Venus in Furs (La Vénus à la fourrure), 2014, Roman Polanski, review
Anton Fomochkin considers the next film by Roman Polanski a director's master class, visual aid on the topic “How to create tension out of nothing”
Raindrops drummed on the shabby theater. The audition is over, Wanda has not been found - spoiled actresses distort the words and do not understand the text. The playwright Thomas Nowacek, a middle-aged man with big eyes, complains about the lack of talent and promises to buy sushi for the bride. No matter how. Taking a bottomless bag with them, someone smoothly descended from heaven. Where? Here. For what? And the devil knows. Breaks in. Vulgarly dressed, soaked to the skin. She calls herself Wanda. Gets full version script (it seems that the agent gave it away, but is there one?). Miraculously persuades the director to stay and reads the text - a perfect hit. Yes, but everything somehow went wrong, and the script reading smoothly turns into dangerous improvisation.
The world in which this action takes place is not real. A space familiar to Polanski's work, saturated with infernal energy. It doesn't matter if it's a closed room or a whole city - there is still no way out. That rare feeling of loss of control, of complete powerlessness, when life is playing some kind of game with you. bad joke, only, unlike the "Massacre", here the children will not beat each other. It all starts with a puppet panorama, where each house is as if glued together with hands. The theater stands on an empty, wet Parisian street. There are only two people - a man and a woman (as well as the voice of the bride, which sounds from the other end of the wire). The bride in general is a sort of island of normality, a likely "calm" future family life, restraining the inner, secret desires of the protagonist. A telephone is a connection with open world, which will break when it leaves the stage. Here is the point of no return.
Seigner is a goddess, Polanski drowns in her, he lets her try on as many looks in an hour and a half as the average starlet has never dreamed of in her entire career
It is obvious that the choice of a play for adaptation is not accidental, and in Severin (the main character of Masoch's work), Toma sees himself, on a subconscious level, not intentionally. In general, any digging into the psychology of the characters here is speculation. Throughout the film, Wanda will interpret the production in different ways and will increasingly be close to the truth. Much more interesting is her personality. Who is she? Succubus? Or maybe the devil himself? Although it is much more logical if she is Venus herself, who comes to the creator and reveals him dark side, opens a box locked with seven locks, in which his base desires languish. Or the muse, in the presence of which Toma's improvisation seems so simple, and the words themselves break from the tip of the pen. All these conjectures are inevitable - if we comprehend Polansky's tape, delving further than the obvious thesis (according to which "Venus in Furs" is funny, in places even Homeric funny theatrical performance), one has to face the original source, although Polanski is again cunning and uses her main thoughts and motives in a completely different interpretation, expanding the range of topics that I would like to touch on.
In fact, everything is much simpler. This is not a landmark work, this is not a statement, that, in fact, the film is good. This pure art, a director's master class on working with actors, building a frame, working with light. To create tension out of nothing - to make the viewer look spellbound at the characters - is the task of any production. Polanski bows to the theater, without any scenery, he transforms the stage, so much so that it seems endless. Elusive details, little things sweep past the echoes previous works director. Seigner is a goddess, Polanski drowns in her, he allows her to try on as many looks in an hour and a half as the average starlet has never dreamed of in her entire career. The source will burst, the doors of hell will open, and a grotesque grimace will appear from the shadows and fly back into the night. The doors will close. There is nothing else to look at.
A thousand and one passions, or a terrible night
(A novel in one part with an epilogue)
Dedicated to Victor Hugo
On the tower of St. One Hundred and Forty-Six Martyrs, midnight struck. I trembled. It's time. I seized Theodore convulsively by the arm and walked out into the street with him. The sky was dark as ink. It was dark, like wearing a hat on his head. Dark night is a day in a nutshell. We wrapped ourselves in raincoats and set off. Strong wind blew right through us. Rain and snow - these wet brothers - terribly beat on our faces. Lightning, despite the winter time, plowed the sky in all directions. Thunder, formidable, majestic companion of the charming, like blinking blue eyes, lightning fast as a thought, terrifyingly shook the air. Theodore's ears glowed with electricity. The fires of St. Elmo flew crackling over our heads. I looked up. I trembled. Who does not tremble before the majesty of nature? Several brilliant meteors flew across the sky. I started counting them and counted 28. I pointed them out to Theodore.
- Bad omen! he muttered, pale as a Carrara marble.
The wind groaned, howled, sobbed... The groan of the wind is the groan of conscience drowned in terrible crimes. Near us, thunder destroyed and set fire to an eight-story building. I heard screams coming out of him. We passed by. Was I before the burning house, when a hundred and fifty houses were burning in my chest? Somewhere in space, a bell rang mournfully, slowly, monotonously. There was a struggle of the elements. Some unknown forces seemed to be working on the terrifying harmony of the elements. Who are these forces? Will humans ever recognize them?
Fearful but daring dream!!!
We called kosh. We got into the carriage and drove off. Koshe is the brother of the wind. We raced like a bold thought races through the mysterious convolutions of the brain. I stuck a purse of gold into my hand. The gold helped the scourge double the speed of the horse's legs.
