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| collection website
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| Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy
| From the notes of Prince D. Nekhlyudov (Lucerne)
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July 8
Yesterday evening I arrived in Lucerne and stayed at the best hotel here, the Schweitzerhof.
“Lucerne, an ancient cantonal city lying on the shores of the lake of four cantons,” says Murray, “is one of the most romantic locations in Switzerland; three main roads intersect in it; and only an hour's boat ride away is Mount Rigi, which offers one of the most magnificent views in the world.”
Fairly or not, other guides say the same thing, and therefore there is an abyss of travelers of all nations, and especially the British, in Lucerne.
The magnificent five-story Schweizerhof house was recently built on the embankment, above the lake, on the very spot where in the old days there was a wooden, covered, winding bridge, with chapels on the corners and images on the rafters. Now, thanks to the huge invasion of the British, their needs, their taste and their money, the old bridge was broken and in its place they made a basement, straight as a stick, embankment; straight quadrangular five-story houses were built on the embankment; and in front of the houses they planted sticky trees in two rows, put up supports, and between the sticky trees, as usual, there were green benches. This is a party; and here Englishwomen in Swiss straw hats and Englishmen in strong and comfortable clothes walk back and forth and rejoice at their work. It may be that these embankments, and houses, and sticky, and the English are very good somewhere - but not here, among this strangely majestic and at the same time inexpressibly harmonious and soft nature.
When I went upstairs to my room and opened the window onto the lake, the beauty of this water, these mountains and this sky at the first moment literally blinded and shocked me. I felt an inner restlessness and a need to somehow express the excess of something that suddenly filled my soul. At that moment I wanted to hug someone, hug him tightly, tickle him, pinch him, and generally do something extraordinary with him and with myself.
It was seven o'clock in the evening. It had been raining all day, and now it was clearing up. The lake, blue as burning sulfur, with dots of boats and their disappearing traces, motionless, smooth, as if convexly spread out in front of the windows between various green shores, went forward, shrinking between two huge ledges, and, darkening, rested and disappeared into the piled-up on other valleys, mountains, clouds and ice floes. In the foreground are wet light green spreading banks with reeds, meadows, gardens and cottages; further, dark green overgrown ledges with ruins of castles; at the bottom there is a crumpled white-purple mountain distance with bizarre rocky and matte white snow peaks; and everything was flooded with a gentle, transparent azure of the air and illuminated by the hot rays of sunset breaking through from the torn sky.
Not on the lake, not on the mountains, not in the sky, not a single solid line, not a single solid color, not a single identical moment, everywhere there is movement, asymmetry, whimsicality, an endless mixture and variety of shadows and lines, and in everything calmness, softness, unity and the need for beauty. And here, among the vague, confused free beauty, right in front of my window, the white stick of the embankment, sticky with supports and green benches stuck out stupidly, focally - poor, vulgar human works, not drowned like distant dachas and ruins in the general harmony of beauty , but, on the contrary, grossly contradict it. Constantly, involuntarily, my gaze collided with this terribly straight line of the embankment and mentally wanted to push it away, to destroy it, like a black spot that sits on the nose under the eye; but the embankment with the walking Englishmen remained in place, and I involuntarily tried to find a point of view from which I could not see it. I learned to look like this, and until lunch, alone with myself, I enjoyed that incomplete, but sweeter, languid feeling that you experience when solitary contemplating the beauty of nature.
At half past eight I was called to dinner. In a large, superbly decorated room on the ground floor, two long tables were set for at least a hundred people. For about three minutes the silent movement of gathering guests continued: the rustling of women's dresses, light steps, quiet negotiations with the most polite and graceful waiters; and all the equipment was occupied by men and ladies, very beautifully, even richly, and generally unusually cleanly dressed. As in general in Switzerland, most of the guests are English, and therefore the main features of the common table are strict, legally recognized decency, uncommunicativeness, based not on pride, but on the absence of the need for intimacy, and lonely contentment in the convenient and pleasant satisfaction of their needs. The whitest lace, the whitest collars, the whitest real and false teeth, the whitest faces and hands shine on all sides. But the faces, many of which are very beautiful, express only consciousness of their own well-being and a complete lack of attention to everything around them that does not directly relate to their own person, and the whitest hands with rings and mittens move only to straighten collars, cut beef and pour wine into glasses: no emotional excitement is reflected in their movements. Families occasionally exchange words in a quiet voice about the pleasant taste of such and such food or wine and the beautiful view from Mount Rigi. Lonely travelers and female travelers sit alone, silently, next to each other, not even looking at each other. If occasionally two out of these hundred people talk to each other, it is probably about the weather and climbing Mount Rigi. Knives and forks move barely audibly across the plates, food is taken little by little, peas and vegetables are always eaten with a fork; The waiters, involuntarily obeying the general silence, ask in a whisper what kind of wine would you order? At such dinners I always feel difficult, unpleasant and sad in the end. It still seems to me that I am guilty of something, that I am being punished, as in childhood, when for pranks they sat me on a chair and ironically said: “Rest, my dear!” - while young blood beats in the veins and the cheerful screams of the brothers are heard in the other room. I had previously tried to rebel against this feeling of oppression that I experienced at such dinners, but in vain; all these dead faces have an irresistible influence on me, and I become just as dead. I don’t want anything, I don’t think, I don’t even observe. At first I tried to talk to my neighbors; but, apart from phrases that were obviously repeated for the hundred thousandth time in the same place and for the hundred thousandth time by the same person, I received no other answers. And after all, all these people are not stupid and not insensitive, but, probably, many of these frozen people have the same inner life as in me, many of them are much more complex and interesting. So why do they deprive themselves of one of the best pleasures of life, pleasure with each other, pleasure with a person?
It was different in our Parisian boarding house, where we, twenty people of the most diverse nations, professions and characters, under the influence of French sociability, gathered at a common table as if for fun. There now, from one end of the table to the other, the conversation, sprinkled with jokes and puns, although often in broken language, became general. There everyone, not caring about how he would get out, chatted whatever came to mind; there we had our own philosopher, our own debater, our own bel esprit, our own plastron, everything was common. There, immediately after dinner, we pushed the table aside and, whether in rhythm or not, began dancing la polka across the dusty carpet until the evening. There we were, although we were flirtatious, not very smart and respectable people, but we were people. And a Spanish countess with romantic adventures, and an Italian abbot who recited the “Divine Comedy” after dinner, and an American doctor who had an entrance to the Tuileries, and a young playwright with long hair, and a drunkard who, in her own words, composed the best polka in the world, and an unfortunate, beautiful widow with three rings on each finger - we all treated each other humanly, although superficially, with kindness and took away from each other some light and some sincere heartfelt memories. At the English table d'hôt's, I often think, looking at all these laces, ribbons, rings, oiled hair and silk dresses: how many living women would be happy and would make others happy with these outfits. It’s strange to think how many friends and lovers, the happiest friends and lovers, are sitting next to each other, perhaps without knowing it. And God knows why they will never know this and will never give each other that happiness that they can so easily give and that they so want.
I felt sad, as always after such dinners, and, without finishing dessert, in the most gloomy mood, I went wandering around the city. Narrow dirty streets without lighting, locked shops, meetings with drunken workers and women walking to fetch water or, in hats, along the walls, looking back, sneaking along the alleys, not only did not disperse, but even intensified my sad mood. It was already completely dark in the streets when, without looking around me, without any thought in my head, I walked towards the house, hoping to sleep to get rid of the gloomy mood of the spirit. I felt terribly mentally cold, lonely and heavy, as sometimes happens for no apparent reason when moving to a new place.
I, looking only at my feet, was walking along the embankment towards the Schweitzerhof, when suddenly I was struck by the sounds of strange, but extremely pleasant and sweet music. These sounds instantly had a life-giving effect on me. It was as if a bright, cheerful light had penetrated my soul. I felt good and happy. My sleepy attention again turned to all the surrounding objects. And the beauty of the night and the lake, to which I had previously been indifferent, suddenly, like news, pleasantly struck me. Involuntarily, in an instant I managed to notice the cloudy sky, gray pieces on the dark blue, illuminated by the rising moon, and a dark green smooth lake with lights reflected in it, and in the distance the misty mountains, and the cries of frogs from Froeschenburg, and the dewy fresh whistle of quails from that shore. Right in front of me, from the place from which the sounds were heard and to which my attention was mainly directed, I saw in the twilight in the middle of the street a crowd of people cramped in a semicircle, and in front of the crowd, at some distance, a tiny man in black clothes. Behind the crowd and the little man, against the dark gray and blue torn sky, several black garden areas were harmoniously separated and two austere towers rose majestically on both sides of the ancient cathedral.
As I got closer, the sounds became clearer. I could clearly make out the distant, full chords of a guitar, sweetly swaying in the evening air, and several voices that, interrupting each other, did not sing the theme, but in some places, singing the most prominent parts, made it felt. The theme was something like a sweet and graceful mazurka. The voices seemed now close, now far away, now a tenor was heard, now a bass, now a throat fistula with cooing Tyrolean overtones. It was not a song, but a light, masterful sketch of a song. I couldn't figure out what it was; but it was wonderful. These voluptuous weak chords of the guitar, this sweet, light melody and this lonely figure of a black man among the fantastic setting of a dark lake, a shining moon and silently towering two huge spitz towers and black garden hens - everything was strange, but inexpressibly beautiful, or it seemed so to me.
All the confused, involuntary impressions of life suddenly acquired meaning and charm for me. It was as if a fresh fragrant flower had blossomed in my soul. Instead of the fatigue, distraction, and indifference to everything in the world that I had experienced a minute before, I suddenly felt the need for love, the fullness of hope and the causeless joy of life. What to want, what to desire? - I said involuntarily, - here it is, beauty and poetry surround you on all sides. Inhale it into yourself with wide, full sips, as far as you have the strength, enjoy, what more do you need! Everything is yours, everything is good...
I came closer. The little man was, it seemed, a wandering Tyrolean. He stood in front of the hotel windows, his legs outstretched, his head thrown up, and, strumming his guitar, he sang his graceful song in different voices. I immediately felt tenderness for this man and gratitude for the revolution that he brought about in me. The singer, as far as I could see, was dressed in an old black frock coat, his hair was black, short, and on his head was the most bourgeois, simple old cap. There was nothing artistic about his clothes, but his dashing, childishly cheerful pose and movements with his tiny height made up a touching and at the same time funny sight. In the entrance, windows and balconies of the magnificently illuminated hotel stood brilliantly dressed, wide-skirted ladies, gentlemen with the whitest collars, a doorman and footman in gold-embroidered liveries; on the street, in the semicircle of the crowd and further along the boulevard, between the sticky trees, elegantly dressed waiters, cooks in the whitest caps and jackets, hugging girls and strollers gathered and stopped. Everyone seemed to be experiencing the same feeling that I was experiencing. Everyone stood silently around the singer and listened attentively. Everything was quiet, only in the intervals of the song, somewhere in the distance, evenly across the water, the sound of a hammer could be heard, and from Froeschenburg the voices of frogs rushed in a crumbly trill, interrupted by the moist, monotonous whistle of quails.
The little man in the darkness in the middle of the street sang like a nightingale, verse after verse and song after song. Despite the fact that I came right up to him, his singing continued to give me great pleasure. His small voice was extremely pleasant, but the tenderness, taste and sense of proportion with which he mastered this voice were extraordinary and showed his enormous natural talent. He sang the chorus of each verse differently each time, and it was clear that all these graceful changes came to him freely and instantly.
In the crowd, both above in the Schweitzerhof and below on the boulevard, an approving whisper was often heard and respectful silence reigned. On the balconies and windows there were more and more elegant men and women leaning on their elbows, picturesque in the light of the house lights. The walkers stopped, and in the shade on the embankment, men and women stood everywhere in groups near the linden trees. Standing near me, smoking cigars, somewhat separated from the entire crowd, were an aristocratic footman and a cook. The cook strongly felt the charm of the music and at each high fistula note he winked with his whole head at the footman with delight and bewilderment and nudged him with his elbow with an expression that said: what is it like to sing, eh? The footman, from whose widening smile I noticed all the pleasure he was experiencing, responded to the cook’s pushes with a shrug of the shoulders, showing that it was rather difficult to surprise him and that he had heard much better than this.
In the interval of the song, when the singer cleared his throat, I asked the footman who he was and how often he came here.
“Yes, he comes twice in the summer,” answered the footman, “he is from Argovia.” Yes, he is begging.
- Are there a lot of them walking around? – I asked.
“Yes, yes,” answered the footman, not immediately understanding what I was asking, but, having analyzed my question later, he added: “Oh no!” Here I see only one of him. No more.
At this time the little man finished the first song, smartly turned the guitar over and said something to himself in his German patois, which I could not understand, but which caused laughter in the surrounding crowd.
-What is he saying? – I asked.
“He says his throat is dry, he would like to drink some wine,” the footman standing next to me translated.
- And he probably likes to drink?
“Yes, all these people are like that,” answered the footman, smiling and waving his hand at him.
The singer took off his cap and, waving his guitar, approached the house. Throwing his head back, he turned to the gentlemen standing at the windows and on the balconies: “Messieurs et mesdames,” he said in a half-Italian, half-German accent and with the intonations with which magicians address the public, “si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chosse, vous vous trompez; Je ne suis qu "un bauvre tiaple." He stopped and was silent for a while; but since no one gave him anything, he again threw up his guitar and said: “A présent, messieurs et mesdames, je vous chanterai l"air du Righi." Upstairs the audience was silent, but continued to stand waiting for the next song; downstairs in the crowd they must have laughed because he expressed himself so strangely, and because they didn’t give him anything. I gave him a few centimes, he deftly transferred them from hand to hand, put them in his vest pocket and, putting on his cap, again began to sing a graceful, sweet Tyrolean song, which he called l "air du Righi. This song, which he left for the conclusion, was even better than all the previous ones, and sounds of approval were heard from all sides in the growing crowd. He finished. Again he waved his guitar, took off his cap, put it in front of him, took two steps closer to the windows and again said his incomprehensible phrase: “Messieurs et mesdames , si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chosse,” which he apparently considered very dexterous and witty, but in his voice and movements I now noticed some indecision and childish timidity, which were especially striking given his small stature. The elegant audience all just as picturesquely in the light of the lights she stood on balconies and in windows, shining with rich clothes; some were talking to each other in a moderately decent voice, obviously about the singer who stood in front of them with his outstretched hand, others looked down attentively, with curiosity, at this little black figure, on one balcony the sonorous and cheerful laughter of a young girl was heard. The talking and giggling could be heard louder and louder in the crowd below. The singer repeated his phrase for the third time, but in an even weaker voice, and did not even finish it and again extended his hand with his cap, but immediately lowered it. And for the second time, of these hundreds of brilliantly dressed people who crowded to listen to him, not one threw him a penny. The crowd laughed mercilessly. The little singer, it seemed to me, became even smaller, took the guitar in his other hand, raised his cap above his head and said: “Messieurs et mesdames, je vous remercie et je vous seuhaite une bonne nuit,” and put on his cap. The crowd burst into gleeful laughter. Beautiful men and ladies began to gradually disappear from the balconies, calmly talking to each other. The festivities resumed on the boulevard again. Silent during the singing, the street became lively again; several people only, without approaching him, looked at the singer from afar and laughed. I heard the little man say something under his breath, turn around and, as if he had become even smaller, walked quickly towards the city. The cheerful revelers who were looking at him still followed him at some distance and laughed...
I was completely at a loss, did not understand what it all meant, and, standing in one place, mindlessly looked into the darkness at the retreating tiny man who, stretching long strides, quickly walked towards the city, and at the laughing revelers who followed him. I felt hurt, bitter and, most importantly, ashamed for the little man, for the crowd, for myself, as if I had asked for money, they didn’t give me anything and they laughed at me. I, too, without looking back, with a pinched heart, quickly walked to my home on the porch of the Schweitzerhof. I was not yet aware of what I was experiencing, only something heavy, unresolved filled my soul and oppressed me.
