In 1918-1920, Bunin wrote down his direct observations and impressions of events in Russia at that time in the form of diary notes. Here are a few snippets:
Moscow, 1918
January 1 (old style). This damn year is over. But what next? Maybe something even more terrible. Probably even like this:
February 5th. From the first of February they ordered a new style. So, in their opinion, it’s already the eighteenth:
February 6. In the newspapers - about the beginning of the German offensive against us. Everyone says: . On Petrovka, monks crush ice. Passers-by celebrate and gloat:
Below we omit the dates. A young officer entered the tram car and, blushing, said that he... Derman, a critic, arrived and fled from Simferopol. There, he says, are soldiers and workers. Some old colonel was roasted alive in a locomotive firebox. You hear this every minute now. But there will never be real impartiality. And most importantly: ours will be very, very dear to the future historian. Is it only important? Well, we’re not people, are we? There is hell on the tram, clouds of soldiers with bags - fleeing from Moscow, fearing that they will be sent to defend St. Petersburg from the Germans. On Povarskaya I met a soldier boy, ragged, skinny, disgusting and completely drunk. He poked his muzzle into my chest and, staggering back, spat at me and said: Someone has pasted up posters on the walls of houses incriminating Trotsky and Lenin in connection with the Germans, that they were bribed by the Germans. I ask Klestov: Conversation with floor polishers:
Well, what do you say, gentlemen, is good?
What can you say? Everything is bad.
“God knows,” said the curly man. - We are a dark people: What do we know? That’s what will happen: they let criminals out of prison, so they rule us, but we shouldn’t let them out, but they should have been shot with a filthy gun a long time ago. The king was imprisoned, but nothing like this happened with him. And now you can’t fight these Bolsheviks. The people have weakened: There are only a hundred thousand of them, but there are so many millions of us, and we can’t do anything. Now if only they would open the breech, they would give us freedom, we would take them all out of their apartments piece by piece>.
Conversation accidentally overheard on the phone:
I have fifteen officers and adjutant Kaledin. What to do?
Shoot him immediately.
Again some kind of manifestation, banners, posters, music - and some into the forest, some for firewood, into hundreds of throats: . The voices are guttural, primitive. The women's faces are Chuvash, Mordovian, the men's are all custom-made, criminal, others are straight Sakhalin. The Romans stamped the faces of their convicts: . There is no need to put anything on these faces, and everything is visible without any branding. Read Lenin's article. Insignificant and fraudulent - then international, then. . Lenin's speech. Oh, what an animal this is! I read about corpses standing at the bottom of the sea - killed, drowned officers. And here. The entire Lubyanka Square sparkles in the sun. Liquid mud splashes from under the wheels. And Asia, Asia - soldiers, boys, trading gingerbread, halva, poppy seeds, cigarettes: The soldiers and workers, now and then rumbling on trucks, have triumphant faces. In P.’s kitchen there is a fat-faced soldier: He says that, of course, socialism is impossible now, but that the bourgeoisie still need to be cut off.
Odessa. 1919
April 12 (old style). It's been almost three weeks since our death. Dead, empty port, dead, polluted city - Letter from Moscow: dated August 10th arrived only today. However, the Russian post office ended a long time ago, back in the summer of 17: ever since the first European-style mail appeared here. Then he appeared for the first time and - and then all of Russia stopped working. Yes, and the Satan of Cain’s malice, bloodthirstiness and the wildest arbitrariness breathed on Russia precisely in those days when brotherhood, equality and freedom were proclaimed. Then a frenzy immediately set in, acute insanity. Everyone yelled at each other for the slightest contradiction: .
I often remember the indignation with which my seemingly entirely black images of the Russian people were met. :And who? Those who were fed, fed by the very literature that for a hundred years disgraced literally all classes, that is, the tradesman, the official, the policeman, the landowner, the wealthy peasant - in a word, everyone and everyone, with the exception of some - horseless, of course - and tramps.
Now all the houses are dark, the whole city is in darkness, except for those places where these robber dens are - there are chandeliers glowing, balalaikas are heard, walls are visible, hung with black banners, on which are white skulls with the inscriptions:
He speaks and screams, stuttering, with saliva in his mouth, his eyes seem especially furious through his crooked pince-nez. The tie has stuck out high on the back of the dirty paper collar, the vest is extremely dirty, there is dandruff on the shoulders of the short jacket, the greasy thin hair is disheveled: And they assure me that this viper is allegedly possessed!
