautiful thing, like a mirror, alien to what is reflected. Tabarin earned a lot, but with the onset of the war, his affairs were shaken. His firm collapsed, while other firms cut operations. The maintenance of the family became expensive, in addition, several hastily presented bills had to be paid. Tabarin was left almost without money; emaciated from worries, he sat for hours in a cafe, pondering a way out of a painful, unusual situation. “Remove the fight,” an acquaintance once told him, also a tenant who remained out of work. But not a stage play. Film a real fight, in ten steps, with all its unforeseen natural positions. For the negative will give great money. Tabarin scratched his forehead. “I thought about it,” he said. “The only thing that stopped me was my family. Dangers are used to me, and I to them, but to be killed, leaving the family without money, is not good. Secondly, I need an assistant. It may happen that, wounded, I will give up spinning the tape, but I need to continue. Finally, two are safer and more comfortable. Thirdly, you need to get permission and a pass. They fell silent. Tabarin's acquaintance was called Lanosque; he was a Pole who had lived abroad since childhood. Real last name him: "Lanskoy" - the French converted to "Lanosk", and he was used to it. Lanosk thought hard. The idea of a combat film captivated him more and more, and what he said out loud was, apparently, not a sudden decision, but only waiting for the right occasion and mood. He said, "Let's do it together, Tabarin." I'm lonely. Half income. I have a small savings; it will be enough for your family for now, and then we will settle accounts. Don't worry, I'm a business person. Tabarin promised to think about it, and a day later he agreed. Immediately, he developed a filming plan for Lanosk: the tape should be as complete as possible. They will give a complete picture of the war, expanding its crescendo from minor, preparatory impressions to real combat. It is good to make the tape the only one of its kind. All-in game: death or wealth. Lanosque was encouraged. He declared that he would immediately go and conclude a preliminary condition with two offices. And Tabarin went to fuss about the permission of the military authorities. With great difficulty, through many ordeals, persuading, proving, asking and begging, he finally received the coveted paper two weeks later, then reassured his wife as best he could, telling her that he had received a short-term business trip of an ordinary nature, and went with Lanosk to the battlefields .

The first week passed in intense and restless work, in visits to the areas affected by the war, and in the selection of the most interesting material among the abundance. Where on horseback, where on foot, where on boats or in a soldier's train, often without sleep and starving, spending the night in peasant huts, quarries or in the forest, tenants filled six hundred meters of tape. Everything was here: villages burned by the Prussians; fugitive residents, groves damaged by artillery fire, corpses of soldiers and horses, scenes of camp life, pictures of the areas where the most fierce battles took place, captured Germans, detachments of Zouaves and Turkos; in a word - the whole bulk of the struggle, including the transfer of the wounded and pictures of operating rooms at full speed. Only the center of the picture, the battle, was still missing. Calmly, like a habitual surgeon at the operating table, Tabarin turned the handle of the apparatus, and his eyes flashed with a lively brilliance when the bright sun helped the work or the chance gave a picturesque arrangement of live groups. Lanosque, more nervous and agile, suffered greatly at first; often, at the sight of the destruction inflicted by the Germans, curses fell from his throat in a tone as expressive as the cry of a woman or the cry of a wounded man. A few days later his nerves became dull, calmed down, he was drawn in, used to and reconciled with his role - silently reflecting what he saw. The day came when the tenants had to do the most difficult and tempting part of the work; pull off a real fight. The division, near which they stopped in a small village, was to attack the hills occupied by the enemy in the morning. At night, having hired a cart, Tabarin and Lanosque went to the chain, where, with the permission of the colonel, they joined the rifle company. The night was overcast and cold. No fires were lit. The soldiers were partly asleep, partly still sitting in groups, talking about the affairs of camp life, skirmishes and wounds. Some asked Tabarin whether he was afraid. Tabarin, smiling, answered everyone: - I'm only afraid of one thing: that the bullet will pierce the tape. Lanosque said: "It's hard to get into the apparatus: it's small." They ate bread and apples and went to bed. Tabarin soon fell asleep; Lanosque lay and thought about death. Over his head clouds were rushing, driven by a sharp wind; the forest boomed in the distance. Lanosque was not afraid of death, but he was afraid of its suddenness. In a thousand ways he pictured this fateful event to himself, until the air turned white from the east and the blue eye of the sky slipped here and there among the gray, cloudy armadas that were thickly falling over the hilly horizon. Then he woke Tabarin and examined the apparatus. Tabarin, waking up, first of all examined the sky. - The sun, the sun! he cried impatiently. - Without the sun, everything will be blurred: there is no time to choose a position and find a focus for a long time! “I would eat those clouds if I could!” said Lanosque. They were in a trench. To the left and right of them stretched rows of archers. Their faces were serious and businesslike. A few minutes later, the howl of the first shrapnel announced the height, and an invisible hail poured into the trench after a menacing crack. Two arrows staggered, two fell. The fight has begun. Thunderous rumbles of rifle fire; behind, supporting the infantry, artillery shots shook the ground. Tabarin, having set up the apparatus, carefully turned the knob. He pointed the object first at the wounded, then at the shooters, caught with celluloid the expression of their faces, postures, movements. The usual composure did not betray him, only his consciousness began to work faster, time seemed to stop, and his eyesight doubled. From time to time he stamped his foot, crying out: "Sunshine!" Sun! They didn't pay attention to him. The soldiers, running across, pushed him, and then he firmly clung to the apparatus, fearing for its integrity. Lanosque sat pressed against the wall of the trench. Through the trenches, muffled by the shots, the command was transmitted. The squad went on the attack. The soldiers, climbing over the parapet, rushed to run to the hills, silently, gritting their teeth, with guns at the ready. Tabarin, holding the apparatus under his arm, rushed to run after the soldiers, overcoming his shortness of breath. Lanosque did not lag behind: he was pale, excited, and as he ran he kept shouting: "Hurrah, Tabarin!" Ribbon and France will see the damn blow of our bayonet! How cleverly did I think it up, Tabarin? Dangerous ... but, damn it - life is generally dangerous! See what good fellows are running ahead! How shiny her teeth are! He is laughing! Hooray! We'll shoot the victory, Tabarin! Hooray! They fell a little behind, and Tabarin set off at full speed. The bullets cut the grass at his feet, whistled over his head, and by a terrible force of will he silenced the consciousness, repeating about sudden death. The farther, the more often he met soldiers lying prone, who had just outstripped him in the run. The Germans appeared on the crest of the hill, hastily running out to meet them, firing on the move and shouting something. A minute before the collision, Tabarin snatched the tripod from Lanosque and quickly, panting from running, set up the apparatus. His hands were shaking. At that moment, the hated, stubborn, sweet sun threw a yellow, living light into the cut of the clouds, giving birth to the running shadows of people, clarity and purity were given. The French fought from Tabarin in fifteen, ten steps. The flickering gleam of bayonets, the circles described by rifle butts, the backs of those who fell, the turns and jumps of those who attacked, the movement of helmets and caps, the angry pallor of faces—everything, caught by the light, rushed into the dark chamber of the apparatus. Tabarin trembled with joy at the sight of deft blows. Rifle barrels, parrying and striking, clapped against each other. Suddenly a strange mixture of feelings shook Tabarin. Then he fell, and the memory and consciousness left him lying on the ground.

When Tabarin woke up, he realized from the atmosphere and silence that he was in the infirmary. He felt intense thirst and weakness. Trying to turn his head, he almost fainted again from the terrible pain in his temples. Bandaged, not mortally shot head demanded rest. The first question he put to the doctor was: "Is my apparatus intact?" He was calmed down. The device was picked up by a nurse; his comrade, Lanosk, was killed. Tabarin was still too weak to react to this news. The excitement experienced in the question of the fate of the apparatus tired him. He soon fell asleep. A number of long, boring, weary days Tabarin spent on his bed, trying in vain to remember how and under what circumstances he received the wound. The stricken memory refused to fill the dark gap with living content. Vaguely it seemed to Tabarin that there, during the attack, something surprising and important had happened to him. Biting his lips and wrinkling his forehead, he thought for a long time about that unknown, which left a barely noticeable trace of sensations in his memory, so complex and vague that an attempt to revive them invariably caused only fatigue and annoyance. At the end of August he returned to Paris and immediately set about developing the negatives. First one, then another firm hurried him, and he himself burned with impatience to finally see on the screen the fruits of his labors and wanderings. When everything was ready, agents, representatives of firms, landlords of theaters and cinemas gathered in the spacious hall to watch the battle film of Tabarin. Tabarin was worried. He himself wanted to judge his work in its entirety, and therefore avoided looking at the already finished tape into the light earlier that evening. In addition, he was kept from premature curiosity by a secret, on nothing, of course, unfounded hope of finding on the screen, in a coherent repetition of moments, a fragment of memories that had disappeared without a trace. Need recall became his disease, mania. He waited and for some reason was afraid. His feelings resembled the thrill of a young man going on a first date. Sitting down on a chair, he was worried like a child. The spectators watched in deep silence the scenes of war, obtained at the cost of Lanosk's death. The picture ended. Breathing heavily, Tabarin watched the episodes of the bayonet fight, vaguely beginning to remember something. Suddenly he shouted: "It's me!" I! Indeed, it was him. The French rifleman, exhausted under the blows of the Prussians, was already staggering, barely on his feet; Surrounded, he cast a hopeless glance around him, looked to the side, behind the frame of the screen and, falling, wounded again, shouted something inaudible to the audience, but now painfully familiar to Tabarin. The cry resounded in his ears again. The soldier shouted: "Help the compatriot, photographer!" And immediately Tabarin saw himself on the screen, running up to the fighters. He had a revolver in his hand, he fired once, and twice, and three, knocked down the German, then grabbed the Frenchman's fallen gun and began to fight back. And the feelings of pity and anger that had thrown him to the aid of the Frenchman resurrected in him again. The second time he betrayed himself, betrayed his calm vision and professional dispassion. His excitement burst into tears. The screen is off. -- My God! said Tabarin, not answering the questions of his acquaintances. “The tape ran out… at that moment Lanosk was killed… He continued to turn the handle!” A little more - and the soldier would have been killed. I could not stand it and spat on the tape!

Battalist Shuang

Traveling with an album and paints, despite a revolver and a mass of security documents, in a ruined country occupied by the Prussians is, of course, a bold undertaking. But in our time, daredevils are at least a dime a dozen. It was pensive, with a red dawn in a clear sky - evening, when Shuang, accompanied by Matia's servant, a strong, tall man, drove up to the ruined town of N. Both made the journey on horseback. They passed the burnt ruins of the station and plunged into the dead silence of the streets. Shuang saw the ruined city for the first time. The sight captured and confused him. The distant antiquity, the times of Attila and Genghis Khan, were marked, it seemed, by blind, dead fragments of walls and fences. There was not a single whole house. Piles of bricks and debris lay beneath them. Everywhere where the eye fell, huge gaps made by shells gaped, and the eye of the artist, guessing in places from the ruins a picturesque antiquity or an original plan of a modern architect, squinted painfully. “A clean job, Mr. Shuang,” said Matia, “after such devastation, it seems to me that there are few people left who want to live here!” "That's right, Matia, there's no one to be seen on the streets," Shuang sighed. It's sad and disgusting to look at all this. You know, Matia, I think I'll work here. The environment excites me. We will sleep, Matia, in the cold ruins. Tes! What is this?! Do you hear voices around the corner?! There are living people here! “Or live Prussians,” the servant remarked anxiously, looking at the flickering shadows in the piles of stones.

Three marauders, two men and a woman, wandered at the same time among the ruins. The mean trade kept them all the time under the fear of being shot, so every minute looking back and listening, the gang caught the faint sounds of voices - the conversation of Shuan and Matia. One marauder - "Lens" - was a woman's lover; the second - "Keychain" - by her brother; the woman bore the nickname "Fish", given because of her evasiveness and pity. - Hey, my children! whispered Linza. -- Chit! Listen. “Someone is coming,” said Trinket. -- Need to find out. - Get on up! Fish said. - Go and see who's there, but quickly. Keychain ran around the block and peered around the corner onto the road. The sight of the horsemen reassured him. Shuang and the servant, dressed for the road, did not arouse any fears. Keychain went to the travelers. He did not yet have any calculation and plan, but, correctly judging that at such a time, well-dressed, on well-fed horses, it is unthinkable for people to wander without money, he wanted to find out if there was any food. -- A! Here! said Shuang, noticing him. - There is one living person. Come here, poor thing. Who are you? - A former shoemaker, - said Trinket, - I used to have a workshop, and now I go barefoot. “Is there anyone else alive in the city?” -- No. Everyone is gone... everyone; maybe someone ... - Keychain fell silent, thinking over a sudden flash of thought. To carry it out, he still needed to know who the travelers were. “If you are looking for your relatives,” Trinket said, making a sad face, “go to the villages near Miletus, everyone has been drawn there. “I am an artist and Matia is my servant. But - it seemed to me or not - I heard someone talking in the distance. Who's there? Keychain waved his hand grimly. -- Hm! Two unfortunate lunatics. Husband and wife. You see, their children were killed by shells. They went crazy on the fact that everything is the same, the children are alive and the town is intact. Do you hear, Matia? Shuang said after a pause. - Here is the horror, where remarks are superfluous, and details are unbearable. He turned to Trinket: “Listen, dear, I want to see these madmen. Take us there. “Please,” said Trinket, “as soon as I go and see what they are doing, maybe they went to some imaginary acquaintance. He returned to his accomplices. For several minutes, he sensibly, in detail and convincingly inspired his plan to Linza and Ryba. Finally they collided. The fish had to be completely silent. Lens was obliged to portray a crazy father, and Trinket - a distant relative of the old people. “To be frank,” said Trinket, “we, as healthy people, will force them to stay away from us. "What are three vagabonds doing in an abandoned place at a time like this?" they ask themselves. And in the role of harmless madmen, we, using the first opportunity, will kill both. They must have money, sister, money! We come across a lot of rags, broken lamps and pictures full of holes, but where, in what garbage heap, will we find the money? I undertake to persuade the muffin to stay the night with us ... Well, now look at both! - What do you think, - Lens asked, moving with the woman to the neighboring, less destroyed house, - should I shake my head or not? Crazy people often shake their heads. - We are not in the theater, - said the Fish, - look around! It's scary... it's dark... it's going to be even darker soon. Once you are shown as a madman, no matter what you say or do, everything will be in the eyes of others crazy and wild; yes, in a place like this. Once I lived with the heliporter Sharmer. Having robbed creditors and avoided court, he pretended to be blessed; they believed him, he achieved this only by going everywhere with a cork in his teeth. You... you're in the best conditions! -- Is it true! Lens cheered. “I’ll play a role, just hold on!”