At the magnificent, illuminated entrance I met a politely avoiding doorman and an English family. A stout, handsome and tall man with black English sideburns, in a black hat and with a rug on his arm, in which he held a rich cane, lazily, self-confidently walked arm in arm with a lady in a wild silk dress, in a cap with shiny ribbons and the most beautiful lace. Next to them walked a pretty, fresh-faced young lady in a graceful Swiss hat with a feather, à la mousquetaire, from under which soft long light brown curls fell around her white face. A ten-year-old, rosy-cheeked girl, with full white knees visible from under the thinnest lace, was bouncing in front.
“It’s a lovely night,” said the lady in a sweet, happy voice, as I passed.
- Oh! - the Englishman mumbled lazily, who apparently had such a good time living in the world that he didn’t even want to talk. And it seemed to all of them that it was so calm, comfortable, clean and easy to live in the world, such indifference to any other people’s life was expressed in their movements and faces and such confidence that the doorman would step aside and bow to them, and that, when they returned, they they will find a clean, quiet bed and rooms, and that all this should be, and that they have every right to all this - that I suddenly involuntarily contrasted them with a wandering singer, who, tired, perhaps hungry, was now running away in shame from the laughing crowd , - I realized that my heart was pressing like such a heavy stone, and I felt an inexpressible anger towards these people. I walked back and forth past the Englishman twice, with inexpressible pleasure both times, without avoiding him, pushing him with my elbow, and, descending from the entrance, ran in the dark towards the city where the little man had disappeared.
Having caught up with three people walking together, I asked them where the singer was; They, laughing, pointed it out ahead to me. He walked alone, with quick steps, no one approached him, he kept muttering something, it seemed to me, angrily under his breath. I caught up with him and invited him to go somewhere together to drink a bottle of wine. He walked still quickly and looked back at me with displeasure; but, having figured out what was going on, he stopped.
“Well, I won’t refuse, if you’re so kind,” he said. “There’s a small cafe here, you can go there - it’s simple,” he added, pointing to a liquor store that was still open.
His word “simple” involuntarily gave me the idea not to go to a simple cafe, but to go to the Schweitzerhof, where those who listened to him were. Despite the fact that with timid excitement he several times refused the Schweitzerhof, saying that it was too formal there, I insisted on my opinion, and he, pretending that he was not at all embarrassed, cheerfully waving his guitar, walked with me back along the embankment. Several idle revelers, as soon as I approached the singer, moved closer, listened to what I said, and now, reasoning among themselves, they followed us all the way to the entrance, probably expecting some more performance from the Tyrolean.
I asked the waiter who met me in the hallway for a bottle of wine. The waiter, smiling, looked at us and, without answering, ran past. The senior waiter, to whom I addressed the same request, listened to me seriously and, looking at the timid, small figure of the singer from head to toe, sternly told the doorman to lead us into the hall to the left. To the left of the hall there was a drinking room for the common people. In the corner of this room, a hunchbacked maid was washing dishes, and all the furniture consisted of bare wooden tables and benches. The waiter, who came to serve us, looking at us with a meek mocking smile and with his hands in his pockets, was talking about something with the hunchbacked dishwasher. He apparently tried to let us notice that, feeling himself immeasurably superior to the singer in social status and merit, he was not only not offended, but truly amused to serve us.
- Would you like some simple wine? - he said with a knowing look, winking at my interlocutor and throwing a napkin from hand to hand.
Current page: 1 (book has 3 pages in total)
Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy
From the notes of Prince D. Nekhlyudov. Lucerne
Yesterday evening I arrived in Lucerne and stayed at the best hotel here, the Schweitzerhof.
“Lucerne, an ancient cantonal city lying on the shores of a lake of four cantons,” says Murray, “is one of the most romantic locations in Switzerland; three main roads intersect in it; and only an hour's ride by boat is Mount Rigi, which offers one of the most magnificent views in the world.”
Fair or not, others guides they say the same thing, and therefore there is an abyss of travelers of all nations, and especially the British, in Lucerne.
The magnificent five-story Schweizerhof house was recently built on the embankment, above the lake, on the very spot where in the old days there was a wooden, covered, winding bridge, with chapels on the corners and images on the rafters. Now, thanks to the huge invasion of the British, their needs, their taste and their money, the old bridge was broken and in its place they made a basement, straight as a stick, embankment; straight quadrangular five-story houses were built on the embankment; and in front of the houses they planted sticky trees in two rows, put up supports, and between the sticky trees, as usual, there were green benches. This is a party; and here Englishwomen in Swiss straw hats and Englishmen in strong and comfortable clothes walk back and forth and rejoice at their work. It may be that these embankments, and houses, and sticky, and the English are very good somewhere - but not here, among this strangely majestic and at the same time inexpressibly harmonious and soft nature.
When I went upstairs to my room and opened the window onto the lake, the beauty of this water, these mountains and this sky at the first moment literally blinded and shocked me. I felt an inner restlessness and a need to somehow express the excess of something that suddenly filled my soul. At that moment I wanted to hug someone, hug him tightly, tickle him, pinch him, and generally do something extraordinary with him and with myself.
It was seven o'clock in the evening. It had been raining all day, and now it was clearing up. The lake, blue as burning sulfur, with dots of boats and their disappearing traces, motionless, smooth, as if convexly spread out in front of the windows between various green shores, went forward, shrinking between two huge ledges, and, darkening, rested and disappeared into the piled-up on other valleys, mountains, clouds and ice floes. In the foreground are wet light green spreading banks with reeds, meadows, gardens and cottages; further, dark green overgrown ledges with ruins of castles; at the bottom there is a crumpled white-purple mountain distance with bizarre rocky and matte white snow peaks; and everything was flooded with a gentle, transparent azure of the air and illuminated by the hot rays of sunset breaking through from the torn sky. Not on the lake, not on the mountains, not in the sky, not a single solid line, not a single solid color, not a single identical moment, everywhere there is movement, asymmetry, whimsicality, an endless mixture and variety of shadows and lines, and in everything calmness, softness, unity and the need for beauty. And here, among the vague, confused free beauty, right in front of my window, the white stick of the embankment, sticky with supports and green benches stuck out stupidly, focally - poor, vulgar human works, not drowned like distant dachas and ruins in the general harmony of beauty , but, on the contrary, grossly contradict it. Constantly, involuntarily, my gaze collided with this terribly straight line of the embankment and mentally wanted to push it away, to destroy it, like a black spot that sits on the nose under the eye; but the embankment with the walking Englishmen remained in place, and I involuntarily tried to find a point of view from which I could not see it. I learned to look like this, and until lunch, alone with myself, I enjoyed that incomplete, but sweeter, languid feeling that you experience when solitary contemplating the beauty of nature.
At half past eight I was called to dinner. In a large, superbly decorated room on the ground floor, two long tables were set for at least a hundred people. For about three minutes the silent movement of gathering guests continued: the rustling of women's dresses, light steps, quiet negotiations with the most polite and graceful waiters; and all the equipment was occupied by men and ladies, very beautifully, even richly, and generally unusually cleanly dressed. As in general in Switzerland, most of the guests are English, and therefore the main features of the common table are strict, legally recognized decency, uncommunicativeness, based not on pride, but on the absence of the need for intimacy, and lonely contentment in the convenient and pleasant satisfaction of their needs. The whitest lace, the whitest collars, the whitest real and false teeth, the whitest faces and hands shine on all sides. But the faces, many of which are very beautiful, express only consciousness of their own well-being and a complete lack of attention to everything around them that does not directly relate to their own person, and the whitest hands with rings and mittens move only to straighten collars, cut beef and pour wine into glasses: no emotional excitement is reflected in their movements. Families occasionally exchange words in a quiet voice about the pleasant taste of such and such food or wine and the beautiful view from Mount Rigi. Lonely travelers and female travelers sit alone, silently, next to each other, not even looking at each other. If occasionally two out of these hundred people talk to each other, it is probably about the weather and climbing Mount Rigi. Knives and forks move barely audibly across the plates, food is taken little by little, peas and vegetables are always eaten with a fork; The waiters, involuntarily obeying the general silence, ask in a whisper what kind of wine would you order? At such dinners I always feel difficult, unpleasant and sad in the end. It still seems to me that I am guilty of something, that I am being punished, as in childhood, when for pranks they sat me on a chair and ironically said: “Rest, my dear!” - while young blood beats in the veins and the cheerful screams of the brothers are heard in the other room. I had previously tried to rebel against this feeling of oppression that I experienced at such dinners, but in vain; all these dead faces have an irresistible influence on me, and I become just as dead. I don’t want anything, I don’t think, I don’t even observe. At first I tried to talk to my neighbors; but, apart from phrases that were obviously repeated for the hundred thousandth time in the same place and for the hundred thousandth time by the same person, I received no other answers. And after all, all these people are not stupid and not insensitive, but, probably, many of these frozen people have the same inner life as in me, many of them are much more complex and interesting. So why do they deprive themselves of one of the best pleasures of life, pleasure with each other, pleasure with a person?
It was different in our Parisian boarding house, where we, twenty people of the most diverse nations, professions and characters, under the influence of French sociability, gathered at a common table as if for fun. There now, from one end of the table to the other, the conversation, sprinkled with jokes and puns, although often in broken language, became general. There everyone, not caring about how he would get out, chatted whatever came to mind; there we had our own philosopher, our own debater, our own bel esprit, our own plastron, everything was common. There, immediately after dinner, we pushed the table aside and, whether in rhythm or not, began dancing la polka across the dusty carpet until the evening. There we were, although we were flirtatious, not very smart and respectable people, but we were people. And a Spanish countess with romantic adventures, and an Italian abbot who recited the “Divine Comedy” after dinner, and an American doctor who had an entrance to the Tuileries, and a young playwright with long hair, and a drunkard who, in her own words, composed the best polka in the world, and an unfortunate, beautiful widow with three rings on each finger - we all treated each other humanly, although superficially, with kindness and took away from each other some light and some sincere heartfelt memories. At the English table d'hôt's, I often think, looking at all these laces, ribbons, rings, oiled hair and silk dresses: how many living women would be happy and would make others happy with these outfits. It’s strange to think how many friends and lovers, the happiest friends and lovers, are sitting next to each other, perhaps without knowing it. And God knows why they will never know this and will never give each other that happiness that they can so easily give and that they so want.
I felt sad, as always after such dinners, and, without finishing dessert, in the most gloomy mood, I went wandering around the city. Narrow dirty streets without lighting, locked shops, meetings with drunken workers and women walking to fetch water or, in hats, along the walls, looking back, sneaking along the alleys, not only did not disperse, but even intensified my sad mood. It was already completely dark in the streets when, without looking around me, without any thought in my head, I walked towards the house, hoping to sleep to get rid of the gloomy mood of the spirit. I felt terribly mentally cold, lonely and heavy, as sometimes happens for no apparent reason when moving to a new place.
I, looking only at my feet, was walking along the embankment towards the Schweitzerhof, when suddenly I was struck by the sounds of strange, but extremely pleasant and sweet music. These sounds instantly had a life-giving effect on me. It was as if a bright, cheerful light had penetrated my soul. I felt good and happy. My sleepy attention again turned to all the surrounding objects. And the beauty of the night and the lake, to which I had previously been indifferent, suddenly, like news, pleasantly struck me. Involuntarily, in an instant I managed to notice the cloudy sky, gray pieces on the dark blue, illuminated by the rising moon, and a dark green smooth lake with lights reflected in it, and in the distance the misty mountains, and the cries of frogs from Froeschenburg, and the dewy fresh whistle of quails from that shore. Right in front of me, from the place from which the sounds were heard and to which my attention was mainly directed, I saw in the twilight in the middle of the street a crowd of people cramped in a semicircle, and in front of the crowd, at some distance, a tiny man in black clothes. Behind the crowd and the little man, against the dark gray and blue torn sky, several black garden areas were harmoniously separated and two austere towers rose majestically on both sides of the ancient cathedral.
As I got closer, the sounds became clearer. I could clearly make out the distant, full chords of a guitar, sweetly swaying in the evening air, and several voices that, interrupting each other, did not sing the theme, but in some places, singing the most prominent parts, made it felt. The theme was something like a sweet and graceful mazurka. The voices seemed now close, now far away, now a tenor was heard, now a bass, now a throat fistula with cooing Tyrolean overtones. It was not a song, but a light, masterful sketch of a song. I couldn't figure out what it was; but it was wonderful. These voluptuous weak chords of the guitar, this sweet, light melody and this lonely figure of a black man among the fantastic setting of a dark lake, a shining moon and silently towering two huge spitz towers and black garden hens - everything was strange, but inexpressibly beautiful, or it seemed so to me.
All the confused, involuntary impressions of life suddenly acquired meaning and charm for me. It was as if a fresh fragrant flower had blossomed in my soul. Instead of the fatigue, distraction, and indifference to everything in the world that I had experienced a minute before, I suddenly felt the need for love, the fullness of hope and the causeless joy of life. What to want, what to desire? - I said involuntarily, - here it is, beauty and poetry surround you on all sides. Inhale it into yourself with wide, full sips, as far as you have the strength, enjoy, what more do you need! Everything is yours, everything is good...
I came closer. The little man was, it seemed, a wandering Tyrolean. He stood in front of the hotel windows, his legs outstretched, his head thrown up, and, strumming his guitar, he sang his graceful song in different voices. I immediately felt tenderness for this man and gratitude for the revolution that he brought about in me. The singer, as far as I could see, was dressed in an old black frock coat, his hair was black, short, and on his head was the most bourgeois, simple old cap. There was nothing artistic about his clothes, but his dashing, childishly cheerful pose and movements with his tiny height made up a touching and at the same time funny sight. In the entrance, windows and balconies of the magnificently illuminated hotel stood brilliantly dressed, wide-skirted ladies, gentlemen with the whitest collars, a doorman and footman in gold-embroidered liveries; on the street, in the semicircle of the crowd and further along the boulevard, between the sticky trees, elegantly dressed waiters, cooks in the whitest caps and jackets, hugging girls and strollers gathered and stopped. Everyone seemed to be experiencing the same feeling that I was experiencing. Everyone stood silently around the singer and listened attentively. Everything was quiet, only in the intervals of the song, somewhere in the distance, evenly across the water, the sound of a hammer could be heard, and from Froeschenburg the voices of frogs rushed in a crumbly trill, interrupted by the moist, monotonous whistle of quails.
The little man in the darkness in the middle of the street sang like a nightingale, verse after verse and song after song. Despite the fact that I came right up to him, his singing continued to give me great pleasure. His small voice was extremely pleasant, but the tenderness, taste and sense of proportion with which he mastered this voice were extraordinary and showed his enormous natural talent. He sang the chorus of each verse differently each time, and it was clear that all these graceful changes came to him freely and instantly.
In the crowd, both above in the Schweitzerhof and below on the boulevard, an approving whisper was often heard and respectful silence reigned. On the balconies and windows there were more and more elegant men and women leaning on their elbows, picturesque in the light of the house lights. The walkers stopped, and in the shade on the embankment, men and women stood everywhere in groups near the linden trees. Standing near me, smoking cigars, somewhat separated from the entire crowd, were an aristocratic footman and a cook. The cook strongly felt the charm of the music and at each high fistula note he winked with his whole head at the footman with delight and bewilderment and nudged him with his elbow with an expression that said: what is it like to sing, eh? The footman, from whose widening smile I noticed all the pleasure he was experiencing, responded to the cook’s pushes with a shrug of the shoulders, showing that it was rather difficult to surprise him and that he had heard much better than this.