Antonio, where are you taking me? groaned Theodore. - You are looking evil genius… Hell is shining in your black eyes… I’m starting to be afraid…
Pathetic coward!! I said nothing. He loved her. She loved him passionately ... I had to kill him because I loved more life her. I loved her and hated him. He had to die on this terrible night and pay with death for his love. I was filled with love and hate. They were my second existence. These two sisters, living in one shell, produce devastation: they are spiritual vandals.
- Stop! I said to Koshe when the carriage rolled up to the target.
Me and Theodore jumped out. The moon looked at us coldly from behind the clouds. The moon is an impartial, silent witness to sweet moments of love and revenge. She was supposed to be a witness to the death of one of us. Before us was an abyss, an abyss without a bottom, like a barrel of the criminal daughters of Danae. We stood at the edge of the mouth of an extinct volcano. People talk about this volcano scary legends. I made a movement with my knee, and Theodore flew down into a terrible abyss. The mouth of a volcano is the mouth of the earth.
- A curse!!! he shouted in response to my curse.
Strong Husband, subverting his enemy into the crater of a volcano because of beautiful eyes women - a majestic, grandiose and instructive picture! The only thing missing was lava!
Koshe. Koshe is a statue placed by fate to ignorance. Away with the routine! Cochet followed Theodore. I felt that only love remained in my chest. I fell face down on the ground and wept with delight. Tears of delight are the result of a divine reaction produced in the depths loving heart. The horses neighed merrily. How painful it is not to be human! I freed them from the animal, suffering life. I killed them. Death is both fetters and liberation from fetters.
I went to the Purple Hippo Inn and drank five glasses of good wine.
Three hours after the revenge, I was at the door of her apartment. The dagger, the friend of death, helped me through the corpses to get to its doors. I began to listen. She didn't sleep. She dreamed. I listened. She was silent. The silence lasted four hours. Four hours for a lover - four nineteenth centuries! Finally she called the maid. The maid walked past me. I looked at her demonically. She caught my eye. Reason left her. I killed her. It is better to die than to live without reason.
- Annette! - shouted she. - Why is Theodore not coming? Anguish gnaws at my heart. I'm suffocated by some heavy foreboding. Oh Annette! Follow him. He must be going out now with the godless, terrible Antonio!.. God, who am I seeing?! Antonio!
I went in to her. She turned pale.
- Go away! she screamed, and horror distorted her noble, beautiful features.
I looked at her. The gaze is the sword of the soul. She staggered. She saw everything in my eyes: Theodore's death, demonic passion, and a thousand human desires... My posture was grandeur. Electricity shone in my eyes. My hair moved and stood on end. She saw before her a demon in an earthly shell. I saw that she admired me. For four hours, deathly silence and contemplation of each other continued. Thunder rumbled and she fell on my chest. The chest of a man is the fortress of a woman. I squeezed her in my arms. Both of us shouted. Her bones cracked. Galvanic current ran through our bodies. Hot Kiss…
She loved the demon in me. I wanted her to love the angel in me. “I give one and a half million francs to the poor!” - I said. She fell in love with me as an angel and cried. I cried too. What were those tears! A month later, a solemn wedding took place in the church of St. Titus and Hortensia. I got married with her. She married me. The poor have blessed us! She begged me to forgive my enemies, whom I had previously killed. I have forgiven. I went to America with my young wife. young loving wife was an angel in the virgin forests of America, an angel before whom lions and tigers bowed. I was a young tiger. Three years after our marriage, old Sam was running around with a curly-haired boy. The boy looked more like his mother than me. This pissed me off. Yesterday my second son was born ... and I myself hanged myself for joy ... My second boy stretches out his hands to the readers and asks them not to believe his dad, because his dad did not have not only children, but even a wife. His father is afraid of marriage, like fire. My boy does not lie. He is a baby. Believe him. Childhood- holy age. None of this has ever happened... Good night!
From the collection
"Colorful stories"
case from judicial practice
The case took place in the N ... district court, in one of its last sessions.
Sitting in the dock was the N… philistine Sidor Shelmetsov, a young man of about thirty, with a gypsy agile face and roguish eyes. He was accused of burglary, fraud and living in someone else's mind. The last lawlessness was further complicated by the appropriation of unowned titles. Accused by a fellow prosecutor. The name of this comrade is legion. He does not know about special features and qualities that give popularity and a solid fee: he is similar to his own kind. He speaks through his nose, does not pronounce the letter “k”, blows his nose every minute.
The most famous and most popular lawyer defended. The whole world knows this lawyer. His marvelous speeches are quoted, his name is pronounced with reverence...
IN bad novels, ending with the hero's full justification and the applause of the public, he plays significant role. In these novels, his surname is derived from thunder, lightning and other no less impressive elements.
