He was firmly convinced he had complete. The gentleman from San Francisco - Ivan Bunin, download the book for free
A. Blok Answers: B8 symbolism B9 robber beauty B10 anaphora B11 comparison B12 iambic
A. Block C3. What is the contradictory nature of the poet’s attitude towards Russia? C4. What works of Russian poets are close to Blok’s feeling of Russia? (Give reasons for your answer) C3. What gives the central image of the poem artistic brightness and depth? C4. In which works of Russian poets the image of Russia is recreated and what are their similarities and differences with the poem by A.A. Blok? C5.3. What is unique about the disclosure of the love theme in the lyrics of A. A. Blok? C5.3 What is the peculiarity of the sound of a revolutionary theme in the poetry of A.A. Blok? C5.3 As in the lyrics of A.A. Blok displayed the past and present of Russia? C5.3. How does the ending of the poem by A.A. Is the “Twelve” block related to its main content?
A. Blok I forgot about valor, about exploits, about glory on the sorrowful earth, When your face in a simple frame shone on the table in front of me. But the hour came, and you left home. I threw the treasured ring into the night. You gave your destiny to someone else, And I forgot your beautiful face. The days flew by, spinning like a damned swarm... Wine and passion tormented my life... And I remembered you in front of the lectern, And I called you like my youth... I called you, but you didn’t look back, I shed tears, but you didn't condescend. You sadly wrapped yourself in a blue cloak, You left the house on a damp night. I don’t know where the shelter of your pride is. You, my dear, you, gentle one, have found... I sleep soundly, I dream of your blue cloak, In which you left on a damp night... I can’t dream of tenderness, of glory, It’s all over , youth is gone! I removed your face in its simple frame from the table with my own hand. A.A. Blok, 1908
A. Blok B 8. Indicate the modernist movement in poetry of the late 19th - early 20th centuries, a prominent representative of which was A.A. Block. Q 9. What is the name of a stylistic device based on the use of identical vowel sounds and giving the verse special expressiveness: I forgot about valor, about exploits, about glory on the sorrowful land, When your face in a simple frame shone on the table in front of me?
A. Block B 10. What is the consonance of the ends of poetic lines called (to pride - blue; to glory - frame, etc.)? Q 11. What figurative and expressive means, based on the correlation of objects and phenomena, does the poet use in the line: “And he called you like his youth”? Q 12. What are the names of figurative definitions that serve as a means of artistic expression (“sorrowful land”, “beautiful face”)?
A. Blok Answers: B8 symbolism B9 assonance B10 rhyme B11 comparison B12 epithet
A. Blok I enter the dark temples of C3. What is the meaning of identifying Rus' with the image of a woman (“Oh my Rus'! My wife!”) in the lyrics of A.A. Blok? C4. Tell us about the main and favorite techniques that A. Blok used in his works. Which other poets used the same techniques in their works? Stranger C3. What is the meaning of identifying Rus' with the image of a woman (“Oh my Rus'! My wife!”) in the lyrics of A.A. Blok? C4. Theme of the Motherland. Its evolution in the work of A. Blok. What other poets of the Silver Age glorified their Motherland in the same way? At restaurant C3. What artistic images embody the poet’s ideas about love? C4. What feelings are filled with the poem “In the Restaurant” and in what ways is it consonant with the love lyrics of other Russian poets? About valor, about exploits, about glory C3. How did the ring composition of the poem help the poet show the drama of love? C4. What works of Russian poets depict the drama of unrequited love and in what ways can these works be compared with the poem by A. A. Blok? On the Kulikovo field C3. What gives grounds to classify the poem in question by A. A. Blok as philosophical poetry? C4. Which Russian poets addressed the topic of Russian history and in what ways are their works comparable to the above poem by A. A. Blok?
A. Blok The presentation used materials from the sites http://5litra.ru/, http://lit.reshuege.ru
A gentleman from San Francisco - no one remembered his name either in Naples or Capri - he went to the Old World for two whole years, with his wife and daughter, solely for the sake of entertainment.
He was firmly convinced that he had every right to rest, to pleasure, to a long and comfortable journey, and who knows what else. His reason for such confidence was that, firstly, he was rich, and secondly, he had just started life, despite his fifty-eight years. Until that time, he had not lived, but only existed, although very well, but still pinning all his hopes on the future. He worked tirelessly - the Chinese, whom he hired thousands of to work for him, knew well what this meant! - and, finally, he saw that a lot had already been done, that he was almost equal to those whom he had once taken as a model, and decided to take a break. The people to whom he belonged had the custom of beginning the enjoyment of life with a trip to Europe, India, and Egypt. He decided to do the same. Of course, he wanted to reward himself first of all for his years of work; however, he was also happy for his wife and daughter. His wife had never been particularly impressionable, but all older American women are passionate travelers. And as for the daughter, an older girl and slightly sickly, the journey was absolutely necessary for her - not to mention the health benefits; don’t there be happy encounters during travel? Here sometimes you sit at a table or look at the frescoes next to a billionaire.
The route was developed by the gentleman from San Francisco and was extensive. In December and January he hoped to enjoy the sun of Southern Italy, ancient monuments, tarantella, serenades of traveling singers and what people at his age feel! Especially subtly - with the love of young Neapolitan women, even if not completely disinterested, he thought to hold the carnival in Nice, in Monte Carlo, where at this time the most selective society flocks - the same one on which all the benefits of civilization depend: and the style of tuxedos , and the strength of thrones, and the declaration of wars, and the welfare of hotels - where some enthusiastically indulge in automobile and sailing races, others in roulette, others in what is commonly called flirting, and still others in shooting pigeons, which soar very beautifully from cages over the emerald lawn, against the backdrop of the sea the colors of forget-me-nots, etc.
...Here is an introductory fragment of the book.
Only part of the text is open for free reading (restriction of the copyright holder). If you liked the book, the full text can be obtained on our partner's website.
