Tristan and Isolde are the heroes of the work. Isolde and Tristan: a beautiful story of eternal love

A gentleman from San Francisco - no one remembered his name either in Naples or Capri - was traveling to the Old World for two whole years, with his wife and daughter, solely for the sake of entertainment. He was firmly convinced that he had every right to rest, to pleasure, to an excellent trip in all respects. For such confidence, he had the argument that, firstly, he was rich, and secondly, he had just started life, despite his fifty-eight years. Until that time, he had not lived, but only existed, although very well, but still pinning all his hopes on the future. He worked tirelessly - the Chinese, whom he hired thousands of to work for him, knew well what this meant! - and finally saw that a lot had already been done, that he was almost equal to those whom he had once taken as a model, and decided to take a break. The people to whom he belonged had the custom of beginning the enjoyment of life with a trip to Europe, India, and Egypt. He decided to do the same. Of course, he wanted to reward himself first of all for his years of work; however, he was also happy for his wife and daughter. His wife had never been particularly impressionable, but all older American women are passionate travelers. And as for the daughter, an older girl and slightly sickly, the journey was absolutely necessary for her: not to mention the health benefits, don’t there be happy encounters during travel? Here sometimes you sit at the table and look at the frescoes next to the billionaire. The route was developed by the gentleman from San Francisco and was extensive. In December and January, he hoped to enjoy the sun of Southern Italy, ancient monuments, tarantella, serenades of traveling singers and what people of his age feel especially subtly - the love of young Neapolitan women, even if not entirely disinterested; he thought of holding the carnival in Nice, in Monte Carlo, where at this time the most selective society flocks, where some enthusiastically indulge in automobile and sailing races, others in roulette, others in what is commonly called flirting, and others in shooting pigeons, which they soar very beautifully from the cages over the emerald lawn, against the backdrop of a sea the color of forget-me-nots, and immediately hit the ground with white lumps; he wanted to devote the beginning of March to Florence, to come to Rome for the passion of the Lord to listen to the Miserere there; his plans included Venice, and Paris, and a bullfight in Seville, and swimming in the English islands, and Athens, and Constantinople, and Palestine, and Egypt, and even Japan - of course, already at way back... And everything went fine at first. It was the end of November, and all the way to Gibraltar we had to sail either in icy darkness or amid a storm with sleet; but they sailed quite safely. There were many passengers, the ship - the famous Atlantis - looked like a huge hotel with all the amenities, with a night bar, oriental baths, with his own newspaper, - and life on it proceeded very measuredly: they got up early, with the sounds of trumpets resounding sharply along the corridors even at that gloomy hour, when it was dawning so slowly and inhospitably over the gray-green watery desert, heavily agitated in the fog; putting on flannel pajamas, drinking coffee, chocolate, cocoa; then they sat in the baths, did gymnastics, stimulating appetite and good health, performed daily toilets and went to the first breakfast; until eleven o'clock they were supposed to walk cheerfully along the decks, breathing in the cold freshness of the ocean, or play sheffleboard and other games to whet their appetite again, and at eleven they had to refresh themselves with sandwiches with broth; having refreshed themselves, they read the newspaper with pleasure and calmly waited for the second breakfast, even more nutritious and varied than the first; the next two hours were devoted to rest; all the decks were then filled with long reed chairs, on which travelers lay, covered with blankets, looking at the cloudy sky and at the foamy mounds flashing overboard, or sweetly dozing off; at five o'clock, refreshed and cheerful, they were given strong fragrant tea with cookies; at seven they announced with trumpet signals what was the main goal of this entire existence, its crown... And then the gentleman from San Francisco hurried to his rich cabin to get dressed. In the evenings, the floors of Atlantis gaped in the darkness with countless fiery eyes, and a great many servants worked in the cooks', sculleries' and wine cellars. The ocean that walked outside the walls was terrible, but they did not think about it, firmly believing in the power over it of the commander, a red-haired man of monstrous size and bulk, always as if sleepy, looking like a huge idol in his uniform with wide golden stripes and very rarely appearing at people from their mysterious chambers; on the forecastle, a siren constantly howled with hellish gloom and shrieked with furious anger, but few of the diners heard the siren - it was drowned out by the sounds of a beautiful string orchestra, exquisitely and tirelessly playing in a two-story hall, festively flooded with lights, crowded with low-cut ladies and men in tailcoats and tuxedos , slender footmen and respectful head waiters, among whom one, the one who took orders only for wine, even walked around with a chain around his neck, like a lord mayor. The tuxedo and starched underwear made the gentleman from San Francisco look very young. Dry, short, awkwardly cut, but tightly sewn, he sat in the golden-pearl radiance of this palace behind a bottle of wine, behind glasses and goblets of the finest glass, behind a curly bouquet of hyacinths. There was something Mongolian in his yellowish face with a trimmed silver mustache, his large teeth glittered with gold fillings, and his strong bald head was old ivory. His wife was dressed richly, but according to her years, a large, broad and calm woman; complex, but light and transparent, with innocent frankness - a daughter, tall, thin, with magnificent hair, charmingly styled, with aromatic breath from violet cakes and with the most delicate pink pimples near her lips and between her shoulder blades, slightly powdered... The dinner lasted more than an hour, and after dinner there were dances in the ballroom, during which the men, including, of course, the gentleman from San Francisco, with their feet in the air, their faces crimson red, smoked Havana cigars and got drunk on liqueurs in a bar where blacks served in red camisoles, with whites that looked like flaky hard-boiled eggs. The ocean roared behind the wall like black mountains, the blizzard whistled strongly in the heavy rigging, the whole steamer trembled, overcoming