111 - in front of the open window. She did not get confused with silks, like Conrad's mistress, who, in amorous absent-mindedness, embroidered a rose with green silk. Under her needle, the canvas unmistakably repeated the patterns of the original, despite the fact that her thoughts did not follow the work, they were far away (A. Pushkin). 2. The boundaries of the paragraph do not coincide with the STS: one paragraph includes several STS. For example: “Oh my God, if only part of this money”! - he said, sighing heavily; and in his imagination all the packages he had seen with the tempting inscription began to pour out of the bag: “1000 ducats.” The packages unwrapped, the gold glittered, wrapped again, and he sat, staring motionless and meaninglessly into the empty air... //Finally, there was a knock at the door, which made him wake up unpleasantly. The owner entered with the quarterly overseer, whose appearance for small people, as we know, is even more unpleasant than for the rich the face of a petitioner. // The owner of the small house in which Chartkov lived was one of the creatures that owners of houses usually are somewhere in the Fifteenth Line of Vasilyevsky Island, on the Petersburg side or in a remote corner of Kolomna - a creation of which there are many in Rus' and whose character is so It is difficult to determine the color of a worn-out frock coat. In his youth he was a captain and a loudmouth, he was also used in civilian affairs, he was a good carver, he was efficient, a dandy, and a fool; but in old age he merged all these sharp features into a kind of dull vagueness. He was already a widow, he was already retired. He no longer flaunted, did not boast, did not get cocky, he only loved to drink tea and chat all sorts of nonsense over it (N. Gogol). There are three STS in this paragraph. In the first STS, the character’s thoughts are presented, in the second the narration is presented, in the third a description of the owner of the apartment is given. 3. One STS is broken by a paragraph. For example: You should stop, enter the hut, see the gloom of confused eyes - and again drive further in the noise of pine trees, in the trembling of autumn aspens, in - 112 - the rustle of coarse sand pouring into the ruts. And look at the flocks of birds that fly in the heavenly darkness over Polesie to the dark south. And it is sweet to yearn from the feeling of your complete kinship, your closeness to this dense land (K. Paustovsky). 9.7. The order of parsing a complex syntactic whole 1. STS and its microtheme. 2. The relationship between the STS and the paragraph. 3. Means of interphrase communication: a) lexical proper (words including general semantic components, lexical repetitions, nominations of speech acts and results of intellectual activity); b) lexico-grammatical (anaphoric pronouns); c) grammatical (word order, conjunctions, tense forms in the text, circumstances of various grammatical meanings, incompleteness of sentences and ellipsis). 4. Leading connection in the SSC (chain, parallel, associative). 5. Type of rhematic dominant: subject, qualitative, static, static-dynamic, impressive. 6. SSC type (dynamic, static, mixed). Analysis sample In the distance, the forest turned blue, above Zvenigorod; The town itself is spread out over the hill, and its ancient cathedral is white. The houses are gray and red, under green roofs, among gardens, near the monastery, looking out with golden domes from oak trees. Old, small town. Beautiful from afar, disorderly, growing as God wishes; consecrated by ancient, pious culture (B. Zaitsev). 1. STS consists of three sentences united by one micro-topic - “description of Zvenigorod”. 2. In the text of the work, the boundaries of this SSC coincide with the boundaries of the paragraph. 3. The means of interphrase communication are: a) multi-aspect - 113 - nominations (repeated nomination) of one subject - Zvenigorod, town, city; b) the use in the SSC of words that develop one topic - nouns denoting signs of the city: cathedral, monastery, houses; c) the use of words with semantic components “ancient”, “old”; d) anaphoric pronominal replacements (his); e) incompleteness of sentences (last sentence); f) syntactic plan of the present, the use of predicate forms indicating the simultaneity of perception of features. 4. This SSC is characterized by parallel communication. 5. STS with a qualitative rhematic dominant, semantic type of text - description of an ancient city. 6. This is a static SSC. Task 14. Select SSCs in the text and sort them out. This same week, on Saturday, the rain, which began on Wednesday, poured from morning until evening, poured like buckets. Every now and then he became particularly stormy and gloomy on this day. And all day Mitya tirelessly walked around the garden and cried so terribly all day that sometimes even he himself was amazed at the strength and abundance of his tears. Parasha looked for him, shouted in the yard, in the linden alley, calling him to dinner, then to drink tea - he did not respond. It was cold, piercingly damp, dark with clouds; against their blackness the dense greenery of the wet garden stood out especially thick, fresh and bright. The wind that blew in from time to time brought down another downpour from the trees - a whole stream of spray. But Mitya didn’t see anything, didn’t pay attention to anything. His white cap sagged and turned dark gray, his student jacket turned black, and his boots were covered in mud up to his knees. All drenched, completely wet, without a single spot of blood on his face, with tear-stained, crazy eyes, he was scary. He smoked cigarette after cigarette, walked widely through the mud of the alleys, and sometimes just anywhere, entirely, through the tall wet grass among the apple and pear trees, bumping into their crooked, gnarled branches, mottled with gray - 114 - green sodden lichen. He sat on swollen, blackened benches, went into a ravine, lay on damp straw in a hut, in the very place where he lay with Alenka. From the cold, from the icy dampness of the air, his large hands turned blue, his lips became purple, his deathly pale face with sunken cheeks took on a violet hue. He lay on his back, legs crossed and hands under his head, staring wildly at the black thatched roof, from which large rusty drops were falling. Then his cheekbones clenched, his eyebrows began to jump. He impulsively jumped up, pulled out from his pants pocket a letter that had already been read a hundred times, soiled and crumpled, received late yesterday evening - brought by a surveyor who came to the estate for several days on business - and again, for the hundred and first time, greedily devoured it (I. Bunin). X. DIALOGICAL UNITY 10.1. Typology of replicas in dialogical unity. Dialogue as a form of communication is based on a change in closely related statements of speakers. These utterances are called replicas, each of which represents a specific speech act. The replica that opens the dialogic unity (hereinafter referred to as DU), with which the dialogue begins, is called a stimulus replica. The second cue, correlating with the stimulus cue, is called the response cue. Stimulus cues are classified in a variety of ways. The most consistent classification seems to be one that takes into account the communicative purpose of the utterance containing the stimulus cue. From this point of view, initiating remarks can be differentiated into interrogative, incentive and narrative remarks. Among the replica reactions, the following are the most frequent. 