Valery Yakovlevich Bryusov

Mount Stars

dedication

Entering the desert ten years ago, I believed that I had parted with educated world. Quite unusual events forced me to take up the pen and write my memoirs. What I saw, perhaps no one else saw. But I experienced even more in the depths of my soul. My beliefs, which seemed unshakable to me, are shattered or shaken. I am horrified to see how much powerful truth there is in what I have always despised. These notes might have had a purpose: to warn others like me. But they will probably never find a reader. I write them with juice on leaves, I write them in the wilds of Africa, far from the last traces of enlightenment, under a bechuana hut, listening to the incessant roar of Mozi-oa-Tunya. O great waterfall! The most beautiful thing in the world! In this desert alone, perhaps you comprehend my worries. And I dedicate these pages to you.

The sky was dark blue, the stars large and bright, when I opened my eyes. I did not move, only the hand, which in my dream was clutching the handle of the dagger, leaned on it harder ... The groan was repeated. Then I got up and sat down. The big bonfire, which had been lit in the evening against wild animals, went out, and my Negro Mstega slept buried in the ground ...

“Get up,” I called out, “take your spear, follow me!”

We went in the direction from which the groans were heard. For ten minutes we wandered at random. Finally, I noticed something bright ahead.

- Who lies here without a fire? I called. Answer or I'll shoot. “I said these words in English, and then repeated them in the local Kaffir dialect, then again in Dutch, Portuguese, French. There was no answer. I approached, revolver at the ready.

On the sand in a pool of blood lay a man dressed in European style. It was an old man of about sixty. His whole body was wounded by blows of spears. The trail of blood led far into the desert; the wounded crawled for a long time before finally falling.

I ordered Mstege to build a fire and tried to bring the old man to his senses. Half an hour later he began to move, his eyelashes lifted, and his gaze rested on me, at first dim, then brightened.

Do you understand me? I asked in English. Having received no answer, I repeated the question in every language I knew, even Latin. The old man was silent for a long time, then spoke in French:

“Thank you, my friend. I know all these languages, and if I kept silent, it was for my own reasons. Tell me where did you find me?

I explained.

Why am I so weak? Are my wounds dangerous?

“You won't survive the day.

As soon as I uttered these words, the dying man trembled all over, his lips twisted, bony fingers dug into my hand. His measured speech was replaced by hoarse cries.

- It can't be!.. Not now, no!.. at the pier!.. you are mistaken.

"Perhaps," I said coldly.

“Let the master wait,” he groaned dully, “the sorcerer will tell everything, he heard about it from his fathers as a boy. There, in the middle of the Cursed Desert, stands the Mountain of the Star, high to the sky. Demons live in it. Sometimes they come out of their country and devour babies in kraals. Whoever goes into the desert will perish. And you can't talk about it...

I had enough. I lowered the Winchester and slowly walked through the dumbfounded crowd to the hut allotted to me. Staying in the village for the night seemed unsafe to me. In addition, I understood that one could only walk in the Cursed Desert at night. I ordered Mstega to prepare for the journey. We took with us a supply of water for five days, some provisions and everything necessary for a hut, so that there was somewhere to hide from the heat. I divided all the burden into two equal packs, myself and Mstege. Then he sent to tell the head of the tribe that we were leaving. The whole village came out to see us off, but everyone kept a considerable distance. I walked to the edge of the desert, whistling merrily. The month has risen. The edges of the layers bizarrely lit up under the moonbeams. At this time, I heard someone's voice. Turning around, I saw that the sorcerer stepped forward from the crowd and also stood on the edge of the desert. Stretching out his hands in our direction, he distinctly pronounced the prescribed words. It was a spell that doomed us to avenging spirits for disturbing the tranquility of the desert.

The moon was still low, and long shadows from the sorcerer's hands followed us into the desert and for a long time stubbornly clung to our legs.

On the same day, towards evening, I began the journey promised to the old man. The map of that part of Africa, still almost unexplored, was known to me much better than any European geographer ... Moving forward, I increasingly persistently collected information about the area where I was heading. At first, only the most knowledgeable could answer me that there lies a special Cursed Desert. Then people began to meet who knew different legends about this desert. Everyone spoke of her reluctantly. After [several] days of travel, we came to the countries neighboring the Cursed Desert. Here everyone knew her, everyone saw her, but no one had been in her. Previously, brave souls who entered the desert were sought out, but it seems that none of them returned.

The boy, taken by me as a guide, brought us to the very desert by the nearest paths. Behind the forest, the path went through a luxurious steppe. By evening, we reached the temporary village of the Bechuans, already spread out at the very edge of the desert. I was received respectfully, they gave me a special hut and sent me a heifer as a gift.

Before sunset, leaving Mstega to guard the property, I went alone to look at the desert. Nothing more strange than the border of this desert, I have not seen in my wandering life. The vegetation did not disappear gradually: there was no usual transitional strip from the greenery of the meadows to the barren steppe. Immediately for two or three fathoms, the pasture turned into a lifeless rocky plain. On the rich soil, covered with tropical grass, gray strata, either slate or solonchak, suddenly leaned at the corners; piled on top of each other, they formed a wild jagged plane that stretched into the distance. Cracks and crevices snaked and stretched on this surface, often very deep and up to two arshins wide, but it itself was as hard as granite. The rays of the setting sun were reflected here and there from the ribs and notches, blinding the eyes with play of light. But still, looking closely, one could discern a pale gray cone on the horizon, the top of which sparkled like a star. I returned to the kraal thoughtful. Soon a crowd surrounded me: they gathered to look at white man going to the Cursed Desert. In the crowd I also noticed a local sorcerer. Suddenly, approaching him, I aimed the muzzle of the Winchester at the level with his chest. The sorcerer was petrified with fear; Clearly he knew the gun. And the crowd backed away.