There are two types among the people. In one, Rus' predominates, in the other, Chud. But in both there is a terrible changeability of moods and appearances, as they said in the old days. The people themselves said to themselves: - depending on the circumstances, on who processes this tree: Sergius of Radonezh or Emelka Pugachev.
I heard that we too will have this wild robbery, which is already going on in Kyiv, of clothes and shoes: But it’s creepy even during the day. The entire huge city does not live, sits at home, rarely goes out into the street. The city feels conquered as if by some special people, who seem much more terrible than, I think, the Pechenegs seemed to our ancestors. And the conqueror staggers around, sells from stalls, spits seeds, . Along Deribasovskaya either a huge crowd is moving, accompanying for entertainment the coffin of some swindler, who is certainly passed off as (lying in a red coffin:), or the peacoats of sailors playing accordions, dancing and screaming are turning black:
In general, as soon as the city becomes established, the crowd filling the streets immediately changes dramatically. A certain selection of faces is being made: These faces, first of all, have no commonplace, no simplicity. All of them are almost entirely sharply repulsive, frightening with evil stupidity, some kind of gloomy servile challenge to everything and everyone.
I saw the Field of Mars, on which they had just performed, as a kind of traditional sacrifice of the revolution, a comedy of funerals for supposedly fallen heroes for freedom. No need, that this was, in fact, a mockery of the dead, that they were deprived of an honest Christian burial, nailed into red coffins for some reason and unnaturally buried in the very center of the city of the living.
From (wonderful Russian):
Signature under the poster:
By the way, about the Odessa emergency. There is now a new way of shooting - over the closet cup.
In newspapers: . So, in one month everything was processed: no factories, no railways, no trams, no water, no bread, no clothes - nothing!
Late last night, people from our house came to measure the length, width and height of all our rooms.
Why a commissioner, why a tribunal, and not just a court? This is because only under the protection of such sacred revolutionary words can one so boldly walk knee-deep in blood:
The main thing about Red Army soldiers is licentiousness. There's a cigarette in his teeth, his eyes are dull and insolent, his cap is hanging on the back of his head and falling on his forehead. Dressed in some kind of prefabricated rags. The sentries sit at the entrances of requisitioned houses in armchairs in the most twisted positions. Sometimes there’s just a tramp sitting, a Browning on his belt, a German cleaver hanging on one side, a dagger on the other.
Appeals in a purely Russian spirit:
Another 15 people were shot in Odessa (list published). Sent from Odessa, that is, with food (and Odessa itself is dying of hunger).
R.S. This is where my Odessa notes end. I buried the sheets following these so well in one place in the ground that before fleeing Odessa, at the end of January 1920, I could not find them.
Damn days
Brief summary of the work
In 1918-1920, Bunin wrote down his direct observations and impressions of events in Russia at that time in the form of diary notes. Here are a few snippets:
Moscow, 1918
January 1 (old style). This damn year is over. But what next? Maybe something even more terrible. Probably even so...
February 5th. From the first of February they ordered a new style. So, in their opinion, it’s already the eighteenth...
February 6. In the newspapers - about the beginning of the German offensive against us. Everyone says: “Oh, if only!” On Petrovka, monks crush ice. Passers-by are triumphant, gloating: “Aha! Kicked out! Now, brother, they will force you!”
Below we omit the dates. A young officer entered the tram car and, blushing, said that he “unfortunately cannot pay for the ticket.” Derman, a critic, arrived and fled from Simferopol. There, he says, there is “indescribable horror,” soldiers and workers “walk knee-deep in blood.” Some old colonel was roasted alive in a locomotive firebox. “The time has not yet come to understand the Russian revolution impartially, objectively...” You hear this now every minute. But there will never be real impartiality. And most importantly: our “bias” will be very, very dear to the future historian. Is the “passion” of only the “revolutionary people” important? Well, we’re not people, are we? There is hell on the tram, clouds of soldiers with bags - fleeing from Moscow, fearing that they will be sent to defend St. Petersburg from the Germans. On Povarskaya I met a soldier boy, ragged, skinny, disgusting and completely drunk. He poked his muzzle into my chest and, staggering back, spat on me and said: “Despot, son of a bitch!” On the walls of houses, someone has pasted posters incriminating Trotsky and Lenin in connection with the Germans, that they were bribed by the Germans. I ask Klestov: “Well, how much exactly did these scoundrels get?” “Don’t worry,” he answered with a dull grin, “quite a bit...” Conversation with floor polishers:
- Well, what do you say, gentlemen, is it nice?
