Alexander Green - a pseudonym, real name - Alexander Stepanovich Grinevsky; Old Crimea, USSR; 08/11/1880 - 07/08/1932

Alexander Green's books, according to numerous critics, stand apart in the genre of Russian and world classical prose... These works are so different from everything written by other authors that it is very difficult even to find a semblance of writing style. Perhaps this is what brought Alexander Stepanovich Green wide popularity. After all, his works are still quite popular, they are filmed, theatrical performances and musicals are staged on them, and a large number of people all over the world also want to read Alexander Green's books. The best confirmation of the latter fact is the presence of Alexander Green's book “ Scarlet Sails»In our rating.

Alexander Green biography

The writer Alexander Grin was born in the town of Slobodskoy, where his father was allowed to move from exile for participating in the uprising. In the family, his upbringing was periodically engaged, so the parents either severely punished or pampered the child. At the same time, Alexander Green learned to read at the age of 6 and his first book, according to the writer himself, was Gulliver's Travels. Perhaps this is what played a decisive role in the future choice of a profession.

At the age of 9, Alexander entered a local school, but a year later he was expelled from there for unbearable behavior. His father enrolled him in another school, which the future writer still graduated from. At the same time, at the age of 15, his mother died, and his father remarried. Alexander Green's life with his stepmother did not work out, so he lives separately from his father and at the age of 16 decides to go to Odessa to get a job as a sailor.

In Odessa, with the help of a friend of his father, he got a job on a steamer that sailed between Batumi and Odessa, but because of his unbearable character he did not stay there for long. A year later, the life of Alexander Green returns him to Vyatka, which he hates. After that, there were five more years of ordeals and attempts to work in various cities and in various professions, but each time he found himself again with his father in Vyatka. Perhaps, it was at the insistence of the latter, at the age of 22, that Alexander enters the army.

But in the army, Alexander Grinevsky also did not work out, but it allowed him to be imbued with revolutionary ideas. Therefore, having deserted, he began to spread these ideas among the sailors of the Black Sea Fleet. He did it well, for which he received a recommendation from one of the leaders of the movement to become a writer.

After another escape from exile at the age of 26, Alexander decides to use this advice. So in 1906 Alexander Green's first stories appeared in print. At first, these are isolated works, but later Green writes up to 25 stories a year. At the same time, the writer Alexander Green is gradually moving closer to the literary community, in which he especially emphasizes. And even the link in 1910 for previous sins and escapes does not prevent the writer from developing his literary activity.

With the outbreak of the First World War, the era of the banning of Alexander Green's books begins. At first, these prohibitions come from the tsarist government, which is why he was forced to leave for Finland. After the revolution, returning to his homeland, he falls out of favor with new government... And only patronage does not allow him to starve to death and not be shot. Only the onset of the NEP allowed the author to be published again. Thanks to this, he moved to the Crimea along with Zheno. But after a small thaw, Alexander Green's books were again banned, because of which he was forced to move to Old Crimea, where he died in 1932 from stomach cancer.

Books by Alexander Green on the site Top books

Alexander Green's story "Scarlet Sails" is so popular to read that it allowed the work to take a high place among our site. At the same time, interest in the work has not diminished over the years and is very stable. At the same time, Alexander Green's stories such as "The Green Lamp", "The Motor Ship" and the novel "Running on the Waves" also enjoy considerable success. You can get acquainted with all Alexander Green's stories in more detail below.

Alexander Green list of books

Adventure
Sleepwalking aviator
Autobiographical tale
Watercolor
Shark
Diamonds
Oranges
Armenian Tintos
Attack
Atu him!
Balcony
Barca on the Green Canal
Velvet curtain
Batalist Shuang
Missing person
Without public
Legless
White fire
White ball
Battle in the air
Shining world
Blonde
Bullfight
Bayonet fight
Great happiness of a little fighter
Fighting machine gun
Fighting death
Barrel of fresh water
Marriage of August Esborne
The vagabond and the warden
Buka the ignorant
Riot on the ship "Alcest"
Bourgeois spirit
Visiting a friend
To italy
In spill
In the snow
Vanya got angry with humanity
Funny butterfly
Merry Dead
Cheerful fellow traveler
Mistletoe branch
Eternal bullet
Alarm clock explosion
Return
Return of "The Seagull"
Returned Hell
Airship
Around the world
Magic disgrace
Magic screen
Thief in the forest
Resurrection of Pierre
Insurrection
Back and forth
Enemies
Headless horseman
Hairdresser's invention
Epitrim's invention
High technology
Harem Haki-bey
Gatt, Witt and Redott
Ingenious player
The main culprit
Gladiators
Wilderness trail
Father's anger
Voice and eye
Voice and sounds
Siren voice
Hunchback
Hotel of Evening Lights
the guest
Granka and his son
Long way
Big lake cottage
Two brothers
Two promises
Double of Plerez
The Deal with the White Bird, or the White Bird and the Ruined Church
Wild mill
wild Rose
Road to nowhere
Friend of human
Duel
Devil of Orange Waters
Eroshka
Iron bird
Yellow city
Biographies of great people
Gnor's life
Behind bars
Forgotten
The Mystery of Foreseen Death
Boarded up house
Merit of Private Panteleev
Capture the banner
The Beast of Rochefort
Green lamp
Earth and water
Winter's tale
Gold and miners
Golden pond
Zurbagansky shooter
And spring will come for me
A toy
Toys
Moron
From the memorable book of the detective
Treason
Khons estate
Interesting photo
Seeker of adventures
The story of one murder
The Story of a Hawk Silence
Tauren's story
Fighter
Every millionaire himself
Whatever it was
How the strong man Red John fought the king
How I was king
How I was dying on the screen
Rope
Captain
Captain Duke
Quarantine
Carnival
Swaying rock
Dagger and mask
Brick and Music
Club arap
Colony Lanfier
Ears
Port Commandant
Ships in Lisse
Nightmare
Nightmare case
Pied Piper
Ksenia Turpanova
Maze
The footman spat in the food
Leal at home
Swan
The Legend of Ferguson
Legends of war
It became easier
Forest drama
Flying doge
Personal welcome
Horse head
Puddle of Bearded Pig
Moonlight P
Lion strike
Favorite
The bailiff's mistress
Little conspiracy
Small committee
Malinnik Jacobson
Maniac
Marat
Puppet
Checkmate in three moves
Pendulum of spring
Bear and German
Bear hunt
Dead for the living
Monte Cristo
Sea battle
On the american mountains
On the exchange
By a thread
At leisure
On the cloudy shore
On the island
On the side of the hills
On the side of the hills
Over the abyss
Payed assassin
Naive Tussaletto
Punishment
The Peak Mick legacy
Find
Tender romance
Invincible
Impenetrable carapace
Something from the diary
Father and little daughter new year holiday
New circus
Knife and pencil
Overnight
Night walk
At night
Night and day
Nanny Glenau
A monkey
firewater
Fire and Water
One of many
mischievous pillar
Window in the forest
Dangerous jump
Orgy
The original spy
Island
Reno island
Lock opener
Poisoned Island
Lagging platoon
Hermit of Grape Peak
Hunting in the air
Hunt for Marbrun
Bully hunt
Mine hunter
Passenger Pyzhikov
Easter on a steamer
Walking towards the revolution
Tribe Siurg
Dance of Death
By marriage announcement
According to law
Winner
A tale ended by a bullet
Underground
Duel
Duel of the leaders
Penitential manuscript
Rest
Powder magazine
Ryabinin's last minutes
Suicide note
The Falling Leaf's crime
Vocation
Army order
The Adventures of Ginch
Happiness seller
To be continued
The incident in the dog street
The incident with the sentry
Incidents at Ms. Serise's apartment
Storm Channel
The lost sun
Walk-through courtyard
Bird Kam-Boo
Trivia
Traveler Uy-Few-Eoi
July fifteenth
Scout
Talk
Story Tag
A tale of a strange fate
Jealousy and epee
Rare photographic apparatus
Thunder is born
Fatal place
Fatal circle
Romantic murder
Woman's hand
Air Mermaids
Knight Maliar
Suicide
Saryn on kichku
Masha's wedding
Make a grandma
The heart of the desert
Gray car
Serious prisoner
The power of the incomprehensible
The power of a word
Blue spinning top
Telluri Blue Cascade
Atleus' mnemonic system
Daniel Horton's Weakness
Sweet poison of the city
Blind Day Canet
The words
Talkative brownie
Killer word
Elephant and Pug
Happening
Accidental income
Death of Alambert
Death of Romelink
Conscience spoke
Creation of Asper
Competition in Lisse
Social reflex
Calm soul
The old man walks in a circle
One hundred miles along the river
Sufferer
Strange weapon
Strange incident at the masquerade
Strange evening
Scary package
The terrible secret of the car
The fate of the first platoon
Destiny taken by the horns
Mysterious plate
Mysterious forest
House Mystery 41
The mystery of the forest
The mystery of the moonlit night
There or there
Dance
Telegraph operator from Medyansky Bor
Typhoid dotted line
Quiet weekdays
Merchants
The tragedy of the Xuan plateau
Tram sickness
Third floor
Three brothers
Three meetings
Ehma's Three Adventures
Three bullets
Three candles
Invisible corpse
Hold and deck
Heavy air
Murder in Kunst-Fisch
Murder at the fish store
Murder of a romantic
Murderer
Choking gas
Terrible sight
Prisoner of the "Crosses"
Urban Graz hosts
The Sorcerer's Apprentice
Fandango
Dreamers
Fantastic Providence
Host from Lodz
Rain Plain Cyclone
The man from the dacha Durnovo
Man with man
The man who cries
Black flowers
Black car
Black Diamond
Black romance
Cherny Khutor
4th for all
Four guineas
Fourteen feet
Miraculous failure
Someone else's fault
Masterpiece
Six matches
Navigator of the "Four Winds"
Helda and Angothea
Episode during the capture of Fort Cyclops
Esperanto
Soap box

Genre:

The collection of poems "Evening" includes the following works: "I pray to the window beam ..." Two poems 1. "The pillow is already hot ..." 2. "The same voice, the same look ..." ... "2." And as if by mistake ... "" And when each other was cursed ... "The first return Love In Tsarskoe Selo I." Horses are being led along the alley ... "II. "... And there is my marble counterpart ..." III. "A swarthy youth wandered through the alleys ..." "And the boy who plays the bagpipes ..." "Love conquers deceitfully ..." "She clenched her hands under a dark veil ..." Heart to heart is not chained "" The door is half open ... "" Do you want to know how it all was? ... "Song of the last meeting" Like a straw, you drink my soul ... "" I lost my mind, oh strange boy ... "" I have more legs than mine no need ... "" I live like a cuckoo in a clock ... "Funeral" I have fun with you drunk ... "Deception I." This morning is drunk in the spring sun ... "II. "The stifling wind blows hot ..." III. “Blue evening. The winds have meekly died down ... ”IV. "I wrote the words ..." "My husband whipped me with a patterned ..." Song ("I'm at a sunny sunrise ...") "I came here, bum ..." On a white night Under the canopy of a dark barn it's hot "Bury, bury me, wind! ..." "You Believe me, not a sharp snake sting ... "Muze" I came to torture three times ... "Alice I." Everything yearns for the forgotten ... "II. "How late! Tired, yawn ... "Masquerade in the park Evening room Gray-eyed king Fisherman He loved ..." Today they didn't bring me letters ... "The inscription on the unfinished portrait" The smell of blue grapes is sweet ... " there is an owl ... "" He left me in the new moon ... "" The park was filled with light fog ... "" I cried and repented ... "

INTRODUCTION

I NOVELS AND STORIES

SCARLET SAILS

RUNNING ON THE WAVES

GLITTER WORLD

GOLD CHAIN

II STORIES

III CREATIVE METHOD A. GRIN

CONCLUSION

Adventurous in their plots, Green's books are spiritually rich and sublime, they are charged with the dream of everything high and beautiful and teach readers the courage and joy of life. And in this Green is deeply traditional, despite all the originality of his characters and the whimsical subjects. Sometimes it even seems that he deliberately thickly emphasizes this moralistic tradition of his works, their relationship to old books and parables. So, two of his stories, "The Pillar of Shame" and "One Hundred Versts Along the River", the writer, of course, not accidentally, but quite deliberately concludes with the same solemn chord of old stories about eternal love: "They lived a long time and died in one day..."

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

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

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

Green's "Watercolor" recalls the famous essay by Gleb Uspensky "Straightened", in which the statue of Venus de Milo, once seen by the village teacher Tyapushkin, illuminates his dark and poor life, gives him "happiness to feel like a man." This feeling of happiness from contact with art, with a good book, is experienced by many of the heroes of Green's works. Let us recall that for the boy Gray from "Scarlet Sails" a picture depicting a raging sea was "that necessary word in the conversation of the soul with life, without which it is difficult to understand oneself." And a small watercolor - a deserted road among the hills - called "The Road to Nowhere" amazes Tyrreus Davenant. The young man, full of bright hopes, resists the impression, although the ominous watercolor "attracts like a well" ... that minute Tyrreus dreamed.

And, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say this: Green believed that every real person had a romantic light in his chest. And the point is only to inflate it. When a Green's fisherman catches fish, he dreams of catching a big fish, such a big one that no one else has caught. A coal miner piling on a basket suddenly sees that his basket has bloomed, from the boughs he has burnt "buds crawled and sprinkled with leaves" ... A girl from a fishing village, having listened to fairy tales, dreams of an extraordinary sailor who will sail after her on a ship with scarlet sails. And her dream is so strong, so passionate that everything comes true. And an extraordinary sailor and scarlet sails.

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

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

The moral freak Blum, the main character of the story, dreaming of the times "when a mother does not dare to stroke her children, and who wants to smile will first write a will," was not a special literary novelty. Man-haters, homegrown Nietzscheans at that time, "the night after the battle" of 1905, became fashionable figures. "Revolutionary by chance", Blum are related in their inner essence and terrorist Alexei from "Darkness" by Leonid Andreev, who wished "all the lights to go out", and the notorious cynic Sanin from the novel of the same name by M. Artsybashev, and obscurantist and sadist Trirodov, whom Fyodor Sologub in his "Navi charms" passed off as a social democrat.

Green's plots were determined by time. For all the exoticism and whimsical patterns of the artistic fabric of the writer's works, many of them clearly feel the spirit of modernity, the air of the day in which they were written. The features of the time are sometimes so noticeable, so emphatically written out by Green that, as a recognized science fiction writer and romantic, they seem even unexpected to him. At the beginning of the story "Hell Returned" (1915) there is, for example, the following episode: a certain party leader, "a man with a triple chin, black, combed on a low forehead hair, dressed baggy and rough, but with a pretense of panache, expressed by a huge crimson tie ... ". After such portrait characteristics you can already guess what kind of party this leader represents. But Green considered it necessary to say more precisely about this game (the story is in the form of notes by Galien Mark).

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

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

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

The story about Evstigneus was included in the first book of the writer "The Invisible Hat" (1908). It contains ten stories, and we have the right to assume about almost each of them that it is copied from nature to one degree or another. From his direct experience, Green learned the joyless life of a working barracks, sat in prisons, not receiving news from outside for months ("At Leisure"), he was familiar with the ups and downs of the "mysterious romantic life" of the underground, as depicted in the stories of "Marat" , "Underground", "To Italy", "Quarantine" ... There is no such work that would be called "The Invisible Hat" in the collection. But this title was chosen, of course, not by chance. Most of the stories depict "illegal immigrants" living, in the author's opinion, as if under an invisible hat. Hence the title of the collection. The fabulous title on the cover of the book, where life is shown not at all in fabulous turns ... This is a very indicative touch for the early Green.