- Follow me! said Trinket to the riders. “By the way, in that house you could spend the night ... even though you are crazy, it’s still more fun with people. "We'll see, we'll see," said Shuang, dismounting. They approached a small house, from the second floor of which the loud words of the supposedly crazy Lens were already coming: "Leave me alone. Let me hang this picture! Will dinner be served soon?" Matia went out into the yard to tie up the horses, and Shuang, following Trinket, went up into an empty room, stripped of half its furniture and strewn with the old rubbish that is found in every apartment when it is left: cartons, old hats, parcels with patterns, broken toys, and many more items that you will not immediately find a name for. The wall of the façade and the wall opposite it were pierced through by a shell, which brought down layers of plaster and canvases of dust. A candle stub burned on the mantelpiece; The fish was sitting in front of the fireplace, clasping its knees with its arms and looking motionless at one point, and Lens, as if not noticing a new person, paced from corner to corner with his hands behind his back, throwing intent, sullen glances from under his brows. Shuang's youth, his shyly-guilty, depressed expression of his face finally encouraged Lens, he now knew that the roughest game would turn out great. “The old woman is completely crippled and, it seems, is no longer conscious of anything,” Keychain whispered to Shuan, “and the old man is still waiting for the children to return!” Here Keyfob raised his voice, letting Linza know what to talk about. - Where is Susanna? Lens turned sternly to Shuang. We are waiting for her to sit down to supper. I'm hungry, damn it! Wife! You let the kids go! That's disgusting! It's time for Jean to prepare his lessons too... yes, here are today's children! “Both Jean and Susannochka,” Trinket said in a strangled whisper, “were killed, you understand, by one explosion of a shell—both of them!” It happened in the shop... There were other customers there too... Everyone was blown away... I looked later... oh, it's such a horror! -- The devil knows what it is! Shuang said in shock. “It seems to me that you could, by some cunning, remove these unfortunates from the city, where only starvation awaits them. “Ah, sir, I feed them, but how?! Some vegetables from abandoned gardens, a handful of peas picked in an empty barn... Of course, I could take them to Grenoble, to my brother... But money... oh, how expensive everything is, very expensive! "We'll arrange it," said Shuang, taking out his wallet and handing the fraudster a rather large banknote. - That should be enough for you. Two glances - Lenses and Pisces - surreptitiously crossed on his hand, which held the money. Keychain, assuming an agitated, startled look, wiped his dry eyes with his sleeve. "God... god... you... you..." he muttered. - Come on, come on! Shuang said, touched. “However, I need to see what Matia is doing,” and he went down into the yard, hearing Lens’ exclamations behind him: “My dear boy, go to your father! Here you hurt your leg again!” - This was accompanied by a sincere, genuine laughter of a marauder, quite pleased with himself. But Shuang, understanding this laughter differently, was greatly depressed by it. He ran into Matia behind the well. “I found a sack of hay,” said the servant, “but I ran out many yards. The horses are put here in the barn. "We'll lie down together by the horses," said Shuang. -- I am hungry. Give me the bag. He separated some of the provisions, telling Matia to take them to the 'crazy ones'. “I won’t go there again,” he added, “their sight gets on my nerves. If that young guy asks about me, tell me I'm already in bed. After adjusting his lantern on an overturned box, Shuang busied himself with camp food: canned food, bread, and wine. Matia is gone. Shuang's creative thought worked in the direction of what he had just seen. And suddenly, as happens in happy, fateful moments of inspiration, Shuang clearly, with all the details, saw an unpainted picture, the same one that in a dull state of mind and fantasies yearn for, not finding a plot, but an imperious desire to produce something grandiose in general, without a clear plan, even without a distant idea of what is sought, does not cease to torment. Shuang was now full of such a work, in all harmony of conception, layout and execution, and, as has been said, represented it very clearly. He intended to portray the lunatics, the father and mother, sitting at the table, waiting for the children. The picture of the destroyed room was in his hands. The table, as if set for dinner, was supposed, according to Shuang's plan, to clearly show the insanity of the old people: among the broken plates (empty, of course), he suggested placing foreign objects, alien to food; all together thus personified a confusion of ideas. The old people are obsessed with the fact that nothing happened, and the children, returning from somewhere, will sit down, as always, at the table. And in the far corner of the background, a carefully outlined piece of the fence faintly protrudes from the thickened darkness (which, as it were, dreams of the old people), and the bodies of a young man and a girl who will not return are visible by the fence. The caption to the picture: "They make the old people wait...", which should indicate the sincere faith of the unfortunate in the return of children, was born by itself in Shuang's head. .. He stopped eating, carried away by the plot. It seemed to him that all the disasters, all the sorrow of the war could be expressed here, embodied in these figures by the terrible power of the talent inherent in him ... He already saw crowds of people striving for an exhibition of his painting; he smiled dreamily and mournfully, as if realizing that he owed his fame to misfortune - and now, forgetting about food, he took out an album. He wanted to get to work immediately. Taking a pencil, he drew with it preliminary considerations of perspective on a clean cardboard and could not stop ... Shuang was still drawing the far corner of the room, where bodies were visible in the darkness ... Behind him the door creaked; he turned around, jumped up, immediately returning to reality, and dropped the album. - Matia! To me! he shouted, fighting off Keychain and Lens, who were rapidly rushing at him.

Matia, leaving Shuan, sought out the stairs leading to the second floor, where the ominous actors, having heard his footsteps, took the necessary positions. The fish sat down again on the chair, looking at one point, and Lenza ran his finger along the wall, smiling senselessly. - You, I think, are all hungry here, - said Matia, putting provisions on the windowsill, - eat. There's bread, cheese and a jar of butter. “Thank you for everyone,” Keychain answered heartily, winking imperceptibly at Lens as a signal to be on the lookout and seize the moment to knock down Matia. “Your master is tired, you must be. Sleeping? - Yes... He lay down. Poor overnight stay but nothing to be done. It's good that the plumbing gave water, otherwise the horses would be ... He did not finish. Matia, facing Keychain, did not see how Lens, suddenly losing the desire to mutter something to himself, looking at the wall, quickly bent down, lifted the heavy oak leg from the chair, turned inside out in advance, swung and hit the servant on the crown of the head. Matia, with a pale face, with a sudden fog in his head, fell deafly, without even a cry. Seeing this. The fish jumped up, urging Lens, who was leaning over the body: - Then you will look ... He killed, he killed. Go to the barn, finish it, and I'll rummage around this. She quickly rummaged through Matia's pockets, whispering loudly to the retreating swindlers: - Look, do not break loose! Seeing the light in the barn, the more cautious Trinket hesitated, but Lens, inflamed by violence, angrily dragged him forward: - You're soft! They lingered at the door, shoulder to shoulder, for no more than a minute, caught their breath, sullenly glaring at the bright crack of the unlocked door, and then Lens, pushing the Trinket with his elbow, resolutely pulled the door, and the marauders rushed at the artist. He resisted with desperation that tripled his strength. "They must have finished with Matia," the thought flashed, since the servant did not appear at his calls and cries. The horses, excited by the turmoil, were tearing from their leashes, deafeningly stomping on the wooden flooring. Lens tried to hit Shuan with an oak leg on the head. Keychain, working with his fists, chose the right moment to knock down Shuan, clasping him from behind. Shuang could not use the revolver without first opening the holster, and this would give the marauders the minimum time of inactivity of the victim, which is sufficient for a fatal blow. Lens blows fell mainly on the hands of the artist, from which, numb due to terrible pain, they almost refused to serve. Fortunately, one of the horses, pushing, overturned the box on which the lantern stood, the lantern fell glass down to the floor, blocking the light, and complete darkness ensued. "Now," thought Shuang, rushing to the side, "now I'll show you." He released the revolver and sprayed three shots at random, in different directions. The reddish glow of the flashes showed him two backs disappearing behind the door. He ran out into the yard, entered the house, went upstairs. The old woman disappeared when she heard the shots; on the floor by the window, painfully, moving with difficulty, Matia groaned. Shuang went to fetch water and wet the victim's head. Matia woke up and sat up, holding his head. “Matia,” said Shuang, “of course, we won’t sleep after such things. Try to master the forces, and I will go to saddle the horses. Get out of here! We will spend the night in the forest. Arriving at the shed, Shuang picked up the album, tore off the page he had just sketched, and, sighing, scattered the scraps. - I would be an accomplice of these rascals, - he said to himself, - if I took advantage of the plot played out by them ... "Making the old people wait ..." What a topic goes down the drain! But I have a glorious consolation: one less such tragedy, it never happened. And who among us would not give away all his paintings, not excluding masterpieces, if fate paid for each one with an innocent life taken from the war?

Black Diamond

... The sun gravitated towards the mountains. The party of convicts returned from forest work. Trumov washed himself and lay down on the bunk while waiting for supper. Anguish choked him. He wanted to see nothing, hear nothing, know nothing. When he moved, the shackles on his legs rattled like a shout. The socialist Leftel went up to Trumov and sat down on the edge of the bunk. - Spleen or nostalgia? he asked, lighting a cigarette. And you will learn to play "trynka". “I want freedom,” Trumov said quietly. “It’s so hard, Leftel, that I can’t express it. “Then,” Leftel lowered his voice, “run to the taiga, live in the forest, wild life while you can. Trumov said nothing. “You know, the will is not enough,” he said sincerely, sitting down. If you run away, then not into the forest, but to Russia or abroad. But the will is already poisoned. Obstacles, huge distances to be overcome, prolonged nervous tension... When thinking about all this, fantasy draws gigantic difficulties... this is her illness, of course. And every time the impulse ends in apathy. Trumov was brought to hard labor by his love for the wife of the violinist Yagdin. Three years ago Yagdin gave concerts in European and American cities. Trumov and Yagdina's wife fell in love with each other with an exceptional love that stops at nothing. When it turned out that her husband would soon return, Olga Vasilievna and Trumov decided to leave Russia. The need to get several thousand rubles for this took him by surprise - he had no money and no one gave. In the evening, when the employees of the transport office (where Trumov worked) were about to leave, he hid in the office and broke open the money cabinet at night. The courier, suffering from insomnia, came running to the noise. Trumov, in desperation, knocked him down and with a blow to the head with a bronze paperweight, wanting only to stun him, killed him. He was arrested in Volochisk. After the trial, Olga Vasilievna poisoned herself. “But I don’t care,” Leftel said, “a philosophical mindset helps. Although ... The warden came in, shouting: - Everyone, go out into the yard, you're alive! - Having finished the official order coming from the head of the prison, he added in an ordinary voice: - The musician will play for you, idiots, a visitor, you see, he arranged a prisoner's concert. Trumov and Leftel, pleasantly interested, quickly walked into the corridor; along the corridor, reeking of sour, stale air, a noisy crowd of convicts was walking, the ringing of shackles at times drowned out voices. The prisoners joked: "Give us a chair in the front row!" - And if I whistle ... - They lead the square dance ... Someone sang like a rooster. “However, the utopians have not died out yet,” Trumov said, I envy their bright insanity. “Last time I listened to music…” Leftel began, but cut off the sad memory. In a wide stony yard, surrounded by thinned fields, the prisoners lined up in a semicircle in two rows; here and there the shackles tinkled meekly. From the mountainous distances, covered with the magical soft-colored fabric of the evening, the sun cast low rays. Wild fragrant deserts teased people in chains with inaccessible freedom. The head of the prison came out of the office. A petty and suspicious man, he did not like any music, he considered Yagdin's idea to play in front of the prisoners not only reprehensible and awkward, but even shameful, as if destroying the harsh meaning of the prison, which he led without indulgence, strictly adhering to the charter. - Well, - he spoke loudly, - you sing your howls like that, but you have never heard real music. “He said that because he was afraid of the governor. “Well, listen now. Now the famous violinist Yagdin will play the violin for you - he goes to prisons for you murderers, understand? Trumov died. Leftel, greatly astounded (he knew the story), looked at him regretfully. - Why is that... - Trumov whispered to Leftel in confusion, smiling crookedly. His legs suddenly trembled, he was all weak and melancholy. The realization that it was impossible to leave increased the suffering. "Hold on, the devil with you," Leftel said. Trumov was standing in the front row, not far from the porch of the office. Finally, Yagdin came out, lingered on the bottom step, slowly looked around the convicts with an attentive, passing glance, and, imperceptibly nodding his head, smiled at Trumov's exhausted, frozen face. Yagdin's eyes burned with a painful fire of restrained excitement. He experienced the sweetest feeling of quenched hatred, almost turning into adoration for the enemy, in gratitude for his torment. Trumov, out of pride, did not avert his eyes, but his soul sank; the past, spat upon by the appearance of Yagdin, rose to its full height. The prison clothes crushed him. Yagdin took this into account as well. All revenge in general was carefully, from afar, thought out by the musician. The scheme of this revenge consisted in this situation: he, Yagdin, would appear before Trumov, and Trumov would see that Yagdin was free, elegant, rich, talented and famous as before, while Trumov was disgraced, chained, pale, dirty and thin and aware that his life is broken forever. In addition to all this, Trumov will hear beautiful, exciting music from him, which will vividly remind the convict happy life a loved and free man: such music will oppress and poison the soul. Yagdin deliberately put off the implementation of this plan for the third year of Trumov's penal servitude, so that the hated person would have time to languish under the weight of a terrible fate during this time, and now he has come to finish off Trumov. The convict understood this. While the artist was taking out an expensive violin from a case gleaming with gold inscriptions, Trumov had a good look at Yagdin. The violinist wore a smart white suit, yellow boots and an expensive panama. His puffy pale gray tie looked like a bouquet. Turning his eyes upward, Yagdin swayed forward, at the same time moved his bow and began to play. And since his desire to hurt Trumov as painfully as possible with his art was enormous, he played with a high, even for him not always accessible perfection. He played small but strong pieces of the classics: Mendelssohn, Beethoven, Chopin, Godard, Grieg, Rubinstein, Mozart. The merciless charm of music shocked Trumov, his impressionability was, moreover, greatly exacerbated by the appearance of her husband Olga Vasilievna. “What a bastard, after all,” Leftel said quietly to Trumov. Trumov did not answer. A new force tossed and turned in him muffledly but commandingly. It was completely dark, he no longer saw Yagdin's face, but only saw a twilight spot of a white figure. Suddenly, sounds so familiar and touching, as if a dead woman were clearly whispering in her ear: "I'm here with you," made him jump up (the prisoners, having received permission to stay "at ease", sat or reclined). Clenching his fists, he stepped forward; Leftel grabbed his arm and held him with all the tension of his muscles. "For God's sake, Trumov..." he said quickly, hold on; because they will hang for it. Trumov, gritting his teeth, gave up, but Yagdin continued to play his opponent's favorite romance: Black Diamond. He played it with intent. Olga Vasilievna Trumova often played this romance, and Yagdin once caught their eye, which he did not attach any importance to at that time. Now he enhanced the vivacity of the convict's memories with this simple, but rich and sad melody. The bow spoke slowly: In memory of your endless suffering, I brought you a black diamond... And this torture, petrified, Trumov withstood to the end. When the violin stopped and someone in the corner of the yard exhaled with all his chest: "Ehma!" - he laughed nervously, bent Leftel's head to him and firmly whispered: - Now I know that Yagdin made a cruel and unforgivable mistake. He did not add anything to this, and his words became clear to Leftel only the next day, at ten o'clock in the morning, when, while working in the forest (chopping wood), he heard a shot, saw a meaningful grin in the faces of the convicts and the warder with an unloaded rifle in hands. The overseer, running out of the forest to the cut down place, looked bewildered and preoccupied. -- The escape! - rushed through the forest. Indeed, risking his life, Trumov fled into the taiga in front of the warden, who led him to another party, where there was a file, to edit the saw.