- What can you say? Everything is bad.
– What do you think will happen next?
“God knows,” said the curly man. – We are a dark people... What do we know? That’s what will happen: they let criminals out of prison, so they rule us, but we shouldn’t let them out, but they should have been shot with a filthy gun a long time ago. The king was imprisoned, but nothing like this happened with him. And now you can’t fight these Bolsheviks. The people have weakened... There are only a hundred thousand of them, but there are so many millions of us, and we can’t do anything. Now if only they would open the breech, they would give us freedom, we would take them all out of their apartments piece by piece.”
Conversation accidentally overheard on the phone:
“I have fifteen officers and adjutant Kaledin.” What to do?
- Shoot immediately.
Again some kind of manifestation, banners, posters, music - and some into the forest, some for firewood, in hundreds of throats: “Get up, rise up, working people!” The voices are guttural, primitive. The faces of the women are Chuvash, Mordovian, the faces of the men are all customized, criminal, others are straight Sakhalin. The Romans stamped the faces of their convicts: “Saue giget.” There is no need to put anything on these faces, and everything is visible without any branding. Read Lenin's article. Insignificant and fraudulent - either the international, or the “Russian national upsurge”. "Congress of Soviets". Lenin's speech. Oh, what an animal this is! I read about corpses standing at the bottom of the sea - killed, drowned officers. And here is “The Musical Snuffbox”. The entire Lubyanka Square sparkles in the sun. Liquid mud splashes from under the wheels. And Asia, Asia - soldiers, boys, trading gingerbread, halva, poppy seeds, cigarettes... The soldiers and workers, constantly rumbling on trucks, have triumphant faces. In P.’s kitchen there is a fat-faced soldier... He says that, of course, socialism is impossible now, but that the bourgeoisie still need to be cut off.
Odessa. 1919
April 12 (old style). It's been almost three weeks since our death. Dead, empty port, dead, polluted city - Letter from Moscow... dated August 10th arrived only today. However, the Russian post office ended a long time ago, back in the summer of 17: ever since we first had, in the European way, a “Minister of Posts and Telegraphs...”. At the same time, the “Minister of Labor” appeared for the first time - and then all of Russia stopped working. And the Satan of Cain’s malice, bloodthirstiness and the wildest arbitrariness breathed on Russia precisely in those days when brotherhood, equality and freedom were proclaimed. Then a frenzy immediately set in, acute insanity. Everyone was yelling at each other for the slightest contradiction: “I’ll arrest you, son of a bitch!”
I often remember the indignation with which my seemingly entirely black images of the Russian people were met. ... And who? Those who were fed, fed with the very literature that for a hundred years disgraced literally all classes, that is, the “priest”, the “philistine”, the tradesman, the official, the policeman, the landowner, the wealthy peasant - in a word, everyone and everyone, with the exception of some then the “people” - horseless, of course - and tramps.
Now all the houses are dark, the whole city is in darkness, except for those places where these robber dens are - there are chandeliers glowing, balalaikas are heard, walls are visible, hung with black banners, on which are white skulls with the inscriptions: “Death, death to the bourgeoisie!”
He speaks and shouts, stuttering, with saliva in his mouth, his eyes seem especially furious through his crooked pince-nez. The tie has stuck out high on the back of the dirty paper collar, the vest is extremely soiled, there is dandruff on the shoulders of the short jacket, the greasy thin hair is disheveled... And they assure me that this viper is allegedly possessed by “fiery, selfless love for man,” “thirst for beauty, goodness and justice”!
There are two types among the people. In one, Rus' predominates, in the other, Chud. But in both there is a terrible changeability of moods, appearances, “shakyness,” as they said in the old days. The people themselves said to themselves: “from us, like from wood, there is both a club and an icon,” depending on the circumstances, on who processes this wood: Sergius of Radonezh or Emelka Pugachev.
“From victory to victory - new successes of the valiant Red Army. Execution of 26 Black Hundreds in Odessa...”