1. Answer. For example: - Where is Zarechnaya? - She went home (A. Chekhov). 2. Consent, confirmation. For example: - Is it true that you refused the bonus? - 115 - - True! (A. Gelman). 3. Evaluation. For example: - So I’ll tell Mitya now how you kissed my hand, but I don’t like you at all. And how he will laugh! - You bastard, get out! (F. Dostoevsky). 4. Clarifying questions. Used if the listener cannot associate the name with a specific object. For example: - Comrade Colonel, we picked up a pack of carpets at the roundabout. - What other carpets? (Weiner Brothers). 5. Disagreement, objection. For example: - Why is your eye staring? With one eye, you, Pishka, were sweeter to us. - It’s so much nicer! – Pishka (M. Alekseev) doubted. 6. Pickups. The second remark serves as an addition to what was said in the first remark or as a continuation of what was said. From a linguistic point of view, when picked up, two or more replicas of the dialogue participants constitute a grammatical, and in some cases, intonation and semantic unity. For example: - It used to be that Vanya Kostrov would come to class, sit quietly, not move, but I already knew that Vanya had homework... - I didn’t prepare it. But it's true! Always ask when you don't have lessons ready! (L. Geraskina). 7. Repeated questions. These are a kind of signals that the interlocutor is comprehending the answer, collecting his thoughts, and looking for words. For example: - Ilya, where is your daughter? Where does he live? - Daughter? I was in Leningrad. I don’t know where (A. Vampilov). 8. Explanations. In a response response, with the help of synonymous replacement or descriptive interpretation, the meaning of a word or phrase that is incomprehensible, unfamiliar to the interlocutor due to its polysemy, dialectal, colloquial, slang, narrowly professional, etc. is explained and deciphered. character. For example: - 116 - - I don’t understand you, what do you mean “I missed it out of joy”? - “Drank” means (I. Vergasov). 10.2. Means of structural connectivity in DU Structural connectivity of replicas in DU is carried out using the following means. 1. Anaphoric pronouns, pronominal substitutions. For example: - Do you remember, by chance, I had such a friend, Anatoly? - Familiar? You left home because of him... (M. Roshchin). 2. Incompleteness of sentences in the response response. For example: - Why do you have a face on your side and can’t see your eyes?... Has Al fallen into the “hole”? - Got it! The lower half of Bubnov’s tavern had no other name: “hole” (V. Gilyarovsky). 3. Lexical repetitions, synonymous repetitions and repetitions of cognate words. For example: - Well, how is your Fatma? Do you live together? Are you hurting her? - God forbid, sir, we live in perfect harmony (V. Shishkov). 4. Words of the same lexical-semantic or thematic group. For example: - We ask our dear guests for forgiveness. We keep things simple today. Potatoes, herring... - Once upon a time they served Italian pizza! Anchovies! (M. Roshchin). 5. Unions that begin a replica-reaction. For example: - How strange it turned out - I arrived, and you... - And I’m leaving (A. Arbuzov). 6. Particles, modal words, interjections as part of a response response. For example: - Actually, you are a cute old man... - Of course, I’m cute. I am rich (M. Rezchikov). - 117 - Wed. also: - So, in your opinion, life is a Christmas tree, or should we hang toys on it? - At least there’s a Christmas tree. It is quite possible (K. Simonov). 7. Incompleteness of the stimulus cue. For example: - We were with him until four in the morning... - We drank cognac (M. Gorky). 8. Syntactic parallelism, uniformity of replica structure. This phenomenon lies in the fact that the subsequent replica reflects the grammatical features of the previous replica (morphological design of sentence members, their number, order of arrangement). Not only the syntactic side is often duplicated, but also the lexical composition. For example: - First we’ll have a drink, doctor, right? - And then we’ll drink (M. Gorky). 10.3. Functional-semantic types of DU. Depending on the topic of the dialogue, the functional orientation of the original remark, the nature of the reaction to it, the social status of the interlocutors, and other signs of the speech situation that form the extra-linguistic context of the utterance, several functional-semantic types of MUs are distinguished. 9 1. Dialogue-questioning (interrogation). The initial response is usually presented as an interrogative construction. The communicative attitude of the questioner is the desire to receive comprehensive information. This designs a strict alternation of interrogative actions and response reactions. For example: - Well, what are you doing? I see it in your eyes. - It seems that she stopped loving her husband. And he was cute. - Then why did you stop loving him? 9 The term “functional-semantic type of DU” has the following synonyms: functional type, functional-content type. - 118 - - Who knows. And it's such a shame. - Why? - And he was mischievous (A. Arbuzov). 2. Dialogue-message. The original replica is presented as a narrative construction. The communicative attitude of the speaker is to convey certain information. The communicative attitude of the interlocutor is to eliminate the “information hunger”. In a dialogue-message, the active role of the interlocutor increases. For example: - Let me kiss you. Excuse me... The fact is that I am already completely sad. -What bothers you? - Well, judge for yourself. One runs away from home because he is in unhappy love. The other one is leaving because she is happy... - Who is leaving? - Nina. She's getting married. - Is she getting married? - That's the point. Just the other day she is leaving for Sakhalin (A. Vampilov). 3. Dialogue-conversation (phatic dialogue). Dialogue-conversation most often occurs regardless of the situation and is a spontaneous reaction to extra-linguistic reality. Clichéd constructions (formulas of speech etiquette) are often used as initial remarks. The goal of the dialogue participants, who are assessed as equal partners, is to find out whether the interlocutor wants to communicate. For example: - Sixth hour. Sabbat. Stop. Lately you've been working like a machine. - What should I do? It’s good for you to reason, you are a person with an apartment... Whatever you say, a separate apartment is a great thing. Well, take this side at least. In someone else's apartment, everything is in plain sight, everything is in public. The wife makes a scandal, and you, if you are a delicate person, endure it. Or maybe I want to hit her, No, really... They’ll give us - 119 - an apartment, then we’ll see who wins. - For housewarming, I will give you boxing gloves. - Yes, with an apartment you are a free person. You don’t like this office - he took it to another one. - Where, for example? - Well, to a factory somewhere or to science, for example (A. Vampilov). 