– Quel est cet homme?*
– Ha c’est un bien grand talent, He made his voice all he wants.
– Il devrait bien, madame, to make a panty. #
Чарский был один из коренных жителей Петербурга. He was not yet thirty years; He was not married; Service did not burden his. His late uncle, former vice-governor in good time, I left him a decent estate. His life could be very rewarding; but he had the misfortune to write and publish poems. In magazines called him a poet, and servile writer.
Despite the great advantages, enjoyed by poets (confess: except for the right to put the accusative instead of the genitive and still Coy any so-called poetic license, we have no special advantages for Russian poets are ignorant) - how else, in spite of all their advantages, These people are exposed to great trouble and unprofitable. Evil most bitter, the most unbearable for the poet has his title and nickname, he is branded and that never falls away from him not. The audience looks at it as his own; in its opinion, He was born for her use and enjoyment. Whether he will return from the village, the first counter asks him: Did not you bring us something new? Did he think about the upset of their deeds, about illness charming man he, once vulgar smile accompanies the trite exclamation: right, anything compose! Did he fall in love? – красавица его покупает себе альбом в Английском магазине* и ждет уж элегии. Whether he will come to the man, almost a stranger to him, talk about an important matter, he too is calling his son and makes reading poetry-so; and the boy poet treats him as mutilated verses *. And it still flowers craft! What must adversity? Charskii admitted, that greetings, requests, albums and boys so it bothered, that every minute he was forced to refrain from any rudeness.
Чарский употреблял всевозможные старания, to smooth off the intolerable nickname. He avoided the society of his brothers writers and preferred them to society people, even the most empty. His conversation was most banal and never touched the literature. In his dress he always observed the latest fashion with timidity and superstition, a young Muscovite, the first time-old arrived in St. Petersburg. In his study, retracted as the ladies' bedroom, nothing reminded writer; the book does not lay on the tables and under the tables; Sofa was not spattered with ink; It did not have the disorder, which exposes the presence and absence muse brooms and brushes. Charskii was in despair, if someone from his secular friends found him with a pen in hand. It's hard to believe, to any little things a person could reach, gifted, however, talent and soul. He pretended that a passionate lover of horses, the desperate player, the most delicate deli; although he could not distinguish the Highland breed of Arab, I never remembered trumps and secretly preferred the baked potato sorts inventions of French cuisine. He led a life very scattered; stuck on all the balls, I ate myself to all diplomatic dinners, and at any soiree was as inevitable, rezanovskoe like ice cream.
Однако ж он был поэт, and his passion was irresistible: when it finds it such rubbish (so he called inspiration), Charskii locked himself in his office and wrote from morning till late at night. He confessed to his genuine friends, only then knew true happiness. Rest of the time he walked, chinyas and pretending to be nice and hearing constantly question: if you write something new?
Однажды утром Чарский чувствовал то благодатное расположение духа, when dreams are drawn clearly in front of you and you become alive, unexpected words to translate your visions, when verses easily fall under your pen and sonorous rhymes run towards a coherent thought. Charskii soul was immersed in sweet oblivion ... and the light, and world views, and its own quirks did not exist for him. He wrote poetry.
Вдруг дверь его кабинета скрыпнула и незнакомая голова показалась. Charskii winced and frowned.
- Who's there? – спросил он с досадою, cursing in the soul of his servants, I never sat in front.
Он был высокого росту – худощав и казался лет тридцати. Swarthy features of his face was expressive: pale high forehead, shaded black tufts of hair, black sparkling eyes, aquiline nose and thick beard, surrounding the sunken yellow swarthy cheeks, denounced it alien. He wore a black suit, already whitened at the seams; trousers summer (Although the yard was already late autumn); a worn-out black tie on the shirt-front gleamed yellowish fake diamond; rough hat, it seemed, seen and fair weather and foul weather. To meet this man in the woods, you would take him for a robber; in the society - the political conspirator; in front - of the quack, sells elixirs and arsenic.
– Что вам надобно? – спросил его Чарский на французском языке.
– Signor, – отвечал иностранец с низкими поклонами, – Lei voglia perdonarmi se…#
Чарский не предложил ему стула и встал сам, The conversation continued in Italian.
– Я неаполитанский художник, – говорил незнакомый, – обстоятельства принудили меня оставить отечество. I came to Russia in the hope of his talent.
Чарский подумал, that Neapolitan is going to give a few concerts on cello and goes round the houses their tickets. He was about to give him twenty-five rubles, and soon get rid of it, but the stranger added:
– Надеюсь, Mr, that you make a friendly Helps his brother and bring me into the house, which is accessible for yourself.
Невозможно было нанести тщеславию Чарского оскорбления более чувствительного. He haughtily looked at that, who was called by his fellow.
– Позвольте спросить, Who are you and what do you take me? - he asked, with difficulty restraining his indignation.
Неаполитанец заметил его досаду.
– Signor, – отвечал он запинаясь… – ho creduto… ho sentito… la vostra eccelenza mi perdonera…#
– Что вам угодно? – повторил сухо Чарский.
– Я много слыхал о вашем удивительном таланте; I'm sure, that the local gentlemen put an honor to provide all possible protection of this excellent poet, - posted Italian, – и потому осмелился к вам явиться…
- You're wrong, Mr, – прервал его Чарский. – Звание поэтов у нас не существует. Our poets do not enjoy the protection of masters; our poets themselves gentlemen, and if our patrons (Damn them!) do not know, so much the worse for them. We do not have dangling abbots, which musician would take to the streets to compose libretto #. Our poets do not walk out of the house the house, Statement of helps begging *. However, You probably said in jest, if I am a great poet. truth, I once wrote a few bad epigrams, but, thank God, Messrs nothing to do poets do not have and do not want to have.
Бедный итальянец смутился. He looked around him. pictures, marble statues, bronze, expensive toys, placed on Gothic Bookcase, – поразили его. He understood, between the haughty dandy #, standing in front of him in Crested brocade calotte, golden gown in Chinese, belted a Turkish shawl, and their, poor nomadic artist, to tie worn and shabby frock coat, There was nothing in common. He spoke a few incoherent apologies, I bowed and wanted to go out. Pathetic it touched Chara, which the, contrary to the detail of his character, He had a good heart and a noble. He was ashamed of his self-esteem irritability.
– Куда ж вы? – сказал он итальянцу. – Постойте… Я должен был отклонить от себя незаслуженное титло и признаться вам, I'm not a poet. Now let's talk about your affairs. I am ready to serve you, in what will only be possible. Are you a musician?
- Not, excellence!# - posted Italian, – я бедный импровизатор.
– Импровизатор! – вскрикнул Чарский, почувствовав всю жестокость своего обхождения. – Зачем же вы прежде не сказали, you improviser? – и Чарский сжал ему руку с чувством искреннего раскаяния.
Дружеский вид его ободрил итальянца. He naively talked about their assumptions. His appearance was not deceptive; him the money needed; he hoped Russia's Koyo-how to improve their family circumstances. Charskii listened attentively.
– Я надеюсь, – сказал он бедному художнику, – что вы будете иметь успех: The local community has never heard improviser. Curiosity will be launched; truth, Italian we have not used, you do not understand; but it does not matter; main thing - that you were in vogue.
– Но если у вас никто не понимает итальянского языка, – сказал призадумавшись импровизатор, – кто ж поедет меня слушать?
– Поедут – не опасайтесь: others out of curiosity, other, to spend the evening somehow, third, to show, they understand the Italian language; repeat, one must only, you to be in vogue; and you too will be in vogue, Here is my hand.
Чарский ласково расстался с импровизатором, currently taking its address, and the same evening he went to plead for him.
Я царь, I'm a slave, I worm, I'm God.*
На другой день Чарский в темном и нечистом коридоре трактира отыскивал 35-ый номер. He stopped at the door and knock. Yesterday's Italian opened it.
– Победа! – сказал ему Чарский, – ваше дело в шляпе. princess ** It gives you your room; rout yesterday I had to recruit half of St. Petersburg; print tickets and announcements. I promise you, if not for the triumph, then at least for a profit ...
– А это главное! – вскричал итальянец, expressing the joy of living their movements, свойственными южной его породе. – Я знал, you help me. Warm di Vasso!# You are a poet, as well, as I; and whatever you say, so nice guys! As expressing the gratitude to you my? wait a minute ... if you want to listen to the improvisation?
– Импровизацию!.. Can you do without the public, without music, and without the thunder of applause?
– Пустое, null! Where to find me a better public? You are a poet, you will understand me better than them, and your quiet encouragement dearer to me than the whole storm of applause ... Sit down somewhere and give me a theme.
Чарский сел на чемодане (two chairs, Being in close konurke, one was broken, another littered with papers and linens). Improviser picked up a guitar - and began to Tcharsky, plucking the strings with bony fingers and waiting for his order.
– Вот вам тема, – сказал ему Чарский: - poet elect subjects for his songs; the crowd has no right to control his inspiration.
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