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I. Bunin S1. What is the main idea of I. A. Bunin’s story? C2. In which works of Russian classics does the theme of “spiritual death” sound and what makes them similar to the story “The Gentleman from San Francisco”? The Kuragin family in Tolstoy's novel, The Master and Margarita is full of them, the first is Berlioz. There are many of these types. Chekhov's "Ionych", Bunin's "Mr. from San Francisco", Goncharov's "Oblomov". Gogol's "Dead Souls".
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I. Bunin S5. What are the moral lessons of I.A.’s story? Bunin's "Mr. from San Francisco"? How is the author’s position expressed in the story by I.A. Bunin's "Mr. from San Francisco"? What do you think is the tragedy of the main character of the story I.A. Bunin's "Mr. from San Francisco"? How do the eternal and the momentary relate in the story of I.A. Bunin's "Mr. from San Francisco"? "Woe to you, Babylon, strong city!" How much do you think the idea of these terrible words from the Apocalypse was reflected in I. Bunin’s story “The Gentleman from San Francisco”? Why are all those sailing on the ship Atlantis (both the idle rich and the exhausted sailors) doomed to death? C5.3 How is the theme of the earthly and eternal revealed in I. A. Bunin’s prose? C5.3. Why does the main character of the story I.L. Bunin's "Mr. from San Francisco" has no name?
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M. Gorky S1. What character traits of the hero does this fragment of text reveal? C2. In the works of which Russian writers (poets, playwrights) do the themes of pride, vanity and “perhaps imaginary superiority” sound, and in what ways are these works consonant with the legend of the “son of an eagle”? C5.3 How is the ideal and anti-ideal of man reflected in M. Gorky’s story “Old Woman Izergil”? C5.3. What moral issues does M. Gorky solve in the story “Old Woman Izergil”? C5.3. What is the role of composition in revealing the ideological content of M. Gorky’s story “Old Woman Izergil”? C5.3. What features of romanticism are inherent in M. Gorky’s story “Old Woman Izergil”?
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A gentleman from San Francisco - no one remembered his name either in Naples or Capri - was traveling to the Old World for two whole years, with his wife and daughter, solely for the sake of entertainment.
He was firmly convinced that he had every right to rest, to pleasure, to an excellent trip in all respects. For such confidence, he had the argument that, firstly, he was rich, and secondly, he had just started life, despite his fifty-eight years. Until that time, he had not lived, but only existed, although very well, but still pinning all his hopes on the future. He worked tirelessly - the Chinese, whom he hired thousands of to work for him, knew well what this meant! - and finally saw that a lot had already been done, that he was almost equal to those whom he had once taken as a model, and decided to take a break. The people to whom he belonged had the custom of beginning the enjoyment of life with a trip to Europe, India, and Egypt. He decided to do the same. Of course, he wanted to reward himself first of all for his years of work; however, he was also happy for his wife and daughter. His wife had never been particularly impressionable, but all older American women are passionate travelers. And as for the daughter, an older girl and slightly sickly, the journey was absolutely necessary for her: not to mention the health benefits, don’t there be happy encounters during travel? Here sometimes you sit at the table and look at the frescoes next to the billionaire.
The route was developed by the gentleman from San Francisco and was extensive. In December and January, he hoped to enjoy the sun of Southern Italy, ancient monuments, tarantella, serenades of traveling singers and what people of his age feel especially subtly - the love of young Neapolitan women, even if not entirely disinterested; he thought of holding the carnival in Nice, in Monte Carlo, where at this time the most selective society flocks, where some enthusiastically indulge in automobile and sailing races, others in roulette, others in what is commonly called flirting, and others in shooting pigeons, which they soar very beautifully from the cages over the emerald lawn, against the backdrop of a sea the color of forget-me-nots, and immediately hit the ground with white lumps; he wanted to devote the beginning of March to Florence, to come to Rome for the passion of the Lord to listen to the Miserere there; His plans included Venice, and Paris, and a bullfight in Seville, and swimming in the English islands, and Athens, and Constantinople, and Palestine, and Egypt, and even Japan - of course, already on the way back... And that’s all It went great at first.
It was the end of November, and all the way to Gibraltar we had to sail either in icy darkness or amid a storm with sleet; but they sailed quite safely. There were many passengers, the ship - the famous "Atlantis" - looked like a huge hotel with all the amenities - with a night bar, with oriental baths, with its own newspaper - and life on it proceeded very measuredly: they got up early, at the sound of trumpets, sharply resounding through the corridors even at that gloomy hour, when the light was shining so slowly and uninvitingly over the gray-green watery desert, heavily agitated in the fog; putting on flannel pajamas, drinking coffee, chocolate, cocoa; then they sat in the baths, did gymnastics, stimulating appetite and good health, performed daily toilets and went to the first breakfast; until eleven o'clock they were supposed to walk cheerfully along the decks, breathing in the cold freshness of the ocean, or play sheffleboard and other games to whet their appetite again, and at eleven they had to refresh themselves with sandwiches with broth; having refreshed themselves, they read the newspaper with pleasure and calmly waited for the second breakfast, even more nutritious and varied than the first; the next two hours were devoted to rest; all the decks were then filled with long reed chairs, on which travelers lay, covered with blankets, looking at the cloudy sky and at the foamy mounds flashing overboard, or sweetly dozing off; at five o'clock, refreshed and cheerful, they were given strong fragrant tea with cookies; at seven they announced with trumpet signals what was the main goal of this entire existence, its crown... And then the gentleman from San Francisco hurried to his rich cabin to get dressed.