In the interval of the song, when the singer cleared his throat, I asked the footman who he was and how often he came here.
“Yes, he comes twice in the summer,” answered the footman, “he is from Argovia.” Yes, he is begging.
- Are there a lot of them walking around? – I asked.
“Yes, yes,” answered the footman, not immediately understanding what I was asking, but, having analyzed my question later, he added: “Oh no!” Here I see only one of him. No more.
At this time the little man finished the first song, smartly turned the guitar over and said something to himself in his German patois, which I could not understand, but which caused laughter in the surrounding crowd.
-What is he saying? – I asked.
“He says his throat is dry, he would like to drink some wine,” the footman standing next to me translated.
- And he probably likes to drink?
“Yes, all these people are like that,” answered the footman, smiling and waving his hand at him.
The singer took off his cap and, waving his guitar, approached the house. Throwing his head back, he turned to the gentlemen standing at the windows and on the balconies: “Messieurs et mesdames,” he said in a half-Italian, half-German accent and with the intonations with which magicians address the public, “si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chosse, vous vous trompez; Je ne suis qu "un bauvre tiaple." He stopped and was silent for a while; but since no one gave him anything, he again threw up his guitar and said: “A présent, messieurs et mesdames, je vous chanterai l"air du Righi." Upstairs the audience was silent, but continued to stand waiting for the next song; downstairs in the crowd they must have laughed because he expressed himself so strangely, and because they didn’t give him anything. I gave him a few centimes, he deftly transferred them from hand to hand, put them in his vest pocket and, putting on his cap, again began to sing a graceful, sweet Tyrolean song, which he called l "air du Righi. This song, which he left for the conclusion, was even better than all the previous ones, and sounds of approval were heard from all sides in the growing crowd. He finished. Again he waved his guitar, took off his cap, put it in front of him, took two steps closer to the windows and again said his incomprehensible phrase: “Messieurs et mesdames , si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chosse,” which he apparently considered very dexterous and witty, but in his voice and movements I now noticed some indecision and childish timidity, which were especially striking given his small stature. The elegant audience all just as picturesquely in the light of the lights she stood on balconies and in windows, shining with rich clothes; some were talking to each other in a moderately decent voice, obviously about the singer who stood in front of them with his outstretched hand, others looked down attentively, with curiosity, at this little black figure, on one balcony the sonorous and cheerful laughter of a young girl was heard. The talking and giggling could be heard louder and louder in the crowd below. The singer repeated his phrase for the third time, but in an even weaker voice, and did not even finish it and again extended his hand with his cap, but immediately lowered it. And for the second time, of these hundreds of brilliantly dressed people who crowded to listen to him, not one threw him kopeks. The crowd laughed mercilessly. The little singer, it seemed to me, became even smaller, took the guitar in his other hand, raised his cap above his head and said: “Messieurs et mesdames, je vous remercie et je vous seuhaite une bonne nuit,” and put on his cap. The crowd burst into gleeful laughter. Beautiful men and ladies began to gradually disappear from the balconies, calmly talking to each other. The festivities resumed on the boulevard again. Silent during the singing, the street became lively again; several people only, without approaching him, looked at the singer from afar and laughed. I heard the little man say something under his breath, turn around and, as if he had become even smaller, walked quickly towards the city. The cheerful revelers who were looking at him still followed him at some distance and laughed...
I was completely at a loss, did not understand what it all meant, and, standing in one place, mindlessly looked into the darkness at the retreating tiny man who, stretching long strides, quickly walked towards the city, and at the laughing revelers who followed him. I felt hurt, bitter and, most importantly, ashamed for the little man, for the crowd, for myself, as if I had asked for money, they didn’t give me anything and they laughed at me. I, too, without looking back, with a pinched heart, quickly walked to my home on the porch of the Schweitzerhof. I was not yet aware of what I was experiencing, only something heavy, unresolved filled my soul and oppressed me.
At the magnificent, illuminated entrance I met a politely avoiding doorman and an English family. A stout, handsome and tall man with black English sideburns, in a black hat and with a rug on his arm, in which he held a rich cane, lazily, self-confidently walked arm in arm with a lady in a wild silk dress, in a cap with shiny ribbons and the most beautiful lace. Next to them walked a pretty, fresh-faced young lady in a graceful Swiss hat with a feather, à la mousquetaire, from under which soft long light brown curls fell around her white face. A ten-year-old, rosy-cheeked girl, with full white knees visible from under the thinnest lace, was bouncing in front.
“It’s a lovely night,” said the lady in a sweet, happy voice, as I passed.
- Oh! - the Englishman mumbled lazily, who apparently had such a good time living in the world that he didn’t even want to talk. And it seemed to all of them that it was so calm, comfortable, clean and easy to live in the world, such indifference to any other people’s life was expressed in their movements and faces and such confidence that the doorman would step aside and bow to them, and that, when they returned, they they will find a clean, quiet bed and rooms, and that all this should be, and that they have every right to all this - that I suddenly involuntarily contrasted them with a wandering singer, who, tired, perhaps hungry, was now running away in shame from the laughing crowd , - I realized that my heart was pressing like such a heavy stone, and I felt an inexpressible anger towards these people. I walked back and forth past the Englishman twice, with inexpressible pleasure both times, without avoiding him, pushing him with my elbow, and, descending from the entrance, ran in the dark towards the city where the little man had disappeared.
Having caught up with three people walking together, I asked them where the singer was; They, laughing, pointed it out ahead to me. He walked alone, with quick steps, no one approached him, he kept muttering something, it seemed to me, angrily under his breath. I caught up with him and invited him to go somewhere together to drink a bottle of wine. He walked still quickly and looked back at me with displeasure; but, having figured out what was going on, he stopped.
“Well, I won’t refuse, if you’re so kind,” he said. “There’s a small cafe here, you can go there - it’s simple,” he added, pointing to a liquor store that was still open.
His word “simple” involuntarily gave me the idea not to go to a simple cafe, but to go to the Schweitzerhof, where those who listened to him were. Despite the fact that with timid excitement he several times refused the Schweitzerhof, saying that it was too formal there, I insisted on my opinion, and he, pretending that he was not at all embarrassed, cheerfully waving his guitar, walked with me back along the embankment. Several idle revelers, as soon as I approached the singer, moved closer, listened to what I said, and now, reasoning among themselves, they followed us all the way to the entrance, probably expecting some more performance from the Tyrolean.
I asked the waiter who met me in the hallway for a bottle of wine. The waiter, smiling, looked at us and, without answering, ran past. The senior waiter, to whom I addressed the same request, listened to me seriously and, looking at the timid, small figure of the singer from head to toe, sternly told the doorman to lead us into the hall to the left. To the left of the hall there was a drinking room for the common people. In the corner of this room, a hunchbacked maid was washing dishes, and all the furniture consisted of bare wooden tables and benches. The waiter, who came to serve us, looking at us with a meek mocking smile and with his hands in his pockets, was talking about something with the hunchbacked dishwasher. He apparently tried to let us notice that, feeling himself immeasurably superior to the singer in social status and merit, he was not only not offended, but truly amused to serve us.
- Would you like some simple wine? - he said with a knowing look, winking at my interlocutor and throwing a napkin from hand to hand.
“Champagne, and the best,” I said, trying to assume the most proud and majestic look. But neither the champagne nor my supposedly proud and majestic appearance had any effect on the footman; he grinned, stood for a while, looking at us, slowly looked at his gold watch and with quiet steps, as if walking, left the room. He soon returned with wine and two more footmen. Two of them sat down near the scullery and, with cheerful attentiveness and a gentle smile on their faces, admired us, as parents admire dear children when they play sweetly. Only the hunchbacked scullery maid seemed to be looking at us not mockingly, but with sympathy. Although it was very difficult and awkward for me to talk with the singer and treat him under the fire of these lackey eyes, I tried to do my job as independently as possible. With the fire on, I got a better look at him. He was a tiny, proportionally built, wiry man, almost a dwarf, with bristly black hair, always crying large black eyes, devoid of eyelashes, and an extremely pleasant, touchingly folded mouth. He had small sideburns, his hair was short, his clothes were the simplest and poorest. He was unclean, ragged, tanned and generally had the appearance of a working man. He looked more like a poor merchant than an artist. Only in the constantly moist, shining eyes and collected mouth was there something original and touching. He looked to be between twenty-five and forty years old; in fact he was thirty-eight.
This is what he told about his life with good-natured readiness and obvious sincerity. He is from Argovia. As a child, he lost his father and mother; he has no other relatives. He never had any fortune. He studied carpentry, but twenty-two years ago he developed a carnivore in his hand, which made it impossible for him to work. Since childhood, he had a passion for singing and began to sing. Foreigners occasionally gave him money. He made a profession out of it, bought a guitar, and for eighteen years he has been traveling around Switzerland and Italy, singing in front of hotels. All his luggage was a guitar and a wallet, in which he now had only one and a half francs, which he must sleep through and eat that very evening. Every year, eighteen times, he goes through all the best, most visited places in Switzerland: Zurich, Lucerne, Interlaken, Chamounix, etc.; through St. Bernard passes to Italy and returns through St. Gotard or through Savoy. Now it is becoming difficult for him to walk, because from a cold he feels that the pain in his legs, which he calls glidersucht, is getting worse every year and that his eyes and voice are becoming weaker. Despite this, he now travels to Interlaken, Aix-les-Bains and, via Little St. Bernard, to Italy, which he especially loves; In general, he seems to be very happy with his life. When I asked him why he was returning home, whether he had relatives there, or a house and land, his little mouth, as if on cue, gathered into a cheerful smile, and he answered me.
- Oui, le sucre est bon, il est doux pour les enfants! – and winked at the lackeys.
I didn’t understand anything, but the group of footmen laughed.
“There’s nothing, otherwise I wouldn’t walk like that,” he explained to me, “but I come home because I’m still somehow drawn to my homeland.”
And he once again, with a slyly smug smile, repeated the phrase: “Oui, le sucre est bon,” and laughed good-naturedly. The footmen were very pleased and laughed, one hunchbacked scullery maid looked seriously at the little man with big, kind eyes and raised his hat, which he had dropped from the bench during the conversation. I noticed that traveling singers, acrobats, even magicians like to call themselves artists, and therefore several times I hinted to my interlocutor that he was an artist, but he did not at all recognize this quality in himself, but quite simply, as a means of livelihood, looked at his business. When I asked him if he himself composed the songs that he sang, he was surprised at such a strange question and answered that where should he go, these are all old Tyrolean songs.
– What about Riga’s song? I don't think it's antique? - I said.
- Yes, it was composed fifteen years ago. There was one German in Basel, the smartest man, he composed it. A great song! You see, he composed this for travelers.
And he began, translating in French, to tell me the words of Riga’s song, which, apparently, he really liked:
If you want to go to Rigi,
No shoes needed to get to Vegas
(Because they are traveling on a ship)
And take a big stick from Vegis,
And take the girl by your arm,
Come and have a glass of wine.
Just don't drink too much
Because whoever is thirsty
Must deserve first...
- Oh, great song! – he concluded.
The footmen probably thought this song was very good, because they approached us.
- Well, who composed the music? – I asked.
- Nobody, it’s like that, you know, in order to sing for foreigners, you need something new.
When they brought us ice and I poured my interlocutor a glass of champagne, he apparently felt awkward, and he turned around on his bench, looking back at the footmen. We clinked glasses for the health of the artists; he drank half a glass and found it necessary to think and wiggle his eyebrows thoughtfully.
– I haven’t drunk such wine for a long time, je ne vous dis que ça. In Italy, wine d'Asti is good, but this is even better. Oh, Italy! It’s nice to be there! - he added.
“Yes, they know how to appreciate music and artists,” I said, wanting to set him up for an evening failure in front of the Schweitzerhof.
“No,” he answered, “I can’t give anyone pleasure about music.” The Italians themselves are musicians like no other in the whole world; but I'm only talking about Tyrolean songs. This is news to them after all.
- Well, are gentlemen more generous there? - I continued, wanting to force him to share my anger at the inhabitants of Schweitzerhof. “It won’t happen there like it does here, so that from a huge hotel where the rich live, a hundred people would listen to an artist and not give him anything...
My question didn't have the effect I expected. He did not even think of being indignant at them; on the contrary, in my remark he saw a reproach to his talent, which did not bring about a reward, and tried to justify himself to me.
“You won’t get much every time,” he answered. “Sometimes your voice will disappear and you will get tired, because I walked for nine hours today and sang almost all day.” It's difficult. And important gentlemen aristocrats, they sometimes want to listen to Tyrolean songs.
- Still, how can you not give anything? – I repeated. He didn't understand my remark.
“Not that,” he said, “but the main thing here is on est très serré pour la police, that’s what.” Here, according to these republican laws, you are not allowed to sing, but in Italy you can walk around as much as you want, no one will say a word to you. Here, if they want to let you, they will allow you, but if they don’t, they can put you in prison.
- How, really?
- Yes. If they notice you once, and you still sing, you can be put in prison. “I’ve already been in prison for three months,” he said, smiling, as if it was one of his most pleasant memories.
- Oh, this is terrible! - I said. - For what?
“This is how they do it according to the new laws of the republic,” he continued, becoming animated. “They don’t want to reason that it is necessary for the poor to live somehow.” If I were not a cripple, I would work. And if I sing, am I doing anyone any harm? What is this? The rich can live as they want, but un bauvre tiaple, they can’t live like me. What kind of laws of the republic are these? If so, then we don’t want a republic, do we, dear sir? we don’t want a republic, but we want... we just want... we want... - he hesitated a little - we want natural laws. I poured more into his glass.
In 1857, L.N. Tolstoy made a trip abroad. He visited France, Italy, Switzerland and Germany. The writer showed a keen interest in the life of Western European countries and became closely acquainted with their culture and social system. Much of what he saw here amazed and upset him, and aroused in him a feeling of protest. Thus, in the Swiss resort town of Lucerne, he witnessed the callous attitude of rich foreign tourists towards a poor traveling singer. In one day, Tolstoy wrote the story "Lucerne", in which he poured out all his indignation against bourgeois civilization, seeing in it "vanity, ambition and self-interest."
Why did such an “ordinary” incident in bourgeois society excite the writer so much? The point here is that, having arrived in Europe from serf Russia, Tolstoy dreamed of enjoying “social freedom” here.
In the first days of his stay in Paris, Tolstoy wrote that “this feeling of social freedom... is the main charm of life here.” But a little time passed, and not a trace remained of the joyful hopes and expectations with which Tolstoy came to the West.
In one of the Parisian squares, Tolstoy saw a man being executed (guillotined). The execution took place in the presence of a huge crowd, for whom it was only a bright, nerve-wracking spectacle. Having visited the famous Parisian stock exchange, where financial transactions were made, Tolstoy made a brief but comprehensive entry in his diary: “The stock exchange is terrible!” Having visited Napoleon’s tomb, he wrote in his diary: “The idolization of a villain is terrible.”
The guillotine, the stock exchange and the cult of Napoleon the conqueror - this is what the “free” bourgeois civilization brought with it. Added to this were images of urban poverty and the impoverishment of the rural population. Arriving in Switzerland and admiring the beauty and richness of its nature, Tolstoy sadly wrote in “Travel Notes” about the appalling poverty in which old workers lived out their lives, having lost their strength and health. And this is in a country where, as Tolstoy wrote, “civilization, freedom and equality have been brought to the highest degree.” This is where the anger and bitterness with which every line in the story “Lucerne” comes from. Unwilling to restrain himself, the writer exclaims: “Your republic is lousy!” - addressing people for whom “the best good in the world is money.”
Tolstoy cites in "Lucerne" the speech of a "little man" - a beggar singer, directed against the "new laws of the republic." “What is this?” says the singer. “The rich can live as they want, but un bauvre tiaple, like me, we can’t live. What kind of laws of a republic are these? If so, then we don’t want a republic... “We are thousands of destitute and persecuted poor people like him, deprived of the opportunity to live like humans.