both it and these mountains, as if with a plow, breaking apart their unsteady, now and then boiling masses with foamy tails fluttering high, in the siren suffocated by the fog moaned in mortal melancholy, the watchmen on their watchtower were freezing from the cold and went crazy from the unbearable strain of attention, the gloomy and sultry depths of the underworld, its last, ninth circle was like the underwater womb of a steamship - the one where the gigantic furnaces cackled dully, devouring with their hot piles of jaws coal, with a roar, people drenched in acrid, dirty sweat and naked to the waist, crimson from the flames, are thrown into them; and here, in the bar, they carelessly threw their feet on the arms of the chairs, sipped cognac and liqueurs, swam in waves of spicy smoke, dance hall everything shone and shed light, warmth and joy, the couples were spinning in waltzes, bending in tango - and the music insistently, in sweet, shameless sadness, begged for one thing, all for the same thing... Among this brilliant crowd there was a certain great rich man , shaven, long, in an old-fashioned tailcoat, was famous spanish writer, there was an all-world beauty, there was an elegant couple in love, whom everyone watched with curiosity and who did not hide their happiness: he danced only with her, and everything turned out so subtly, charmingly for them that only one commander knew that this couple was hired by Lloyd play love for good money and has been sailing on one ship or another for a long time. In Gibraltar everyone was happy with the sun, it was like early spring; appeared on board Atlantis new passenger, who aroused general interest in himself - the crown prince of an Asian state, traveling incognito, a small man, all wooden, wide-faced, narrow-eyed, wearing gold glasses, slightly unpleasant - because his large mustache showed through like a dead man, but overall cute , simple and modest. In the Mediterranean Sea there was a large and flowery wave, like a peacock’s tail, which, with a bright shine and a completely clear sky, was blown up by the tramontana, flying cheerfully and madly towards it... Then, on the second day, the sky began to turn pale, the horizon became foggy: land was approaching, Ischia and Capri appeared, through binoculars one could already see lumps of sugar sprinkled at the foot of something gray, Naples... Many ladies and gentlemen had already put on light, fur-sided fur coats; Unresponsive Chinese fighters, always speaking in a whisper, bow-legged teenagers with pitch-length braids down to their toes and girlish thick eyelashes, gradually pulled blankets, canes, suitcases, toiletries up to the stairs... The daughter of a gentleman from San Francisco stood on the deck next to the prince, yesterday in the evening, by a happy accident, presented to her, and pretended to look intently into the distance, where he pointed to her, explaining something, telling something hastily and quietly; His height seemed like a boy among the others, he was not at all handsome and strange - glasses, a bowler hat, an English coat, and the hair of a thin mustache looked like horse hair, the dark thin skin on his flat face seemed to be stretched and seemed to be slightly varnished - but the girl listened because of her excitement she didn’t understand what he was saying to her; her heart beat with incomprehensible delight in front of him: everything, everything about him was different from the others - his dry hands, his clean skin, under which the ancient royal blood flowed; even his European, very simple, but seemingly especially neat clothes concealed an inexplicable charm. And the gentleman himself from San Francisco, in gray leggings on his boots, kept glancing at the famous beauty standing next to him, a tall, amazingly built blonde with eyes painted in the latest Parisian fashion, holding a tiny, bent, shabby dog on a silver chain and still talking to her. And the daughter, in some vague awkwardness, tried not to notice him. He was quite generous on the way and therefore fully believed in the care of all those who fed and watered him, served him from morning to evening, preventing his slightest desire, guarded his cleanliness and peace, carried his things, called porters for him, delivered him chests to hotels. It was so everywhere, it was so in sailing, it should have been so in Naples. Naples grew and approached; The musicians, shining with brass instruments, had already crowded on the deck and suddenly deafened everyone with the triumphant sounds of a march. The giant commander, in full dress uniform, appeared on his bridge and, like a merciful pagan god, shook his hand at the passengers in greeting. And when the Atlantis finally entered the harbor, rolled up to the embankment with its multi-storey bulk, dotted with people, and the gangplank rumbled - how many porters and their assistants in caps with gold braid, how many all sorts of commission agents, whistling boys and hefty ragamuffins with stacks of colored postcards in rushed to meet him with an offer of services! And he grinned at these ragamuffins, walking to the car of the very hotel where the prince could stay, and calmly spoke through clenched teeth, either in English or in Italian:- Go away! Via! Life in Naples immediately went on as usual: early in the morning - breakfast in the gloomy dining room, cloudy, little promising sky and a crowd of guides at the lobby doors; then the first smiles of the warm pinkish sun, the view from the high-hanging balcony of Vesuvius, shrouded in shining morning vapors to the foot, of the silver-pearl ripples of the bay and the subtle outline of Capri on the horizon, of tiny donkeys in gigs running below, along the embankment, and of squads of small soldiers walking somewhere with cheerful and defiant music; then - getting out to the car and slowly moving along the crowded narrow and damp corridors of the streets, among tall, multi-windowed houses, examining deathly clean and evenly, pleasantly, but boringly, like snow, illuminated museums or cold, wax-smelling churches, in which the same thing is everywhere and the same thing: a majestic entrance, closed by a heavy leather curtain, and inside there is a huge emptiness, silence, quiet lights of the seven-branched candlestick, reddening in the depths on a throne decorated with lace, a lonely old woman among dark wooden desks, slippery coffin slabs underfoot and someone’s “ The Descent from the Cross,” certainly famous; at one o'clock - second breakfast on Mount San Martino, where at noon a lot of people of the very first class gather and where one day the daughter of a gentleman from San Francisco almost felt ill: it seemed to her that a prince was sitting in the hall, although she already knew from the newspapers that he is in Rome; at five - tea in the hotel, in the