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Arturo PERES-REVERTE
FENCING TEACHER
Dedicated to Carlota
And also to the Knight in the yellow camisole
I am the most polite person in the world. My merit is
That I never offend anyone and dutifully take down
The importunity of the ignorant, who unceremoniously
They talk about their hardships, and even read poetry
Own composition.
Heinrich Heine. "Travel notes"
Candles burned comfortably in silver chandeliers, their flames reflected in the crystal of tall glasses. Lighting a thick Havana cigar, the Minister carefully examined the unusual guest. It was quite clear to him: the gentleman who so insistently sought a meeting was a notorious rogue; but one day he happened to see how a magnificent carriage pulled by a pair of well-fed English mares, and on his well-groomed fingers, removing a ring from a cigar, shone a gold ring with a large diamond. The minister appreciated the elegant ease with which the gentleman carried himself; he recalled the vague rumors about his dark past that had been going around Madrid - So there was no doubt: his visitor was not just a rogue, but a rich and influential rogue.
And the minister, who did not consider himself a radical in matters of ethics, was by no means indifferent to what sort of scoundrels the subject standing before him belonged to: his tolerance directly depended on the achievements and successes of each individual representative of this tribe. When he had a premonition that at the cost of a small deal with his conscience, he would be able to disrupt big jackpot He became truly generous.
“I need proof,” the minister said to break the long pause.
It was clear to both that the deal would take place. Lights flickered in the visitor's eyes: the conversation was going exactly as he expected. Smiling thinly, he tugged at the snow-white cuffs, causing the large diamonds on the cufflinks to sparkle defiantly, and took an envelope from the inside pocket of his coat.
“Evidence is self-explanatory,” he said with slight irony.
The envelope, sealed with sealing wax, lay on a silk tablecloth at the very edge, near the minister's hand. The minister did not touch him, as if afraid of catching some unknown infection, and looked expectantly at the guest.
“I'm listening to you,” he said.
In response, the gentleman shrugged his shoulders and gestured casually at the envelope; it seemed that, having let go of the envelope, he had lost all interest in it.
“Look for yourself,” he said indifferently, as if what was happening had nothing to do with him. - Names, addresses - You will find this, in any case, amusing: it will be something to keep your agents busy.
- Are all the accomplices listed here?
- Let's just say: those who should be mentioned. When we are talking about big money, you have to carefully weigh everything.
After uttering the last words, he smiled again. This time, his smile seemed to the minister somewhat defiant, and he felt annoyed.
“Sir, I get the impression that you take your action somewhat lightly. That you do.
There was a threat in the unfinished phrase of the minister. Surprise flickered across the visitor's face.
- You will not insist, - he said, on reflection, - that I, like Judas, risked for some thirty pieces of silver - And you are hinting exactly at this.
The minister put his hand on the envelope.
“It's not too late to take the papers back,” he said, holding the cigar between his teeth. “That would be a kind of heroism for you.
“I understand you perfectly. The guest finished his cognac, got up and took a cane and a top hat from a nearby chair. But heroes usually die. Or they go broke. In the second case, I will have to lose too much; you, sir, know this better than anyone else. A man of my age, and one who deals with such serious matters, appreciates common sense much higher than virtue. This is dictated by instinct. So I don't feel guilty about myself.
At parting, they did not exchange a handshake or other generally accepted signs of location. The footsteps died away on the stairs, the departing carriage rumbled. Left alone, the minister broke the sealing wax, opened the envelope, put on his spectacles, and drew up the candelabra. Taking a small sip of cognac, he plunged into reading for a long time. Putting aside the last document, he sat motionless for some time, smoking a cigar. Then he looked thoughtfully into the fireplace that heated his small office, lazily got up and went to the window.
He had several hours of tedious work ahead of him, and as he thought about it, he swore under his breath. That night, Madrid was hit by an icy downpour, brought by the wind from the snow-capped peaks of Guadarrama. It was the night of 1866, during the reign of Her Catholic Majesty Doña Isabella II in Spain.
I. A little about the duel
A duel between two decent people under the guidance of a teacher full of noble motives is a worthy example of good taste and refined education.