When the assistant prosecutor managed to prove that Shelmetsov was guilty and did not deserve leniency; when he understood, convinced and said: “I have finished,” the defender got up. Everyone pricked up their ears. Silence reigned. The lawyer spoke and ... the nerves of the N ... public began to dance! He stretched out his swarthy neck, tilted his head to one side, his eyes sparkled, he raised his hand, and an inexplicable sweetness poured into his tense ears. His tongue played on his nerves, like on a balalaika... After the very first two or three phrases of his, someone from the audience gasped loudly and some pale lady was carried out of the meeting room. Three minutes later the chairman was forced to reach for the bell and ring three times. The red-nosed bailiff spun in his chair and began to look menacingly at the enthusiastic audience. All pupils dilated, faces turned pale from the passionate expectation of subsequent phrases, they stretched out ... And what was done with the hearts ?!
- We are people, gentlemen of the jury, and we will judge like human beings! – said among other things defender. “Before appearing before you, this man suffered through six months of pre-trial detention. For six months the wife was deprived of her beloved husband, the eyes of the children did not dry up from tears at the thought that there was no dear father near them! Oh, if you would look at these children! They are hungry because there is no one to feed them, they cry because they are deeply unhappy ... But look! They stretch out their hands to you, asking you to return their father to them! They are not here, but you can imagine them. (Pause.) Conclusion... Hm... He was put next to thieves and murderers... Him! (Pause.) One has only to imagine his moral torments in this imprisonment, away from his wife and children, in order to ... What can I say?!
Sobs were heard in the audience ... Some girl with a large brooch on her chest began to cry. Her neighbor, an old woman, whimpered after her.
The defender talked and talked ... He passed the facts, but pressed more on psychology.
– To know his soul means to know a special, separate world, full of movements. I have studied this world... Studying it, I confess, I have studied man for the first time. I understood the person… Every movement of his soul speaks for the fact that in my client I have the honor to see the ideal person…
The bailiff stopped looking menacingly and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. They carried two more ladies out of the hall. The chairman left the bell alone and put on his glasses so that they would not notice the tear welling up in his right eye. Everyone climbed for scarves. The prosecutor, this stone, this ice, the most insensible of organisms, squirmed uneasily in his chair, blushed, and began to look under the table... Tears sparkled through his glasses.
“I wish I could drop the accusation! he thought. - After all, such a fiasco to suffer! A?"
- Look at his eyes! - continued the defender (his chin trembled, his voice trembled, and a suffering soul looked through his eyes). Can these meek, tender eyes look indifferently at a crime? Oh no! They, those eyes, are crying! Thin nerves are hidden under those Kalmyk cheekbones! Beneath this coarse, ugly chest beats a far from criminal heart! And you people dare to say that he is to blame?!
Here the defendant himself could not bear it either. It's time for him to cry. He blinked his eyes, wept, and moved uneasily...
- Guilty! he spoke, interrupting the defender. - Guilty! I admit my fault! Stole and built fraud! I'm a damned man! I took the money from the chest, and ordered my sister-in-law to hide the stolen fur coat ... I confess! Blame it all!
And the defendant told how it happened. He was convicted.
Mysterious nature
Coupe first class.
A pretty lady is reclining on a sofa upholstered in crimson velvet. An expensive fringed fan crackles in her convulsively clenched hand, the pince-nez keeps falling off her pretty nose, the brooch on her chest rises and falls, like a boat among the waves. She is excited ... A governor's official is sitting on the couch opposite her. special assignments, a young novice writer, placing in the provincial sheets short stories or, as he himself calls it, "novellas" - from high society life ... He looks into her face, looks at her point-blank, with the air of a connoisseur. He observes, studies, captures this eccentric, mysterious nature, understands it, comprehends ... Her soul, her whole psychology is in full view of him.
– Oh, I comprehend you! - says the official for special assignments, kissing her hand near the bracelet. - Your sensitive, sympathetic soul is looking for a way out of the labyrinth ... Yes! The struggle is terrible, monstrous, but ... do not lose heart! You will be the winner! Yes!
- Describe me, Voldemar! - says the lady, smiling sadly. - My life is so full, so diverse, so colorful ... But the main thing is that I am unhappy! I am a sufferer in the style of Dostoevsky ... Show the world my soul, Voldemar, show this poor soul! You are a psychologist. Not even an hour has passed since we are sitting in the compartment and talking, and you have already comprehended me all, all!
– Speak! I beg you, speak up!
- Listen. I was born into a poor bureaucratic family. The father is a kind fellow, intelligent, but... the spirit of the times and the environment... vous comprenez, I don't blame my poor father. He drank, played cards ... took bribes ... Mother ... But what to say! Need, the struggle for a piece of bread, the consciousness of insignificance ... Ah, do not make me remember! I had to make my own way... Ugly college upbringing, reading stupid novels, mistakes of youth, first timid love... And the struggle with the environment? Terrible! What about doubts? And the torment of the emerging disbelief in life, in yourself?.. Ah! You are a writer and you know us women. You will understand ... Unfortunately, I am endowed with a broad nature ... I was waiting for happiness, and what! I wanted to be human! Yes! To be a man - in this I saw my happiness!
- Wonderful! - the writer babbles, kissing the hand near the bracelet. - I don’t kiss you, marvelous, but human suffering! Remember Raskolnikov? He kissed like that.