(real name - Grinevsky)
08/23/1880, Slobodskoy Vyatka province. - 07/08/1932, Old Crimea
Russian writer

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

A. Morua

Green did not like to talk about himself. Having already become famous, he answered the questions of curious and the questionnaire of magazines extremely dryly and briefly. He was generally silent, restrained, even stiff and could not stand those who climb into the soul. Only in last years life in "Autobiographical Tale" he told about his difficult and not at all romantic fate.
"Is it because the first book I read as a five-year-old boy was" Gulliver's Journey to the Land of the Lilliputians "... or the aspiration to distant countries was innate, - but only I began to dream of a life of adventure from the age of eight".
If we add to this that the first word that Sasha Grinevsky put together from letters, sitting on his father's lap, was the word "sea", then everything else is self-explanatory. Like all boys in those years, he avidly read the novels of F. Cooper, J. Verne, R. Stevenson, G. Emard; he loved to wander with a gun through the forests that surrounded the city, imagining himself a wild hunter. And of course he tried to flee to America.
He had nothing to lose: for impudent poetry and many pranks, the student Grinevsky was expelled from the real school. At home it was also sad: poverty, eternal reproaches and beatings from his father.
At the age of sixteen, having graduated from the city school with a sin in half, Alexander finally decided to become a sailor. He put on waders above the knees, a wide-brimmed straw hat and set off from Vyatka to Odessa. His long-term wanderings and ordeals began, about which we can briefly say this: the Russian land is not kind to dreamers and inventors.
“I was a sailor, a loader, an actor, I rewrote roles for the theater, I worked in gold mines, at a blast-furnace plant, in peat bogs, in fishery; he was a lumberjack, a barefoot, a scribe in the office, a hunter, a revolutionary, an exile, a sailor on a barge, a soldier, a digger ... "
What Green recounts so calmly was actually hell. And he was able to escape from it only when he realized that the stories that he composed for his random companions and for himself could be written down.
For a long time he did not believe that he could become on a par with real writers, those who so admired him in his youth. The first story ("The Merit of Private Panteleev", 1906) and the first book ("The Invisible Hat", 1908) are also an attempt to write "like everyone else." Only in the story "Reno Island" were the coordinates of the land found, which it would be in vain to look for on the map and which belonged only to him. Since then, in spite of any twists of fate and historical upheavals, every year Alexander Green more and more confidently creates his own world, closed to outsiders, but visible "With the inner eyes of the soul".
The three most terrible years - 1918, 1919, 1920 - amid death, hunger and typhus, Green pondered and wrote "Scarlet Sails" - his response to the revolution. A tiny potbelly stove warmed Alexander Stepanovich when his first novel, The Shining World (1923), was born. He believed that people once flew and would again fly like birds. Green was not alone now. He found a girlfriend, faithful and devoted to the end, as in his books.
In 1924, Green and his wife Nina Nikolaevna moved from Petrograd to Feodosia. He always dreamed of living in a city by the warm sea. The most peaceful and happy years of his life passed here, the novels "The Golden Chain" (1925) and "Running on the Waves" (1926) were written here.
But by the end of the 1920s, publishers who had previously eagerly printed Green's books stopped borrowing them altogether. There was no money, and the efforts of friends to get the already sick writer into a sanatorium did not help either. Greene fell ill, in essence, from malnutrition and from melancholy, because for the first time life seemed to him "Dear nowhere"... He did not know that his real glory was yet to come.
The era passed "By its own iron" while Green wrote "About storms, ships, love, recognized and rejected, about fate, the secret paths of the soul and the meaning of chance"... The features of his heroes combined firmness and tenderness, and the names of the heroines sounded like music.
How did he do it? It's very simple. He knew that "Our suburban nature is a serious world no less than the shores of the Orinoco ..." that a person who contains the whole world is wonderful. He simply looked more intently than others, and therefore could see in the Siberian taiga - an equatorial forest, and on Petrograd street with dark houses - pagodas surrounded by palm trees.
"Everything is open to everyone", - he says through the lips of his hero. Another author in another country at about the same time said: "Where our magical fantasy could create a new world, it stops."(G. Mayrink).
Green did not stop. Do not stop and you. And then, sooner or later, in old age or in the prime of years, on the embankment of the old city on a warm summer night or just in the silence of an apartment, you may hear silent words: "Good evening friends! Isn't it boring on a dark road? I am in a hurry, I am running ... "

Margarita Pereslegin

WORKS OF A.S. GRIN

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

COLLECTION OF WORKS: In 6 volumes / Preface. V.Vikhrova; Artist. S. Brodsky. - M .: Pravda, 1980.
The first collected works mainly include best stories and Green's novels and his Autobiographical Tale.
In the second - one of the last novels "Jesse and Morgiana" was added and many stories (not always equal) from magazines of the early XX century and 1920-30s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RUNNING ON THE WAVES: Roman; Stories. - M .: Art. lit., 1988 .-- 287 p .: ill. - (Classics and contemporaries).
"Running on the waves"
The sea knows many legends. Greene added one more to them: about a girl who glided over the waves, like on a ballroom, and about a ship named after her. A special fate awaited the one who stepped on the deck of this ship.

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

ROAD NOWHERE: Novel // Green A.S. Favorites / Fig. A.P. Melik-Sargsyan. - M .: Pravda, 1989 .-- S. 299-492.
Once at an exhibition, Green was struck by an engraving English artist... She depicted a road disappearing behind a deserted hill, and was called "The Road to Nowhere." This is how the idea of the last and most sad novel of the writer arose.

ADVENTURE SEEKER: Stories. - M .: Pravda, 1988 .-- 480 p.
O "Secret ways of the soul" leading now to happiness, now to death; about the right of everyone to be different from others; about the extraordinary strength of a person who, if necessary, is capable of walking on water or conquering death - you will read about all this in the stories of this collection. And in the end, having met a sunny morning in the attic of an abandoned house, you will understand Green's main idea: "Miracles are in us".

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

DISADVANTAGE: The first complete publication of the unfinished novel / [Publ., Foreword. and note. L. Varlamova] // Crimean album: Ist.-ethnographer. and literary-artist. almanac. - Feodosia - M .: Publishing house. house "Koktebel", 1996. - S. 150-179.
Ferrol and his daughter, forced to leave the city, found shelter within the walls of a dilapidated fort on the seashore. The fort became their home, and the girl even grew a small garden.
Extraordinary flowers blossomed in the garden, the rumor of their beauty spread far away. But the flower petals closed and began to fade when an unkind person entered the garden.
Green managed to write about half of his last novel, which was so difficult for him. How the events and destinies of the heroes could develop can be imagined from the surviving sketches and fragments of the book.

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

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

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

FANDANGO: Novels / Intro. Art. E.B.Skorospelova. - M .: Det. lit., 2002 .-- 334 p .: ill. - (Sk. B-ka).

Margarita Pereslegin

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

A.S. Green An autobiographical tale // A.S. Green. Favorites. - M .: Pravda, 1987 .-- S. 3-142.

Amlinsky Vl. In the shadow of the sails: Rereading Alexander Green // A.S. Green. Novels. - M .: Mosk. worker, 1984. - S. 5-22.
Andreev K. Flying over the waves // Andreev K. Adventure seekers. - M .: Det. lit., 1966 .-- S. 238-286.
Antonov S. A. Green. "Returned Hell" // Antonov S. From the First Person: Stories about Writers, Books and Words. - M .: Sov. writer, 1973 .-- S. 90-130.
To help the student and teacher: [Comments; Krat. chronicle of the life and work of A.S. Green; Materials for the biography; Criticism about the work of A.S. Green; A.S. Green in art, etc.] // A.S. Green. Stories; Scarlet Sails; Running on the waves. - M .: AST: Olympus, 2000 .-- S. 369-545.
Vikhrov V. Dream Knight // Green A.S. Sobr. cit .: In 6 volumes - M .: Pravda, 1965 .-- T. 1. - S. 3-36.
Memories of Alexander Green / Comp., Intro., Note. Vl. Sandler. - L .: Lenizdat, 1972 .-- 607 p .: photo.
Galanov B. I take waves and a ship with a scarlet sail ... // Galanov B. Book about books. - M .: Det. lit., 1985 .-- S. 114-122.
Green N. Memories of Alexander Green. - Feodosia - M .: Koktebel, 2005 .-- 399 p.
Dmitrenko S. Dream, Unfulfilled and Reality in Alexander Green's Prose // A.S. Green. Stories; Scarlet Sails; Running on the waves. - M .: AST: Olympus, 2000 .-- S. 5-16.
Kaverin V. Green and his "Pied Piper" // Kaverin V. Happiness of talent. - M .: Sovremennik, 1989 .-- S. 32-39.
Kovsky V. The Shining World of Alexander Green // Green A.S. Sobr. cit .: In 5 volumes - M .: Art. lit., 1991. - T. 1. - S. 5-36.
Kovsky V. "Real inner life": (Psychological romanticism of Alexander Green) // Kovsky V. Realists and romantics. - M .: Art. lit., 1990 .-- S. 239-328.
Paustovsky K. Alexander Green // Paustovsky K. Golden Rose: A Story. - L .: Det. lit., 1987 .-- S. 212-214.
Paustovsky K. Life of Alexander Green // Paustovsky K. Laurel wreath. - M .: Mol. Guard, 1985 .-- S. 386-402.
Paustovsky K. Black Sea // Paustovsky K. Laurel wreath. - M .: Mol. Guard, 1985 .-- S. 18-185.
In this story, A.S. Green is depicted under the name of the writer Garth.
Polonsky V. Alexander Stepanovich Green (1880-1932) // Encyclopedia for Children: T. 9: Rus. Literature: Part 2: XX century. - M .: Avanta +, 1999 .-- S. 219-231.
Rossels Vl. Green's pre-revolutionary prose // A.S. Green. Sobr. cit .: In 6 volumes - M .: Pravda, 1965 .-- T. 1. - S. 445-453.
Sabinina I. Paladin of Dreams // Green A.S. Ships in Lisse. - M .: OLMA-PRESS, 2000 .-- S. 346-350.
Skorospelova E. Country of Alexander Green // Green A.S. Fandango. - M .: Det. lit., 2002 .-- S. 5-20.
Tarasenko N. House of Green: An essay-guide to the museum of A.S. Green in Feodosia and the branch of the museum in the Old Crimea. - Simferopol: Tavria, 1979 .-- 95 p .: ill.
Shcheglov M. Alexander Green's ships // Shcheglov M. Literary critical articles. - M., 1965 .-- S. 223-230.

M.P.

SCREENING OF A.S. GRIN'S WORKS

- MOVIES -

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

Alexander Stepanovich Green

The stories included by A.S. Green to the list of works for the collected works of the Mysl Publishing House

http: //publ.lib.ru True, 1980;

Destiny taken by the horns

In the month of December, the moon was surrounded by a double orange halo for two nights in a row, a phenomenon that accompanies severe frosts. Indeed, the frost had set in such that the blind Ren would continually remove the thick frost from his frozen eyelashes. Ren could see nothing, but the frost interfered with his blinking habit - which, now the only life of the eyes, somewhat dispelled the heavy oppression. Wren and his friend Seymour rode in a sleigh along the river, heading from the railway station to the town of B., which lies at the mouth of the river, where it flows into the sea. Ren's wife, having arrived in B., was expecting her husband, notified by telegram. They agreed to come here six months ago, when Ren was not yet blind and went on a geological excursion without any premonitions. “We've got three kilometers left,” Seymour said, rubbing a frost-bitten cheek. “I shouldn't have involved you on this trip,” Ren said. “This is truly blind selfishness on my part. At the end of the day, I could have ridden great alone. “Yes, the sighted one,” Seymour said. - I have to deliver you and hand you over. Besides ... He wanted to say that he enjoyed this walk in the lush snows, but remembering that such a remark related to vision, he kept silent. The snowy landscape really made a strong impression. White plains, in the blue light of the moon, under a black sky - cold, winter-like, starry, silent sky; the unrelenting black shadow of the horse, leaping under its belly, and the clear curve of the horizon gave something of eternity. Fear of appearing suspicious "like everyone is blind" prevented Ren from asking about the unsaid. The close encounter with his wife worried him greatly, absorbing almost all his thoughts and pushing him to talk about what was inevitable. “It would be better if I died on the spot at this moment,” he said sincerely, ending with a sad conclusion the chain of considerations and reproaches to himself. - Think, Seymour, what will it be like for her ?! A young, very young woman and a mournful, blind husband! I know worries will begin ... And life will turn into a continuous feat of self-denial. The worst thing is habit. I can get used to it, make sure, in the end, that it is necessary for a young creature to live only for the convenience of a cripple. “You are slandering your wife, Ren,” Seymour exclaimed, not quite naturally. “Is she going to think the way you do now ?! - No, but she will not feel very well. I know, ”Ren added, after a pause,“ that sooner or later I will be a burden to her ... only she will hardly admit this to herself ... ”“ You are becoming a dangerous maniac, ”interrupted playfully. Seymour. “If she didn’t know what happened to you, I would have made the first, second week, not entirely pleasant. Ren said nothing. His wife did not know that he was blind; he did not write to her about it.

In mid-July, while exploring a deserted mountain river, Wren was overtaken by a thunderstorm. He and his companions were hurrying to the tent, it was pouring rain; the surroundings, in the dark cloak of a thunderous shadow, seemed like a world for which the sun had gone out forever; heavy fire of thunder exploded the clouds with fiery bushes of lightning; their instant, sparkling ramifications fell into the forest. There were almost no pauses between heavenly flashes and thunderous rumblings. Lightning flashed so often that the trees, continually snatched out of the gloom by their sharp brilliance, seemed to jump and disappear. Ren did not remember and could not remember that lightning strike into the tree, after which the tree and he fell at a short distance from each other. He woke up in deep darkness, blind, with a burnt shoulder and shin. The consciousness of blindness was established only on the third day. Ren fought stubbornly against him, frightened by the hopelessness to which this final conviction of blindness led. The doctors diligently and uselessly fiddled with him: they could not cure the nervous blindness that had struck Ren; nevertheless, they left him with some hope that he could recover, that the visual apparatus was intact and only stopped in action, as a mechanism that possesses all the necessary parts for work. It was beyond Ren's strength to write to his wife about what had happened, desperate for doctors, he stubbornly, concentratedly, passionately waited - like a condemned to death awaiting pardon - waiting for the light. But the light didn't come on. Ren expected a miracle; in his position, a miracle was as natural a necessity as belief in our own strengths or abilities was for us. The only thing that changed in his letters to his wife is that they were written on a typewriter. However, by the day of the meeting, he prepared a solution characteristic of the vitality of human hopes: to kill himself at the very last moment, when there is no longer any doubt that the blow of fate will not spare Anna, when she stands in front of him, and he does not see her. This was the limit.

When Ren arrived, he entered the room where soon the voice of Anna, who had not yet returned from the store, was to be heard, and there was a silence of lonely reflection, the blind man lost heart. An unprecedented excitement took possession of him. Longing, fear, grief killed him. He had not seen Anna for seven months; or rather, the last time he saw her was seven months ago and could not see her again. From now on, even if he had stayed alive, he had only the memory of Anna's facial features, her smile and the expression in her eyes, a memory that was probably becoming more and more vague, changeable, while the same voice, the same words, the same the clarity of the touch of a close creature will reiterate that the appearance of this creature is the same as he forgot it or almost forgot it. He so clearly imagined all this threatening him if he did not crush his skull and get rid of his blindness that he did not even want to subject himself to the last questioning about the firmness of his decision. Death smiled at him. But the painful desire to see Anna caused heavy tears to his eyes, the avaricious tears of a broken man, almost finished off. He asked himself what was stopping him, without waiting for the first kiss, which was still cheerful for her - now to put the revolver into action? Neither he nor anyone else could answer this. Perhaps the last horror of the shot in front of Anna's eyes attracted him with the inexplicable, but undoubted power of the gaze of the snake. The bell in the hallway shook Ren's entire being. He stood up, his legs giving way. With all the exertion of will, all the anguish of the impenetrable darkness that surrounded him, he intensified to distinguish at least something amid the ominous darkness. Alas! Only sparks of fire, a consequence of the strong rush of blood to the brain, furrowed this fierce darkness of despair. Anna entered; he heard her footsteps very close, which now sounded differently than when he saw her move: the sound of her footsteps seemed to be heard in one place and very loudly. - My dear, - said Anna, - my dear, my dear! Nothing happened. He still didn't see her. Ren reached into his pocket. -- Anna! - he said hoarsely, removing the safety catch with his finger. - I'm blind, I don't want to live anymore. Seymour will tell you everything ... Sorry! His hands were shaking. He shot in the temple, but not quite accurately; the bullet shattered the browbone and hit the window cornice. Ren lost his balance and fell. Falling, he saw his hand with a revolver, as if floating in a thick fog. Anna, fussing and screaming in disorder, bent over her husband. He saw her, but also dimly, and then the room, but as if in chinese drawing, without perspective. It was exactly what he saw that knocked him out of consciousness, not the pain and the not supposed imminent death. But in all this, due to the stunning surprise, there was now neither fear nor joy for him. He only managed to say: "It seems that everything worked out ..." - and fell into insensibility. “It was a useful nervous shock,” said Dr. Ren a week later, who walked with a huge scar over his eye. - Perhaps, only it could return to you that which is dear to everyone - the light.

