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Входимость: 5. Размер: 162кб.

Часть текста: a diary. I have a special reason for taking up my pen. Some write their memoirs because they are of considerable historical interest; some because they wish to recapture the happy days of their youth; others for the sake of gossiping and blackening people long since dead and defending themselves against accusations long since forgotten. I have none of these reasons. I am still a young man, who has not made history nor seen it made; I have no reason to blacken people, and no reason whatever to defend myself. To recapture past happiness? It was so short-lived and the end so frightful, that the 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...

Входимость: 3. Размер: 50кб.

Часть текста: 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! He's making it all up!" "No, really, Nina, it isn't my fault in the least!" "Look here, ...

Входимость: 3. Размер: 120кб.

Часть текста: 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...

Входимость: 2. Размер: 45кб.

Часть текста: our chief looked when he heard that I was giving up my post! And when I explained what I was doing it for he simply stared at me open-mouthed. "For love of art? H'm! Hand in your application." And without a word more he turned and went away. But that was all I needed. I was free, I was an artist! Was not that the height of bliss? I wanted to get away from people and from St. Petersburg, so I took a boat and went out for a run along the seashore. The water, the sky, the city gleaming in the sun from afar, the blue woods skirting the shores of the bay, the mast tops in the Kronstadt roads, the dozens of steamboats and gliding sailing vessels that flew past me-all appeared to me in a new light. All this was mine, all was within my power, I could snatch it all, fling it upon the canvas, and set it before the mob, fascinated by the spell of art. True, one ought not to sell the bearskin before one has caught the bear; so far I could hardly be called a great artist. The boat swiftly cleaved the smooth sheet of water. The boatman, a tall, strong, handsome young man in a crimson shirt, steadily plied the oars, swinging his body backward and forward, and propelling the boat with powerful strokes. The sinking sun played upon his face and shirt with such striking effect that I was moved to make a sketch of him in colours. My little box containing canvases, paints and brushes was always with me. "Stop rowing and sit still for a minute while I paint you," I said. ' He lay on the oars. "Sit as though you were feathering the oars." He swung the oars back like a bird spreading its wings and froze in that beautiful attitude. I dashed off a pencil outline and began painting. I mixed the colours with a peculiar sense of joy. I knew that nothing would tear me away from them as long as I lived. The boatman quickly began to tire; the dashing expression of...

Входимость: 2. Размер: 17кб.

Часть текста: entwined with hops, large white-flowered bindweed and mouse-ear chickweed, which hung upon them in pale-green clusters of pale-lilac flowers scattered here and there. The prickly thistles grew to such a size on the rich moist soil (all around the flower-garden was a large shady orchard) that they looked almost like trees. The yellow moth mulleins reared their flowery spikes still higher. The nettles occupied a pretty large corner of the flower-garden; they stung, of course, but then one could admire their dark foliage from a distance, especially when it made a background for the pale beauty of the delicate rose petals. The rose blossomed one fine May morning; when it opened out its petals the fleeing morning dew left several bright teardrops upon them. It seemed as if the rose was weeping. But the world around her was so beautiful, so clear and sunny on that lovely morning when first she saw the blue sky, and felt the fresh morning breeze, and the beams of the radiant sun shone through her delicate petals with a rosy light; and it was so quiet and peaceful in the flower-garden, that if she could have wept, she would have done so, not through sadness but through the sheer joy of living. She could not speak; all she could do was to nod her dainty head and spread around her a delicate fragrance, and in that fragrance was her speech, her tears, and her prayer. Meanwhile, between the roots of the bush on the damp ground below-as if clinging to it on his flat stomach-sat a fairly fat old toad, who, after having hunted worms and midges all night, had sat down towards the...

Входимость: 1. Размер: 40кб.

Часть текста: с моих плеч. Счастье было так неожиданно! Долой инженерские погоны, долой инструменты и сметы! Но не стыдно ли так радоваться смерти бедной тетки только потому, что она оставила наследство, дающее мне возможность бросить службу? Правда, ведь она, умирая, просила меня отдаться вполне моему любимому занятию, и теперь я радуюсь, между прочим, и тому, что исполняю ее горячее желание. Это было вчера... Какую изумленную физиономию сделал наш шеф, когда узнал, что я бросаю службу! А когда я объяснил ему цель, с которою я делаю это, он просто разинул рот. - Из любви к искусству?.. Мм!.. Подавайте прошение. И не сказал больше ничего, повернулся и ушел. Но мне ничего больше и не было нужно. Я свободен, я художник! Не верх ли это счастья? Мне захотелось уйти куда-нибудь подальше от людей и от Петербурга; я взял ялик и отправился на взморье. Вода, небо, сверкающий вдали на солнце город, синие леса, окаймляющие берега залива, верхушки мачт на кронштадтском рейде, десятки пролетавших мимо меня пароходов и скользивших парусных кораблей и лайб - все показалось мне в новом свете. Все это мое, все это в моей власти, все это я могу схватить, бросить на полотно и поставить перед изумленною силою искусства толпою. Правда, не следовало бы продавать шкуру еще не...

Входимость: 1. Размер: 22кб.