A year and a half passed after that. In the evening, a footman entered Yagdin's office with a tray; on the tray were letters and a package sealed with a parcel post. The musician began to examine the mail. He printed one letter with an Australian stamp before the others, recognized the handwriting and, dimming, began to read: "Andrei Leonidovich! It's time to thank you for your wonderful concert that you gave me last year. I really love music. She performed it miracle: it freed me. Yes, I was shocked listening to you; the richness of the melodies you recited in the courtyard of Yadrinsky prison made me very deeply feel all the music of a free and active life that I had lost; I really wanted everything again and fled. Such is the power of art, Andrei Leonidovich! You used it as a tool for an unworthy purpose and were deceived. Art-creativity will never bring evil. It cannot execute. It is the ideal expression of any freedom, is it any wonder that I, in my then position, in contrast, was tall, powerful music became a fire that burned the past and future years of my imprisonment.Special thanks to you for "Black Diamond", you know that my favorite melo Dia acts stronger than others. Farewell, sorry for the past. No one is to blame for this love. In memory of the strange knot of life cut by your bow, I am sending "Black Diamond"!" Yagdin opened the bundle; it contained notes of Bremer's hateful romance. The violinist got up and walked around the office until morning, throwing cigarette butts on the carpet.

Mystery record

Compressing his lips tightly, bending over and resting his hands on the cushions of the chair on which he was sitting, Bevener followed with a determined, unwavering gaze the agony of the poisoned Gonased. In less than five minutes, Gonased drank the deadly wine poured by a cheerful friend. That evening, nothing in Bevener's appearance indicated his black design. As always, he giggled exorbitantly, his shifting eyes changed expression a thousand times, and when you see a person like that all the time, this nervous fussiness is capable of killing suspicion even if it were about the death of the whole world. Bevener killed Gonased because he was the happy lover of the singer Lasource. The banality of the motive did not prevent Bevener from showing some originality in the execution of the crime. He invited the victim to a hotel room, suggesting that Gonased discuss together how to prevent a murder prepared by one person known to both Gonased and Bevener, the murder of a man also well known to Gonased and Bevener. Gonased demanded to be named.

"These names are very dangerous," said Bevener. It's dangerous to name them. You know that here in the theatre, the wings have ears. Come to the Red Eye Hotel, number 12, in the evening. I will bethere. Gonased was curious, obese, trusting and romantic. In the room, he found Bevener drinking wine, in excellent spirits, giggling loudly, with a pencil and paper in his hands. - Tell me, - said Gonased, - who and whom was going to kill? -- Listen! “They drank a glass, a second and a third; Bevener hesitated. “Here you are,” he finally spoke quickly and convincingly, “Othello is on today, Maria Lasurse sings Desdemona, and Othello is the young Bardio. You, Gonased, are blind. All of us, your stage comrades, know how madly Bardio loves Maria Lasurs. She, however, rejected his quest. Today, in the last act, Bardio will kill Maria on stage, he will kill, you understand, for real! "And you haven't spoken before!" roared Gonases, jumping up. - Let's go! Quicker! Quicker! “On the contrary,” Bevener objected, blocking his friend’s path, “we don’t need to go there. What proof do you have of Bardio's intentions? You will make a noise backstage, disrupt the performance, accuse Bardio without evidence, and in the end you will be brought to trial for insult and slander?!

"You're right," said Gonased, sitting down. "But how do you know?" And - what to do? Just over an hour left, the last act is coming soon... The last one! “But I know what to do. It is necessary to make Lasurse leave the theater without finishing the part. Write her a note. Write that you committed suicide. -- How?! said Gonased. "But what are the reasons?" You have no reason, I know. You are cheerful, healthy, famous and loved. But how else to get Maria Lasurs out? Think! Any letter from an outsider, even with a message about your death, she will consider an intrigue, a desire to charge her with a large penalty. There were examples of this. And besides the death of a loved one, what can tear an artist away from the applause, flowers and smiles dear to his heart? You yourself, with your own hand, must summon Lasource to your imaginary corpse. "But will you tell me about Bardio?" - This very night. Here is paper and pencil. How frightened she is! muttered Gonased, scribbling. “She has a tender heart. He wrote: "Mary. I committed suicide. Gonased. Victoria Street, Red Eye Hotel.

Bevener rang and gave the sealed note to the servant, saying: "Deliver it soon," and Gonased smiled brightly. She will curse me! he whispered. "She will cry for joy," Bevener objected, throwing poison into his friend's glass. Let's drink to our friendship! Yes, it lasts! “But you will certainly tell me about the scoundrel Bardio?” Bevener, my glass is empty, and you are delaying... My head is spinning from excitement... yes, you see, I'm not feeling well... Ah! He jerked convulsively at the collar of his shirt, stood up and fell at the killer's feet, crumpling the carpet with his crawling hands. His body was trembling, his neck was filled with blood. At last he quieted down, and Bevener stood up. “It was you, red-haired Lasource, who killed him!” he said in a frenzy. “My love for you is as strong as for the dead.” You didn't want me. For this Gonased died. However, I skillfully dismissed the suspicion. He rang the bell and, chasing the frightened footman after the doctor, began to rehearse the scene of amazement and despair, which was required to be played in front of the doctor and the amazed Lasource.

Justice in this case remained at peak interest. A genuine note from Gonased to his mistress, stating that the singer had committed suicide, was undeniable. Bevener wept: "Ah! - he said. - With a heavy feeling I went to this hotel. The deceased invited me, without explaining why. We were so friendly ... We began to drink; Gonased was thoughtful. Suddenly he asked me for paper and a pencil, wrote something and ordered to send a note to Lasource. Then he said that he would take powder for a headache, poured it into a glass, drank it and fell down dead. " The most insightful people shrugged their shoulders, not knowing how to explain the suicide of the cheerful, happy Gonased. Lasource, having cried, left for Australia. A year has passed, and the sad death was forgotten. In January, Bevener received an offer from the Lowden factory to hum some gramophone records. Accepting the offer, Bevener sang several arias for a large sum. By the way, he sang Mephistopheles: "On earth is the whole human race" and, starting to sing it, he remembered Gonases. It was the deceased's favorite aria. He clearly saw the deceased in make-up, shaking his hand, singing - and a strange excitement took possession of him. The body was overcome by a terrible weakness, but the voice did not break, but grew stronger and thundered with enthusiasm. Having finished, Bevener greedily drank two glasses of water, hurriedly said goodbye and left.

A month later, guests gathered at Bevener's apartment. Actors, actresses, music critics, painters and poets celebrated a decade of Bevener's stage activities. The host, as always, was nervously laughing, agile and lively. Among the flowers flickered the gentle faces of the ladies. There was full light. The end of supper was approaching when a servant entered the dining-room, announcing that they had come from Lowden. “By the way,” said Bevener, throwing down his napkin and leaving the table. “They brought gramophone records, which I sang to Lowden. I ask dear guests to listen to them and tell me if the voice transmission is successful. In addition to the records, Lowden sent a beautiful new gramophone, a gift to the artist, and a letter informing him that he could not attend the celebration due to illness. The servant put the apparatus in order, inserted the needle, and Bevener himself, rummaging through the records, settled on the aria of Mephistopheles. Putting the record on the gramophone, he lowered its membrane to the edge and, turning to the guests, said: - I'm not quite sure about this record, because I was a little worried when I sang. However, let's listen.

There was silence. There was a barely perceptible, soft hiss of steel on rubber, fast piano chords ... and a steel, flexible baritone struck the famous aria. But it was not Bevener's voice... Clearly, with all the shades of a living pronunciation so familiar to all those present, the deceased Gonased sang, and the eyes of everyone turned in amazement to the hero of the day. A terrible pallor covered his face. He laughed, but the laugh was unbearably shrill and false, and everyone shuddered when they saw the owner's eyes. There were exclamations: - This is a mistake! - Gonased did not sing for records! - Louden messed up! -- You hear?! said Bevener, losing his strength as the voice of the slain man grimly bent his astonished will. - Hear?! It is he who sings, the one I killed! I have no salvation; he himself came here... Stop the record! The prompter Eris, white as milk, rushed to the gramophone. His hands were trembling; lifting the membrane, he took off the plate, but in haste and fear he dropped it on the parquet. There was a dry crack, and the black circle crumbled into small pieces. We have witnessed the unheard of! said the violinist Indigan, picking up the shard and putting it away. “But whatever it may be, a delusion of the senses or the manifestation of an undiscovered law, I will keep this particle as a keepsake; its color will always remind of the color of the soul of our dear owner, who is now being taken away by the police so carefully!