elegant salon, where it is so warm from the carpets and blazing fireplaces; and there again the preparations for dinner - again the powerful, imperious roar of the gong on all floors, again the lines of silks rustling along the stairs and reflected in the mirrors of low-necked ladies, Again the wide and hospitably open hall of the dining room, and the red jackets of the musicians on the stage, and the black crowd of footmen near the head waiter, with extraordinary skill pouring thick pink soup into plates... The dinners were again so plentiful with foods, wines, mineral waters, sweets, and fruits that by eleven o'clock in the evening the maids carried rubber bubbles with hot water to all rooms water to warm stomachs. However, December “turned out to be” not entirely successful: the receptionists, when they talked to them about the weather, only raised their shoulders guiltily, muttering that they would not remember such a year, although it was not the first year that they had to mutter this and refer to what was happening everywhere something terrible: on the Riviera there are unprecedented downpours and storms, in Athens there is snow, Etna is also completely covered and shines at night, tourists from Palermo fleeing from the cold... The morning sun deceived every day: from midday it invariably turned gray and began to sow the rain is getting thicker and colder; then the palm trees at the entrance of the hotel shone with tin, the city seemed especially dirty and cramped, the museums were too monotonous, the cigar butts of fat cab drivers in rubber capes fluttering with wings in the wind were unbearably stinking, the energetic flapping of their whips over thin-necked nags was clearly fake, the shoes of the gentlemen scattering tram rails, terrible, and the women splashing through the mud, in the rain with their black open heads, are hideously short-legged; There’s nothing to say about the dampness and the stench of rotten fish from the foaming sea near the embankment. The gentleman and lady from San Francisco began to quarrel in the morning; their daughter walked around pale, with a headache, then came to life, admired everything and was then both sweet and beautiful: those gentle ones were beautiful, complicated feelings what the meeting with ugly person, in which unusual blood flowed, because, in the end, it doesn’t matter what exactly awakens a girl’s soul - whether money, fame, nobility of the family... Everyone assured that it was not at all the same in Sorrento, on Capri - It’s warmer and sunnier there, and lemons bloom, and morals are more honest, and the wine is more natural. And so a family from San Francisco decided to go with all their chests to Capri, so that, after examining it, walking on the stones on the site of the palaces of Tiberius, visiting the fabulous caves of the Azure Grotto and listening to the Abruzzese bagpipers, who wander around the island for a whole month before Christmas and singing the praises of the Virgin Mary, settle in Sorrento. On the day of departure - a very memorable one for the family from San Francisco! — even in the morning there was no sun. A heavy fog hid Vesuvius to its very foundations, low and gray above the leaden swell of the sea. The Island of Capri was not visible at all - as if it had never existed in the world. And the small steamboat heading towards it was so tossed from side to side that the family from San Francisco lay on the sofas in the miserable wardroom of this ship, wrapping their legs in blankets and closing their eyes from lightheadedness. The Mrs. suffered, as she thought, more than anyone: she was overcome several times, it seemed to her that she was dying, and the maid, who came running to her with a basin, had been rocking on these waves day after day for many years in the heat and cold and still tireless - she just laughed. Miss was terribly pale and was holding a slice of lemon in her teeth. Mister, lying on his back, in a wide coat and a large cap, did not unclench his jaws all the way; his face became dark, his mustache white, his head ached severely: in recent days, thanks to the bad weather, he had been drinking too much in the evenings and admiring too much of the “living pictures” in some dens. And the rain hit the rattling windows, it flowed onto the sofas, the wind howled at the masts and sometimes, together with the rushing wave, the steamboat was placed completely on its side, and then something rolled below with a roar. At the stops, in Castellamare, in Sorrento, it was a little easier; but even here it swung terribly, the shore with all its cliffs, gardens, pine trees, pink and white hotels, and smoky, curly-green mountains flew up and down outside the window, as if on a swing; Boats were knocking against the walls, the damp wind was blowing at the doors, and, without stopping for a minute, a burry boy, who was luring travelers, screamed piercingly from a rocking barge under the flag of the Royal Hotel. And the gentleman from San Francisco, feeling as he should have done - quite an old man - was already thinking with melancholy and anger about all these greedy, garlic-smelling little people called Italians; Once during a stop, opening his eyes and rising from the sofa, he saw under a rocky cliff a bunch of such pitiful, completely moldy stone houses, stuck on top of each other near the water, near boats, near some rags, tins and brown nets, that, Remembering that this was the real Italy, which he had come to enjoy, he felt despair... Finally, already at dusk, the island began to approach in its blackness, as if drilled through and through at the foot of red lights, the wind became softer, warmer, more fragrant, along the subdued waves Golden boas flowed from the lanterns of the pier, shimmering like black oil. .. Then suddenly the anchor rattled and splashed into the water, the furious cries of the boatmen vied with each other from everywhere - and immediately my soul felt lighter, the wardroom shone brighter, I wanted to eat, drink, smoke, move... Ten minutes later, a family from San Francisco got off into a large barge, fifteen minutes later stepped onto the stones of the embankment, and then got into a bright trailer and with a buzzing sound stretched up the slope, among the stakes in the vineyards, dilapidated stone fences and wet, gnarled orange trees, covered here and there with thatched canopies, with a shine orange fruits and thick glossy foliage sliding downhill, past the open windows of the trailer... The land in Italy smells sweet after the rain, and each of its islands has its own special smell! The island of Capri was damp and dark that evening. But then he came to life for a minute, lighting up in some places. At the top of the mountain, on the platform of the funicular, there was again a crowd of those whose duty it was to receive the