Much later, when Don Jaime Astarloa tried to line up the disparate events of that tragedy and remember how it all began, the Marquis was the first to appear before his mind's eye. I remembered the open terrace in the greenery of the Retiro Park, the first hot summer days, the warm wind rushing in through the open windows, and the light reflected in the blued steel of the rapier, a light so unbearably bright that I could not help squinting my eyes.
The Marquis was out of uniform that day; his breath ripped from his lungs with the noise of a bellows, his shirt was soaked with sweat. Such, unfortunately, was the retribution for the previous too stormy night, but Don Jaime, as usual, refrained from inappropriate remarks. The personal life of the students did not concern him.
He easily repulsed the erratic injections of the heated marquis and quickly attacked. The pliant Italian steel of the rapier bent as the tip sank into his opponent's chest.
“Pricks, your grace.
Luis de Ayala Velate y Vallespin, Marquis de los Alumbres, swore and ripped off his mask in a rage. His face was purple, sweaty from heat and exertion. Large drops of sweat ran down his forehead and stuck in his eyebrows and mustache.
Don Jaime shrugged. He took off his mask; a condescending smile could be seen at the corners of his mouth under a gray mustache.
“Today is not your day, Your Grace.
Louis de Ayala laughed and paced the gallery, which was decorated with expensive Flemish tapestries, ancient swords, sabers and rapiers. His lush curly hair was like a lion's mane. Everything in him seemed to boil with energy and temperament: a large, strong body, a thunderous, rough voice. Above all in this world, he valued the breadth of his soul, flashes of delight and passion, passionate friendship ... At forty years old, he remained a bachelor. Sleek, stately, the Marquis de los Alumbres was, as they claimed, a real darling of fate. An avid gambler and indefatigable lover of women, he seemed to embody the aristocratic reveler image so fashionable in 19th-century Spain:
During his life, he did not read a single book, but he could retell the genealogy of any more or less famous horse from the hippodromes of London, Paris or Vienna. As for women, it is enough to recall the scandals that often thundered throughout Madrid, which became the talk of the high-society salons, greedy for news and gossip. For his forty years, he looked excellent, and as soon as he was mentioned in passing, the ladies sighed languidly: for them, his name became a symbol of love ups and downs and violent passions.
At the court of Her Majesty, in this closed, prim little world, legends were composed about the Marquis. Covering themselves with a fan, the ladies whispered. All sorts of things were said: that once, during a feast in one of the taverns of Cuatro Caminos, he started a stormy quarrel with a knife fight - and this was not true; that in his estate in Malaga there lived the son of a famous robber who was supposedly adopted by him, who was executed - and this was pure truth. About his participation in political life- however, very episodic - little was said, but the stories about his love affairs went around the whole city. They chatted as if some deceived husbands, who borrowed quite high position in society, had enough reason to challenge the marquis to a duel - not everyone, however, had the courage. Four or five - most likely just to satisfy public opinion, - seconds were sent to him, but their bold decision led to sad consequences - all of them, sacrificing a sweet early morning dream, met a new day, bleeding on the grass of a nameless meadow in the vicinity of Madrid. And finally, gossipers reached quite unimaginable assumptions: among the host of deceived husbands, there was supposedly even the king himself. However, the glorious Francisco de Aziz would hardly have become jealous of his august wife. Whether Isabella II fell victim to the marquis's fatal charm or not, forever remained a secret, known only to the reigning persons themselves and the confessor of her royal majesty. And the carefree marquis had not only no confessor, but, as he himself used to say, not the slightest desire to start one.
The marquis took off his breastplate, leaving only his shirt, and thoughtfully laid the rapier on the table, where the servant had placed a silver tray with a bottle of wine.
“Enough for today, Don Jaime. Somehow I'm not lucky ... Let's drink better than sherry.
A glass of sherry at the end of their daily workouts has become a ritual for them. Holding a mask and a rapier in his left hand, Don Jaime took from the owner of the house a crystal glass, where wine sparkled like liquid gold. The marquis inhaled the aroma with pleasure.
- Admit it, maestro: in Andalusia, they don’t pour any kind of rubbish into bottles. He took a slow sip of the golden liquid and clicked his tongue. “Look at the light: pure gold, the sun of Spain. Is it possible to compare this with the burda that they drink abroad?