“But what,” I asked slowly, “does my father know any prayers before death?”

“I know,” the sorcerer answered uncertainly.

“Then let him read them, because he is about to die.”

I clicked the trigger. The blacks in the distance let out a cry.

“You will die,” I repeated, “because you hide from me what you know about the Cursed Desert.

I watched the change of mood on the sorcerer's face. His lips curled up, wrinkles on his forehead shifted, then opened. I put my finger on the dog. It could be that the sorcerer really doesn't know anything, but in a moment I would pull the trigger. Suddenly the sorcerer fell to the ground.

“I just lost a lot of blood.

I smiled.

– You keep losing her; I couldn't stop the bleeding.

The old man began to cry, begging to be saved. Finally, his throat began to bleed, and he again lost consciousness. The second time he woke up, he was calm again.

“Yes, I am dying,” he said, “you are right. It's hard now. But listen. Fate has made you my heir.

“I don’t need anything,” I protested.

“Oh, don’t think,” the old man interrupted, “it’s not about treasure, not about money. Here is something else. I own the secret.

He spoke hastily, confusedly; then he began to tell his life, then he jumped to the latest events. I didn't understand a lot. Probably most in my place would consider the old man crazy. Since childhood, he was fascinated by the idea of interplanetary relations. He dedicated his whole life to her. in different scientific societies he made reports on the projectiles he invented for flying from Earth to another planet. He was laughed at everywhere. But heaven, as he put it, kept the reward of his old age. On the basis of some remarkable documents, he became convinced that the question of interplanetary relations had already been resolved precisely by the inhabitants of Mars. At the end of the XIII century of our chronology, they sent a ship to Earth. This ship landed in Central Africa. According to the old man, on this ship were not travelers, but exiles, daring fugitives to another planet. They did not explore the Earth, but only tried to make themselves comfortable. Protecting themselves from the savages by an artificial desert, they lived in its middle as a separate independent society. The old man was convinced that the descendants of these settlers from Mars still live in that country.

Entering the desert ten years ago, I believed that I had left the educated world forever. Quite unusual events forced me to take up the pen and write my memoirs. What I saw, perhaps no one else saw. But I experienced even more in the depths of my soul. My beliefs, which seemed unshakable to me, are shattered or shaken. I am horrified to see how much powerful truth there is in what I have always despised. These notes might have had a purpose: to warn others like me. But they will probably never find a reader. I write them with juice on leaves, I write them in the wilds of Africa, far from the last traces of enlightenment, under a bechuana hut, listening to the incessant roar of Mozi-oa-Tunya. O great waterfall! The most beautiful thing in the world! In this desert alone, perhaps you comprehend my worries. And I dedicate these pages to you.

...

1

“Get up,” I called out, “take your spear, follow me!”

We went in the direction from which the groans were heard. For ten minutes we wandered at random. Finally, I noticed something bright ahead.

I ordered Mstege to build a fire and tried to bring the old man to his senses. Half an hour later he began to move, his eyelashes lifted, and his gaze rested on me, at first dim, then brightened.

Do you understand me? I asked in English. Having received no answer, I repeated the question in every language I knew, even Latin. The old man was silent for a long time, then spoke in French:

“Thank you, my friend. I know all these languages, and if I kept silent, it was for my own reasons. Tell me where did you find me?

I explained.

Why am I so weak? Are my wounds dangerous?

“You won't survive the day.

As soon as I uttered these words, the dying man trembled all over, his lips twisted, bony fingers dug into my hand. His measured speech was replaced by hoarse cries.

- It can't be!.. Not now, no!.. at the pier!.. you are mistaken.

"Perhaps," I said coldly.

The moon was still low, and long shadows from the sorcerer's hands followed us into the desert and for a long time stubbornly clung to our legs.

2

Before sunset, leaving Mstega to guard the property, I went alone to look at the desert. Nothing more strange than the border of this desert, I have not seen in my wandering life. The vegetation did not disappear gradually: there was no usual transitional strip from the greenery of the meadows to the barren steppe. Immediately for two or three fathoms, the pasture turned into a lifeless rocky plain. On the rich soil, covered with tropical grass, gray strata, either slate or solonchak, suddenly leaned at the corners; piled on top of each other, they formed a wild jagged plane that stretched into the distance. Cracks and crevices snaked and stretched on this surface, often very deep and up to two arshins wide, but it itself was as hard as granite. The rays of the setting sun were reflected here and there from the ribs and notches, blinding the eyes with play of light. But still, looking closely, one could discern a pale gray cone on the horizon, the top of which sparkled like a star. I returned to the kraal thoughtful. Soon a crowd surrounded me: they gathered to look at the white man walking into the Cursed Desert. In the crowd I also noticed a local sorcerer. Suddenly, approaching him, I aimed the muzzle of the Winchester at the level with his chest. The sorcerer was petrified with fear; Clearly he knew the gun. And the crowd backed away.

Bryusov Valery

Mount Stars

Valery Bryusov

Mount Stars

DEDICATION

Entering the desert ten years ago, I believed that I had left the educated world forever. Quite unusual events forced me to take up the pen and write my memoirs. What I saw, perhaps no one else saw. But I experienced even more in the depths of my soul. My beliefs, which seemed unshakable to me, are shattered or shaken. I am horrified to see how much powerful truth there is in what I have always despised. These notes might have had a purpose: to warn others like me. But they will probably never find a reader. I write them with juice on leaves, I write them in the wilds of Africa, far from the last traces of enlightenment, under a bechuana hut, listening to the unceasing roar of Mozi-oa-Tunya (*1). O great waterfall! The most beautiful thing in the world! In this desert alone, perhaps you comprehend my worries. And I dedicate these pages to you.