How I died on the screen

At noon, I received a notice from the Giant firm that my offer had been accepted. The wife was asleep. The children went to the neighbors. I looked thoughtfully at Felicity, mournfully listening to her uneven breathing, and decided that I was acting wisely. A husband who is unable to provide medicine for his sick wife and milk for his children deserves to be sold and killed. The letter of the manager of the firm "Giant" was composed very skillfully, so that only I could understand it; if it fell into the wrong hands, no one would have guessed what it was about. Here is the letter: "M.G.! We think that the amount you are talking about is convenient for you and us (I demanded twenty thousand). Come to Chernosliv Street, house 211, apartment 73, at 9 o'clock in the evening the position in which you find yourself is assigned with an appropriate, pleasant for you, ensemble. There was no signature. For some time I puzzled over how, having found myself in an “unchanged position,” i.e., with a shot through my head, I could be convinced of the fulfillment by the “Giant” of the obligation to pay my wife twenty thousand, but soon came to the conclusion that everything would be cleared up on Chernosliv street. I, in any case, will not go to the Champs Elysees without a firm guarantee. Despite my determination, I was nevertheless seized by a whirlwind of dying excitement. I didn't sit. I shouldn't even have stayed at home, so as not to lie to my wife with my voice and eyes if she wakes up. Thinking it all over, I laid out on the table the last copper coins weeping in my pocket and, as I was leaving, wrote a note with the following content: “Dear Felicity! Since your illness is not dangerous, I decided to look for work in the gardens, where I am going. Don’t worry. I'll be back in a week, at the latest." I spent the rest of the day on the boulevards, in the port, and in the squares, now walking about, now sitting down on a bench, and was so upset that I did not feel hungry. I imagined the wife's despair and grief when she finally learned the truth, but I also imagined the material well-being in which the Giant's money would keep her. In the end - in a year, maybe - she will understand and thank me. Then I turned to the question of the afterlife, but then a man sat down on the bench next to me, in whom I easily recognized my old friend Boots. I haven't seen him for five years. “Boots,” I said, “you must be very absent-minded!” Do you recognize me? -- Ah! Oh! Boots shouted. “But what about you, Attis? How pale you are, how ragged! I told everything: the illness, the loss of a job, poverty, the deal with the Giant. -- You're kidding! Boots said with a frown. -- No. I sent the company a letter saying that I wanted to shoot myself, and offered to film the moment of suicide for twenty thousand. They can insert my death into some picture. Why not, Boots? After all, I would have killed myself anyway; I'm tired of living with clenched teeth. Boots stuck his cane into the ground at least half a foot. His eyes became furious. - You're just a fool! he said rudely. “But those gentlemen from the Giant are nothing more than villains!” How? To coolly turn the handle of a vile box in front of a shot through the head? My friend, cinema is already becoming like Roman circuses. I saw how the matador was killed - that was also filmed. I saw an actor drown in the drama "Siren" - this was also filmed. Live horses are thrown from a cliff into an abyss - and removed ... Give them free rein, they will arrange a massacre, a massacre, they will start running after the duelists. No, I won't let you! “And I want my children to always be shod.” -- Nu, that same! Give me the address of these bums. They don't know your appearance. I will take your place. -- How! You will die? -- It's my business. Anyway, tomorrow we're having lunch with you at the Ceremonial. “But… if… somehow… money…” “Ettis?! I blushed. Boots always kept his word, my distrust terribly offended him. Pouting, he did not speak for about three minutes, then, relenting, he held out his hand. - Do you agree or not? "Very well," I said, "but how will you get out?" - Head. I'm not kidding, Attis! Say the address. Thank you! Goodbye. I only have four hours left. Go home, be calm, and do your shopping list. We broke up. I felt as if I had entrusted my entire fortune to a man who had sailed away on a ship full of holes into a stormy sea. Losing Boots out of sight, I caught myself. How could I agree to his proposal?! His mysterious calculations could be wrong. “Your own hand, your money,” is how I should have reasoned. Half an hour later I was at home. My wife got out of bed and cried over my note. She could not forgive me "working in the gardens." I said I didn't find a job. Finally, we made peace and dozed off, embracing. I fell asleep; in a dream I saw fried fish and pasta with mushrooms. I was awakened by my wife's loud words: "How delicious these pies with onions!" ... The poor thing dreamed the same as me. It was dark. Suddenly the bell rang, and as decisively as mailmen, policemen and messengers ring. I got up and lit the fire. A man in a long oilcloth coat entered and asked: "Are you Felicita Ettis?" -- Yes I. - Here's the package. He bowed and left so soon that we didn't have time to ask him what was the matter. Felicity tore open the envelope. Sitting on the bed in amazement, she held in one hand a bundle of thousand-dollar banknotes, and in the other a note. “Darling,” she said, “I feel bad ... money ... and your death ... Oh, Lord! .. Picking up the fallen note, I read: “M.G. Your husband committed suicide on in the eyes of an old acquaintance whose name is of no concern to you. Touched by your plight, I ask you to accept something of my surplus of twenty thousand. The corpse has been transferred to St. Nick's Hospital." Then the sudden complete certainty that Boots was dead struck me. No matter how hard I tried, I could not explain the receipt of money. Trying to bring my wife to her senses, I went over in my imagination all the possibilities of a successful outcome (for Boots), but, knowing his intentions, I was ready to cry and break the money. The wife woke up. - What happened to me? "Ah, yes... What does all this mean?" Another call made me rush to the door. I was waiting for Boots. It was him, and I hung convulsively on his neck. Among the questions, exclamations, interruptions and laughter, he said the following: - Exactly at 9 o'clock in the evening I was at the door of number seventy-three. I was greeted by a kindly fat old man. I was in rags and rubbed my eyes with an onion—they looked tear-stained. Here is a brief conversation we had over a cup of fine coffee. He. - Do you want to die? I really want to. He. "It's unpleasant, but I'm a supporter of free will." Would you agree to die in the costume of an eighteenth-century marquis? I. - He must be better than mine. He. - Then another ... a wig ... and a beard ... I. - Oh, no! The suit is indifferent to me, but the face must remain mine. He. - Well, nothing ... I just asked. Write a note ... you see ... I wrote: "I ask you not to blame anyone for my death. Ettis" - and gave the note to the old man. Then we agreed that the money would be immediately sent to my wife, that is, to your wife. The old man hesitated, but took a chance. He put the money in front of me in a package and sent it by messenger. Now look what came of it. I was led into a garden brightly lit with electric light and seated on a chair with my back to a tree. Before that, I, groaning, put on the cutesy clothes of the marquis. The tenant with the apparatus stood four paces from me. He and the old man did not seem particularly pale to me; their attitude was evidently business-like. The old man proposed to me before he died - what would you think? beauty and wine; but I refused... Now I regret it. I was in a hurry to reassure you. When I went to die, I put on a dark, shaggy wig, under which I hid a flat rubber tube filled with red wine. Its end, sealed with wax, fell at the right temple. "Farewell, dear friend," said the old man. - "Michel, start!", and the operator began to turn the handle of the device. I looked up, and bringing the muzzle to my temple, fired a blank charge. The wine immediately ran down the collar. I leaned back, gasping for air with my hands, and did every grimacing of agony I could think of with my eyes closed. The old man shouted: "Closer, Michel, take off your face!" Finally, I conscientiously froze, hanging my head on my chest (only thirty meters). "It's still scary!" Michel said. Then I stood up and yawned defiantly. Both of them were shaking in terrible fright, never taking their eyes off me. "Nothing to watch," I said, "my temple still hurts, it's burned. If you believed in my death, the public will believe." “I bowed to them and left… dressed as a marquis. Then I changed at home and hurried to you. "And they didn't reproach you?" I asked. “You can’t sign for inhumanity. My conscience is clear! Think the same way you do, Attis. I saw one person really shoot himself, and, you know, there was not much expressiveness in it. He just fired and just fell like a bed. Imitation is more truthful than life, but the "Giant" has not yet matured to such an understanding, my dear.

Stories 1908-1916 published in periodicals

Checkmate in three moves

This incident occurred at the very beginning of my practice, when I, a doctor still unknown to anyone, spent my visiting hours in despondent loneliness, pacing around my office and shifting the same object twenty times from place to place. For a whole month I had only two patients: the janitor of the house in which I lived, and some stranger who suffered from nervous tics. On that evening, which I am talking about, an event occurred: a new, third patient appeared. Even now, when I close my eyes, I see him before me as if alive. He was a man of average height, bald, with an important, slightly distracted look, with a curly blond beard and a sharp nose. His build betrayed an inclination towards fullness, which was in some contrast with the sharp, impetuous movements. I also noticed two features that would not be worth mentioning if they did not indicate a strong degree of nervous breakdown: convulsive twitching of the eyelids and incessant wiggling of the fingers. He sat or walked, spoke or was silent, the fingers of his hands uncontrollably bent and unbent, as if they were tangled by an invisible viscous web. I pretended to be completely indifferent to his visit, maintaining in my face the cold, attentive equanimity which, as it seemed to me then, is inherent in any more or less serious profession. He was embarrassed and sat up, blushing like a girl. - Why are you sick? I asked. "Me, doctor..." He looked at me with an effort and frowned as he examined the writing instruments. A minute later I again heard his languid, embarrassed voice: - The thing, if you please, is such ... Very strange ... strange. A strange thing... You could say - a thing... However, you won't believe it. Interested, I looked at him intently; he breathed slowly, with difficulty, lowering his eyes and apparently trying to focus on his own sensations. Why don't I believe you? - Yes, sir. It’s hard to believe,” he objected with conviction, suddenly raising his short-sighted, perplexedly smiling eyes at me. I shrugged. He became embarrassed and coughed softly, apparently preparing to begin his story. Left hand several times she rose to his face, tugging at his beard; he was all, so to speak, inwardly fussing about something. This was especially noticeable in the tense play of the face, burning alternately with despair and embarrassment. I did not rush him, knowing from experience that in such cases it is better to wait than to urge. At last the man spoke, and as he spoke, he almost calmed down. His voice sounded even and quiet, his face stopped twitching, and only the fingers of his left hand still moved quickly and nervously, freeing themselves from the invisible web. “Surprise, so surprise,” he said, as if with regret. “You only… I beg you… don’t interrupt me… Yes…” “Don’t worry,” I remarked softly. - Surprise is the lot of the profane. Having thus hinted to him of my alleged experience in the field of psychiatry, I assumed a relaxed pose, that is, I crossed my legs and began to tap my fingertips with a pencil. He hesitated, sighed, and continued: "Please, would you be so kind... if you can... every time I raise my hand... I beg your pardon... Take the trouble to say, please: 'Leipzig... International tournament-with... Mate in three moves"? A? Please. I had not yet managed to portray a huge question mark, as passionate, persuasive, quiet words again rained down: - I can’t, sir ... Do you believe it? I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, I become an idiot... To distract me from my thoughts, I need this, that’s it! As soon as you say these words, I’ll calm down ... You talk, you talk, and she will come up, this very thought ... I’m afraid of her: if you please listen ... It must have been about eight or nine days ago ... Of course , we all think about it ... One will die, the other ... That is, about death ... And how it all happens, I will report to you how it clings to one another - it is incomprehensible to the mind ... I sat that way at window, I read a book, but I didn’t have much desire to read, it was time for dinner. I sit and watch... After all, this is the mood that happens - at a certain moment I would have spat, I would not have paid attention... she was a baby, she wore a kerchief, red ... Then a girl of seven years old ran, a thin girl, a red pigtail, it sticks out like a pig's tail ... Excuse me, sir ... I see, a schoolgirl passes behind, then a lady, and a very well-dressed, stately lady, and behind her, if you please, is an old woman ... Here ... you understand? I looked at his hands with curiosity: they were trembling rapidly, small, unbuttoning and fastening the button of his coat. In what he told me, for him, apparently, a whole chain of some frightening conclusions fit in. “No, I don’t understand,” I said, “but go on. He was very pale and looked somewhere to the side, behind the curtain. I smiled reassuringly, he frowned, thought and continued: - As the old woman passed, the following story entered my head: after all, now there is not enough funeral procession ... I moved away from the window, but I keep thinking: you, brother, will die ... well, and all that sort of thing. And then I think: who are we all, living, walking and talking? Not only that the corpses are ripening, sort of like apples on a branch, but there is also some kind of terrible simplicity in all this ... Before two last words his voice was choked with excitement. I listened intently. “All this,” he went on, “has not spoiled my appetite. After dinner, I even lay in a hammock with pleasure... And when the night came, even though the guards shout, I go crazy, and that's it!.. A miserable smile froze on his convulsively concentrated, sweaty face. Pulling out his handkerchief and blowing his nose, he continued to look me in the face with the same fixed, dumbfounded look. I smiled involuntarily: this small detail, the bow of the tents, suddenly destroyed the slightly eerie impression made on me by a strange, frightened person. But he went on talking, and soon I again felt in the grip of a sharp, morbid curiosity. Still not knowing what was the matter, I, it seems, was already ready to believe this man, leaving his abnormality in doubt. He hid the handkerchief and continued: "Until evening I was calm... Cheerful even went about... well, going to bed, I went out into the garden as usual, to have a look, to smoke a cigarette." It's quiet, the stars burn in a special way, not softly and affectionately, but they irritate me, disturb me ... I sit, thinking ... About what? About eternity, death, the mystery of the universe, space ... well, about everything that comes into my head after a hearty dinner and strong tea ... I remember philosophers, different theories, conversations ... And I remembered one thing, from my childhood ... Then I was very proud of the fact that, so to speak, I came up with my own mind. This is how I reasoned: an infinite amount of time passed until "I" appeared ... Well, I'm dying, and let's say that I was not there at all ... And this is why, within the limits of infinity, I cannot appear again ? I'm a little confused, of course... but an example... such... a blank sheet of paper, let's say, here. I take a pencil, I write - 10. But - I took it and I erase it completely, cleanly ... And what! I take a pencil again and again I write "10". You see, 1 and 0. He paused, took a breath, and wiped away the drops of sweat that glistened peacefully on his tormented bald skull with his sleeve. “Go on,” I said, “and don’t stop. In such cases, it is better to tell at once, it is easier. - Yes, - he picked up, - I ... and ... well, that's not the point ... So. My thoughts whirled unceasingly, as if some whirlwind had caught them... And here, for the first time, a terrible thought occurred to me that one could find out everything if... "If?" I interjected, seeing that he had suddenly stopped. He answered in a whisper, solemn and dejected: "If you think about it non-stop, without fear of death." I shrugged, maintaining a polite readiness to listen further. My patient turned convulsively in his chair, obviously pricked. -- Incredible? he exclaimed. “And what if I show you such a perspective: you, here you are, doctor, suddenly, sitting on this chair, remember that there is infinite space? .. Well, sir ... But you think about it with walls, you mentally put walls to this space! And suddenly there is nothing for you, there are no walls, you feel with all the coldness of your heart what kind of thing this is - space! After all, one moment, yes, sir, and this very moment can put you to death, because you are not fit! .. - Perhaps, - I said. "But I can't even imagine..." “And I didn’t imagine it, but I feel it,” and he thumped his chest with his fist, “here I have such a feeling that as soon as I think about it intently, without breaking away, I’ll understand ... And when I understand— I will die. Just now I asked you to shout out the word "checkmate in three moves" if I raised my hand... All this is because you give me these very words at a critical moment, when it begins to rise, - you will immediately give me another direction to thoughts. And I fished out this problem in three moves, when I was still subscribing to a magazine. When I heard your voice, I'll start deciding right off the bat... So, sir... I'm sitting, suddenly, I hear my wife calling me from the porch: "Misha!" And I hear that she is calling, but I can’t answer her, imagine, - my tongue was constricted, and that’s it ... Then I guessed what the thing was: my mood was at that moment, so to speak , the most unearthly, even rare mood, but here you need to talk about some domestic business, all sorts of trifles. I am silent. The second time he calls: "Misha-ah! Are you asleep, or what?" Then I got angry and said to her, excuse me, these very rude words: "Go to hell!" Good with. She left. And I felt so sad after that that you can’t tell. I'm going to sleep, I think. I undressed, lay down, but I still couldn’t sleep, various circles flickered, luminous flies run around ... And my heart, I must tell you, has been out of order for a long time ... So it began to make different things ... It stops, then it will strike with a drumbeat, so hard that there is not enough air ... Fear took me, threw me into a fever ... I am dying, I think to myself ... And as I thought, the bed floated under me, and I myself do not feel .. . OK then. It passed, I came to my senses ... but I can’t sleep anymore ... Different thoughts run, run like dogs in the street, different images flicker, memories ... Then, I see a girl in the morning, followed by a young lady, then an old woman. .. this whole procession, as if alive, moves ... And only, you know, my thought stopped on this old woman, how I trembled and shouted at the top of my voice: I feel, one turn of thought, and I will understand, you understand - I will understand and allow the whole snag of death and life, like two times two - four ... And I feel that as soon as I understand this, at that very moment ... I will die ... I will not stand it. He fell silent, and it seemed to me that the room itself sighed, noisily and convulsively catching its breath. White as lime, a frightened man sat in front of me, his glassy, bulging eyes fixed on my face. And suddenly he raised, stretching his hand upwards, with a diligent, clumsy movement - a sign of approaching horror - a hand with a starched cuff and a bronzed cufflink. And there must have been two crazy people in the room at that moment - he and I. His panic infected me, I was at a loss, forgetting both "checkmate in three moves" and what that helpless, thrown up hand with yellow fingers meant. Without thoughts, with one unbearably burning desire to jump up and run away, I looked into his eyes slowly sinking into the depths of their orbits - small, black abysses, fading uncontrollably and aimlessly ... The hand fell. She lazily bent first at the wrist, then at the elbow, then at the forearm, stirred and quietly fell down, softly clapping her palm on the bend of her knee. Fear brought back my memory. I jumped up and called out in a measured, firm voice, trying not to sound ridiculous to myself: "Leipzig!" International Tournament! Mate in three moves! He didn't move. Dead, with a calmed face, flooded with electric light, he continued to stare fixedly and sternly at that point above the back of my chair where my eyes had shone a minute before.