Don Jaime readily agreed. He liked Luis de Ayala himself, and his manner of addressing him as “maestro”, although, in fact, the marquis was not his student: at the royal court he had been considered the best swordsman for many years and had not needed anyone for a long time. lessons. His relationship with Don Jaime was of a different kind: the marquis loved swordsmanship as passionately as cards, women, and horses. And it is not surprising that every day he whole hour conducted with a rapier in hand. This activity was not only useful exercise for the body, it also had an invaluable practical sense: with the help of a sword or rapier, the marquis from time to time had to resolve issues of honor. About five years ago, in search of a worthy opponent, Luis de Ayala turned to the best fencing teacher in Madrid - that is what Don Jaime was known for, although fashion lovers considered his style too conservative. Since then, every day, except Saturday and Sunday, at exactly ten o'clock in the morning, the fencing teacher came to the Villaflores Palace, where the Marquis lived. It was there, in the spacious fencing hall, decorated according to last word the fashion of the time, the marquis attacked furiously, with fierce ardor, and brilliantly repulsed the most cunning attacks, although in the end the talent and skill of Don Jaime invariably won. Being a natural leader, the Marquis nevertheless knew how to lose with dignity and looked at the outstanding professionalism of the old teacher with sincere admiration.
Grimacing, as if in pain, the Marquis felt his body and sighed feignedly.
“By the underworld, maestro, it’s been a long time since you’ve beaten me like that... After your lesson, only a good bottle of wine will save me.”
Don Jaime chuckled.
“I told you, Your Grace, today is not your best day.
- Yeah. If your rapier did not have a tip, you would send me to the next world. I'm afraid I didn't look my best.
“There is a price to pay for recklessness, Your Grace.
- What's true is true. Especially at my age. I'm not a boy anymore, damn it! But there's nothing to be done, maestro. You can't even imagine what happened to me.
“You must have fallen in love, Your Grace.
“You are right,” the marquis sighed, pouring himself some more sherry. - Fell in love like the last puppy. Over the ears.
Don Jaime coughed and stroked his mustache.
“If I'm not mistaken,” he remarked, “for the third time this month.
- So what? If I fall in love, I fall in love for real. Do you understand me?
- I understand perfectly. I'm quite serious, Your Grace.
- Just amazing! The older I get, the more hopelessly I fall in love and I can’t help myself. The hand is still strong, but the heart is weak, as the poets said. If you only knew...
And the marquis verbosely, with expressive omissions, began to describe the all-devouring passion that brought him to complete exhaustion that night. Oh yes, she was a real lady of the world. And the husband, as usual, is in complete ignorance.
“Yes, maestro, you are absolutely right,” a mischievous smile crossed the Marquis’s face, “today I am paying for my sins.
Don Jaime shook his head reproachfully.
“Fencing is like communion,” he said with a smile, “you must start it after cleansing your body and soul. It is necessary to break the unwritten law - and the punishment is inevitable.
“Damn it, maestro! It should be written down. Don Jaime raised his glass to his lips. He seemed to be the exact opposite of the Marquis: well over fifty, of medium height; thinness gave his body, strong, dry and strong, as if woven from elastic vines, deceptively fragile. aquiline nose, clean high forehead, gray, lush hair, thin graceful hands embodied a restrained dignity, which was even more emphasized by the serious expression of gray eyes, surrounded by fine wrinkles, which made his smile surprisingly charming and lively. The old-fashioned mustache was not the only old-fashioned feature in his appearance. Modest means allowed him to dress discreetly and practically, but he did it with the elegance of bygone times, alien to the momentary influences of fashion; his costumes, even those bought quite recently, were sewn according to patterns made about twenty years ago, which, however, for his age could be considered good tone. All this gave the old maestro the appearance of a man for whom time did not exist, a man insensitive to the rhythm of his era. In the depths of his soul, this alienation from time brought him a special, mysterious, incomparable pleasure.
The servant brought the maestro and the marquis a large tub of water for washing. Luis de Ayala took off his shirt; on his mighty chest, glistening with sweat, there were red marks from the practice rapier.
“I swear by Lucifer, maestro, you have made a sieve out of me... Just think what I am paying for!”