Forgotten

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

The first week was spent in intense and hectic work, in visits to areas affected by the war, and choosing among the abundance of material - the most interesting. Where on horseback, where on foot, where on boats or in a soldier's train, often without sleep and from hand to mouth, sleeping in peasant huts, quarries or in the forest, tenants filled six hundred meters of tape. Everything was here: villages burned by the Prussians; residents-fugitives, groves that suffered from artillery fire, corpses of soldiers and horses, scenes of marching life, pictures of areas where the most fierce battles took place, captured Germans, detachments of Zouaves and Turkos; in a word - the whole bulk of the struggle, including the transfer of the wounded and the photographs of the operating rooms at full speed. Only the center of the picture, the battle, was not there. Unperturbed, like a habitual surgeon at the operating table, Tabaren turned the handle of the apparatus, and his eyes flashed with a lively brilliance when the bright sun helped the work or the chance gave a picturesque arrangement of living groups. Lanosk, more nervous and mobile, suffered greatly at first; often at the sight of the destruction inflicted by the Germans, curses poured from his throat in the same expressive tone as the cry of a woman or the cry of a wounded man. A few days later his nerves became dull, calmed down, he got involved, got used to it and made peace with his role - to silently reflect what he saw. The day came when the tenants had to do the most difficult and enticing part of the job; to film an authentic fight. The division, near which they stopped in a small village, was to attack the hills occupied by the enemy in the morning. At night, hiring a cart, Tabaren and Lanosk went to the chain, where, with the colonel's permission, they joined a rifle company. The night was cloudy and cold. No lights were lit. The soldiers were partly asleep, partly still in groups, talking about the affairs of the field life, skirmishes and wounds. Some asked Tabaren if he was afraid. Tabaren, smiling, answered everyone: - I am only afraid of one thing: that the bullet will pierce the tape. Lanosk said: - It is difficult to get into the apparatus: it is small. They ate some bread and apples and went to bed. Tabaren soon fell asleep; Lanosk lay and thought about death. Clouds rushed over his head, driven by a sharp wind; the forest hummed in the distance. Lanosk was not afraid of death, but he was afraid of its suddenness. In thousands of ways he pictured this fatal event for himself, until the air turned white from the east and the blue eye of the sky slipped here and there among the gray, cloudy armada that fell thickly over the hilly horizon. Then he woke Tabaren and examined the apparatus. Tabaren, waking up, first of all examined the sky. - Sun, sun! he cried impatiently. - Without the sun, everything will be blurry: there is no time to choose a position and find a focus here! - I would eat these clouds if I could! - picked up Lanosk. They stood in the trench. Rows of riflemen stretched to the left and right of them. Their faces were serious and businesslike. A few minutes later, the howl of the first shrapnel announced the height, and an invisible hail poured into the trench after a formidable crash. Two arrows staggered, two fell. The battle has begun. The rumble of rifle fire thundered; from behind, supporting the infantry, artillery shots shook the ground. Tabaren, setting up the apparatus, turned the handle carefully. He aimed the object first at the wounded, then at the shooters, caught the expression of their faces, postures, movements with celluloid. The usual composure did not change him, only his consciousness began to work faster, time seemed to stop, and his vision doubled. From time to time he stamped his foot, crying out: - The sun! Suns! They did not pay attention to him. The soldiers, running across, pushed him, and then he firmly clung to the apparatus, fearing for its integrity. Lanosk sat huddled against the wall of the trench. A command was transmitted through the trenches, drowned out by the shots. The detachment went on the attack. The soldiers, climbing over the parapet, rushed to the hills, silently, gritting their teeth, with rifles at the ready. Tabaren, holding the apparatus under his arm, rushed to run after the soldiers, overpowering his shortness of breath. Lanosk did not lag behind: he was pale, excited and as he ran, he kept shouting: - Hurray, Tabaren! Ribbon and France will see the damn blow of our bayonet! Did I make it up cleverly, Tabaren? Dangerous ... but damn it - life in general is dangerous! Look, what fellows are running ahead! How that teeth shine! He's laughing! Hooray! We will film the victory, Tabaren! Hooray! They fell slightly behind, and Tabaren began to run with all his might. Bullets cut off the grass at his feet, whistled over his head, and with a terrible willpower he silenced the consciousness, repeating about sudden death. The farther, the more often he met the soldiers lying prone, just ahead of him in the run. The Germans appeared on the ridge of the hill, hurrying out to meet them, firing on the move and shouting something. A minute before the collision, Tabaren snatched the tripod from Lanosk and quickly, panting from running, set up the apparatus. His hands were shaking. At this moment, the hated, stubborn, sweet sun threw a yellow, living light into the cut of the clouds, giving birth to running shadows of people, the clarity and purity of the distance. The French fought from Tabaren fifteen or ten paces. The flickering gleam of bayonets, the circles described by the butts, the backs of those falling backward, the turns and jumps of the attackers, the movement of helmets and caps, the angry pallor of their faces - everything captured by the light rushed into the dark chamber of the apparatus. Tabaren shuddered with joy at the sight of dexterous blows. Shotgun barrels, parrying and striking, slammed against each other. Suddenly Tabaren was shocked by a strange mixture of feelings. Then he fell, and his memory and consciousness left him lying on the ground.

When Tabaren woke up, he realized from the situation and the silence that he was in the infirmary. He felt intense thirst and weakness. Trying to turn his head, he almost fainted again from the terrible pain in his temples. The bandaged, not fatally shot head demanded rest. The first question he asked the doctor was: - Is my apparatus intact? He was reassured. The device was picked up by an orderly; his comrade, Lanosk, was killed. Tabaren was still too weak to react to this news. The excitement experienced over the fate of the apparatus tired him. He soon fell asleep. Tabaren spent a number of long, boring, weary days on his bed, trying in vain to remember how and under what circumstances he got the wound. The stricken memory refused to fill the dark gap with living content. It seemed vaguely to Tabaren that there, during the attack, something amazing and important had happened to him. Biting his lip and wrinkling his forehead, he thought for a long time about that unknown that had left in his memory a barely noticeable trace of sensations so complex and vague that the attempt to revive them invariably caused only weariness and annoyance. At the end of August, he returned to Paris and immediately took up the development of negatives. One or another firm rushed him, and he himself was eager to see finally on the screen the fruits of his labors and wanderings. When everything was ready, agents, representatives of firms, owners of theaters and cinematographs gathered in the spacious hall to watch Tabaren's action film. Tabaren was worried. He himself wanted to judge his work in its entirety, and therefore avoided looking at the already finished tape before this evening. In addition, he was restrained from premature curiosity by a secret, on nothing, of course, unjustified hope of finding on the screen, in a coherent repetition of moments, a fragment of memories that disappeared without a trace. Need recall became his disease, mania. He waited and for some reason was afraid. His feelings were reminiscent of the thrill of a young man going on a first date. Sitting on a chair, he was as agitated as a child. In deep silence, the audience watched the scenes of the war, obtained at the cost of Lanosk's death. The picture ended. Breathing heavily, Tabaren watched the episodes of the bayonet fight, vaguely beginning to recall something. Suddenly he shouted: - It's me! I am! Indeed, it was him. The French rifleman, exhausted under the blows of the Prussians, was already staggering, barely keeping his feet; surrounded, he threw a hopeless look around him, looked to the side, behind the frame of the screen and, falling, wounded again, shouted something inaudible to the audience, but now painfully familiar to Tabaren. This cry resounded in his ears again. The soldier shouted: - Help the compatriot, photographer! And immediately Tabaren saw himself on the screen, running up to the fighters. In his hand was a revolver, he fired once, and twice, and three, knocked down the German, then grabbed the Frenchman's gun that had fallen out and began to fight back. And the feelings of pity and anger that had thrown him to the aid of the Frenchman revived in him again. The second time he betrayed himself, betrayed his calm vision and professional impassivity. His excitement burst into tears. The screen went blank. -- My God! - said, without answering the questions of his acquaintances, Tabaren. - The tape ended ... at that moment Lanosk was killed ... He continued to turn the handle! A little more and the soldier would have been killed. I broke down and spat on the tape!

Batalist Shuang

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

Three marauders, two men and a woman, wandered at the same time among the ruins. The dastardly craft kept them all the time under the threat of being shot, so every minute looking around and listening, the gang caught the faint sounds of voices - the conversation between Shuan and Matia. One marauder - "Lens" - was a woman's lover; the second - "Keychain" - by her brother; the woman bore the nickname "Fish", given because of her evasiveness and pity. - Hey, my children! - Lens whispered. - Cry! Listen. - Someone is coming, - said Keychain. -- Need to find out. - Go! - said the Fish. - Go and see who is there, but only sooner. The keychain ran around the block and peered around the corner at the road. The sight of the riders calmed him. Shuang and the servant, dressed for the road, did not arouse any fear. The keychain went to the travelers. He still did not have any calculation and plan, but, having correctly judged that at such a time, well-dressed, well-fed horses would be unthinkable for people to wander without money, he wanted to know if there was any gain. -- A! Here! - Said, noticing him, Shuang. - One live person is walking. Come here, poor thing. Who are you? - A former shoemaker, - said Keychain, - I had a workshop, and now I go barefoot. - Is there anyone else alive in the city? -- No. Everybody is gone ... everybody; maybe someone ... - Keychain paused, pondering the suddenly flashing thought. To carry it out, he still needed to find out who the travelers were. “If you are looking for your relatives,” Trinket said, making a saddened face, “go to the villages near Miletus, everyone is drawn there. - I am an artist, and Matia is my servant. But - it seemed to me or not - I heard someone talking nearby. Who's there? The keychain waved his hand gloomily. -- HM! Two unfortunate madmen. Husband and wife. You see, their children were killed by a shell. They went crazy on the fact that everything is the same, the children are alive and the town is whole. - Do you hear, Matia? - said, after a pause, Shuang. - Here is the horror, where remarks are superfluous, and the details are intolerable. - He turned to Keychain: - Listen, honey, I want to see these madmen. Take us there. - Please, - said Keychain, - as soon as I go and see what they are doing, maybe they went to some imaginary acquaintance. He returned to the accomplices. Within a few minutes, sensibly, in detail and convincingly, he instilled in Linsa and Pisces his plan. Finally they met. The fish should have been completely silent. Lens undertook to portray a crazy father, and Keychain - a distant relative of old people. - Frankly, - said Keychain, - we, as healthy people, will make them stay away from us. "What are the three vagabonds doing in an abandoned place and at a time like this?" they will ask themselves. And in the role of harmless lunatics, we, taking advantage of the first opportunity, will kill both of them. They must have money, sister, money! We come across a lot of rags, broken lamps and paintings full of holes, but where, in what garbage heap, will we find money? I undertake to persuade the daub to stay overnight with us ... Well, look now at both! - What do you think, - asked Lenza, moving with the woman to the neighboring, less destroyed house, - shake my head or not? Crazy people often have head shakes. - We are not in the theater, - said the Fish, - look around! It's scary ... dark ... soon it'll get darker. Once you are shown as a madman, no matter what you say or do, everything will be mad and wild in the eyes of others; and in such a place. I once lived with the helper Sharmer. Having robbed creditors and avoiding court, he pretended to be blessed; They believed him, he achieved this only by walking everywhere, holding a cork in his teeth. You ... you are in the best conditions! -- Truth! - Lens cheered up. - I'll play the role, just hold on!

- Follow me! - Trinket said to the riders. - By the way, in that house you could spend the night ... although you are crazy, but still more fun with people. “We’ll see, we’ll see,” Shuang replied, dismounting. They approached a small house, from the second floor of which the loud words of the mock-crazy Lens were already heard: "Leave me alone. Let me hang this picture! Will dinner be served soon?" Matia went to the courtyard to tie up the horses, and Shuan, following Trinket, climbed into an empty room, devoid of half of the furniture and thrown with that old rubbish that is found in every apartment if they leave it: cardboard boxes, old hats, parcels of patterns, broken toys and many more objects for which you will not immediately find a name. The wall of the facade and the opposite one were pierced through and through by a shell that brought down layers of plaster and canvases of dust. A candle stub was burning on the mantelpiece; The fish sat in front of the fireplace, clasping his knees with his hands and gazing motionlessly at one point, while Lens, as if not noticing the new person, walked from corner to corner with his hands folded behind his back, casting sullen glances from under his brows. Shuang's youth, his shyly guilty, depressed expression on his face finally encouraged the Lens, he now knew that the roughest game would come out great. - The old woman is completely knocked down and, it seems, is no longer aware of anything, - Trinket whispered to Shuan, - and the old man is still waiting for the children to return! - Here Keychain raised his voice, making it clear to Lenza what to talk about. - Where is Susanna? - Lens turned sternly to Shuang. - We are waiting for her to sit down to dinner. I'm hungry, damn it! Wife! It was you who dismissed the children! That's disgusting! It's time for Jean to prepare his homework too ... yes, these are the current children! - Both - Zhana and Susannochka, - Trinket spoke in a choked whisper, - killed, you know, with one shell explosion - both! It happened in a shop ... There were other buyers ... Everyone was blown away ... I looked later ... oh, this is such a horror! - The devil knows what it is! - said the shocked Shuang. - It seems to me that you could, by cheating somehow, remove these unfortunates from the city, where only starvation awaits them. - Ah, sir, I feed them, but how ?! Some vegetables from abandoned gardens, a handful of peas gathered in an empty barn ... Of course, I could take them to Grenoble, to my brother ... But money ... ah, how expensive everything is, very expensive! “We’ll arrange it,” said Shuang, taking out his wallet and handing the fraudster a rather large banknote. “That should be enough for you. Two glances - Lenses and Pisces - surreptitiously crossed on his hand, which held the money. Keychain, taking on an agitated, startled look, wiped dry eyes with his sleeve. "God ... God ... you ... you ..." he muttered. - Well, come on! - said the moved Shuang. “However, I need to see what Matia is doing,” and he went down into the courtyard, hearing Lena's exclamations behind his back: “My dear boy, go to my dad! You hurt your leg again!” - This was accompanied by a sincere, genuine laughter of the marauder, quite pleased with himself. But Shuang, understanding this laughter differently, was greatly depressed by him. He collided with Mathia behind the well. “I found a bag of hay,” said the servant, “but many courtyards ran out. The horses are parked here in the barn. “We'll lie down next to the horses,” Shuang said. -- I am hungry. Give me a bag. - He separated some of the provisions, telling Mathia to take it to the "madmen." “I’m not going there again,” he added. “The sight of them gets on my nerves. If that young guy asks about me, tell me that I have already gone to bed. Fixing his flashlight on an overturned box, Shuang took up his camping food: canned food, bread, and wine. Matia left. Shuang's creative thought worked in the direction of what he had just seen. And suddenly, as it happens in happy, fatal moments of inspiration, Shuang clearly, with all the details saw an unwritten picture, the one about which in a dull state of mind and fantasies they yearn, not finding a plot, but an imperious desire to produce something generally grandiose, without a clear plan, even without a distant idea of what you are looking for, it never ceases to torment. With such a work, in all the harmony of design, arrangement and execution, Shuang was now full and, as said, very clearly represented him. He intended to portray a madman, a father and a mother, sitting at the table, waiting for the children. The picture of the destroyed premises was at his fingertips. The table, as if set for dinner, was supposed, according to Chuan's plan, to clearly show the insanity of the old people: among the broken plates (empty, of course) he suggested placing foreign objects, alien to food; all together thus personified the confusion of ideas. The old people are obsessed with the fact that nothing happened, and the children, returning from somewhere, will sit down, as always, at the table. And in the far corner of the background, out of the thickened gloom, a carefully outlined piece of the fence (which, as it were, dreaming of old people) faintly protrudes, and the bodies of a young man and a girl who will not return are visible at the fence. The caption to the picture: "They make the old people wait ...", which should indicate the sincere faith of the unfortunate in the return of their children, was born by itself in Shuang's head. .. He stopped eating, carried away by the plot. It seemed to him that all the calamities, all the sorrow of the war could be expressed here, embodied in these figures by the terrible power of his inherent talent ... He had already seen crowds of people striving to the exhibition for his painting; he smiled dreamily and sorrowfully, as if realizing that he owed glory to misfortune - and so, forgetting about food, he took out the album. He wanted to get to work immediately. Taking a pencil, he put preliminary considerations of perspective on a blank cardboard and could not stop ... Shuang drew while the far corner of the room, where bodies are visible in the darkness ... A door creaked behind him; he turned around, jumped up, immediately returning to reality, and dropped the album. - Matia! To me! - he shouted, fighting off Trinket and Lens, who were rapidly rushing at him.

Matia, leaving Shuan, found the stairs leading to the second floor, where the sinister actors, hearing his steps, took the necessary positions. The fish sat down on the chair again, looking at one point, and Lens ran his finger along the wall, smiling meaninglessly. - You, I think, are all hungry here, - said Matia, putting provisions on the windowsill, - eat. There is bread, cheese and a can of butter. - Thank you for everyone, - Trinket answered soulfully, imperceptibly winking at Lens in the form of a signal to be alert and, seizing the moment, to bring down Matia. - Your master is tired, you have to be. Sleeping? - Yes ... He lay down. Bad overnight stay, but it can't be helped. It's good that the plumbing gave water, otherwise the horses would have ... He did not finish. Matia, standing facing Trinket, did not see how Lens, suddenly losing the desire to mutter something to himself, looking at the wall, quickly bent down, lifted the heavy oak leg from the chair, twisted beforehand, swung and hit the servant on the crown of the head. Matia, with a pale face, with a sudden fog in his head, fell deafly, without even crying out. Seeing this. The fish jumped up, hurrying to bent over the body of Lens: - Then you will look ... Killed, so killed. Go to the barn, finish it, and I'll rummage around it. She swiftly rummaged in Matia's pockets, whispering loudly in pursuit of the retreating swindlers: - Look, don't get lost! Seeing the light in the barn, the more cautious Keychain hesitated, but Lens, inflamed by violence, angrily pulled him forward: - You are soft! They lingered at the door, shoulder to shoulder, for no more than a minute, caught their breath, glumly glaring at the bright crack of the unlocked door, and then Lens, nudging the Keyfob with his elbow, decisively pulled the door open, and the looters rushed at the artist. He fought back with despair diminishing in strength. “Matia must have been finished,” the thought flashed, since the servant did not appear in response to his calls and shouts. The horses, excited by the commotion, tore off their leashes, stomping deafeningly on the wooden flooring. Lens tried to hit Shuang on the head with an oak leg. The keychain, working with his fists, chose a convenient moment to knock Shuang down, hugging him from behind. Shuang could not use the revolver without first undoing the holster, and this would give the marauders that minimum of victim inactivity time, which is sufficient for a fatal blow. The blows of the Lens fell mainly on the artist's hands, from which, becoming numb due to the terrible pain, they almost refused to serve. Fortunately, one of the horses, pushing, knocked over the box on which the lantern stood, the lantern fell glass down to the floor, blocking the light, and complete darkness fell. "Now," thought Shuang, rushing to the side, "now I'll show you." He freed the revolver and fired three shots at random, in different directions. The reddish sheen of the flares showed him two backs disappearing through the door. He ran out into the yard, entered the house, and went upstairs. The old woman disappeared when she heard the shots; on the floor by the window, painfully, with difficulty moving, Matia groaned. Shuang went to fetch water and wet the victim's head. Matia woke up and sat up, holding his head. - Matia, - said Shuang, - we, of course, will not fall asleep after such things. Try to master your strength, and I'll go saddle the horses. Get out of here! We will spend the night in the forest. Arriving in the barn, Shuang picked up the album, tore up the page he had just sketched and, sighing, scattered the pieces. - I would be an accomplice of these vile ones, - he said to himself, - if I took advantage of the plot played out by them ... "They make the old people wait ..." What a theme goes down the drain! But I have a glorious consolation: one less such tragedy, it never happened. And who among us would not give up all our paintings, not excluding masterpieces, if for each fate it paid with an innocent life taken from the war?