I heard that we too will have this wild robbery, which is already going on in Kyiv - the “collection” of clothes and shoes... But it’s creepy even during the day. The entire huge city does not live, sits at home, rarely goes out into the street. The city feels conquered as if by some special people, who seem much more terrible than, I think, the Pechenegs seemed to our ancestors. And the conqueror staggers around, sells from stalls, spits seeds, “curses.” Along Deribasovskaya either a huge crowd is moving, accompanying for entertainment the coffin of some swindler, who is certainly passed off as a “fallen fighter” (lying in a red coffin...), or the peacoats of sailors playing accordions, dancing and screaming are turning black: “Oh, apple, where are you going?” !”
In general, as soon as the city turns “red,” the crowd filling the streets immediately changes dramatically. A certain selection of faces is being made... On these faces, first of all, there is no routine, no simplicity. All of them are almost entirely sharply repulsive, frightening with evil stupidity, some kind of gloomy servile challenge to everything and everyone.
I saw the Field of Mars, on which they had just performed, as a kind of traditional sacrifice of the revolution, a comedy of funerals for supposedly fallen heroes for freedom. What is the need, that this was, in fact, a mockery of the dead, that they were deprived of an honest Christian burial, nailed into red coffins for some reason and unnaturally buried in the very center of the city of the living.
From “Izvestia” (wonderful Russian language): “The peasants say, give us a commune, just get rid of the cadets...”
Signature under the poster: “Don’t set your sights, Denikin, on someone else’s land!”
By the way, about the Odessa emergency. There is now a new way of shooting - over the closet cup.
“Warning” in the newspapers: “Due to the complete depletion of fuel, there will soon be no electricity.” So, in one month everything was processed: no factories, no railways, no trams, no water, no bread, no clothes - nothing!
Late yesterday evening, together with the “commissar” of our house, they came to measure the length, width and height of all our rooms “in order to densify them with the proletariat.”
Why a commissioner, why a tribunal, and not just a court? This is because only under the protection of such sacred revolutionary words can one so boldly walk knee-deep in blood...
The main thing about Red Army soldiers is licentiousness. There is a cigarette in his teeth, his eyes are dull and insolent, his cap is on the back of his head, his hair is falling on his forehead. Dressed in some kind of prefabricated rags. The sentries sit at the entrances of requisitioned houses in armchairs in the most twisted positions. Sometimes there’s just a tramp sitting, a Browning on his belt, a German cleaver hanging on one side, a dagger on the other.
Calls in a purely Russian spirit: “Forward, dear ones, don’t count the corpses!*
Another 15 people were shot in Odessa (list published). “Two trains with gifts to the defenders of St. Petersburg” were sent from Odessa, that is, with food (and Odessa itself is dying of hunger).
R.S. This is where my Odessa notes end. I buried the sheets following these so well in one place in the ground that before fleeing Odessa, at the end of January 1920, I could not find them.
In the first quarter of the 20th century, in 1918-1920, the famous Russian writer Bunin kept his personal diary, in which he described in the form of small written notes all the high-profile events taking place in his native country. In addition to the general political situation, Bunin also wrote about the lives of ordinary people whom he saw on the street. In fact, the work tells about a small segment of Russian history from the perspective of an ordinary writer who has no interests of his own in what is happening and is simply trying to live by himself and help others.
Bunin, without a twinge of conscience, calls the year 1918 “damned,” and he does not look into the future with hope, rationally reasoning that there will always be problems, and with the development of society there will be more and more of them.
Many of the writer’s notes are devoted to ordinary life situations that he encountered at every step. Each of them gives the reader a partial understanding of the difficult situation in the country and changes in the minds of people who, however, are trying to resist the coming popular reforms.
Thus, Bunin writes about an imminent offensive by the German army, which, however, does not cause much fear in ordinary residents, and most combat-ready men try to avoid the call to arms, fearing that they will be sent to the front line. Some officers can violate public rules without fear of any consequences.
A well-known critic named Derman quickly arrived from Simferopol to Moscow. He answered questions about the reason for his arrival with terrible stories about the horrors happening on the streets of previously peaceful Simferopol: blood, dead people and panic everywhere. According to Derman, one elderly colonel was burned alive using the furnace of a locomotive as a fire.
Bunin notes that most of the people around him are trying to talk about the people's revolution, calling for them to remain rational and relatively impartial, although they themselves understand perfectly well that this is impossible.