4. Unison dialogue. In this type of dialogue, there is a coincidence of opinions and assessments of both interlocutors. Dialogical communication in this case occurs in an atmosphere of shared memories or impressions. For example: - How the sea makes noise... Even here we can hear it. - It’s barely dripping (about rain)… And it became cool by night. It seems that summer is over today. - Yes... August this year was unsuccessful. And it became deserted around. Everyone who could fled to Leningrad (A. Arbuzov). 5. Dialogue-argument. In a dialogue-dispute, there is a verbal competition, a struggle of opinions. Interlocutors correlate their opinions (assessments) with the same subject, fact, event, but their positions do not coincide. As a rule, each responding replica is focused on the previous replica and represents a contradiction replica, a disagreement replica, an objection. For example: - This is terrible... It’s terrible that you didn’t consult with me... Well, don’t be sad. We will fix this matter... Everything will be fine... Next time you won’t take a step without my advice... You will be under my supervision, don’t you believe me? - I don’t believe a single word you say. - But why?... After all, I believe you. - But I don’t tell you. - Strange... We once promised to trust each other... remember. To each other, and not to neighbors... Maybe this didn’t happen? Or don't you remember this? - 120 - - “Once upon a time”...I remembered. You never know what happened once. - Has anything changed? - Has it changed? Well, what are you doing? Everything just went away (A. Vampilov). 6. Intensive dialogue. The purpose of this dialogue is the desire to find out the intentions, intentions, and interlocutor. For example: - What time is it? - And what? Are you about to leave already? - Why did you decide that? - Why are you asking about the time? - I just asked: I wonder how much it could be now? 7. Order dialogue (directive/prescriptive dialogue). For example: - Don’t you dare go anywhere! Stay close to me! - What about the chest? - What chest? How long can you tinker with a chest? You don’t know how to do anything, Together we will deal with the chest... Don’t you dare leave me even a step! - Why? -No talking (S. Aleshin). 8. Dialogue-request (advice, suggestion). For example: - ... Do me a great favor, you are my dear father, come to Chermashnya. After all, all you have to do from Volovya station is turn left, just about twelve versts, and here it is Chermashnya. - For mercy, I can’t: the railway is eighty miles away, and the car leaves the station for Moscow at seven o’clock in the evening - just enough to keep up (F. Dostoevsky). 9. Dialogue-quarrel. For example: - I’m not going to my uncle. - What? ...Where are you going? To whom? To a childhood friend? To him? - Yes. - So that’s it...
Composition
This story takes an incident from life, in some way a sensation that occupied Moscow society on the eve of the World War. One of the widespread Moscow newspapers published an exposing article about the intimate life of the director of the theater school, artist A., and his students, whom he turned into his favorites. The newspaper published this article not so much out of a sense of civil indignation, but because this piquant material attracted the attention of a select society.
But, apparently, an episode of the “social” life of Moscow only later entered into the story about the love of a young man, whose name in the first versions was Petya, and the story itself was first called “April”, then “Rain”. Probably, Bunin was attracted by the very topic that Chekhov once wrote to Grigorovich about - the topic of suicide of a seventeen-year-old boy. But if in Chekhov’s story “Volodya” and in Bunin’s story “Zoyka and Valeria” written abroad, unhappy, pathetic young people, offended by fate, are depicted who commit suicide after the sad humiliation they experienced, then in “Mitya’s Love” we see something completely other.
Mitya was at first immensely happy in his love for Katya, a love that was combined with painful jealousy. A break with his beloved meant the end of his life, and suicide saved him from unbearable torment, despair, and mortal melancholy.
The original version of the story, entitled “Rain,” dated June 7, 1924, is preserved in Bunin’s manuscripts. But the story “Mitya’s Love” was completed on August 14 of the same year. These two and a little months, the story “Rain” - four pages of manuscript - turned into “Mitya’s Love” - forty-five pages of printed text, one of the best, inspiredly written stories of the writer.
In order to clearly imagine the writer’s creative work, we present an almost completely never published initial version called “Rain.” “It rained for the second week, almost without a break. On this day he kept running especially hard, and the weather was especially gloomy. And all day Petya wandered in the garden and cried all day. The maid looked for him, shouted in the courtyard, in the main alley, calling him to dinner, then to drink tea - he did not respond.
It was cold, piercingly damp, dark from the clouds, against their blackness the thick May greenery of the wet garden stood out especially thick, fresh and bright. But Petya didn’t pay attention to anything, he couldn’t even see anything because of his tears.
He became so tall and thin that everyone marveled at him. Now, all drenched, long, without a single blood on his face, with tear-stained, crazy eyes - and they were once jokingly called Byzantine - he was scary.
He smoked cigarette after cigarette, walked along the muddy paths and along the tall wet grass in the farthest part of the garden, sat on swollen benches blackened by the rain, lay on damp straw in the hut in separation. He was in a white, now gray, thoroughly wet cap, a school jacket and high hunting boots. From the cold and dampness his huge hands turned blue, his lips turned purple, his pale, tight face acquired a violet tint. He lay supine, legs crossed, hands under his head, staring wildly and stupidly at the thatched roof. Then his cheekbones clenched, his lips and eyebrows began to jump... He fumbled, got up and pulled out from his trouser pocket a letter he had read a hundred times, stained and crumpled, received yesterday, after three whole weeks of crazy waiting, and again greedily devoured its lines:
“Dear Petya, don’t remember it badly, forget, forget everything that happened! I am bad, disgusting, spoiled, I am unworthy of you, but I madly love life and art! I made up my mind, the die is cast! You are sensitive, you are smart, you will understand me... I beg you, don’t write anything to me. The letter could easily fall into his hands..."
Having reached this place, Petya crumpled the letter, fell to the side and, burying his face in the wet and rotten straw, furiously clenched his teeth and choked with sobs. This unexpected “you”, which seemed to again restore their former closeness and fill the heart with unbearable tenderness...” From despair, from the consciousness of his powerlessness, hopelessness, the young man reaches hallucinations. With an extraordinary reality, visions appear before him, some room, his beloved is sitting at the mirror, he sees her powdered face, bare shoulders, she is braiding her hair...
“The door swung open and a gentleman in a tuxedo, with a bloodless shaved face and short black curly hair, cheerfully entered. She finished braiding her braid, looked at him timidly, then threw the braid over her shoulder, raising her bare hands. He condescendingly hugged her waist - and she quickly clasped his neck..."