Black Diamond

... The sun gravitated towards the mountains. A party of convicts returned from forestry work. Trumov washed up and lay down on the bunk in anticipation of supper. Longing choked him. He wanted to see nothing, hear nothing, know nothing. When he moved, the shackles on his legs rattled like a shout. The socialist Leftel went up to Trumov and sat down on the edge of the bunk. - Spleen or nostalgia? he asked, lighting a cigarette. And you will learn to play "trynka". “I want freedom,” Trumov said quietly. “It's so hard, Lefttel, that it’s not enough to say. - Then, - Leftel lowered his voice, - run into the taiga, live a forest, wild life while you can. Trumov said nothing. “You know, the will is not enough,” he said sincerely, sitting down. If you run, then not to the forest, but to Russia or abroad. But the will is already poisoned. Obstacles, huge distances to be overcome, prolonged nervous tension ... At the thought of all this, fantasy paints gigantic difficulties ... this is her illness, of course. And every time the impulse ends with apathy. Trumov's love for the wife of the violinist Yagdin brought him to hard labor. Three years ago Yagdin gave concerts in European and American cities. Trumov and Yagdin's wife fell in love with each other with an exceptional love that did not stop at anything. When it turned out that her husband would return soon, Olga Vasilievna and Trumov decided to leave Russia. The need to get several thousand rubles for this took him by surprise - he had no money and no one gave it. In the evening, when the employees of the transport office (where Trumov served) were about to leave, he hid in the office building and broke into the cash cabinet at night. The courier, suffering from insomnia, came running to the noise. In desperation, Trumov knocked him down and hit him on the head with a bronze paperweight, wanting only to stun him, and killed him. He was arrested in Volochisk. After the trial, Olga Vasilievna was poisoned. “But I don’t care,” said Lefttel, “a philosophical mind helps. Although ... The warder entered, shouting: - Everyone, go out into the yard, alive! - Having finished the official order issued by the head of the prison, he added in an ordinary voice: - The musician will play for you, idiots, a newcomer, you see, he has arranged a prison concert. Trumov and Lefttel, pleasantly interested, walked briskly into the corridor; a noisy crowd of convicts walked along the corridor, which smelled of sour, stale air, the clang of shackles at times drowned out the voices. The prisoners joked: - Give us a chair in the first row! - And if I whistle ... - They are leading the shpanko to dance the frame ... Someone was singing like a rooster. “However, the Utopians are not yet extinct,” said Trumov, I envy their bright insanity. - The last time I listened to music ... - began Leftel, but cut off the sad memory. In a wide rocky courtyard, surrounded by thinning fields, the prisoners stood in a semicircle in two rows; here and there the shackles clinked humbly. From the mountainous distances, covered with the magical soft-colored fabric of the evening, the sun threw low rays. Wild fragrant deserts teased people in chains of inaccessible freedom. The chief of the prison came out of the office. A petty and suspicious man, he did not like any music, he considered Yagdin's idea of playing in front of the prisoners not only reprehensible and awkward, but even ashamed, as if destroying the harsh meaning of the prison, which he led without indulgence, as if adhering to the charter. - Well, - he spoke loudly, - you sing your howls like that, but you haven't heard real music. “He said that because he was afraid of the governor. - Well, now, you will hear. Now the famous violinist Yagdin will play the violin for you - he travels to prisons for you murderers, do you understand? Trumov died. Leftel, greatly amazed (he knew the story), looked at him with regret. "Why is that ..." Trumov whispered to Leftel in a bewildered, wry smile. His legs suddenly trembled, he was all weak, depressed. The realization that one cannot leave increased the suffering. “Hang on, to hell with you,” Lefttel said. Trumov stood in the first row, not far from the office porch. Finally, Yagdin came out, lingered on the bottom step, slowly looked around the convicts with an attentive passing glance and, imperceptibly nodding his head, smiled at Trumov's exhausted, frozen face. Yagdin's eyes burned with a painful fire of restrained excitement. He experienced the sweetest feeling of satisfying hatred, almost turning into adoration of the enemy, into gratitude for his torment. Trumov did not take his eyes out of pride, but his soul shrank; the past, spat upon by the appearance of Yagdin, rose to its full height. The prisoner's clothes were crushing him. Yagdin took this into account as well. All revenge in general was thoroughly, thought out from afar by the musician. The scheme of this revenge consisted in the following position: he, Yagdin, will appear before Trumov, and Trumov will see that Yagdin is free, graceful, rich, talented and famous as before, while Trumov is disgraced, chained, pale, dirty and thin and realizes that his life is broken forever. In addition to all this, Trumov will hear from him beautiful, exciting music, which will vividly remind the convict of the happy life of a loved and free person: such music will oppress and poison the soul. Yagdin deliberately postponed the implementation of this plan until the third year of Trumov's hard labor, so that the person he hated could wear out during this time under the weight of a terrible fate, and now he has come to finish off Trumov. The convict understood this. While the artist was taking out the expensive violin from the case shiny with gold inscriptions, Trumov shot Yagdin well. The violinist was wearing a smart white suit, yellow boots, and an expensive Panama hat. His lush, pale gray tie was like a bouquet. Looking up, Yagdin swung forward, simultaneously moved his bow and began to play. And since his desire to hurt Trumov as painfully as possible with his art was enormous, he played with a high, even for him not always accessible perfection. He played small but powerful pieces of the classics: Mendelssohn, Beethoven, Chopin, Godard, Grieg, Rubinstein, Mozart. The merciless charm of music shocked Trumov, his impressionability was, moreover, greatly exacerbated by the appearance of her husband Olga Vasilievna. “What a bastard, after all,” Leftel said quietly to Trumov. Trumov did not answer. A new power was dully, but imperiously, tossing and turning in him. It was completely dark, he could no longer see Yagdin's face, but saw only a twilight spot of a white figure. Suddenly sounds, so familiar and touching, as if a dead woman was clearly whispering in her ear: "I am here with you," made him jump up (the prisoners, having received permission to keep themselves "at ease," sat or reclined). Clenching his fists, he stepped forward; Leftel grabbed his arm and held him with all the tension of his muscles. "For God's sake, Trumov ..." he said quickly, hold off; because for it they will hang. Trumov gave up, gritting his teeth, but Yagdin continued to play his opponent's favorite romance: "Black Diamond". He played it with intent. This romance was often played by Olga Vasilievna Trumova, and Yagdin once caught their oncoming glance, which he did not yet attach importance to. Now he intensified the vividness of the convict's memories with this simple but rich and sad melody. The bow said slowly: In memory of your endless suffering, I brought you a black diamond ... And this torture, petrified, Trumov endured to the end. When the violin stopped and someone in the corner of the courtyard breathed out with all his chest: "Ehma!" - he laughed nervously, bent Leftel's head to himself and firmly whispered: - Now I know that Yagdin made a cruel and unforgivable mistake. He added nothing to this, and his words became clear to Leftel only the next day, at ten o'clock in the morning, when, while working in the forest (chopping wood), he heard a shot, hands. The overseer, running out of the forest to the cleared place, looked confused and worried. -- The escape! - flashed through the forest. Indeed, risking his life, Trumov fled into the taiga in front of the warden, who took him to another party, where there was a file, to edit the saw.

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

Mysterious plate

Pressing his lips tightly, bending down and resting his hands on the bolsters of the chair on which he sat, Bevener watched the agony of the poisoned Gonased with a determined, unwavering gaze. Less than five minutes later, Gonased drank the deadly wine poured by his cheerful friend. That evening, nothing in Bevener's appearance indicated his black plot. As always, he giggled unreasonably, his shifting eyes changed his expression a thousand times, and when you see a person like that all the time, this nervous fussiness can kill suspicion even if it was about the death of the whole world. Bevener killed Gonased because he was the happy lover of the singer Lasurs. The banality of the motive did not prevent Bevener from showing some originality in the execution of the crime. He invited the victim to a hotel room, inviting Gonased to discuss together how to prevent a murder orchestrated by a man known to both Gonased and Bevener - the murder of a man also well known to Gonased and Bevener. Gonased demanded to be named.

“Those names are very dangerous,” Bevener said. “It's dangerous to name them. You know that here, in the theater, the wings have ears. Come in the evening to the hotel "Red Eye", number 12. I'll be there. Gonased was curious, obese, trusting and romantic. In the room he found Bevener drinking wine, in excellent spirits, giggling loudly, pencil and paper in hand. “Tell me,” said Gonased, “who was going to kill whom?” -- Listen! - They drank a glass, the second and the third; Bevener hesitated. “Here's what ...” he finally spoke quickly and convincingly, “Othello is on today, Maria Lasurs is singing Desdemona, and Othello is singing young Bardio. You, Gonased, are blind. All of us, your companions on the stage, know how madly Bardio loves Maria Lasurs. She, however, rejected his quest. Today, in the last act, Bardio will kill Maria on stage, kill, you know, for real! - And you didn't say it before! roared Gonased, jumping up. - Let's go! Quicker! Quicker! “On the contrary,” Bevener objected, blocking his friend’s path, “there is no need for us to go there. What proof do you have of Bardio's intentions? You will stir up behind the scenes, disrupt the performance, accuse Bardio without proof, and in the end you will be brought to trial for insult and slander ?!

“You're right,” Gonased said, sitting down. - But how do you know? And - what to do? An hour with a little time left, the last act is coming soon ... The last one! .. “As I learned, it’s still a mystery,” Bevener said. “But I know what to do. We must make sure that Lasurs left the theater without finishing the part. Write her a note. Write that you committed suicide. -- How?! - Gonased was amazed. - But what are the reasons? “You have no reason, I know. You are cheerful, healthy, famous and loved. But how else to get Maria Lasurs out? Think! Any letter from an outsider, even with a message about your death, she will consider an intrigue, a desire to impose a large penalty on her. There have been examples of this. And besides the death of a loved one, what can tear the artist away from the applause, flowers and smiles dear to his heart? You yourself, with your own hand, must call Lasurs to your imaginary corpse. "But will you tell me about Bardio?" - That night. Here is a paper and a pencil. - How frightened she is! - muttered Gonased, scribbling. - She has a tender heart. He wrote: "Maria. I committed suicide. Gonased. Victoria Street, Red Eye Hotel.

Bevener rang the bell and gave the sealed note to the servant, saying, "Deliver it quickly," and Gonased smiled, amused. - She will curse me! he whispered. “She will cry with joy,” Bevener protested, tossing poison into his friend’s glass. - Let's drink to our friendship! Yes, it lasts! - But you will certainly tell me about the scoundrel Bardio? Bevener, my glass is empty, but you are hesitating ... I'm dizzy with excitement ... yes, you see, I'm not feeling well ... Ah! He convulsively tore at the collar of his shirt, got up and fell at the killer's feet, crumpling the carpet with his crawling hands. His body was trembling, his neck was bloodshot. Finally he was quiet and Bevener got up. - It was you, red-haired Lasurs, who killed him! he said in a frenzy of feelings. - My love for you is as strong as that of the deceased. You didn't want me. For this, Gonased died. However, I expertly dismissed the suspicion. He rang the bell and, driving the frightened footman after the doctor, began to rehearse the scene of amazement and despair, which was required to be played in front of the doctor and the startled Lasurs.

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

A month later, guests gathered at Bevener's apartment. Artists, entertainers, music critics, painters and poets celebrated a decade of Bevener's stage activity. The owner, as always, was nervously funny, agile and lively. The gentle faces of the ladies flashed among the flowers. Full light shone. Dinner was approaching the end when a servant entered the dining room, reporting that they had come from Louden. “By the way,” Bevener said, dropping his napkin and leaving the table. - They brought gramophone records, which I sang to Lowden. I ask dear guests to listen to them and tell me if the voice transmission is successful. In addition to the records, Lowden sent a wonderful new gramophone, a gift to the artist, and a letter in which he informed that due to illness he could not come to the celebration. The servant put the apparatus in order, inserted the needle, and Bevener himself, rummaging through the records, settled on the aria of Mephistopheles. Putting the record on the gramophone, he lowered its membrane to the edge and, turning to the guests, said: - I'm not quite sure about this record, because I was a little worried when I sang. However, let's listen.

There was silence. There was a subtle, soft hiss of steel on rubber, fast chords of a piano ... and a steel, flexible baritone burst out the famous aria. But it was not Bevener's voice ... Clearly, with all the shades of a living pronunciation so familiar to all those present, the deceased Gonased sang, and everyone's eyes turned in amazement to the hero of the day. A terrible pallor covered his face. He laughed, but the laugh was unbearably shrill and fake, and everyone shuddered when they saw the owner's eyes. There were exclamations: - This is a mistake! - Gonased did not sing for records! - Lowden got it wrong! -- You hear?! said Bevener, losing his strength as the murdered man's voice grimly pressed his stricken will. - Do you hear ?! It is he who sings, the one I killed! There is no salvation for me; he came here himself ... Stop the record! Prompter Eris, white as milk, rushed to the gramophone. His hands were trembling; lifting the membrane, he took off the plate, but in haste and fear dropped it onto the parquet. There was a dry crackling sound, and the black circle shattered into small pieces. - We were witnesses of the unheard of! - said the violinist Indigan, picking up the shard and hiding it. - But whatever it is - a deception of the senses or the manifestation of an undiscovered law, I will keep this particle in memory; its color will always remind of the color of the soul of our dear owner, who is now so carefully taken away by the police!