Часть текста: «Мужичья полоса» представлена Репиным с его «Бурлаками». «Искусство для искусства» – модным пейзажистом Клевером с его «изящными вещицами». Двумя годами раньше, в первых статьях о выставках, Гаршин писал, что пейзажи Клевера точно изготовлены на «фабрике стенных украшений». Борец за подлинное русское искусство В. В. Стасов («В. С.») тоже действует в рассказе: это он видит в Рябинине будущего «нашего корифея» и поэтому «одобряет, превозносит» рябининского «Глухаря». Есть и идейный вдохновитель противоположного направления – критик Л., Александр Л.; в нем без труда угадывается (современникам это тем более было понятно) Александр Ледаков, ярый враг передвижничества, «пересола реализма», как выразился его почитатель, один из антагонистов в рассказе – Дедов. Примечательно и указание, что проданная картина Рябинина увезена в Москву. В ту пору картины такого направления покупал, как правило, лишь П. М. Третьяков, который, действительно, приобрел на Шестой Передвижной выставке картину «Кочегар» Н. Ярошенко, очень близкую по смыслу рябининскому «Глухарю». Как отмечают исследователи, Связь гаршинского «Глухаря» и «Кочегара» для современников была вполне очевидна. Характерно, что Глеб Успенский, близко знакомый и с писателем, и с художником, в статье о Гаршине допускает характерную обмолвку: называет героя картины Рябинина – «Кочегаром» [5, с 415]. Действительно, борьба двух течений в русской живописи, которые символически представлены в рассказе Рябининым и Дедовым, в период написания рассказа обозначилась особенно ярко. Н. Ярошенко выставил картины «Кочегар», «Невский проспект ночью», «Причины неизвестны» и др., К. Савицкий – картины «На войну», «Беглый», «Крючники». Картина...

Входимость: 1. Размер: 54кб.

Часть текста: such and such officers wounded, among the lower ranks 50 men killed, 100 wounded," and is glad that they are so few, but when I read such a report it immediately brings a whole bloody picture to my mind. Fifty killed and a hundred maimed-and that is called insignificant! Why are we shocked when the papers report a murder involving the lives of only a few people? Why does the sight of bullet-riddled corpses strewing the battle-field horrify us less than the spectacle of a home despoiled by a murderer? Why is it that the Tiligulskaya embankment disaster, which took toll of a score or so of lives, caused a sensation throughout Russia, whereas outpost skirmishes involving "insignificant" losses of the same number of lives barely attract attention? Lvov, a medical student of my acquaintance, with whom I often have arguments about the war, told me the other day, "Well, Mr. Pacifist, we shall see how those humane convictions of yours will look in practice when you are taken into the army and made to shoot at other men." "They won't take me into the army, Vasily, because I'm enrolled in the militia." "But if the war drags on they will start drawing on the militia. Don't you worry, your turn...

Входимость: 1. Размер: 48кб.

Часть текста: утомительного путешествия, длившегося почти месяц, Гаршин добрался, наконец, до Харькова и вскоре из лазаретного барака переехал к родным на квартиру. В доме Гаршиных стало шумно и весело. По вечерам приходило много народу, главным образом учащейся молодежи, чтобы повидать раненого добровольца и послушать рассказы о войне. Воспоминания друзей и родных рисуют нам Гаршина в этот период спокойным и оживленным. Сознание исполненного долга, всеобщее внимание, ореол героя - все это как будто подымало его настроение. Однако в глубине души Гаршина продолжался мучительный процесс осмысливания жизни. "Проклятые вопросы" оставались для него по-прежнему неразрешенными. Душевное равновесие, установившееся на фронте под пулями, здесь вновь было нарушено. В гаршинском архиве сохранился отрывок письма к неизвестному адресату, относящийся к этому периоду. Из отрывка видно, что лихорадочная работа мысли, нравственные терзания не покидали Гаршина и тогда. Он настойчиво искал какой-то высшей правды, искал смысла жизни и человеческих страданий. "... Дорогой мой, - читаем мы в его письме, - знаешь ли ты, что твое хроническое горе до того въелось в мое существование, что в самые мучительные дни похода, те дни, когда не хотелось бы думать ни о чем, и тогда часто вспоминался мне другой мир страданий, тот, что сидит в твоем больном организме. И думал я, что ни мои кровавые мозоли на ногах, ни перетянутые ранцем и винтовкой плечи, ни голоданье, ни жажда, ничто не может сравниться с тем, что испытываешь ты, что испытывать приходилось и мне..."...

Входимость: 1. Размер: 40кб.

Часть текста: I do declare this madhouse open for inspection!" This speech was uttered in a loud raucous voice. The hospital clerk, who was registering the patient in a big dog-eared book that lay on an ink-stained desk, could not help smiling. But the two young attendants did not laugh: after two days and sleepless nights spent alone with the madman, whom they had just brought down by railway, they could barely stand on their feet. At the last station but one he had become so violent that he had had to be put in a strait jacket, for which purpose the assistance of the guards and a policeman had had to be resorted to. Thus bound he was brought to town and delivered at the hospital. He looked ghastly. Over his grey garment, which had been torn to shreds during his outburst of violence, was a tightly laced jacket of coarse canvas cut low at the neck; the long sleeves pinioned his crossed arms over his chest and were tied behind his back. His bloodshot dilated eyes (he had not slept for ten days) glittered with a feverish blazing light; his lower lip twitched with a nervous spasm; his curly matted hair hung over his forehead like a mane; he paced from corner to corner of the office with swift heavy strides, staring fixedly at the old file cabinets and the...

Поиск по творчеству и критикеCлово "LAID"

Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "LAID"