Competition in Lissa

The sky darkened, the aviators, having finished inspecting the cars on which they were supposed to seek the prize, converged in a small restaurant "Bel-Ami". In addition to the aviators, there was another audience in the restaurant, but since the wine itself is nothing but a beautiful flight on the spot, the presence of air celebrities did not arouse any particular curiosity in anyone, with the exception of one person who was sitting alone on the side, but not so far from the aviators' table that he could not hear their conversation. He seemed to be listening to him half-turned, his head slightly tilted towards the brilliant company. His appearance must be described. In a shabby, light overcoat, soft hat, with a white scarf around his neck, he had the air of an insignificant correspondent, such as one often finds in places of any public competitions. A tuft of dark hair, falling from under a hat, darkened a high, strongly developed forehead to the nose; black long-slit eyes had that peculiarity of expression that seemed to always look into the distance, even if the object of vision was no further than two feet. The straight nose rested on a small dark mustache, the mouth seemed to be convulsed, the lips were compressed so tightly. A vertical fold bifurcated the sharp chin from the middle of the mouth to the limit of the facial outline, so that the lock of hair, the nose, and this remarkable feature together looked like a longitudinal section of the physiognomy. This - which was already strange - corresponded to the difference in profiles: the left profile appeared in a soft, almost feminine expression, the right one - with a concentrated gloom. There were ten pilots sitting at the round table, among which we are interested, in fact, only one, a certain Cartref, the most courageous and arrogant of the whole company. The lackey's physiognomy, the pale, unhealthy complexion, the arrogant tone of voice, the hairstyle of a hooligan, the stubbornly insignificant look, the motley suit of the clerk, the fingers in the rings and the depressing, depraved smell of lipstick made up Cartref. He was drunk, spoke loudly, looked around defiantly with a jealously independent air, and, so to speak, played a role, played himself in a picturesque contrast to everyday life. He boasted about the car, experience, courage and luck. The flight, pieced together by this man's pathetic brain, seemed like a junk of gasoline cans, wire, iron, and wood dangling through space. Trained to move levers and press buttons, the venerable craftsman of air exulted for many different reasons, not least of which was the vanity of a cripple who received crutches. - Everyone will fly, sooner or later! shouted Cartref. - And then they will remember us and erect a monument to us! You and... me... and you! Because we are pioneers! “And I saw one man who wept!” cried the frail pilot Callo. -- I saw him. And he wiped away his tears with a handkerchief. - As I remember now. This man and his wife drove up to the airfield, saw Wright at the top and began to untie his tie. "Oh, what?" said his wife, or the lady who sat with him. "Ah, I'm stuffy!" he said. "Anxiety in the throat . Fountain. Everyone perked up. The general self-satisfied smile was drowned in beer and mustache. After a pause, the pilots clinked glasses, blinked their eyebrows significantly, drank and drank more. An educated aviator, Alphonse Gigot, a student of the Polytechnic, impressively declared: - The victory of reason over dead matter, inert and hostile to civilization, is taking giant strides forward. Then they began to discuss prizes and odds. Those present did not speak of themselves or of others present, but somewhere, in the shadow of the words uttered in drunken language, the speaker himself visibly lurked, with a finger pointing at himself. Only Cartref, frowning, finally said the same thing for everyone. - I'll break the altitude record - me! he wailed, waving the bottle unsteadily over a half-full glass. -- I am who I am! Who am I? Cartref. I am not afraid of anything. Such a statement instantly aroused quiet hatred. Some chuckled, some exaggeratedly loudly and cheerfully expressed the absence of the slightest doubt that Cartref was telling the truth; some attentively, affectionately looked at the braggart, as if inviting him not to be shy and saying: "Thank you for your kind word." Suddenly, an invisible knife cut through the ghostly proximity of these people, they became enemies: the distant sister of enmity - death came close to the table, and everyone saw it in the form of a dragonfly machine, fluttering down from the clouds for a quick unsatisfactory blow on a dusty field. There was silence. It did not last long, its poisoned edge firmly stuck in the souls. The mood has deteriorated. The sour interruption of voices continued for some time, repeating various things, but without any enthusiasm. The companions fell silent again. Then the stranger, who was sitting at the table, suddenly and loudly said: - So you fly!

It sounded like an orange in soup. The chair cracked, so abruptly did Cartref turn around. Behind him, the others, realizing from which corner the mocking exclamation came, turned around and stared at the stranger with eyes full of irritated nonsense. - What? shouted Cartref. He sat like this: head on the arm, elbow on the table, body in an oblique line and legs flying away, to the side. There was a lot of contempt in the pose, but it didn't work. "What's in there, stranger?" What do you want to say? “Nothing special,” the stranger answered thoughtfully. “I heard your conversation, and it made a vile impression on me. Having received this impression, I tried to fix it with those three words, which, if I am not mistaken, alarmed your professional vanity. Take it easy. My opinion will not bring you any harm or benefit, since there is nothing in common between you and me. Then, understanding not the meaning of what was said, but the irresistibly contemptuous tone of the short speech of an unknown person, all the aviators shouted: “Damn you, dear sir! "What do you care what we said among ourselves?" - Your insulting remark ... - Please leave us, get out! - Get out! - Down with the talker! - Scoundrel! The stranger got up, straightened his scarf, and, putting his hands into his coat pockets, went up to the aviators' table. The hall was alert, the eyes of the public were fixed on him; he felt it, but was not embarrassed. - I want, - the unknown person spoke, - I really want to bring you at least a little closer to flying to true sense this word. How would you like to fly? How should you fly? Let's try to evoke an unexperienced feeling. For example, you are sad in the crowd, in a crowded square. The day is clear. The sky sighs with you and you want to fly to finally laugh. The laughter I am talking about is close to a delicate aroma and soundless, just as the soul is passionately silent. Then the man does what he has in mind: with a light stamp of his foot, he rushes up and swims in the mysterious height, now quietly, now quickly, as he wants, then stops in place to look at the city below, still large, but already visible as a whole, - more plan than city, and more drawing than plan; the horizon rose like a bowl; he is always at the height of the eye. In the flying everything is shifted, shocked, a whirlwind in the body, a ringing in the heart, but this is not fear, not delight, but a new purity - there is no heaviness and points of support. There is no fear and fatigue, the heartbeat is similar to that which accompanies a sweet kiss. It is bathing without water, swimming without effort, jokingly falling from a height of thousands of meters, and then stopping over the spike of the cathedral, reaching inaccessibly to you from the bowels of the earth - while the wind chirps in your ears, and the distance is huge, like an ocean that has risen wall - these sensations are like a brilliant orchestra, illuminating the soul with clear excitement. You turned your back to the earth; the sky lay down below, under you, and you fall towards it, freezing from the purity, happiness and transparency of the captivating space. But never fall on the clouds, they become mist. Turn back to the ground. It pushes you effortlessly, soaring you higher and higher. From this height your path is free night and day. You can fly to Australia or China, dropping down to rest and eat wherever you want. It is good to fly at dusk over a sad, fragrant meadow, without touching the grass, to fly quietly, like a walk at a pace, to a nearby forest; above its black bulk lies the red half of the setting sun. Rising higher, you will see the entire solar circle, and the scarlet fabric of the last rays goes out in the forest. Meanwhile, the flimsy, ugly structure, carefully guarded under the roof, soaked through with the sweaty fumes of the brain that composed its suspicious structure, is rolled out by the workers onto the grass. His wings are dead. It is matter crucified in the air; a person sits on it with thoughts about gasoline, the crackling of a propeller, the strength of nuts and wire, and, before taking off, he thinks that he has fallen. In front of him is a whole kitchen in which, on the already mentioned gasoline, a roast from space and sky is cooked. Glasses on the eyes, valves on the ears; in the hands of iron sticks and - here - in a cage of wire, with a canvas roof over his head, a bird of God rises from a run of fifteen sazhens, feeling his sides. What does the glorious fluttering creature think about, which stays in the air for no other reason than those due to which the thrown stone describes an arc? The negation of flight is already hidden in the speed itself, the frantic speed of movement; to fly silently means to fall. Yes, so what are you thinking? About money, about what will break and perish. And a lot of all sorts of rubbish is spinning in his head - technical hairpins, behind which you can not see the hairstyle. Where to sit, where to drop? Ah, it's scary to fly away from a convenient square. It is impossible to get down on a roof, a telegraph wire, or a rock top. The flyer is pulled back, the flyer descends - descends to the ground with a guilty face, because he survived, meanwhile the spectators leave disappointed, dreaming of a catastrophe. Therefore, you did not fly and you will never fly. The sign of the crow, lazily crossing, waving its wings, your convulsive gasoline path in the blue country, should be minted on medals and distributed to you as a good memory. "Would you like a glass of cognac?" - said the barman, who settled down to the unknown. - Here it is, I poured it. The stranger thanked him and drank brandy. His words outstripped the anger of the pilots, which was simmering. Finally, some hit the table with their fists, some jumped up, overturning the bottles. Kartref, bent over menacingly, crumpling napkins and frightening with his eyes, approached the unknown. How long are you going to interfere with us? he shouted. “Stupid public, critics, damn you!” Did you fly? Do you know at least one system? Can you make a short descent? Do you have any idea about aviation? No? So go to hell and don't interfere! The stranger looked at Cartref's furious face, smiling, then glanced at his watch. “Yes, I have to go,” he said calmly, as at home. - Farewell, or rather, goodbye; tomorrow I will visit you, Cartref. He paid and left. When the door slammed behind him, there was no sound of footsteps from the echoing stairs, and it seemed to the pilot that the impudent man stood outside the door to eavesdrop. He opened it, but saw no one and returned to the table.

“The air is good,” thought Cartref the next day, when, having described a circle over the airfield, he examined below the sunny variegation of stands full of spectators. His rivals hummed left and right; seven airplanes took off almost simultaneously. Depending on the position they took in the air, their outline resembled a box, an envelope, or an open umbrella. It seemed that they were all heading in one direction, while flying in the other. The motors hummed, in the distance like thick strings or singing tops, close by the crackle of canvas torn above the ear. The noise was like a factory. Below, by the garages, figures were moving across the green grass, as if they had been cut out of white paper; then other aircraft were taken out. A brass band played. Cartref rose to a height of a thousand meters. A strong wind ruffled his face, stormy breathing painfully strained his chest, his ears roared. From here the earthly landscape seemed like a swaying round square, dotted with spots and lines; the airplane, as it were, stood still, while space and air rushed past, towards. The clouds were as far away as from the ground. Suddenly he saw a figure about which he could neither think anything, nor think, nor laugh, nor be horrified - so unprecedented, beyond everything earthly, understandable and possible, she rose to the left, as if instantly created by air. It was the unknown person who had angered the pilot last night. He rushed in a pose lying on his side, propping his head on his hand; a new, beautiful and terrible face was seen by Cartref. It shone, there is no other way to describe the harmony of the strange enthusiasm that burned in the features of this man. The intense radiance of the eyes resembled the eyes of birds in flight. He was without a hat, in an ordinary, medium-sized suit; his tie, coming out from under his waistcoat, was beating against the buttons. But Cartref did not see his clothes. So, having met a woman who immediately strikes with the fire of her beauty, we notice her dress, but we do not see it. Kartref didn't understand. His soul, overwhelmed by a feeling we cannot imagine, darted away; he obeyed her, pressing hard on the steering wheel to swerve. Unknown, describing a semicircle, raced again nearby. The thought that this was a hallucination stirred faintly in Cartref; wanting to revive her, he shouted: - Don't. Don't want. Rave. "No, it's not nonsense," said the stranger. He was also screaming, but his words were calm. “Eight years ago I looked up and believed that I could fly as I wanted. Since then, a simple desire has been moving me in the air. I stayed among the clouds for a long time and watched the raindrops form. I know the secret of the formation of ball lightning. The artistic pattern of snowflakes took shape before my eyes from the shuddering dampness. I descended into abysses full of rotting bones and gold thrown by misfortune from narrow passages. I know all the unknown islands and lands, I eat and sleep in the air, as in a room. Kartref was silent. A heavy spasm grew in his chest. The air choked him. The unknown changed position. He straightened up and stood over Cartref, slightly ahead of the pilot, facing him. His hair was tangled in a straight line in front of his face. Horror - that is, the complete death of consciousness in a living body - took possession of Cartref. He pressed the depth rudder, wanting to go down, but he did it unconsciously, in the opposite direction of desire, and realized that he was dying. The airplane took off steeply. Then a series of false efforts followed, and the car, having lost the air rail, swayed and turned over, as if thrown playing card rushed down. Cartref saw the sky, then the earth emerging from the depths. Now under him, now from above, the wings of a falling airplane were flattened. The pilot's heart trembled, confused blows and petrified in unbearable pain. But for a few moments he still heard the music, now clear, as if it were singing in his ears. The merry overflow of flutes, the groan of the drum, the brass cry of trumpets, and a few isolated words spoken by someone on the ground in a tone of excited remark were the last perception of the pilot. The machine tore the ground and dug into the dust in a heap of smoky rubbish. The unknown person, having crossed the bay, sank down in the forest and, without haste, went to the city.