There is complete chaos on the trams: crowds of angry soldiers are desperately trying to escape away from Moscow, reasonably fearing that they might be sent to St. Petersburg to fight the German troops. While walking through the streets of the city, Bunin once met a boy in military uniform who was so drunk that he could hardly walk. The soldiers themselves, succumbing to general panic and not understanding what will now happen to the state, behave completely inappropriately, pushing aside and insulting all civilians who come across their path.
Posters and posters are posted on walls, pillars and fences, which talk about the corrupt nature of such political figures as Lenin and Trotsky, who were bribed by the command of the German army. No one knows about the exact amounts of the “bribes,” but the author confidently claims that there was plenty of money.
After talking with one officer, Bunin learns that, in the opinion of the majority of soldiers, all the problems in the country are due to a sharp change in power, which quickly passed into the hands of criminals recently released from prison, where they belong. Many military personnel would like to personally shoot former prisoners, but they do not have the courage.
Crowds of people gather on the streets with posters calling on the Russian people to rise up and repel the great enemy. What is ironic is that the speakers, as a rule, are not Russians themselves, and the leaders of such pandemoniums clearly do not have any special manners, since they themselves are released criminals pursuing their own goals.
On Lubyanka there is a whole bazaar, consisting of a number of retail shops, street kitchens and ordinary sellers, pushing their goods to everyone who comes into their field of vision. Periodically, trucks pass by filled with tired but happy soldiers, anticipating imminent changes in society, from which a lot of benefits can be derived. Everyone unanimously declares that socialism is impossible under current circumstances, but the bourgeoisie must certainly be killed, as reported by numerous inscriptions on every house.
People sharply inflamed with hatred of domestic literature, whose representatives always defended the interests of the common people, ridiculing the stupidity of arrogant members of public authorities, landowners and corrupt officials.
Bunin gives a brief but quite informative description of an ordinary supporter of popular repression and revolution: a furious and fanatical look, hands trembling with righteous anger, greasy dirty clothes, the disgusting stench of a long-unwashed body and constant loud cries about “love for the world and the people.” The writer is sincerely perplexed as to what kind of love such people, who are only pawns in the hands of popular manipulators, can bring.
In Odessa, things are even worse. The people hid in their homes, the lights are on only in the lairs of criminals, and the soldiers completely forgot about manners and banal compassion, breaking into houses and pulling out everything valuable.
Bunin's notes end in 1920, when the writer was forced to immediately flee Odessa, hiding his diary so securely that he himself could not find it for a long time.
“Cursed Days” was written by Bunin in 1918 in the form of a diary in which records were kept. It was in them that all the cases that occurred in those years that changed the lives of many people in Russia were used.
Overthrow of the reign of Tsar Nicholas II. And not only he alone died, all seven of him died a difficult death, since times then were still very terrible, and not much like wild ones. It seems that this one year has passed, such a difficult one, which took many lives and a lot of joy. But still there is no good mood, because orgies of ordinary people, peasants, and those who are trying to seize the throne are still going on. They kill and kill again. All feet are already covered in the blood of unfortunate and innocent people. Everyone is trying to establish some kind of government to make the world a better place, but they have only made it worse. Just atrocities are happening in Rus' - as Bunin wrote in his diary.
All criminals were released from prison, and even crazy people were simply released onto the streets - they say, live, since you were illegally imprisoned and locked up.
Bunin also accuses in his diaries the impartiality of many people, because such a trait can never exist - it is called indifference and cold-blooded cruelty, indifference to everything that is so important at this time - to the people, to the government, and to those unfortunate people who suffered for no reason . It is important to understand the situation in which the people and you yourself find yourself, and not react to it in any way - this is either stupidity, cowardice, or ruthlessness. Not everyone understood Bunin’s diary entries, or him in general, because he was too worried about his homeland.
Picture or drawing Damned days
Other retellings for the reader's diary
- Summary of Astafiev Starfall
In this work, little attention is paid to descriptions of military actions and events, which are very characteristic of the author. This is a novel about the love story of a simple soldier named Mikhail and nurse Lida.
- Summary of Dumas' Three Musketeers
This historical adventure novel tells about the adventures of d'Artagnan and the three musketeers, with whom he became friends in a duel with them.
- Summary of Chekhov's Literature Teacher
Nikitin Sergei Vasilievich works as a literature teacher at a gymnasium, lives in an apartment with a boring history and geography teacher who only speaks well-known school truths
- Summary of the ballet La Sylphide
This ballet is based on a Scottish legend, based on which many works were written in its time and even more performances were staged. However, the fact is that it was this romantic ballet that created a sensation and made the legend world famous.
