When my muse is a small, pale and nervous woman with blonde hair and deep blue eyes, in whom the fire of unrealistic desires always burns, a fire that slowly but surely burns her soul with doubt and longing, when my muse told me this story, she is bitter she sobbed, and my heart cried too, echoing her, which, however, was irrelevant.
My hero was a poet. Once upon a time there were true poets on earth ... We will not speak on such a sad topic, there is a lot of sadness in this story without it.
My hero was a poet. Like most poets, he wrote poetry, which, of course, does not yet speak for or against his virtues. In these verses, he praised nature, love and women, his desires, dreams and his sufferings, that is, the sufferings of a man who, having the happiness of being a poet, is prone to the misfortune of living on earth, where even scoundrels live hard. He said in his poems that his heart was all ulcerated by doubt and that worms of longing tirelessly gnawed his chest, and although it was difficult to understand what he doubted, whether all the beauty was triumphant or that fame would crown his forehead and thus distinguishes it from thousands of pen meetings, nevertheless they read it.
It was read ... Of all the ways in which people kill time, this is not the worst.
His descriptions of the torment of the soul and heart ulcers, due to profuse vocabulary and skillful architectonics, came out quite believable and even seemed to be sincere ... Then, sad songs were in the spirit of the times, and therefore my hero had hopes, it was assumed that he was capable to say a new word, the editors paid him forty kopecks per line, critics affectionately called him a pretty talent, the young ladies, reading his poems, dreamed about him, languidly closing their eyes, but the ladies, having no need to close their eyes, simply dreamed.
And he was young - that is his main advantage. He was young, and therefore sometimes in his poems sounded lively, energetic notes of hopes and desires, notes of threats and reproaches ...
And I talk about that sad incident with him, my hero, after which these cheerful and strong notes in his songs disappeared - that finally and forever killed his young soul, his dreams and hopes, his faith in life and people, the power of his love and the sharpness of his hatred. I talk about what he is ...
I start from the time when, visiting his muse, he was inspired, kissing her pink cheeks, crimson lips, blue eyes, white little pens - this is how colorful I paint his muse! .. - I was inspired and discharged by tiny graceful pictures of nature’s life and his soul, healthy and fresh, like spring flowers, when he graciously and proudly accepted from anyone who could testify before him, a tribute to his talent, and in his free time he thought about what it was time for him to accomplish something that would transfer him from ra a series of “pretty” talents in the category of “outstanding”, “remarkable”, and, perhaps, even in the category of brilliant ones, he had nothing against it either. I start...
Once, on a glorious summer night, he returned from his muse, a small blond minx living in a cozy, bright room, where everything was in harmony with each other and where his muse, amid a mass of expensive, elegant trinkets, indisputably and legally dominated them, as the most elegant ... This muse was not one of nine, did not serve Apollo and did not possess a lyre with a gold string, she was one of three fashionistent sisters of strictly bourgeois origin, she served Venus merrily and, deftly controlling the needle, embroidered her chubby arms and multi-colored silk initial my hero on his handkerchief.
He walked, and fire moths still fluttered on his face - her kisses, a mighty flame of inspiration flashed brightly in his heart, and a bright and powerful song for the glory of love and comfort to you composed itself.
The dark blue velvet sky dotted with diamonds and emeralds of fluttering stars flashed a soft and gentle smile to him, and a light breeze full of the scent of flowers, ovoid his face burning with excitement of happiness, combed his soft curls, disheveled by his warm and magnificent hands.
He was dressed in an elegant wide summer suit, and in this wide suit lurking his misfortune - which you will soon see. He walked, and in the bluish dusk of the night before his eyes, shining with the light of divine inspiration, marvelous images circled in a fantastic waltz, and his thought, powerfully linking them together, created wonderful, full of fire of life, poems that lacked only words, sonorous , beautiful words, so that in the harmonious harmony of harmonies to break out of his chest and rush above the ground, inciting shame in the hearts of people for the past and vigorous attempts and creeps to commit deeds of a positive quality.
And these poems, already created by his heart and filling his chest with an agonizingly sweet thirst for form, gave rise to a divine sense of consciousness of his strength and power in him, lifting him there, to his native sky, where the shadows of already dead genius poets invisibly rush in blue the radiance of the tender moon, - he heard - his words were whispering to him, sounding and encouraging.