gentleman from San Francisco with dignity. There were other newcomers, but not worthy of attention - several Russians who had settled in Capri, slovenly and absent-minded, with glasses, beards, with the turned up collars of their old coats, and a company of long-legged, round-headed German youths in Tyrolean costumes and canvas bags behind them, not in need of anyone’s services and not at all generous in spending. The gentleman from San Francisco, who calmly avoided both of them, was immediately noticed. He and his ladies were hastily helped out, they ran ahead in front of him, showing the way, he was again surrounded by boys and those stalwart Capri women who carry the suitcases and chests of respectable tourists on their heads. They clattered across the small, like an opera square, above which an electric ball and their wooden footstools swayed from the damp wind, a horde of boys whistled like birds and tumbled over their heads - and as a gentleman from San Francisco walked across the stage among them to some kind of medieval an arch under the houses merged into one, behind which a ringing street with a swirl of palm trees above the flat roofs to the left and blue stars in the black sky above, in front, led slopingly to the hotel entrance shining ahead. And it all looked like it was in honor of the guests from San Francisco that a damp stone town on a rocky island in the Mediterranean Sea had come to life, that they had made the hotel owner so happy and hospitable, that only a Chinese gong was waiting for them, howling on all floors. by lunchtime, as soon as they entered the lobby. The politely and elegantly bowed host, a superbly elegant young man who met them, for a moment amazed the gentleman from San Francisco: he suddenly remembered that that night, among other confusion that had beset him in his dreams, he had seen exactly this gentleman, exactly like... exactly the same as this one, wearing the same business card and with the same mirror-combed head. Surprised, he almost paused. But since not even a mustard seed of any so-called mystical feelings remained in his soul a long time ago, his surprise immediately faded: he jokingly told his wife and daughter about this strange coincidence of dream and reality, walking along the hotel corridor. The daughter, however, looked at him with alarm at that moment: her heart was suddenly squeezed by melancholy, a feeling of terrible loneliness on this strange, dark island... A distinguished personage visiting Capri has just departed - Flight XVII. And the guests from San Francisco were given the same apartments that he occupied. They were assigned the most beautiful and skillful maid, a Belgian, with a thin and firm waist from a corset and wearing a starched cap in the form of a small jagged crown, and the most prominent of the footmen, a coal-black, fire-eyed Sicilian, and the most efficient bellhop, small and plump Luigi , who has changed many similar places in his lifetime. And a minute later, a French head waiter knocked lightly on the door of the gentleman from San Francisco, who had come to find out whether the visiting gentlemen would be dining, and in case of an affirmative answer, of which, however, there was no doubt, to report that today there was lobster, roast beef , asparagus, pheasants and so on. Paul was still walking under the gentleman from San Francisco - that's how this crappy Italian steamer pumped him up - but he slowly, with his own hand, although out of habit and not quite deftly, closed the window that had slammed at the entrance of the head waiter, from which he smelled the smell of a distant kitchen and wet flowers in the garden, and with unhurried clarity answered that they would have dinner, that the table for them should be placed away from the doors, in the very depths of the hall, that they would drink local wine, and the head waiter agreed with his every word in a wide variety of intonations that had , however, the only meaning is that there is and cannot be any doubt about the correctness of the wishes of the gentleman from San Francisco and that everything will be fulfilled exactly. Finally, he bowed his head and asked delicately:- Is that all, sir? And, having received a slow “yes” in response, he added that today they have a tarantella in the lobby - Carmella and Giuseppe, known throughout Italy and “the whole world of tourists,” are dancing. “I saw her on postcards,” said the gentleman from San Francisco in an expressionless voice. - And this Giuseppe is her husband? — Cousin“Sir,” replied the head waiter. And, after hesitating, thinking something, but without saying anything, the gentleman from San Francisco dismissed him with a nod of his head. And then he again began to prepare as if for a wedding: he turned on electricity everywhere, filled all the mirrors with the reflection of light and shine, furniture and open chests, began to shave, wash and ring every minute, while other impatient calls rushed and interrupted him throughout the corridor - from the rooms of his wife and daughter. And Luigi, in his red apron, with the ease characteristic of many fat men, making grimaces of horror, making the maids laugh to tears as they ran past with tiled buckets in their hands, rolled head over heels to the bell and, knocking on the door with his knuckles, with feigned timidity, brought to extreme idiocy respectfully asked:- Ha sonato, signore? And from behind the door a leisurely and creaky, offensively polite voice was heard:- Yes, come in... What did the gentleman from San Francisco feel and think on this so significant evening for him? He, like anyone who has experienced a rollercoaster, only really wanted to eat, dreamed with pleasure about the first spoon of soup, about the first sip of wine, and performed the usual toilet routine even in some excitement, which left no time for feelings and thoughts. Having shaved, washed, properly inserted a few teeth, he, standing in front of the mirrors, moistened and tidied up with brushes in a silver frame the remnants of pearl hair around his dark-yellow skull, pulled a creamy silk tights over his strong old body with a waist that was getting fuller from increased nutrition, and on his dry legs with flat feet - black silk socks and ballroom shoes, squatting, he tidied up his black trousers, pulled up high with silk braces, and a snow-white shirt with his chest bulging out, tucked the cufflinks into the shiny cuffs and began to struggle with catching the neck cufflink under the hard collar. The floor was still shaking under him, it was very painful for his fingertips, the cufflink sometimes bit hard on the flabby skin in the recess under his Adam’s apple, but he was persistent and finally, with eyes shining from tension, all blue from the excessively tight collar squeezing his throat, finished the job - and sat down