What the young man saw so clearly in his imagination disappeared:
“Petya woke up covered in sweat, with a beating heart, with an amazingly clear consciousness [realized] that he was dead.” He returns to the house: “There was darkness in the room, there was noise and splashing outside the windows, and this noise and splashing was physically terrible... Voices and laughter were heard from the distant rooms. And they were terribly scary and unnatural in their rudeness of life, its fun, its mercilessness. Without thinking what he was doing, not realizing what would come out of all this, passionately wanting only one thing - to get rid of his horror and pain at least for a minute, Petya threw his legs off the sofa, with a trembling hand he fumbled and pushed aside the drawer of the night table, caught a cold heavy revolver and, taking a deep and joyful breath, put the barrel deeply into his mouth and forcefully pressed the trigger.”
Thus began work on the work, which then, almost three months later, received the name “Mitya’s Love.” Almost everything from the original version has been preserved - this last chapter of the story, a rainy day, and the death of a young man. All the other glories that lead to the tragic denouement were completed, and the manuscript from four
pages increased in the draft to one hundred eighty-six pages.
Katya appeared with her freshness, youth, femininity and childishness, Alenka - the daughter of a forester, a gentleman and pimp, the headman, from a high school student the main character of the story became a student Mitya, and, finally, a striking description of the awakening of nature, spring, inextricably linked with painful and hopeless the love of a young man.
Even minor images are etched in the memory - a smug actor who said “you” to all his students, who was known to have corrupted the students of the theater school, and every summer he took one of them to the Caucasus, to Finland. For him, Katya was an accidental episode in his shameless and depraved life.
For Mitya, Katya was his whole life and his whole future. With a pure and truthful soul, he could not accept the theater school, where Katya read for the exam “with that vulgar melodiousness, falseness and stupidity in every sound, which were considered the highest art of reading in that environment hated by Mitya, in which Katya already lived with all her thoughts...”
But there was a happy time for Mitya’s love - frosty December in Moscow, “day after day decorating Moscow with thick frost and a dull red ball of low sun.” Then spring in the village - the wedding whiteness of apple trees, pears, bird cherry trees... And everywhere in dreams with
Mitya was Katya, and the poems of old poets in old magazines told him about what his soul was full of - about love...
Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
Mitya's love (excerpts)
In Moscow, Mitya’s last happy day was March 9th. So, at least, it seemed to him.
She and Katya walked up Tverskoy Boulevard at twelve o’clock in the morning. Winter suddenly gave way to spring, it was almost hot in the sun. It was as if the larks had really arrived and brought with them warmth and joy. Everything was wet, everything was melting, drops were dripping from the houses, street cleaners were chipping ice from the sidewalks, throwing sticky snow from the roofs, everything was crowded and lively. High clouds dispersed into thin white smoke, merging with the damp blue sky. In the distance, Pushkin towered with blissful thoughtfulness, and the Passion Monastery shone. But the best thing was that Katya, especially pretty that day, was all breathing with simplicity and closeness, often with childish trustfulness she took Mitya by the arm and looked down into his face, happy even as if a little arrogantly, walking so widely that she could barely keep up with him.
...Quickly flew by that unforgettable, easy time when they had just met, when they, having barely met, suddenly felt that they were most interested in talking (and even from morning to evening) only with each other - when Mitya so unexpectedly found himself in that fabulous the world of love, which he had been secretly waiting for since childhood, since adolescence. This time was December - frosty, fine, day after day decorating Moscow with thick frost and a dull red ball of low sun. January and February swirled Mitya’s love in a whirlwind of continuous happiness, already, as it were, realized, or at least about to be realized. But even then something began (and more and more often) to confuse, to poison this happiness. Even then, it often seemed as if there were two Katyas: one, whom from the first minute of his acquaintance Mitya began to persistently desire and demand, and the other, genuine, ordinary, painfully different from the first. And yet Mitya did not experience anything like this then.
Everything could be explained. Spring women's worries began, shopping, orders, endless alterations of this and that, and Katya actually had to often visit the dressmakers with her mother; In addition, she had an exam ahead at the private theater school where she studied. It was therefore quite natural for her to be preoccupied and absent-minded. And so Mitya consoled himself every minute. But the consolations did not help - what the suspicious heart said in spite of them was stronger and was confirmed more and more clearly: Katya’s inner inattention to him grew, and at the same time his suspiciousness and his jealousy grew. The director of the theater school turned Katya's head with praise, and she could not resist telling Mitya about these praises. The director told her: “You are the pride of my school,” he said “you” to all his students - and, in addition to general classes, he then began to study with her separately in order to especially show off her in exams. It was known that he corrupted students, every summer he took one with him to the Caucasus, Finland, and abroad. And it began to occur to Mitya that now the director has designs on Katya, who, although not to blame for this, still probably feels it, understands it, and therefore is already, as it were, in a vile, criminal relationship with him. And this thought tormented me all the more since it was too obvious that Katya’s attention was decreasing.
It seemed as if something had begun to distract her from him. He couldn't calmly think about the director. But what a director! It seemed that in general some other interests began to prevail over Katya’s love. To whom, to what? Mitya didn’t know, he was jealous of Katya for everyone, for everything, most importantly, for that common thing, imagined by him, with which she supposedly began to live in secret from him. It seemed to him that she was irresistibly drawn somewhere away from him and, perhaps, towards something that was scary to even think about...
...And then one day, going out into the hall full of late afternoon sun for tea, Mitya suddenly saw mail near the samovar, which he had been waiting in vain all morning. He quickly walked up to the table - Katya should have answered at least one of the letters that he sent her a long time ago - and a small, elegant envelope with an inscription on it in a familiar pathetic handwriting flashed brightly and terribly into his eyes. He grabbed it and walked out of the house, then through the garden, along the main alley. He went to the farthest part of the garden, to where a ravine ran through it, and, stopping and looking around, quickly tore the envelope. The letter was short, just a few lines, but Mitya needed to read them five times to finally understand - his heart was pounding so much. “My beloved, my only one!” - he read and re-read - and the earth swam under his feet from these exclamations. He raised his eyes: the sky was shining solemnly and joyfully above the garden, the garden was shining with its snowy whiteness all around, the nightingale, already sensing the early evening chill, clearly and strongly, with all the sweetness of a nightingale’s self-forgetfulness, clicked in the fresh greenery of the distant bushes - and the blood drained from his face, goosebumps ran through my hair...
He walked home slowly - the cup of his love was full to the brim. And just as carefully, he carried it with him for the next few days, quietly, happily waiting for a new letter...