- Oh, Voldemort! I needed fame ... noise, brilliance, as for everyone - why be modest? - outstanding nature. I longed for something extraordinary… not feminine! And now... And now... a rich old general turned up on my way... Understand me, Voldemar! After all, it was self-sacrifice, self-denial, you understand! I couldn't do otherwise. I enriched my family, began to travel, to do good ... And how I suffered, how unbearable, basely, the embraces of this general were for me, although, we must do him justice, he fought bravely in his time. There were moments... terrible minutes! But I was reinforced by the thought that the old man would not die tomorrow tomorrow, that I would live as I wanted, I would give myself to my beloved, I would be happy ... And I have such a person, Voldemar! God knows there is!
The lady is waving her fan vigorously. Her face takes on a weeping expression.
– But now the old man died… He left me something, I am free as a bird. Now I can live happily... Isn't that right, Voldemar? Happiness is knocking on my window. One has only to let him in, but ... no! Voldemar, listen, I conjure you! Now it’s time to surrender to a loved one, to become his girlfriend, assistant, bearer of his ideals, to be happy ... to relax ... But how it all went, disgusting and stupid in this world! How despicable, Voldemar! I'm unhappy, unhappy, unhappy! Another obstacle is in my way! Again I feel that my happiness is far, far away! Oh, how much torment, if you only knew! How much pain!
– But what? What got in your way? I beg you, speak up! What?
“Another rich old man…”
A broken fan covers a pretty face. The writer props up his thoughtful head with his fist, sighs, and, with the air of an expert psychologist, thinks. The locomotive whistles and hisses, the window curtains turn red from the setting sun ...
Willow
Who traveled along the post road between B. and T.?
Who traveled, of course, remembers the Andreevsky mill, standing alone on the banks of the Kozyavka River. The mill is small, with two stands... She is over a hundred years old, she has not been in operation for a long time, and therefore it is not surprising that she resembles a small, hunched, ragged old woman, ready to fall down every minute. And this old woman would have fallen long ago if she had not leaned on an old, wide willow. The willow is wide, not to grasp it even for two. Its glossy foliage descends to the roof, to the dam; the lower branches bathe in the water and spread along the ground. She is also old and bent. Its humpbacked trunk is disfigured by a large dark hollow. Put your hand in the hollow and your hand will sink into the black honey. Wild bees will buzz around your head and sting. How old is she? Arkhip, her friend, says that she was old even when he served with the master in the "French", and then with the lady in the "Negroes"; and that was too long ago.
The willow also props up another ruin - the old man Arkhip, who, sitting at its root, fishes from dawn to dusk. He is old, hunchbacked like a willow, and his toothless mouth looks like a hollow. During the day he fishes, and at night he sits at the root and thinks. Both, the old woman-willow and Arkhip, whisper day and night ... Both have seen views in their lifetime. Hear them...
Thirty years ago, on Palm Sunday, on the name day of the old willow woman, the old man sat in his place, looked at the spring and fished ... It was quiet all around, as always ... Only the whisper of the old people was heard, and occasionally the walking fish splashed. The old man fished and waited half a day. At noon, he began to boil the fish soup. When the shadow of the willow began to move away from that shore, it was noon. Arkhip also learned the time by mail calls. Exactly at noon, the T-mail passed through the dam.
And that Sunday, Arkhip heard calls. He left the fishing rod and began to look at the dam. The troika crossed the hillock, went down and went at a walk to the dam. The postman was asleep. Having entered the dam, the trio stopped for some reason. Arkhip had not been surprised for a long time, but this time he had to be very surprised. Something extraordinary happened. The driver looked around, moved uneasily, pulled the handkerchief from the postman's face and waved his flail. The postman didn't move. A crimson stain gaped on his blond head. The coachman jumped off the cart and, swinging, dealt another blow. A minute later Arkhip heard footsteps beside him: a coachman was descending from the shore and walking straight at him... His tanned face was pale, his eyes looked blankly God knows where. Shaking all over, he ran up to the willow and, not noticing Arkhip, thrust the mail bag into the hollow; then he ran up, jumped onto the cart, and, it seemed strange to Arkhip, struck himself on the temple. Having bloodied his face, he hit the horses.
- Guard! Cut! he shouted.
He was echoed by an echo, and for a long time Arkhip heard this "guard".
Six days later, an investigation arrived at the mill. They took a plan of the mill and the dam, measured the depth of the river for some reason, and, having dined under the willow, left, and Arkhip sat under the wheel all the time of the investigation, trembling and looking into the bag. There he saw envelopes with five seals. Day and night he looked at these seals and thought, but the old willow woman was silent during the day and wept at night. "Stupid!" thought Arkhip, listening to her weeping. A week later, Arkhip was already walking into the city with a bag.
- Where is the office here? he asked as he entered the gate.
He was shown to a large yellow house with a striped booth at the door. He entered and in the hallway saw a gentleman with bright buttons. The master was smoking a pipe and scolding the watchman for something. Arkhip went up to him and, trembling all over, told him about the episode with the old willow woman. The official took the bag in his hands, unfastened the straps, turned pale and blushed.
- Now! he said and ran into the presence. Officials surrounded him there... They ran in, fussed, whispered... Ten minutes later, the official took out Arkhip's bag and said:
- You're not there, brother, came. You go to Lower Street, they will tell you there, but here is the Treasury, my dear! You go to the police.