in exhaustion in front of the dressing table, all reflected in it and repeated in other mirrors. - Oh, this is terrible! - he muttered, lowering his strong bald head and not trying to understand, not thinking what exactly was terrible; then he habitually and carefully examined his short fingers, with gouty hardenings in the joints, their large and convex almond-colored nails and repeated with conviction: “This is terrible...” But then, loudly, as if in a pagan temple, the second gong buzzed throughout the house. And, hastily getting up from his seat, the gentleman from San Francisco pulled his collar even tighter with a tie, and his stomach with an open vest, put on a tuxedo, straightened the cuffs, looked at himself in the mirror once again... This Carmella, dark-skinned, with feigned eyes, looking like a mulatto , in a flowery outfit where orange is the predominant color, must be dancing unusually, he thought. And, cheerfully leaving his room and walking across the carpet to the neighbor’s wife, he loudly asked if they were coming soon? - In five minutes! — a girl’s voice echoed loudly and cheerfully from behind the door. “Great,” said the gentleman from San Francisco. And he slowly walked down the corridors and stairs covered with red carpets, looking for the reading room. The servants he met pressed against the wall, and he walked as if not noticing them. An old woman who was late for dinner, already stooped, with milky hair, but low-cut, in a light gray silk dress, hurried ahead of him with all her might, but funny, like a chicken, and he easily overtook her. Near the glass doors of the dining room, where everyone was already assembled and began to eat, he stopped in front of a table cluttered with boxes of cigars and Egyptian cigarettes, took a large manilla and threw three lire on the table; on the winter veranda glanced casually at open window: from the darkness a gentle air blew on him, he imagined the top of an old palm tree spreading its fronds across the stars, which seemed gigantic, the distant even sound of the sea was heard... In the reading room, cozy, quiet and bright, only above the tables, some gray-haired man was standing rustling newspapers a German who looked like Ibsen, with silver round glasses and crazy, amazed eyes. Having examined him coldly, the gentleman from San Francisco sat down in a deep leather chair in the corner, near a lamp under a green shade, put on his pince-nez and, jerking his head away from the collar that was choking him, covered himself with a sheet of newspaper. He quickly skimmed the titles of some articles, read a few lines about the never-ending Balkan war, turned the newspaper over with a familiar gesture - when suddenly the lines flashed before him with a glassy sheen, his neck tensed, his eyes bulged, his pince-nez flew off his nose... He rushed forward, I wanted to take a breath of air - and wheezed wildly; his lower jaw fell off, illuminating his entire mouth with gold fillings, his head fell onto his shoulder and began to roll, the chest of his shirt stuck out like a box - and his whole body, writhing, lifting up the carpet with his heels, crawled to the floor, desperately struggling with someone. If there had not been a German in the reading room, the hotel would have quickly and deftly managed to hush up this terrible incident, instantly, in reverse, they would have rushed off by the legs and by the head of the gentleman from San Francisco to far away - and not a single soul of the guests would have known what he had done He. But the German burst out of the reading room with a scream, he alarmed the whole house, the whole dining room. And many jumped up because of the food, many, turning pale, ran to the reading room, in all languages they heard: “What, what happened?” - and no one answered properly, no one understood anything, since people are still amazed even more than anything else and do not want to believe death for anything. The owner rushed from one guest to another, trying to detain the fleeing people and calm them down with hasty assurances that it was so, a trifle, a small faint with one gentleman from San Francisco... But no one listened to him, many saw how the lackeys and bellhops were tearing this gentleman's tie, vest, crumpled tuxedo and even, for some reason, ballroom shoes from black silk legs with flat feet. And he still fought. He persistently fought against death, never wanting to succumb to it, which had fallen upon him so unexpectedly and rudely. He shook his head, wheezed as if he had been stabbed to death, rolled his eyes like a drunk... When they hurriedly carried him in and laid him on the bed in the forty-third room - the smallest, the worst, the dampest and coldest, at the end of the lower corridor - he came running a daughter, with loose hair, with her bare breasts raised by a corset, then a large wife, already completely dressed for dinner, whose mouth was round with horror... But then he stopped shaking his head. A quarter of an hour later, everything somehow returned to order at the hotel. But the evening was irreparably ruined. Some, returning to the dining room, finished dinner, but silently, with offended faces, while the owner approached first one, then the other, shrugging his shoulders in impotent and decent irritation, feeling guiltlessly guilty, assuring everyone that he understood perfectly well, “how unpleasant this is,” and giving his word that he will take “all measures in his power” to eliminate the trouble; the tarantella had to be cancelled, the excess electricity was turned off, most of the guests went into town, to the pub, and it became so quiet that the sound of the clock in the lobby was clearly heard, where only one parrot muttered something woodenly, fiddling around in his cage before going to bed, managing to fall asleep with with a paw absurdly lifted up onto the top pole... The gentleman from San Francisco was lying on a cheap iron bed, under coarse woolen blankets, on which one horn dimly shone from the ceiling. An ice pack hung on his wet and cold forehead. The gray, already dead face gradually froze, the hoarse bubbling sound escaping from the open mouth, illuminated by the reflection of gold, weakened. It was no longer the gentleman from San Francisco who was wheezing - he was no longer there - but someone else. His wife, daughter, doctor, and servants stood and looked at him. Suddenly, what they had been waiting for and fearing happened - the wheezing stopped. And slowly, slowly, in front of everyone, pallor flowed over the face of the deceased, and his features began to thin out and brighten... The owner came in. “Già é morto,” the doctor told him in a whisper. The owner shrugged his shoulders with an impassive face. The missus, with tears quietly rolling down her cheeks, approached him and timidly said that now