How I was dying on the screen

At noon I received a notification from the Gigant firm that my offer had been accepted. The wife was asleep. The children went to the neighbors. I looked thoughtfully at Felicata, mournfully listening to her uneven breathing, and decided that I was acting wisely. A husband who is unable to provide medicine for his sick wife and milk for his children deserves to be sold and killed. The letter from the manager of the Gigant firm was very skillfully composed, so that only I could understand it; if it had fallen into the wrong hands, no one would have guessed what it was about. Here is a letter: "M.G.! We think that the amount you are talking about is convenient for you and us (I demanded twenty thousand). Come to Prune Street, house 211, apartment 73, at 9 o'clock in the evening. the position in which you find yourself is assigned with an appropriate, pleasant for you, ensemble. " There was no signature. For some time I puzzled over how, having found myself in an "unchanging position", that is, with a shot in the head, I can be convinced of the fulfillment by "Giant" of the obligation to pay my wife twenty thousand, but I soon came to the conclusion that everything would be clarified on Prune street. I, in any case, will not go to the Champs Elysees without a firm guarantee. Despite my resolve, I was still seized by a whirlwind dying excitement. I couldn't sit. I shouldn't even have stayed at home, so as not to lie to my wife with my voice and eyes if she woke up. Thinking over everything, I laid out on the table the last copper coins that were crying in my pocket and wrote, leaving, a note with the following content: "Dear Felicata! Since your illness is not dangerous, I decided to look for work in the gardens where I am going. Do not worry. I'll be back in a week, no later. " The rest of the day I spent on the boulevards, in the port, and in the squares, sometimes pacing, now sitting on a bench, and I was so upset that I did not feel hungry. I imagined the despair and sorrow of my wife when she finally finds out the truth, but I also imagined the material well-being in which the "Giant's" money would keep her. In the end - in a year, maybe - she will understand and thank me. Then I moved on to the question of existence beyond the grave, but then a man sat next to me on the bench, in whom I easily recognized an old friend of Boots. I haven't seen him for five years. - Boots, - I said, - you must have become very distracted! Do you recognize me? - Ah! Oh! - shouted Boots. “But what’s the matter with you, Ettis? How pale you are, how tattered! I told everything: illness, loss of place, poverty, the deal with the Giant. -- You're kidding! - Grimacing, said Boots. -- No. I sent a letter to the company informing me that I wanted to shoot myself, and offered to film the moment of suicide with the apparatus for twenty thousand. They can insert my death into some picture. Why not, Boots? I would have killed myself anyway; I’m tired of living with my teeth clenched. Boots stuck his cane into the ground at least half a foot. His eyes went wild. - You're just a fool! he said rudely. - But these gentlemen from "Giant" are nothing more than villains! How? Turning the handle of a vile box in cold blood in front of a bullet-shot head? My friend, cinema is already becoming a semblance of Roman circuses. I saw how the matador was killed - that was also removed. I saw an actor drowning in the drama "Siren" - that was also filmed. Live horses are thrown from a cliff into an abyss - and removed ... Give them free rein, they will arrange a massacre, a massacre, they will start running after the duelists. No, I won't let you in! - And I want my children to always be shod. - Well, what then! Give me the address of these bums. They don't know your appearance. I will take your place. -- How! You will die? -- It's my business. Anyway, tomorrow we dine with you at the Ceremony. - But ... if ... somehow ... money ... - Ettis ?! I blushed. Boots always kept his word, my mistrust terribly offended him. Pouting, he did not speak for three minutes, then, softening, held out his hand. - Do you agree or not? “Okay,” I said, “but how are you going to get out? - Head. I'm not kidding Ettis! Say the address. Thanks! Goodbye. I only have four hours left. Go home, be calm, and take care of your urgent shopping list. We broke up. I felt as if I had entrusted all my fortune to a man who sailed on a leaky ship into a stormy sea. Having lost sight of Boots, I caught myself. How could I agree to his proposal ?! His mysterious calculations could have been wrong. "Your hand - your money" - this is how I should reason. In half an hour I was at home. My wife got out of bed and cried over my note. She could not forgive me "working in the gardens." I said I couldn't find a job. Finally we made up and dozed off, embracing. I fell asleep; in a dream I saw fried fish and pasta with mushrooms. I was awakened by the loud words of my wife: “How tasty these pies with onions are!” ... The poor thing dreamed of the same thing as me. It was dark. Suddenly the bell rang, and as decisively as the postmen, policemen and messengers call. I got up and lit the fire. A man in a long oilcloth coat came in and asked: “Aren't you Felicata Ettis? -- Yes I. - Here's the package. He bowed and left so quickly that we did not have time to ask him what was the matter. Felitsata tore open the envelope. Sitting down in amazement on the bed, she held in one hand a sheaf of thousandth bills, and in the other a note. - Dear, - she said, - I feel bad ... money ... and your death ... Oh, Lord! the eyes of my old acquaintance, whose name is indifferent to you. Touched by your plight, I ask you to accept something from my surplus in the amount of twenty thousand. The corpse has been transported to St. Nick's hospital. " Then the sudden complete confidence that Boots had died struck me. No other way, no matter how hard I tried, I could not explain the receipt of money. Trying to bring my wife to life, I went through all the possibilities of a successful outcome (for Boots) with my imagination, but knowing his intentions, I was ready to cry and tear up the money. The wife woke up. - What happened to me? - Oh, yes ... What does all this mean? Another bell made me rush to the door. I was waiting for Boots. It was him, and I hung convulsively around his neck. Among the questions, exclamations, interruptions and laughter, he said the following: - Exactly at 9 o'clock in the evening I was at the door of room seventy-three. A kind, fat old man greeted me. I was in rags and rubbed my eyes with an onion - they seemed to be tear-stained. Here is a short conversation with us over a cup of great coffee. He is. - Do you want to die? I. - I really want to. He is. - It is unpleasant, but I am a supporter of free will. Would you agree to die dressed as an 18th century Marquis? I. - He must be better than mine. He is. - Then another ... a wig ... and a beard ... I. - Oh, no! The costume is indifferent to me, but the face must remain mine. He is. - Well, nothing ... I just asked. Write a note ... you understand ... I wrote: "I ask you not to blame anyone for my death. Ettis" - and gave the note to the old man. Then we agreed that the money would be immediately sent to mine, that is, to your wife. The old man hesitated, but took a chance. He put the money into a package with me and sent it off with a messenger. Now look what came out of this. I was ushered into a garden, brightly flooded with electric light, and seated in a chair with my back to a tree. Before that I, grunting, put on the cutesy clothes of the Marquis. The tenant with the apparatus was standing four steps away from me. He and the old man did not seem particularly pale to me; their attitude was evidently businesslike. The old man offered me before he died - what would you think? beauty and wine; but I refused ... Now I regret it. I was in a hurry to calm you down. On my way to die, I donned a dark, shaggy wig, under which I hid a flat rubber tube filled with red wine. Its end, covered with wax, was at the right temple. “Goodbye, dear friend,” said the old man. - "Michelle, start!", And the operator began to turn the handle of the apparatus. I looked up, and bringing the muzzle to my temple, fired a blank charge. Wine immediately ran down the collar. I leaned back, gasping for air with my hands, and did all the grimaces of agony I could think of with my eyes closed. The old man shouted: "Closer, Michelle, take off your face!" Finally, I conscientiously froze, hanging my head on my chest (only thirty meters). - "It's scary, after all!" Michelle said. Then I got up and yawned demonstratively. Both of them were shaking in terrible fright, not taking their startled looks from me. “There’s nothing to watch,” I said, “my temple still hurts, it’s burned. If you believe in my death, the audience will also believe.” - I bowed to them and left ... in the costume of the marquis. Then I changed at home and hurried to you. - And they did not reproach you? I asked. - You can't sign inhumanity. My conscience is clear! Think so too, Ettis. I saw one person actually shoot himself, and, you know, there was not a lot of expressiveness in it. He just fired and just fell like a layer. Imitation is truer than life, but "Giant" has not yet grown to such, my dear, understanding.

Stories 1908-1916 published in periodicals

Checkmate in three moves

This incident happened at the very beginning of my practice, when I, a still unknown doctor, spent my office hours in sad solitude, pacing around my office and shifting the same object twenty times from place to place. For a whole month, I had only two patients: the janitor of the house in which I lived, and some stranger who suffered from nervous tics. That evening, which I am talking about, an event happened: a new, third patient appeared. Even now, having closed my eyes, I see him in front of me as if he were alive. He was a man of medium height, bald, with an important, slightly absent-minded look, with a curly blond beard and a pointed nose. His addition betrayed a tendency towards corpulence, which was in some contrast to the sharp, impulsive movements. I also noticed two features that would not be worth mentioning if they did not indicate a severe degree of nervous disorder: convulsive twitching of the eyelids and continuous wiggling of the fingers. He sat or walked, spoke or was silent, the fingers of his hands uncontrollably bent and unbent, as if they were entangled by an invisible viscous web. I pretended to be completely indifferent to his visit, retaining in my face a cold, attentive equanimity, which, as it seemed to me then, is inherent in any more or less serious profession. He was embarrassed and sat up, blushing like a girl. - What are you sick with? I asked. - I, doctor ... He looked at me with an effort and frowned, examining the writing instruments. A minute later I again heard his languid, embarrassed voice: - The thing, if you please, is so ... Very strange ... strange. A strange thing ... You could say - a thing ... However, you will not believe it. Interested, I gazed at him intently; he breathed slowly, with difficulty, lowering his eyes and, apparently, trying to concentrate on his own sensations. - Why don't I believe you? - So, sir. It's hard to believe, ”he objected with conviction, suddenly raising his shortsighted, bewilderedly smiling eyes at me. I shrugged. He was embarrassed and coughed softly, apparently preparing to begin his story. His left hand rose several times to his face, tugging at his beard; all of him, so to speak, fussed inwardly, pondering something. This was especially noticeable in the tense play of the face, which burned alternately with despair and embarrassment. I did not rush him, knowing from experience that in such cases it is better to wait than to urge him on. Finally, the man spoke, and when he spoke, he almost calmed down. His voice sounded even and quiet, his face stopped twitching, and only the fingers of his left hand were still moving quickly and nervously, freeing themselves from the invisible cobweb. “Surprise, so surprise,” he said, as if with regret. - You just ... I beg you, sir ... do not interrupt ... Yes, ah ... - Don't worry, - I said softly. - Surprise is the lot of the layman. In this way, hinting at my supposed experience in psychiatry, I took a relaxed posture, that is, crossed my legs and began to tap the tips of my fingers with the pencil. He hesitated, sighed and continued: - Please, would you be so kind ... if you can ... every time I raise my hand ... Excuse me ... Worry to say, please: "Leipzig ... International tournament ... Checkmate in three moves? A? Please. Before I had time to paint a huge question mark with myself, passionate, persuasive, quiet words rained down again: - I can't, sir ... Do you believe it? I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, I’m becoming an idiot ... To distract from my thoughts, I need it, that's it! As you say these words, I will calm down ... You talk, you talk, and it will come out, this thought is the same ... I'm afraid of her: if you please listen ... It must have been like eight or nine days ago ... Of course , we all think about it ... That one will die, the other ... That is, about death ... And how it all happens, I will report to you, how one clings to another is incomprehensible to the mind ... window, I read a book, only I had no great desire to read, the time for dinner was approaching. I sit and look ... After all, this is the mood that happens - at another moment I would spit, I would not pay attention ... And then the thoughts are scattered, hot, such a quiet summer day ... This is going, I see, a woman with a chest baby, a scarf on her red, red ... Then a girl of about seven ran, a slender girl, a red pigtail, it sticks out like a pigtail ... Excuse me ... a very well-dressed, dignified lady, and behind her, if you please see, - an old woman ... Here ... do you understand? I looked with curiosity at his hands: they trembled quickly, finely, unbuttoning and buttoning the button of his coat. In what he told me, for him, apparently, fit a whole chain of some frightening inferences. “No, I don’t understand,” I said, “but go on. He was very pale and looked somewhere to the side, behind the curtain. I smiled encouragingly, he grimaced, thought and continued: - How the old woman passed, and enter into my head the following story: one after all now there is not enough funeral procession ... I moved away from the window, but I kept thinking: you too, brother, will die ... well, everything like that. And then I think: who are we all, living, walking and talking? Not only that the corpses are ripening, sort of like apples on a twig, but there is also some kind of terrible simplicity in all this ... In front of two last words his voice choked with excitement. I listened intently. “All this,” he continued, “did not spoil my appetite. After dinner, I was even lying in a hammock with pleasure ... And when night came, even though the guard was screaming, I was losing my mind, and that's it! .. A pitiful smile froze on his convulsively concentrated, sweaty face. Pulling out his handkerchief and blowing his nose, he continued to look me in the face with the same fixed, dumbfounded gaze. I involuntarily smiled: this small detail, the bow of the tent, suddenly destroyed a little eerie impression made on me by a strange, somewhat frightened person. But he began to talk further, and soon I again felt myself at the mercy of an acute, morbid curiosity. Still not knowing what was the matter, I, it seems, was already ready to believe this man, leaving in doubt his abnormality. He hid the handkerchief and continued: - Until evening I was calm ... Merry even went ... well, going to bed, he went to the kindergarten as usual, to look, to smoke a cigarette. Quietly, the stars are burning somehow in a special way, not softly and affectionately, but annoying me, disturbing me ... I sit, thinking ... About what? About eternity, death, the mystery of the universe, space ... well, about everything that creeps into my head after a hearty dinner and strong tea ... I remember philosophers, different theories, conversations ... And I remembered one thing, since childhood ... Then I was very proud of the fact that, so to speak, my own mind reached. This is how I reasoned: an infinite amount of time passed until the "I" appeared ... Well, I am dying, and let's say that I was not there at all ... And this is why, within the bounds of infinity, I cannot appear again ? I'm a little confused, of course ... but an example ... this ... a blank sheet of paper, say, here. I take a pencil, write - 10. But - I took it and erase it completely, clean ... And what! I take a pencil over and over again "10" I write. You see - 1 and 0. He fell silent, took a breath and wiped off the drops of sweat with his sleeve, peacefully glittering on his exhausted bald skull. “Go on,” I said, “and don't stop. In such cases, it is better to tell right away, it is easier. - Yes, - he picked up, - I ... and ... well, that's not the point ... So. My thoughts were spinning incessantly, as if some whirlwind had caught them ... And here, for the first time, a terrible thought occurred to me that you can find out everything if ... - If? - I picked up, seeing that he suddenly stopped. He replied in a whisper, solemn and dejected: - If you think about it incessantly, without fear of death. I shrugged, keeping my face polite to listen further. My patient spun convulsively in his chair, obviously pricked. - Incredible? he exclaimed. - And what if I show you such a perspective: you, here you are, doctor, right away, suddenly, sitting on this chair, remember that there is infinite space? walls, you mentally put walls to this space! And suddenly there is nothing for you, there are no walls, you feel with all the coldness of your heart that this is such a thing - space! After all, one moment, yes, sir, and this very moment may kill you to death, because you are not adapted! .. “Perhaps,” I said. - But I can't even imagine ... - That's it! .. - he picked up with painful triumph. - And I have not imagined, but I feel, - and he hit himself in the chest with his fist, - here I have a feeling that, as soon as I think about it intently, without stopping, I will understand ... I will die. Just now I asked you to shout the words "checkmate in three moves" if I raise my hand ... All this is because you give me these very words at a critical moment, when it starts to approach, - give me a different direction to thoughts at once. And I fished out this problem in three moves, when I was still subscribing to one magazine. I heard her, hearing your voice, and I will start to decide right off the bat ... So, sir ... I was sitting, suddenly, I heard my wife calling me from the porch: "Misha!" And I hear what she is calling, but I can't answer her, imagine, I can't, - my tongue was constrained, and that's it ... Then I already guessed what the thing was: I was in the mood at that moment, so to speak , the most unearthly, even a rare mood, but here you need to talk about some domestic business, different trifles. I am silent. The second time he calls: "Misha-ah! Did you fall asleep, or what?" Then I got angry and told her, sorry, these very rude words: "Go to hell!" Good with. She left. And I felt so sad after that that you can't tell. I think I'll go to sleep. I undressed, lay down, but I still can't sleep, different circles flicker, glowing flies run ... And my heart, I must tell you, I have long been out of order ... So it began to make different things ... It will stop, then drum beat, but so hard that there is not enough air ... Fear took me, threw me into a fever ... I am dying, I think to myself ... And as I thought, the bed floated under me, and I myself do not feel myself .. . OK then. It passed, I came to my senses ... but I can't sleep anymore ... Different thoughts run, run like dogs on the street, different images flash, memories ... Then, I see, the girl is walking in the morning, followed by the young lady, then the old woman. .. this whole procession, as if alive, is moving ... And only, you know, my thought stopped on this old woman, as I trembled and shouted at the top of my voice: I feel one turn of thought, and I will understand, you understand, I will understand and allow the whole snag of death and life, like twice two is four ... And I feel that as soon as I understand this, at the same moment ... I will die ... I cannot bear it. He fell silent, and it seemed to me that the room itself sighed, noisily and convulsively taking breath. White as lime, a frightened man sat in front of me, not taking his glassy, bulging eyes from my face. And suddenly he raised, stretching upward, his hand, with a diligent, awkward movement - a sign of approaching horror - a hand with a starched cuff and a bronze cufflink. And there must have been two crazy people in the room at that moment - him and me. His panic infected me, I was at a loss, forgetting both "checkmate in three moves" and what this helpless thrown up hand with yellow fingers meant. Without thoughts, with one unbearably burning desire to jump up and run away, I looked into his eyes slowly receding into the depths of the orbits - small, black chasms, extinguishing irresistibly and aimlessly ... The hand dropped. She lazily bent, first in the hand, then in the elbow, then in the forearm, stirred and quietly fell down, gently slapping her palm on the bend of the knee. The fright brought back my memory. I jumped up and shouted in a measured, firm voice, trying not to seem ridiculous to myself: - Leipzig! International tournament! Checkmate in three moves! He didn't move. Dead, with a calm face, flooded with electric light, he continued to stare motionlessly and sternly at the point above the back of my chair where my eyes were shining a minute before.