Arkhip took the bag and left.
“And the bag has become easier! he thought. “Half smaller!”
On Lower Street he was pointed to another yellow house with two booths. Arkhip entered. There was no anteroom here, and the presence began right from the stairs. The old man went to one of the tables and told the scribes the story of the bag. They snatched the bag out of his hands, shouted at him and sent for the elder. A fat man appeared. After a short interrogation, he took the bag and locked himself with it in another room.
– Where is the money? - was heard a minute later from this room. - The bag is empty! Tell the old man, however, that he can go! Or stop him! Take him to Ivan Markovich! No, but let's go!
Arkhip bowed and left. A day later, crucians and perches again saw his gray beard ...
It was late autumn. The old man sat and fished. His face was as gloomy as the yellowed willow: he did not like autumn. His face became even more gloomy when he saw the coachman beside him. The coachman, not noticing him, went up to the willow and thrust his hand into the hollow. The bees, wet and lazy, crawled up his sleeve. After fumbling for a while, he turned pale, and an hour later he was sitting over the river and staring senselessly into the water.
- Where she? he asked Arkhip.
At first, Arkhip was silent and sullenly avoided the murderer, but soon took pity on him.
- I took it to the authorities! - he said. - But you, fool, do not be afraid ... I said there that I found it under a willow ...
The coachman jumped up, roared, and pounced on Arkhip. For a long time he beat him. He beat his old face, threw him to the ground, trampled underfoot. Having beaten the old man, he did not leave him, but remained to live at the mill, together with Arkhip.
During the day he slept and was silent, and at night he walked along the dam. The shadow of the postman was walking along the dam, and he was talking to her. Spring came, and the coachman continued to be silent and walk. One night an old man came up to him.
- You will, fool, loiter! he said to him, looking askance at the postman. - Leave.
And the postman said the same thing... And the willow whispered the same thing...
- I can not! - said the coachman. - I would go, but my legs hurt, my soul hurts!
The old man took the coachman by the arm and led him into the city. He led him to Lower Street, to the very presence where he had given the bag. The coachman fell on his knees in front of the "senior" and repented. Mustache was surprised.
“What are you doing to yourself, you fool!” - he said. – Drunk? Do you want me to put you in the cold? All gone mad, you bastards! Only they confuse the matter ... The criminal was not found - well, and the Sabbath! What else do you need? Get out!
When the old man reminded about the bag, the barbel laughed, and the scribes were surprised. Apparently, their memory is bad ... The driver did not find redemption on Lower Street. I had to return to the willow ...
And I had to run from conscience into the water, to disturb the very place where Arkhip's floats float. The coachman drowned. Now the old man and the old willow woman see two shadows on the dam ... Are they whispering with them?
Dedicated to Victor Hugo
On the tower of St. One hundred and forty-six martyrs struck midnight. I trembled. It's time. I seized Theodore convulsively by the arm and walked out into the street with him. The sky was dark as ink. It was dark, like wearing a hat on his head. A dark night is a day in a nutshell. We wrapped ourselves in raincoats and set off. A strong wind blew right through us. Rain and snow - these wet brothers - terribly beat on our faces. Lightning, despite the winter time, plowed the sky in all directions. Thunder, a formidable, majestic companion of lightning as charming as the blinking of blue eyes, swift as a thought, shook the air terribly. Theodore's ears glowed with electricity. Lights of St. Elma flew over our heads with a crack. I looked up. I trembled. Who does not tremble before the majesty of nature? Several brilliant meteors flew across the sky. I started counting them and counted 28. I pointed them out to Theodore.
Bad omen! he muttered, pale as a Carrara marble.
The wind groaned, howled, sobbed ... The groan of the wind is the groan of conscience drowned in terrible crimes. Near us, thunder destroyed and set fire to an eight-story building. I heard screams coming out of him. We passed by. Was I before the burning house, when a hundred and fifty houses were burning in my chest? Somewhere in space, a bell rang mournfully, slowly, monotonously. There was a struggle of the elements. Some unknown forces seemed to be working on the terrifying harmony of the elements. Who are these forces? Will humans ever recognize them?
Fearful but daring dream!!!
We called kosh. We got into the carriage and drove off. Koshe is the brother of the wind. We raced like a bold thought races through the mysterious convolutions of the brain. I stuck a purse of gold into my hand. The gold helped the scourge double the speed of the horse's legs.
Antonio, where are you taking me? moaned Theodore. - You look like an evil genius ... Hell shines in your black eyes ... I'm starting to be afraid ...
Pathetic coward!! I said nothing. He loved her. She loved him passionately... I had to kill him because I loved her more than her life. I loved her and hated him. He had to die on this terrible night and pay with death for his love. I was filled with love and hate. They were my second existence. These two sisters, living in one shell, produce devastation: they are spiritual vandals.
Stop! - I said to Koshe when the carriage rolled up to the goal.
