Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "HAT"
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Примерный текст на первых найденных страницах
Входимость: 2. Размер: 162кб.
Часть текста: memory of it is anything but pleasant. Why then does a secret voice whisper it into my ear, why, when I wake up in the night, do familiar scenes and visions pass before me in the darkness, and why, when one 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...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 52кб.
Часть текста: не могут и, пожалуй, даже радуются тому: этак мы, полагают они, ближе к правде". Да, с выдумкой было слабо в ту пору, когда Тургенев писал эти слова, а с той поры стало еще слабее. Около того времени молодые беллетристы еще пробовали себя в "выдумке". Г. Гирс замахнулся "Старой и юной Россией", но, впрочем, так и остался с замахнувшейся рукой, не кончил романа, не довел своей выдумки до конца. Покойный Кущевский написал "Николая Негорева", но больше уж ничего не выдумал. Г-жа Смирнова напечатала несколько романов. А теперь... Облетели цветы, Догорели огни... Будто, однако, в самом деле цветы облетели и огни догорели? "Отжившим и не жившим" не трудно признать этот печальный факт, даже примириться с ним, даже, пожалуй, при известных обстоятельствах, не без некоторого злорадного торжества к нему относиться или по крайней мере подыскивать ему безапелляционные объяснения. В другом письме, позднейшем (1874), Тургенев писал одной даме: "Для предстоящей общественной деятельности не нужно ни особенных талантов, ни даже особенного ума, ничего крупного, выдающегося,...
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Часть текста: Гаршин В. М - Генкелю В. Е., май 1887 г. 434. В. Е. Генкелю <Май 1887 г.> Милостивый Государь г. Генкель, Позвольте выразить Вам искреннюю благодарность за перевод, и издание моих рассказов и уверить, что я нисколько не в претензии за то, что Вы приступили к переводу не уведомив меня. Присылкою Вашего издания Вы меня весьма обрадуете. 338 Примите, милостивый государь, уверение в моем совершенном уважении и признательности. Всеволод Гаршин Примечания 338 В библиотеке Г. сохранилась книга: Wssewolod Garsehin, "Pessimistische Erzahlungen. Aus dem russischen ubersetzt von Wilhelm Henckel", Munchen. Verlag von Fr. Bassermann, c надписью: "Высокоуважаемому автору от преданного переводчика. В. Генкель. Мюнхен. 8. VI. 1887 г." Дата эта позволяет нам более или менее точно датировать и письмо Гаршина. В издание В. Генкеля вошли переводы пяти произведений Г. ("Художники", "Трус", "Происшествие", "Встреча" и "Красный цветок"; в приложении к книге дан был еще перевод повести П. А. Крушевана ("Sie ging nicht zu Grunde"). Краткая вводная статья переводчика очень характерна для отношения к Г. первых его зарубежных интерпретаторов: "Wssewolod Garsehin, der talentvollste unter den jungeren Belletristen Russlands, ist ein Nachfdiger des Grafen Leo Tolstoj. Seine Erzahlungen zeigen eine hervorragende Begabung fur die Schilderung des menschlichen Seelenlebens, von dem er iibrigens nur die Nachtseiten zu kennen scheint. Durch alie seine bisher veroffentlichten Erzahlungen (vierzehn derselben sind in zwei Bandchen 1882 und 1886 gesammelt erschienen) geht ein demokratischer und pessimistischer Zug und ihre Tendenz istdirekt gegen die heutige Gesellschaftsordnung gerichtet. Namentlich sind es die Grauel des Krieges, gegen die er ahnlich wie Wassilij Wereschlschagin auf seinem Gebiet an zu Kampfen sucht und die er in mehreren seiner Erzahlungen brandmarkt. Garschins Skizzen sind durchaus realistisch, alien Pathos, alios Gemachte, Gekunstelte, Unwahre verschmaht er. Zu einem abgerundeten Kunstwerk, einer Novelle oder einem Roman, hat es dieses junge Talent bis jetzt noch nicht gebracht, seine Erzahlungen, obschon sie von unbestreitbarem Werth sind, kann mail doch nur als Skizzen bezeichnen. Ober, wie seine Vorbilder, Graf Leo Tolstoj und Dostojewskij befahigt ist, grossere, vollkommenere Kunstwerke hervorzubringen wird erst die Zukunft zeigen. Es ist eine Eigenthiimlichkeit der jungeren Generation unter den russischen Belletristen, dass sie sich meist auf Skizzen heschranken, grosseren und ernsten Aufgaben aber aus dem Wege gehen".