The sky was dark blue, the stars large and bright, when I opened my eyes. I didn't move, only my hand, which had been clutching the handle of the dagger in my sleep, leaned on it harder... The groan was repeated. Then I got up and sat down. The big bonfire, which had been lit against wild animals since the evening, was dying out, and my negro Mstega was sleeping, buried in the ground ...

Get up, - I shouted, - take a spear, follow me!

We went in the direction from which the groans were heard. For ten minutes we wandered at random. Finally, I noticed something bright ahead.

Who lies here without a fire? I called. Answer me or I'll shoot. - These words I said in English, and then repeated in the local Kaffir dialect (*2), then again in Dutch, Portuguese, French. There was no answer. I approached, revolver at the ready.

I ordered Mstege to build a fire and tried to bring the old man to his senses. Half an hour later he began to move, his eyelashes lifted, and his gaze rested on me, at first dim, then brightened.

Do you understand me? I asked in English. Having received no answer, I repeated the question in every language I knew, even Latin. The old man was silent for a long time, then spoke in French:

Thank you my friend. I know all these languages, and if I kept silent, it was for my own reasons. Tell me where did you find me?

I explained.

Why am I so weak? Are my wounds dangerous?

You won't survive the day.

As soon as I uttered these words, the dying man trembled all over, his lips twisted, bony fingers dug into my hand. His measured speech was replaced by hoarse cries.

It can't be!.. Not now, no!.. at the pier!.. you are mistaken.

Possibly, I said coldly.

Let the master wait, - he moaned dully, - the sorcerer will tell everything, he heard about it from his fathers as a boy. There, in the middle of the Cursed Desert, stands the Mountain of the Star, high to the sky. Demons live in it. Sometimes they come out of their country and devour babies in kraals. Whoever goes into the desert will perish. And you can't talk about it...

The moon was still low, and long shadows from the sorcerer's hands followed us into the desert and for a long time stubbornly clung to our legs.

On the same day, towards evening, I began the journey promised to the old man. The map of that part of Africa, still almost unexplored, was known to me much better than to any European geographer ... Moving forward, I increasingly persistently collected information about the area where I was heading. At first, only the most knowledgeable could answer me that there lies a special Cursed Desert. Then people began to meet who knew different legends about this desert. Everyone spoke of her reluctantly. After [several] days of travel, we came to the countries neighboring the Cursed Desert. Here everyone knew her, everyone saw her, but no one had been in her. Previously, brave souls who entered the desert were sought out, but it seems that none of them returned.

Before sunset, leaving Mstega to guard the property, I went alone to look at the desert. Nothing more strange than the border of this desert, I have not seen in my wandering life. The vegetation did not disappear gradually: there was no usual transitional strip from the greenery of the meadows to the barren steppe. Immediately for two or three fathoms, the pasture turned into a lifeless rocky plain. On the rich soil, covered with tropical grass, gray strata, either slate or solonchak, suddenly leaned at the corners; piled on top of each other, they formed a wild jagged plane that stretched into the distance. Cracks and crevices snaked and stretched on this surface, often very deep and up to two arshins wide, but it itself was as hard as granite. The rays of the setting sun were reflected here and there from the ribs and notches, blinding the eyes with play of light. But still, looking closely, one could discern a pale gray cone on the horizon, the top of which sparkled like a star. I returned to the kraal thoughtful. Soon a crowd surrounded me: they gathered to look at the white man walking into the Cursed Desert. In the crowd I also noticed a local sorcerer. Suddenly, approaching him, I aimed the muzzle of the Winchester at the level with his chest. The sorcerer was petrified with fear; Clearly he knew the gun. And the crowd backed away.

Dedicated to Yu. Kazakov

I arrived in Zakopane late at night. It was snowing, very large, which seemed decorative from this. Everything around: small cottages, cafes near the station, drivers in hats, horses dressed like fashionistas - all this also seemed decorative, made especially for those who come here to ski.

Athletes came with the same last train. They got into the bus of their base and drove off to the mountains. I was left alone in the echoing station square. Far below, in the city, the clock of the big town hall chimed thinly, like ice.

I went up to the old driver and asked:

Will you take me to the boarding house?

Please sir. - The driver threw a fragrant sheep cavity on me, sat down on the box and, dangling his legs in white felt trousers, asked: - Let's go, horse.

The horse has gone. The bells rang, as icy as the clock on the big town hall.

Pan wants to go fast?

No, if possible - not quickly.

Can. Whether fast, slow - one tariff.

Your Russian is good.

I'm an old Pole.

Well, that's enough ... Are you old?

Highly. Does Pan want to talk or is it better to drive silently?

As you please.

Oh, pan barzo is delicate. I'll probably sing softly.

All around - both high above and far, far below - twinkling lights. From them I guessed the outlines of the mountains. It seemed to me that I heard music hiding behind these winking distant lights in the mountains. The road was knurled, the sleigh went easily. Heavy snow continued to fall. There were soft white lumps on the branches. The road snaked down, among huge soft snowdrifts. I thought that although New Year already arrived, Santa Claus with a bag in which gifts are hidden, still walks around here and sings a quiet song, just like my driver.

I rang the doorbell for a long time, and then I decided to look for another boarding house, but the driver was already singing a song quite far away, and the bells rang barely audible.

I stood on the porch and heard how everything around was sleeping ... Even the snow ended, as if tired and also fell asleep, laying down on the ground. The moon came out, and the mountains around immediately became visible. They were very tall and jagged. The snow on the mountains was different from the snow in the valley. There he was as if electric, illuminated from the inside by an inanimate blue light.

Who is?

Please open.

The door opened, and I smelled of warmth, freshly baked bread and slightly burnt coffee.

Good evening. What does the sir want? - asked the woman with gray curls.

I need a room.

Pan alone?

I'll show the pan to his apartment.

We climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor. The woman opened a small door and I entered a tiny room. The moonlight made her blue. Mountains and sky were visible from the window.