Me and Theodore jumped out. The moon looked at us coldly from behind the clouds. The moon is an impartial, silent witness to sweet moments of love and revenge. She was supposed to be a witness to the death of one of us. Before us was an abyss, an abyss without a bottom, like a barrel of the criminal daughters of Danae. We stood at the edge of the mouth of an extinct volcano. Terrible legends circulate about this volcano. I made a movement with my knee, and Theodore flew down into a terrible abyss. The mouth of a volcano is the mouth of the earth.
A curse!!! he shouted at my curse.
A strong man throwing his enemy into the crater of a volcano because of the beautiful eyes of a woman - a majestic, grandiose and instructive picture! The only thing missing was lava!
Koshe. Koshe is a statue placed by fate to ignorance. Away with the routine! Cochet followed Theodore. I felt that only love remained in my chest. I fell face down on the ground and wept with delight. Tears of delight are the result of a divine reaction produced in the bowels of a loving heart. The horses neighed merrily. How painful it is not to be human! I freed them from the animal, suffering life. I killed them. Death is both fetters and liberation from fetters.
I went to the Purple Hippo Inn and drank five glasses of good wine.
Three hours after the revenge, I was at the door of her apartment. The dagger, the friend of death, helped me through the corpses to get to its doors. I began to listen. She didn't sleep. She dreamed. I listened. She was silent. The silence lasted four hours. Four hours for a lover - four nineteenth centuries! Finally she called the maid. The maid walked past me. I looked at her demonically. She caught my eye. Reason left her. I killed her. It is better to die than to live without reason.
Aneta! she called. - Why is Theodore missing? Anguish gnaws at my heart. I'm suffocated by some heavy foreboding. Oh Annette! go after him. He must be partying now with the godless, terrible Antonio! .. God, who do I see?! Antonio!
I went in to her. She turned pale.
Go away! she screamed, and horror distorted her noble, beautiful features.
I looked at her. The gaze is the sword of the soul. She staggered. She saw everything in my eyes: Theodore's death, demonic passion, and a thousand human desires... My posture was grandeur. Electricity shone in my eyes. My hair moved and stood on end. She saw before her a demon in an earthly shell. I saw that she admired me. For four hours, deathly silence and contemplation of each other continued. Thunder rumbled and she fell on my chest. The chest of a man is the fortress of a woman. I squeezed her in my arms. Both of us shouted. Her bones cracked. Galvanic current ran through our bodies. Hot Kiss…
She loved the demon in me. I wanted her to love the angel in me. “I give one and a half million francs to the poor!” - I said. She fell in love with me as an angel and cried. I cried too. What were those tears! A month later, at St. Titus and Hortensia were solemnly married. I married her. She married me. The poor have blessed us! She begged me to forgive my enemies, whom I had previously killed. I have forgiven. I went to America with my young wife. The young loving wife was an angel in the virgin forests of America, an angel before whom lions and tigers bowed. I was a young tiger. Three years after our marriage, old Sam was running around with a curly-haired boy. The boy looked more like his mother than me. This pissed me off. Yesterday my second son was born ... and I myself hanged myself for joy ... My second boy stretches out his hands to the readers and asks them not to believe his dad, because his dad did not have not only children, but even a wife. His father is afraid of marriage, like fire. My boy does not lie. He is a baby. Believe him. Childhood is a holy age. None of this has ever happened… Good night!
(NOVEL IN ONE PART WITH EPILOGUE)
Dedicated to Victor Hugo
On the tower of St. One hundred and forty-six martyrs struck midnight. I trembled.
It's time. I seized Theodore convulsively by the arm and walked out into the street with him.
The sky was dark as ink. It was dark like wearing a hat
on the head. A dark night is a day in a nutshell. We wrapped ourselves in
raincoats and set off. A strong wind blew right through us. Rain and snow -
these wet brothers - terribly beat in our faces. Lightning despite
winter time, furrowed the sky in all directions. Thunder, formidable,
majestic companion of the charming, like the blinking of blue eyes, fast, like
thought, lightning, terrifyingly shook the air. Theodore's ears lit up
electricity. Lights of St. Elma flew over our heads with a crack. I
looked up. I trembled. Who does not tremble before the majesty of nature? By
several brilliant meteors flew across the sky. I started counting them and counted
28. I pointed them out to Theodore.
- Bad omen! he muttered, pale as a statue
from Carrara marble.
The wind groaned, howled, sobbed ... The groan of the wind is the groan of a conscience drowned in
terrible crimes. Near us thunder destroyed and ignited an eight-story
house. I heard screams coming out of him. We passed by. Is it burning
Was I at home when a hundred and fifty houses were burning in my chest? Somewhere in
the space mournfully, slowly, monotonously rang the bell. There was a fight
elements. Some unknown forces seemed to be working on a terrifying
the harmony of the elements. Who are these forces? Will humans ever recognize them?
Fearful but daring dream!!!
We called kosh. We got into the carriage and drove off. Koshe is the brother of the wind. We
rushed like a bold thought rushes in the mysterious convolutions of the brain. I stuck
in the hand of a purse with gold. Gold helped the scourge double its speed
horse legs.
Antonio, where are you taking me? moaned Theodore. - You are looking
evil genius... Hell is shining in your black eyes... I'm starting to be afraid...