It was cold, piercingly damp, dark with clouds; against their blackness the dense greenery of the wet garden stood out especially thick, fresh and bright. The wind that blew in from time to time brought down another downpour from the trees - a whole stream of spray. But Mitya saw nothing, paid no attention to anything... He lay on his back, legs crossed, hands under his head, staring wildly at the black thatched roof, from which large rusty drops were falling. Then his cheekbones clenched, his eyebrows began to jump. He impulsively jumped up, pulled out from his pants pocket a letter he had already read a hundred times, stained and crumpled, received late yesterday evening - brought by a land surveyor who had come to the estate for several days on business - and again, for the hundred and first time, greedily devoured it:
“Dear Mitya, don’t remember it badly, forget, forget everything that happened! I am bad, I am disgusting, spoiled, I am unworthy of you, but I love art madly! I have made up my mind, the die has been cast, I am leaving - you know with whom... You are sensitive, you are smart, you will understand me, I beg you, do not torture yourself and me! Don’t write anything to me, it’s useless!”
Having reached this place, Mitya crumpled the letter and, burying his face in the wet straw, furiously clenching his teeth, choked with sobs. This unexpected “you”, which so terribly reminded and even seemed to restore their closeness again and filled the heart with unbearable tenderness - it was beyond human strength!
...The rain was noisy everywhere - on the roof, around the house, and in the garden. Its noise was double, different - one in the garden, another near the house, under the continuous murmur and splash of gutters pouring water into puddles. And this created for Mitya, who instantly fell into a lethargic stupor, an inexplicable anxiety and, together with the heat with which his nostrils, his breathing, his head glowed, plunged him as if into anesthesia, created what seemed like another world, some other evening time in what seemed like a strange, different house, in which there was a terrible premonition of something...
- Kate! - he said, sitting up on the bed, swinging his legs off it. - Katya, what is this! - he said out loud, absolutely sure that she heard him, that she was here, that she was silent, did not respond only because she was crushed, she herself understood the irreparable horror of everything that she had done. “Oh, it doesn’t matter, Katya,” he whispered bitterly and tenderly, wanting to say that he would forgive her everything, if only she would still rush to him, so that they could be saved together, – to save their beautiful love in that most beautiful spring world , which until recently was like paradise...
I knew that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, and it was very damp.
D. Salinger, “The Catcher in the Rye”I soon stopped even thinking about hunting, and the dogs followed me - they ran ahead, perfectly understanding the impossibility of racing across such a field, even if there was something to chase, and somewhat perking up only when we found ourselves in some bare copse, where there was a strong and damp smell of rotten leaves, or they walked through red oak bushes, along some ravine or hillock.
The train screams warningly and sadly into the void; I rush to the platform: it’s somehow primitively damp, fresh, it’s drizzling, a freight car stands alone in front of the station.
I.A. Bunin, “The Life of Arsenyev”Leaving the house, I walked along the streets - they were terrible: mute, warm, damp, everywhere around, in the bare gardens and among the poplars of the boulevard, there was a thick white fog mixed with moonlight.
I.A. Bunin, “The Life of Arsenyev”It was cold, piercingly damp, dark with clouds; against their blackness the dense greenery of the wet garden stood out especially thick, fresh and bright.
I.A. Bunin, "Mitya's Love"Since the house was damp and only one room was heated, Levin put his brother to sleep in his own bedroom behind a partition.
L.N. Tolstoy, Anna KareninaSome offered her a clean handkerchief to wipe her lovely hands, some put a Hungarian coat under her feet so that it wouldn’t be damp, some curtained the window with a cloak so it wouldn’t blow, some brushed the flies off her husband’s face so he wouldn’t wake up.
It was damp and cold, especially in a wet dress.
L.N. Tolstoy, “War and Peace. Volume 3"Because of the slope of the mountain, the sun did not reach into the depression of the road; it was cold and damp here; It was a bright August morning above Pierre's head, and the ringing of bells resounded cheerfully.
L.N. Tolstoy, “War and Peace. Volume 3"But under the slope, near the cart with the wounded, next to the out of breath horse where Pierre was standing, it was damp, cloudy and sad.
L.N. Tolstoy, “War and Peace. Volume 3"The samovar is already boiling in the entryway, which, flushed like a lobster, is being blown up by Mitka the postilion; the yard is damp and foggy, as if steam were rising from odorous manure; the sun illuminates the eastern part of the sky with a cheerful, bright light, and the thatched roofs of the spacious sheds surrounding the courtyard are glossy from the dew that covers them.
L.N. Tolstoy, “Childhood. Adolescence. Youth. Part 2"The situation was awkward; darkness came, it became cold and damp, and wolves appeared in the field.
M.E. Saltykov-Shchedrin, “The History of a City”It’s not good for you here in the closet: dark, damp; At least the gentlemen stopped by when they came.
It was already approaching autumn, dusk fell early; the great hall of the abbey was damp and dark.
M.E. Saltykov-Shchedrin, “Poshekhon Antiquity”Current page: 5 (book has 13 pages in total)
XXIII
The stallion carried him out of the gate like a whirlwind. Opposite the church, we stopped for a minute near a shop, took a pound of lard and a bottle of vodka and rushed on.
A hut at the exit flashed by, where Anyutka stood dressed up and didn’t know what to do. The headman jokingly, but rudely shouted something to her and with drunken, senseless and evil daring, he firmly jerked the reins and lashed them across the stallion’s rump. The stallion still pushed.
Mitya, sitting and jumping, held on with all his might. The back of his head felt pleasantly hot, the heat of the field blew into his face, smelling of already blooming rye, road dust, and wheel ointment. The rye moved, casting a silver-gray, like some kind of wonderful fur, swelled, over it the larks constantly soared, sang, slanted and fell, far ahead the forest was softly blue...
A quarter of an hour later we were already in the forest and, still briskly, knocking on stumps and roots, we rushed along its shady road, joyful with sun spots and countless flowers in the thick and tall grass on the sides. Alenka, in her blue dress, with her feet straight and even in ankle boots, sat in the oak trees blossoming near the guardhouse and embroidered something. The headman flew past her, threatening her with a whip, and immediately besieged her at the threshold. Mitya was struck by the bitter and fresh aroma of the forest, young oak leaves, and was deafened by the ringing barking of the little dogs that surrounded the droshky and filled the entire forest with responses. They stood and howled furiously in every way, and their furry faces were kind and their tails wagged.