Competition in Lisse

The sky darkened, the aviators, having finished inspecting the cars on which they were supposed to seek the prize, converged on a small restaurant "Bel-Ami". In addition to the aviators, there was another audience in the restaurant, but since wine itself is nothing more than a beautiful flight on the spot, the presence of celebrities in the air did not arouse particular curiosity in anyone, with the exception of one person sitting alone on the sidelines. but not so far from the aviators' table that he could not hear their conversation. He seemed to be listening to him half-turned, tilting his head slightly towards the brilliant company. His appearance must be described. In a shabby, light overcoat, soft hat, with a white scarf around his neck, he looked like an insignificant correspondent, such as are many in places of all public competitions. A tuft of dark hair, falling from under the hat, darkened up to the bridge of the high, strongly developed forehead; long black eyes had that peculiarity of expression that seemed to always look into the distance, even if the object of sight was not more than two feet. The straight nose rested on a small dark mustache, the mouth seemed to be cramped, the lips were compressed so tightly. A vertical fold bifurcated a sharp chin from the middle of the mouth to the limit of the facial outline, so that the lock of hair, the nose and this remarkable feature together resembled a longitudinal section of the physiognomy. This - which was already strange - corresponded to the difference in profiles: the left profile appeared in a soft, almost feminine expression, the right - with a concentrated gloom. There were ten pilots sitting at a round table, among whom we are interested, in fact, only one, a certain Cartref, the most courageous and impudent of the whole company. A lackey face, a pale, unhealthy skin color, an arrogant tone of voice, a bully's hairstyle, a stubbornly insignificant look, a motley clerk's suit, ringed fingers and a depressing, depraved smell of lipstick made up Cartref. He was drunk, spoke loudly, looked around defiantly with a jealously independent air and, so to speak, played a role, played himself in a picturesque contrast to everyday life. He boasted of his machine, experience, courage and luck. The flight, disassembled piece by piece by this man's wretched brain, seemed like a heap of junk of gasoline cans, wire, iron and wood dangling in space. Trained to move levers and push buttons, the venerable air artisan rejoiced for a variety of reasons, not least the vanity of a cripple receiving crutches. - Everyone will fly, sooner or later! shouted Cartref. - And then they will remember us and erect a monument to us! You and ... me ... and you! Because we are pioneers! - And I saw one person who cried! cried the puny pilot Kaljo. -- I saw him. - And he wiped his tears with a handkerchief. - As I remember now. This man and his wife drove up to the airfield, saw Wright at the top and began to untie his tie. "Oh, what?" - the wife or the lady told him that she was sitting with him. "Oh, I'm stuffy! - he said. - Excitement in my throat ... - and shed tears. - Look, - he says, - Marie, at the greatness of man. He defeated the air!" The fountain. All were dignified. The general smug smile was drowned in beer and mustache. After a pause, the pilots clinked glasses, significantly blinked their eyebrows, drank and drank some more. An educated aviator, Alphonse Gigot, a polytechnic student, impressively stated: - The victory of reason over dead matter, an inert and hostile civilization, is taking giant strides forward. Then they began to discuss prizes and odds. Those present did not speak either about themselves or about the others present, but somewhere, in the shadow of the words uttered in a drunken language, the speaker himself was noticeably hidden, with a finger pointing at himself. One Cartref, frowning, finally said the same for everyone. - I'll break the altitude record - me! he shouted, unsteadily waving the bottle over an incomplete glass. -- I am who I am! Who am I? Cartref. I am not afraid of anything. Such a statement instantly aroused quiet hatred. Some chuckled, some exaggeratedly loudly and joyfully expressed the absence of the slightest doubt that Cartref was telling the truth; some attentively, affectionately looked at the braggart, as if inviting him not to be shy and saying: "Thank you for your kind word." Suddenly, an invisible knife cut through the ghostly closeness of these people, they became enemies: the distant sister of enmity - death came close to the table, and everyone saw her in the form of a dragonfly machine fluttering down from the clouds for a quick unsatisfactory impact on a dusty field. There was a silence. It did not last long, its poisoned tip was firmly entrenched in the souls. The mood has soured. The sour interruption of voices continued for some time, repeating different things, but without any enthusiasm. The drinking companions fell silent again. Then the unknown person, who was sitting at the table, suddenly and loudly said: - So you fly!

It sounded like an orange in soup. The chair cracked, Cartref turned so sharply. Behind him, the others, realizing from what angle a mocking exclamation burst out, turned and stared at the unknown with eyes full of irritated nonsense. - What? shouted Cartref. He sat like this: head on his arm, elbow on the table, body in an oblique line and legs to fly away, to the side. There was a lot of contempt in the pose, but it didn't work. - What is there, stranger? What do you want to say? “Nothing special,” the stranger replied thoughtfully. “I heard your conversation, and it made a disgusting impression on me. Having received this impression, I tried to consolidate it with those three words that, if I am not mistaken, alarmed your professional pride. Take it easy. My opinion will not do you any harm or benefit, since there is nothing in common between you and me. Then, realizing not the meaning of what was said, but the irresistibly contemptuous tone of the short speech of the unknown person, all the aviators shouted: - Damn you, my dear sir! - What do you care what we said among ourselves? - Your offensive remark ... - Please leave us, get out! - Get out! - Down with the talker! - Scoundrel! The stranger got up, straightened his scarf and, dropping his hands into his coat pockets, walked over to the aviators' table. The audience was alert, the eyes of the audience were fixed on him; he felt it, but was not embarrassed. “I want,” the stranger spoke up, “I really want to at least bring you a little closer to flying in the true sense of the word. How do you want to fly? How should one fly? Let's try to evoke a feeling we have not experienced. For example, you are sad in a crowd, in a crowded square. The day is clear. The sky sighs with you and you want to fly to finally laugh. The laughter that I am talking about is close to a delicate aroma and is soundless, like a passionately soundless soul. Then the person does what he intended: with a slight stamp on his foot, he rushes up and floats in the mysterious heights, sometimes quietly, then quickly, as he wants, then stops in place to look at the city below, still large, but already visible as a whole - more a plan than a city, and more a drawing than a plan; the horizon has risen in a bowl; he is at eye height all the time. In the flying one, everything is shifted, shaken, a whirlwind in the body, a ringing in the heart, but this is not fear, not delight, but a new purity - there is no gravity and points of support. There is no fear and fatigue, the heartbeat is similar to what is accompanied by a sweet kiss. This is swimming without water, swimming effortlessly, a comic fall from a height of thousands of meters, and then a stop over the spitz of the cathedral, inaccessibly reaching out to you from the depths of the earth - while the wind strings in your ears, and the distance is huge, like an ocean that has risen wall - these sensations are like a brilliant orchestra illuminating the soul with clear excitement. You have turned your back to the ground; the sky lay down below, under you, and you fall to it, fading from the purity, happiness and transparency of the enthralling space. But never fall on the clouds, they will become fog. Face the ground again. She effortlessly pushes you away, soars you higher and higher. From this height, your path is free, night and day. You can fly to Australia or China, dropping for rest and food wherever you want. It is good to fly at dusk over a sad, fragrant meadow, without touching the grass, to fly quietly, like a step, to a nearby forest; over its black bulk lies the red half of the setting sun. Climbing higher, you will see the entire solar circle, and in the forest the scarlet fabric of the last rays is extinguished. Meanwhile, a fragile, ugly structure, carefully guarded under a roof, soaked through and through with the sweaty fumes of the brain that composed its suspicious structure, is being rolled out by the workers onto the grass. His wings are dead. It is matter crucified in the air; a man sits on it with thoughts of gasoline, the crackle of a screw, the strength of nuts and wire, and, not yet taking off, thinks that he has fallen. In front of him is a whole kitchen, in which, on the already mentioned gasoline, a roast is prepared from space and sky. Glasses on the eyes, valves on the ears; in the hands of iron sticks and - here - in a cage of wire, with a canvas roof over his head, a bird of God rises with a run of fifteen fathoms, feeling its sides. What is the glorious fluttering creature thinking about, staying in the air for no other reason than those due to which the thrown stone describes an arc? The denial of flight is hidden already in the speed itself, - the frantic speed of movement; to fly quietly is to fall. Yes, so what is he thinking? About money, about what will break and perish. And a lot of all sorts of rubbish revolves in his head - technical papillotes, behind which you cannot see the hairstyles. Where to sit, where to sink? Ah, it's scary to fly away from a comfortable square. It is impossible to get down on a roof, a telegraph wire, or a cliff top. The flying one is pulled back, the flying one descends - descends to the ground with a guilty face, because he remained alive, meanwhile the audience leaves disappointed, dreaming of a disaster. Therefore, you have not flown and you will never fly. The sign of the crow, lazily crossing, flapping its wings, your convulsive gasoline path in the blue country, should be minted on medals and handed out to you in good memory. - Would you like a glass of cognac? - said the barman, who settled down to the unknown. - Here it is, I poured it. The stranger, thanking him, drank the cognac. His words outpaced the tightly boiling anger of the pilots. Finally, some hit the table with their fists, some jumped up, knocking over the bottles. Cartref, bending over menacingly, crumpling up his napkins and frightening with his eyes, approached the unknown. - How long will you still interfere with us? he shouted. - Stupid audience, critics, damn you! Have you flown? Do you know at least one system? Do you know how to make a short descent? Think about something in aviation? No? So go to hell and don't bother! The stranger grinned at Cartref's furious face, then glanced at his watch. “Yes, I have to go,” he said calmly, as at home. - Goodbye, or rather goodbye; I'll visit you tomorrow, Cartref. He paid and left. When the door slammed behind him, there was no sound of footsteps with the echo of the stairs, and the pilot thought that the impudent man had stood outside the door to eavesdrop. He opened it, but saw no one and returned to the table.

"The air is good," thought Cartref the next day, when, having made a circle over the airfield, he examined below the sunny multitude of stands full of spectators. His rivals hummed left and right; almost simultaneously seven airplanes took off. Depending on what position they assumed in the air, their outline resembled a box, an envelope, or an open umbrella. It seemed that they were all heading in one direction, meanwhile flying in the other. The motors hummed, in the distance - like thick strings or singing tops, near - the crackle of a canvas tearing over the ear. There was a noise like in a factory. Below, near the garages, figurines moved across the green grass, as if cut out of white paper; then other airplanes took out. A brass band was playing. Cartref rose to a height of thousands of meters. A strong wind patted him across the face, his rapid breathing painfully strained his chest, and his ears were noisy. The earthly landscape seemed from here a swaying circular plaza dotted with spots and lines; the airplane seemed to stand still, while space and air rushed past, towards. The clouds were as far away as they were from the ground. Suddenly he saw a figure about which he could neither think anything, nor think, nor laugh, nor be horrified - so unprecedented, beyond everything earthly, understandable and possible, she rose from the left, as if instantly created by the air. It was an unknown person who had angered the pilot last night. He rushed in the pose of lying on his side, his head propped on his hand; a new, beautiful and terrible face was seen by Cartref. It shone, otherwise it is impossible to name the harmony of the strange inspiration that glowed in the features of this man. The intense glow of the eyes resembled the eyes of birds during flight. He was hatless, in an ordinary, medium-sized suit; his tie, knocked out from under his waistcoat, banged against the buttons. But Cartref did not see his clothes. So, having met a woman who immediately strikes with the fire of her beauty, we notice her dress, but do not see it. Cartref understood nothing. His soul, overwhelmed by a feeling we cannot imagine, darted away; he obeyed her, pressing the steering wheel hard to swerve to the side. Unknown, describing a semicircle, rushed alongside again. The thought that it was a hallucination faintly stirred in Cartref; Wanting to revive her, he shouted: “Don't. I do not want. Rave. - No, not delirium, - said the stranger. He shouted too, but his words were calm. “Eight years ago I looked up and believed that I could fly as I wanted. Since then, I have been driven in the air by a simple desire. I stayed among the clouds for a long time and saw the raindrops forming. I know the secret of the formation of ball-shaped lightning. The artistic pattern of snowflakes formed before my eyes from the shuddering dampness. I descended into abysses full of rotting bones and gold thrown by misfortune from narrow passages. I know all the unknown islands and lands, I eat and sleep in the air, as in a room. Cartref was silent. A severe spasm grew in his chest. The air choked him. The unknown changed position. He straightened up and stood over Cartref, slightly ahead of the pilot, facing him. His hair is tangled in a straight line in front of his face. Horror - that is, the complete death of consciousness in a living body - took possession of Cartref. He pressed the rudder of the depth, wanting to go down, but he did it unconsciously, in the direction opposite to his desire, and realized that he was dying. The airplane took off abruptly upward. Then a series of incorrect efforts followed, and the machine, having lost its air rail, swayed and turned over like a thrown playing card, rushed down. Cartref saw now the sky, now the earth rising from the depths. The wings of the falling airplane spread below him, then above. The pilot's heart trembled, confused the blows and turned to stone in unbearable pain. But for a few moments he heard more music, which now became clear, as if it were singing in his ears. The merry overflow of flutes, the groan of the drum, the brass scream of the trumpets and a few separate words spoken by someone on the ground in a tone of worried remarks were the last perception of the pilot. The machine tore into the ground and dug into the dust in a pile of smoky rubbish. The unknown man, having flown over the bay, sank into the forest and, without haste, set off for the city.

Toys

In one of the French border towns, occupied by the Germans, there lived a certain Alvaz, a man with a dark past, not in the worst sense of the word, but in such a way that no one knew absolutely nothing about his life. Alvazh was a tired man. Reality bored him to death. He lived very solitary, secretive; the only happiness in his life were toys with which Alvazh replaced the complex and painful reality. He had splendid cardboard farms with cows and wells; whole towns, fortresses, cannons shooting peas, wooden soldiers, cavalrymen, ships and steamers. Alvazh often arranged model battles between the two toy armies, placing the armies on two card tables at opposite ends of the room and firing cannons with soaked peas. Alvazh had a partner in this harmless occupation - a deaf-mute boyfriend Simony; but Simonia had recently been shot by the Prussians, and the old man was enjoying himself alone. The Prussians are said to have occupied the city. On the fifth day of the occupation, Captain Pupenson went in the evening to the town hall, or city hall, to supervise the execution of thirty French hostages. Pupenson's path ran past Alvage's house. Quite surprised that, despite the prohibition, an eight o'clock fire was burning in the window of the side facade, Pupenson climbed the palisade, crept up to the window and looked inside. He saw an outlandish picture: a frail old man in a nightcap and a dressing gown was loading a vershok cannon, saying: - "I'll smash everyone, wait!" And a pea with a crash put several birch privates, who had fallen at attention, their hands at the seams. Pupenson, rattling his saber, climbed out the window. Alvaz was not frightened, he was waiting for what would happen next. -- What are you doing? said Pupenson. - What are you, child, or what? -- As you wish! - objected Alvazh. - You like your game, I like mine. Mine is better. Would you like to play a game? Pupenson, shrugging his shoulders and smiling, looked at the armies, drawn up quite correctly, with all the sets of artillery, wagons, cavalry and sappers. The toys were made by Alvazh himself. -- Oh well! said Pupenson condescendingly, twirling the cannon in his hands. - How does it work? So, or what ?! The attraction of novelty and originality is great! An hour passed, then another ... Two people were sitting in the room: the enthusiastic, flushed Pupenson and the triumphant Alvazh; he, as a more sweeping hand, continually hit Pupenson's army before he had time to shoot a dozen or two from him. The peas jumped frantically across the floor and tables. Finally Pupenson remembered the case and regretfully left Alvage with his curious armies. But he was late - half an hour ago the shooting of the hostages was canceled (for they threatened to shoot the German hostages in the neighboring city). But if he hadn't been late, everything would have been over for thirty people before the abolition of the execution had come. Excellent toys of the old man Alvazh should be got by all militant people.

Night and day

At eight o'clock in the evening, at sunset of the forest sun, the sentry Moore replaced the sentry Lida at the very post from which they had not returned. Lead stood until eight and was therefore comparatively nonchalant; yet, when Moore took his place, Lead silently crossed himself. Moore also crossed himself: the disastrous hours - eight or twelve - fell on him. - Have you heard anything? -- he asked. - I did not see anything and did not hear anything. It's very scary here, Moore, by this fabulous stream. -- Why? Lead thought and said: - Very quiet. Indeed, in the soft silence of the thickets, cut through by a light, silently rushing stream, there was an elusive insinuity, a lulling caress of danger, pretending to be a serene blue evening, forest and clear water. - Look at both! Lead said and squeezed Moore's hand tightly. Moore was left alone. The place where he stood was a triangular forest area, one side of which was adjacent to the stone break of the stream. Moore approached the water, thinking that Lead was right: the character of fabulousness was bright and magnificent here, in a wild corner, created as if entirely for gnomes and werewolves. The brook was not wide, but impetuous; having washed away the banks, he dug in them over the crystal current sullen canopies falling in a black shadow; yellow as gold, and green, in seaweed, large stones cluttered the bottom; the spreading foliage of the forest rose above the water in a lush shadowy vault, and below, in rough chaos, plowing the water, giant roots tangled; the trunks, with the look of mysterious werewolf giants, retreating row after row into the silence of the wild twilight, melted, becoming darkness, eerie unsociability and silence. Thousands of reflections of dormant light in and above the stream created a shiny pink dot that shone on the rock near the shore; Moore stared at her until she was gone. - Damn place! - said Moore, searching the lawn inquisitively, as if the grass trampled by his predecessors could indicate an invisible danger, whisper a warning, overshadow the mind with a sudden guess. - Sigby, Goku and Bilder stood here, as I stand. The huge Biron was walking anxiously, flexing his ox shoulders; Geshan, pinching the antennae, examined every twig, stump, trunk with beautiful, ram's eyes ... There are none. Maybe the same is waiting for me ... What is the same? But he, like the entire detachment of Captain Cherbel, did not know this. Among the soldiers who died from snake bites, fever or a voluntary desire to hide in a mysterious nothing, which was not uncommon in the annals of a terrible campaign, among the dead and wounded, Cherbel noted five "missing" in the column of soldiers' expense. Various assumptions were made by the detachment. The simplest, most probable explanation was found by Cherbel: “I suspect,” he said, “of a very intelligent, patient and dexterous savage who attacks unexpectedly and silently.” No one objected to the captain, but the alarm of the imagination persistently looked for other versions with which it was possible to connect the absence of a trace of the murders and the absence of the enemy near the enemy, proved by the scouts. For some time Moore thought about all this, then his appropriately tuned mind, at the risk of falling into superstition, began to paint nightmarish scenes of secret disappearances, without restraining the road of sick fear to the cliffs of fantasy. He saw white slashed necks; corpses at the bottom of the stream; long, like a shadow in the sunset, hairy arms, reaching from behind the trunks to the back of the numb soldier; traps, wolf pits; he heard the string flight of an arrow poisoned by milkweed or the venom of the ssa spider, which looked like a lampshade frame. A round dance of fear-tormented faces swirled in his eyes. He examined the gun. The stern steel of the bolt, the dagger bayonet, the four-pound stock and thirty rounds destroyed the impression of defenselessness; Glancing boldly around, Moore moved across the lawn, examining the edge. In the meantime, the air current of light that fell from the glowing clouds in the evening blue had extinguished, and the trees slowly wrapped in the transparent cloaks of twilight on the just before illuminated side. From the shadows that destroyed the sparkling gaps of the foliage, from the falling asleep stream and the pensiveness of the calm sky, a cold threat wafted, heavy, like a glance from under the brow caught by a turned man. Moore, feeling the bushes with his bayonet, went out to the stream. He looked up and down the stream inquisitively, then turned to himself, persuading Moore not to succumb to fear and, no matter what happened, to hold himself firmly. The sun went down completely, carrying away the shadows that filled the forest. Temporarily, until the twilight turned into darkness, it became, as it were, more spacious and cleaner in the sunless thicket. The gaze penetrated more freely beyond the edge of the forest, where it was quiet, as in a crypt, deserted and gloomy. The language of fear had not yet whispered to Mura incoherent words that made him languish and cold, but he listened and looked like a beast that went out to dangerous places, the possessions of man. Darkness came, receding before the convulsive tension of Moore's eyes, and again heaped when, powerless to overcome the involuntary tears clouding his pupils, the soldier rubbed his eyes. Finally the darkness overcame. Moore saw his hands, his gun, but nothing more. Excitedly, he began to pace up and down, clutching the gun with his sweaty hands. His steps were almost noiseless, except for one, when a twig cracked under the support of his leg; the sharp sound in the ringing silence chained Moore to his place. The murmur of his heart numbed him; desperate wild fear struck at the trembling legs with a sudden weakness, heavy as suffocation. He crouched down, then lay down, crawled a few feet and froze. This did not last long; catching his breath, the sentry stood up. But he was already in the grip of fear and submissive to it. The main thing his fiery imagination was working on now was the space behind him. It couldn't disappear. No matter how often he turned, there was always behind him a treacherous emptiness of darkness, unattainable to sight. He had no eyes in the back of his head to deal with it. The back was everywhere, as was the front everywhere for a creature with one face and one back. Death was behind me. When he walked, it seemed to him that someone was catching up with him; stopping - he languished in anticipation of a mysterious blow. The thick smell of the forest was dizzy. Finally, Moore imagined that he was dead, asleep, or delirious. A sudden temptation struck him: to get away from torture, to run headlong to exhaustion, to expand the limits of darkness, moving away a terrible place with his fleeing back. He had already sighed deeply, pondering the step prompted by cowardice, when he suddenly noticed that the thinning gloom sharply outlined the shadows of the trunks, and the stream flashed by the cliff, and everything around came to life in a clear night splendor. The moon was rising. A moonlight morning illuminated the green of the fragrant vaults, laying down black rows of shadows, a cold languor of light reigned in the shimmering still air under the blue sky. Weightless, ghostly ice!