He walked, feeling like a creator equal to God, linking wondrous images in his soul, clothed his thoughts in them, and the sky seemed to him a blue grand poem, combining all the great ideas of the universe, a poem rhymed with the lively brilliance of stars and imbued with his solemn consciousness perfection.
- Oh life! He cried, my poet, delighted with the contemplation of heaven and the life of his soul. - Oh life! He repeated, and, panting from the desire to give a laudatory speech of life, said nothing.
He silently poured out into a smile of unearthly bliss and admiration, and the stars from heaven answered him with an encouraging smile. He thought and felt how his soul smelled of a light breath of sweet sadness, that quiet sadness that does not overshadow the brow, but ennobles him ...
At this point, my hero was bitten by a flea for the first time *).
*) Oh, reader! don't think it's an allegory, not a flea. I assure you, I swear to you that this is a flea, not an allegory, not a symbol, as they say now ...
It’s just a flea, the same flea described by Brem and found in linen. Dark brown, frivolously galloping, she bites ... You know how she bites ... She is devilishly evil and created by nature in order to give pessimists one of the unshakable arguments in favor of the "life is suffering" position. You, the reader, perhaps did not know what it was created for? So know now and bow to the objectivism of nature, which does not forget philosophers in their care of people. Know this, and forgive me the little leaping indecency that I put on stage - forgive me for it! It’s so easy for you to do this, for you apologize to the other authors and the larger indecent ...
She bit him in the elbow bend of her left hand ... He felt a bite, but did not give himself a report in it and, mechanically scratching the bitten place, again plunged into enthusiastic contemplation.
My hero walked - and the silence around him seemed to be sensitively listening to the excitement of his heart and thoughts ... He walked and, feeling himself the center of the universe, dreamed, dreamed, dreamed ... He dreamed of glory and love and looked in the fog of the future yourself out of bronze on a pedestal of marble ...
- I deserve it! He whispered in delight. “I will crush the hydra of lies and destroy the dragons of malice.” I will show humanity the path to happiness and glory, I will lead him out of the gloomy forest of doubts about the strength of life into the radiant valley of faith in his high calling! I will prove to him his birthright and prove that it’s gone and cowardly to sell this birthright for the lentil stew of illusory moments! .. An indestructibly strong desire for life is the key to success in everything you want ... Be strong in spirit, man! - I will say and make you believe me. And then...
He felt something digging into his armpit, and started with surprise and pain ... But this episode did not interrupt his dreams.
- I will create a new fighting philosophy, in which I embody the whole cycle of great ideas developed by mankind, connecting them with the greatness of the human soul, the greatness that I will prove, as no one has yet succeeded before me. I will awaken pride in people by strikingly clearly showing them that great that they have already done, and convincing them that, if desired, they can do everything else for happiness and glory ...
His chest was bitten ... He scratched himself impatiently.
- ... To awaken the pride of people - this is my task! And I will wake her! I will write the poem “Clash of the Titans” and in it I will reproduce everything that humanity has survived to this day. This is enough to convince people to increase the price of their abilities. And my poem will be the best and eternal system of ethics, indestructible by nothing, for it will be based on the pride of the gods who created life ...
He was bitten fiercely, painfully and often ... They bit his chest, back, legs, arms ... And did not have time to extinguish the pain of one bite, as if in another place a sharp, hot needle pierced his body. He shuddered every now and then, annoyed.
“Yes, people value their strengths a little, - that’s the reason for their weakness! .. Damn her! ..
Then he gritted his teeth frantically, for he felt that a thin and sharp awl was stuck into his chest, stuck and turned it ... But, carried away by his thoughts, he still suffered pain, not trying to investigate its cause.
- So, go ahead - for work for fame, for life, for people! .. muse, I call you! Go and give me glory, shining like fire, I am full of desire to sing, I am full of ideas and passion ... Oh muse, I am waiting for you! come to my aid! ..
But the muses did not go ... Our duty is to forgive them for this; moreover, we should even pity them. Poor Erath, poor Eutherpa, poor Calliope! .. Only the Zemstvo midwife, suppressed by the abundance of practice, can understand you, the unfortunate daughters of Apollo! Poor muses! Did you think that the time will come for universal aesthetic attempts and creeps on earth, and you, the beautiful and majestic priestesses of pure art, will serve the art of obstetrics, using supernatural efforts to help hundreds of thousands of psychopathically minded mortals get rid of the burden of linguistic genius by poetic poems and rickety sonnets? Poor muses! Poor muses!