If the pan is hardened, then you can open the window.

I will open.

Please come down in five minutes for coffee.

I answered in Polish:

Dzenkuyu bardzo, pani ...

The woman smiled a stern teacher's smile, curtsied and left.

I opened the window and immediately heard the cold chime of the town hall clock. The air in the room turned blue. Heated during the day by the mountain sun, he kept the smells of summer.

The lights in the mountains were no longer winking. Silence lay over Zakopane, and only bells rang somewhere in the distance.

When I lay down in the cold bed, I suddenly felt as if I had once been at home. I sat alone at night and worked. And in front of me was a black telephone. I called a friend and asked:

Do you know my new number?

He wrote it down.

Bye, - I said and hung up.

A minute later he called me and asked:

Good evening, old man, how are you?

Thank you. Already better. And you?

And I, as always, well. Sleep.

I then felt calm and healthy after his call. And now I was lying, looking at the mountains and trying to sleep. There was a soft knock on the door.

Good night sir...

Good night, pani, - I answered, smiling, and immediately fell asleep.

There is no end, there is only the beginning. And the beginning of all beginnings is morning. And the beginning of the morning - the sun. It woke me up - swift and bright. In winter, the sun appears blue in the mountains. exuberant sunlight burst into my room, cut my eyes with a reflection from the mirror, lit up the red edge of a glass of water standing on the table, and froze in the glass of the chandelier - each with its own special color. The sun frolicked in my room merrily like a puppy. I lay and remembered the Warsaw clinic. There were newborns with heart defects. Mothers looked at them with tenderness and calmness. And the doctor who took me around the wards said quietly:

Do you see that woman? Her son will die in five days. And this girl will probably die tomorrow evening.

When we arrived at his office, he took off his robe and said:

That's it, my dear...

I asked:

Was it always?

He replied:

And will it always be?

No. Only as long as there is war in the world. In my opinion, heart disease stems from fear.

The cable car led to the mountains. Forty people packed into the trailer. Everyone was wearing skis, thick jumpers and hats with baby pom-poms. Their faces were black and weather-beaten from the harsh winter tan.

Here he jumped, - the boy explained to his girlfriend. - They called upstairs, and the SS were waiting for him there. And he saw their jackets. He just at that time was passing over the gorge. You see, there are two hundred meters, no less. He managed to put on his skis and jumped from the trailer into the gorge, and then went down the slope. They fired at him with machine guns, but he got away from them anyway.

Could you jump like this? the girl asked sternly.

The lad looked once more at the sharp, razor-sharp peaks that floated under us, at the tiny strip of snow that ran between the stones, at the rocks, which piled up even lower with an impregnable wall and which he would certainly have had to go around at full speed, and answered:

Help me open the door.

The girl's eyes became frightened.

She said:

What are you…

She put her hand on the boy's huge shoulder.

At the very top of the Polish Tatras there is an observatory. Skiers stand under the telescopes and adjust the bindings. The scientists smile at them and then lean back into their telescopes to look at stars invisible to the naked eye. One by one the skiers go down. They are cosmic in their speed. There was a man nearby, for a moment - and he was gone, only far below you could see a tiny red or blue dot on a dazzling sheet of snow.

Five minutes later, there was no one on the site at the observatory. Scientists froze near their telescopes. Silence. Only the wind sometimes blew in gusts. It will ring, invisible, and will be carried away further.

Does the pan want to take a picture?

I turn around. Standing next to me is a tall guy in a sheepskin coat. He has two devices on his chest. Next to him is a huge St. Bernard.

I will give you a dog and take a picture of you as a memento of the Tatras. Rescuer dog. I am also a lifeguard and I also take pictures of visitors a little more.

The guy nods his head at the copper bell mounted on top.

If there is a snowstorm and not all skiers go down, I will ring the bell so that they hear the sounds and come to me. And the dog will run to them and drag them if they get tired or frightened.

May I ring the bell?

So there is no storm...

I understand…

Oh, I see! Pan wants to try it, right? Please, please barzo, I didn't understand you at first. Just not too loud, please.

Okay, I'm quiet.

I went up to the bell and pulled on a thick, tarred rope that smelled like a ship. "Jing-n-n", - a heavy, drawn-out sound floated over the mountains. The dog began to escape from the hands of the owner.

It's nothing, - said the guy, - don't be afraid of him.

And let the dog go. He first spun in place, and then rushed down, following the skiers. White, he disappeared into the snow in a minute.

Maybe call again to get him back?

He will then drag a very angry skier, - the guy grinned. He will never come back alone. For us, the ringing of the bell is just a signal, for him it is work. Now I will return it.

The guy shouted, covering his mouth with his palms, like a mouthpiece:

Joe! Hey Joe!

The dog returned as quickly as it had disappeared. He looked at the guy with big sad eyes and sat down, whimpering.

It's all right, the guy said. - Do not worry. You see, there is no snowstorm, we were just joking...

The guy gave the dog a lump of sugar and patted him on his thick gray fur.

When he rests, you can ring the bell again.

No, I won't ring the bell again.

I, perhaps, will take a picture of you against the backdrop of a bell with a dog in an embrace.

Yes. With a dog it comes out very heroically. Panenki like it.

You think heroic?

Let's be heroic.

And maybe even lyrically. One of your skiers said that a Soviet poet wrote poems about a dog that gives a paw for friendship.

This is Yesenin.

I forgot, she often called his name, but for some reason I forgot. In general, it is very good when writers write poems about dogs. I shot lyrically - this is when a dog gives a paw, and you stroke his head.

No, let's be heroic.

OK. E, Joe, go to the pan.

The dog came up to me and poked his huge muzzle in the chest.

Let's hug, Joe, I said.