In the evenings, the floors of Atlantis gaped in the darkness with countless fiery eyes, and a great many servants worked in the cooks', sculleries' and wine cellars. The ocean that walked outside the walls was terrible, but they did not think about it, firmly believing in the power over it of the commander, a red-haired man of monstrous size and bulk, always as if sleepy, looking like a huge idol in his uniform with wide golden stripes and very rarely appearing at people from their mysterious chambers; on the forecastle, a siren constantly howled with hellish gloom and shrieked with furious anger, but few of the diners heard the siren - it was drowned out by the sounds of a beautiful string orchestra, exquisitely and tirelessly playing in a two-story hall, festively flooded with lights, crowded with low-cut ladies and men in tailcoats and tuxedos , slender footmen and respectful head waiters, among whom one, the one who took orders only for wine, even walked around with a chain around his neck, like a lord mayor. The tuxedo and starched underwear made the gentleman from San Francisco look very young. Dry, short, awkwardly cut, but tightly sewn, he sat in the golden-pearl radiance of this palace behind a bottle of wine, behind glasses and goblets of the finest glass, behind a curly bouquet of hyacinths. There was something Mongolian in his yellowish face with a trimmed silver mustache, his large teeth glittered with gold fillings, and his strong bald head was old ivory. His wife was dressed richly, but according to her years, a large, broad and calm woman; complex, but light and transparent, with innocent frankness - a daughter, tall, thin, with magnificent hair, beautifully styled, with aromatic breath from violet cakes and with the most delicate pink pimples near her lips and between her shoulder blades, slightly powdered... Lunch lasted more than an hour , and after dinner there were dances in the ballroom, during which the men, including, of course, the gentleman from San Francisco, with their feet in the air, their faces crimson red, smoked Havana cigars and got drunk on liqueurs in a bar where blacks served in red camisoles, with whites that looked like flaky hard-boiled eggs. The ocean roared behind the wall like black mountains, the blizzard whistled strongly in the heavy rigging, the whole steamer trembled, overcoming both it and these mountains, as if with a plow, breaking apart their unsteady, now and then boiling masses with foamy tails fluttering high, in the siren suffocated by the fog moaned in mortal melancholy, the watchmen on their watchtower were freezing from the cold and went crazy from the unbearable strain of attention, the gloomy and sultry depths of the underworld, its last, ninth circle was like the underwater womb of a steamship - the one where the gigantic furnaces cackled dully, devouring with their hot the mouths of piles of coal, with a roar thrown into them by people drenched in acrid, dirty sweat and naked to the waist, crimson from the flames; and here, in the bar, they carelessly threw their feet up on the arms of the chairs, sipped cognac and liqueurs, swam in waves of spicy smoke, in the dance hall everything shone and shed light, warmth and joy, couples either waltzed or twisted in tango - and music persistently, in sweet, shameless sadness, she kept praying for the same thing, always for the same thing. .. Among this brilliant crowd there was a certain great rich man, shaven, long, in an old-fashioned tailcoat, there was a famous Spanish writer, there was an all-world beauty, there was an elegant couple in love, whom everyone watched with curiosity and who did not hide their happiness: he danced only with her, and everything turned out so subtly and charmingly for them that only one commander knew that this couple had been hired by Lloyd to play at love for good money and had been sailing on one ship or another for a long time.
In Gibraltar everyone was happy with the sun, it was like early spring; a new passenger appeared on board the Atlantis, arousing general interest - the crown prince of an Asian state, traveling incognito, a small man, all wooden, wide-faced, narrow-eyed, wearing gold glasses, slightly unpleasant - because he had a large mustache showing through like a dead man, but generally sweet, simple and modest. In the Mediterranean Sea there was a large and flowery wave, like a peacock’s tail, which, with a bright shine and a completely clear sky, was blown up by the tramontana, flying cheerfully and madly towards it... Then, on the second day, the sky began to turn pale, the horizon became foggy: land was approaching, Ischia and Capri appeared, through binoculars one could already see lumps of sugar sprinkled at the foot of something gray, Naples... Many ladies and gentlemen had already put on light, fur-sided fur coats; Unresponsive Chinese fighters, always speaking in a whisper, bow-legged teenagers with pitch-length braids down to their toes and girlish thick eyelashes, gradually pulled blankets, canes, suitcases, toiletries up to the stairs... The daughter of a gentleman from San Francisco stood on the deck next to the prince, yesterday in the evening, by a happy accident, presented to her, and pretended to look intently into the distance, where he pointed to her, explaining something, telling something hastily and quietly; His height seemed like a boy among the others, he was not at all handsome and strange - glasses, a bowler hat, an English coat, and the hair of a thin mustache looked like horse hair, the dark thin skin on his flat face seemed to be stretched and seemed to be slightly varnished - but the girl listened because of her excitement she didn’t understand what he was saying to her; her heart beat with incomprehensible delight in front of him: everything, everything about him was different from the others - his dry hands, his clean skin, under which the ancient royal blood flowed; even his European, very simple, but seemingly especially neat clothes concealed an inexplicable charm. And the gentleman himself from San Francisco, in gray leggings on his boots, kept glancing at the famous beauty standing next to him, a tall, amazingly built blonde with eyes painted in the latest Parisian fashion, holding a tiny, bent, shabby dog on a silver chain and still talking to her. And the daughter, in some vague awkwardness, tried not to notice him.