I understand why you did not appear at the call of my poet. Is it possible to have time to satisfy all those who are now calling for your help! .. Poor raped and tortured muses! You did not come to the call of my poet, and I will not blame you for this act, although my hero is dear to my heart, bitten by a cruel insect ... For, while waiting, he finally cried out:
- Oh! Damn me, who eats me like that?
He had the right to pay attention to his body, the body tormented and sacrificed to the spirit, because for quite a long time his spirit soared in the superstellar spheres of his dreams.
So, my hero felt pain and thus descended from the realms of dreams into the realms of harsh reality.
- Who's gnawing at me? He asked, feeling that as if thousands of wasps had pierced their burning stings into his body and left them there.
And, at a loss, he began to furiously ... itch.
I apologize to the reader with a delicately developed sense of grace, but ... fact - he began to itch. After all, poets are also people. "When you think carefully, because we all stick out naked in our dresses ..." - said the merry fellow Heine, who had suffered all his life from longing. My poet, too, was sticking naked in his dress, and therefore itchs fiercely ...
“However, damn it!” This, after all, seems to be nothing but fleas! He exclaimed and, having made this discovery, seemed to calm down a little, and then decided that on the next visit to his muse he would give her a box of good powder to exterminate harmful insects. Then - he returned to his thoughts.
- Those for whom life represents only an amazing variety of forms and the complete absence of essence will see in my creations ...
Then a flea pinched him in the spoon, and he again took measures to reduce the pain, and lost the thread of his thought ... But she still bit ... Trying not to pay attention to the pain, he again tried to ascend there, - from where had just flew off.
- Life is shapeless from the variety of forms filling it ... And that person, whose mighty mind, having caught in each separate form the same true and common to all of them content, will give all life a solid form, that will make life accessible to understanding of all people. I will do it in my songs! .. And when I do this, everyone and everyone will clearly see his place in life, his tasks and the path to happiness ... Oh you, a comma put by Satan in my way! .. Wait a minute same! .. - And he fiercely pinched himself where she had bitten him.
“My songs will shine and warm like the sun in the cold darkness of doubt aggravating the souls of people ... You, black misfortune ... jumping evil ... living poison! .. I’ll catch you, wait a minute! ..
And, having no more strength to endure, he began, trembling with anger, to seek her. But when he caught her on her chest, she bit his back, and when he trapped her on his shoulders, she gnawed at his knees ...
The night turned pale, and, fleeing from the dawn, a gloomy, bluish cloud swam quickly across the sky. Here, several large drops fell from her, as if she was crying about something ... It is very likely that the clouds can cry, because they must know the affairs of the earth so well, floating in the sky around it ...
He could not catch her, tirelessly galloping and voluptuously tormenting him, now and then sticking his jaws into the thin skin of my hero, exhausted by the struggle with her. She was too small to be quickly defeated, and tirelessly stabbed him here and there, as if laughing at his powerlessness. Oh, these little things! These faint dust particles of reality, destroying the grandiose and magnificent buildings of dreams and poisonous flowers of dreams! But what if Hercules was offered, instead of performing the well-known twelve feats, to withstand one battle with a dozen fleas? .. I believe that, out of his reckless courage, he would agree to this, but ... then? ..
My hero valued himself dearly; at least an hour he looked for her and did not find her, although she was here and bit him, bit her lazily and as if laughing at him. And then, weary and depressed by the consciousness of his powerlessness, he sighed sadly and sank to the ground, feeling that a cold sweat of despair and horror appeared on his body.
- Oh life! An insidious monster who does not know compassion, mocking, cold and evil! .. I understood your passionless game! You saw in me the implacable enemy of your unbridledness and defeated me while I was about to enter the battle with you! It is ignoble, but prudent. Yes, you are strong, and I feel it. I admit that I am defeated, it hurts me, but not ashamed, for I fought as much as I could! I can’t do it anymore. I am not to blame for my weakness. If a small black speck obscures before me the vast horizon of my thought ... if every time I raise my eyes to heaven, without reaching them with my head, I lose ground from under my feet and hang powerlessly in space ... who is to blame for this? ..