Having poured out his anger and indignation against the bourgeois “orders”, Tolstoy at the end of the story speaks of the “Eternal Spirit”, of God, as the only hope for all oppressed and disadvantaged people. And by this he undoubtedly weakens the impression his work makes on readers.
The strength of the story "Lucerne" is not in the appeal to God, but in the passionate intercession for the poor, oppressed and persecuted people, in the sharp criticism of the indifference and Cruelty of the rich aristocrats who established inhumane "orders"
Yesterday evening I arrived in Lucerne and stayed at the best hotel here, the Schweitzerhof.
“Lucerne, an ancient cantonal city lying on the shores of a lake of four cantons,” says Murray, “is one of the most romantic locations in Switzerland; three main roads intersect in it; and only an hour's ride by boat is Mount Rigi, which offers one of the most magnificent views in the world.”
Fair or not, others guides they say the same thing, and therefore there is an abyss of travelers of all nations, and especially the British, in Lucerne.
The magnificent, five-story Schweitzerhof house was recently built on the embankment, above the lake, on the very spot where in the old days there was a wooden, covered, winding bridge, with chapels on the corners and images on the rafters. Now, thanks to the huge arrival of the British, their needs, their taste and their money, the old bridge was broken and in its place they made a basement, straight as a stick, embankment; straight quadrangular five-story houses were built on the embankment; and in front of the houses they planted sticky trees in two rows, put up supports, and between the sticky trees, as usual, there were green benches. This is a party; and here Englishwomen in Swiss straw hats and Englishmen in strong and comfortable clothes walk back and forth and rejoice at their work. It may be that these embankments and houses, and sticky, and English people are very good somewhere, but not here, among this strangely majestic and at the same time inexpressibly harmonious and soft nature.
When I went upstairs to my room and opened the window onto the lake, the beauty of this water, these mountains and this sky at the first moment literally blinded and shocked me. I felt an inner restlessness and a need to somehow express the excess of something that suddenly filled my soul. At that moment I wanted to hug someone, hug him tightly, tickle him, pinch him, and generally do something extraordinary with him and with myself.
It was seven o'clock in the evening. It had been raining all day, and now it was clearing up. The lake, blue as burning sulfur, with dots of boats and their disappearing traces, motionless, smooth, as if convexly spread out in front of the windows between various green shores, went forward, shrinking between two huge ledges, and, darkening, rested and disappeared into the piled-up on other valleys, mountains, clouds and ice floes. In the foreground are wet light green spreading banks with reeds, meadows, gardens and cottages; further, dark green overgrown ledges with ruins of castles; at the bottom there is a crumpled white-purple mountain distance with bizarre rocky and matte white snow peaks; and everything was flooded with a gentle, transparent azure of the air and illuminated by the hot rays of sunset breaking through from the torn sky. Not on the lake, not on the mountains, not in the sky, not a single solid line, not a single solid color, not a single identical moment, everywhere there is movement, asymmetry, whimsicality, an endless mixture and variety of shadows and lines, and in everything calmness, softness, unity and the need for beauty. And here, among the vague, confused free beauty, right in front of my window, the white stick of the embankment, sticky with supports and green benches stuck out stupidly, focally - poor, vulgar human works, not drowned like distant dachas and ruins in the general harmony beauty, but, on the contrary, grossly contradicting it. Constantly, involuntarily, my gaze collided with this terribly straight line of the embankment and mentally wanted to push it away, to destroy it, like a black spot that sits on the nose under the eye; but the embankment with the walking Englishmen remained in place, and I involuntarily tried to find a point of view from which I could not see it. I learned to look like this, and until lunch, alone with myself, I enjoyed that incomplete, but sweeter, languid feeling that you experience when solitary contemplating the beauty of nature.
At half past eight I was called to dinner. In a large, superbly decorated room on the ground floor, two long tables were set for at least a hundred people. For about three minutes the silent movement of gathering guests continued: the rustling of women's dresses, light steps, quiet negotiations with the most polite and graceful waiters; and all the equipment was occupied by men and ladies, very beautifully, even richly, and generally unusually cleanly dressed. As in general in Switzerland, most of the guests are English, and therefore the main features of the common table are strict, legally recognized decency, uncommunicativeness, based not on pride, but on the absence of the need for intimacy, and lonely contentment in the convenient and pleasant satisfaction of their needs. The whitest lace, the whitest collars, the whitest real and false teeth, the whitest faces and hands shine on all sides. But the faces, many of which are very beautiful, express only consciousness of their own well-being and a complete lack of attention to everything around them, what? does not directly relate to one’s own person, and the whitest hands with rings and mittens move only to straighten collars, cut beef and pour wine into glasses: no emotional excitement is reflected in their movements. Families occasionally exchange words in a quiet voice about the pleasant taste of such and such food or wine and the beautiful view from Mount Rigi. Lonely travelers and female travelers sit alone, silently, next to each other, not even looking at each other. If occasionally two out of these hundred people talk to each other, it is probably about the weather and climbing Mount Rigi. Knives and forks move barely audibly across the plates, food is taken little by little, peas and vegetables are always eaten with a fork; The waiters, involuntarily obeying the general silence, ask in a whisper what kind of wine would you order? At such dinners I always feel difficult, unpleasant and sad in the end. It still seems to me that I am guilty of something, that I am being punished, as in childhood, when for pranks they sat me on a chair and ironically said: “Rest, my dear!” while young blood beats in the veins and the cheerful cries of the brothers are heard in the other room. I had previously tried to rebel against this feeling of oppression that I experienced at such dinners, but in vain; all these dead faces have an irresistible influence on me, and I become just as dead. I don’t want anything, I don’t think, I don’t even observe. At first I tried to talk to my neighbors; but, apart from phrases that were obviously repeated for the hundred thousandth time in the same place and for the hundred thousandth time by the same person, I received no other answers. And after all, all these people are not stupid and not insensitive, but probably many of these frozen people have the same inner life as in me, many of them are much more complex and interesting. So why do they deprive themselves of one of the best pleasures of life, enjoying each other, enjoying a person?
Or what happened in our Parisian boarding house, where we, twenty people of the most diverse nations, professions and characters, under the influence of French sociability, gathered at a common table as if for fun. There, right away, from one end of the table to the other, the conversation, sprinkled with jokes and puns, although often in broken language, became general. There everyone, not caring about how he would get out, chatted whatever came to mind; there we had our own philosopher, our own debater, our own bel esprit, our own plastron, everything was common. There, immediately after dinner, we pushed the table aside and, in rhythm or rhythm, began dancing la polka 2 across the dusty carpet until the evening. There we were, although we were flirtatious, not very smart and respectable people, but we were people. And a Spanish countess with romantic adventures, and an Italian abbot who recited the Divine Comedy after dinner, and an American doctor who had an entrance to the Tuileries, and a young playwright with long hair, and a drunkard who, in her own words, composed the best polka in the world, and an unfortunate beauty - a widow with three rings on each finger - we all treated each other humanly, although superficially, with kindness and took away from each other some light and some sincere heartfelt memories. Behind the English table d’h?t’s 3 I often think, looking at all these laces, ribbons, rings, oiled hair and silk dresses, how many living women would be happy and would make others happy with these outfits. It’s strange to think how many friends and lovers, the happiest friends and lovers, are sitting next to each other, perhaps without knowing it. And God knows why, they will never know this and will never give each other that happiness that they can so easily give and that they so want.
I felt sad, as always after such dinners, and, without finishing dessert, in the most gloomy mood I went to wander around the city. Narrow, dirty streets without lighting, locked shops, meetings with drunken workers and women walking to fetch water, or in hats, on the walls, looking around, sneaking along the alleys, not only did not disperse, but even intensified my sad mood. It was already completely dark in the streets when, without looking around me, without any thought in my head, I walked towards the house, hoping to sleep to get rid of the gloomy mood of the spirit. I felt terribly mentally cold, lonely and heavy, as sometimes happens for no apparent reason when moving to a new place.
I, looking only at my feet, was walking along the embankment towards the Schweitzerhof, when suddenly I was struck by the sounds of strange, but extremely pleasant and sweet music. These sounds instantly had a life-giving effect on me. It was as if a bright, cheerful light had penetrated my soul. I felt good and happy. My sleepy attention again turned to all the surrounding objects. And the beauty of the night and the lake, to which I had previously been indifferent, suddenly, like news, pleasantly struck me. Involuntarily, in an instant I managed to notice the cloudy sky, gray pieces on the dark blue, illuminated by the rising moon, and a dark green smooth lake with lights reflected in it, and in the distance the misty mountains, and the cries of frogs from Froeschenburg, and the dewy fresh whistle of quails from that shore. Right in front of me, from the place from which the sounds were heard and to which my attention was mainly directed, I saw in the twilight in the middle of the street a crowd of people cramped in a semicircle, and in front of the crowd, at some distance, a tiny man in black clothes. Behind the crowd and the little man, against the dark gray and blue torn sky, several black garden areas were harmoniously separated and two austere towers rose majestically on both sides of the ancient cathedral.
As I got closer, the sounds became clearer. I could clearly make out the distant, full chords of a guitar, sweetly swaying in the evening air, and several voices that, interrupting each other, did not sing the theme, but in some places, singing the most prominent parts, made it felt. The theme was something like a sweet and graceful mazurka. The voices seemed now close, now far away, now a tenor was heard, now a bass, now a throat fistula with cooing Tyrolean overtones. It was not a song, but a light, masterful sketch of a song. I couldn't figure out what it was; but it was wonderful. These voluptuous weak chords of the guitar, this sweet, light melody and this lonely figure of a black man among the fantastic setting of a dark lake, a shining moon and silently towering two huge spitz towers and black garden hens, everything was strange, but inexpressibly beautiful, or it seemed so to me.
All the confused, involuntary impressions of life suddenly acquired meaning and charm for me. It was as if a fresh fragrant flower had blossomed in my soul. Instead of the fatigue, distraction, and indifference to everything in the world that I had experienced a minute before, I suddenly felt the need for love, the fullness of hope and the causeless joy of life. What to want, what to desire? I thought involuntarily, here it is, beauty and poetry surround you on all sides. Inhale it into yourself with wide, full sips, as far as you have the strength, enjoy, what more do you need! Everything is yours, everything is good...
I came closer. The little man was, it seemed, a wandering Tyrolean. He stood in front of the hotel windows, his legs outstretched, his head thrown up, and, strumming his guitar, he sang his graceful song in different voices. I immediately felt tenderness for this man and gratitude for the revolution that he brought about in me. The singer, as far as I could see, was dressed in an old black frock coat, his hair was black, short, and on his head was the most bourgeois, simple old cap. There was nothing artistic about his clothes, but his dashing, childishly cheerful pose and movements, with his tiny height, made up a touching and at the same time funny sight. In the entrance, windows and balconies of the magnificently lit hotel stood brilliantly dressed, wide-skirted ladies, gentlemen with the whitest collars. A doorman and a footman in gold-embroidered liveries, on the street, in the semicircle of the crowd and further along the boulevard, between the sticky trees, gracefully dressed waiters, cooks in the whitest caps and jackets, hugging girls and strollers gathered and stopped. Everyone seemed to be experiencing the same feeling that I was experiencing. Everyone stood silently around the singer and listened attentively. Everything was quiet, only in the intervals of the song, somewhere in the distance, evenly across the water, the sound of a hammer could be heard, and from Froeschenburg the voices of frogs rushed in a crumbly trill, interrupted by the wet, monotonous whistle of quails.
The little man in the darkness in the middle of the street sang like a nightingale, verse after verse and song after song. Despite the fact that I came right up to him, his singing continued to give me great pleasure. His small voice was extremely pleasant, but the tenderness, taste and sense of proportion with which he mastered this voice were extraordinary and showed his enormous natural talent. He sang the chorus of each verse differently each time, and it was clear that all these graceful changes came to him freely and instantly.
In the crowd, both above in the Schweitzerhof and below on the boulevard, a murmur of approval was often heard and respectful silence reigned. On the balconies and windows there were more and more elegant men and women leaning on their elbows, picturesque in the light of the house lights. The walkers stopped, and in the shade on the embankment, men and women stood everywhere in groups near the linden trees. Standing near me, smoking cigars, somewhat separated from the entire crowd, were an aristocratic footman and a cook. The cook strongly felt the charm of the music and at each high fistula note he winked with his whole head at the footman in enthusiastic bewilderment and nudged him with his elbow with an expression that said: what does it feel like to sing, eh? The footman, from whose widening smile I noticed all the pleasure he was experiencing, responded to the cook’s pushes with a shrug of the shoulders, showing that it was quite difficult to surprise him and that he had heard much better than this.
In the interval of the song, when the singer cleared his throat, I asked the footman who he was and how often he came here.
“Yes, he comes twice in the summer,” answered the footman, “he is from Argovia.” Yes, he is begging.
- Are there a lot of them walking around? – I asked.
“Yes, yes,” answered the footman, not immediately understanding what I was asking, but, having analyzed my question later, he added: “Oh no!” Here I see only one of him. No more.
At this time the little man finished the first song, smartly turned the guitar over and said something to himself in his German patois, 4 which I could not understand, but which caused laughter in the surrounding crowd.
-What is he saying? – I asked.
“He says his throat is dry, he would like to drink some wine,” the footman standing next to me translated.
– Is it true that he likes to drink?
“Yes, all these people are like that,” answered the footman, smiling and waving his hand at him.
The singer took off his cap and, waving his guitar, approached the house. Throwing his head back, he turned to the gentlemen standing at the windows and on the balconies: “Messieurs et mesdames,” he said in a half-Italian, half-German accent and with the intonations with which magicians address the public, “si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chosse, vous vous trompez; je ne suis qu’un bauvre tiaple.” 5 He stopped and was silent for a while; but since no one gave him anything, he raised his guitar again and said: “A prèsent, messieurs et mesdames, je vous chanterai l’air du Righi.” 6 Upstairs the audience was silent, but continued to stand waiting for the next song; downstairs in the crowd they must have laughed because he expressed himself so strangely, and because they didn’t give him anything. I gave him a few centimes, he deftly transferred them from hand to hand, put them in his vest pocket and, putting on his cap, again began to sing a graceful, sweet Tyrolean song, which he called l’air du Righi. This song, which he left for the conclusion, was even better than all the previous ones, and sounds of approval were heard from all sides in the increasing crowd. He finished. Again he waved his guitar, flashed his cap, put it in front of him, took two steps closer to the windows and again said his incomprehensible phrase: “Messieurs et mesdames, si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chosse,” which he apparently considered very clever and witty, but in his voice and movements I now noticed some indecision and childish timidity, which were especially striking given his small stature. The elegant audience still stood picturesquely in the light of the lights on the balconies and in the windows, shining with rich clothes; some were talking to each other in a moderately decent voice, obviously about the singer who stood in front of them with his arm outstretched, others looked down attentively, with curiosity, at this small black figure; on one balcony the sonorous and cheerful laughter of a young girl was heard. The talking and giggling could be heard louder and louder in the crowd below. The singer repeated his phrase for the third time, but in an even weaker voice, and did not even finish it, and again extended his hand with his cap, but immediately lowered it. And for the second time, of these hundreds of brilliantly dressed people who crowded to listen to him, not one threw him kopecks. The crowd laughed mercilessly. The little singer, it seemed to me, became even smaller, took the guitar in his other hand, raised his cap above his head and said: “Messieurs et mesdames, je vous remercie et je vous souhaite une bonne nuit,” 7 and put on his cap. The crowd burst into gleeful laughter. Beautiful men and ladies began to gradually disappear from the balconies, calmly talking to each other. The festivities resumed on the boulevard again. Silent during the singing, the street became lively again; several people only, without approaching him, looked at the singer from afar and laughed. I heard the little man say something under his breath, turn around and, as if he had become even smaller, walked quickly towards the city. The cheerful revelers who were looking at him still followed him at some distance and laughed...