it was necessary to carry the deceased to his room. “Oh, no, madam,” the owner objected hastily, correctly, but without any courtesy and not in English, but in French, who was not at all interested in the trifles that those who came from San Francisco could now leave in his cash register. “This is completely impossible, madam,” he said and added in explanation that he really valued these apartments, that if he fulfilled her wish, then all of Capri would know about it and tourists would begin to avoid them. Miss, who had been looking at him strangely all the time, sat down on a chair and, covering her mouth with a handkerchief, began to sob. The Mrs.'s tears immediately dried up and her face flushed. She raised her tone and began to demand, speaking in her own language and still not believing that respect for them was completely lost. The owner besieged her with polite dignity: if Madame does not like the order of the hotel, he does not dare detain her; and firmly stated that the body should be taken out today at dawn, that the police had already been given knowledge that its representative would now appear and carry out the necessary formalities... Is it possible to get at least a simple ready-made coffin in Capri, asks Madame? Unfortunately, no, in no case, and no one will have time to do it. He'll have to do something differently... He gets English soda water, for example, in large, long boxes... the partitions from such a box can be removed... At night the whole hotel slept. They opened the window in room forty-three - it looked out into the corner of the garden, where under a high stone wall studded along the ridge broken glass, a stunted banana was growing, they turned off the electricity, locked the door and left. The dead man remained in the dark, blue stars looked at him from the sky, a cricket sang with sad carefreeness on the wall... In the dimly lit corridor, two maids were sitting on the windowsill, mending something. Luigi came in with a bunch of clothes on his arm and shoes on. - Pronto? (Ready?) - he asked worriedly in a ringing whisper, pointing with his eyes at the scary door at the end of the corridor. And he lightly shook his free hand in that direction. - Partenza! - he shouted in a whisper, as if seeing off a train, what they usually shout in Italy at stations when trains depart - and the maids, choking on silent laughter, fell with their heads on each other’s shoulders. Then, bouncing softly, he ran up to the door itself, knocked lightly on it and, bowing his head to the side, asked in a very respectful undertone:- What sonato, signore? And, squeezing his throat, pushing out his lower jaw, he answered himself creakingly, slowly and sadly, as if from behind a door:- Yes, come in... And at dawn, when the window of room forty-three turned white and the damp wind rustled the torn leaves of the banana, when the blue morning sky rose and spread over the island of Capri and the clean and clear peak of Monte Solaro turned golden against the sun rising behind the distant blue mountains of Italy, when The masons who were straightening the paths for tourists on the island went to work and brought a long box of soda water to room number forty-three. Soon he became very heavy - and firmly pressed the knees of the junior porter, who drove him briskly in a one-horse cab along the white highway, winding back and forth along the slopes of Capri, among stone fences and vineyards, down and down, all the way to the sea. The cab driver, a stout man with red eyes, in an old jacket with short sleeves and in knocked-down shoes, he was hungover, he had been playing dice in the trattoria all night, and he kept whipping his strong horse, dressed up in Sicilian style, hastily rattling with all sorts of bells on the bridle in colored woolen pom-poms and on the points of a high copper saddle, with a yardstick , a bird's feather shaking as he runs, sticking out from his trimmed bangs. The cabman was silent, depressed by his dissoluteness, by his vices, by the fact that he had lost every penny that night. But the morning was fresh, in such air, in the middle of the sea, under the morning sky, the hops soon disappear and soon carefreeness returns to a person, and the cabman was consoled by the unexpected income that some gentleman from San Francisco gave him, shaking his dead head in the box behind his back... The steamboat, lying like a beetle far below, in the gentle and bright blue that fills the Bay of Naples so thickly and completely, was already sounding its last whistles - and they cheerfully echoed throughout the entire island, every bend of which, every ridge, every stone was so clearly visible from everywhere, as if there was no air at all. Near the pier, the younger porter was caught up by the older one, who was racing in the car of Miss and Mrs., pale, with sunken eyes from tears and a sleepless night. And ten minutes later the steamboat began to rustle with water again and again ran towards Sorrento, towards Castellammare, forever taking the family away from Capri from San Francisco... And peace and quiet reigned on the island again. On this island two thousand years ago there lived a man who was unspeakably vile in satisfying his lust and for some reason had power over millions of people, inflicting cruelties on them beyond all measure, and humanity remembered him forever, and many, many from all over the world come to watch to the remains of the stone house where he lived on one of the steepest slopes of the island. In it wonderful morning everyone who came to Capri precisely for this purpose was still sleeping in the hotels, although small mousey donkeys under red saddles were already being led to the entrances of the hotels, on which young and old American and American women, Germans and Germans, were again supposed to perch today, having woken up and had eaten and after whom the poor old Capri women with sticks in their sinewy hands had to run again along rocky paths, and all up the mountain, right up to the very top of Monte Tiberio, with sticks in their sinewy hands, in order to urge the donkeys with these sticks. Reassured by the fact that the dead old man from San Francisco, who was also planning to go with them, but instead only frightened them with a reminder of death, had already been sent to Naples, the travelers slept soundly, and the island was still quiet, the shops in the city were still closed . Only the market in a small square sold fish and herbs, and there were only simple people, among whom, as always, without any business, stood Lorenzo, a tall old boatman, a carefree reveler and a handsome man, famous throughout Italy, who more than once served as a model for many painters: he brought and already sold for next to nothing two lobsters he caught at night, rustling in the cook's apron of the very hotel where the