Входимость: 1. Размер: 50кб.
Часть текста: 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...
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Часть текста: darkly from behind the forest. The only dwellings around were the cabins of the neighbouring track-walkers. Semyon Ivanov was a sick, broken-down man. He had been in the war nine years before, serving all through the campaign as an officer's servant. He had known hunger, and cold, and blazing heat, and had made twenty-five and thirty-five mile marches in heat and cold, rain and shine. He had been under fire, too, but no bullet, thank God, had got him. His regiment had once been in the firing line, and there had been skirmishing with the Turks for a whole week. Our men had lain on this side of a glen, the Turks on the other, and there had been a steady cross-fire from morning till evening. Semyon's officer was there too; three times a day Semyon brought him his meals and a boiling samovar from the regimental kitchen in the ravine. He carried the samovar through a clearing, and the bullets whizzed around him and smacked against the rocks. Semyon was terrified, and sometimes he cried, but he kept straight on. The officers were pleased with him, because they always had hot tea. He came home from the war unharmed, but his legs and arms began to ache. He fell on evil days. Coming home, he found that his old father had died; his four-year-old son had died, too, from some throat trouble. Semyon was left all alone in the world with his wife. They could not work the farm; ploughing the land with rheumatic arms and legs was no easy task. Life in their home village became unbearable, and so they set out to seek their fortune in other places. They tried their luck on the border, in Kherson, and in the Don, but without success. Then the wife went into domestic service, while Semyon...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 120кб.
Часть текста: morning among the grey ranks lined up outside the billet of the colonel of the 222nd Starobelsky Infantry Regiment. I had on a greatcoat with red shoulder-straps and blue tabs, and a cap with a blue band; across my back was a pack, at my belt a cartridge pouch, in my hand a heavy rifle. The band struck up, and the colours were carried out of the colonel's lodgings. A command rang out; the regiment noiselessly presented arms. Then a terrific uproar arose: the colonel shouted a command, and this was taken up by the battalion and company commanders and the platoon NCO's. The result was a confused and to me quite unintelligible movement of greatcoats, which ended in the regiment stretching out in a long column and swinging off to the sounds of the regimental band, which blared out a gay march. I marched along, too, trying to keep in step with my neighbour. The pack pulled backwards, the heavy pouches forwards, the rifle kept slipping off my shoulder, and the collar of the greatcoat chafed my neck; but despite all these little discomforts, the music, the orderly heavy movement of the column, the fresh early morning air, and the sight of the bristling bayonets and grim suntanned faces attuned one's soul to a calm and steadfast mood. Despite the early hour people stood about in crowds outside the houses, and half-dressed figures looked out of the windows. We marched down a long straight street, past the market-place, where the Moldavians on their ox-waggons were already beginning to arrive; the street...
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Часть текста: the palms, which they bent and broke, themselves pressing up against the iron frames and bending and breaking in turn. The gardeners were constantly lopping the branches and tying the leaves up with wire to curb their wild growth, but it did not help much. What the plants needed was the wide free spaces of their native habitats. They were natives of hot climes, tender, luxurious creations, who remembered their native countries and yearned for them. However transparent the glass roof might be, it was not the bright sky. Sometimes, in the winter, the panes froze over, and then it would grow quite dark in the greenhouse. The wind would howl and beat against the frames, and rattle them. Snow-drifts covered the roof. Listening to the howling of the wind, the plants would remember another wind, a warm humid wind that gave to them life and health. And they longed to feel its breath upon them again, to have it sway their branches and wanton with their leaves. But the air in the greenhouse was without a stir, except perhaps sometimes in the winter when the storm would smash a pane of glass and a cold sharp flurry, laden with hoarfrost, would find its way under the dome. In the wake of that flurry the leaves turned white, shrank, and wilted. But new panes were put in very quickly. The botanical garden was in charge of an excellent scientific director, who kept things in perfect order, although he spent most of his time with a microscope in a special glass cabin set up in the main building. Among the plants was a palm-tree, taller and more beautiful than any of the others. The director who sat in his cabin called it by the Latin name Attalea. But that was not its real name: the botanists had made it up. The botanists did not know its native name, and it was not...