Toys

In one of the French border towns occupied by the Germans, there lived a certain Alvazh, a man with a dark past, not in the worst sense of the word, but in such a way that no one knew absolutely nothing about his life. Alvazh was a tired man. Reality bored him to death. He lived very secluded, secretive; the only happiness of his life were toys, with which Alvazh replaced the complex and painful reality. He had magnificent cardboard farms with cows and wells; whole towns, fortresses, pea-shooting cannons, wooden soldiers, cavalrymen, boats and steamers. Alvage often arranged exemplary battles between two toy armies, placing the armies on two card tables at different ends of the room and firing cannons with soaked peas. Alvazh had a partner in this harmless occupation - a deaf-mute guy Simony; but Simony had recently been shot by the Prussians, and the old man was enjoying himself alone. The Prussians are said to have occupied the city. On the fifth day of the occupation, Captain Poupinçon went to the town hall, or city hall, in the evening to supervise the execution of thirty Frenchmen taken hostage. Poupinson's path lay past Alvazh's house. Quite surprised that, despite the prohibition, a fire was burning in the window of the side facade after eight hours, Poupinson climbed over the palisade, crept up to the window and looked inside. He saw an outlandish picture: a frail old man in a nightcap and a dressing gown was loading a vershokov cannon, saying: - "I'll smash everyone, wait!" And with a crack, the pea laid down several birch privates, who fell at attention, their hands at their sides. Poupinson, rattling his saber, climbed out the window. Alvazh was not afraid, he was waiting for what was next. -- What are you doing? Poupinson said. - What are you, a child, or what? -- As you wish! Alvazh objected. You like your game, I like mine. Mine is better. Would you like to play a game? Poupinçon, shrugging his shoulders and smiling, looked at the armies, drawn up quite correctly, with all sets of artillery, wagons, cavalry and sapper. The toys were made by Alvaz himself. -- Oh well! said Poupinson condescendingly, fiddling with the cannon in his hands. -- How does it work? So, what?!. The attraction of novelty and originality is great! An hour passed, then another... Two people were sitting in the room: an enthusiastic, excited Poupinson and a triumphant Alvage; he, as a more skilled hand, incessantly hit Poupinson's army, before he had time to shoot a dozen or two from him. The peas, jumping, jumped furiously on the floor and tables. At last Poupinçon remembered the matter and with regret left Alvaj with his curious armies. But he was late - half an hour ago the execution of hostages was canceled (because they threatened to shoot German hostages in a neighboring town). And if he had not been late, everything would have been over for thirty people before the cancellation of the execution would have come. Excellent toys of old man Alvazh should be brought to all militant people.

Night and day

At eight o'clock in the evening, at the sunset of the forest sun, sentry Moore replaced sentry Lid at the very post from which they did not return. Lead stayed until eight and was therefore comparatively nonchalant; yet, when Moore took his place, Lead silently crossed himself. Moore also crossed himself: the fatal clock - eight - twelve - fell on him. - Did you hear anything? -- he asked. “I haven’t seen or heard anything. It's very scary here, Moore, by this fabulous stream. -- Why? Lead thought for a moment and said, “Very quiet. Indeed, in the soft silence of the thickets, cut through by a bright, noiselessly rushing stream, lurked an elusive insinuation, the lulling caress of danger, pretending to be a serene blue evening, forest and clear water. - Look at both! - said Lead and tightly squeezed Moore's hand. Moore was left alone. The place where he stood was a triangular forest area, one side of which adjoined the stone break of the stream. Moore approached the water, thinking that Lead was right: the character of fairy tale was bright and magnificent here, in a wild corner, created, as it were, entirely for gnomes and werewolves. The stream was not wide, but swift; having washed away the shores, he dug in them over the crystal current gloomy canopies falling like a black shadow; yellow as gold, and green, in algae, large stones cluttered the bottom; the sprawling foliage of the forest rose above the water in a lush shady vault, and below, rough chaos furrowing the water, gigantic roots tangled; the trunks, with the appearance of mysterious werewolf giants, retreating row after row into the silence of wild twilight, melted, becoming darkness, terrible unsociableness and silence. Thousands of reflections of dormant light in and above the stream created a brilliant pink dot that shone on a stone near the shore; Moore stared at her intently until she disappeared. - Cursed place! said Moore, surveying the lawn inquisitively, as if the grass trampled down by his predecessors might indicate an invisible danger, whisper a warning, strike the mind with a sudden insight. “Sigby, Gok, and Bilder stood there, as I stand. The huge Biron walked anxiously, stretching his bullock shoulders; Geshan, pinching his antennae, examined with beautiful, ram's eyes every knot, stump, trunk ... There are none. Maybe the same is waiting for me... What is the same? But he, like the entire detachment of Captain Cherbel, did not know this. In the expense column of soldiers among those who died from snake bites, fever or a voluntary desire to hide in a mysterious nothingness, which was not uncommon in the annals of a terrible campaign, Cherbel noted five "missing" among the dead and wounded. Different assumptions were made by the detachment. Cherbel found the simplest, most probable explanation: - "I suspect," he said, "a very intelligent, patient and dexterous savage, attacking unexpectedly and silently." No one objected to the captain, but the anxiety of the imagination persistently searched for other versions with which it is possible to connect the absence of a trace of the murders and the absence of the enemy near the enemy, proven by the scouts. For some time Moore thought about all this, then his mind, properly attuned, risking falling into superstition, began to draw nightmarish scenes of secret disappearances, rushing without restraint along the path of sick fear to the cliffs of fantasy. He imagined white cut necks; corpses at the bottom of the stream; long, hairy arms, like those of a shadow in the sunset, stretching from behind the trunks to the back of the head of a numb soldier; traps, wolf pits; he heard the stringy flight of an arrow poisoned by milkpots or the venom of a ss spider resembling a lampshade frame. A round dance of faces tormented by fear swirled in his eyes. He examined the gun. The austere steel of the bolt, the dagger bayonet, the four-pound butt, and thirty rounds of ammunition destroyed the impression of defenselessness; more boldly looking around, Moore moved across the lawn, examining the edge. In the meantime, the air current of light, falling from the clouds blazing in the evening blue, died out, and the trees slowly wrapped up transparent cloaks of twilight on the side that was just illuminated before. From the shadows that destroyed the sparkling gaps of foliage, from the falling asleep stream and the thoughtfulness of the calm sky, there was a breath of a cold threat, heavy, like a look from under the brows caught by a man who turned around. Moore, feeling the bushes with his bayonet, went out to the stream. He looked inquisitively up and down the stream, then turned to himself, persuading Moore not to give in to fear and, no matter what happened, to firmly control himself. The sun had set completely, taking away the shadows that filled the forest. Temporarily, until twilight turned into darkness, it became, as it were, more spacious and cleaner in the sunless thicket. The gaze penetrated more freely beyond the edge of the forest, where it was quiet, as in a crypt, deserted and gloomy. The tongue of fear had not yet whispered to Moore incoherent words that made him languish and grow cold, but he listened and looked like a beast that came out to dangerous places, the possessions of man. The gloom came on, retreating before the convulsive tension of Moore's eyes, and again heaved when, powerless to overcome involuntary tears that clouded the pupils, the soldier rubbed his eyes. Finally overcame darkness. Moore saw his hands, the gun, but nothing else. Excitedly, he began to pace up and down, clutching the gun in his sweaty hands. His steps were almost silent, with the exception of one, when a twig cracked under the rest of his foot; this sharp sound in the ringing silence chained Moore to the spot. The murmur of his heart stupefied him; desperate wild fear hit his trembling legs with sudden weakness, heavy as suffocation. He crouched, then lay down, crawled a few feet, and froze. This did not last long; panting, the sentry stood up. But he was already in the grip of fear and submissive to it. The main thing on which his flaming imagination worked now was the space behind him. It couldn't disappear. No matter how often he turned, there always remained behind him a treacherous emptiness of darkness, beyond the reach of vision. He didn't have eyes in the back of his head to fight it. Behind was everywhere, as everywhere was in front for a being with one face and one back. Behind him was death. As he walked, it seemed to him that someone was catching up with him; stopping, he languished in anticipation of a mysterious blow. The dense smell of the forest was dizzying. At last it seemed to Moore that he was dead, asleep or delirious. A sudden temptation struck him: to get away from torture, to run headlong to exhaustion, to push the limits of darkness, moving away the terrible place with his fleeing back. He was already taking a deep breath, considering the step prompted by cowardice, when he suddenly noticed that the thinning darkness sharply outlined the shadows of the trunks, and the stream sparkled at the cliff, and everything around came to life in a clear night splendor. The moon was rising. The moonlit morning illuminated the green of the fragrant vaults, laying black rows of shadows, in the shimmering still air under the blue sky reigned the cold languor of light. Weightless, ghostly ice!

After carefully examining once again the edge and the bank of the stream, Moore calmed down somewhat. In the stillness of the forest, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing suspicious; thinking that no one would dare to attack in the moonlit clearing, Moore smiled gratefully at the night sun and stood in the middle of the lawn, turning from time to time in all directions. He stood like that for a minute, two, three, then he heard a distinct, noisy sigh that resounded not far behind him, grew cold and jumped away with a gun at the ready to the stream. "That's it, that's it, that's it!" thought the soldier. Bloody visions came to life in a shaken mind. The heavy expectation of horror exhausted Moore; dying, he turned his eyes clouded with fear in the direction from which the sigh had come, when suddenly, very close, someone called him by name, three times. "Moore! Moore! Moore! .." The sentry cocked the trigger, aiming at the voice. He didn't control himself. The voice was quiet and insinuating. The vaguely familiar tone of his might have been an ear error. -- Who is here? Moore asked almost soundlessly, in one breath. - Don't come near anyone, I'll kill, kill everyone! He didn't quite know what he was saying. One of the moon shadows moved behind the bushes, melted and reappeared, closer. Moore lowered the gun, but not the trigger, even though Lieutenant Wren was standing in front of him. “It's me,” he said. -- Do not move. Quiet. Ren's usual plump face seemed mysterious and sly in the light of the moon. Teeth gleamed brightly, mustaches silvered, the shadow of the visor fell on the sparks of the pupils, flashing like those of a lynx. He approached Moore, and the sentry, turning pale, retreated, pointing his gun. He silently looked at Ren. "Why did you come?" thought the soldier. A wild, absurd crazy thought rushed into his sick mind: "Ren is a killer, he, he, he kills!" "Don't come near," said the soldier, "I'll lay you down!" -- What?! - No jokes! Said I'll kill you! Moore, are you out of your mind? -- Don't know. Don't come. Ren stopped. He was in danger quite natural in such an exceptional position, and he was aware of it. "Don't be afraid," he said, retreating towards the forest. “I came to your aid, you fool. I want to find out everything. I'll be here behind the bushes. “I’m scared,” said Moore, swallowing back tears of horror, “I’m scared, scared of you, scared of everything. You are killing the sentries! -- No! -- You! -- No!! Terrible as a nightmare was this absurd dispute between an officer and a distraught soldier. They stood opposite each other, one with a revolver, the other with a gun dancing frantically at his shoulder. The lieutenant came to his senses first. "Here's a revolver!" He threw the weapon at Moore's feet. - Get him up. I am unarmed. The sentry, scowling at Wren, raised his weapon. The panic attack subsided; Moore became calmer and more trusting. “I am tired,” he said plaintively, “I am terribly tired. Excuse me. “Go dip your head in the stream.” Ren repeated the advice in a tone of command, and the soldier obeyed. The hope of Ren's help and the ice cold water refreshed him. Hatless, with wet hair, he returned to the lawn, waiting to see what would happen next. "Maybe we'll both die," Ren said, "and you should be prepared for that." Now it's eleven. He looked at his watch. “Hurrying, I almost suffocated in these difficult places, but my strength is with me, and I hope for the best. Stay or walk as before. I'll be nearby. Trust fate, Moore. He did not finish, felt, being a thrifty man, the second pocket revolver and disappeared among the trees.