Don Jaime wiped his forehead and looked at him ironically. Meanwhile, the Marquis, breathing heavily, was washing his torso.
“Well, to be serious,” he added, “politics strikes more ruthlessly. Just imagine, Gonzalez Bravo invited me to return to Parliament! He says with views of a very respectable position. He must be in serious trouble, since he suddenly needed such a lost person as me.
The maestro's face was filled with feigned bewilderment. He was completely indifferent to politics.
"What is your ladyship going to do?" The Marquis shrugged contemptuously.
- Do? Yes, absolutely nothing. I have already told my illustrious namesake: let his father take this warm place. Of course, I used other expressions. I prefer a carefree life, a table in a casino and pretty eyes. And I have more than enough.
Luis de Ayala was a deputy in the Cortes. Once, during the reign of one of the last cabinets of Narvaez, he held an important post in the office of the Ministry of the Interior. His resignation a few months later coincided with the death of the titular councilor Vallespin Andreu, his maternal uncle. A little later, Ayala, this time of his own free will, left his position in Congress and left the ranks of the moderados party, in which he was for the time being, without showing, however, much zeal. The expression "I already have enough of everything," uttered by the Marquis at a meeting in Athenaeum, became winged and was soon borrowed by politicians and launched whenever one of them wanted to express how disappointed he was with the bad state of affairs in the country. . Since then, the Marquis de los Alumbres has kept aloof from any social activities, refusing to participate in civil and military actions that took place in the ruling offices of the monarchy, and watched the political unrest from afar with the smug smile of an amateur. He lived in grand style and squandered huge sums at the gambling tables without batting an eyelid. Gossips it was rumored that he often found himself on the verge of ruin, but each time Luis de Alla managed to improve his economic situation, as if his meager funds were relentlessly replenished from mysterious inexhaustible sources.
“Well, how is your search for the Grail, Don Jaime?”
Without buttoning his shirt to the end, the maestro froze and looked sadly at his interlocutor.
- Not very good. To be more precise, very average ... Every now and then I ask myself the question whether I can afford to find it. There are moments when, to be honest, I would gladly give up this search.
Luis de Ayala finished his ablutions, slung a towel over his shoulder and took a glass of sherry that was on the table. Drumming his fingers on the crystal glass, he listened to the sound with obvious pleasure.
- What is it that you got into your head, maestro? Who, if not you, to do this?
A sad smile flickered across Don Jaime's lips.
- Thanks for good word, Your Mightiness. But at my age, you understand that life consists of continuous disappointments ... And most importantly, you are disappointed in yourself. I began to suspect that my Grail simply did not exist.
“It's all nonsense, my friend.
For many years now, Jaime Astarloa had been working on a Treatise on the Art of Swordsmanship, which, according to witnesses of his rare talent and experience, was to become a fundamental work, comparable only to the works of such remarkable masters as Gomard, Grisière and Lafoiere. But one day the author doubted: would he be able to put in writing what makes up the meaning of his whole life? Gradually, his uncertainty increased. Wanting to make his work a kind of pop plus ultra of a topic that so excited him, he wanted to describe in it a masterful shot, a magnificent, impeccable action, the most perfect creation of human genius, an inspiring role model. Don Jaime Astarloa devoted his whole life to searching for it, from the moment when his rapier first crossed with that of his opponent. But the search for the Grail, as he himself called them, remained fruitless. And now, approaching the beginning of the gradual physical and mental destruction, the old maestro felt the power draining from his still strong hands, and the talent that has always led him, under the yoke of years, begins to weaken. Every evening, sitting in the silence of his modest study by the light of a lamp over the yellowed sheets of paper, Don Jaime tried in vain to wrest from the depths of his consciousness the key, the existence of which he vaguely guessed by some unknown instinct. Time passed, and the ill-fated key did not want to leave his secret shelter. Often he sat in thought until dawn, never going to bed. Sometimes he woke up suddenly, feeling a surge of inspiration, jumping up in one shirt, seizing a rapier with fury and hurrying to the mirrors that covered the walls of his small fencing hall. And there, trying to remember what just a minute ago sparked a spark in his sleeping mind, he launched into a disorderly, useless pursuit, his movements and thoughts clashed in a silent battle with the reflection that smiled slyly at him from the darkness.