They got down, tied the stallion to a dry tree scorched by a thunderstorm under the windows and entered through the dark entryway.
The guardhouse was very clean, very cozy and very cramped, hot both from the sun shining through both of its windows from behind the forest, and from the fact that the stove was heated - in the morning the rushes were baking. Fedosya, Alenka’s mother-in-law, a clean and pretty-looking old lady, was sitting at the table with her back to the sunny window strewn with small flies. Seeing the barchuk, she stood up and bowed low. After saying hello, we sat down and began to smoke.
-Where is Tryphon? – asked the headman.
“He’s resting in the cage,” said Fedosya, “I’ll go and call him now.”
- Things are going on! – the headman whispered, blinking both eyes as soon as she left.
But Mitya hasn’t seen anything done yet. While it was only unbearably awkward, it seemed that Fedosya already understood perfectly well why they had come. Again the thought that had been terrifying for the third day flashed: “What am I doing? I'm going crazy! He felt like a sleepwalker, subjugated by someone else's will, moving faster and faster towards some fatal, but irresistibly enticing abyss. But, trying to look simple and calm, he sat, smoked, and looked around the guardhouse. I was especially ashamed at the thought that Tryfon would now come in, a man, as they say, angry, smart, who would immediately understand everything even better than Fedosya. But at the same time there was another thought: “Where does she sleep? On these bunks or in the cage?” Of course, in a cage, he thought. A summer night in the forest, the windows in the cage are without frames, without glass, and all night a drowsy forest whisper can be heard, and she sleeps...
XXIV
Tryphon, entering, also bowed low to Mitya, but silently, without looking into his eyes. Then he sat down on the bench in front of the table and spoke dryly and hostilely to the headman: what’s the matter, why did you come here? The headman hastened to say that the lady had sent him, that she was asking Tryfon to come and look at the apiary, that their beekeeper was old, a deaf fool, and that he, Tryfon, might be the first beekeeper in the entire province in his mind and concept - and immediately pulled out of one a bottle of vodka in his pants pocket, and from another there was lard in rough gray paper, already thoroughly oiled. Tryphon looked sideways coldly and mockingly, but rose from his seat and took a teacup from the shelf. The headman brought it first to Mitya, then to Tryfon, then to Fedosya - she happily pulled the cup to the bottom - and finally poured it for himself. Having drunk, he immediately began to pass around the second one, chewing rush and flaring his nostrils.
Tryphon quickly became tipsy, but did not lose his dryness and hostile mockery. The headman became seriously stupefied after the second cup. The conversation took on a friendly character in appearance, but both of them had distrustful and angry eyes. Fedosya sat silently, looking politely, but displeased. Alenka did not show up. Having lost all hope that she would come, clearly seeing that it was a completely stupid dream to now count on the fact that the headman would be able to whisper a “word” to her even if she came, Mitya stood up and sternly said that it was time to go.
- Now, now, there will be time! – the headman responded gloomily and insolently. “I still need to tell you a word in confidence.”
“Well, dear,” Mitya said restrainedly, but even more sternly. - Let's go.
But the headman slammed his palm on the table and repeated with drunken mystery:
“And I’m telling you that you can’t say that on the road!” Come see me for a minute...
And, rising heavily from his seat, he opened the door to the entryway. Mitya followed him out.
- Well, what's the matter?
- Shut up! – the headman whispered mysteriously, closing the door behind Mitya and staggering.
- Why remain silent about?
- Shut up!
- I don't understand you.
- Shut up! Ours will be! True word!
Mitya pushed him away, came out of the entryway and stopped on the threshold, not knowing what to do: wait a little longer or leave alone, or just leave on foot?
Ten steps away from him stood a dense green forest, already in the evening shadow and therefore even more fresh, clean and beautiful. The clear, fine sun set behind its peaks, and its red gold fell radiantly through them. And suddenly a woman’s melodious voice rang out loudly and rolled through the depths of the forest, somewhere, as it seemed, far on the other side, behind the ravines, and so invitingly, so charmingly, as it sounds only in the forest, in the summer evening dawn.
Mitya jumped off the threshold and ran through the flowers and grass into the forest. The forest descended into a rocky ravine. Alenka stood in the ravine and ate lambs. Mitya ran over the cliff and stopped. She looked at him from below with surprised eyes.
-What are you doing here? – Mitya asked quietly.
“I’m looking for our Maruska and her cow.” And what? – she answered also quietly.
- Well, you'll come, or what?
- Why should I go for nothing? - she said.
- Who told you it was for nothing? – Mitya asked almost in a whisper. - Don't worry about it.
- And when? – asked Alenka.
- Yes, tomorrow... When can you?
Alenka thought.
“Tomorrow I’ll go to my mother’s to shear a sheep,” she said, after a pause, carefully looking around the forest on the hill behind Mitya. “In the evening, when it gets dark, I’ll come.” Where? You can’t go to the threshing floor, someone will come in... Do you want to go to the salash in the hollow in your garden? Just watch, don’t deceive me, - I don’t agree for nothing... This is not Moscow for you, - she said, looking at him from below with laughing eyes, - there, they say, the women pay their own way...
XXV
They came back ugly.
Tryfon did not remain in debt, he put a bottle on his side, and the headman got so drunk that he did not immediately get into the droshky, but first fell on it, and the frightened stallion rushed and almost galloped off alone. But Mitya was silent, looked at the headman emotionlessly, waited patiently for him to sit down. The headman again drove with absurd fury. Mitya was silent, held tightly, looked at the evening sky, at the fields that were quickly trembling and jumping in front of him. Over the fields, towards sunset, the larks were finishing their meek songs, in the east, already turning blue by night, those distant, peaceful lightning flashes that promise nothing but good weather. Mitya understood all this evening charm, but now it was completely alien to him. There was only one thing in my thoughts and soul: tomorrow evening!
At home, news awaited him that a letter had been received confirming that Anya and Kostya would be there tomorrow on the evening train. He was horrified - they would arrive, they would run into the garden in the evening, they could run to a hut, into a hollow... But he immediately remembered that they would be brought from the station no earlier than ten o’clock, then they would be fed and given tea...
-Are you going to meet? – Olga Petrovna asked. He felt himself turning pale.
- No, I don’t think so... I don’t feel like it... And there’s nowhere to sit...
- Well, let’s say you could ride a horse...