- Summary Farewell, Gyulsary! Aitmatov
Two people were slowly climbing the steep ascent of a winding mountain road - the old Kyrgyz peasant Tanabai and the old horse Gyulsary.
Damn days
In 1918-1920, Bunin wrote down his direct observations and impressions of events in Russia at that time in the form of diary notes. Here are a few snippets:
Moscow, 1918
January 1 (old style). This damn year is over. But what next? Maybe something even more terrible. It's probably even true...
February 5th. From the first of February they ordered a new style. So in their opinion it’s already the eighteenth...
February 6. In the newspapers - about the beginning of the German offensive against us. Everyone says: “Oh, if only!” On Petrovka, monks crush ice. Passers-by are triumphant, gloating: “Aha! They kicked us out! Now, brother, they will force us!”
Below we omit the dates. A young officer entered the tram car and, blushing, said that he “unfortunately cannot pay for the ticket.” Derman, a critic, arrived and fled from Simferopol. There, he says, there is “indescribable horror,” soldiers and workers “walk knee-deep in blood.” Some old colonel was roasted alive in a locomotive firebox. “The time has not yet come to understand the Russian revolution impartially, objectively...” You hear this now every minute. But there will never be real impartiality. And most importantly: our “bias” will be very, very dear to the future historian. Is the “passion” of only the “revolutionary people” important? Well, we’re not people, are we? There is hell on the tram, clouds of soldiers with bags - fleeing from Moscow, fearing that they will be sent to defend St. Petersburg from the Germans. On Povarskaya I met a soldier boy, ragged, skinny, disgusting and completely drunk. He poked his muzzle into my chest and, staggering back, spat on me and said: “Despot, son of a bitch!” On the walls of houses, someone has pasted posters incriminating Trotsky and Lenin in connection with the Germans, that they were bribed by the Germans. I ask Klestov: “Well, how much exactly did these scoundrels get?” “Don’t worry,” he answered with a dull grin, “pretty much...” Conversation with floor polishers:
Well, what do you say, gentlemen, is good?
What can you say? Everything is bad.
“God knows,” said the curly man. - We are a dark people... What do we know? That’s what will happen: they let criminals out of prison, so they rule us, but we shouldn’t let them out, but they should have been shot with a filthy gun a long time ago. The king was imprisoned, but nothing like this happened with him. And now you can’t fight these Bolsheviks. The people have weakened... There are only a hundred thousand of them, but there are so many millions of us, and we can’t do anything. Now if only they would open the breech, they would give us freedom, we would take them all out of their apartments piece by piece.”
Conversation accidentally overheard on the phone:
I have fifteen officers and adjutant Kaledin. What to do?
Shoot him immediately.
Again some kind of manifestation, banners, posters, music - and some into the forest, some for firewood, in hundreds of throats: “Get up, rise up, working people!” The voices are guttural, primitive. The women's faces are Chuvash, Mordovian, the men's are all custom-made, criminal, others are straight Sakhalin. The Romans stamped the faces of their convicts: “Saue giget.” There is no need to put anything on these faces, and everything is visible without any branding. Read Lenin's article. Insignificant and fraudulent - either the international, or the "Russian national upsurge." "Congress of Soviets". Lenin's speech. Oh, what an animal this is! I read about corpses standing at the bottom of the sea - killed, drowned officers. And here is "The Musical Snuffbox". The entire Lubyanka Square sparkles in the sun. Liquid mud splashes from under the wheels. And Asia, Asia - soldiers, boys, trading gingerbread, halva, poppy seeds, cigarettes... The soldiers and workers, constantly rumbling on trucks, have triumphant faces. In P.’s kitchen there is a fat-faced soldier... He says that, of course, socialism is impossible now, but that the bourgeoisie still need to be cut off.
Odessa. 1919
April 12 (old style). It's been almost three weeks since our death. Dead, empty port, dead, polluted city - Letter from Moscow... dated August 10th arrived only today. However, the Russian post office ended a long time ago, back in the summer of 17: ever since we first had, in the European way, a “Minister of Posts and Telegraphs...”. At the same time, the “Minister of Labor” appeared for the first time - and then all of Russia stopped working. Yes, and the Satan of Cain’s malice, bloodthirstiness and the wildest arbitrariness breathed on Russia precisely in those days when brotherhood, equality and freedom were proclaimed. Then a frenzy immediately set in, acute insanity. Everyone yelled at each other for the slightest contradiction: “I’ll arrest you, son of a bitch!”