He was quite generous on the way and therefore fully believed in the care of all those who fed and watered him, served him from morning to evening, preventing his slightest desire, guarded his cleanliness and peace, carried his things, called porters for him, delivered him chests to hotels. It was so everywhere, it was so in sailing, it should have been so in Naples. Naples grew and approached; The musicians, shining with brass instruments, had already crowded on the deck and suddenly deafened everyone with the triumphant sounds of a march. The giant commander, in full dress uniform, appeared on his bridge and, like a merciful pagan god, shook his hand at the passengers in greeting. And when the Atlantis finally entered the harbor, rolled up to the embankment with its multi-storey bulk, dotted with people, and the gangplank rumbled - how many porters and their assistants in caps with gold braid, how many all sorts of commission agents, whistling boys and hefty ragamuffins with stacks of colored postcards in rushed to meet him with an offer of services! And he grinned at these ragamuffins, walking to the car of the very hotel where the prince could stay, and calmly spoke through clenched teeth, either in English or in Italian:- Go away! Via! Life in Naples immediately went on as usual: early in the morning - breakfast in the gloomy dining room, cloudy, little promising sky and a crowd of guides at the lobby doors; then the first smiles of the warm pinkish sun, the view from the high-hanging balcony of Vesuvius, shrouded in shining morning vapors to the foot, of the silver-pearl ripples of the bay and the subtle outline of Capri on the horizon, of tiny donkeys in gigs running below, along the embankment, and of squads of small soldiers walking somewhere with cheerful and defiant music; then - getting out to the car and slowly moving along the crowded narrow and damp corridors of the streets, among tall, multi-windowed houses, examining deathly clean and evenly, pleasantly, but boringly, like snow, illuminated museums or cold, wax-smelling churches, in which the same thing is everywhere and the same thing: a majestic entrance, closed by a heavy leather curtain, and inside there is a huge emptiness, silence, quiet lights of the seven-branched candlestick, reddening in the depths on a throne decorated with lace, a lonely old woman among dark wooden desks, slippery coffin slabs underfoot and someone’s “ The Descent from the Cross,” certainly famous; at one o'clock - second breakfast on Mount San Martino, where at noon a lot of people of the very first class gather and where one day the daughter of a gentleman from San Francisco almost felt ill: it seemed to her that a prince was sitting in the hall, although she already knew from the newspapers that he is in Rome; at five - tea in the hotel, in the elegant salon, where it is so warm from the carpets and blazing fireplaces; and there again the preparations for dinner - again the powerful, imperious roar of the gong on all floors, again the lines of silks rustling along the stairs and reflected in the mirrors of low-necked ladies, Again the wide and hospitably open hall of the dining room, and the red jackets of the musicians on the stage, and the black crowd of footmen near the head waiter, with extraordinary skill pouring thick pink soup into plates... The dinners were again so plentiful with foods, wines, mineral waters, sweets, and fruits that by eleven o'clock in the evening the maids carried rubber bubbles with hot water to all rooms water to warm stomachs.
However, December “turned out to be” not entirely successful: the receptionists, when they talked to them about the weather, only raised their shoulders guiltily, muttering that they wouldn’t remember such a year, although it was not the first year that they had to mutter this and refer to what was happening everywhere something terrible: on the Riviera there are unprecedented downpours and storms, in Athens there is snow, Etna is also completely covered and shines at night, tourists from Palermo fleeing from the cold... The morning sun deceived every day: from midday it invariably turned gray and began to sow the rain is getting thicker and colder; then the palm trees at the entrance of the hotel shone with tin, the city seemed especially dirty and cramped, the museums were too monotonous, the cigar butts of fat cab drivers in rubber capes fluttering with wings in the wind were unbearably stinking, the energetic flapping of their whips over thin-necked nags was clearly fake, the shoes of the gentlemen scattering the tram rails are terrible, and the women splashing through the mud, in the rain with their black open heads, are hideously short-legged; There’s nothing to say about the dampness and the stench of rotten fish from the foaming sea near the embankment. The gentleman and lady from San Francisco began to quarrel in the morning; Their daughter walked around pale, with a headache, then came to life, admired everything and was then both sweet and beautiful: beautiful were those tender, complex feelings that the meeting with an ugly man in whom unusual blood flowed was awakened in her, for, after all, in the end, it doesn’t matter what exactly awakens a girl’s soul - whether it’s money, fame, nobility... Everyone assured that it’s not at all the same in Sorrento, Capri - it’s warmer and sunny there, and lemons bloom , and morals are more honest, and the wine is more natural. And so a family from San Francisco decided to go with all their chests to Capri, so that, after examining it, walking on the stones on the site of the palaces of Tiberius, visiting the fabulous caves of the Azure Grotto and listening to the Abruzzese bagpipers, who wander around the island for a whole month before Christmas and singing the praises of the Virgin Mary, settle in Sorrento.
On the day of departure - a very memorable one for the family from San Francisco! — even in the morning there was no sun. A heavy fog hid Vesuvius to its very foundations, low and gray above the leaden swell of the sea. The Island of Capri was not visible at all - as if it had never existed in the world. And the small steamboat heading towards it was so tossed from side to side that the family from San Francisco lay on the sofas in the miserable wardroom of this ship, wrapping their legs in blankets and closing their eyes from lightheadedness. The Mrs. suffered, as she thought, more than anyone: she was overcome several times, it seemed to her that she was dying, and the maid, who came running to her with a basin, had been rocking on these waves day after day for many years in the heat and cold and still tireless - she just laughed. Miss was terribly pale and was holding a slice of lemon in her teeth. Mister, lying on his back, in a wide coat and a large cap, did not unclench his jaws all the way; his face became dark, his mustache white, his head ached severely: in recent days, thanks to the bad weather, he had been drinking too much in the evenings and admiring too much of the “living pictures” in some dens. And the rain hit the rattling windows, it flowed onto the sofas, the wind howled at the masts and sometimes, together with the rushing wave, the steamboat was placed completely on its side, and then something rolled below with a roar. At the stops, in Castellamare, in Sorrento, it was a little easier; but even here it swung terribly, the shore with all its cliffs, gardens, pine trees, pink and white hotels, and smoky, curly-green mountains flew up and down outside the window, as if on a swing; Boats were knocking against the walls, the damp wind was blowing at the doors, and, without stopping for a minute, a burry boy, who was luring travelers, screamed piercingly from a rocking barge under the flag of the Royal Hotel. And the gentleman from San Francisco, feeling as he should have done - quite an old man - was already thinking with melancholy and anger about all these greedy, garlic-smelling little people called Italians; Once during a stop, opening his eyes and rising from the sofa, he saw under a rocky cliff a bunch of such pitiful, completely moldy stone houses, stuck on top of each other near the water, near boats, near some rags, tins and brown nets, that, Remembering that this was the real Italy, which he had come to enjoy, he felt despair... Finally, already at dusk, the island began to approach in its blackness, as if drilled through and through at the foot of red lights, the wind became softer, warmer, more fragrant, along the subdued waves Golden boas flowed from the lanterns of the pier, shimmering like black oil. .. Then suddenly the anchor rattled and splashed into the water, the furious cries of the boatmen vied with each other from everywhere - and immediately my soul felt lighter, the wardroom shone brighter, I wanted to eat, drink, smoke, move... Ten minutes later, a family from San Francisco got off into a large barge, fifteen minutes later stepped onto the stones of the embankment, and then got into a bright trailer and with a buzzing sound stretched up the slope, among the stakes in the vineyards, dilapidated stone fences and wet, gnarled orange trees, covered here and there with thatched canopies, with a shine orange fruits and thick glossy foliage sliding downhill, past the open windows of the trailer... The land in Italy smells sweet after the rain, and each of its islands has its own special smell!
The island of Capri was damp and dark that evening. But then he came to life for a minute, lighting up in some places. At the top of the mountain, on the platform of the funicular, there was again a crowd of those whose duty it was to receive the gentleman from San Francisco with dignity. There were other newcomers, but not worthy of attention - several Russians who had settled in Capri, slovenly and absent-minded, with glasses, beards, with the turned up collars of their old coats, and a company of long-legged, round-headed German youths in Tyrolean suits and with canvas bags on their shoulders. , who do not need anyone’s services and are not at all generous with spending. The gentleman from San Francisco, who calmly avoided both of them, was immediately noticed. He and his ladies were hastily helped out, they ran ahead in front of him, showing the way, he was again surrounded by boys and those stalwart Capri women who carry the suitcases and chests of respectable tourists on their heads. They clattered across the small, like an opera square, above which an electric ball and their wooden footstools swayed from the damp wind, a horde of boys whistled like birds and tumbled over their heads - and as a gentleman from San Francisco walked across the stage among them to some kind of medieval an arch under the houses merged into one, behind which a ringing street with a swirl of palm trees above the flat roofs to the left and blue stars in the black sky above, in front, led slopingly to the hotel entrance shining ahead. And it all looked like it was in honor of the guests from San Francisco that a damp stone town on a rocky island in the Mediterranean Sea had come to life, that they had made the hotel owner so happy and hospitable, that only a Chinese gong was waiting for them, howling on all floors. by lunchtime, as soon as they entered the lobby.
The politely and elegantly bowed host, a superbly elegant young man who met them, for a moment amazed the gentleman from San Francisco: he suddenly remembered that that night, among other confusion that had beset him in his dreams, he had seen exactly this gentleman, exactly like... exactly the same as this one, wearing the same business card and with the same mirror-combed head. Surprised, he almost paused. But since not even a mustard seed of any so-called mystical feelings remained in his soul a long time ago, his surprise immediately faded: he jokingly told his wife and daughter about this strange coincidence of dream and reality, walking along the hotel corridor. The daughter, however, looked at him with alarm at that moment: her heart was suddenly squeezed by melancholy, a feeling of terrible loneliness on this strange, dark island...
A distinguished personage visiting Capri has just departed - Flight XVII. And the guests from San Francisco were given the same apartments that he occupied. They were assigned the most beautiful and skillful maid, a Belgian, with a thin and firm waist from a corset and wearing a starched cap in the form of a small jagged crown, and the most prominent of the footmen, a coal-black, fire-eyed Sicilian, and the most efficient bellhop, small and plump Luigi , who has changed many similar places in his lifetime. And a minute later, a French head waiter knocked lightly on the door of the gentleman from San Francisco, who had come to find out whether the visiting gentlemen would be dining, and in case of an affirmative answer, of which, however, there was no doubt, to report that today there was lobster, roast beef , asparagus, pheasants and so on. Paul was still walking under the gentleman from San Francisco - that's how this crappy Italian steamer pumped him up - but he slowly, with his own hand, although out of habit and not quite deftly, closed the window that had slammed at the entrance of the head waiter, from which he smelled the smell of a distant kitchen and wet flowers in the garden, and with unhurried clarity answered that they would have dinner, that the table for them should be placed away from the doors, in the very depths of the hall, that they would drink local wine, and the head waiter agreed with his every word in a wide variety of intonations that had , however, the only meaning is that there is and cannot be any doubt about the correctness of the wishes of the gentleman from San Francisco and that everything will be fulfilled exactly. Finally, he bowed his head and asked delicately:- Is that all, sir? And, having received a slow “yes” in response, he added that today they have a tarantella in the lobby - Carmella and Giuseppe, known throughout Italy and “the whole world of tourists,” are dancing.
“I saw her on postcards,” said the gentleman from San Francisco in an expressionless voice. - And this Giuseppe is her husband?
“Cousin, sir,” replied the head waiter.
And, after hesitating, thinking something, but without saying anything, the gentleman from San Francisco dismissed him with a nod of his head.
And then he again began to prepare as if for a wedding: he turned on electricity everywhere, filled all the mirrors with the reflection of light and shine, furniture and open chests, began to shave, wash and ring every minute, while other impatient calls rushed and interrupted him throughout the corridor - from the rooms of his wife and daughter. And Luigi, in his red apron, with the ease characteristic of many fat men, making grimaces of horror, making the maids laugh to tears as they ran past with tiled buckets in their hands, rolled head over heels to the bell and, knocking on the door with his knuckles, with feigned timidity, brought to extreme idiocy respectfully asked:- Ha sonato, signore? And from behind the door a leisurely and creaky, offensively polite voice was heard:- Yes, come in... What did the gentleman from San Francisco feel and think on this so significant evening for him? He, like anyone who has experienced a rollercoaster, only really wanted to eat, dreamed with pleasure about the first spoon of soup, about the first sip of wine, and performed the usual toilet routine even in some excitement, which left no time for feelings and thoughts.
Having shaved, washed, properly inserted a few teeth, he, standing in front of the mirrors, moistened and tidied up with brushes in a silver frame the remnants of pearl hair around his dark-yellow skull, pulled a creamy silk tights over his strong old body with a waist that was getting fuller from increased nutrition, and on his dry legs with flat feet - black silk socks and ballroom shoes, squatting, he tidied up his black trousers, pulled up high with silk braces, and a snow-white shirt with his chest bulging out, tucked the cufflinks into the shiny cuffs and began to struggle with catching the neck cufflink under the hard collar. The floor was still shaking under him, it was very painful for his fingertips, the cufflink sometimes bit hard on the flabby skin in the recess under his Adam’s apple, but he was persistent and finally, with eyes shining from tension, all blue from the excessively tight collar squeezing his throat, finished the job - and sat down in exhaustion in front of the dressing table, all reflected in it and repeated in other mirrors.