But then she dug into his right shoulder blade with such fury, as if trying to bite right through him. He turned pale in pain and longing ...
- Oh life, do not torment me, I will surrender without a fight! He cried pathetically, at the same time trying to grab her hand, but she had already disappeared and tickled his lower back, obviously preparing to bite again ...
“I was an eagle half an hour ago and, now, the worm knew how little life and time needed to break the pride of the human spirit.” What will I put against the overwhelming power of real life? Where can I draw a proud spirit for the battle with her? Do I, with a tiny grain of my brain, penetrate the secret meaning of her intentions? O life, a mysterious monster without compassion and love for your children!
And the flea bit him all ... Alas! where you need a Persian daisy, there is nothing the most magnificent flowers of rhetoric! .. Ah, you certainly need to understand what's what! .. And my hero died, gnawed by a flea.
He lowered his head low and low and went home, feeling that his whole body was burning in a fire, and not paying attention to the fact that the sky above him was already covered with a dawn blush and the earth was slightly silent, as if frozen in anticipation of the first rays the sun. And then they sprayed, tearing a light cloud that prevented them from freely pouring into the soft blue desert of heaven ... They sprayed, and the earth sighed rejoicingly towards them. And the birds began to sing, and the trees rustled, and the sky shone so gently and importantly over the earth awakened to life ...
But my hero did not see any of this, for his soul was oppressed by sorrow and his body was tormented by pain. He walked with his head bowed, and when he came home, undressed, carefully searched and shook his dress and underwear, found nothing and went to bed, feeling overwhelmed and sick. He slept little, anxiously, and he had all such terrible dreams ... He saw one huge flea, biting his chest, gnawing at his heart ... And he saw many more such horrors. And in the morning, waking up, he lay in bed for a long time and looked at the ceiling with eyes full of sadness. And when, finally, he got up, washed, drank tea, he sat down at the table, gripped by dreary inspiration, with a cold in his heart and with a fire of despair in his head, - he sat down at the table and wrote:
I am cruelly deceived by life
And so much trouble I suffered
What's more in the shower
Swarms of dreams buried in it!
There are many of them there! The crypt is so cramped for them! ..
I dressed them in shrouds of rhyme
And a lot of songs over them
Sad, like moans, sang ...
Sang - and now I will not break
I'm more of their dead sleep ...
Lord! Rest my soul!
She is hopelessly ill ...
* * *
I didn’t drink a drop of happiness,
And I can’t wait for him!
No, a heart burned to ashes
Hope I will not light again!
I do not need deception and dreams -
May their world be pleased and sweet,
Miley give me a glass of that poison
Which I drank all the time!
I boldly destroy my life
When I drink it to the bottom ...
Then ... will I rest my soul
What is so unbearably sick?
* * *
Dark spots on my heart
Deep sorrow lay down.
And I go through life fatally
I do not need anyone in it;
In her heart lives sadly
And too dark in her mind!
I do not touch death meetings,
May death be cold and dark.
Lord! Rest my soul!
She is hopelessly sick!
And having written such a poem, he soon published it. Those from the public who used to read his poems, after reading these, said:
- Unhappy! How long has he been so cheerful? Oh damn living conditions! How quickly they crush everything, more or less talented and lively! What drama was played out in the soul of this pretty talent?
They said many other things ... After all, the public always says a lot, this is her specialty, and I do not blame her, firmly remembering that everyone does what he can. No more than what he can.
So my hero died sadly! .. This is how the best forces and thoughts of our poets perish! That is why sad chants are so plentiful and loud! ..
And if this episode doesn't say anything like that? Does not matter! Imagine that he says just that. You, you see, need some kind of morality in my story. But it doesn’t cost you anything to imagine so little ... Imagine, you reader, that, given your properties, you still deserve a better life! ..
My hero died! .. And if someone thinks that I incorrectly illuminated the reasons for his death, he is mistaken. I do not need to make it better or worse than it is. I am a humble servant of truth, he is a poet. We are alien to each other; he wants to be famous, I do not like vulgarity ... Then we are both people. May the gods help be wiser than we are, and then maybe he will not write his poems, and I will not write my prose. Amen!