- No, I don’t know... Actually, why? At least now I don’t want to...
Olga Petrovna looked at him intently.
-Are you healthy?
“Absolutely,” said Mitya almost rudely. - I just really want to sleep...
And he immediately went home, lay down on the sofa in the dark and fell asleep without undressing.
At night he heard distant, slow music and saw himself hanging over a huge, dimly lit abyss. It became lighter and brighter, became more and more bottomless, more and more golden, more and more bright, more and more populous, and already quite clearly, with indescribable sadness and tenderness, it sounded and sang in it: “Once upon a time there lived a good king in Thule...” He trembled with emotion , turned over on the other side and fell asleep again.
XXVI
The day seemed endless.
Mitya went out like a piece of wood to tea, to dinner, then went back to his room and went to bed again, took from the desk the volume of Pisemsky that had been lying on it for a long time, read without understanding a word, looked at the ceiling for a long time, listened to the smooth, summer, satin noise sunny garden outside the window... One day he got up and went to the library to change his book. But this room, charming with its antiquity, its tranquility, the view from one window of the treasured maple tree, and from the others of the bright western sky, so keenly reminded him of those spring (now infinitely distant) days when he sat in it, reading poetry in old magazines , and seemed so Katina that he turned and quickly walked back. “To hell! – he thought with irritation. “To hell with all this poetic tragedy of love!”
He remembered with indignation his intention to shoot himself if there was no letter from Katya, and again lay down and again took up Pisemsky. But as before, he did not understand anything while reading, and sometimes, looking at the book and thinking about Alenka, he began to tremble all over from the ever-growing trembling in his stomach. And the closer the evening approached, the more often I began to tremble. Voices and footsteps around the house, voices in the yard - they were already harnessing the carriage to the station - everything was heard as during illness, when you lie alone, and around you ordinary, everyday life flows, indifferent to you and therefore alien, even hostile. Finally, somewhere Parasha shouted: “Mistress, the horses are ready!” - the dry muttering of bells was heard, then the clatter of hooves, the rustle of a carriage rolling up to the porch... “Oh, when will all this end!” - Mitya muttered beside himself with impatience, without moving, but eagerly listening to the voice of Olga Petrovna, who was giving the last orders in the footman's room. Suddenly the bells began to mutter and, muttering more and more together to the sounds of the carriage rolling downhill, they began to stall...
Quickly getting up from his seat, Mitya went out into the hall. The hall was empty and bright from the clear yellowish sunset. The whole house was empty and somehow strangely, terribly empty! With a strange, as if farewell feeling, Mitya looked into the passage of dissolved silent rooms - into the living room, into the sofa room, into the library, through the window of which the southern sky was blue in the evening, the picturesque top of the maple tree was green and Antares stood above it like a pink dot... Then he looked into the footman's room , is there Parasha there? Making sure that it was empty there too, he grabbed a cap from the hanger, ran back to his room, and jumped out the window, throwing his long legs far out onto the flower bed. In the flower garden he froze for a moment, then, bending over, ran into the garden and immediately turned into a remote side alley, densely overgrown with acacia and lilac bushes.
XXVII
There was no dew, so the smells of the evening garden could not be particularly audible. But Mitya, despite all the unconsciousness of all his actions that evening, still seemed to him that never in his life - with the possible exception of early childhood - had he encountered such strength and such a variety of smells as now. Everything smelled - acacia bushes, lilac leaves, currant leaves, burdock, Chernobyl, flowers, grass, earth...
Quickly taking a few steps with a terrible thought: “What if she deceives and doesn’t come?” - now it seemed that all life depended on whether Alenka would come or not, - catching among the smells of vegetation also the smell of evening smoke from somewhere in the village, Mitya stopped again, turned around for a moment: the evening beetle was slowly floating and humming somewhere - then near him, as if sowing silence, calm and twilight, but it was still light from the dawn, which had covered half the sky with its even, long-lasting light of the first summer dawns, and above the roof of the house, in some places visible from behind the trees, it shone high in the transparent in the heavenly emptiness the steep and sharp sickle of the newly born month. Mitya glanced at him, quickly and finely crossed himself under his stomach and stepped into the acacia bushes. The alley led into a ravine, but not to the hut - you had to go diagonally to it, take a left. And Mitya, stepping through the bushes, ran completely, among the wide and low outstretched branches, now bending down, now moving them away from him. A minute later he was already at the appointed place.
With fear, he poked his head into the hut, into its darkness, smelling of dry, rotten straw, looked around it vigilantly and was almost joyfully convinced that there was no one there yet. But the fateful moment was approaching, and he stood near the hut, turning entirely into sensitivity, into intense attention. All day, almost not for a minute, his extraordinary bodily excitement did not leave him. Now it has reached its highest power. But it’s strange - both during the day and now, it was somehow independent, did not penetrate him all, controlled only the body, without capturing the soul. My heart, however, was beating terribly. And it was so amazingly quiet all around that he heard only one thing - the beating. Silently, tirelessly, soft, colorless moths hovered and twirled in the branches, in the gray foliage of the apple trees, which were painted in various patterns in the evening sky, and from these moths the silence seemed even quieter, as if the moths were bewitching and bewitching it. Suddenly, somewhere behind him, something crunched - and the sound struck him like thunder. He turned around impulsively, looked between the trees towards the shaft - and saw something black rolling towards him under the branches of the apple trees. But before he had time to figure out what it was, this dark thing, running towards him, made some kind of wide movement - and it turned out to be Alenka.
She pulled back and threw off the hem of her short skirt made of black homespun wool, and he saw her frightened face, beaming with a smile. She was barefoot, wearing only a skirt and a simple, harsh shirt tucked into the skirt. Her girlish breasts stood under her shirt. The wide-cut collar revealed her neck and part of her shoulders, and the sleeves rolled up above the elbow revealed her rounded arms. And everything about her, from her small head, covered with a yellow scarf, to her small bare feet, feminine and at the same time childish, was so good, so clever, so captivating that Mitya, who had previously only seen her dressed up, saw her for the first time in all the charm of this simplicity, I gasped internally.
“Well, rather,” she whispered cheerfully and thievishly, and, looking around, dived into the hut, into its fragrant darkness.