Wren sat comfortably in the bushes that hid him, but he himself could perfectly see the clearing, the bank of the stream and Moore, striding in all directions. The lieutenant thought about his plan to destroy the mysterious death. The plan required endurance; the most dangerous part of it was the need to allow an attack, which, if delayed, threatened the sentry with a quick migration to heaven. The difficulty of the task was heightened by Ren's vague insight, one of those obsessive dark thoughts that make someone obsessed with them a raging maniac. When Wren tried to admit the irrevocable truth of this conjecture, or rather assumption, he was sick of horror; Hoping that he would be mistaken, he finally let events solve the mystery of the forest and froze in the pose of a hunter, watching for sensitive game. The bushes where Ren sat down, arranged in a ring, formed something that looked like a well. Ren's motionless shadow crossed him. Thinking that by stretching out his stiff leg, he himself changed the shape of the shadow, Ren in the next instant established something amazing: his shadow moved noticeably from right to left. She seemed to live independently, outside the will of Wren. He didn't turn around. The slightest movement could give him away, punishing him with death. Horror moved towards him. In tormenting anticipation of the unknown, Ren closely watched the play of the shadow, now twice as long: it was a werewolf shadow that had lost all semblance of Ren - the original. Soon she had three arms and two heads, and she slowly split in two, and the one above, the shadow of a shadow, disappeared into the bushes, releasing the black motionless reflection of Ren, who sat breathless. No matter how much he listened to what was happening behind him, even the slightest sound during the metamorphosis with the shadow was not caught by the heavy strain of hearing; behind him, mixing two shadows with his figure, stood, and then someone passed, and this someone moved perfectly silently. He was the visible embodiment of fear, devoid of body and heaviness. Rushing in pursuit of the unknown Ren considered unforgivable nervousness. He saw and felt with his soul the rapid approach of the unknown denouement, but he saved the strength of self-control for the decisive moment. At this time, sentinel Moore stood not far from the huge tamarind, facing Wren. With unexpected speed, the thick branches of the tree behind Moore came into indescribable excitement, separating the man who had jumped down. He fell with his arms outstretched for a grip. His knees hit Moore's shoulders; at the same moment, the sentry, falling from the shock, screamed and let go of his gun, and the iron fingers strangled Moore, in a hurry to kill, skillfully and quickly twisting his blue neck. Ren ran out of the ambush. The assailant's bleary eyes turned to him. Holding the convulsing soldier with one hand, he held out the other to Ren, protecting his face. Wren hit him in the head with the muzzle of a revolver. Then, leaving the first victim, the killer rushed to the second, trying to topple the enemy, and in this fight showed all the dexterity of ferocity and despair. For some time, breathing sharply and heavily, they walked around the stunned sentry, squeezing each other's shoulders. Soon, the lieutenant's opponent managed to grab him by the leg and back, depriving him of balance, while he bit Ren on the wrist. There was nothing human in his face, it shone with murder. The muscles in his hard arms trembled with tension. From time to time he repeated strange, wild words, similar to the cry of a bird. Ren hit him in the solar plexus. The dreadful face grew dead; eyes closed, weakened, hands rushed back, and someone fell unconscious. Ren silently looked at his face, haggard with pain and rage. But it was not this that changed and, as it were, transformed him - among the thoroughbred, sharp features, others appeared, destroying, for a close look, the former expression of this terrible, like a mask, face. It looked swollen and rough. Ren tied his opponent's hands with a thin belt and hurried to Moore. The sentry groaned hoarsely, rubbing his neck. He was lying on his gun. Ren scooped up a helmet of water, gave the soldier a drink, and he slightly revived. Ren's tired face seemed like a heavenly vision to him. He realized that he was alive, and, grabbing the lieutenant's hand, kissed it. - Nonsense! Ren muttered. - I also owe you the fact that ... - You killed him? - Killed? Hm... yes, almost... Ren stood over Moore's head, hiding from him a man lying with his hands tied. The sentry sat down, holding his head. Ren raised his gun. “Moore,” he said, “are you able to understand me exactly? - Yes, lieutenant. “Get up and go into the thickets without looking back. There you will wait for my whistle. But God forbid you turn around, do you hear, Moore? Otherwise I will shoot you. So, you can't see me yet. Go! There was no room for jokes. The sentry was aware of this, but did not understand anything. Moore's uncertain movements showed hesitation. Ren saw a quarter of his profile and pulled the trigger. "One more movement of the head and I shoot!" - He pushed Moore with force towards the forest. -- Well! The gun remains on the lawn until you return. Wait for a change. Remember that I did not come, and wait until the morning to tell. Moore staggered off into the moonlit forest. Wren picked up the bound man and walked with him into the thicket to a distance beyond hearing. Laying down the burden, he took care of the prisoner. The bound lay dead. “The blow was good,” said Ren, “but too conscientious. He began to rub the defeated heart, and he, twitching painfully, soon opened his eyes. Wandering, they stopped at Ren, at first with bewilderment, then with hatred and proud despondency. He twisted, raised himself, trying to free his hands, and, realizing that it was useless, lowered his head. Ren was squatting opposite him. He was afraid to speak, the sound of a voice would take away any hope that what was happening was a dream, a ghost, or, at worst, a sick delirium. Finally, he made up his mind. “Captain Cherbel,” said Wren, “the events of tonight are unbelievable. Explain them. The bound man raised his head. Curiosity and suspicion flashed in his mobile face. He didn't understand Ren. The thought of being laughed at made him furious. He jumped up, trying to break the bonds, and Ren immediately jumped up. "Soldier dog!" - Cherbel spoke, but fell silent, feeling weak - the result of boxing - and leaned back against the tree. Recovering his breath, he spoke again: “Call Cherbel the one who brought you with your guns to these forests. We didn't invite you. In obedience to the greed that is in your blood, whites, you have come to take everything from the poor savages. Our villages are burned, our fathers and brothers rot in the marshes, pierced by bullets; women are exhausted by constant transitions and get sick. You are after us. For what? Are there few fields, animals, fish and trees in your dominions? You scare away our game; deer and foxes flee to the north, where the air is free of your scent. You burn forests like children playing with fires, steal our bread, livestock, grass, trample crops. Leave or you will all be exterminated. I am the leader of the Roddo tribe - Banu Scap, I know what I'm talking about. You can't outsmart us. We are the forest, for every tree of which doom lies in wait for you. -- Cherbel! Ren screamed in horror. “I expected this, but did not believe until the last minute. Who are you? The captain was scornful. Now he clearly saw that he was being bullied. He sat down at the foot of the trunk, determined to remain silent and wait for death. -- Cherbel! Ren called softly. - Get back to yourself. The prisoner was silent. The lieutenant sat down opposite him without releasing his revolver. His thoughts were confused. His condition bordered on frenzy. “You killed five people,” Ren said, without waiting, however, for an answer, “where are they?” The captain smiled slowly. “They feel good in the trees,” he said harshly, “I hung them on the other side of the stream, closer to the peaks. It was said in a sharp, business-like tone. Now Ren was silent. He was afraid to learn the details, afraid of Cherbel's voice. The captain sat motionless, his eyes closed. Ren pushed him lightly; the man did not move; he seemed to be in a state of unconsciousness. A large sweat broke out on his temples, he breathed shortly and was pale as the light of the moon squinting through the leaves.

Ren thought about many things. The startling reality stunned him. He carefully examined his hands, his body, with a new curiosity towards them, as if unsure that the body is his, Rena, with his eternal, unchanging soul, not knowing fluctuations and duality. He was in a forest full of soundless whispers, calling to sneak, hide, eavesdrop and lurk, tread silently, lie in wait and destroy. He was filled with a strange distrust of himself, admitting with a slight sinking of his heart that there was nothing surprising in the fact that the next moment he wanted to rush with a wild cry into the sleepy wilderness, beat trees with his fists, brandish a club, howl and dance. Millenniums woke up in it. He clearly imagined it and got scared. His impression has intensified. It seemed to him that high-hanging corpses were swaying in the lunar twilight, the bushes were moving, hiding the killers, and the trunks were changing places, moving closer to him. To calm down, Ren put the muzzle to his temple; cold steel, groping for a vein that was beating with jerks, returned to him the firmness of consciousness. Now he just sat and waited for Cherbel to wake up in order to kill him. The moon has disappeared; a warm dawn was approaching. The first ray of the sun woke Cherbel, pink from the sun, his very haggard face was looking attentively at Ren. Ren, what happened? he said anxiously. -- Why am I here? And you? A curse! Am I connected?! What the hell!.. - It's a dream, Cherbel, - Ren said sadly, - it's a dream, yes, nothing more. Now I will untie you. He quickly released the captain and put a hand on his shoulder. "So," he thought, "it means that Banu-Scap leaves at dawn. But with dawn ... Cherbel will also leave." "Captain," Ren said, "do you believe me?" -- Yes. “Then take your time to find out the truth and answer three questions. When did you go to bed? - At eleven o'clock. Ren, are you completely sane? - Completely. What dream did you have? -- Dream? Cherbel looked inquisitively at Ren. Does this have anything to do with this case? “Perhaps...” “I have been having the same dream for several days in a row,” Cherbel said with displeasure, “I think, under the influence of events at the post of Stone Stream. I see that I am leaving the camp and killing sentries... yes, I am strangling them... The dark echo of reality made him shudder for one terrible and short moment, he turned pale and angry. - The third question: are you afraid of death? Because this is not a dream, Cherbel. I grabbed you at the moment when you were strangling Moore. Yes, two souls. But you, Cherbel, could not know this. I will not leave you long in the power of a truly diabolical discovery; it can drive you crazy. “Ren,” said the captain, waving, “my slap smells of blood, and you—” He broke off. Wren grabbed Cherbel's arm and fired. - It's better, perhaps, - he said, looking at the dead man: - he died, feeling like Cherbel. A different "I" would shock him. Major Castro and I will bury him somewhere tonight. Nobody else can know about it. He went out to the stream and saw a brisk new sentry - Riedel. "Put the gun down, it's all right," Wren said. - I walked, shot at a goat, but unsuccessfully. - Run to die! replied the soldier cheerfully. “I think now,” Ren said to himself as he walked away, “I know exactly why the camp sentries saw Cherbel at night. Oh my God, and with one soul it is hard for a man!

Terrible vision

The blind man walked, feeling the road with a stick and stopping from time to time to listen to the distant gunfire. Blow after blow, and sometimes two or three at a time, cannon explosions swayed over a line of copses and yellow fields, blown blue tones noon leaning towards evening. The blind man's name was Akinf Krylitsky. He had been blind for a long time and accidentally; blinded like this: As a boy he pastured cows during a thunderstorm; Thinking to take shelter from the rain, Akinf went up to a large oskoryu, but at that moment the lightning destroyed the tree and stunned Krylitsky, he fell unconscious, and when he got up, he saw nothing, he was struck by nervous blindness. Now Akinfu was forty years old, and he often mortally yearned for his lost sight, the impressions of which were almost erased from his memory over such a long period of time. He was walking at the moment to his village on foot from the county town, twenty versts away. He did not need a guide, as the road was familiar and did not fork. He walked and wondered whether his village was already in the war zone, or not yet. Akinf stayed in the city for four days, begging; and he lived in the village with his brother. No one came across to the blind on the way, and this surprised him a lot; Usually wagons passed through here and pedestrians walked. Finally, having determined by fatigue that he should soon approach the village, the blind man smelled burning. Such a smell, cooled and, so to speak, cold, usually smells of the old forest mountain wastelands. Akinf, alarmed, quickened his pace. He really wanted to see the village, she, of course, had not changed a bit since he saw her as a boy, except that the old huts were replaced by new ones and also, in turn, grew old. Garyu smelled stronger. "Isn't it a fire?" thought Akinf. "Aren't we burning with my brother, mother bozka?!" All around it was very quiet, only in the distance the shots of guns yelped, and Akinf's heart sank. In the meantime, he was descending along a hollow to a bridge over a narrow, deep ravine. With his accustomed foot, Akinf stepped on the imaginary beginning of the bridge and, choking with surprise, flew down, from a height of three fathoms, to the clay bottom of the ravine. The bridge was destroyed by a stray shell, and Akinf, of course, did not know this. When he woke up, his whole body ached and ached from hitting the ground. His arms and legs were intact, his mustache and broken lip were caked with blood. But this was not what attracted his attention: with surprise and fright, with a strong heartbeat, he noticed that the former black darkness had been replaced by a foggy and reddish one. Immediately he saw his hands and realized that his sight had returned to him. It has returned from a new strong nervous shock at the moment of the fall - in this way nervous blindness often disappears. Akinf with fear and joy got out of the ravine and approached the village. He saw a row of blackened hedgerows and piles of black ash among them, all that was left of a once bustling village. Neither the human soul nor the dog was in this sad place. The village burned to the ground, perhaps from shells. And then Akinf felt that again his vision was obscured, but this time with tears.

wild mill

I was walking through an area little known and difficult in all respects. She was gloomy and dark, like a saddened chimney sweep. Bare autumn trees cut the evening sky with crooked branches. The swampy soil, full of holes and hummocks, wobbled, almost breaking his legs. The open space, furrowed by the wind, was bathed in fine rain. It was getting dark, and I, with even more longing than before, was drawn to housing. I, dressed in such a way that on a more or less clean street I would have caught more than one sidelong glance and, probably, the pitiful sighs of old women, more compassionate than quick-witted about a small handout, I, dressed badly, suffered from cold and rain. My food that day was a cup of dog vodka stolen near the fence. Long accustomed to the pleasant blue of tobacco smoke, I did not smoke for two or three days. My legs hurt, I was unwell, and my attitude towards the world during these hours of wandering was reminiscent of despair, although I was still walking, still breathing, still looking around, angrily looking for shelter. And it seemed to me that not far away, from a hollow where a narrow river flowed, smoke was billowing. Peering, I was convinced through the thick curtain of rain that there was a dwelling there. It was a mill. I went up to her and knocked on the door, which was opened by an old man of a very gloomy and unfriendly appearance. I explained that I was lost, that I was hungry and tired. “Come in!” said the old man, “there is a corner and food for you.” He seated me at the table in a small, dim room and disappeared, returning soon with a bowl of stew and a piece of bread. While I was eating, the old man looked at me and sighed. - Would you like to rest? he asked when I had had my fill, and in response to my desire, expressed by a loud yawn, he led me upstairs to a kind of tiny cell with a small window. The wretched bed beckoned me like a precious alcove. I rushed at her and disappeared into the oblivion of the deepest sleep. It was night. Feeling some discomfort, probably unconsciously, I turned and awoke. When I tried to move my hand, I didn't succeed. In the fear that suddenly seized me, I tensed my limbs - the ropes cut into my body - I was bound hand and foot. The dawn broke. In the languid fluctuation of its light I saw an old man; standing three paces from me with a long knife in his hand. He said, "Don't scream. I have bound you and I will kill you. For what? Because nature is so gloomy and terrible around my home. I have lived here for twenty years. Have you seen the surroundings? They imperiously call for murder. Places like this are supposed to kill. The sky is black, the earth is deaf and black, the bare trees are fierce and unsociable. I must kill you... While the madman was talking, using the suggestion of nature as an excuse for his cruel deed, the sky slowly opened up, and the sun, rare in these places, poured gold from a knife into all corners of the room. The bright light stunned the old man. He staggered and ran away. Having loosened the rope with difficulty, I somehow freed myself and jumped out into the swamp through the window. A lonely life in gloomy places develops suspicion, cruelty and bloodthirstiness.