I often remember the indignation with which my seemingly entirely black images of the Russian people were met. ...And who? Those who were nourished, fed with the very literature that for a hundred years disgraced literally all classes, that is, the “priest”, the “philistine”, the tradesman, the official, the policeman, the landowner, the wealthy peasant - in a word, everyone and everyone, with the exception of some then the “people” - horseless, of course - and tramps.
Now all the houses are dark, the whole city is in darkness, except for those places where these robber dens are - there are chandeliers glowing, balalaikas are heard, walls are visible, hung with black banners, on which are white skulls with the inscriptions: “Death, death to the bourgeoisie!”
He speaks and screams, stuttering, with saliva in his mouth, his eyes seem especially furious through his crooked pince-nez. The tie has stuck out high on the back of the dirty paper collar, the vest is extremely soiled, there is dandruff on the shoulders of the short jacket, the greasy thin hair is disheveled... And they assure me that this viper is allegedly possessed by “fiery, selfless love for man,” “thirst for beauty, goodness and justice"!
There are two types among the people. In one, Rus' predominates, in the other, Chud. But in both there is a terrible changeability of moods, appearances, “unsteadiness,” as they said in the old days. The people themselves said to themselves: “from us, like from wood, there is both a club and an icon,” depending on the circumstances, on who processes this wood: Sergius of Radonezh or Emelka Pugachev.
"From victory to victory - new successes of the valiant Red Army. Execution of 26 Black Hundreds in Odessa..."
I heard that we too will have this wild robbery, which is already going on in Kyiv - the “collection” of clothes and shoes... But it’s creepy even during the day. The entire huge city does not live, sits at home, rarely goes out into the street. The city feels conquered as if by some special people, who seem much more terrible than, I think, the Pechenegs seemed to our ancestors. And the conqueror staggers around, sells from stalls, spits seeds, “curses.” Along Deribasovskaya either a huge crowd is moving, accompanying for entertainment the coffin of some swindler, who is certainly passed off as a “fallen fighter” (lying in a red coffin...), or the peacoats of sailors playing accordions, dancing and screaming are turning black: “Eh, apple, "Where are you going?"
In general, as soon as the city turns “red,” the crowd filling the streets immediately changes dramatically. A certain selection of faces is being made... On these faces, first of all, there is no routine, no simplicity. All of them are almost entirely sharply repulsive, frightening with evil stupidity, some kind of gloomy servile challenge to everything and everyone.
I saw the Field of Mars, on which they had just performed, as a kind of traditional sacrifice of the revolution, a comedy of funerals for supposedly fallen heroes for freedom. What is the need, that this was, in fact, a mockery of the dead, that they were deprived of an honest Christian burial, nailed into red coffins for some reason and unnaturally buried in the very center of the city of the living.
From Izvestia (wonderful Russian language): “The peasants say, give us a commune, just get us rid of the Cadets...”
Signature under the poster: “Don’t set your sights, Denikin, on someone else’s land!”
By the way, about the Odessa emergency. There is now a new way of shooting - over the closet cup.
"Warning" in the newspapers: "Due to the complete depletion of fuel, there will soon be no electricity." So, in one month everything was processed: no factories, no railways, no trams, no water, no bread, no clothes - nothing!
Late yesterday evening, together with the “commissar” of our house, they came to measure the length, width and height of all our rooms “in order to densify them with the proletariat.”
Why a commissioner, why a tribunal, and not just a court? This is because only under the protection of such sacred revolutionary words can one so boldly walk knee-deep in blood...
The main thing about Red Army soldiers is licentiousness. There is a cigarette in his teeth, his eyes are dull and insolent, his cap is on the back of his head, his hair is falling on his forehead. Dressed in some kind of prefabricated rags. The sentries sit at the entrances of requisitioned houses in armchairs in the most twisted positions. Sometimes there’s just a tramp sitting, a Browning on his belt, a German cleaver hanging on one side, a dagger on the other.
Calls in a purely Russian spirit: “Forward, dear ones, don’t count the corpses!*
R.S. This is where my Odessa notes end. I buried the sheets following these so well in one place in the ground that before fleeing Odessa, at the end of January 1920, I could not find them.
