7<NG;Y:LoLoLoLoLoL}tLLLM M (M3M3<MoxLM NN*NGLo Red Anise During the evenings of April come a light blue expanse and crimson dusk; clouds aregolden; they complicate themselves: into blue-crimson, into blue-golden, into golden-crimson; August islilac; Julygray-blue, oppressive with a feverish heat; in June: the sunset isa gilders shop, the sunset isa goldsmiths shop; Marusya-dawn, goldenbrowed, walks the streets of the world; goldenstreamed she sows rain on Razvanya; Dadon, begins to crawl, a rather stout cloud: bells clang!.. Thunderously! . . . . . A May morning, a shepherd, like a cock, begins to beat on the window from a stern hornfrom the stone curbstone of the Arbat; through a dream I hear the beating: six! The little bell of a cow ding-dongs; to the gate come the cows: reds, motleys; on the streets it is rather peopleless; only the blankety-blank of the yardmen is chased by brooms. I sleep . . . . . . . . . A cornflower-blue skywith a brown kyte; the kyte darts from the sky to the earthbehind a roof; goldencrested chickens began to bustle about, banged about; the kyteis borne back over the roof; and Papa is heard, kyrie eleisoning kyrielle; yellow moths are borne about; and we walk along new paths: along Prechistenka, Stozhenka; dragged through the buds by a caressing May; and there can be seen a chocolate-colored house (someday headquarters will be here), the house of Ganetsky and the colonnade of the Mariinsky Institute with the deaf Chertova, Dame of the Order of St. Catherinedeaf, but not a spade; the Kister house; here a military man, he comes out from there: Kister himself. And we return: by Levshinsky! . . . . . . . . . Once we were beyond the Moscow river: there beyond the river Moscow squats, solidifying with houses; there little houses stand around houses; bone-houses crawl out, little houses droop stonily; and the Kremlin glows ruddy, placing under the heavens Ivan, its finger in a thimble; the Redeemer grows enormous like a gold melting pot; bells like paschas; and towers, like wenches: exactly like a little snack table? Moscow! . . . . . . Mornings we stealthily run through the Testament, the little greenish book: the fall, the deluge, the patriarchs, Egypt, Sinai, the division of the kingdom, prophets, kings, are behind; a new little time rolls up with a decorated red egg, a snack table, pascha, a chomp, and the common saying: He is risen, truly! And the booming of thunderous, thundering bootsinto open windows; and then the God who hasthe beard is abolished; there begins: the Son of Man, who had suffered before me; and by that having atoned; and it is required of me to atone; who has not yet been atoned for? Mamochka! This was narrated by Papa, extracted from the lilaceous book with the snowball tree little sun of the New Testament summer. O Mamochka, angellikeness-whiteness, you seem a lioness, pre-paring for the purest fate: to torment me! And I am tormented by the thoughts, standing under the window: am I pure, am I purified; and into the cornflower-blue sky a serpentmug, a kite of paper, how it jerks, drawing arcs, with an extended tail of bast; but the wind falls off, and jerking like a battering ram, the kite rustles its paper: the yellow mug was exposed over the roof!.. And behind the back it grows feverishly hotfrom the bottomed body, from the sailcloth mended-jacket: this Papochka presses to his breast, just as if foreseeing my fate; it grows blue to my eyes; a goldspark, goldgleam goes from me, from the crucified one Madam Hornung, whom they invited from her chattering establishment for the consummation of all this: Kotiks crucifixion,hey, you listen!the time will come when, having prepared himself, Kotik will give you his little palms; and Papa will bellow: Behold, the man! Under the spectacles two little turquoises gleam: Papas little eyes; will he cry? . . . . . . Yes, he broke out crying when the scandal got rolling; Mama anathematized and beat me for entering into the New Testament; Papa glimpsed this; crested, he threw himself with a bright facial crimson, and oakensided he tore me out, put the castor gray cap with the very slicing elastic on my forelocked little brow and bundled me out with force; we abandoned forever the native den; and after us ran the wow-wowow-ow; andyawled yowled: Herods warrior. We threw ourselves to the first flying span; it banged; Papa covered me with a strong embrace; this old walrus face fell with its lips toward me, Papa howled arch-heavily: it is impossible to live like this; we haveendless malice; much had been compiled: doggy smell, and malsmell; one could become totally doggishin such malicious-imagery; and the span banged the very same way with the discolored color, jumping up with a hop under the red calico curtain which was tossed into us bubbly from the little window and under which the lamina of a green ficus, as if greeting, lapped; and I answered, but do not remember what exactly; thus we entered into the testament, in