The dog sighed impulsively, looked at the owner and sat down. I hugged him. The guy clicked the camera several times. He called out.

Bardzo will be heroic, sir! Leave your address, I will send your portrait by airmail.

In Zakopane there is another road to the mountains. Only this is not a trailer that dangles over bottomless abysses, but a smooth funicular. Here, in the funicular, there are no such strong guys and girls. There are more and more fragile women with small children. Women climb mountains with blankets and beach bags. The kids are dressed like real skiers. They are wearing thick jumpers, thin trousers that are tight around the legs, and rough boots, just like those worn by adult skiers.

Upstairs in sun loungers, undressed, lie the parents. They light up. Legs are wrapped in blankets, and noses are covered with tissue paper.

Children at this time are standing in a paddock next to a long, elderly, very strong coach. He is in a light shirt, his neck is bronze, cast, his cheeks are cut by two longitudinal wrinkles, his eyes are hidden under thick eyebrows, burned out in the sun to gray hair. fall, he sways from side to side, the speed is increasing, the boy is about to plop, and the coach quietly says:

Boldly! Boldly! Boldly!

The kid still falls. The coach waits for him to get up, winks at his student in a friendly way: with whom, they say, he doesn’t happen - and, like a spell, repeats again:

Boldly, baby, boldly!

And again the boy rolls down, falls, rises, looks at the coach. Again, he winks at him in a friendly way and repeats his only thing: “Courageously!”. And when the boy slid down and stopped, beaming and proud, the coach smiled and said:

Well done!

He rode off to the "bear" - a man dressed in a bearskin, with a bared mouth, with brown glassy eyes, and asked:

You still have candy, give it to me, please.

You know that I can't live without them.

I beg you.

But then I smoke...

Nothing will be done to you. Be patient, I'll bring you candy in an hour.

Would you like to treat some lady?

This time sir.

The “bear” reached into his pocket for a long time, and then, sticking out his tanned hand from under the yellow, twisted claws, said:

The coach returned to the court, handed the lollipops to the boy and said:

Take this.

Thank you.

You ride well, I'm happy with you.

I can move out again.

And the kid, clutching the candies in his hand, rushed down, stretching his head forward and pulling back his thin bird-like shoulders.

Then a girl of five years old moved out. She fell down and cried. The trainer rode up to her, held out a bamboo stick, the girl clung to it, got up and rolled down in tears, still not letting go of the trainer's bamboo stick. So they went down - side by side.

Will you go again? the coach asked.

Of course.

The girl blinked and shook her head.

Are you afraid?

What are you afraid of?

I'm afraid to fall again.

Did you hurt when you fell?

The girl felt her knee and smiled through her tears.

No, she said, I wasn't hurt.

Here you see…

The girl pushed herself off with sticks and rolled down. The coach lit a cigarette, threw down the match and began to mutter in a low voice:

Boldly! Boldly! Boldly!

And I suddenly really wanted to see the same calm coach walk through my whole life and repeat his word. It is very necessary for both old people and children.

Evening came to Zakopane unexpectedly and beautifully. The sun crashed against the trident of mountains, spread over the peaks in a red sunset stripe, and the sky immediately became empty and deserted, like an evacuated city. The sun had just gone out, and already a yellow penny of the moon hung over the town hall. The streets have become decorative, exactly the same as yesterday. Lights flickered in the mountains, bells rang, and the silence became close and all-encompassing. Lean mannequins dressed in red ski suits stood in cold blue windows. The roofs of the houses seemed to be covered with thin cellophane: during the day the sun melts the snow, and at night it freezes, tightens with fragile ice. The toboggan road shone with dazzling steel rails carved into the snow by skids. The road led into the mountains. Dog Joe was sleeping there, and his owner, probably, was sitting by the stove and developing pictures - both lyrical and heroic, everything in a row.

For some reason I remembered a red-faced Austrian chasing a woman in the Tatras who loved to ride down the mountains into a snowstorm. I remembered him in Laos, at home, and now here in Poland. I don’t know why he is so often remembered to me now ... God knows why we remember people who flashed by, it would seem, just like that - without a trace ...

The restaurant was stuffy and fun. Jazz played a song, and people in jumpers and sweatpants danced and sang. There were no empty tables in the hall. I went to the counter and asked for cognac. The bartender poured some cognac into a pot-bellied dark glass, I warmed the glass in my palms and felt the sharp smell of prunes.

Old cognac, - said the bartender, - and very strong. Do you want some water?

Yes. And a lemon, please.

I'm afraid the lemon will ruin everything.

Then don't.

The bartender stepped back, rattling his wooden leg. A fat singer, with a childishly short haircut, sang with her eyes closed:

Are you happy
Am I happy
tell me
Ave Maria?!

The bartender remarked:

Good song, huh?

I like.

There was no one behind the counter, because everyone had gone to dance. The bartender sat down on a high chair, lit a cigarette and said sadly:

I used to work as a bear.

Well, you see, I went around in a bearskin and rang the bell. It's nice when tame bears walk around the city and ring bells, isn't it?

Children like...

Why only children?

Well anyway...

Oh no, trust me, adults love it too. Only children are more sincere in expressing feelings. To be honest, I want to seriously play hide and seek, for example, but the kids don’t take it because of their legs, and I can’t persuade adults to play in any way.

He poured himself some wine, drank it, stubbed out his cigarette and, looking into the hall, grinned.

I used to hate those in tuxedos. You know, capitalism and all that stuff. And over there, see the guy in the tuxedo?

This is my student. He is now the boss sports school in the mountains. You understand, he can not do without a tuxedo, this dandy.

Have you been a skier?

I was the champion. And did a little work as a bear, I told you. And when I was leaving the SS men right from the cable car, they shot me. Well, in the detachment I had to chop off my leg, because there was no doctor, and I walked with a holey leg forty kilometers in slalom. More cognac?