duel of leaders

In the dense jungle of Northern India, near Lake Izamet, there was a hunting village. And near Lake Kinobai there was another hunting village. The inhabitants of both villages have long been at enmity with each other, and almost not a single month has passed without one of the hunters being killed on one side or the other, and it was impossible to catch the killers. Once in Lake Izamet, all the fish and water turned out to be poisoned, and the inhabitants of Izamet informed the hunters of Kinobay that they were going to fight with them for life and death in order to put an end to the debilitating enmity at once. Immediately, as soon as this became known, the inhabitants of both villages united in detachments and went into the forests, so that there, hoping to attack by surprise, put an end to the enemies. A week passed, and then Izamet's scouts tracked down Kinobai's warriors, who had settled in a small hollow. The Izamets decided to attack the film-baiters immediately and began to prepare. The leader of Izamet was young Sing, a fearless and noble man. He had his own war plan. Imperceptibly leaving his own, he appeared to the film warriors and entered the tent of Iret, the leader of Izamet's enemies. Iret, seeing Sing, grabbed the knife. Sing said, smiling, "I don't want to kill you." Listen: in less than two hours, you and I, with equal strength and equal courage, will rush at each other. It is clear what will happen: no one will be left alive, and our wives and children will die of hunger. Offer your soldiers the same offer that I will offer mine: instead of a common fight, we will fight with you - one on one. Whose leader wins - that side won. Is it coming? "You're right," Iret said after thinking. - Here's my hand. They broke up. The warriors of both sides happily agreed to the proposal of their leaders and, having arranged a truce, they surrounded the flowering lawn on which the duel took place in a close ring. Iret and Sing, on a signal, rushed at each other, brandishing knives. Steel rang against steel, the jumps and swings of the arms became more impetuous and menacing, and seizing the moment, Sing, pierced Ireta left side chest, inflicted a mortal wound. Iret was still standing and fighting, but was soon to fall down. Sing whispered to him: - Iret, hit me in the heart while you can. The death of one leader will cause hatred for the defeated side, and the massacre will resume ... It is necessary that we both die; our death will destroy enmity. And Iret stabbed Sing in the unprotected heart; both, having smiled at each other for the last time, fell dead... There are no more than two villages near Lake Kinobai and Lake Izamet: there is one and it is called the village of Two Winners. So Sing and Iret reconciled the warring people.

Blind Day Canet

Yus, the caretaker of the timber warehouses near the village of Kipa, lying on the banks of the Miletus River, having eaten so tightly that it began to press under the stomach, in a good mood sat by the blue water, smoked and thought that, spending thirty kopecks every day on food, he would be able to wear every Saturday to the savings bank exactly three rubles, which, if you treat this matter carefully and lovingly, will give in ten years the amount of one thousand five hundred rubles. Yus will take away the soul, rewarding the greedy body for the deprivation of the past with a luxurious feast with women, wine, cigars, songs and flowers, and buy the rest of the tavern and marry. Here he is, the winner of life, the rich innkeeper Yus, walking down the street with his wife on a holiday ... Everyone takes off their hats ... The drums beat ... Yus, daydreaming, got up; he couldn't sit anymore; he wanted to take another look at the main street of Kipa, where the inn would be. There was not a soul in the street, where the chickens were basking in the dust and the windowpanes were glowing in the late afternoon sun, only the blind Day Canet was sitting, as always, on a bench by Uncle Enoch's flower palisade. Day was a man of about forty with a beautiful, pale, inanimate face (due to blindness). Dey's impoverished but tidy costume did not make a miserable impression - there was something decisive in the calm posture and closed eyes of the blind man. Dei Canet lived in Kip for about a month. No one knew where he came from, and he himself did not tell anyone about it. And he didn't say anything about himself to anyone, at all. Hearing footsteps, the blind man turned his head. Yus loved to tease Dey, the blind man was hateful to him. Once at Uncle Enoch's, in the presence of Dey, the watchman spread about "various rogues who want to sit on the neck of working and respectable people"; Enoch blushed, and Day calmly remarked, "I'm glad I don't see more evil people at all." “Well,” Yus said in a touching tone, sitting down on Dey’s bench, “did you come out to admire the beautiful weather?” "Yes," Dey said softly after a pause. - The weather is amazing. How clear the mountains are! It looks like you can get it by hand. “Yes,” Dey agreed, “yes. Yus was silent. His eyes glittered merrily; he perked up, he even felt some gratitude towards Day for the free entertainment. “How unpleasant it is, I think, to be blind,” he continued, trying not to laugh, and speaking in an artificially condoling tone. - Great, great, I think, suffering: to see nothing. I, for example, can read a newspaper three steps away from me. Honestly. Oh, what a pretty kitty ran! What do you think, Canet, why is there always snow on these mountains? "It's cold out there," Day said. - So, so ... And why does it seem blue? Day didn't answer. He was starting to get bored with this cat and mouse game. "All right, shut up," Yus thought, "I'll pierce you right now." - Do you see anything? -- he asked. "I don't think so," Dey said with a smile, "yes, I hardly see anything now." “Oh, what a pity! Yus sighed. "It's a pity you won't see my fine inn in a few years." Yes Yes! However, you hardly saw anything at all, even before you went blind. From his own irritation, which did not receive a rebuff, Yus fell into a sullenness and fell silent. Filling his pipe and puffing, he glanced sideways at Dey, who was sitting with his face exposed to the sun. A minute passed, then another, - suddenly Day said: - Once I played in the capital's royal theater. In surprise, Yus dropped the phone - Dey never talked about himself. - How-with? What? he asked confused. Day, smiling softly, continued in an even, cheerful voice: - ... Played in the theater. I was a famous tragedian, often visited the palace and was very fond of my art. So, Yus, I acted in a play, the action of which approximately corresponded to the events of that time. The fact is that it hung in the balance to be or not to be some important, national significance, event, on which the well-being of the people depended. The king and ministers hesitated. I had to play my role in such a way as to touch these high-ranking persons, to incline, at last, to decide what was necessary. And this is difficult - a difficult task lay ahead of me, Yus. The whole court was present at the performance. When, after the third act, the curtain fell, and then rose noisily again to show me, provoked by such applause, which are like a storm, I went out and saw that the whole theater was crying, and I saw tears in the eyes of the king himself, and I realized what I had done. do your job well. Indeed, Yus, I played that evening as if my life depended on it. Day was silent. The pipe went out in Yus' motionless hand. -- The decision was taken. Feeling won over caution. Then, Yus, going out on stage for the last time to say goodbye to the audience, I saw as many flowers as there would be if I had collected all the flowers of the Miletus valley and brought them here. These flowers were meant for me. Day paused and thought. He completely forgot about Yus. The watchman, sullenly getting up, went to his hut, and although the summer day, having lost the glare of the zenith, still burned over the mountains with the brilliance of distant snows, it seemed to Yus that around the remote village of Kipa, and in the village itself, and above the river, and everywhere it became completely dark .

Notes

Horse head. For the first time - the magazine "Krasnaya Niva", 1923, No. 18. Crepe-- here: mourning bandage. Lost sun. For the first time - "Red Newspaper", vech. issue, 1923, January 29. Loquacious brownie. For the first time - "Literary leaflet" Krasnaya Gazeta ", 1923, March 29. Genius player. For the first time - "Red Newspaper", vech. issue, 1923, March 8. One hundred miles along the river. For the first time - a magazine " Modern world", 1916, No 7-8. Hartmann, Edward(1842-1906) - German idealist philosopher. Schopenhauer, Arthur(1788-1860) -- German idealist philosopher. Murder in Kunst-Fisch. For the first time - "Red Newspaper", vech. issue, 1923, January 15. gladiators. For the first time - the magazine "Petrograd", 1923, No 1. Triclinium-- V Ancient Rome-- dining table with lodges on three sides, as well as the room where this table is located. Tympanum-- ancient percussion musical instrument, a genus of copper cymbals. Army order. For the first time - the magazine "Red Panorama", 1923, No 1. famous namesake-- Joan of Arc (1412-1431), national heroine of France, leader of the army that liberated Orleans and Reims during the Hundred Years War. A tramp and warden. For the first time - Sat. "Heart of the Desert", M.-L., Land and Factory, 1924. Ravachol, Leon- A French anarchist and terrorist who detonated bombs in Paris in 1892 in the apartments of judicial officials who participated in the trials of anarchists. Jack the Ripper- the nickname of the London murderer who committed a series of brutal murders in 1888-1889. Nat Pinkerton- American detective, the hero of a series of detective stories popular at the beginning of the 20th century, written by different authors. On the cloudy shore. For the first time - the magazine "Krasnaya Niva", 1924, No. 28. Weight(spoiled English master) - master, lord. Rope. For the first time - Sat. "White Fire", Pg., Polar Star, 1922. Kompracikos- in Spain, England and other countries in the XIII-XVII centuries - people who kidnapped or bought children and mutilated them with the aim of selling them to rich houses or booths as jesters. Rene. For the first time - the magazine "Argus", 1917, NoNo 9-10. Latude, Jean Henri(1725-1805) - French adventurer who spent more than 30 years in prisons. iron mask-- the mysterious prisoner who died in the Bastille in 1703. His face was always masked. Cellini, Bienvenuto(1500-1571) - the famous Italian sculptor, jeweler and writer. The Merry Widow-- here: the ironic name of the guillotine. Jack of Hearts-- the nickname of rich loafers, here: members of the gang of the same name. Willow. For the first time - the magazine "Petrograd", 1923, No 11. Legless. For the first time - the magazine "Spark", 1924, No 7 (46). Cheerful companion. For the first time - the magazine "Leningrad", 1924, No 4. Cyrano de Bergerac water-- here: wine. Cyrano de Bergerac (1619-1655) - French writer, known as a brave man, duelist, reveler. Pied Piper. For the first time - in the magazine "Russia" No 3 (12), 1924. Published according to the book of the same name. M., "Library "Spark" No. 50, 1927. E. Arnoldi in the memoirs" Fictionist Green "tells about the origin of the idea of the story" Pied Piper ". E. Arnoldi shared with Green a curious story, a participant in which was a person well known to Arnoldi. "I noticed,” writes Arnoldi, “that he aroused Green's lively attention. “You know, I liked the inactive telephone that rang in an empty apartment! he said when I had finished. - I'll write a story about the atom. After some time Green said to me in passing: - I'm already writing a story about a telephone in an empty apartment! He did not add any details to this. I found it inconvenient to ask, although I was very interested in what would come out of the incident I told. I imagined that Green would turn the ringing telephone into some sort of climax of psychological conflict. For a long time I did not hear anything about the upcoming story. Then Green suddenly told me: - With a story about a telephone in an empty apartment, something completely different turns out ... But an inactive telephone will still ring! "(Star" No 12, 1963), in the story, but the background of the story has moved. V. Rozhdestvensky tells about him (the background): "At that time (1920 - 1921 - V.S.) it was not enough not only with food, but also with food for the" bourgeois "- had to be content with chips and logs brought from the street, from the outskirts of the city, where unbroken fences still existed. True, firewood was given out, but not so often and not in sufficient quantities. We were greatly assisted by the thick, thickly bound account books, which lay in abundance in the vast vaulted rooms and passages of the empty bank, located on the lower floor of our huge house. Journeys into this labyrinth of abandoned, boarded-up premises were always surrounded by mystery and usually took place in deep twilight. Green liked to be the leader of such sorties. We wandered for a long time by the light of the cinder we had seized, slipping on piles of paper rubbish piled everywhere, picking up everything suitable for both firebox and writing. The place seemed huge and it was easy to get lost in it. Not without difficulty, we then got out. When I read one of A. S. Green's finest stories, The Pied Piper, I always remember that empty maze of corridors and passages in the dim flickering light of the candle end, among piles of piled paper, overturned cabinets shifted towards the counters. And I am amazed at the accuracy of Green's, this time quite realistic description. Fate taken by the horns. For the first time - the magazine "Fatherland", 1914, No 7. For publication in the publishing house "Thought", in 1928, A.S. Green revised the story considerably. Mystery plate. For the first time - the newspaper "Petrogradsky sheet", 1916, June 24 (July 6). How I died on the screen. For the first time - the newspaper "Petrogradsky sheet", 1916. 9 (22), 10 (23) August. In the journal "XX-th century", 1917, No. 26 after the phrase. "I got up and lit the fire" followed: "Aunt Viruda must have brought our children," said the wife, waking up. Champs Elysees-- here: the seat of blissful souls. Mate in three moves. For the first time - the magazine "Cheerful word", 1908, No 4. Competition in Lisse. For the first time - the magazine "Red Policeman", 1921, NoNo 2-3. According to the memoirs of V.P. Kalitskaya - the first wife of A.S. Green - the story was written in 1910. Toys. For the first time - the magazine "XX-th century", 1915, No 9. Night and day. For the first time, under the title "Sick Soul", the magazine " New life", 1915, No 3. Terrible vision. For the first time - the magazine "XX-th century", 1915, No. 20. Wild mill. For the first time - the magazine "XX-th century", 1915, No 31. duel of leaders. For the first time, under the pseudonym A. Stepanov, - the magazine "XX-th century", 1915, No. 41. Blind Day Canet. For the first time - the newspaper "Evening News", Moscow, 1916, March 2 (15). Y. Kirkin