Don Jaime Astarloa stepped out into the street with his sword case under his arm. The morning was unusually hot; Madrid slowly melted under the merciless sun that rose above it. On the tertulia in the Progress cafe, all conversations revolved around heat and politics: lamentations about the heat were gradually replaced by another burning topic - a discussion of political conspiracies, most of who instantly became famous. In the summer of 1868, all and sundry seemed to take part in the conspiracies. Old Narváez died in May, and González Bravo considered himself powerful enough to take the country with an iron fist. In the Eastern Palace, the queen threw fiery glances at the young officers, prayed passionately and prepared for the upcoming summer in the North. And some had no choice but to spend the summer in exile; many influential personalities, such as Prim, Serrano, Sagasta or Ruiz Sorilla, were exiled to a foreign land or were under the strictest supervision. They gave their strength to a powerful underground movement called "Worthy Spain". Everyone agreed that the days of Isabella II were numbered; soft measures advocates spread rumors that the queen and her son Alfonsito needed to give up their right to the throne; the radicals openly cherished the dream of a republic. It was rumored that don Juan Prim would return from London any day now; however legendary hero Castillejos has already come, and more than once, but was forced to flee. The figs are not yet ripe, was sung in a popular song. Meanwhile, some believed that the figs were not only ripe, but had already begun to rot, hanging on the tree for too long. In a word, there were no number of rumors and gossip.
Don Jaime's modest wealth did not allow him any special excesses, and he shook his head negatively at the cabman, who obligingly offered his carriage. The maestro walked along Prado Boulevard, avoiding carefree pedestrians who sought refuge in the shade of trees. Every now and then a familiar face flashed through the crowd, and the maestro greeted them politely, raising his top hat. The venerable governesses in uniforms chatted animatedly, sitting on wooden benches, watching from a distance the children in sailor suits playing near the fountains. The ladies sailed sedately in open carriages, shielding themselves from the sun with lacy parasols.
Even in his light summer frock coat, Don Jaime languished in the heat. In the mornings, he gave lessons to two more students at their home. These were the boys from good families: Their parents considered fencing an exercise that was good for health, and one of the few activities that did not damage the honor of the family. These lessons, as well as those with three or four other students, enabled Don Jaime to lead a life that suited his taste. His personal expenses were very small: payment for housing on Bordadores Street, lunch and dinner at the nearest cafe, coffee and toast at Progreso ... Don Jaime could afford additional expenses thanks to the Marquis de los Alumbres, who, having once established the payment procedure paid him neatly on the first day of every month; in this way, Don Jaime even managed to save a small amount for the time when his age would no longer allow him to earn a living and he would have to live his life in an almshouse. More and more often he was visited by the sad thought that this day was not far off.
The deputy of the Cortes, the Comte de Sueca, whose eldest son was one of Don Jaime's few pupils, was walking on horseback. On his feet were shining English riding boots.
- Greetings, maestro.
Six or seven years ago the Count himself had been a pupil of Don Jaime. In those days, he had to participate in a duel, and, wanting to improve his technique, he resorted to the services of a famous fencing teacher. The result was excellent - the sword struck down the enemy on the spot, and since then the count has supported with the maestro friendly relations, and subsequently entrusted him with the education of his son.
“So, you have work tools under your arm… Morning classes, I guess.
Smiling, Don Jaime gently stroked the rapiers. Greeting him, the count affably touched the wing of his hat, still remaining in the saddle. Not for the first time, don Jaime noted that, except in rare cases, as with Luis de Ayala, the attitude of students towards their teacher was approximately the same - kindly, but with the same respect for distance. However, he was regularly paid for his services, and this, one way or another, is a lot in itself. old age the maestro allowed him not to fill his head with such trifles.
– As you can see, don Manuel... Indeed, I have morning classes now. I am a prisoner of stuffy Madrid, but work is work, there's nothing to be done.
The earl, who had never worked a single day in his life, nodded knowingly, restraining his magnificent English mare, who was impatiently shifting from foot to foot. He looked around absently and ran his little finger over his beard: he was extremely interested in the ladies walking along the lattice of the Botanical Garden.
- Well, how is my Manolito? Hope he's making progress?