I was completely confused, did not understand what it all meant and, standing in one place, mindlessly looked into the darkness at the retreating tiny man who, stretching out long strides, quickly walked towards the city, and at the laughing revelers who followed him. I felt hurt, bitter and most importantly ashamed for the little man, for the crowd, for myself, as if I had asked for money, they didn’t give me anything and they laughed at me. I, too, without looking back, with a pinched heart, quickly walked to my home on the porch of the Schweitzerhof. I haven’t yet realized what? experienced; Only something heavy, unresolved, filled my soul and oppressed me.
At the magnificent, illuminated entrance I met a politely avoiding doorman and an English family. A stout, handsome and tall man with black English sideburns, in a black hat and with a rug on his arm, in which he held a rich cane, lazily, self-confidently walked arm in arm with a lady, in a wild silk dress, in a cap with shiny ribbons and the most beautiful lace. Next to them walked a pretty, fresh-faced young lady, wearing a graceful Swiss hat with a feather,? la mousquetaire, from under which soft, long, light brown curls fell around her little white face. A ten-year-old, rosy-cheeked girl, with full, white knees visible from under the thinnest lace, was bouncing in front.
“It’s a lovely night,” said the lady in a sweet, happy voice, as I passed.
- Oh! - the Englishman mumbled lazily, who apparently had such a good time living in the world that he didn’t even want to talk. And it seemed to all of them that it was so calm, comfortable, clean and easy to live in the world, such indifference to any other person’s life was expressed in their movements and faces, and such confidence that the doorman would step aside and bow to them, and that, upon returning, they will find a clean, quiet bed and rooms, and that all this should be, and that they have every right to all this - that I suddenly involuntarily contrasted them with a wandering singer, who, tired, perhaps hungry, was now running away in shame from the laughing crowds - got it? My heart weighed on me like such a heavy stone, and I felt an inexpressible anger towards these people. I walked back and forth past the Englishman twice, with inexpressible pleasure both times, without avoiding him, I nudged him with my elbow and, descending from the entrance, ran in the dark towards the city where the little man had disappeared.
Having caught up with three people walking together, I asked them where the singer was; They, laughing, pointed it out ahead to me. He walked alone, with quick steps, no one approached him, he kept, it seemed to me, muttering something angrily under his breath. I caught up with him and invited him to go somewhere together to drink a bottle of wine. He walked still quickly and looked back at me with displeasure; but, having figured out what was going on, he stopped.
“Well, I won’t refuse, if you’re so kind,” he said. “There’s a small cafe here, you can go there - it’s simple,” he added, pointing to a liquor store that was still open.
His word: simple, involuntarily gave me the idea not to go to a simple cafe, but to go to Schweitzerhof, where those who listened to him were. Despite the fact that with timid excitement he several times refused the Schweitzerhof, saying that it was too formal there, I insisted on my opinion, and he, pretending that he was not at all embarrassed, cheerfully waving his guitar, walked with me back along the embankment. Several idle revelers, as soon as I approached the singer, moved closer, listened to what I was saying, and now, reasoning among themselves, they followed us all the way to the entrance, surely expecting some more performance from the Tyrolean.
I asked the waiter who met me in the hallway for a bottle of wine. The waiter, smiling, looked at us and, without answering, ran past. The senior waiter, to whom I addressed the same request, listened to me seriously and, looking at the timid, small figure of the singer from head to toe, sternly told the doorman to lead us into the hall to the left. To the left of the hall there was a drinking room for the common people. In the corner of this room, a hunchbacked maid was washing dishes, and all the furniture consisted of bare wooden tables and benches. The waiter, who came to serve us, looking at us with a meek mocking smile and with his hands in his pockets, was talking about something with the hunchbacked dishwasher. He apparently tried to let us notice that, feeling himself immeasurably superior to the singer in social status and merit, he was not only not offended, but truly amused to serve us.
- Would you like some simple wine? - he said with a knowing look, winking at my interlocutor and throwing a napkin from hand to hand.
“Champagne and the best,” I said, trying to assume the most proud and majestic look. But neither the champagne nor my supposedly proud and majestic appearance had any effect on the footman; he grinned, stood for a while, looking at us, slowly looked at his gold watch and with quiet steps, as if walking, left the room. He soon returned with wine and two more footmen. Two of them sat down near the scullery and, with cheerful attentiveness and a gentle smile on their faces, admired us, as parents admire dear children when they play sweetly. Only the hunchbacked scullery maid seemed to be looking at us not mockingly, but with sympathy. Although it was very difficult and awkward for me to talk with the singer and treat him under the fire of these lackey eyes, I tried to do my job as independently as possible. With the fire on, I got a better look at him. He was a tiny, proportionally built, wiry man, almost a dwarf, with bristly black hair, always crying large black eyes, devoid of eyelashes, and an extremely pleasant, touchingly folded mouth. He had small sideburns, his hair was short, his clothes were the simplest and poorest. He was unclean, ragged, tanned and generally had the appearance of a working man. He looked more like a poor merchant than an artist. Only in the constantly moist, shining eyes and collected mouth was there something original and touching. In appearance he could be between twenty-five and forty years old; in fact he was thirty-eight.
What? He spoke about his life with good-natured readiness and obvious sincerity. He is from Argovia. As a child, he lost his father and mother; he has no other relatives. He never had any fortune. He studied carpentry, but twenty-two years ago he developed a carnivore in his hand, which made it impossible for him to work. Since childhood, he had a passion for singing and began to sing. Foreigners occasionally gave him money. He made a profession out of it, bought a guitar, and for the eighteenth year he has been traveling around Switzerland and Italy, singing in front of hotels. All his luggage was a guitar and a wallet, in which he now had only one and a half francs, which he must sleep through and eat that very evening. Every year, eighteen times, he goes through all the best, most visited places in Switzerland: Zurich, Lucerne, Interlaken, Chamounix, etc.; via St. -Bernard goes to Italy and returns via St. -Gotard or via Savoy. Now it is becoming difficult for him to walk, because from a cold he feels that the pain in his legs, which he calls glidersucht, is intensifying every year, and that his eyes and voice are becoming weaker. Despite this, it now goes to Interlaken, Aix-les-Bains and, via the little St. -Bernard, to Italy, which he especially loves; In general, he seems to be very happy with his life. When I asked him why he was returning home, whether he had relatives there, or a house and land, his little mouth, as if on purpose, gathered into a cheerful smile, and he answered me:
- Oui, le sucre est bon, il est doux pour les enfants! 8 – and winked at the footmen.
I didn’t understand anything, but the group of footmen laughed.
“There’s nothing, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to walk like that,” he explained to me, “but I come home because I’m still somehow drawn to my homeland.”
And he once again, with a slyly smug smile, repeated the phrase: “oui, le sucre est bon,” and laughed good-naturedly. The footmen were very pleased and laughed, one hunchbacked scullery maid looked seriously at the little man with big, kind eyes and raised his hat, which he had dropped from the bench during the conversation. I noticed that traveling singers, acrobats, even magicians like to call themselves artists, and therefore several times I hinted to my interlocutor that he was an artist, but he did not at all recognize this quality in himself, but quite simply, as a means of livelihood, looked at his business. When I asked him if he himself composed the songs that he sang, he was surprised at such a strange question and answered that where should he go, these are all old Tyrolean songs.
– But what about Riga’s song, I think it’s not an old one? - I said.
- Yes, it was composed fifteen years ago. There was one German in Basel, the smartest man, he composed it. A great song! You see, he composed this for travelers.
And he began, translating in French, to tell me the words of Riga’s song, which he apparently really liked:
If you want to go to Rigi,
No shoes needed to get to Vegas
(Because they are traveling on a ship)
And take a big stick from Vegis,
And take the girl by your arm,
Come and have a glass of wine.
Just don't drink too much
Because whoever is thirsty
Must deserve first...
- Oh, great song! – he concluded.
The footmen probably thought this song was very good, because they approached us.
- Well, who composed the music? – I asked.
- Nobody, it’s like that, you know, in order to sing for foreigners, you need something new.
When they brought us ice and I poured my interlocutor a glass of champagne, he apparently felt awkward, and he turned around on his bench, looking back at the footmen. We clinked glasses for the health of the artists; he drank half a glass and found it necessary to think and wiggle his eyebrows thoughtfully.
– I haven’t drunk such wine for a long time, je ne vous dis que ?a. 9 In Italy, wine d'Asti is good, but this is even better. Ah, Italy! nice to be there! - he added.
“Yes, they know how to appreciate music and artists,” I said, wanting to set him up for an evening failure in front of the Schweitzerhof.
“No,” he answered, “I can’t give anyone pleasure about music.” The Italians themselves are musicians like no other in the whole world; but I'm only talking about Tyrolean songs. This is news to them after all.
- Well, are gentlemen more generous there? - I continued, wanting to force him to share my anger at the inhabitants of Schweitzerhof. “It won’t happen there like it does here, so that from a huge hotel where the rich live, a hundred people would listen to an artist and not give him anything...
My question didn't have the effect I expected. He did not even think of being indignant at them; on the contrary, in my remark he saw a reproach to his talent, which did not bring about a reward, and tried to justify himself to me.
“You won’t get much every time,” he answered. “Sometimes your voice will disappear, you will get tired, because I walked for nine hours today and sang almost all day. It's difficult. And important gentlemen are aristocrats, sometimes they don’t even want to listen to Tyrolean songs.
- Still, how can you not give anything? – I repeated.
He didn't understand my remark.
“Not that,” he said: “but the main thing here is on est tr?s serr?” pour la police, 10 that's what. Here, according to these republican laws, you are not allowed to sing, but in Italy you can walk around as much as you want, no one will say a word to you. Here, if they want to let you, they will allow you, but if they don’t, they can put you in prison.
- How, really?
- Yes. If you are caught once and you continue to sing, you may be sent to prison. “I’ve already been in prison for three months,” he said, smiling, as if it was one of his most pleasant memories.
- Oh, this is terrible! - I said. - For what?
“This is how they do it according to the new laws of the republic,” he continued, becoming animated. “They don’t want to reason that it is necessary for the poor to live somehow.” If I were not a cripple, I would work. And if I sing, am I doing harm to anyone? Wha? that's what it is! the rich can live as they want, but un bauvre tiaple, 11 he can’t live like me. Wha? Is this the law of the republic? If so, then we don’t want a republic, do we, dear sir? we don’t want a republic, but we want... we just want... we want... - he hesitated a little - we want natural laws.
I poured more into his glass.
“You don’t drink,” I told him.
He took the glass in his hand and bowed to me.
“I know what you want,” he said, narrowing his eye and shaking his finger at me: “you want to get me drunk, see what?” from me it will be; but no, you won't succeed.
“Why should I give you something to drink,” I said: “I would only like to please you.”
He probably felt sorry that he had offended me by poorly explaining my intentions; he became embarrassed, stood up and shook my elbow.
“No, no,” he said, looking at me with a pleading expression with his wet eyes, “I’m just joking.”
And after this he uttered some terribly complicated, cunning phrase, which was supposed to mean that I was still a good fellow.
– Je ne vous dis que ?a! 12 – he concluded.
Thus, we continued to drink and talk with the singer, and the footmen continued, without hesitation, to admire us and, it seems, to make fun of us. Despite the interest of my conversation, I could not help but notice them and, I admit, I became more and more angry. One of them stood up, walked up to the little man and, looking into his crown, began to smile. I already had a ready supply of anger towards the inhabitants of the Schweitzerhof, which I had not yet had time to vent on anyone, and now, I admit, this lackey public was tempting me. The doorman, without taking off his cap, entered the room and, leaning his elbows on the table, sat down next to me. This last circumstance, having hurt my pride and vanity, finally blew me up and gave rise to the oppressive anger that had been gathering in me all evening. Why does he humbly bow to me at the entrance, when I’m alone, and now, because I’m sitting with a traveling singer, he rudely sits down next to me? I became completely angry with that seething anger of indignation, which I love in myself, which I even excite when it comes to me, because it has a calming effect on me and gives me, at least for a short time, some extraordinary flexibility, energy and strength of all physical and moral abilities .
I jumped up from my seat.
– Why are you laughing? - I shouted at the footman, feeling my face turn pale and my lips involuntarily twitch.
“I’m not laughing, that’s just me,” answered the footman, retreating from me.
- No, you are laughing at this gentleman. And what right do you have to be here and sit here when there are guests here? Don't you dare sit! – I shouted.
The doorman, grumbling something, stood up and moved towards the door.
“What right do you have to laugh at this gentleman and sit next to him when he is a guest and you are a footman?” Why didn’t you laugh at me at dinner today and sit next to me? Because he is poorly dressed and sings on the street? from this; and I'm wearing a nice dress. He is poor, but a thousand times better than you, I am sure of that. Because he didn’t insult anyone, but you insult him.
“Yes, I’m okay with you,” my enemy lackey answered timidly. - Am I disturbing him from sitting?
The footman did not understand me, and my German speech was wasted. The rude doorman stood up for the footman, but I attacked him so quickly that the doorman pretended that he also did not understand me and waved his hand. The hunchbacked kitchen maid, noticing my heated state and fearing a scandal, or sharing my opinion, took my side and, trying to stand between me and the doorman, persuaded him to remain silent, saying that I was right, and asked me to calm down. “Der Herr hat Recht; Sie haben Recht,” she repeated. The singer presented the most pitiful, frightened face and, apparently not understanding why I was getting excited and what I wanted, asked me to leave here as soon as possible. But the evil loquaciousness flared up in me more and more. I remembered everything: the crowd that laughed at him, and the listeners who gave him nothing, and I didn’t want to calm down for anything in the world. I think that if the waiters and the doorman had not been so evasive, I would have enjoyed a fight with them, or I would have beaten a defenseless English young lady over the head with a stick. If I had been in Sevastopol at that moment, I would have rushed with pleasure to stab and hack into the English trench.
“And why did you lead me and this gentleman into this hall and not that hall?” A? - I questioned the doorman, grabbing his hand so that he would not leave me. “What right did you have to decide based on your appearance that this gentleman should be in this room and not that room?” Isn’t everyone who pays the same in hotels? Not only in the republic, but throughout the world. Your lousy republic!... This is equality. You would not have dared to bring the English into this room, the very English who listened to this gentleman for nothing, that is, each of them stole from him a few centimes that they should have given him. How dare you point out this hall?
“That hall is locked,” answered the doorman.
“No,” I shouted, “it’s not true, the hall is not locked.”
- So you know better.
- I know, I know that you are lying.
The doorman turned his shoulder away from me.
- Eh! what should I say! - he grumbled.
“No, not “what can I say,” I shouted, “but take me into the hall this minute.”
Despite the admonitions of the hunchback and the singer’s requests to better go home, I asked for the head waiter and went into the hall, along with my interlocutor. The chief waiter, hearing my embittered voice and seeing my agitated face, did not argue and with contemptuous politeness said that I could go wherever I wanted. I could not prove to the doorman his lies, because he disappeared before I entered the hall.
The hall was indeed unlocked, illuminated, and an Englishman and a lady were sitting on one of the tables having dinner. Despite the fact that we were shown a special table, the dirty singer and I sat down next to the Englishman himself and ordered the unfinished bottle to be served here.
The English at first looked in surprise, then embitteredly at the little man who was sitting next to me, neither alive nor dead; they said something to each other, she pushed the plate away, rustled her silk dress, and both disappeared. Behind the glass doors I saw the Englishman angrily saying something to the waiter, constantly pointing his hand in our direction. The waiter leaned out of the door and looked into it. I happily expected that they would come to take us out, and that I could finally pour out all my indignation on them. But, fortunately, although it was unpleasant for me at the time, they left us alone.