A tall guy entered the hall - a rescuer from the top. He went to the bar, kissed the bartender and said:

Good evening, dad. Well, how are you?

I'm fine.

It's quiet in the mountains, I decided to go down to you for a minute.

Thank you. Would you like a drink?

Probably not, because I need to go back. - The guy noticed me and said: - Oh, sir, I developed the film, you turned out to be heroic bardzo.

The singer finished singing:

Are you happy
Am I happy
Tell me,
Ave Maria?!

A guy in a tuxedo came up to the counter - the head of the sports school. The tuxedo sat on him like a minister. The tight collar cut into the bronze neck. His shoes were defiantly pointy. The rescuer lightly stepped on his foot with his huge boot and winked:

You got nothing girl, huh?

Stay calm.

I envy.-

This black feeling is absolutely alien to the spirit of our youth.

And yet.

But, but! Quiet down! Don't shoot her with your eyes.

She will come to me on top.

Then you'll ride out of there on your ass with Joe.

Yes Yes! Pan Jozef, give me a chocolate bar for my lady.

The bartender handed the head of the school a chocolate bar, patted him on the cheek and said:

Boldly, son, boldly.

My hostess treated me to coffee and wished me a good night. I lay down on the ice bed. The clock chimed on the town hall. The blue light of the moon floated in the room. The sky was clear, trimmed with white fragile mountain tops. A driver drove by under the window, and for a long time the tight chime of bells hung in the air. I remembered the bartender. When I left he said:

Eh, son... You never need to pick anything up. Understand: life should still be joy...

Valery Bryusov

Mount Stars

dedication

Entering the desert ten years ago, I believed that I had left the educated world forever. Quite unusual events forced me to take up the pen and write my memoirs. What I saw, perhaps no one else saw. But I experienced even more in the depths of my soul. My beliefs, which seemed unshakable to me, are shattered or shaken. I am horrified to see how much powerful truth there is in what I have always despised. These notes might have had a purpose: to warn others like me. But they will probably never find a reader. I write them with juice on leaves, I write them in the wilds of Africa, far from the last traces of enlightenment, under a bechuan hut, listening to the incessant roar of Mozi-oa-Tunya. O great waterfall! The most beautiful thing in the world! In this desert alone, perhaps you comprehend my worries. And I dedicate these pages to you.

“Get up,” I called out, “take your spear, follow me!”

We went in the direction from which the groans were heard. For ten minutes we wandered at random. Finally, I noticed something bright ahead.

- Who lies here without a fire? I called. Answer or I'll shoot. - I said these words in English, and then repeated in the local Kaffir dialect, then again in Dutch, Portuguese, French. There was no answer. I approached, revolver at the ready.

I ordered Mstege to build a fire and tried to bring the old man to his senses. Half an hour later he began to move, his eyelashes lifted, and his gaze rested on me, at first dim, then brightened.

Do you understand me? I asked in English. Having received no answer, I repeated the question in every language I knew, even Latin. The old man was silent for a long time, then spoke in French:

“Thank you, my friend. I know all these languages, and if I kept silent, it was for my own reasons. Tell me where did you find me?

I explained.

Why am I so weak? Are my wounds dangerous?

“You won't survive the day.

As soon as I uttered these words, the dying man trembled all over, his lips twisted, bony fingers dug into my hand. His measured speech was replaced by hoarse cries.

- It can't be!.. Not now, no!.. at the pier!.. you are mistaken.

"Perhaps," I said coldly.

The moon was still low, and long shadows from the sorcerer's hands followed us into the desert and for a long time stubbornly clung to our legs.

Before sunset, leaving Mstega to guard the property, I went alone to look at the desert. Nothing more strange than the border of this desert, I have not seen in my wandering life. The vegetation did not disappear gradually: there was no usual transitional strip from the greenery of the meadows to the barren steppe. Immediately for two or three fathoms, the pasture turned into a lifeless rocky plain. On the rich soil, covered with tropical grass, gray strata, either slate or solonchak, suddenly leaned at the corners; piled on top of each other, they formed a wild jagged plane that stretched into the distance. Cracks and crevices snaked and stretched on this surface, often very deep and up to two arshins wide, but it itself was as hard as granite. The rays of the setting sun were reflected here and there from the ribs and notches, blinding the eyes with play of light. But still, looking closely, one could discern a pale gray cone on the horizon, the top of which sparkled like a star. I returned to the kraal thoughtful. Soon a crowd surrounded me: they gathered to look at the white man walking into the Cursed Desert. In the crowd I also noticed a local sorcerer. Suddenly, approaching him, I aimed the muzzle of the Winchester at the level with his chest. The sorcerer was petrified with fear; Clearly he knew the gun. And the crowd backed away.

“But what,” I asked slowly, “does my father know any prayers before death?”

“I know,” the sorcerer answered uncertainly.

“Then let him read them, because he is about to die.”

I clicked the trigger. The blacks in the distance let out a cry.

“You will die,” I repeated, “because you hide from me what you know about the Cursed Desert.

“I just lost a lot of blood.

I smiled.

– You keep losing her; I couldn't stop the bleeding.

The old man began to cry, begging to be saved. Finally, his throat began to bleed, and he again lost consciousness. The second time he woke up, he was calm again.

“Yes, I am dying,” he said, “you are right. It's hard now. But listen. Fate has made you my heir.

“I don’t need anything,” I protested.