There she paused, and Mitya, clenching his teeth to stop their chatter, hurried to put his hand in his pocket - his legs were tense, hard as iron - and thrust a crumpled five-ruble note into her palm. She quickly hid it in her bosom and sat down on the ground. Mitya sat down next to her and hugged her neck, not knowing what to do - whether to kiss her or not. The smell of her scarf, her hair, the onion smell of her whole body, mixed with the smell of the hut, smoke - everything was dizzyingly good, and Mitya understood and felt it. And yet everything was the same as before: the terrible power of bodily desire, which did not turn into spiritual desire, into bliss, into delight, into the languor of the whole being. She leaned back and lay on her back. He lay down next to her, leaned against her, and extended his hand. Laughing quietly and nervously, she caught it and pulled it down.
“No way,” she said, either jokingly or seriously.
She took his hand away and tenaciously held it with her small hand, her eyes looked at the triangular frame of the hut on the branches of apple trees, at the already darkened blue sky behind these branches and the motionless red dot of Antares, still standing alone in it. What did those eyes express? What should have been done? Kiss on the neck, on the lips? Suddenly she hurriedly said, taking hold of her short black skirt:
- Well, hurry up, or what...
When they got up, Mitya stood up, completely overwhelmed with disappointment, she, covering her scarf, straightening her hair, asked in an animated whisper, already like a close person, like a lover:
– They say you went to Subbotino. There the pope sells piglets cheaply. Really oh no? Haven't you heard?
XXVIII
This same week, on Saturday, the rain, which began on Wednesday, poured from morning until evening, poured like buckets.
Every now and then he became particularly stormy and gloomy on this day.
And all day Mitya tirelessly walked around the garden and cried so terribly all day that sometimes even he himself was amazed at the strength and abundance of his tears.
Parasha looked for him, shouted in the yard, in the linden alley, calling him to dinner, then to drink tea - he did not respond.
It was cold, piercingly damp, dark with clouds; against their blackness the dense greenery of the wet garden stood out especially thick, fresh and bright. The wind that blew in from time to time brought down another downpour from the trees - a whole stream of spray. But Mitya didn’t see anything, didn’t pay attention to anything. His white cap sagged and turned dark gray, his student jacket turned black, and his boots were covered in mud up to his knees. All drenched, completely wet, without a single spot of blood on his face, with tear-stained, crazy eyes, he was scary.
He smoked cigarette after cigarette, walked widely through the mud of the alleys, and sometimes just anywhere, entirely, through the tall wet grass among the apple and pear trees, bumping into their crooked, gnarled branches, mottled with gray-green soggy lichen. He sat on swollen, blackened benches, went into a ravine, lay on damp straw in a hut, in the very place where he lay with Alenka. From the cold, from the icy dampness of the air, his large hands turned blue, his lips turned purple, his deathly pale face with sunken cheeks took on a violet hue. He lay on his back, legs crossed and hands under his head, staring wildly at the black thatched roof, from which large rusty drops were falling. Then his cheekbones clenched, his eyebrows began to jump. He impulsively jumped up, pulled out from his pants pocket a letter he had already read a hundred times, stained and crumpled, received late yesterday evening - brought by a land surveyor who had come to the estate for several days on business - and again, for the hundred and first time, greedily devoured it:
“Dear Mitya, don’t remember it badly, forget, forget everything that happened! I am bad, I am disgusting, spoiled, I am unworthy of you, but I love art madly! I have made up my mind, the die has been cast, I am leaving - you know with whom... You are sensitive, you are smart, you will understand me, I beg you, do not torture yourself and me! Don’t write anything to me, it’s useless!”
Having reached this place, Mitya crumpled the letter and, burying his face in the wet straw, furiously clenching his teeth, choked with sobs. This unexpected you, which so terribly reminded and even seemed to restore their closeness again and filled the heart with unbearable tenderness - it was beyond human strength! And next to this you are a firm statement that even writing to her is now useless! Oh, yes, yes, he knew it: it’s useless! It's over and over forever!
Before evening, the rain, which fell on the garden with tenfold force and with unexpected thunderclaps, finally drove him into the house. Wet from head to toe, unable to touch the teeth from an icy shiver all over his body, he looked out from under the trees and, making sure that no one could see him, ran under his window, lifted the frame from the outside - the frame was an old one, with a lifting half - and, jumping into the room, locked the door and threw himself on the bed.
And it began to get dark quickly. The rain was noisy everywhere - on the roof, around the house, and in the garden. Its noise was double, different - one in the garden, another near the house, under the continuous murmur and splash of gutters pouring water into puddles. And this created for Mitya, who instantly fell into a lethargic stupor, an inexplicable anxiety and, together with the heat with which his nostrils, his breathing, his head glowed, plunged him as if into anesthesia, created what seemed like another world, some other evening time in what seemed like a strange, different house, in which there was a terrible premonition of something.
He knew, he felt that he was in his room, already almost dark from the rain and the approaching evening, that there, in the hall, at the tea table, the voices of his mother, Anya, Kostya and the land surveyor could be heard, but at the same time he was already walking along some... then to someone else's house after his young nanny was leaving him, and he was seized by an inexplicable, ever-growing horror, mixed, however, with lust, with a premonition of the closeness of someone with someone, a closeness in which there was something unnaturally disgusting, but in which he himself somehow participated. All this was felt through the medium of a child with a large white face, who, bent over backwards, was carried in her arms and rocked by a young nanny. Mitya was in a hurry to overtake her, overtook her and was about to look into her face to see if it was Alenka, but he suddenly found himself in a gloomy gymnasium classroom with chalk-smeared windows. The one who stood in it in front of the chest of drawers, in front of the mirror, could not see him - he suddenly became invisible. She was wearing a yellow silk petticoat that tightly fit her rounded hips, high-heeled shoes, and thin fishnet black stockings through which her body was visible, and she, sweetly timid and ashamed, knew what was about to happen. She had already managed to hide the child in a dresser drawer. Throwing her braid over her shoulder, she quickly braided it and, looking sideways at the door, looked in the mirror, which reflected her powdered face, bare shoulders and milky blue, small breasts with pink nipples. The door swung open - and, looking around cheerfully and terribly, a gentleman in a tuxedo, with a bloodless shaved face, black and short curly hair, entered. He took out a flat gold cigarette case and began to light it cheekily. She, finishing her braid, timidly looked at him, knowing his purpose, then threw the braid on her shoulder, raised her bare hands... He condescendingly hugged her waist - and she grabbed his neck, showing her dark armpits, clung to him, hid her face in his breasts...