- Yes, señor! He is a capable young man. Unnecessarily hot, but at seventeen it is forgivable. Time and discipline will soften his temper.
Everything is in your hands, maestro.
“Thank you for your trust, Your Excellency.
- All the best.
“And you too. My respects to the lady countess. The count let go of the reins, and Don Jaime rode on. Turning onto Rue Huertas, he paused at the window of a bookstore. Buying books, a pleasure by no means cheap, was his passion, which he indulged, alas, not so often. He gazed tenderly at the gilded spines of leather-bound books and remembered years gone by when things were going well and he could live in grand style. Taking a deep breath, he returned his thoughts to the present, reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out a watch on a long chain, which he had left from better times. Fifteen minutes remained before the visit to Don Matthias Soldeville - "Soldevilla Manufactory and Brothers, Suppliers of the Royal House and the Colonial Forces"; after this time he will have to dead hour hammer into the dull head of Salvadorin, the son of Don Matthias, the basics of fencing: “Forward, batman, bolder, bypass the hand ... One, two, three, Salvadorin, one, two, so, again, excellent, carefully, like this, stop , bad, very bad, disgusting, one more time, higher, one, two, stop, batman, sideways, bolder... The kid is making progress, don Matias, I swear to you. He is still quite green, but he has intuition and abilities. All he needs is time and discipline...” And this is for sixty reais a month.
The sun's rays fell almost vertically; the air above the pavement trembled. A water carrier drove down the street, praising its cool merchandise. The greengrocer, who sat in the shade beside baskets full of fruits and vegetables, brushed off the flies that swirled around her. Don Jaime took off his hat, took out a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He casually admired the military coat of arms, embroidered on the old silk of the handkerchief with blue threads, faded from time and numerous washings, and, obediently offering his shoulders to the merciless sun, he continued his way up the street. The shadow shrunk into a small dark spot at the very feet.
Progress was not at all like a cafe in the usual sense of the word. A few tables made of chipped marble, century-old chairs, a wooden floor creaking underfoot, dusty curtains, twilight.
Fausto, the old manager, was dozing near the door leading to the kitchen, from which came the cozy smell of coffee. A skinny, shabby cat flitted under the tables with a furtive look, stalking a mouse. In winter, the Progress smelled of dampness, and there were large dull spots on the wallpaper. The visitors wrapped themselves in coats and warm cloaks, as if to demonstrate their silent displeasure at the decrepit iron stove that glowed dully in one of the corners of the room.
By summer, everything had changed. In the center of Madrid, hot from the heat, the Cafe Progress became an oasis of coolness and shade; it seemed that in its walls, behind heavy curtains, the cold that had accumulated over the winter had miraculously been preserved. And as soon as the summer heat came, Don Jaime's little tertulia gathered in the Progreso cafe every evening.
History of creation
The novel was first printed in 1840 simultaneously in France and Belgium. Then he published several times on French. Dumas used Grezier's "Notes" about his stay in Russia and wrote a novel on his behalf. He also used other historical essays: “Memoirs” () of Count Seguier, “Essay on the Death of Paul I” () Shatogirin, “History of Alexander I” () S. Rabbe and “Report of the Commission of Inquiry” (1826).
Plot
Fencing teacher Grezier gives Alexander Dumas his notes made during a trip to Russia. They tell how he went to St. Petersburg and began teaching fencing lessons. All his students are future Decembrists. One of them is Count Annenkov, the husband of an old acquaintance of Grezier, Louise. Soon a rebellion rises, but is immediately suppressed by Nicholas I. All Decembrists are exiled to Siberia, among them is Count Annenkov. Desperate Louise decides to follow her husband and share the hardships of hard labor with him. Grezier agrees to help her.
Romance in Russia
In Russia, the publication of the novel was banned by Nicholas I in connection with the description of the Decembrist uprising in it. In his memoirs, Dumas recalled what Princess Trubetskaya, a friend of the Empress, told him:
Nicholas entered the room when I was reading a book to the Empress. I quickly hid the book. The Emperor approached and asked the Empress:
Did you read?
Yes, my lord.
Do you want me to tell you what you read? The empress was silent
Have you read Dumas' novel "The Fencing Master".
How do you know this, sir?