He spoke hastily, confusedly; then he began to tell his life, then he jumped to the latest events. I didn't understand a lot. Probably most in my place would consider the old man crazy. Since childhood, he was fascinated by the idea of interplanetary relations. He dedicated his whole life to her. In various scientific societies, he made reports on the projectiles he invented for flying from Earth to another planet. He was laughed at everywhere. But heaven, as he put it, kept the reward of his old age. On the basis of some remarkable documents, he became convinced that the question of interplanetary relations had already been resolved precisely by the inhabitants of Mars. At the end of the XIII century of our chronology, they sent a ship to Earth. This ship landed in Central Africa. According to the old man, on this ship were not travelers, but exiles, daring fugitives to another planet. They did not explore the Earth, but only tried to make themselves comfortable. Protecting themselves from the savages by an artificial desert, they lived in its middle as a separate independent society. The old man was convinced that the descendants of these settlers from Mars still live in that country.

Do you have exact directions for the location? I asked.

“I calculated the approximate longitude and latitude… the error is no more than ten minutes… maybe a quarter of a degree…”

Everything that happened to the old man after that was to be expected. Not wanting to share his success, he himself went to research ...

“To you, to you I entrust my secret,” the dying man said to me, “take up my work, finish it in the name of science and humanity.

I laughed.

“I despise science, I don’t like mankind.

“Well, for the glory,” said the old man bitterly.

“Complete,” I replied. What do I need fame for? But I still wander in the desert and I can look into that country out of curiosity.

The old man whispered angrily:

“I have no choice… So be it… But swear that you will do everything possible to get there… that only death will stop you.”

I laughed again and swore an oath. Then the dying man, with tears in his eyes, uttered in a trembling voice a few numbers - latitude and longitude. I marked them on the butt of the gun. Shortly after noon the old man died. His last request was that I mention his name when I write about my journey. I am fulfilling this request. His name was Maurice Cardeaux.

Far from all the difficulties of the path [I] foresaw when entering the Cursed Desert. From the very first steps we felt how hard it was to walk on this stony, cracked soil. It was painful for my feet to walk on the jagged layers; the play of moonlight deceived the eye, and every minute we could stumble into a crevice. There was a fine dust in the air that hurt my eyes. The uniformity of the terrain was such that we constantly strayed from the direct direction and circled: we had to follow the stars, because the outline of the Mountain was not visible in the darkness. At night it was still possible to walk briskly, but as soon as the sun rose, we were seized by unbearable heat. The soil quickly became hot and burned the legs through the shoes. The air became a fiery vapor, as if over a melted stove, it was painful to breathe. I had to hastily pitch a tent and lie under it until the evening, almost without moving.

We traveled this cursed desert for six days. The water that was in our furs quickly deteriorated, smelled like leather, and became disgusting in taste. Such water almost did not satisfy thirst. By the third morning we had a very small remnant of it left, muddy residues at the bottom of the fur. I decided to divide this remainder between us to the end, since in the afternoon it would have completely deteriorated. On the same day, the usual pangs of thirst began: a sore throat, a hard, large tongue, and rapidly disappearing mirages appeared. But the fourth night we still walked without stopping. It seemed to me that Star Mountain was close, that it was closer to it than back to the edge of the desert. In the morning, however, I saw that the silhouette of the Mountain had hardly grown, still inaccessible. On this fourth day, delirium finally took possession of me. I began to dream of lakes in palm oases, herds of antelopes on the shore and our Russian rivers with backwaters, where willows bathe weeping branches, I dreamed of a moon reflected in the sea, shattered in the waves, and rest in a boat behind a coastal rock, where the surf is always worried, the shaft runs after the shaft, foams and rises high with spray. A vague consciousness remained in the dream, it said that all these pictures were a ghost, that they were inaccessible to me. I longed not to dream, to conquer my delirium, but I did not have enough strength for this. And it was excruciating... But as soon as the sun went down and darkness fell, I suddenly woke up, suddenly got up, like a lunatic, as if at a secret call. We no longer packed the tent, as we could not carry it. But we went forward again, stubbornly reaching for the Mountain of the Star. She attracted me like a magnet. It began to seem to me that my life was closely connected with this Mountain, that I must, must, and against my will, go to it. And I walked, at times I ran, lost my way, found it again, fell, got up and walked again. If Mstega lagged behind, I shouted at him, threatened him with a gun. The waning moon rose and illuminated the cone of the Mountain. I greeted the Mountain with an enthusiastic speech, stretched out my hands to her, begged her to help me, and again I walked, and walked again, already without an account, blindly ...

The night passed, and a red sun rolled out to our right. The star at the top of the Mountain lit up brightly. We no longer had a tent, I shouted to Mstege not to stop.

We kept walking. Probably around noon I fell down, defeated by the heat, but continued to crawl. I threw away the revolver, hunting knives, charges, jacket. For a long time I dragged my faithful hard drive behind me, but then I abandoned it too. I crawled with swollen feet on hot soil, clinging to sharp stones with bloodied hands. Before each new movement, it seemed to me that it would be the last, that I would not be able to do one more. But in my mind there was only one thought: we must go forward. And I crawled even in the midst of delirium, crawling, shouting indistinct words, talking to someone. One day I was busy catching some beetles and butterflies, which, as it seemed to me, were scurrying around me. Coming to my senses, I looked for the silhouette of the Mountain and again began to crawl towards it. Night fell, but for a little while it brought peace with its freshness. Forces left me, I was exhausted to the end. The hearing was filled with a terrible ringing and roar, the eyes were covered with an ever thicker veil of bloody fog. Consciousness left me completely. The last thing I remember when I woke up: the sun was not high, but it was already painfully burning me. Mstegi was not with me. For the first moment I wanted to make an effort to see where the Mountain was. Then, in the next moment, a thought clearly flashed through me, making me suddenly laugh. I laughed, though my chapped lips bled as I did so, trickling down my chin and dripping onto my chest. I laughed because I suddenly realized my madness. Why did I go ahead? What could be near the Mountain? Life, water? And what if there is still the same dead, the same Damned desert! Yes, of course it is. Mstega is smarter than me and, of course, went back. Well! Perhaps ... his legs will carry him to the line! And I deserve my fate. And laughing, I closed my eyes and remained motionless. But my attention was awakened by something dark, which I felt through my lowered eyelids. I looked again. Between me and the sky hovered a kite, an African kite-vulture. He smelled prey. And, looking straight at him, I began to think how he would descend on my chest, peck out those very eyes with which I look, and tear out pieces of meat from me. And I thought I didn't care. But suddenly a new thought, dazzlingly bright, flooded my entire consciousness. Where is the kite from? Why would he fly into the desert? Or the Mountain of the Star is close, and near it is life, and forests, and water!