After carefully examining the edge and bank of the brook once more, Moore calmed down somewhat. In the stillness of the forest, as far as the eye could see, there was no suspicious; thinking that no one would dare to attack in a moonlit glade, Moore smiled gratefully at the night sun and stood in the middle of the lawn, turning from time to time in all directions. So he stood for a minute, two, three, then he heard a clear, noisy sigh, which was heard not far behind him, went cold and jumped away with a gun at the ready to the stream. "Here it is, here, here! .." - thought the soldier. The bloody visions came to life in a shocked mind. Moore was exhausted by the anticipation of terror; dead, he turned his eyes dim with fear in the direction from which the sigh had flown in - when suddenly, very close, someone called him by his name, three times. "Moore! Moore! Moore! .." The sentry cocked the hammer, aiming at the voice. He did not control himself. The voice was quiet and smooth. His vaguely familiar tone might have been a mistake of hearing. -- Who's here? Moore asked almost silently, in one breath. - Do not approach anyone, I will kill, kill everyone! He was poorly aware of what he was saying. One of the moon shadows moved behind the bushes, melted and appeared again, closer. Moore lowered the gun, but not the trigger, even though Lieutenant Wren was standing in front of him. “It's me,” he said. -- Do not move. Quiet. Ordinary full face Rena seemed mysterious and sly in the moonlight. The teeth shone brightly, the mustache was silvery, the shadow of the visor fell on the sparks of the pupils, flashing like those of a lynx. He approached Moore, and the sentry, turning pale, retreated, pointing his gun. He looked at Ren in silence. "Why did you come?" the soldier thought. A wild, absurd crazy thought rushed into his sick mind: "Ren is a killer, he, he, he is killing!" - Don't come near, - the soldier said, - I'll put you down! -- What?! - No kidding! Said - I will kill! - Moore, are you out of your mind ?! -- I do not know. Don't come up. Ren stopped. He was exposed to danger quite natural in such an exceptional position and was aware of it. “Don't be afraid,” he said, retreating to the forest. - I came to your aid, you fool. I want to find out everything. I'll be here behind the bushes. “I’m scared,” said Moore, swallowing tears of horror. “I’m afraid, afraid of you, afraid of everything. You are killing the sentries! -- No! -- You! -- No!! Terrible as a nightmare was this ridiculous argument between the officer and the maddened soldier. They stood facing each other, one with a revolver, the other with a gun dancing wildly at the shoulder. The first came to his senses, the lieutenant. - Here's a revolver! He threw the weapon at Moore's feet. - Pick him up. I am unarmed. The sentry, watching Ren from under his brows, raised his weapon. The panic attack subsided; Moore became calmer and more trusting. “I'm tired,” he said plaintively. “I'm terribly tired. Forgive me. - Go dip your head in the stream. Ren repeated the advice in a tone of command, and the soldier obeyed. Ren's hope for help and the icy water refreshed him. Hatless, with wet hair, he returned to the lawn, waiting for what would happen next. “Maybe we'll both die,” Ren said, “and you should be prepared for that. It's now eleven. He looked at his watch. - In a hurry, I almost suffocated in these difficult passable places, but my strength is with me, and I hope for all the best. Stand or walk as before. I'll be nearby. Trust fate, Moore. He did not finish, felt, being a thrifty person, the second, pocket revolver and disappeared among the trees.

Ren found himself comfortable in the bushes that hid him, but he himself could see the clearing, the bank of the stream, and Moore walking in all directions. The lieutenant thought about his plan to destroy the mysterious death. The plan required endurance; The most dangerous part of it was the need to allow an attack, which, in case of delay, threatened the hour-long rapid transfer to heaven. The difficulty of the task was heightened by Ren's vague conjecture — one of those obsessive dark thoughts that make the possessed maniac violent. When Ren tried to admit the irrevocable truth of this conjecture, or rather, the assumption, he was sick of horror; Hoping that he would be mistaken, he left the secret of the forest at last to be solved by events and froze in the pose of a hunter watching over sensitive game. The bushes where Ren settled, arranged in a ring, formed what looked like a well. Ren's motionless shadow crossed him. Thinking that by stretching out his stiff leg, he himself changed the outline of the shadow, Ren in the next instant established something startling: his shadow moved noticeably from right to left. She seemed to be living on her own, outside of Ren's will. He didn't turn around. The slightest movement could betray him, punishing him with death. Horror was moving towards him. In painful anticipation of the unknown, Ren watched intently the play of the shadow, which had now become twice as long: it was a werewolf shadow that had lost all semblance of Ren, the original. Soon she had three arms and two heads, she slowly split in two, and the one above - the shadow of a shadow - disappeared into the bushes, freeing the black, motionless reflection of Ren, who was sitting without breathing. No matter how he listened to what was happening behind him, even the slightest sound during the metamorphosis with the shadow was not caught by the heavy strain of hearing; behind him, mixing two shadows with his figure, stood, and then someone passed, and this someone moved perfectly silently. He was the visible embodiment of fear, devoid of body and weight. It was an unforgivable nervousness for Ren to rush in pursuit of the unknown. He saw and felt with his soul the rapid approach of an unknown denouement, but he kept the power of self-control to the decisive moment. At this time, the sentry Moore stood near a huge tamarind, facing Ren. With unexpected speed, the thick branches of the tree behind Moore were in indescribable excitement, separating the man who had jumped down. He fell with his arms outstretched for a grip. His knees hit Moore's shoulders; at the same instant, the sentry, falling from the jolt, screamed and released the gun, and iron fingers choked Moore, hurrying to kill, skillfully and quickly twisting his blue neck. Ren ran out of the ambush. The attacker's cloudy eyes turned to him. Gripping the convulsing soldier with one hand, he held the other towards Ren, protecting his face. Ren hit him in the head with the barrel of a revolver. Then, having thrown the first victim, the killer rushed to the second, trying to knock down the enemy, and showed in this struggle all the dexterity of ferocity and despair. For some time, breathing sharply and heavily, they walked around the stunned sentry, squeezing each other's shoulders. Soon, the lieutenant's enemy managed to grab him by the leg and back, knocking him off balance, while he bit Ren's wrist. There was nothing human in his face, it shone with murder. The muscles of my stiff arms fluttered with tension. From time to time he repeated strange, wild words, like the cry of a bird. Ren hit him in the solar plexus. The terrible face grew dead; eyes closed, weakened, hands darted back, and someone fell unconscious. Ren watched silently at his face, which was thin with pain and rage. But it was not this that changed and, as it were, transformed him - among the thoroughbred, sharp features appeared others, destroying for a gaze the former expression of this terrible, like a mask, face. It felt swollen and rough. Ren tied his opponent's hands with a thin belt and hurried to Moore. The sentry groaned hoarsely, rubbing his neck. He was lying on his gun, Ren scooped up water with a helmet, gave the soldier a drink, and he revived slightly. Ren's tired face seemed like a heavenly vision to him. He realized that he was alive, and, seizing the lieutenant's hand, kissed it. - Nonsense! Ren muttered. - I also owe you that ... - Did you kill him? - Killed? Um ... yeah, almost ... Ren stood over Moore's head, hiding from him the man who was lying with his hands tied. The sentry sat down, holding his head. Ren raised the gun. “Moore,” he said, “are you able to understand me exactly? - Yes, Lieutenant. - Get up and go into the thickets without turning around. There you will wait for my whistle. But God forbid turning around - do you hear, Moore? Otherwise I will shoot you. So you can't see me yet. Go! There was no room for jokes. The sentry was aware of this, but did not understand anything. Moore's hesitant movements showed hesitation. Ren saw a quarter of his profile and snapped the trigger. - One more movement of the head and I shoot! He pushed Moore hard toward the woods. -- Well! The gun remains on the lawn until you return. Wait for your shift. Remember that I did not come, and wait until morning to tell. Moore staggered into the moonlit forest gap. Ren lifted the bound man and walked with him into the thicket at a distance inaccessible to hearing. Having folded up his burden, he busied himself with the prisoner. Bound was a corpse. “The blow was good,” Ren said, “but too conscientious. He began to rub his defeated heart, and he, twitching painfully, soon opened his eyes. Wandering, they stopped at Rene, at first with bewilderment, then with hatred and proud gloom. He bent over, raised himself, trying to free his hands, and, realizing that it was useless, lowered his head. Ren squatted opposite him. He was afraid to speak, the sound of his voice would take away any hope that what was happening was a dream, a ghost, or, at worst, a sick delirium. Finally, he made up his mind. “Captain Cherbel,” Ren said, “tonight's happenings are incredible. Explain them. The bound man raised his head. Curiosity and suspicion flashed in his mobile face. He didn't understand Ren. The thought of being laughed at drove him into a rage. He jumped up, trying to break the bonds, and Ren jumped up at once. - Dog soldier! - Cherbel spoke, but fell silent, feeling weak - the result of boxing - and leaned back against a tree. Catching his breath, he spoke again: - Call Cherbel the one who brought you with your guns to these forests. We didn't call you. Obeying the greed that you whites have in your blood, you came to take everything from the poor savages. Our villages have been burned, our fathers and brothers are rotting in the swamps, pierced by bullets; women are exhausted by constant transitions and get sick. You are following us. For what? Are there few fields, animals, fish and trees in your domain? You frighten off our game; deer and foxes run north where the air is free of your scent. You burn forests like children playing with fires, steal our bread, livestock, grass, trample crops. Leave or you will all be exterminated. I am the leader of the Roddo tribe - Banu Scap, I know what I am saying. You cannot outsmart us. We are a forest, for every tree of which death is waiting for you. - Cherbel! cried Ren in horror. - I expected this, but did not believe it until the last minute. Who are you? The captain fell silent contemptuously. Now he clearly saw that he was being bullied. He sat down at the foot of the trunk, firmly resolved to be silent and wait for death. - Cherbel! Ren called softly. - Go back to your place. The prisoner was silent. The lieutenant sat down opposite him, not releasing his revolver. His thoughts got in the way. His condition was bordering on frenzy. “You killed five people,” Ren said, not expecting an answer, however, “where are they?” The captain smiled slowly. - They feel good in the trees, - he said harshly, - I hung them on the other side of the stream, closer to the peaks. This was said in a harsh, businesslike tone. Ren fell silent now. He was afraid to find out the details, dreading Cherbel's voice. The captain sat motionless, eyes closed. Ren pushed him lightly; the person did not move; apparently he was in oblivion. Sweat beaded on his temples, he breathed shortly and was as pale as the light of the moon squinting through the foliage.

Ren thought about many things. The amazing reality stunned him. He carefully examined his hands, his body, with new curiosity towards them, as if unsure that the body was his, Rena, with his eternal, unchanging soul, not knowing hesitation and duality. He was in a forest full of silent whispers calling to sneak, hide, eavesdrop and hide, step silently, lie in wait and destroy. He was filled with a strange distrust of himself, admitting with a slight sinking of his heart that it was not surprising if the next moment he wanted to rush with a wild cry into the sleepy wilderness, beat trees with his fists, swing a club, howl and dance. Millennia woke up in him. He imagined it clearly and got scared. His impressionability became more acute. It seemed to him that in the moonlit twilight high suspended corpses were swinging, the bushes were moving, hiding the killers, and the trunks were changing places, moving closer to him. To calm himself, Ren put the muzzle to his temple; the cold steel groped for the throbbing vein and returned his firmness of consciousness. Now he just sat and waited for Cherbel to wake up to kill him. The moon disappeared; a warm dawn was approaching. The first ray of the sun awakened Cherbel, pink from the sun, his heavily sunken face looked attentively at Ren. - Ren, what happened? he said anxiously. -- Why am I here? And you? A curse! Am I connected ?! What the hell! .. - This is a dream, Cherbel, - said Ren sadly, - this is a dream, yes, no more. Now I will untie you. He quickly released the captain and put a hand on his shoulder. "So," he thought, "it means that Banu-Scap leaves at dawn. But at dawn ... Cherbel will also leave." "Captain," Ren said, "do you believe me?" -- Yes. - Then take your time to find out the truth and answer three questions. When did you go to bed? - At eleven in the evening. Ren, are you completely sane? - Quite. What kind of dream did you have? -- Dream? - Cherbel looked inquisitively at Ren. - Does this have anything to do with this case? - Maybe ... - I have had the same dream for several days in a row, - Cherbel said with displeasure, - I think, under the influence of events at the post of Stone Brook. I see that I am leaving the camp and killing the sentries ... yes, I am the soul of them ... The dark echo of reality for one terrible and short moment made him shudder, he turned pale and angry. - The third question: are you afraid of death? Because this is not a dream, Cherbel. I grabbed you the moment you strangled Moore. Yes, two souls. But you, Cherbel, could not have known this. I will not leave you long in the grip of a truly diabolical discovery; it can drive you crazy. - Ren, - said the captain, waving, - my slap smells of blood, and you ... He did not finish. Ren grabbed Cherbel by the arm and fired. “It's better this way, perhaps,” he said, looking at the dead man: “he died, feeling like Cherbel. A different self would shock him. Major Castro and I will bury him sometime tonight. No one else can know about this. He went out to the stream and saw a brisk new sentry - Riedel. “Put the gun down, all is well,” Ren said. - I walked, shot at the goat, but unsuccessfully. - She ran to die! the soldier answered cheerfully. “It seems that now,” Ren said to himself as he walked away, “I know exactly why the camp sentries saw Cherbel at night. Oh God, and with one soul it's hard for a person!