Pathetic coward!! I said nothing. He loved her. She loved passionately
him... I had to kill him, because I loved her more than her life. I loved
e e and hated him. He had to die on that terrible night and
pay with death for your love. I was filled with love and hate. They
were my second existence. These two sisters, living in one shell, produce
devastation: they are spiritual vandals.
- Stop! - I said to Koshe when the carriage rolled up to the goal.
Me and Theodore jumped out. The moon looked at us coldly from behind the clouds. Moon -
an impartial, silent witness to sweet moments of love and revenge.
She was supposed to be a witness to the death of one of us. Before us was
an abyss, an abyss without a bottom, like a barrel of the criminal daughters of Danae. We stood at
edge of an extinct volcano. Terrible people talk about this volcano
legends. I made a movement with my knee, and Theodore flew down into a terrible
abyss. The mouth of a volcano is the mouth of the earth.
- A curse!!! he shouted at my curse.
A strong man who casts his enemy into the crater of a volcano because of
beautiful eyes of a woman, - majestic, grandiose and instructive
painting! The only thing missing was lava!
K o sh e. Koshe is a statue placed by fate to ignorance. Away with the routine!
Cochet followed Theodore. I felt that in my chest remained
only one love. I fell face down on the ground and wept with delight. Tears
rapture is the result of a divine reaction produced in the bosom of the lover
hearts. The horses neighed merrily. How painful it is not to be human! I freed
them from the animal, suffering life. I killed them. Death is both shackles and
liberation from fetters.
I went to the Purple Hippo Inn and drank five glasses
good wine.
Three hours after the revenge, I was at the door of her apartment. Dagger, friend
death, helped me over the corpses to get to its doors. I began to listen.
She didn't sleep. She dreamed. I listened. She was silent. Silence lasted for hours
four. Four hours for a lover - four nineteenth centuries!
Finally she called the maid. The maid walked past me. I am demonic
looked at her. She caught my eye. Reason left her. I killed her.
It is better to die than to live without reason.
- Annette! - shouted about na. - Why is Theodore missing? Anguish gnaws at me
heart. I'm suffocated by some heavy foreboding. Oh Annette! go after him.
He must be going on a spree now with the godless, terrible Antonio!
I see?! Antonio!
I went in to her. She turned pale.
- Go away! she screamed, and horror distorted her noble,
wonderful features.
I looked at her. The gaze is the sword of the soul. She staggered. In my
she saw everything in her eyes: the death of Theodore, and demonic passion, and
a thousand human desires... My posture was grandeur. In my eyes
electricity glowed. My hair moved and stood on end. She saw
before him is a demon in an earthly shell. I saw that she admired me.
For four hours, deathly silence and contemplation of each other continued.
Thunder rumbled and she fell on my chest. The chest of a man is the fortress of a woman.
I squeezed her in my arms. Both of us shouted. Her bones cracked.
Galvanic current ran through our bodies. Hot Kiss...
She loved the demon in me. I wanted her to love in me
angel. "I give one and a half million francs to the poor!" - I said. She fell in love
an angel in me and cried. I cried too. What were those tears! Through
month at St. Titus and Hortensia were solemnly married. I
married her. She married me. The poor have blessed us!
She begged me to forgive my enemies, whom I had previously killed. I
forgave. I went to America with my young wife. A young loving wife
an angel in the virgin forests of America, an angel before whom lions bowed
and tigers. I was a young tiger. Three years after our wedding, old
He himself was already worn with a curly-haired boy. The boy looked more like his mother
than on me. This pissed me off. Yesterday my second son was born ... and I myself
hanged himself with joy ... My second boy stretches out his hands to the readers and
asks them not to trust his dad, because his dad didn't have not only
children, but even wives. His father is afraid of marriage, like fire. My boy
doesn't lie. He is a baby. Believe him. Childhood is a holy age. Nothing
it never happened... Good night!
Biography of Anton Chekhov
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov was born on January 29 (January 17 according to the old style), 1860 in Taganrog. His grandfather Yegor Chekh was a serf, his father was the owner of a grocery store.
There were six children in the family - five sons and a daughter.
Anton Chekhov studied at the Greek school at the Church of Tsar Constantine in Taganrog, then at the gymnasium. As a student of the gymnasium, he simultaneously worked in his father's shop. In 1876, his father went bankrupt and was forced to flee with his family from creditors to Moscow. Anton remained in Taganrog until graduating from high school, earning a living by tutoring. He arrived in Moscow in 1879 and entered the medical faculty of Moscow University, graduating in 1884.
As a student, Anton Chekhov worked at the Resurrection Zemstvo Hospital (now the city of Istra) with the famous Zemstvo doctor Pavel Arkhangelsky, then for some time he was a doctor at the Zvenigorod hospital.
Chekhov began to engage in literary activity as early as student years. In 1880-1887 he collaborated under the pseudonyms "Antosha Chekhonte", "Antosha Ch.", "My Brother's Brother", "Ruver", "A Man Without a Spleen" in numerous humorous publications ("Dragonfly", "Alarm Clock", "Spectator ", "Entertainment"), especially fruitful - in the magazine "Shards", published by Nikolai Leikin.