family from San Francisco spent the night, and now could stand calmly even until the evening, looking around with a regal demeanor, showing off with his rags, a clay pipe and a red wool beret pulled down over one ear. And along the cliffs of Monte Solaro, along the ancient Phoenician road carved into the rocks, along its stone steps, two Abruzzese highlanders descended from Anacapri. One had a bagpipe under his leather cloak - a large goatskin with two pipes, the other had something like a wooden forepipe. They walked - and the whole country, joyful, beautiful, sunny, stretched out under them: the rocky humps of the island, which almost all lay at their feet, and that fabulous blue in which it floated, and the shining morning steam over the sea to the east, under the dazzling sun, which was already warming hotly, rising higher and higher, and the foggy azure, still unsteady in the morning, massifs of Italy, its near and distant mountains, the beauty of which human words are powerless to express. Halfway there they slowed down: above the road, in the grotto of the rocky wall of Monte Solaro, all illuminated by the sun, all in its warmth and shine, stood in snow-white plaster robes and in a royal crown, golden-rusty from bad weather, the Mother of God, meek and merciful , with her eyes raised to heaven, to the eternal and blessed abodes of her thrice-blessed son. They bared their heads - and naive and humbly joyful praises poured out to the sun, to the morning, to her, the immaculate intercessor of all those who suffer in this evil and beautiful world, and to the one born from her womb in the cave of Bethlehem, in a poor shepherd's shelter, in the distant land of Judah... . The body of the dead old man from San Francisco was returning home, to the grave, to the shores of the New World. Having experienced a lot of humiliation, a lot of human inattention, having spent a week wandering from one port shed to another, it finally found itself again on the same famous ship on which so recently, with such honor, it was transported to the Old World. But now they were hiding him from the living - they lowered him deep into a black hold in a tarred coffin. And again, again the ship went on its long sea journey. At night he sailed past the island of Capri, and his lights were sad, slowly disappearing into the dark sea for those who looked at them from the island. But there, on the ship, in the bright halls shining with chandeliers, there was, as usual, a crowded ball that night. He was there on the second and third night - again in the midst of a frenzied blizzard, sweeping over the ocean that roared like a funeral mass, and the mountains were mournful from the silver foam. The countless fiery eyes of the ship were barely visible behind the snow to the Devil, who was watching from the rocks of Gibraltar, from the rocky gates of two worlds, the ship leaving into the night and blizzard. The devil was huge, like a cliff, but the ship was also huge, multi-tiered, multi-pipe, created by the pride of the New Man with an old heart. The blizzard beat into his rigging and wide-necked pipes, white with snow, but he was steadfast, firm, majestic and terrible. On the very top of its roof, those cozy, dimly lit chambers stood alone among the snow whirlwinds, where, immersed in a sensitive and anxious slumber, its overweight driver, looking like a pagan idol, sat above the entire ship. He heard the heavy howls and furious squeals of a siren, suffocated by the storm, but he calmed himself by the proximity of what was ultimately the most incomprehensible to him that was behind his wall: that armored cabin, which was constantly filled with a mysterious hum, trembling and dry crackling. blue lights flashed and burst around a pale-faced telegraph operator with a metal half-hoop on his head. At the very bottom, in the underwater womb of the Atlantis, the thousand-pound huge boilers and all sorts of other machines, that kitchen, heated from below by the hellish furnaces in which the movement of the ship was cooked, were dimly shining with steel, wheezing with steam and oozing with boiling water and oil - bubbling terrible in their concentration forces transmitted to its very keel, into an endlessly long dungeon, into a round tunnel, faintly illuminated by electricity, where slowly, with a rigor overwhelming the human soul, a gigantic shaft rotated in its oily bed, like a living monster stretching out in this tunnel, similar to a vent . And the middle of Atlantis, its dining rooms and ballrooms, shed light and joy, hummed with the talk of an elegant crowd, fragrant with fresh flowers, and sang with a string orchestra. And again, painfully wriggled and sometimes convulsively collided among this crowd, among the sparkle of lights, silks, diamonds and naked female shoulders, a thin and flexible pair of hired lovers: a sinfully modest girl with drooping eyelashes, with an innocent hairstyle, and a tall young man with black, hair as if glued to it, pale with powder, in the most elegant patent leather shoes, in a narrow tailcoat with long tails - a handsome man, looking like a huge leech. And no one knew either that this couple had long been tired of pretending to suffer their blissful torment to the shamelessly sad music, or that it stood deep, deep beneath them, at the bottom of the dark hold, in the vicinity of the gloomy and sultry bowels of the ship, overcome by darkness, ocean, blizzard. .. October. 1915

Summary of the story “Mr. from San Francisco” by I.A. Bunin for preparation for the final essay, for the reader's diary.

Nobody in Naples or Capri remembered the name of the gentleman from San Francisco. He was traveling with his wife and daughter to the Old World for two years to have fun. At fifty-eight years old, he was firmly convinced that he was just starting to live, that wealth gave him the right to rest and pleasure, to a great trip. Previously, he did not live, but existed, hoping for the future. He worked tirelessly and finally saw that he had achieved the model he was striving for. I decided to take a break. People in his circle usually traveled to Europe, India and Egypt. He decided not to deviate from the model here either. First of all, this trip was a reward for his labors, but the gentleman was also happy for his wife and daughter. His wife is not an impressionable person, but all older American women, he thinks, love traveling. The daughter, a sickly girl of marriageable age, will improve her health and find herself a billionaire husband. The gentleman developed an extensive route: winter - in Southern Italy, carnival - in Nice, in Monte Carlo, in March - Florence, for the Passion of the Lord - in Rome. Then - Venice, Paris, bullfighting in Seville, swimming in the English islands, Athens, Constantinople, Palestine, Egypt, on the way back - Japan.