The singer, who had previously refused wine, now hastily finished everything that was left in the bottle, just to get out of here as quickly as possible. However, it seemed to me that he thanked me for the treat with feeling. His weeping eyes became even more weeping and brilliant, and he told me the most strange, confusing phrase of gratitude. But still, this phrase, in which he said that if everyone respected artists as much as I did, then it would be good for him, and that he wished me every happiness, was very pleasant to me. We went out into the hallway with him. There were footmen standing there and my enemy the doorman, who seemed to be complaining to them about me. They all seemed to look at me as if I was crazy. I let the little man come level with all this audience, and then, with all the respect that I am only able to express in my person, I took off my hat and shook his hand with a stiff, withered finger. The footmen acted as if they were not paying the slightest attention to me. Only one of them laughed a sardonic laugh.
When the singer, bowing, disappeared into the darkness, I went upstairs, wanting to sleep off all these impressions and the stupid childish anger that had so unexpectedly come over me. But, feeling too excited to sleep, I went out into the street again in order to walk until I calmed down and, I confess, in addition, in the vague hope that there would be an opportunity to get into trouble with a doorman, a footman or an Englishman and prove to them everything. their cruelty and most importantly injustice. But, apart from the doorman, who, when he saw me, turned his back to me, I met no one and, alone, began to walk back and forth along the embankment.
“Here it is, the strange fate of poetry,” I reasoned, having calmed down a little. - Everyone loves, seeks her, desires and seeks her alone in life, and no one recognizes her power, no one appreciates this best good of the world, does not appreciate and thank those who give it to people. Ask whoever you want, all these inhabitants of Schweitzerhof, what? best good in the world? and everyone, or ninety-nine to a hundred, will, adopting a sardonic expression, tell you that the best good in the world is money. “Perhaps you don’t like this idea and don’t agree with your lofty ideas,” he will say, “but what can you do if human life is so arranged that money alone constitutes a person’s happiness. “I could not help but allow my mind to see the light as it is,” he added, “that is, to see the truth.” Your pathetic mind, the pathetic happiness that you desire, and you unfortunate creature, who herself does not know what you need... Why did you all leave your fatherland, relatives, occupations and financial affairs and crowded together in the small Swiss town of Lucerne? Why did you all pour out onto the balconies this evening and listen to the song of the little beggar in respectful silence? And if he wanted to sing more, they would still be silent and listen. What?, for money, even millions, it would be possible to drive you all out of your fatherland and gather you in a small corner of Lucerne? For money, could you all be gathered on the balconies and forced to stand silently and motionless for half an hour? No! And one thing forces you to act, and will forever move you more powerfully than all other engines of life, the need for poetry, which you do not recognize, but you feel and will forever feel as long as there is something human left in you. The word “poetry” is funny to you, you use it in the form of a mocking reproach, you admit the love of the poetic is something in children and stupid young ladies, and then you laugh at them; for you you need something positive. Yes, children look at life sensibly, they love and know what? a person should love, and what? will give you happiness, but life has so confused and corrupted you that you laugh at what? love one thing, and seek one thing? hate and what? makes your misfortune. You are so confused that you do not understand the obligation that you have to the poor Tyrolean, who gave you pure pleasure, and at the same time you consider yourself obliged to humiliate yourself before the lord for nothing, without benefit or pleasure, and for some reason sacrifice your peace and comfort to him. What nonsense, what insoluble nonsense! But that was not what struck me most this evening. Is it ignorance of what? gives happiness, this unconsciousness of poetic pleasures I almost understand or have become accustomed to it, having encountered it often in life; the crude, unconscious cruelty of the crowd was also not new to me; no matter what the defenders of the popular sense say, the crowd is a union of at least good people, but in contact only with vile animal sides, and expressing only the weakness and cruelty of human nature. But how did you, children of a free, humane people, you Christians, you just people, respond to the pure pleasure that an unfortunate begging man gave you with coldness and mockery? But no, in your country there are shelters for the poor. “There are no beggars, there shouldn’t be any, and there shouldn’t be a feeling of compassion on which begging is based.” “But he worked, he pleased you, he begged you to give him something from your surplus for his labor, which you took advantage of.” And you, with a cold smile, watched him like a rarity from your high, shining chambers, and out of hundreds of you, happy, rich, there was not one, not one, who would throw him anything! Ashamed, he walked away from you, and the senseless crowd, laughing, pursued and insulted not you, but him, because you are cold, cruel and dishonest; for stealing from him the pleasure he gave you, for this his insulted.
“On July 7, 1857, in Lucerne, in front of the Schweitzerhof Hotel, where the richest people stay, a traveling beggar singer sang songs and played the guitar for half an hour. About a hundred people listened to him. The singer asked everyone three times to give him something. Not a single person gave him anything, and many laughed at him.”
This is not fiction, but a positive fact, which can be investigated by those who want to, from the permanent residents of the Schweitzerhof, by checking in the newspapers who were the foreigners who occupied the Schweitzerhof on July 7th.
This is an event that historians of our time must write down in fiery, indelible letters. This event is more significant, more serious and has a deeper meaning than the facts recorded in newspapers and stories. That the British killed another thousand Chinese because the Chinese do not buy anything with money, and their region absorbs hard cash, that the French killed another thousand Kabyles because grain is good in Africa and that constant war is useful for the formation of troops, that the Turkish the envoy to Naples cannot be a Jew, and that Emperor Napoleon walks on foot in Plombi?res 14 and assures the people in print that he reigns only by the will of the entire people - these are all words that hide or show what has long been known; but the event that took place in Lucerne on July 7 seems to me completely new, strange and does not relate to the eternal bad sides of human nature, but to a certain era in the development of society. This is a fact not for the history of human deeds, but for the history of progress and civilization.
Why is this inhuman fact, impossible in any German, French or Italian village, possible here, where civilization, freedom and equality are brought to the highest degree, where traveling, the most civilized people of the most civilized nations gather? Why do these developed, humane people, capable in general of any honest, humane deed, do not have a human heartfelt feeling for a personal good deed? Why do these people, in their chambers, meetings and societies, ardently concerned about the condition of the celibate Chinese in India, about the spread of Christianity and education in Africa, about the formation of societies for the correction of all mankind, do not find in their souls the simple primitive feeling of man for man? Is this feeling really missing, and its place has been taken by vanity, ambition and self-interest, guiding these people in their chambers, meetings and societies? Does the spread of the rational, selfish association of men, which is called civilization, destroy and contradict the needs of the instinctive and loving association? And is this really the equality for which so much innocent blood has been shed and so many crimes have been committed? Can peoples, like children, be happy with just the sound of the word equality?
Equality before the law? Is it possible that all people’s lives take place in the sphere of law? Only one-thousandth of it is subject to the law, the rest occurs outside it, in the sphere of morals and the views of society. And in society, the footman is better dressed than the singer and insults him with impunity. I am better dressed than the footman and insult the footman with impunity. The doorman considers me superior and the singer inferior; when I connected with the singer, he considered himself equal to us and became rude. I became insolent with the doorman, and the doorman admitted that he was inferior to me. The footman became insolent with the singer, and the singer admitted that he was inferior to him. And is this really a free state, what people call a positively free state, one in which there is at least one citizen who is sent to prison for doing one thing, without harming anyone, without interfering with anyone? maybe in order not to die of hunger?
Unhappy, pitiful creature, man with his need for positive solutions, thrown into this ever-moving, endless ocean of good and evil, facts, considerations and contradictions! For centuries people have been fighting and working to push good to one side and bad to the other. Centuries pass, and where, what? no matter how the impartial mind weighs the scales of good and evil, the scales do not fluctuate, and on each side there is as much good as bad. If only a person would learn not to judge and not to think sharply and positively and not to give answers to questions given to him only so that they forever remain questions! If only he understood that every thought is both false and true! It is false due to its one-sidedness, due to man’s inability to embrace the whole truth, and fair due to the expression of one side of human aspirations. They have made divisions for themselves in this eternal moving, endless, endlessly mixed chaos of good and evil, drawn imaginary lines along this sea and expect the sea to divide. There are definitely not millions of other units from a completely different point of view, on a different plane. True, these new divisions have been developed over centuries, but millions of centuries have passed and will pass. Civilization is a blessing; barbarism is evil; freedom is good; bondage is evil. It is this imaginary knowledge that destroys the instinctive, most blissful, primitive needs of goodness in human nature. And who will determine for me what? freedom, what is despotism, what? civilization, huh? barbarism? And where are the boundaries between one and the other? Who has this measure of good and evil so unshakably in his soul that he can measure the running complicated facts with it? Who has such a great mind that even in the motionless past he can embrace all the facts and weigh them down? And who has seen such a state in which there would not be good and evil together? And why do I know that I see more of one than the other, not because I am not standing in the right place? And who is able to tear his mind away from life so completely, even for a moment, in order to look at it independently from above? We have one, only one, infallible leader, the Universal Spirit, penetrating us all together and each one as a unit, putting in each one the desire for what? must; the same Spirit which in a tree commands it to grow towards the sun, in a flower commands it to cast its seed towards autumn, and in us commands us to unconsciously huddle together.
And this one infallible blissful voice drowns out the noisy, hasty development of civilization. Who is more a man and who is more a barbarian: is it the lord who, seeing the singer’s threadbare dress, angrily ran away from the table, for his labors did not give him a millionth share of his fortune and now, well-fed, sitting in a bright, calm room, calmly judges about the affairs of China, finding the murders committed there just, or a little singer who, risking prison, with a franc in his pocket, for twenty years, without harming anyone, walks through the mountains and valleys, comforting people with his singing, who was insulted and almost pushed out today , and who, tired, hungry, ashamed, went to sleep somewhere on rotting straw?
At this time, from the city in the dead silence of the night, far, far away I heard the guitar of a little man and his voice.
No, I said involuntarily, you have no right to feel sorry for him and be indignant at the lord’s well-being. Who determined the inner happiness that lies in the soul of each of these people? There he is now sitting somewhere on a dirty threshold, looking into the brilliant moonlit sky and joyfully singing in the middle of a quiet, fragrant night, in his soul there is no reproach, no anger, no repentance. Who knows what? What is happening now in the souls of all these people, behind these rich, high walls? Who knows if they all have as much carefree, gentle joy of life and harmony with the world as lives in the soul of this little man? Infinite is the goodness and wisdom of the One who allowed and ordered all these contradictions to exist. Only you, an insignificant worm, boldly, lawlessly trying to penetrate His laws, His intentions, only you seem to have contradictions. He meekly looks from his bright immeasurable height and rejoices at the endless harmony in which you all move contradictorily, endlessly. In your pride you thought to break free from the laws of the general. No, you and your little vulgar indignant at the lackeys, and you, too, responded to the harmonious need of the eternal and infinite...
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“Lucerne” is a work of autobiographical nature, since it is based on a real incident from the life of Tolstoy himself, which happened to him during his stay in this city in July 1857. The episode that gave rise to the story is described in Tolstoy’s Diary, in an entry dated July 7, recorded under the fresh and direct impression of the experience:
« July 7. I woke up at 9, went to the boarding house and to the Leo monument. At home I opened my notebook, but nothing was written. He left P[ola]. - Lunch is stupidly boring. I went to Privathaus. Returning from there, at night - cloudy - the moon breaks through, several glorious voices are heard, two bell towers on a wide street, a tiny man sings Tyrolean songs with a guitar and is excellent. I gave it to him and invited him to sing against Schweizerhof - nothing; he walked away bashfully, muttering something, the crowd laughing behind him. And before, the crowd on the balcony was crowded and silent. I caught up with him and invited him to the Schweitzerhof for a drink. We were taken to another room. The artist is vulgar, but touching. We drank, the footman laughed and the doorman sat down. This blew me up - I swore at them and got terribly excited. - The night is a miracle. What do you want, what do you crave? I don’t know, just not the good things of this world. And not believe in the immortality of the soul when you feel such immeasurable greatness in your soul? Looked out the window. Black, torn and light. At least die. - My God! My God! What am I? and where? and where am I?
On the same day, July 7, Tolstoy made an entry in his Notebook relating to the same episode and showing the direction in which his thought worked; This entry refers to the English travelers whose behavior in Schweitzerhof so outraged him: “The Protestant feeling is pride, the Catholic and ours is a memento in all life. They didn’t want to abandon the poor Tyrolean, but to save their souls with difficulty - that’s their business - pride.”
The lyrical excitement that had taken possession of Tolstoy was looking for an outlet, the feelings and thoughts that had accumulated in his soul under the influence of the impressions he experienced during his wanderings abroad required expression and design - and a chance meeting with a wandering singer on the embankment in front of the Schweitzerhof gave him a necessary external impetus for creativity and at the same time becomes the very core around which all these spiritual experiences of the young author crystallize. This time Tolstoy’s creative process proceeded unusually rapidly. Already on July 9, i.e., a day after the episode he experienced, Tolstoy writes in his Diary: “Wrote Lucerne.” It is interesting to note that this story was originally conceived in the form of a letter, and its imaginary addressee in Tolstoy’s eyes was Vas. Peter. Botkin, with whom Tolstoy was especially close in this era of his life and whose literary taste he trusted most. On the same day that “Lucerne” was started, i.e. July 9, Tolstoy wrote to Botkin: “I am terribly busy, the work - fruitless or not, I don’t know - is in full swing; but I cannot resist telling you at least part of what I would like to talk to you about. Firstly, I have already told you that many things abroad struck me so new and strange that I jotted down something in order to be able to resume it in freedom. If you advise me to do this, then let me write it in letters to you. You know my belief in the need for an imaginary reader. You are my favorite imaginary reader. Writing to you is as easy for me as thinking; I know that every thought of mine, every impression of mine is perceived by you purer, clearer and higher than it is expressed by me. - I know that the conditions of a writer are different, but God bless them - I’m not a writer. I only want one thing when I write, so that another person, and a person close to my heart, would rejoice at what I rejoice at, get angry at what makes me angry, or cry the same tears with which I cry. I don’t know the need to say something to the whole world, but I know the pain of the lonely pleasure of crying [?] suffering. As a sample of future letters, I am sending you this dated 7 from Lucerne.
It’s not this letter, but another one, which is not yet ready today.”
Work on Lucerne continued over the next two days. On July 10, Tolstoy writes in his Diary: “Healthy, bathed at 8, wrote Lucerne quite a bit before lunch”; July 11: “I got up at 7 and took a bath. Finished it before lunch in Lucerne. Fine. You have to be brave, otherwise you won’t be able to say anything other than graceful, and I have a lot to say that’s new and meaningful.”
On July 21, Tolstoy wrote to Botkin again, announcing the completion of his work on Lucerne. - “The main content of my letter, which you did not understand, was the following. I was greatly struck by one circumstance in Lucerne, which I felt the need to express on paper. And since during my journey I had many such circumstances, lightly written down by me, the idea came to me to restore them all in the form of letters to you, for which I asked for your consent and advice. I immediately began writing the Lucerne impression. Almost an article came out of it, which I finished, which I am almost pleased with and would like to read to you, but apparently it’s not fate. I’ll show Turg[enev] and if he tries it, then I’ll send it to Panaev.” (Tolstoy. “Monuments of creativity and life.” Issue 4. M., 1923, p. 37.)
However, apparently, Tolstoy did not fulfill his intention and did not introduce his new story to either Botkin or Turgenev before its publication: at least no traces of this were preserved in their correspondence. But, having returned from his trip abroad to St. Petersburg on August 11 (July 30, old style), he hastened to introduce the editors of Sovremennik to him. On August 1 (Old Art.), he wrote in his Diary: “I read Lucerne to them. It worked on them." We don’t know which member of the Sovremennik editorial board was present at this reading, besides Nekrasov, but in any case, after reading the story, Nekrasov hastened to submit it for typesetting to the printing house and in the next, September Sovremennik book (censor permission August 31, 1857) “Lucerne” was printed, signed: Count L.N. Tolstoy.