a cab, for the purification of our house from doggy smell and dust; but the dry dustflight jerked like a gate post of rolled papers, quickening like screws; there started up a windblow, windburn, windwhistle; again the kite jerked from the chimney into the dusty and pull-down heavens; but, catching on the net of telegraph pillars, falling, with a shiny paper puss,it hung flabbily; here I thought: yes, yes: I am like a flatterer under words,like a serpent under flowers; and I began to want: to be crucified the pillars of dust of Devichy Field turned brown; through them came toward us a gallop of white-gray and marble horses; the galoon and the wiped worn sables of the dragoons sparkled, these rushing warriors of Herod, made by Mama therethe parade ground for learning; now, behind the little square, there are clinics! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I do not remember what was going on at Uncle Yorshs, where Papa brought me, beaten: it wascrowded, multifamilied; from a teeny-weeny bed onto the carpet hung toward me with a constructo cube a very importunate pest, my cousin, completely forceless; I attempted to heal him: he would not heal; in a circle collected little mouths, milksops-kids, Well hang you! I was deep in thoughtall day long; once I saw: Dunyasha, spitting out of her mouth a little nail onto her callous, she stuck the head of a piece of iron, placing the little nail in the baguet; they hung a weighty damask shade: here on the table I lie down; at first everything is hellish; the stove vent begins to breathe its own coal gas-blowing; and the spirit of peptone is revealed; and with stamps of the inescapable they exit from the door with the walnut strong baguet, breaking my little shoulders; there will be a procession: through the drawing room with Giftbearing Hosts, with the dress maker-chatterer, called for by Mamochka, my Caiaphas,with Madam Hornung, who pins me up with the seamstresses to the nursery, where darkness spreads about: space issquandered; time isslandered; and causelessly causality executes and effectuates the laws; they take down the icon images and give the laws, where the chasers chaseprehistoric horses; they dig their hooves into the floor, and Let this cup pass from me then the rhinocerousy Hornung, enormous, black, in a hellish dress (behind herthe seamstresses) appears, extending her arms; and they cackle loudly, like black jackdaws: Crucify him! Crucify him Andthe soulsmotherer: a bent baguet! Everything vanished into an angry cloud; it was covered by a malicious creature; my Henrietta Martynovnainto tears! I know, I know: it will be hellish before the dining table, where they will undress and laugh over the bare me; and Hornung, swallowing slobber, spreads out my arms in layers; she orders the seamstresses to wave about their little hammers: against the little hats of the nail the little hammer irons ding-dongto the baguet! Already my tenfold fingers are bloodied; I will hang on the baguet, giving my admonitions to Dunyasha sobbingright up to the hyssop. In the apartment of Professor Pompul will be a strikean extra heavy, oaken one; into the cleft of the walls will bustle Pompul, doublecrested and deafened, witnessing: it has been consummated! Then: the heavens will enlighten with such a velvety-blue; there fly up clouds-velveters; completely persicans! And with alta-relief, with Persian brocade, the heavens will be wind-beaten, in order to be amianthine, dimming into a golden-crested cloud; they will take me down: and wrapping me hastefully in a twenty-length of demicotton with the bloody mark Elizaveta Letaeva, they will bear me off to the chest, where the groats are concealed, from where they once extracted a dead mouse; and they will sit and keep silent, someone will curl up to the chest; someone will say a lament over the dead Kotik; and already around the room ding-a-lings a cooing; and alllisten: What is this? Whitebells: I coo... And everyone caresses one another dovelike; to everyone shine: all the candles, all the lamps, all the sounds, all the words; and Papa, rising as the head of the family, anxiously informs them: Kotik is risen! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . In these thoughts I spent all day at Yorshs: I thought of the torments standing before me for tomorrow, until beyond the little window the greenish cold-stone lit upfrom the heavens; from the little courtyard I saw: a wettish little bushsome sort of marigold; from thereit smells (and yes: goldenrod, and that one does not come here); there were goldensnouted swine; andthey chomped, chomped on gold; but in the heavenly sky paleblue spars of some sort of moon color are laid out; those areamianthi a mosquito buzz buzzed: it began bizzing in my ears; they carried me to the divanwith a yawn. Thus I remember the evening! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I awoke in the arms of Henrietta Martynovna: Mama had sent her after me: Kotik, komm! Mama met me, opening the door, with angelcountenance: she covered me with the wings of her shawl; andshe cried together with me: My dearest, my little one: forgive me, for the sake of Christ! I was like one arisen: I walked into the goldacceptings of dawn and watched how over the iron roofs, swelling up, boiling greengifts of leaves stuck up: I wanted to sink into the olive twilight of tree trunks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . It was as if this spring I had arisen, having been bodiless (both night and day) in the events of the Galilean apartment, transsubstantiating its sinful Arbat life: Judea isthe drawing room; and Galileethe dining room; outflows, hangings of light lie like luminouspraises on the alebaster bust, orthe apostle: from the Sea of Tiberias, the carpet, I wash my prim hand; from the armchair balding Papa, a winterer, ran along the water,to meet me, placing his little palms (such a giftreceptacle) after the sunny, thrown sunbeam; I no longer am! I walked through Galilee; I measure with little legs the tiny little squares of the parquet floor: Right here, here on this parquet squarewill be the descent of the Spirit; and here on this oneit will not be consummated! Already on onea luminouscurl, luminouspraise, luminous-blow! On the other a mumbo-jumbo of dust! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One inescapable sun fell to the earth; it sits down on the earth; it sits down behind the earth! Another, one capable of rising, appears in the morning: blown up, purple; it passes on the run; andshows itself tiny: here it is, a yellow sparkle! Here an eeny-weeny, raging circle galloping in the little eyes, twinkling toblue; afterwards: The old sunset isgoldenmouthed! . . . . . . Or here, I imagine: At the tea ta- ble col- lect Papochka, Mamochka, Grannny, Uncle and, Auntie but Hen- rietta Martynovna isnot here, because she is a Luther- an; I spring up on the little table before them: My peaceI give you! and extending my little palms, I show the two crimson marks on them: they howl (blisters, nailed through); they begin to separate from the table cloth under the ceiling! where I sparkle with an outflowing of light; I run like a little fire over Papa, Mama, Uncle, Auntie; I hang above now, unsoldered on the motley spots of the newly arrived light, on the crimsoning of the window sills, before which soon Gran- ny will light the icon lamp; the lamp burns; Iminvisible, inaudible, like a word un-spoken; here at nights I pour out lilac; and Mama recognizes her own gospel in it, when, recalling Kotik, on a very sleepless night she lets herself down into the creases of the taken-down shades; from the creases I incline my angelicountenance, my silveriness . . . . . . . . . . . . . And I see Papa crowns me king: he brings gifts in a gift-bearing ciborium; before me he stands with brocaded alta-relief, stands with pineapple, with Oporto apple, or with goose apple,even: with antonovka, spirit apple; andhe affirms: By Andrei The Filleryou will be filled full with knowledge! You will bea mature fruit! And this occurs in Kasyanov, where I stand in spiked seedlings, in timothy grass, in other aromas. Already with goldfilament, a golden thread, the old womandawn has begun stitching her sarafon into the entire heavens. Kasyanovthe crucifier, the owner of the estate where we spend the summer, passes into his pineapplerie,there among the green copses; and he is a marquis with a very-very un-Russian speech, which everyone so respects. Isnt it time for you, Kotikto harquebus: to shoot my harquebus? Among the pineapples itsa red hot oven; pineapples are chased out to us; there, Daniel, I can be cast into it! I know in the dream that it is not here, on Arbat, my cross, but in the Kasyanov meadows, in the gladelike pastures, where the gladelike ryemarsh quietly purls, bubbles and an irony, watery azure grows cold, where at dawnit is Nazareth, where a gray old man on a gate blindly chews ryebread, covering his brow with an earless and roundtopped askew, a cap, where dawns, dignified wenches, putting on their sarafans, the golden ones, prepare my path to the heavens, like for Elijah, and where all are treated with a red anise apple. Papa here rises before me, he rings out deafeningly: There will bethe raising of red anises! . . . . . . . . . And I awake; and I see in the window, a star skips alongwith a luminescent trail; toward morning they will lay atlases, Chinese satins; nature, like an old Chinaman, grows ancient with its overgrowths; Papa isthe Christened Chinaman!  The Christened Chinaman Red Anise  vx--tle palms; and Papa will bellow-e laws, where the chasers chase and I an it is not here, on Arbat, my cross, but in the Kasyanov meadows, in the gladelike pastures, where the gladelike ryemarsh quietly purls, bubbles and an irony, watery azure grows cold, where at dawnit is Nazareth, where a gray old man on a gate blindly chews ryebread, cover 1B#p#)>)I8=8F8T8]99:s: