7 W-hU;fofofofofof}gAgAgAgQ g[(gg<gxg)h7 hWhm*h[fo Papochka You know: sanctitude! It resides in Papa; and to an understanding soul he seems stonelike, ordivorced from life, which is only a disorder of sensitive nerves ; and Papa strides through the days as a humorist, preferring the little leaves of lectures to all mysticism: but worshipping the buds and little leaves of a May poplar; Confucian wisdom filled him; his favorite phrases are: Everything isa measure of harmony! Where there is harmony, you know, there is measure! In the middle ground and, yes, in constancythe real man appears We go to the world, in order, having become the world, to stand above the world,in the world, in relationship to which the world isonly an atom, moving from world to world; the world of worlds, this iswe; the root of us is a numeral, and a numeral is a harmony of measure. Thus everything is a harmony of measure. I know that Papa lives like a conservator of weights and measures; he reveals the sounds of harmonies with the help of numerals; the incomprehensible, the incalculable he pushes away from himself, delighting both in a small little fly, and in the fact that one can discern a picture by Rizzoni gazing through a magnifying glass; he could spend hours delving deeply into trifles, discerning trifles; and constructing from trifles something which is not a trifle at all. There sticks in my memory: Yes, well, water! H two o: beauty! Simplicity! He tried to prove to everyone that champagne isgood for nothing: the structural formulas of complicated compositions are inelegant. Water is a great drink, given to usand in his tiny little eyesluminosity; with this luminary of thought he flattens out the tablecloth with a fingerhe walks about the room, grabbing a little pitcher with water, from which a run of emanating sunbeams lights up on the walls; pushing his spectacles up on his brow and screwing up his slant-eyes, he admires them; and he enlightens the ritual of water-drinking with runs of a wise word (thus: I have respect for water); the refinement of the senses is not elegance; the compilation of the numerator and the denominator of relations between the irritation of external objects and yes, the sensation of them. Complication, the confusion of thought and senses ishe secretively proposes with his mouth an opinion for us on the tapestried tableclothnot depth; these thoughts are not thoughts: the process of calculation isnot a result; results aregood. Yes, yes he fusses with his mustached mouth and tosses about glances hm, in the result usuallyhis paperknife flies up the numerator and, hm, the denominator of an unknown relation, hm, are reducedhm (the paperknife makes a quick zig-zag in the air, reducing a misty thoughtto a result of simple thought) and we move over: to simple relations!! here he views the opponent (Mama) victoriously (but Mamochka frowns). This is some sort ofyes-yes-yes!only a third, or only a half, but certainly not a fifth, nor a twenty-fifthquite cunningly he snickers striking a glass with his index finger jang! Again? Dont make that ringing sound on the glass!Mamochka bursts out in an exclamation The world isa relation short and simple; it isthe result of multicomplicated processes, but it is not a process: a result! Sult-sesult! He snaps his fingers: on an oilcloth circle; and he throws it up: that circle; and catching it, he lays this circle under a circle (he plays with circles). This nonsense has started again! How tedious this is: youve caused creases in the tablecloth again! Hmhe cries back, rather satisfied with his creation of the world and he expresses his satisfaction in unexpected mischief: leaping up, he runs thunderously around the not so large space of the anteroomto the kitchen. Flinging the door wide open he screams out his impromptu impetuouslyto Afrosinya: I beg Afrosinya To make us botvinya. No butter and no meat Kvas and onion well eat; Well finish all our peas, Youll bake some pies to please, Sour dough makes them tastier, O, you,Clytemnestra! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Yes, he used to put forth his rule: very measured, all would have said: a philistine China, from customs of high society, of laws and rules, filling the rules with an all together different content, taken from Leibniz, from Pythagoras, from Lao-tzu, he stubbornly tried in everything to carry out all of this, cramping us with counsel and bursting like a deaf rhinoceros into unfaceted music: to facet, to facet, to find results, to weigh and to fall in love! To which Ma-mochka replies: You, are a bighead ! And only special cases come out of this: only laughable consequences of loud theories; Papa himself began to live like a saint, a life limited by himself; he seemed to others to be limited; appearing amid us as a simpleton, he was quite often in a laughable condition meeting him on the street, you would not say: Professor! You would say: Swindler! he exchanged bowler hats and umbrellas in just a massive quantity, always leaving his own and dragging off someone elses goods: rather old ones, by the way. Others caught every chance to lower him; he fell into the trap immediately: You see? Once it was said: You know, surely Professor Letaev is suffering from a softening of the brain? Yes, yes: the rational means to live did not always succeed; and the clarity of the French thinkers truly secreted the mists; I used to stare at him for a long time; and the forces comprising his world would become enigmatic for me; he used to change sides on himself; everywhere he transgressed the measure: measurelessly he thought up measures and means: and he used to forget them; like the means of brewing acids (manganese and boric). Ah, Lizankaonce he saidthere are magnificent means to preserve our teeth from damage with a brew of acids! Ah, you: means, means! No, dont you know And he secreted his solution until its time; once he burst in with an enormous funnel of tin, with a green bottle, with a sack of acid crystals (for some reason he had purchased a blank bottle). What are you doing? But this, Lizochek.. here you see, I to brew boric hm, acid But?.. Who is going to allow you? Lizochka, Ill brew it up quickly for myself. I wont permit it: its an outrage, a unimaginable disgrace! But truly, with bullish stubbornness, setting aside a tray, he stood up the bottle; fiddling over the funnel. At this point Mama, unable to hold herself back, broke into a peal of laughter; and Aunt Dotya after herlaughed pea, pea, pea; poking about with his nose in the blank bottle and burning his trembling fingers on the stream of boiling water, he muttered: The solution is concentrated. And hee-hee-hee the solution of acid, which had begun to gurgle, set off into the funnel; twice he made a brew in this image, having forgotten about the means; the means (the funnel) were sent off at this point: into the rubbish; thus the means to live were demolished: means after means: he did not stand in the way; yes, he loved: results, sums, capabilities, which became means; he himself lost these means; he lived by means of the capability: to think up means! I remember! Once a grayhaired musk-ox appeared in the dining room; such a highfalutin, importantprofessor from Kiev; Papochka, having leaped up and wiping his hands in welcome, thundered off to the study, leaving the honored guest in dumb amazement. Wait: just a minute! I know: it is always like this; they arriveand he takes cover; to perform in the study some sort of action (he wont say which); whichI know: are two actions being consummated here quite often one after the other; the first action: a run through the little corridor to the dark little room with a burntdown candle; andwith a little volume; after standing there a while, he runs back out; and on the go he buttons up he does not come out: he stands before the door in the drawing room; from behind the door he is already speaking with the guest; and continues to button up, putting his nose out from behind the door, the very thing which is not buttoned up; we knew this; and we very much feared that he would come out before he succeeded in finishing all of this; but he did come out, buttoned up; and immediatelywith his head into the conversation; and the second, secreted actionconsisted of: Right away Wait just a minute! He takes cover: leaping up, thundering joyfully: Vasily Ivanych, Im overjoyed Vasily Ivanych, are you here from Kiev for long?.. You should have, Vasily Ivanych I would have, Vasily IvanychVasily Ivanych, Vasily Ivanych: Vasily Ivanych, for sure must think that this is a mocking of Vasily Ivanych; suddenly Vasily Ivanych turns into Vasily Ilych; this Vasily Ivanych is pronounced so joyfully, as if in the very combination of sounds Vasily Ivanych there is a secret which Papa alone knows, but which Vasily Ivanych does not know; and luminous sunbeams run: here-here-here: it ran along the tablecloth, fluttered under the ceiling, quickened in a zig-zag on the white wallpaper, on faces; it got lost in the windows; Moscow cleared up: it isthe little sun (thats how Vasily Ivanych is, I can say!) our faces burn with a rosy strong ruddiness! Vasily Ivanych Bykaenko is touched by the amiability, the joyfulness of Papa but what is the joyfulness about? Iknow: Wait just a minute: Ill, be back right awayhe runs off to the study, frightened,straight to the desk; and he grabs there, over the desk, behind the pockets; behind the thin wall I hear: O Lord! God dammit! Ah! Ive lost it Where is the little key? ? Its not here. Shoo-shoo a sheet of paper spread shuffles, a little leaf of paper soars up, and something thunders Im done for! Silence sets in, full of horror: if he doesnt find the key, he wont come out, hell begin to fool about; the guest is waiting. Ive found it! The thunderous crack of a drawer: I know, from there a thick, bound book is grabbed; tossing his spectacles up on his brow, he sticks his nose to the pages, covered in writing with a galloping hand-writing; he runs with his fingers, very satisfied with himself and the means: Well now, lets have a look? And he whisks through like a whisper: So-so-so: heres a ; heres b : Badabaev, Badeev Nofurther: ahno: dammit: Bercheev, Berendeev, Berneev, Berseev; no further, my old chap; here: Budaev, Bugaev Bykaenko!! Here it is. Hee-hee-hee! Here it is! Ive found it! Here he isthe surprised and joyful whisper carriesVasily Ivanych Bykaenko Public figure The whisper becomes louder: Professor! And the whisper becomes an exclamation: Eh heh-heh-heh: hee-hee: hee-hee Babbler! And? Tell me, if you please, old chap! Now that is something! A babbler! A liberal, an Austriophile! Hee-hee-hee And leaping up, he passes back and forth on the run from excitement behind the thin wall, lights a candle, and quickly runs past the nursery into the dark little room; there to discuss that which had just been learned; there he locks himself up: I know: already: in a skipping handwriting, striving to get into the book, our acquaintances begin to drop in,all of them, all (Berendeevs, Berenyovs, Burnyovs, Bernilins, Berniches, Berpovs, Bershes, Berseevsmany hundreds of them!), arranged by surname in alphabetical order; given are short character sketches, first names, patronymics, kinds of activities and inclinations; here having gleaned the raw material for a conversation, my Papa, returning with the candle, runs with a thunderous roar into the drawing room, to the guest; just before running in, still stumbling behind the door, strangely bogged down there, he tosses out one after another one of the handwritten words, which had just been underlined: Yes: I am overjoyed to see you gives out from behind the door. You, surely, Vasily Ivanychthe door squeaked, from where a nose stuck out with a quite cunning, all together goodspirited walrus-like face. You, Vasily IvanychPapa behind the door is trying to cope with an unyielding toilette part: Youve, surely, just arrived here? Well, whats new in Kiev? What about Antonovich?the floorboards squeak in the drawing room What is Grushevsky writing?the armchair already squeaks Is Bukreev well? Is Mrs. Zakharchenko-Vashchenko still so stout?his hands are thrown about right and left. And what about the Kostyakovskys? The old professor (babbler, liberal, Austriophile),all puffed up, shaggy, a grayhaired musk-ox, does not try to breathe his smelly opinion out clearly; he gargles some sluggish words in his throat and phaaeys into a white handkerchief, he is overblown, swollen up, like a bottlenot a sound; but Papochka knows that this bottle secretes much fizz and foam; and he walks around in a circle, collecting himself to drink up the conversation, and raises his spectacles, licking his lips like a cat; he sits down with an allow me to ask, in order to penetrate: with his tongue, like a corkscrew: he turns and turns, and turns it, andtugs at the cork; the bottle pops; and after phooing forth words, it pours out like fizzling champagne; and all are intoxicated; the liberal babbler fizzes and produces fir shoots of words; Mama sits quietly in her cornflower-blue jacket; her little breast breathing, like a fan fluttering quietly; I see: her little mouth listens spellbound. Ah, ah! Good! So beautiful; so sonorous. And Papa sits as the little humorist: bitingly, slanteyed he laughs and looks attentively as they placed the idle gossip on a cart: they lash the little horse; and pompositywas on its way; a prattle a rattlin on! Papa suddenly burst out at him, popping a word like a cork: Mamochka jerks (her little lips pulled together like a little ring); the piercing scream raised by Papa, the opponent of an independent life for those at the extreme edges of the country, depresses her; but Papa goes to extremes with his words: Allow, allow me! And having driven up quietly in a bass voice, he tosses out howls;well and he began to shout indivisibly at the top of his voice: You areinveterate, old chap: you areinveterate You arewith the Polacks You, I tell you, are for Austriahe leaps up and cries out in stride; he passes like a heavy cleaver through alien opinions, and grabbing hold of an opinion like a frockcoat button with a strong hand, pressing his nose and his own two spectacles to the chin of Bykaenko (he is taller than him), he stands on tiptoes; Bykaenko draws back into the corner; there they trample him with a heavy crushing blow; already Mamochkas little face grows thin from the tedium; andit tosses itself straight into ones eyes; and they glow white hot, and run, blue, like the little flames of coal gas; the heavy coal fumes make ones head ache; the little coal eyes naggingly burn everything in front of them; me, if it is me; more likelyit is Papa. The debate strengthens over tea: You are for Austria, for Austria; and whose money is holding Ukrainian literature together, old chap?.. We know about that!.. You, I am going to inform you I amfor Shevchenko Shevchenko was completely blocked out by you Muscovites. Like Gogol? Papa giggles bitingly. What about Gogol? A Russian peasant... NowShevchenko... Shevchenko Shevchenko Shevchenko Papa pokes his nose in the air And Antonovich? And his gang?and he points his eyes at the corner (and I look overisnt Antonovich sitting in the corner with some sort of gang); our Papa is a Roosky; and I know from Mama, that to be a Roosky,that means: wrapping red sashes about oneself, stomping and shouting; Mama does not like this at all, but I see, that, these actions have brought us to the Rooskies; I see Papa sitting, straining his sly, Scythian little eyes on everything, like beads, sparkling Scythian points of view at everything: Papa is a Scythian, a cleaver of questions, a great curser! and Papa seems like a tyrant, ready to slice up with a table knife whomever you like,with a table knife, grabbed by him scatterbrainedly and in the debate striking it all over the tablecloth,in truth it had a blunt tip (Mama feared for the tablecloth, for the new one with the cocks, but not for the one with the peacocks); I remember: Papa was always forcing himself to make a cutlet from the tablecloth with this little knife: Yes, yesAntonovich, I tell you openly, is a Jesuit! But Bykaenko is going all out (here comes the scandal across the table!): What do you mean, you know, after all Antonovich is a magnificent scholar, a public figure: our Ukrainian Erasmus You, probably, havent even read the works of Antonovich. Papas word crashes down: as he points his extended finger: I have so read them! Andhe tries to put forth an army of arguments,he quickly leaps up on the chair; his eyes drink in their own reflection on the copper (we have a samovar of red copper). He chops cutlets in the air with his hands: and we can just whistle and snap our fingers: his word jumps around the rooms like a little ball! But Ill tell you firstly!.. Tenthly!! Twentiethly!!! Hm, hm! I know that his hm is pregnant with significance; from the hm there follows: How?!? What in the world?!? Yes for all of this I could get you But here, suddenly grabbed by a thought, he lets drop: Yech! Hopelessly he throws off his napkin onto the tablecloth; and he hunches over again, snapping the starch of his shirt, sits down on the chair, placing down his outstretched palm (he tosses his little penknife in the air not taking into account objections); the other hand he hooks behind the chair, pressing it under his armpit, and prepares to jump on all of thistogether with the chair; thus they debate for hours: I saw a playtoy: The Smith and the Bear; you jiggle the board: the Smith and the Bear bang away with their little hammersin the middle ground between them; I see now, that all of this was playing, here are The Smith and the Bear: and they sit and bang away first with fists, then with words: in the middle ground between them: all opinions were taken apart; they were laid out by Papa like cards: like this and that,like in patience: Papa loved to play patience; and he deftly complicated his patiences from debates; he would grab up all of Bykaenkos opinions; he throws his cards on the table, throws them about like this and that, and Bykaenko watches, what will become of Papas opinions (the devil knows what); and he puffs uplike some kind of sour dough; in his brain a batter of gray matter; he digs his finger and drips white dandruff from a bald spot onto his shoulders; offended he begins to take his leave, having left all of his opinions; Papa, satisfied now, that he has debated, is suddenly grabbed by a thoughthe becomes confused, wipes his hands; and leading the guest into the anteroom, cannot in his soul praise him sufficiently (he did not like likeminded persons: he loved only opponents). A red and perspiring Bykaenko, as if just from the bathhouse, having wrapped around his shawl, his musk-ox face sticks out of his hat like from behind the hay, he bows to Papa, and Papochka, shining all over, screwing up his eyes, draws his head into the shoulders flying up to meet it: I, so to say Dont take my words to heart! And with a full palm he slices the air; andclicks his heavy heels, crawling with his other hand into the pocket of the pantaloons with the rhinoceros creases hanging below the knees; yes, the pantaloons are longer than they should be; a gray, wide jacket,it is shorter than it should be; below the knees, hanging cloth, the pantaloons formed a second set of feet inside of which Papa walked like stockings and rocking his stooping back, bent slightly to the right, he goes from the anteroom, sucking on his lips and snapping his tongue in his mouth resoundingly, as though he had eaten his fill; with his left hand set aside which would catch on everything, he would swing about and in the right he always holds: a little paperknife, a pencil stub, or a little volume, and Mama pesters him: Did you shout enough? Well, nohe winks at Mamochka with his running, like little wheels, quick, guilty eyes, No, what for: we spoke like this, debated a little; like we discussed How they discussed! Thus many people like that, who appeared at our house for the first time, did not appear a second time. And in Mamochka, I know, a most malicious anthill of words, very biting ones is already swarming: You didnt give me a chance to say a word No, not a word! Isit there, like some kitchen maid, to wash your cups An unimaginable disgrace: an outrage! Afterwards the apartment bites for a long time (and here a little ant, and there a little ant); and Papochkaa click of the heels to the study; behind him, following,Mamochka; Papa moves about the rooms; Mamochka moves about the rooms following; much is pronounced here; but about I or youthere is no mention; Mamochkas mouth tinkles, a little bell, about how others of us speak in words about a numeral and about a measure, but in action; yes, there are those, who; I do not like these those; it would be better if she would just say straight out you; for these those areboors, ruffians, dumb Rooskiesthey force my little heart to beat forcefully; and to think, that these those arePapa. Thoserush quickly along the corridor like rhinoceroses: to the club . . . . .  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