Chapter I
- Who is this man?*
- Ha is a great good talent, He made his voice all he wants.
- It should well, madame, to make a panty. #
Charskii was one of the indigenous inhabitants of St. Petersburg. 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 (admit: 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? - its beauty buys an album in English shop * waiting too elegy. 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.
Charskii tried every possible effort, 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.
But is he was a poet, 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?
One morning Charskii felt the gracious mood, 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.
Suddenly the door of his study creaked and seemed unfamiliar head. Charskii winced and frowned.
- Who's there? - he asked with annoyance, cursing in the soul of his servants, I never sat in front.
The stranger entered.
He was a tall man - lean and appeared thirty years. 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.
- What do you want? - I asked him in French Charskii.
- Mr., - I posted a foreigner with low bows, - She wants to forgive myself if ... #
Charskii not offered him a chair and got himself, The conversation continued in Italian.
- I am a Neapolitan artist, - said a stranger, - circumstances forced me to leave the country. I came to Russia in the hope of his talent.
Charskii thought, 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:
- Hopefully, Mr, that you make a friendly Helps his brother and bring me into the house, which is accessible for yourself.
It was impossible to put vanity Chara insults more sensitive. He haughtily looked at that, who was called by his fellow.
- Let me ask, Who are you and what do you take me? - he asked, with difficulty restraining his indignation.
Neapolitan noticed his vexation.
- Mr., - отвечал он запинаясь ... - I thought ... I heard your excellence ... forgive me ... #
- What do you want? - repeated dryly Charskii.
- I've heard about your amazing talent; I'm sure, that the local gentlemen put an honor to provide all possible protection of this excellent poet, - posted Italian, - and because you have dared to come ...
- You're wrong, Mr, - interrupted Charskii. - Rank so we do not exist. 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. true, I once wrote a few bad epigrams, but, Heavy, Messrs nothing to do poets do not have and do not want to have.
Poor Italian was confused. He looked around him. pictures, marble statues, bronze, expensive toys, placed on Gothic Bookcase, - struck him. 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.
- Where did you? - he said the Italian. - Wait a minute ... I had to divert from himself undeserved Titley and admit you, 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, - I have not improviser.
- improvisation! - I cried Charskii, feeling all the cruelty of his breaking. - Why did not you tell first, you improviser? - Charskii and squeezed his hand with a sense of contrition.
Friendly view it encouraged Italian. 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.
- I hope, - he said the poor artist, - that you will have success: 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.
- But if you have no understanding of the Italian language, - said the thoughtful improviser, - who would go to listen to me?
- go - do not be afraid: 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.
Charskii gently parted with improviser, currently taking its address, and the same evening he went to plead for him.
Chapter II
I am a king, I'm a slave, I worm, I'm God.*
Derzhavin.
The next day Charskii in a dark hallway and unclean restaurant sought out the 35th number. He stopped at the door and knock. Yesterday's Italian opened it.
- Win! - told him Charskii, - your business with a hat. 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 ...
- And this is important! - I cried the Italian, expressing the joy of living their movements, inherent in its southern rock. - I knew, you help me. Warm di Vasso!# You are a poet, same, 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?
- Improvisation!.. Can you do without the public, without music, and without the thunder of applause?
- Empty, 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.
Charskii sat on a suitcase (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.
- Here is a theme, - told him Charskii: - poet elect subjects for his songs; the crowd has no right to control his inspiration.