Here you go! This is not hard to guess. This last novel which I banned.
The tsarist censorship followed Dumas' novels with particular attention and forbade their publication in Russia, but despite this, the novel was distributed in Russia. The novel was first published in Russia in Russian in 1925.
Notes
Links
Wikimedia Foundation. 2010 .
See what "Fencing Teacher" is in other dictionaries:
The Fencing Master (novel, 1988) The Fencing Master Genre: Novel Author: Arturo Pérez Reverte Original in Spanish Publication: 1988 The Fencing Master (Spanish: El Maestro De Esgrima) is a 1988 novel by Arturo Pérez Reverte. The plot ... ... Wikipedia
The Fencing Master: The Fencing Master novel by Alexandre Dumas The Fencing Master novel by Arturo Pérez Reverte The Fencing Master film by Pedro Olea, adaptation of the novel by Arturo Pérez Reverte ... Wikipedia
This term has other meanings, see Fencing teacher (meanings). Fencing teacher Memoires d un maitre d armes Genre: Adventure
This term has other meanings, see Fencing teacher (meanings). Fencing teacher El maestro de esgrima Genre: Romance
In 1843, assistant to the chief fencing teacher of the Separate (Guards) Corps, author of "The Inscription of the Rules of Fencing Art". (Polovtsov) ...
Fencing teacher, Colonel; † 50 years, 9 Feb. 1861 (Polovtsov) ... Big biographical encyclopedia
Vladimir Balon ... Wikipedia
Master of the sword El Maestro De Esgrima ... Wikipedia
- (German Fechtmeister, from fechten to fence, fight, and Meister teacher). Fencing teacher. Dictionary of foreign words included in the Russian language. Chudinov A.N., 1910. FECHTMEISTER German. Fechtmeister, from fechten, to fight, and Meister, ... ... Dictionary of foreign words of the Russian language
Arturo Perez Reverte Arturo Perez Reverte ... Wikipedia
Books
- Fencing teacher Arturo Pérez-Reverte. In The Fencing Master, the author describes life in Spain in the 19th century, in its traditions and history. In pre-revolutionary Spain, there lives an old man, a fencing teacher, desperately trying to maintain his honor and...
Nicholas entered the room when I was reading a book to the Empress. I quickly hid the book. The Emperor approached and asked the Empress:
Did you read?
Yes, Sovereign.
Do you want me to tell you what you read?
The Empress was silent.
Have you read Dumas' novel The Fencing Master?
How do you know this, sir?
Here you go! This is not hard to guess. This is the last novel I banned.
The tsarist censorship followed Dumas' novels with particular attention and forbade their publication in Russia, but despite this, the novel was distributed in Russia. The novel was first published in Russia in Russian in 1925, essentially speaking, in a retelling - with distortions and huge cuts (again for ideological reasons, but of a diametrically opposite nature), reduced by almost half.
In the satirical essay by Saltykov-Shchedrin "The opinions of noble foreigners about pompadours" (1883), the character is a Frenchman le prince de la Klioukwa("Prince of the Cranberry"). In a commentary by S. A. Makashin and N. S. Nikitina, they write about this
The novel by Alexandre Dumas "Fencing Master" is special. In it, of course, you will recognize the familiar Alexandre Dumas with adventures and passionate love. The peculiarity is that this novel is about Russia, about Russian history. Dumas has only two books about Russia - this is a documentary book (travel diaries) “Travel Impressions. In Russia" and the novel "Fencing Teacher". Certainly, fiction novel will be much closer to the children. Moreover, in it, Dumas was one of the first writers to depict the Decembrist uprising. It's nice that The Fencing Master doesn't have the major distortions of history that Alexandre Dumas often likes to make in order to make his book more entertaining. But here they did not. In The Fencing Teacher, the main events of Russian history of the late 18th and early 19th centuries pass before us vividly and distinctly. They are told by a foreigner who looks at them from the side, evaluates them objectively, from the position of an outsider. I am very glad that in the novel there is absolutely no that “spreading cranberry” that often appears in the works of foreigners about Russia. Dumas here did without European stereotypes and clichés. There are no bears with balalaikas in the book, drinking vodka and dancing kalinka-malinka in the Russian frost. Dumas extremely objectively shows Russia in " Travel notes” and in “Fencing Teacher”. Him sober look to a strange and a little incomprehensible country for a foreigner.
The plot of Dumas' novel "The Fencing Teacher" is based on the real notes of Augustin Francois Grisier, who lived in Russia for a long time in the early 19th century and witnessed the Decembrist uprising. Grisier conveyed to Dumas his memories of life in Russia, and Dumas artistically revised them and published the novel The Fencing Teacher in 1840 in Paris. All the events of the novel are given through the eyes of Grizier, a Frenchman who came to Russia to earn money by teaching fencing lessons. noble gentlemen. Grizier settles in St. Petersburg, quickly enters the Russian " elite and becomes a famous fencing teacher. Many Russian nobles go to his lessons. Grizier becomes fashionable. The Russian nobility reveals their secrets to him. Fencing teacher learns a lot interesting facts about recent Russian history: about the morals of Catherine II, about Prince Potemkin, about the bloody murder of Tsar Paul I, etc. Dumas draws all these pictures of Russian history vividly and fascinatingly. The fencing teacher is close friends with the French milliner Louise Dupuis and learns that she begins an ardent love with one of his noble students, Count Alexei Annenkov. Grisier does not believe in the future of love between a Russian aristocrat and a simple Frenchwoman. Unexpectedly, he becomes a witness to the December uprising in St. Petersburg on Senate Square. Dumas tells in detail and fascinatingly about the Decembrist uprising, here he showed the full strength of his talent: all the events of the bloody December day pass before the reader as if they were alive. Many of Grisier's students take part in the uprising, and one of them is Alexei Annenkov. With purely French cynicism, Grisier perceives this doomed and senseless rebellion, although he cannot help but admire the idealists who have decided to die for their principles. We will see in detail the entire course of the uprising: the military march through St. Petersburg, and the long useless standing of the regiments on Senate Square, and the horror of the new Emperor Nicholas I at the fact that the regiments will go to the palace. But the shelves didn't go anywhere. They simply stood on Senate Square and gave the tsar time to gather soldiers and artillery loyal to him in order to shoot the rebels. And so the uprising is put down. Alexei Annenkov, along with other Decembrists, was sentenced to exile in Siberia. And then Louise turns to Grisier. She asks to help her with the organization of the wedding with Alexei Annenkov, because she decided to go with him to Siberia, like the wives of other Decembrists.
Dumas tells in the novel "Fencing Master" real story love of the Frenchwoman Pauline Goble and the Decembrist Ivan Annenkov. They are easily recognizable under the guise of Louise Dupuis and Count Alexei Annenkov. Dumas did not even change their names very much, and even left Annenkov's last name unchanged. During his travels in Russia in 1858-59, Alexandre Dumas will meet the heroes of his novel, who, after the death of Nicholas I, will be returned from exile. Polina Gobl and Ivan Annenkov will meet French writer like a native.
Interestingly, the novel by Alexandre Dumas was strictly banned in Russia. For reading it during the time of Nicholas I, one could even go to prison. But despite this, many read and admired it. For the Russian elite of those times, French was almost native, so the novel "Fencing Teacher" was secretly brought from France and read in French. After all, it frankly spoke about such things forbidden at that time in Russia as the murder of Paul I and the uprising of the Decembrists. The novel was not published in pre-revolutionary Russia although everyone knew about it. For the first time in Russian, the novel by Alexandre Dumas "Fencing Teacher" was published only in 1925.
The novel by Alexandre Dumas "Fencing Teacher" in the series of historical books for children and youth "Tuppum (Clay Tablet)". The book was published in hard color cover depicting the murder of Count Miloradovich on Senate Square; the book is thick high-quality offset paper; medium size font. Drawings by the artist Boris Kosulnikov, who has already illustrated, published in a series, the novel by Nikolai Zabolotsky " Mysterious city". Continuity in illustration style is good. Different books series acquire common decoration. Personally, I like it: you can immediately see that the books are from the same series. There are many drawings in the book, they are bright and colorful. The color saturation immediately catches the eye, and the plots of the illustrations are of interest. Everything is done in such a way as to attract the attention of the child.
Dmitry Matsyuk