- Oh, this is terrible! - he muttered, lowering his strong bald head and not trying to understand, not thinking what exactly was terrible; then he habitually and carefully examined his short fingers, with gouty hardenings in the joints, their large and convex almond-colored nails and repeated with conviction: “This is terrible...”
But then, loudly, as if in a pagan temple, the second gong buzzed throughout the house. And, hastily getting up from his seat, the gentleman from San Francisco pulled his collar even tighter with a tie, and his stomach with an open vest, put on a tuxedo, straightened the cuffs, looked at himself in the mirror once again... This Carmella, dark-skinned, with feigned eyes, looking like a mulatto , in a flowery outfit where orange is the predominant color, must be dancing unusually, he thought. And, cheerfully leaving his room and walking across the carpet to the neighbor’s wife, he loudly asked if they were coming soon?
- In five minutes! — a girl’s voice echoed loudly and cheerfully from behind the door.
“Great,” said the gentleman from San Francisco.
And he slowly walked down the corridors and stairs covered with red carpets, looking for the reading room. The servants he met pressed against the wall, and he walked as if not noticing them. An old woman who was late for dinner, already stooped, with milky hair, but low-cut, in a light gray silk dress, hurried ahead of him with all her might, but funny, like a chicken, and he easily overtook her. Near the glass doors of the dining room, where everyone was already assembled and began to eat, he stopped in front of a table cluttered with boxes of cigars and Egyptian cigarettes, took a large manilla and threw three lire on the table; on the winter veranda, he glanced casually out the open window: a gentle air blew on him from the darkness, he imagined the top of an old palm tree spreading its fronds across the stars, which seemed gigantic, he could hear the distant, even sound of the sea... In the reading room, cozy, quiet and bright only above the tables , standing, some gray-haired German, looking like Ibsen, in silver round glasses and with crazy, amazed eyes, was rustling newspapers. Having examined him coldly, the gentleman from San Francisco sat down in a deep leather chair in the corner, near a lamp under a green shade, put on his pince-nez and, jerking his head away from the collar that was choking him, covered himself with a sheet of newspaper. He quickly skimmed the titles of some articles, read a few lines about the never-ending Balkan war, turned the newspaper over with a familiar gesture - when suddenly the lines flashed before him with a glassy sheen, his neck tensed, his eyes bulged, his pince-nez flew off his nose... He rushed forward, I wanted to take a breath of air - and wheezed wildly; his lower jaw fell off, illuminating his entire mouth with gold fillings, his head fell onto his shoulder and began to roll, the chest of his shirt stuck out like a box - and his whole body, writhing, lifting up the carpet with his heels, crawled to the floor, desperately struggling with someone.
If there had not been a German in the reading room, the hotel would have quickly and deftly managed to hush up this terrible incident, instantly, in reverse, they would have rushed off by the legs and by the head of the gentleman from San Francisco to far away - and not a single soul of the guests would have known what he had done He. But the German burst out of the reading room with a scream, he alarmed the whole house, the whole dining room. And many jumped up because of the food, many, turning pale, ran to the reading room, in all languages they heard: “What, what happened?” - and no one answered properly, no one understood anything, since people are still amazed even more than anything else and do not want to believe death for anything. The owner rushed from one guest to another, trying to detain the fleeing people and calm them down with hasty assurances that it was so, a trifle, a small faint with one gentleman from San Francisco... But no one listened to him, many saw how the lackeys and bellhops were tearing this gentleman's tie, vest, crumpled tuxedo and even, for some reason, ballroom shoes from black silk legs with flat feet. And he still fought. He persistently fought against death, never wanting to succumb to it, which had fallen upon him so unexpectedly and rudely. He shook his head, wheezed as if he had been stabbed to death, rolled his eyes like a drunk... When they hurriedly carried him in and laid him on the bed in the forty-third room - the smallest, the worst, the dampest and coldest, at the end of the lower corridor - he came running a daughter, with loose hair, with her bare breasts raised by a corset, then a large wife, already completely dressed for dinner, whose mouth was round with horror... But then he stopped shaking his head.
A quarter of an hour later, everything somehow returned to order at the hotel. But the evening was irreparably ruined. Some, returning to the dining room, finished dinner, but silently, with offended faces, while the owner approached first one, then the other, shrugging his shoulders in impotent and decent irritation, feeling guiltlessly guilty, assuring everyone that he understood perfectly well, “how unpleasant this is,” and giving his word that he will take “all measures in his power” to eliminate the trouble; the tarantella had to be cancelled, the excess electricity was turned off, most of the guests went into town, to the pub, and it became so quiet that the sound of the clock in the lobby was clearly heard, where only one parrot muttered something woodenly, fiddling around in his cage before going to bed, managing to fall asleep with with a paw absurdly lifted up onto the top pole... The gentleman from San Francisco was lying on a cheap iron bed, under coarse woolen blankets, on which one horn dimly shone from the ceiling. An ice pack hung on his wet and cold forehead. The gray, already dead face gradually froze, the hoarse bubbling sound escaping from the open mouth, illuminated by the reflection of gold, weakened. It was no longer the gentleman from San Francisco who was wheezing - he was no longer there - but someone else. His wife, daughter, doctor, and servants stood and looked at him. Suddenly, what they had been waiting for and fearing happened - the wheezing stopped. And slowly, slowly, in front of everyone, pallor flowed over the face of the deceased, and his features began to thin out and brighten...
The owner came in. “Già é morto,” the doctor told him in a whisper. The owner shrugged his shoulders with an impassive face. The missus, with tears quietly rolling down her cheeks, approached him and timidly said that now it was necessary to carry the deceased to his room.
“Oh, no, madam,” the owner objected hastily, correctly, but without any courtesy and not in English, but in French, who was not at all interested in the trifles that those who came from San Francisco could now leave in his cash register. “This is completely impossible, madam,” he said and added in explanation that he really valued these apartments, that if he fulfilled her wish, then all of Capri would know about it and tourists would begin to avoid them.
