Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "EARN"
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Входимость: 1. Размер: 162кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 13кб.
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Входимость: 1. Размер: 50кб.
Часть текста: out for miles; the rest of the sea was black; the steady boom of the surf breaking upon the sandy beach struck upon the ear of the man standing above; blacker than the sea itself were the silhouettes of the ships riding at anchor in the roads; one huge steamer ("probably an Englishman," thought Vasily Petrovich) lay in the lane of moonlight hissing steam, which escaped in curling wreaths; the air wafted up from the sea had a salty tang; Vasily Petrovich, who had never seen anything like this before, feasted his eyes on the sea, the moonlight, the sailing vessels and steamers, and drew the sea air into his lungs with a zest he had never felt in his life before. He stood for a long time, revelling in these new sensations, his back turned to the city in which he had arrived only that day, and where he was to live for many a year. Behind him a motley crowd was strolling along the boulevard; he caught snatches of Russian and foreign conversation, the quiet dignified voices of the local worthies, the pretty babble of the young ladies, and the boisterous voices of the senior schoolboys clustering around two or three of them. A burst of laughter from one such group made Vasily Petrovich turn round. The gay crowd passed him; one of the youths was saying something to a young schoolgirl; his chums were noisily interrupting what was apparently a vehement apologetic speech. "Don't you believe him, Nina! He's a liar!...
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Часть текста: pale image rises before me, do my face flame and my hands clench, and terror and rage clutch at my throat, as they did that day when I stood face to face with my mortal enemy? I cannot rid myself of these haunting memories, and an odd thought has occurred to me. Perhaps, if I put them down on paper, I shall be finished with them; perhaps they will haunt me no longer, and will let me die in peace. That is the special reason that makes me take up my pen. Perhaps someone will read this diary, perhaps not. It is immaterial to me. Therefore, I need not apologize to my future readers either for my choice of subject, which cannot have the slightest interest for people accustomed to dealing with social, if not world, problems, or for the form in which my writings are set forth. True, I should like these lines to be read by one person, but that person will not blame me. Everything that has to do with me is dear to her. That person is my cousin. What is keeping her so long today? It is three months now since I came to myself after that day. The first face that I saw was Sonya's. Ever since then she has been spending every evening with me. It has become with her a kind of service. She sits at my bedside or near the great easy chair when I feel strong enough to sit in it, and talks to me, reads newspapers and books to me. It grieves her to see me so indifferent to the choice of reading matter, which I leave to her. "Here is a new novel in the Vestnik Yevropy, Andrei." "Very well, dear, let's have it. . . ." "It's by a Mrs. Gay." "All right___" And she starts on a rambling tale about a Mr. Scripple and a Miss Gordon, and after the first two pages turns her big kind eyes upon me and says. "It isn't long; this magazine always condenses its novels." "All right. I'm listening." She goes...
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Часть текста: Печальная колесница, следовавшая за гробом, вся была покрыта венками: от литературного фонда, от товарищей-писателей, от студентов горного института, от студентов-медиков, от студентов технологического института, от высших женских курсов, от учащихся в Петербурге сибиряков, от некоторых журналов и газет, прекрасный венок от "Северного Вестника" с надписью: "Писателю-художнику и безупречному человеку" и еще много венков от друзей и почитателей таланта Гаршина. Над могилой сказано несколько речей. Очень хорошее стихотворение прочитал г. Минский; привожу из него отрывок... "В безвременье ты жил, безвременно погас! Я ничего не знал прекрасней и печальней Лучистых глаз твоих и бледного чела, Как будто для тебя земная жизнь была Тоской по родине, недостижимо-дальней. И творчество твое, и красота лица В одну гармонию слились с твоей судьбою, И жребий твой похож до страшного конца На грустный вымысел, рассказанный тобою"... Похоронили Всеволода Гаршина... На могиле были сказаны речи, стихи, были венки, были искренние слезы - и много народа. Что же вызвало эти слезы, эти венки и речи и собрало у его могилы такую большую толпу? Гаршин был, бесспорно, талантливый писатель. Кто раз прочитал, напр., его рассказ "Четыре дня на поле сражения", тот уже до конца жизни не забудет его, хотя бы прожил сто лет, как никто из знавших Гаршина не позабудет его добрых тоскующих глаз... В этом рассказе - правдивом и в правдивости своей ужасном - предстает перед нами отвратительная изнанка боевой славы - той кровавой вакханалии, что зовется войной. А "Дневник рядового Иванова", "Два художника", "Attalea princeps", "Красный цветок"... ведь все это настоящее неподдельные литературные перлы. Гаршин написал мало, но в этом малом он сумел сказать очень...