Terrible sight

The blind man walked, feeling the road with a stick and from time to time stopping to listen to the distant firing. Blow after blow, and sometimes two and three together, cannon explosions waved over a line of copses and yellow fields, wrapped in the blue tones of midday, leaning towards evening. The blind man's name was Akinf Krylitsky. He went blind long ago and by accident; he became blind like this: As a boy, he grazed cows during a thunderstorm; thinking to shelter from the rain, Akinf approached a large sedge, but at that moment lightning destroyed the tree and stunned Krylitsky, he fell unconscious, and when he got up, he saw nothing, he was stricken with nervous blindness. Akinf was now forty years old, and he often mortally yearned for his lost sight, the impressions of which had almost been erased in his memory for such a long period of time. He was walking at the moment to his village on foot from the district town, twenty miles away. He did not need a guide, as the road was familiar and did not branch out. He walked and wondered whether his village was already in the area of hostilities, or not yet. Akinf stayed in the city for four days, begging; and he lived in the village with his brother. The blind man did not come across anyone on the way, and this surprised him a lot; usually carts and pedestrians passed through here. Finally, having determined with fatigue that he should soon approach the village, the blind man smelled burning. Such a smell, cooled down and, so to speak, cold, usually smells of old forest mountain wastelands. Akinf, alarmed, quickened his pace. He really wanted to see the village, it, of course, has not changed at all since the time when he saw her as a boy, except that the old huts were replaced by new ones and, in turn, also grew old. Garyu smelled stronger. "Isn't it a fire? - thought Akinf. - Aren't we on fire with my brother, womb boz ?!" It was very quiet all around, except that gunshots were yapping in the distance, and Akinf's heart sank. Meanwhile he was descending along the hollow to the bridge over a narrow, deep ravine. With his habitual foot, Akinf stepped onto the imaginary beginning of the bridge and, choking with surprise, flew down, from a height of three fathoms, to the clay bottom of the ravine. The bridge was destroyed by a stray shell, and Akinf, of course, did not know this. When he woke up, his whole body ached and ached from hitting the ground. His arms and legs were intact, and blood was caked in his mustache and bruised lip. But this was not what attracted his attention: with surprise and dismay, with a strong heartbeat, he noticed that the former black gloom had been replaced by a misty and reddish one. Immediately he saw his hands and realized that his vision had returned to him. It came back from a new strong nervous shock at the time of the fall - this is the way nervous blindness often passes. Akinf with fear and joy got out of the ravine and approached the village. He saw a row of blackened hedges and piles of black ash among them — all that was left of a once brisk village. Not a human soul, not a dog was in this sad place. The village burned to the ground, maybe from the shells. And then Akinf felt that again his vision was obscured, but this time - with tears.

Wild mill

I walked through a terrain that was unfamiliar and difficult in all respects. She was gloomy and dark, like a saddened chimney sweep. The bare autumn trees cut crooked twigs into the evening sky. The swampy soil, full of holes and bumps, wobbled, almost breaking its legs. The open space, furrowed by the wind, bathed in fine rain. It was getting dark, and I, with even greater anguish than before, was drawn to housing. I, dressed in such a way that on a more or less clean street, would have caught more than one sidelong glance and, probably, the pitiful sighs of old women, more compassionate than shrewd about a small handout, I, dressed badly, suffered from cold and rain. My food that day was a cup of dog sourdough stolen from near the fence. Long accustomed to the pleasant blue of tobacco smoke, I have not smoked for two or three days. My legs hurt, I felt unwell, and my attitude to the world in these hours of wandering was like despair, although I was still walking, still breathing, still looking around, angrily looking for shelter. And it seemed to me that not far away, from a hollow where a narrow river flowed, smoke was winding. Looking closely, I was convinced through the thick curtain of rain that there is housing. It was a mill. I went up to her and knocked on the door, which was opened by an old man of a very gloomy and unfriendly appearance. I explained that I was lost, that I was hungry and tired. “Come in!” Said the old man, “there’s a corner and food for you.” He sat me down at a table in a small, semi-dark room and disappeared, soon returning with a bowl of stew and a piece of bread. As I ate, the old man looked at me and sighed. - Would you like to rest? - He asked when I was satisfied, and in response to my desire, expressed by a loud yawn, he led me upstairs, into a kind of tiny cage with a small window. The wretched bed beckoned to me like a precious alcove. I threw myself at her and disappeared into oblivion of the deepest sleep. It was night. Feeling, probably unconsciously, some discomfort, I turned and woke up. When I tried to move my hand, I failed. In fear that suddenly overwhelmed me, I tensed my limbs - the ropes cut into my body - I was tied hand and foot. The dawn was breaking. In the agonizing vibrations of his light, I saw an old man; standing three steps away from me with a long knife in his hand. He said: - Don't shout. I tied you up and kill you. For what? For the fact that nature is so gloomy and terrible around my home. I've lived here for twenty years. Have you seen the surroundings? They call for murder imperatively. In places like this one must kill. The sky is black, the earth is deaf and black, the bare trees are fierce and unsociable. I must kill you ... While the madman was talking, making the suggestion of nature to justify his cruel deed, the sky slowly opened, and the sun, rare in these places, poured gold from a knife into all corners of the room. The bright light stunned the old man. He staggered and ran away. With some difficulty, loosening the rope, I somehow freed myself and jumped out into the swamp through the window. Living alone in dark places develops suspicion, cruelty, and bloodthirstiness.

Duel of the leaders

In the deep jungles of North India, near Lake Izamet, there was a hunting village. And near Lake Kinobay there was another hunting village. The inhabitants of both villages have long been at enmity with each other, and almost not a month passed without one of the hunters killed on one side or the other, and the killers could not be caught. Once in Lake Izamet, all the fish and water were poisoned, and the inhabitants of Izamet notified the hunters of Kinobay that they were going to fight them for life and death in order to end the exhausting enmity at once. As soon as it became known about this, the inhabitants of both villages united in detachments and went into the forests, so that there, hoping to attack by surprise, do away with the enemies. A week passed, and now the scouts of Izamet tracked down the warriors of Kinobai, who had settled in a small hollow. The Izamets decided to attack the Kinobay people immediately and began to prepare. The leader of Izamet was young Sing, a fearless and noble man. He had his own war plan. Imperceptibly leaving his own people, he appeared to the kinobaytsy and entered the tent of Iret, the leader of Izamet's enemies. Iret, seeing Singh, grabbed the knife. Sing said, smiling, “I don’t want to kill you. Listen: in less than two hours, you and I, with equal strength and equal courage, will rush at each other. It is clear what will happen: no one will survive, and our wives and children will die of hunger. Offer your warriors the same thing that I will offer to mine: instead of a common fight, we will fight one on one. Whose leader wins - that side has won. Going? “You're right,” Iret said, thinking. - Here's my hand. They separated. The warriors of both sides happily agreed to the proposal of their leaders and, having arranged a truce, surrounded the blooming lawn on which the duel took place. Iret and Sing at a signal rushed at each other, brandishing their knives. Steel rang on steel, jumping and flapping hands became more impetuous and threatening and, seizing the moment, Sing, piercing Ireta's left side of the chest, inflicted a mortal wound. Iret still stood and fought, but soon had to collapse. Sing whispered to him, “Iret, hit me in the heart while you can. The death of one leader will arouse hatred for the defeated side, and the massacre will resume ... We must both die; our death will destroy the enmity. And Iret stabbed Sing in the unprotected heart; both, smiling at each other for the last time, fell dead ... There are no more than two villages near Lake Kinobay and Lake Izamet: there is one and it is called the village of Two Winners. So Sing and Iret reconciled the warring people.

Blind Day Canet

Yus, the keeper of wood warehouses near the village of Kipa, which lies on the banks of the Miletus River, having eaten so tightly that he began to crush under the spoon, sat in a good mood by the blue water, smoked and thought that, spending thirty kopecks on food every day, he could carry every Saturday in the savings bank exactly three rubles, which, if you treat this matter carefully and lovingly, will give in ten years the sum of fifteen hundred rubles. Yus will take away his soul, rewarding the greedy body for the deprivations of the past with a luxurious feast with women, wine, cigars, songs and flowers, and for the rest he will buy a tavern and marry. Here he is, the winner of life, the rich innkeeper Yus, walking down the street with his wife on a holiday ... Everyone takes off their hats ... The drums are beating ... Yus, dreaming, got up; he could no longer sit; he wanted to take another look at the main street of Kipa, where the inn would be located. On the street, where the chickens were gargling in the dust and the window panes were glowing in the late afternoon sun, there was not a soul, only the blind Dey Kanet sat, as always, on a bench near Uncle Enoch's flower palisade. Day was a man of about forty with a beautiful, pale, lifeless face (due to blindness). Dey's beggar but neat costume did not make a pitiful impression — there was something decisive in the calm attitude and closed eyes of the blind man. Dei Canet lived in Kip for about a month. No one knew where he came from, and he himself did not tell anyone about it. And he said nothing to anyone about himself - at all. Hearing footsteps, the blind man turned his head. Yus liked to tease Dey - he hated the blind man. Once at Uncle Enoch's house, in the presence of Dey, the watchman spread about "various crooks who want to sit on the neck of working and respectable people"; Enoch blushed, and Day calmly remarked, "I'm glad I don't see more evil people at all." - How, - said Yus in a touching tone, sitting down on Dey's bench, - did you come out to admire the beautiful weather? “Yes,” Day said softly after a pause. - The weather is amazing. How the mountains are clearly visible! It seems you can reach it with your hand. “Yes,” Dey agreed. “Yes. Yus paused. His eyes gleamed merrily; he perked up, he even felt some gratitude to Day for free entertainment. “How unpleasant all the same, I think, to go blind,” he continued, trying not to laugh and speaking in a pretensely condolently tone. - Great, great, I think, suffering: to see nothing. For example, I can read a newspaper three steps away from me. Honestly. Oh, what a pretty kitty she ran! What do you think, Canet, why does snow always lie on these mountains? “It's cold out there,” Day said. - So, so ... Why does it seem blue? Day didn't answer. He was beginning to get bored with this game of "cat and mouse". "Okay, shut up, - thought Yus, - I'll puncture you now." - Do you see anything? -- he asked. “I don’t think,” Day said, smiling, “yes, I can hardly see anything now. - Oh, what a pity! - Yus sighed. - It is a pity that in a few years you will not see my beautiful inn. Yes Yes! However, you hardly saw anything at all, even before you were blind. From his own irritation, which was not repulsed, Yus fell into gloom and fell silent. After filling his pipe and smoking a smoke, he looked sideways at Dey, who was sitting with his face exposed to the sun. A minute passed, then another, - suddenly Day said: - Once I played in the capital's royal theater. Out of surprise, Yus dropped the receiver, - Dey never spoke about himself. - How? What is it? he asked, confused. Day, smiling softly, continued in an even, cheerful voice: - ... I played in the theater. I was a famous tragedian, I often visited the palace and loved my art very much. So, Yus, I performed in a play, the action of which approximately corresponded to the events of that time. The fact is that it was hanging in the balance to be or not to be some important, state value, event, on which the welfare of the people depended. The king and the ministers hesitated. I had to carry out my role in such a way as to touch these dignitaries - to persuade, finally, to decide on what was necessary. And this is difficult - a difficult task lay ahead of me, Yus. The entire courtyard was present at the performance. When, after the third act, the curtain fell, and then rose again noisily to show me, provoked by such applause, which is like a storm, I went out and saw that the whole theater was crying, and I saw tears in the eyes of the king himself and realized what I had done. it's good. Indeed, Yus, I played that evening as if my life depended on it. Day was silent. The pipe went out in Yus's motionless hand. -- The decision was taken. Feeling won out over caution. Then, Yus, going on stage for the last time to say goodbye to the audience, I saw as many flowers as it would have been if I had collected all the flowers of the Miletus Valley and brought them here. These flowers were intended for me. Day fell silent and thought. He completely forgot about Yus. The watchman, getting up sullenly, went to his hut, and although the summer day, having lost the dazzle of its zenith, was still burning over the mountains with the glitter of distant snows, it seemed to Yus that around the remote village of Kipa, and in the village itself, and above the river, and everywhere it became completely dark ...

Notes (edit)

Horse head. For the first time - the magazine "Krasnaya Niva", 1923, No 18. Crepe- here: mourning bandage. The lost sun. For the first time - "Krasnaya Gazeta", evening. issue, 1923, January 29. Talkative brownie. For the first time - "Literary leaf" of the Krasnaya Gazeta, 1923, March 29. An ingenious player. For the first time - "Krasnaya Gazeta", evening. issue, 1923, March 8. One hundred versts along the river. For the first time - the magazine " Modern world", 1916, No. 7-8. Hartmann, Edward(1842-1906) - German idealist philosopher. Schopenhauer, Arthur(1788-1860) - German idealist philosopher. Murder in Kunst-Fisch. For the first time - "Krasnaya Gazeta", evening. issue, 1923, January 15. Gladiators. For the first time - the magazine "Petrograd", 1923, No 1. Triclinium-- v Ancient rome- a dining table with boxes on three sides, as well as the room where this table is located. Tympanum- ancient percussion musical instrument, a kind of copper plates. Army order. For the first time - the magazine "Red Panorama", 1923, No 1. Famous namesake- Jeanne d "Arc (1412-1431), national heroine of France, leader of the army that liberated Orleans and Reims during the Hundred Years War. Tramp and warden. For the first time - Sat. "Heart of the Desert", M.-L., Land and Factory, 1924. Ravachol, Leon- French anarchist and terrorist who blew up bombs in the apartments of court officials in Paris in 1892, who participated in the trials of anarchists. Jack the Ripper- the nickname of the London murderer who committed a number of atrocious murders in 1888-1889. Nat Pinkerton- an American detective, the hero of a series of detective stories, popular at the beginning of the 20th century, written by various authors. On the cloudy shore For the first time - the magazine "Krasnaya Niva", 1924, No 28. Weight(spoiled English master) - master, master. Rope. For the first time - Sat. "White Fire", Pg., Polar Star, 1922. Comprachicos- in Spain, England and other countries in the XIII-XVII centuries - people who kidnapped or bought children and disfigured them for the purpose of selling them to rich houses or booths as buffoons. Rene. For the first time - the magazine "Argus", 1917, No. 9-10. Latude, Jean Henri(1725-1805) - French adventurer who served in prisons for over 30 years. Iron mask- a mysterious prisoner who died in the Bastille in 1703. His face was always under a mask. Cellini, Bienvenuto(1500-1571) - famous Italian sculptor, jeweler and writer. Merry widow- here: the ironic name of the guillotine. Jack of Hearts- the nickname of the rich bums, here: members of the gang of the same name. Willow... For the first time - the magazine "Petrograd", 1923, No 11. Legless. For the first time - the magazine "Ogonyok", 1924, No 7 (46). Cheerful fellow traveler. For the first time - the magazine "Leningrad", 1924, No 4. Cyrano de Bergerac water- here: wine. Cyrano de Bergerac (1619-1655) - French writer, known as a brave, duelist, reveler. Pied Piper. For the first time - in the magazine "Russia" No 3 (12), 1924. Published according to the book of the same name. M., "Library" Ogonyok "No 50, 1927. E. Arnoldi in his memoirs" Belletrist Green "tells about the origin of the idea of the story" Pied Piper. " noticed, - writes Arnoldi, - that aroused Green's lively attention. - You know, I liked the idle phone that rang in the empty apartment! he said when I finished. - I'll write a story about the atom. After a while, Green somehow casually said to me: - I am already writing a story about a telephone in an empty apartment! He did not add any details to this. I found it inconvenient to question, although I was very interested in what would turn out from the incident I described. I imagined that Green would turn the ringing phone into some culmination of a psychological conflict. For quite a long time I did not hear anything about the upcoming story. Then Green suddenly told me: - With the story about the telephone in an empty apartment, something completely different turns out ... But the inactive telephone will still ring! "(Zvezda, No. 12, 1963). Rozhdestvensky tells about him (the background): “At that time (1920 - 1921 - VS) it was not good not only with food, but also with food for the "- I had to be content with chips and logs brought from the street, from the outskirts of the city, where unbroken fences still existed. Granted, however, firewood, but not so often and not in sufficient quantities. We were greatly helped by the plump, thickly bound office books, which lay in abundance in the vast vaulted rooms and passages of the empty bank, which was located on the lower floor of our huge house. Travels into this labyrinth of all abandoned, boarded-up premises were always surrounded by mystery and usually took place in deep twilight. Greene loved to be the leader of such sorties. We wandered for a long time in the light of the cinder we captured, slipping on the piles of paper trash piled everywhere, picking up everything suitable for both the firebox and for writing. The room seemed huge and it was easy to get lost in it. Not without difficulty, we then got out. When I read one of the best stories of A. S. Green, "The Pied Piper", I always remember this empty labyrinth of corridors and passages in the dim flickering light of a cinder, among piles of piled paper, overturned cabinets, shifted towards the counters. And at the same time I am amazed at the accuracy of Green's, this time quite realistic description. "(Collection" Memoirs of A. S. Green. " Destiny taken by the horns. For the first time - the journal "Fatherland", 1914, No. 7. For publication in the publishing house "Mysl", in 1928, A.S. Greene reworked the story significantly. Mysterious plate. For the first time - the newspaper "Petrogradskiy Listok", 1916, June 24 (July 6). How I was dying on the screen. For the first time - the newspaper "Petrogradsky leaf", 1916. 9 (22), 10 (23) August. In the magazine "XX-th century", 1917, No 26 after the phrase. "I got up and lit the fire" followed: "Aunt Viruda must have brought our children," said his wife, waking up. Champs Elysees- here: the abode of the blessed souls. Checkmate in three moves. For the first time - the magazine "Bodroe Slovo", 1908, No 4. Competition in Lisse. For the first time - the magazine "Red Police", 1921, NoNo 2-3. According to the memoirs of V.P. Kalitskaya - the first wife of A.S. Green - the story was written in 1910. Toys. For the first time - the magazine "XX-y century", 1915, No 9. Night and day. For the first time, under the title "Sick Soul" - the magazine " New life", 1915, No 3. Terrible eyesight. For the first time - the magazine "XX-y century", 1915, No. 20. Wild mill. For the first time - the magazine "XX-y century", 1915, No 31. Duel of the leaders... For the first time, under the pseudonym A. Stepanov, - the magazine "XX-y century", 1915, No 41. Blind Day Canet... For the first time - the newspaper "Vechernie Izvestia", Moscow, 1916, March 2 (15). Yu. Kirkin