In 1884, the first collection of his stories, Tales of Melpomene, appeared in the publication of Shards, in 1886 the collection Motley Stories was published, and in 1887, Innocent Speeches.
In 1886, Chekhov received an invitation to work from famous publisher Alexei Suvorin in the newspaper "New time". With the beginning of regular cooperation with the newspaper, he abandoned the pseudonym and began to sign with his full name.
In 1887 Chekhov's first play "Ivanov" was staged at the Korsh Theater in Moscow.
In 1888, for the collection "At Twilight" (1887), he was awarded Pushkin Prize Academy of Sciences. The collections Stories (1888), Children (1889), Gloomy People (1890) were published in St. Petersburg.
In 1890, the writer took a trip to Sakhalin to write a book about the exile colony and hard labor. The creative result of the trip was the book "Sakhalin Island" (1895), written in the genre of "travel notes.
In the first half of the 1890s, the writer became one of the most widely read in Russia - his works were published in the journals Severny Vestnik and Russkaya Mysl (since 1892), the newspapers Novoe Vremya (until 1893) and Russkiye Vedomosti ". His collection "Tales and Stories" (1894) was published. Chekhov gained a reputation as a writer of everyday life and a master of subtle psychological analysis.
In 1892, the writer acquired the small estate Melikhovo in the Serpukhov district of the Moscow province. In 1892-1898, he created "Ward No. 6", "The Man in a Case", "Indian Kingdom", "A Case Study", "Ionych", "Gooseberry", the story "Three Years", the plays "The Seagull" and "Uncle Ivan".
Pulmonary tuberculosis forced Chekhov to move with his family to the Crimea, where in 1898 he purchased a plot near Yalta and built a house.
In 1899-1901, the first collected works of Chekhov were published by Marx's publishing house.
In 1901, the writer married an artist of the Moscow art theater Olga Knipper.
In Yalta, Chekhov wrote the play "Three Sisters", the story "The Lady with the Dog", the story "In the Ravine".
Chekhov's last work was the play " The Cherry Orchard staged by the Art Theater in January 1904.
The writer was involved in charity work and social activities. During his trip to Sakhalin, he made a census of the island's population. In Melikhovo, in addition to creating a medical center at his own expense and treating patients during a cholera epidemic, he built three schools for peasant children, a bell tower and a fire shed for peasants, and participated in laying a highway. The writer donated more than two thousand volumes of his own books to the public library of Taganrog, among which were unique editions with autographs of museum value, and later replenished the funds with specially purchased books.
During the famine (1891-1892), Chekhov organized the collection of donations in favor of the starving Nizhny Novgorod and Voronezh provinces and himself traveled to the disaster site.
In Yalta, he was elected to the Board of Trustees female gymnasium, donated 500 rubles for the construction of the school. Being himself ill with tuberculosis, he worked in the Yalta Guardianship of Visiting Patients.
In 1897 Chekhov was elected a member of the Mutual Assistance Union of Russian Writers and Scientists.
In 1900, he became an honorary academician of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences in the category of fine literature, in 1902 he refused the title in protest against the cancellation of the election of Maxim Gorky as an honorary academician.
In 1897, Anton Chekhov was awarded a bronze medal for his work on the census. In 1899, "for excellent diligence in matters of public education" he was awarded the order St. Stanislaus III degree.
In May 1904, due to the deterioration of his condition, together with his wife, Chekhov left for the famous resort in Germany, Bandenweiler.
On the night of July 15 (July 2, old style), 1904, the writer died. Buried at Novodevichy cemetery in Moscow.
The first Chekhov museum was opened in Taganrog in 1914. Museums of the writer were created in Moscow, Melikhovo, in the city of Aleksandrovsk-Sakhalinsky, Yalta and Gurzuf in the Crimea. Also, Chekhov's museums were founded in Sumy (Ukraine), in Badenweiler (Germany), where he spent last month life and died. In the late 1990s, Chekhov's memorial room was opened in the city of Colombo (Sri Lanka) at the Grand Oriental Hotel, where Chekhov spent several days returning from Sakhalin.
In 1954, the working settlement of Lopasnya, near which Melikhovo was located, was renamed in honor of the writer into the city of Chekhov.
A metro station was named after Chekhov in Moscow in 1985. Since 1987, the name of Chekhov has been given to the Moscow Art Theater in Kamergersky Lane.
The writer's wife Olga Knipper-Chekhova (1868-1959) - People's Artist USSR, worked all her life at the Moscow Art Theater, last time took to the stage in 1950.
All Chekhov's brothers and sisters were gifted people: Alexander (1855-1913) and Mikhail (1868-1936) were writers, Nikolai (1858-1889) was an artist, Ivan (1861-1922) was a teacher. Sister Maria (1863-1957), a landscape painter, after her brother's death devoted herself to collecting and publishing his literary and epistolary heritage, was the director of the Yalta house-museum of A.P. Chekhov.
The writer's nephew, Alexander Chekhov's son, Mikhail (1891-1955) was a well-known drama artist of the Moscow Art Theatre, teacher and director, later he created his own acting school in the USA, where many Hollywood stars studied.
Moscow Doctor Chekhov. archive footage