Miss, who had been looking at him strangely all the time, sat down on a chair and, covering her mouth with a handkerchief, began to sob. The Mrs.'s tears immediately dried up and her face flushed. She raised her tone and began to demand, speaking in her own language and still not believing that respect for them was completely lost. The owner besieged her with polite dignity: if Madame does not like the order of the hotel, he does not dare detain her; and firmly stated that the body should be taken out today at dawn, that the police had already been given knowledge that its representative would now appear and carry out the necessary formalities... Is it possible to get at least a simple ready-made coffin in Capri, asks Madame? Unfortunately, no, in no case, and no one will have time to do it. He'll have to do something differently... He gets English soda water, for example, in large, long boxes... the partitions from such a box can be removed...
At night the whole hotel slept. They opened the window in room forty-three - it looked out into the corner of the garden, where a stunted banana grew under a high stone wall crested with broken glass - they turned off the electricity, locked the door and left. The dead man remained in the dark, blue stars looked at him from the sky, a cricket sang with sad carefreeness on the wall... In the dimly lit corridor, two maids were sitting on the windowsill, mending something. Luigi came in with a bunch of clothes on his arm and shoes on.
- Pronto? (Ready?) - he asked worriedly in a ringing whisper, pointing with his eyes at the scary door at the end of the corridor. And he lightly shook his free hand in that direction. - Partenza! - he shouted in a whisper, as if seeing off a train, what they usually shout in Italy at stations when trains depart - and the maids, choking on silent laughter, fell with their heads on each other’s shoulders.
Then, bouncing softly, he ran up to the door itself, knocked lightly on it and, bowing his head to the side, asked in a very respectful undertone:- What sonato, signore? And, squeezing his throat, pushing out his lower jaw, he answered himself creakingly, slowly and sadly, as if from behind a door:- Yes, come in... And at dawn, when the window of room forty-three turned white and the damp wind rustled the torn leaves of the banana, when the blue morning sky rose and spread over the island of Capri and the clean and clear peak of Monte Solaro turned golden against the sun rising behind the distant blue mountains of Italy, when The masons who were straightening the paths for tourists on the island went to work and brought a long box of soda water to room number forty-three. Soon he became very heavy - and firmly pressed the knees of the junior porter, who drove him briskly in a one-horse cab along the white highway, winding back and forth along the slopes of Capri, among stone fences and vineyards, down and down, all the way to the sea. The driver, a stout man with red eyes, in an old short-sleeved jacket and worn-out shoes, was hungover, had been playing dice in the trattoria all night, and kept whipping his strong horse, dressed up in Sicilian style, hastily rattling all kinds of bells on a bridle in colored woolen pompoms and on the points of a high copper saddle, with a yard-long bird feather sticking out from his cropped bangs, shaking as he runs. The cabman was silent, depressed by his dissoluteness, by his vices, by the fact that he had lost every penny that night. But the morning was fresh, in such air, in the middle of the sea, under the morning sky, the hops soon disappear and soon carefreeness returns to a person, and the cabman was consoled by the unexpected income that some gentleman from San Francisco gave him, shaking his dead head in the box behind his back... The steamboat, lying like a beetle far below, in the gentle and bright blue that fills the Bay of Naples so thickly and completely, was already sounding its last whistles - and they cheerfully echoed throughout the entire island, every bend of which, every ridge, every stone was so clearly visible from everywhere, as if there was no air at all. Near the pier, the younger porter was caught up by the older one, who was racing in the car of Miss and Mrs., pale, with sunken eyes from tears and a sleepless night. And ten minutes later the steamboat began to rustle with water again and again ran towards Sorrento, towards Castellammare, forever taking the family away from Capri from San Francisco... And peace and quiet reigned on the island again.
On this island two thousand years ago there lived a man who was unspeakably vile in satisfying his lust and for some reason had power over millions of people, inflicting cruelties on them beyond all measure, and humanity remembered him forever, and many, many from all over the world come to watch to the remains of the stone house where he lived on one of the steepest slopes of the island. On this wonderful morning, everyone who came to Capri precisely for this purpose was still sleeping in the hotels, although small mousey donkeys under red saddles were already being led to the entrances of the hotels, on which young and old Americans and American women were again supposed to perch today, having woken up and eaten their fill. , Germans and German women, and after whom they again had to run along rocky paths, and all up the mountain, right up to the very top of Monte Tiberio, poor old Capri women with sticks in their sinewy hands, in order to urge donkeys with these sticks. Reassured by the fact that the dead old man from San Francisco, who was also planning to go with them, but instead only frightened them with a reminder of death, had already been sent to Naples, the travelers slept soundly, and the island was still quiet, the shops in the city were still closed . Only the market in a small square sold fish and herbs, and there were only ordinary people there, among whom, as always, without any business, stood Lorenzo, a tall old boatman, a carefree reveler and a handsome man, famous throughout Italy, who served more than once a model for many painters: he brought and already sold for next to nothing two lobsters he caught at night, rustling in the cook's apron of the very hotel where the family from San Francisco spent the night, and now he could calmly stand even until the evening, looking around with a regal demeanor, showing off with his rags, a clay pipe and a red woolen beret pulled down over one ear. And along the cliffs of Monte Solaro, along the ancient Phoenician road carved into the rocks, along its stone steps, two Abruzzese highlanders descended from Anacapri. One had a bagpipe under his leather cloak - a large goatskin with two pipes, the other had something like a wooden forepipe. They walked - and the whole country, joyful, beautiful, sunny, stretched out under them: the rocky humps of the island, which almost all lay at their feet, and that fabulous blue in which it swam, and the shining morning vapors above the sea to the east, under the dazzling sun, which was already warming hotly, rising higher and higher, and the foggy azure, still unsteady in the morning, massifs of Italy, its near and distant mountains, the beauty of which human words are powerless to express. Halfway there they slowed down: above the road, in the grotto of the rocky wall of Monte Solaro, all illuminated by the sun, all in its warmth and shine, stood in snow-white plaster robes and in a royal crown, golden-rusty from bad weather, the Mother of God, meek and merciful , with her eyes raised to heaven, to the eternal and blessed abodes of her thrice-blessed son. They bared their heads - and naive and humbly joyful praises poured out to the sun, to the morning, to her, the immaculate intercessor of all those who suffer in this evil and beautiful world, and to the one born from her womb in the cave of Bethlehem, in a poor shepherd’s shelter, in the distant land of Judah... .