Immediately, a rush of power ran through my veins. I jumped to my feet. Close, close blackened high mountain, and from her side the faithful Mstega ran towards me. He looked for me and, seeing me, shouted joyfully:

- Mister! Let the lord go! The water is close, I saw it.

I jumped to my feet. I rushed forward with wild leaps. Mstega ran after me, shouting something loudly. It soon became clear to me that in the middle of the Cursed Desert there was a huge basin in which the Mountain stood. I stopped only at the edge of the cliff above this basin.

An amazing picture unfolded before us. The desert ended in a plumb line more than a hundred fathoms deep. Below, at this depth, a plain of regular elliptical shape spread. The smaller diameter of the valley was ten versts; the opposite edge of the cliff, just as high, just as sheer, was clearly visible beyond the Mountain.

The mountain stood in the middle of the valley. The height of the Mountain was three times greater than the height of the cliff, perhaps reaching half a verst. Its shape was correct, cone-shaped. In several places, this form was broken by small ledges that went around the entire Mountain and formed terraces. The color of the Mountain was dark gray, somewhat with a brown tint. At the top one could see a flat platform, on which stood something brightly sparkling, like a golden point.

The valley around the Mountain was visible as on a plan. It was all covered with luxurious vegetation. At first, near the Mountain itself, there were groves cut by narrow alleys. Then came a wide belt of fields, which occupied most of the entire valley; these fields were black with freshly plowed earth, as it was the month of August; here and there their streams and canals furrowed, converging in several small lakes. At the very edge of the cliff, the belt of palm forest began again, expanding in the narrow bays of the ellipse; the forest was divided into sections by wide clearings and in some places already consisted of old trees, and in some places still of young growth.

We also saw people. In the fields everywhere one could see heaps of Negroes working measuredly, as if on command.

Water! Greens! People! What else did we need. Of course, we did not admire the view of the country for very long, I barely took a look around it, I did not even clearly understand all the wonders of this picture. I knew only one thing: that the torment was over and the goal had been achieved.

However, there was another test ahead. I had to go down a steep cliff a hundred fathoms deep. The cliff in its upper part consisted of the same lifeless shale layers as the desert. Below, fatter soil began, bushes and grass grew. We descended, clinging to the ledges of the layers, to the stones, to the thorny branches. Kites and eagles, nesting on the ledges nearby, circled screaming above us. Once a stone slipped out from under my feet, and I hung on one arm. I remember that I was struck by my hand, emaciated, on which all the muscles and veins protruded. Three sazhens from the ground, I broke off again and this time fell. Luckily the grass was tall and silky. I didn't crash, but I still lost consciousness from the impact.

Mstega brought me to my senses. Nearby was a spring lined with hewn stones, which ran like a living stream into the distance, towards the middle of the valley. A few drops of water brought me back to life. Water! What a blessing! I drank water, I breathed fresh air, I rolled on the lush grass and looked at the sky through the fan green of the palm tree. Without thought, without thought, I surrendered to the joy of being.

The sound of footsteps brought me back to reality. I jumped to my feet, cursing myself for being so forgetful. In an instant, the consciousness of our position swept through my mind like a whirlwind. We were in a country inhabited by an unknown tribe, neither the language nor the customs of which we knew. We were exhausted by the suffering of the hard way and the long starvation. We were without weapons, because in the desert I abandoned everything, everything - even a gun, even my inseparable stiletto ... But I had not yet had time to make any decision, when a bunch of people appeared in the clearing. One of them was wrapped up to his toes in a grayish cloak, the rest were naked Negroes of the Bechuan type. Apparently they were looking for us. I moved towards them.

- Greetings to the rulers of this country! I said loudly and distinctly in Bechuan. – Wanderers ask you for shelter.

As far as possible, I explained my words with signs. At my first words, the Negroes stopped. But immediately the man in the cloak called out to them, also in Bechuan, though with a special accent:

“Slaves, obey and obey.

Then five people with a frenzied roar rushed at me. I thought that they wanted to kill me, and I met the first one with such a punch that he rolled on the ground. But I was unable to fight multiple enemies. They threw me down and tied me tightly with special straps. I saw that they did the same with Mstega, who did not defend himself. Then we were picked up and carried. I understood that it was useless to shout and talk, and only noticed the road.

We were carried through the fields for a long time, perhaps for an hour. Everywhere there were groups of working Negroes, who stopped in surprise at our approach. Then they carried us through the forest near the Mountain. A dark archway was visible in the Mountain itself, leading into its bowels. We were carried under its yellow vaults, and the path began along stone passages, poorly lit by rare torches.

We went down in narrow spirals somewhere down, and the dampness of the cellar or grave blew on me. Finally, they threw me on a stone floor in the darkness of an underground dungeon, and I was left alone. Mstega was taken somewhere else.

At first I was stunned, but gradually I recovered and began to inspect my room. It was a dungeon carved into the heart of the Mountain; in length and width it was one and a half fathoms, in height a little higher than human growth. The dungeon was empty - there was no bed, no straw, no mug of water. When leaving, the Negroes who had abandoned me pushed the entrance with a heavy hewn stone, which I could not move. I tried to loosen my bonds, but even that proved beyond my power. Then I decided to wait.

1

2

Read also