In later editions, the text of the story was reprinted without any changes, apart from some minor deviations in spelling and punctuation. In this edition, “Lucerne” is printed based on the text of “Contemporary” (1857, No. 9, pp. 5-28); however, we considered it necessary to introduce into it the following digressions, borrowed from the authoritative editions of 1873 and 1886, as well as some, very few, conjectures, in cases where this was caused by the requirements of a logical or grammatical connection:
Page 3, line 13 n.
Instead of: very good - in “Sovrem.”: Very good . Published from the 1873 edition.
Page 12, line 6 n.
Instead of: pushed - in “Sovrem.” and in all editions: pushing . Printed for reasons of grammatical correctness.
Page 20, line 13 St.
Instead of: on one of the tables (taken from “Sovr.”, since such a phrase is found in Tolstoy) - in the ed. '73: at one of the tables.
Page 23, line 10 n.
Instead of: in no way - in “Sovrem.” and ed. 1873: nor in the wide.
Published according to ed. 1886
Page 24, line 3 St.
Instead of: education - in “Sovrem.” (misprint or typo): education .
The manuscript of the final edition of “Lucerne” has not reached us, and the proof sheets of the journal text, which were corrected by the author himself, have not survived, judging by the Diary entry dated August 22: “I received the proofs, forwarded them somehow. Terribly eccentric. Sent." For this reason, an almost complete draft of “Lucerne” has been preserved, representing the original edition of the story that Tolstoy sketched under the fresh impression of the episode he experienced over the course of three days, July 9-11, in Lucerne. This manuscript was written on separate sheets of notepaper, in three steps, judging by the different quality of the paper and some differences in the handwriting; the beginning of the story (ending with the words: “no one threw him a penny”) is written on very thin yellowish laid paper, in small handwriting and reddish ink; continuation (ending with the words: “... about the state of the Crimean...”) on thicker and white paper, with the stamp “Bath”, larger handwriting and black ink; the last part of the story, of which, however, only one half-sheet has survived, is written on blue paper, also stamped “Bath,” while the second half of the sheet, containing the very end of the story, is apparently lost. In total, the manuscript contains 6 1/2 sheets or 26 pages, of which 2 pages are blank. Only the first two sheets are numbered; the rest are unnumbered. The manuscript is preserved in the Tolstoy office of the All-Union Library named after. V.I. Lenin. Folder III. 5.
As already stated above, the story “Lucerne” was originally conceived in the form of a letter, the imaginary addressee of which was supposed to be V.P. Botkin. Therefore, the beginning of the story reads in the draft as follows:
“I have been planning to write to you from abroad for a long time. Many things struck me so strongly, new and strangely that it seemed to me that my notes (if I had been able to sincerely convey my impressions) might not be without interest for the readers of your magazine. I sketched out something so that over time, in freedom and after consulting with friends, I could restore it if it was worth it; but the impression of yesterday evening in Lucerne has stuck so strongly in my imagination that only by expressing it in words will I get rid of it, and that I hope it will affect the readers at least a hundredth of the way it affected me.”
This brief introduction is followed by the title written between the lines: “From the travel notes of Prince Nekhlyudov,” and then the text of the story begins:
“Lucerne is a small Swiss town on the shore of a lake of 4 cantons. Not far from it is Mount Rigi, from which you can see a lot of white mountains, the hotels here are excellent, in addition, three or four roads intersect here, and therefore there are a lot of travelers here. Of the travelers, as in general in Switzerland, per 100 there are 99 Englishmen.”
This brief description of Lucerne is almost identical to the printed text; it just doesn’t contain a reference to Murray’s Guide, which Tolstoy included in the final edition. The very structure of the story, the arrangement of parts, their connection and sequence in both editions remained the same; the differences concern only individual details, some of which were omitted by the author during the final processing of the story, while others, on the contrary, were introduced by him again. So, for example, wanting to emphasize the dissonance between the artificial straight “like a stick” embankment, with its symmetrical sticky walls and benches, and the surrounding harmoniously integral and freely varied nature, Tolstoy notes in the initial draft of the story: “it’s as if Raphael’s Madonna had her golden chin glued up.” border"; in the final version this comparison is omitted. In the final edition, the description of the prim English society at the table d'hôte is significantly expanded, as well as the description given for comparison of the cheerful and lively company of the Parisian boarding house, to which in the original edition of the story only one phrase is dedicated:
“It was like our boarding house in Paris, where we argued from one end of the table to the other, frolicked, and after dinner everyone, the abbot and the Spanish countess, immediately began to dance la polka or play forfeits.”
The meeting with the traveling musician, the characterization of his singing, the scene in front of the Schweitzerhof, the conversation with him on the street and then in the restaurant, the encounter with the restaurant servant - all this is presented in the original edition almost in the same form as in the final one. The changes relate mostly to style and are aimed at expanding what was only outlined in two or three strokes in the draft. But there are also some changes that affect the very content of the story; in some cases, certain details are omitted that for some reason seemed unnecessary to the author, but which, however, may be of some interest to us. Here are some of the original versions:
In the magazine text, the author highlights in the French phrases of the wandering musician the features of his pronunciation, indicating his origin from the German part of Switzerland (from the canton of Aargau, in French - Argovie): “bauvre tiaple”, “quelque chosse”; in the draft manuscript this shade of pronunciation is not noted and the French words are given in the usual transcription.
The hall into which the narrator was initially brought along with the wandering singer is called in the final version a “drinking house for the common people”; in the draft manuscript it is said: “it was, as I saw, human”; the latter definition seems more accurate, in view of the repeated mention of the “hunchbacked dishwasher” busy washing dishes; It is also characteristic that in the story there is no indication of the presence of outside visitors in the hall.
In the draft manuscript, in response to the footman’s question: “Would you like some simple wine?” - the narrator answers: “Champagne Mo?te”; originally it was written: “Champagne and the best,” then Tolstoy crossed out the last words and wrote on top, between the lines, the name of the brand of wine; in the final edition, this detail was omitted again, and the entire phrase was restored to its original form.
In the story of a traveling musician regarding the reason that prompted him to take up his craft, the draft manuscript says: “28 years ago he developed a panori in his finger”; in the printed text: “Twenty-two years ago he developed a caries infection in his hand, which made it impossible for him to work.” It is interesting to note that panoris in French means nail beetle, not carie beetle (la carie). Since the conversation was conducted in French, obviously the musician used the French expression given in the draft manuscript, which the author considered necessary to translate into Russian when finalizing his story, but used an inappropriate expression for this.
In response to the narrator’s question regarding the author of the “Song of Riga,” the printed text says: “There was a German in Basel, the smartest man, he composed it”; in the draft manuscript the surname of this person is also named - Freygang. It is difficult to say why Tolstoy considered it necessary to omit this name in the final edition. Perhaps he himself doubted whether he had heard her correctly and whether he remembered her well.
The final part of the story, dedicated to the author’s reflections and lyrical outpourings regarding the incident that struck him in the Schweitzerhof, underwent significant revision in the final edition; in view of this, we present it according to the original text of the draft manuscript:
“Yes, here it is, civilization. It was not funny nonsense that Rousseau spoke in his speech about the harm of civilization on morals. Every human thought is both false and fair—false in its one-sidedness due to man’s inability to embrace the whole truth, and fair in its expression of one side of human aspirations. Is such a fact possible in a Russian, French, Italian village? No. But all these people are Christians and humane people. To carry out a generally humane idea with reason - to take care of the celibacy of the Chinese in India, about the condition of the Crimean Tatars in Turkey, to spread Christianity, to form a reformative society - this is their business. But with these actions, what? to lead a member of the chamber or a clergyman submitting a big project - vanity, self-interest, ambition - it seems there is nothing to argue. Where is the primitive, primesautier, feeling of man? - It does not exist and it disappears as civilization spreads, that is, the selfish, rational, selfish association of people, which is called civilization, and which is diametrically opposed to the instinctive, loving association.
This is republican equality. The Tyrolean is lower than the footman, the footman shows him this harmlessly, but laughing at him. Because the Tyrolean has 60 centimes and he is insulted. I have 1000 francs, I am taller than a footman and harmlessly insult him. When I joined the Tyrolean together, we stood at the level of the footman and he sat down with us and argued. I became bolder and taller. The footman was impudent with the Tyrolean, the Tyrolean became lower.
This is freedom. A man is disfigured, weak, old, and finds the best means, according to his abilities, to earn bread by singing. Those to whom he sells his art willingly [?] buy it, he does not impose himself on anyone, does not harm his comrades, does not deceive. There is nothing immoral in his singing. He is sent to prison for his business. A malicious bankrupt, a player on the stock exchange, shouts in the council about vagrancy.
If only people would learn not to think and speak positively, realizing their powerlessness to understand the laws of their souls and therefore general, human laws. If only they didn’t talk about general solutions. Where there is a republic, there is freedom and equality. Vagrancy is evil, freedom is good, despotism is evil, civilization is good, barbarism is evil. Who has had this measure of good and evil in his soul from time immemorial, so that he could separate one from the other. Who has such a great mind to embrace all the facts and hang them up? And where is such a state that there is no good and evil? And why do I know that I see more evil or more good not because I am not standing in the right place? Who is able to break away from life and look at it from above? And who will determine for me what? civilization, huh? freedom, where is the border between freedom and despotism, where is the border between civilization and barbarism? There is one thing - the universal spirit, penetrating each of us as a separate unit, imparting to each an unconscious desire for good and aversion to evil, the same spirit that in a tree tells it to grow towards the sun and the plant to shed its leaves by autumn, just listen to this voice feelings, conscience, instinct, mind, call it what you want, only this voice is not mistaken. And this voice tells me that the Tyrolean is right, and that you are guilty, and this cannot and is not necessary to prove. He is not the person to whom this needs to be proven. This voice is heard more clearly in the situation of what you call barbarism than in the situation of what you call civilization.”
At this point the draft edition of “Lucerne” is interrupted; the rest of the manuscript, containing the very end of the story, appears to have been lost.
We consider it necessary to add a few notes to clarify some individual parts of the story.
Page 6, line 15 St.
In the author's memoirs about the Parisian boarding house, he undoubtedly means the boarding house in which Tolstoy lived during his stay in Paris in February - April 1857, since some of the persons listed here are mentioned in his diary of that time (Spanish countess, musician); however, he does not mention their names anywhere and does not provide any other information about them.
Page 8, line 2 St.
“Two strict towers” is a detail of a real nature: on the square near the Schweitzerhof stands the main church of Lucerne (Hof- und Stiftskirche), the ancient Cathedral of St. Leonhard, on the sides of the main portal of which there are two bell towers with high spires of the Gothic type. In the draft manuscript, Tolstoy left a gap at this point in order to add the name of the church, but during the final revision he apparently considered it unnecessary to include this detail in his story.
Page 8, line 12 n.
Although the nameless wandering singer whom the author met before the Schweitzerhof in Lucerne was a Swiss, a native of the canton of Aargau (French Argovie), Tolstoy constantly calls him a “Tyrolean,” probably because he sang mainly old Tyrolean folk songs; These songs are distinguished by their melody and variety and therefore are readily adopted by professional singers, similar to the one depicted in Tolstoy’s story.
Page 10, line 6 n.
“The Song of Riga” - (L’air du Righi) apparently enjoyed great popularity among the population of the surrounding cantons of Switzerland and was distributed in various versions. One of them is cited by Erich B?me in his note “Leo Tolstoi und das Rigi-Lied”. ("Neue Zricher Zeitung", 6 February 1934.)
Wo L?zern uf W?ggis Zue
Brucht me weder Str?mpf noch Schuhe.
Fahr' im Schiffli ?bern See,
Um die sch?nen Maidli z’seh.
Hansli, trink mer nit zu viel,
s'Galdi muess verdienet si.
(Russian text given by Tolstoy, see pp. 15-16.)
Other versions of this song are given by A.L. Gasmann in his works: “Das Volkslied im L?zerner Wiggertal und Hinterland” (1906) and “Das Rigilied “Vo L?zern uf W?ggis zue”. Seine Entstehung und Verbreitung" (1908). In his last work, he also established the name of the author of “Riga’s song”; this is a certain Johann Luthi (L?thi), a musician from Solothurn (1800-1869). Gasmann provides some biographical information about him and gives more than 30 versions of his song (textual and musical). In addition, Gasmann reports in his work that in 1850-1871.
in the vicinity of Lucerne, some old wandering musician from Aargau appeared every year with a violin and guitar, performed in taverns with his art and, among other things, sang “Riga’s song.” Information about the appearance and character of this person, preserved by some old people who saw and heard him, so coincides with the description of the “little man” in Tolstoy’s story that Gasmann admits it is quite plausible that it was from him that Tolstoy wrote his hero.
Finally, one of the versions of the “Song of Riga” was sent to the Editorial Office of “The Complete Works of L. N. Tolstoy” by S. Kartsevsky, indicating that he heard this song in Geneva from a traveling singer, Joseph Wigger, who recorded it in full text.
Page 23, line 18 St.
In 1856, the British government, without a formal declaration of war, sent a fleet to the shores of China, which bombarded and destroyed a number of coastal cities; Soon the French joined the British, finding fault with the fact that, contrary to the treaty, the Chinese authorities executed one French missionary. Thus began a war between the two strongest European powers against defenseless China, which ended only in 1860 with the capture and plunder of Beijing by allied forces and the conclusion of a humiliating peace treaty for China. These arbitrary and violent actions of Europeans in China deeply outraged Tolstoy, as can be seen, for example, from his entry in his Diary dated April 30, 1857: “I read the disgusting affairs of the British with China and argued about it with the old Englishman”; This same moral indignation was reflected in the bitter irony of “Lucerne.”
TO comments by V. F. Savodnik
Original taken from marinagra in To Lucerne with Leo Tolstoy
View from the Lucerne embankment to the shore of Lake Fervaldstätt
Lucerne, on the shores of Lake Vierwaldstät, surrounded by mountains, is often called the most beautiful city in Switzerland, or at least one of the most beautiful. But Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy didn’t really like Lucerne at first, or rather, he liked the nature, but not the city itself. True, after a couple of days Tolstoy changed his mind, but it was too late: he managed to express his initial hostility towards Lucerne in the famous story “From the Notes of Prince D. Nekhlyudov. Lucerne.” Let's go to Lucerne in the footsteps of the classic and try to look at this city through his eyes 157 years later.
Old postcard with a view of the Lucerne waterfront and the Schweizerhof Hotel
(second from left)
29-year-old Lev Nikolaevich first went abroad in 1857. He first visited Paris, where his stay was marred by the cult of Napoleon (“The idolization of a villain, terrible”), and even more so by his presence at a public execution, then he traveled through northern Italy and Switzerland, and on July 6 he arrived from Bern to Lucerne. The writer stayed at the best hotel at that time - and to this day - "Schweizerhof" (Tolstoy calls it, as was customary then, not "Schweizerhof", "Schweizerhof"). The hotel was still quite new - it opened in 1844.
Promenade of Lucerne, with a flag on the roof - Hotel "Schweizerhof"
It is from this moment, the hero’s arrival at the Schweitzerhof Hotel, that the story “Lucerne” begins. The story was written on behalf of Count Nekhlyudov, and although, as we were taught at school, one cannot equate the author with his character, it is quite obvious that the author himself is behind the feelings and actions of the count.
“Lucerne, an ancient cantonal city, lying on the shores of a lake of four cantons,” says Murray (a guide to Switzerland, named after the English publisher John Murray - M.A.), “one of the most romantic locations in Switzerland; three main roads intersect in it ; and only an hour's ride by boat is Mount Rigi, from which one of the most magnificent views in the world opens. Fairly or not, other guides say the same thing, and therefore there is an abyss in Lucerne for travelers of all nations, and especially the English."
Count Nekhlyudov, and with him Tolstoy, is distrustful of the glory of Lucerne (“fairly or not”), which over the past century and a half has not diminished at all, but, on the contrary, has become even more established. Lucerne is filled with tourists at any time of the year, although today it is impossible to say that the British predominate among them.
“The magnificent five-story house of the Schweitzerhof was recently built on the embankment, above the lake, on the very spot where in the old days there was a wooden, covered, winding bridge, with chapels on the corners and images on the rafters. Now, thanks to the huge influx of Englishmen, their needs, their taste and with their money they broke down the old bridge and in its place they made a basement, straight as a stick, embankment; on the embankment they built straight, quadrangular, five-story houses; and in front of the houses they planted sticks in two rows, put up supports, and between the sticks, as usual, there were green benches. This is a party; and here Englishwomen in Swiss straw hats and Englishmen in strong and comfortable clothes walk back and forth and rejoice in their work. It may be that these embankments, and houses, and sticky, and the English are very good somewhere - but just not here, among this strangely majestic and at the same time inexpressibly harmonious and soft nature.”
Lucerne waterfront and view of Mount Pilatus
Were there so many swans on the embankment during Tolstoy's time?
The five-story "Schweizerhof" is still the most noticeable among the hotels lined up on the embankment, the sticky ones have been replaced by chestnuts (perhaps L.N. was mistaken and these were chestnuts from the very beginning?), "straight quadrangular five-story buildings" can really hardly be called architectural masterpieces, but overall, the wide embankment with swans swimming near the shore and solemn alpine panoramas looks quite nice... if you don’t remember the destroyed ancient bridge.
Partially dismantled Hofbrücke Bridge. Fragment of a watercolor by I. Martzokhis. 1836
One of Lucerne's three medieval wooden bridges, the Hofbrücke, which connected the ends of the lake bay, prevented the construction of an embankment. The bridge was dismantled piece by piece as the lake shore was developed, and the final blow was dealt to the bridge by the construction of the Schweizerhof Hotel. What happened - and here one cannot help but share Tolstoy’s accusatory pathos - one would like to call nothing less than a crime against culture, all the more offensive since the bridge would have increased the glory of Lucerne and would still be, together with the surviving bridges across the river Reuss Kapellbrücke and Sproerbrücke, an adornment of the city . The Hofbrücke was almost twice as long as the two-hundred-meter Kapellbrücke, the current pride of Lucerne and all of Switzerland. Like the other two bridges, the Hofbrücke was decorated with wooden “images on the rafters”: 239 triangular paintings of biblical scenes (of which 113 have survived). How magnificent the bridge must have looked against the backdrop of the lake surface and Alpine peaks, and how Lucerne would benefit today if the Hofbrücke survived at least partially...
I. Meyers. View of Mount Pilatus from the Hofbrücke Bridge. 1820
Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky, in a letter to Grand Duchess Alexandra Feodorovna in September 1821, admired the view from the bridge: “The surroundings of Lucerne are perhaps the most picturesque in Switzerland. It is impossible to depict the splendor represented by the chaos of the mountains surrounding the Lake of the Four Cantons and visible from the Lucerne Bridge , especially at sunset, when the snowy mountains shine and little by little go out."
View of Mount Pilatus from the embankment
But let’s return to our traveler Count Nekhlyudov (or Tolstoy, as you prefer). “When I went upstairs to my room and opened the window onto the lake, the beauty of this water, these mountains and this sky at the first moment literally blinded and shocked me. I felt an inner restlessness and the need to somehow express the excess of something that suddenly overwhelmed me. soul. At that moment I wanted to hug someone, hug him tightly, tickle him, pinch him, generally do something extraordinary with him and with myself. It had been raining all day, and now it was clearing up. The lake was blue, like burning sulfur, with dots of boats and their disappearing traces, motionless, smooth, as if convexly spread out in front of the windows between various green shores, went forward, shrinking between two huge ledges, and, darkening, rested and disappeared into valleys, mountains, clouds and ice floes piled on top of each other In the foreground are wet light green scattering banks with reeds, meadows, gardens and dachas, then dark green overgrown ledges with ruins of castles, at the bottom a crumpled white-purple mountain distance with bizarre rocky and white-matte snowy peaks; and everything was flooded with a gentle, transparent azure of the air and illuminated by the hot rays of sunset breaking through from the torn sky. Not on the lake, not on the mountains, not in the sky, not a single solid line, not a single solid color, not a single identical moment, everywhere there is movement, asymmetry, whimsicality, an endless mixture and variety of shadows and lines, and in everything calmness, softness, unity and the need for beauty. And here, among the vague, confused free beauty, right in front of my window, the white stick of the embankment, sticky with supports and green benches stuck out stupidly, focally - poor, vulgar human works, not drowned like distant dachas and ruins in the general harmony of beauty , but, on the contrary, grossly contradict it. Constantly, involuntarily, my gaze collided with this terribly straight line of the embankment and mentally wanted to push it away, to destroy it, like a black spot that sits on the nose under the eye; but the embankment with the walking Englishmen remained in place, and I involuntarily tried to find a point of view from which I could not see it. I learned to look like this, and until lunch, alone with myself, I enjoyed that incomplete, but that sweeter, languid feeling that you experience when solitary contemplating the beauty of nature."
"...the beauty of this water, these mountains and this sky literally blinded and shocked me in the first moment..."
Well, pristine nature - majestic alpine peaks above the lake surface - even today contrasts with the bustle of the resort, kiosks, benches, boats, walking public. How much the embankment interferes with enjoying the views of the lake and mountains is up to you to judge.
Streets of old Lucerne
Meanwhile, our hero, upset by the prim atmosphere that reigned during dinner at the hotel, and the dominance of unsociable, cold Englishmen in the dining room, did not finish dessert!!! recovered for a walk around Lucerne.
“I felt sad, as always after such dinners, and, without finishing dessert, in the most gloomy mood, I went to wander around the city. Narrow dirty streets without lighting, locked shops, meetings with drunken workers and women going for water or, in hats, on the walls, looking around, scurrying along the alleys, not only did not disperse, but even intensified my sad mood. It was already completely dark in the streets when, without looking around me, without any thought in my head, I walked towards the house, "Hoping to sleep to get rid of the gloomy mood of the spirit. I felt terribly mentally cold, lonely and heavy, as sometimes happens for no apparent reason when moving to a new place."
Johann Wolfgang Goethe stayed in this house in 1779
Here we can only be surprised and make assumptions: either the hero, dejected by his experiences, looked at the city with a bias and saw it in a black light, or indeed, not far from the new embankment and the luxurious hotel there were still unlit dirty streets along which drunkards staggered (although imagine a drunken Swiss it’s quite difficult on the street) and which tourists would be better off not going into. One way or another, the current historical center of Lucerne with its lovingly restored painted houses, as well as the more modern streets adjacent to the embankment and the hotel, are clean, well-kept and quite respectable.
In the center of old Lucerne
Further, the plot of the story completely coincides with the episode that Tolstoy described in his Lucerne diary. The incident occurred the next day after arrival, July 7, and greatly upset Lev Nikolaevich: “I went to a privathaus (private house, mansion - M.A.). Returning from there, at night - cloudy - the moon breaks through, several glorious voices are heard, two bell towers on a wide street, a tiny man sings Tyrolean songs with a guitar and is excellent. I gave it to him and invited him to sing against Schweizerhof - nothing; he walked away bashfully, muttering something, the crowd laughing behind him. And before, the crowd on the balcony was crowded and silent. I caught up with him and invited him to the Schweitzerhof for a drink. We were taken to another room. The artist is vulgar, but touching. We drank, the footman laughed, and the doorman sat down. This blew me up - I swore at them and got terribly excited. Night miracle. What do you want, what do you crave? I don’t know, just not the good things of this world. And do not believe in the immortality of the soul! - when you feel such immeasurable greatness in your soul. Looked out the window. Black, torn and light. At least die. My God! My God! What am I? and where? and where am I?
Tolstoy’s extreme excitement in connection with this incident can be judged by the remark of his aunt Alexandrine Tolstoy, who was at that time in Lucerne in the retinue of Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna, and to whom Tolstoy told about the meeting with the musician. “Everyone listened to the artist with pleasure, but when he raised his hat to receive the award, no one threw him a single sou; the fact, of course, is ugly, but to which L.N. gave it almost criminal proportions,” writes Tolstaya.
Lucerne fairy tale
In the story, Count Nekhlyudov, outraged that the guests of the "Schweitzerhof" laugh at the poor musician and do not give him money, benefits the artist with several small coins and invites him to have a drink. But when the artist suggests going to a modest restaurant nearby, Nekhlyudov takes him to the hotel, orders the best champagne and is annoyed that the footmen and the doorman do not show the guest due respect, that they were not sent to the best room and that the insolent doorman sat down next to the musician. Everything turns out awkwardly, absurdly: the musician suspects that Nekhlyudov wants to get him drunk and laugh at him, the lackeys watch what is happening with poorly hidden irony, Nekhlyudov himself gradually falls into a rage and, seeing disrespect and ridicule in everyone and everything, makes indignant speeches in front of lackeys who don't understand his German. Finally, the musician with a couple of coins in his pocket and champagne in his empty stomach (why, by the way, wasn’t it possible to feed him dinner?) leaves. The second part of the story - the hero’s angry and accusatory speeches, which, as they wrote in Soviet literature textbooks, “testify to Tolstoy’s deeply negative attitude towards European civilization” - is not directly related to our topic, so let’s leave Count Nekhlyudov to be indignant, close the book and take a look How Lev Nikolaevich spent his time in Lucerne after the unfortunate incident.
You can rent a boat here
It turns out that the very next day after the memorable meeting with the street musician, the writer moved out of the ill-fated “Schweitzerhof” and settled in the “Daman” boarding house on the shore of the lake. He is pleased with his new home, calm and happy, takes walks in the surrounding mountains, swims, rides a boat and works on the story "Lucerne". On July 9, he writes in his diary: “I got up early and feel good. I took a bath, couldn’t be happier about the apartment, wrote “Lucerne,” wrote a letter to Botkin before lunch /…/ and read, went on a boat and went to the monastery. I’m terribly shy at the boarding house, there are a lot of pretty ones.”
Boating on Lake Firvaldstät
In the mentioned letter to Vasily Botkin, Tolstoy describes in detail his “apartment”: “What a delight Lucerne is, and how I manage everything here - it’s a miracle! I live in the Daman guesthouse on the lake; but not in the boarding house itself, but in an attic consisting of two rooms and located completely separate from the house. The house in which I live is located in a garden, all surrounded by apricots and vineyards; The watchman lives downstairs, I’m upstairs. There are clamps hanging in the entryway, and a fountain gurgles further away under the canopy. In front of the windows there are thick apple trees with supports, mown grass, a lake and mountains. Silence, solitude, tranquility /.../ Yesterday evening I sat down with a candle in the first small room that I made into a salon, and could not get enough of my room. Two chairs, a quiet armchair, a table, a wardrobe, all this is simple, rustic and cute. The floors are unpainted, with loose floorboards, a small window with a white side, grape leaves and mustaches look through the window, and the candles lit by fire seem to be heads when, sideways, you accidentally look at them. And further in the window there are black slender mountains, and through them a quiet lake with a moonlit shine; and the distant sounds of trumpet music rush from the lake. Great! So great that I’ll be here for a long time.”
Monument to the Swiss Guards "Dying Lion"
Lev Nikolaevich wrote nothing more significant about Lucerne in his diaries. He, obviously, was not very impressed even by the main attraction of Lucerne at that time, and perhaps even today - the sculpture of a dying lion. He only briefly mentions in his diary entry for July 7 that he went “to the Leo Monument.” Meanwhile, every guest of Lucerne tried to see this memorial, opened in 1821, and express their opinion about it. The monument was erected in honor of the feat of the Swiss guards, who until the last minute remained faithful to the French king Louis XVI, defending him in Paris during the siege of the Tuileries on August 10, 1792. Of the 1,110 soldiers and officers, only 350 survived. Among the surviving soldiers was an officer from Lucerne, Karl Pfüfer, who was on leave at the time of the battle. Thanks to his efforts, almost 30 years later, a monument was erected in Lucerne in memory of the dead Swiss. A cave has been carved into the sheer rock above the pond, in which lies a dying lion with a piece of a spear sticking out between its ribs. At the head of the lion there are shields with the coats of arms of France and Switzerland, above the cave there is the inscription HELVETIORUM FIDEI AC VIRTUTI (“To the loyalty and courage of the Swiss”); below are the Latin numbers 760 and 350, corresponding to the number of fallen and surviving soldiers. At the foot of the monument the names of the fallen soldiers and officers are immortalized. The nine-meter figure of the lion was made according to a sketch by the famous Dane Bertel Thorvaldsen by the Swiss sculptor Lukas Ahorn.
Many Russian travelers admired the amazing monument. Soon after the opening, Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky saw it. In the already mentioned letter of 1821, he reported: “In Lucerne there is now a monument that has no similar size: a cave is carved in a high rock and in its depths on a shield marked with lilies, a dying lion. This lion in its height corresponds to the huge pedestal: in front of the rock a pond in which this whole mass is reflected."
Alexander Herzen wrote in Past and Thoughts in 1869: “There is an amazing monument in Lucerne; it was made by Thorvaldsen in a wild rock. In a hollow lies a dying lion; he is wounded to death, blood flows from the wound in which a fragment of an arrow sticks out; he laid a brave head on his paw, he groans, his gaze expresses unbearable pain; all around is empty, below is a pond; all this is hidden by mountains, trees, greenery."
But we digress from Lev Nikolaevich’s stay in Lucerne. On July 11, Tolstoy noted in his diary: “I finished Lucerne before lunch.” Fine. You have to be brave, otherwise you won’t be able to say anything except grace, and I have a lot to say that’s new and meaningful.” After a short break, the Lucerne was redesigned and by July 18 it had acquired its final form. On July 19, Tolstoy traveled further to the north, taking from the shores of Lake Firvaldstätt a story written here in a few days, which was published in Sovremennik in the fall of the same 1857 and perpetuated the negative image of the beautiful Swiss city in Russian literature.
“Anti-Lucerne” motifs unexpectedly appear in Russian poetry of the early 20th century. Clearly Tolstoyan intonations - the opposition of eternal nature and resort vulgarity - can be traced in Valery Bryusov's poem "Lake Firvaldstät", written in Lucerne in 1909.
Hotels with magnificent portals,
Arrogantly lined up
And, arguing with the age-old rocks,
They look into the dispassionate azure.
Along the embankment, under the chestnut trees,
The bazaar of all-world vanity, -
Glitter under expert blush
Into a pearl of erected beauty.
Crossing the colorless surface,
Ships are smoking both here and there,
And, encroaching on the forbidden heights,
The flags in the mountains are turning red.
And at the hour when with the abysses of the night
The peaks are mixed in the shade,
From there - an argument with the rays of the stars
The hotel lights are on.
And Vladislav Khodasevich wrote in 1917 an ironic poem “In this stupid Schweizerhof.”
In this stupid Schweizerhof,
Getting ready to leave,
It's good to drink black coffee
With a glass of bad liquor!
In this stupid Schweizerhof
The sea view is so huge...
Fat German at the buffet
And there are large palm trees in the garden.
Here we are again on the embankment in front of the Schweizerhof Hotel, which means our walk
in Lucerne with Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy has come to an end!
When searching for quotes, materials from Mikhail Shishkin's book "Russian Switzerland" were used.