The body of the dead old man from San Francisco was returning home, to the grave, to the shores of the New World. Having experienced a lot of humiliation, a lot of human inattention, having spent a week wandering from one port shed to another, it finally found itself again on the same famous ship on which so recently, with such honor, it was transported to the Old World. But now they were hiding him from the living - they lowered him deep into a black hold in a tarred coffin. And again, again the ship went on its long sea journey. At night he sailed past the island of Capri, and his lights were sad, slowly disappearing into the dark sea for those who looked at them from the island. But there, on the ship, in the bright halls shining with chandeliers, there was, as usual, a crowded ball that night.
He was there on the second and third night - again in the midst of a frenzied blizzard, sweeping over the ocean that roared like a funeral mass, and the mountains were mournful from the silver foam. The countless fiery eyes of the ship were barely visible behind the snow to the Devil, who was watching from the rocks of Gibraltar, from the rocky gates of two worlds, the ship leaving into the night and blizzard. The devil was huge, like a cliff, but the ship was also huge, multi-tiered, multi-pipe, created by the pride of the New Man with an old heart. The blizzard beat into his rigging and wide-necked pipes, white with snow, but he was steadfast, firm, majestic and terrible. On the very top of its roof, those cozy, dimly lit chambers stood alone among the snow whirlwinds, where, immersed in a sensitive and anxious slumber, its overweight driver, looking like a pagan idol, sat above the entire ship. He heard the heavy howls and furious squeals of a siren, suffocated by the storm, but he calmed himself by the proximity of what was ultimately the most incomprehensible to him that was behind his wall: that armored cabin, which was constantly filled with a mysterious hum, trembling and dry crackling. blue lights flashed and burst around a pale-faced telegraph operator with a metal half-hoop on his head. At the very bottom, in the underwater womb of the Atlantis, the thousand-pound huge boilers and all sorts of other machines, that kitchen, heated from below by the hellish furnaces in which the movement of the ship was cooked, were dimly shining with steel, wheezing with steam and oozing with boiling water and oil - bubbling terrible in their concentration forces transmitted to its very keel, into an endlessly long dungeon, into a round tunnel, faintly illuminated by electricity, where slowly, with a rigor overwhelming the human soul, a gigantic shaft rotated in its oily bed, like a living monster stretching out in this tunnel, similar to a vent . And the middle of Atlantis, its dining rooms and ballrooms, shed light and joy, hummed with the talk of an elegant crowd, fragrant with fresh flowers, and sang with a string orchestra. And again, painfully wriggled and sometimes convulsively collided among this crowd, among the sparkle of lights, silks, diamonds and naked female shoulders, a thin and flexible pair of hired lovers: a sinfully modest girl with drooping eyelashes, with an innocent hairstyle, and a tall young man with black, hair as if glued to it, pale with powder, in the most elegant patent leather shoes, in a narrow tailcoat with long tails - a handsome man, looking like a huge leech. And no one knew either that this couple had long been tired of pretending to suffer their blissful torment to the shamelessly sad music, or that it stood deep, deep beneath them, at the bottom of the dark hold, in the vicinity of the gloomy and sultry bowels of the ship, overcome by darkness, ocean, blizzard. .. October. 1915 The countless fiery eyes of the ship were barely visible behind the snow to the Devil, who was watching from the rocks of Gibraltar, from the rocky gates of two worlds, the ship leaving into the night and blizzard. The devil was huge, like a cliff, but even more enormous was the ship, multi-tiered, multi-pipe, created by the pride of a New Man with an old heart. A blizzard beat in his rigging and wide-necked pipes, white with snow, but he was steadfast, firm, majestic and terrible. On its very top roof, those cozy, dimly lit chambers stood alone among the snow whirlwinds, where, immersed in a sensitive and anxious slumber, its overweight driver, looking like a pagan idol, sat above the entire ship. He heard the heavy howls and furious squeals of a siren, suffocated by the storm, but he calmed himself by the proximity of what was ultimately most incomprehensible to him, what was behind the wall of that large, seemingly armored cabin, which was constantly filled with a mysterious hum, trembling and dry crackling. blue lights flashed and burst around a pale-faced telegraph operator with a metal half-hoop on his head. At the very bottom, in the underwater womb of the "Atlantis", the thousand-pound huge boilers and all sorts of other machines, that kitchen, heated from below by hellish furnaces, in which the ship's movement was cooked, were dimly shining with steel, wheezing with steam and oozing with boiling water and oil - bubbling terrible in their concentration forces transmitted to its very keel, into an endlessly long dungeon, into a round tunnel, faintly illuminated by electricity, where slowly, with a rigor overwhelming the human soul, a gigantic shaft rotated in its oily bed, like a living monster stretching out in this tunnel, similar to a vent . And the middle of Atlantis, its dining rooms and ballrooms, shed light and joy, hummed with the talk of an elegant crowd, fragrant with fresh flowers, and sang with a string orchestra. And again, painfully wriggled and sometimes convulsively collided among this crowd, among the sparkle of lights, silks, diamonds and naked female shoulders, a thin and flexible pair of hired lovers: a sinfully modest, pretty girl with drooping eyelashes, with an innocent hairstyle, and a tall young man with black, black hair. hair as if glued to it, pale with powder, in the most elegant patent leather shoes, in a narrow tailcoat with long tails - a handsome man, looking like a huge leech. And no one knew either that this couple had long been tired of pretending to suffer their blissful torment to the shamelessly sad music, or that the coffin stood deep, deep below them, at the bottom of the dark hold, in the vicinity of the gloomy and sultry bowels of the ship, heavily overcome by darkness, ocean, blizzard. ..