At first everything goes great. At the end of November, we had to sail to Gibraltar in icy darkness and a snowstorm, but safely. On the famous steamship Atlantis, a huge hotel with all amenities, life flowed smoothly. All day the travelers ate, drank and had fun; by evening the gentleman from San Francisco dressed in a tuxedo and starched underwear, which made him look very young. In the evenings, many servants worked on the ship. There was a terrible ocean around, but they didn’t think about it, relying on the ship’s commander. The gentleman's family dined, then the dancing began, everyone again had fun, drank and smoked. The steamer was trembling all over, overcoming the blizzard ocean, the siren howled, and the womb of the steamer was like the ninth circle of hell. There the furnaces roared and sweaty people, red from the flames, worked, while above everything shone and spun in a waltz. Among the crowd there was one rich man, a writer, a beauty, a couple in love who delighted everyone, and only the captain knew that these were hired actors playing love for good money on different ships. The sun has appeared in Gibraltar, and a new passenger has appeared on board - the crown prince of an Asian state. The daughter of a gentleman from San Francisco was introduced to him, the gentleman himself is looking at his beautiful fellow traveler. He is generous on the road and takes the care of servants for granted. The ship arrived in Naples. Life there also flows as usual, with lunches and excursions. In December the weather was bad, the gentleman began to quarrel with his wife in the morning, his daughter was pale and had a headache. Everyone assured that Capri was warmer, the family decided to go there. There was terrible seas on the small ship, the family suffered, the gentleman felt like an old man. Upon arrival in Italy, the gentleman avoids everyone, he is immediately singled out, helped out, he feels that he has done everyone a favor with his arrival. The owner of the hotel seems to him to have already seen once, he tells the family about it, and his daughter becomes sad and lonely on the island. The family is provided with the apartments of a high-ranking person who has just departed, and the most skilled servants are assigned. The gentleman dresses as usual for the evening, the floor still shakes under him after the rocking. He goes to wait for his wife and daughter in the reading room, sits down in a chair, and suddenly he has an attack of suffocation. He is taken to a bad, damp and cold room; his wife and daughter come running, almost dressed for dinner. The evening at the hotel is irreparably ruined for the owner. The gentleman dies on an iron bed under rough blankets. His wife, now a widow, asks permission to move his body to the room, but the owner says that this is impossible: after this, tourists will avoid his hotel. He says that the body must be removed at dawn, not in a coffin, but in a soda box. At dawn, when everyone is still sleeping, the cab driver takes the box with the body to the ship, and the car drops off his wife and daughter. The master's body returns home on the same ship, but in a black hold. In the halls above, as usual, there is a crowded ball. The ocean roars like a funeral mass. The hellish furnaces of Atlantis are bubbling, the halls are fragrant with flowers, and the sound of an orchestra is playing. Again the hired couple pretends to love, but no one knows either that she is already tired of pretending, or what kind of cargo they are carrying in the hold.

In 1915, a short story by I.A. was published. Bunin "Mr. from San Francisco". When reading the title of the work, thoughts immediately come to mind about an exciting plot, where a mysterious citizen from a distant country becomes the main character of amazing and somewhere dangerous events... However, the plot of the story is far from the expected options. Who is this man from San Francisco? A brief summary will help us figure it out. It is not difficult.

Passing summary“Mr. from San Francisco”, it should be noted that the author, introducing the main character, from the first lines seems to warn the reader that no one remembered the name of this man, neither in Naples nor in Capri. On the one hand, this seems surprising - it cannot be that a person in whose life there were no actions discrediting him, who has a good a strong family, wife and daughter, whose aspirations were aimed at work and later on a well-deserved rest, might not be remembered by those around him. But as you continue to read line by line, you understand that his life was so colorless and empty that, on the contrary, if someone remembered his name, it would be surprising. All his life he strove to work tirelessly, but not in order to achieve well-deserved success, some unprecedented achievements and discoveries, but in the end - to the inner satisfaction that his life was not lived in vain, but to become equal to respected people and then until the end of his days, to remain in the same pleasures and idle pleasures as other “respectable” citizens. And now comes that long-awaited moment in his life, when, it seemed, a lot has been done, and his condition has approached the figure when he can afford to go on a long journey. And again, traveling across the ocean in his understanding is not new lands, not an acquaintance with another culture and distant traditions, but rather an indispensable attribute of the life of any rich person.

The main character, together with his wife and adult daughter, boards the famous ship Atlantis and sets off for the Old World. His plans are to visit monuments and Ancient Greece, take part in car and sailing races in Nice and Monte Carlo, enjoy the delights of young Neapolitan women and be sure to swim in the waters of the English islands, and getting to know the local sophisticated society can bring considerable benefits both for himself and for his daughter - a girl of marriageable age ... And it seemed that nothing and no one could interfere with his plans - after all, he had dreamed about this all his life.

Continuing the summary of “Mr. from San Francisco,” we are transported to the ship that is taking our hero and his family to Naples.

Life on the ship, which resembles a real hotel with all the amenities and all kinds of entertainment, goes smoothly. In the morning - a mandatory two-hour walk along the deck to whet the appetite, then breakfast, after breakfast everyone looks through the latest newspapers, another walk and a short rest under blankets in long chairs on the deck... The second breakfast is replaced by hot tea with cookies, conversations - walks, and at the end day comes that long-awaited moment, the real apotheosis of everything - a hearty lunch and an evening of dancing.

Soon the floating hotel arrives in Italy, and the citizen from San Francisco finds himself in the epicenter of his Naples, an expensive hotel, helpful staff, the same serenely luxurious lifestyle, breakfasts, lunches, dances, visits to cathedrals and museums... But you don’t feel that pleasure from the life he dreamed of: it is constantly raining outside, the wind is howling, and there is endless despondency around. And the nameless man and his family decide to go to where, as they assured, it was sunny and warm. And again they are on a small ship, sailing in the hope of finding that oasis in the desert to which they have been walking for so long. But the terrible pitching and stormy winds do not bode well...

Capri cordially welcomes the gentleman from San Francisco, but, as he himself notes, main character, the miserable shacks of fishermen on the coast cause only irritation and feelings that are far from the expected admiration.

But, having arrived at the hotel, where he was greeted with all the appropriate honors and even more, the gentleman is sure that the annoying feelings are behind him, and only pleasure and enjoyment lie ahead. He prepares for dinner with all pomp, shaves, washes, puts on a tailcoat, fastens his cufflinks... Without waiting for his wife and daughter, he goes down to the cozy reading room, sits down, puts on his pince-nez, opens the newspaper... And here something terrible and unexpected happens - everything becomes blurry before his eyes , and he, all wriggling, falls to the floor... There is noise around, surprised exclamations and screams, but there is no feeling of compassion or desire to help in them. No, rather fear and disappointment that the evening is hopelessly ruined, and maybe you will even have to leave the hotel.

The gentleman from San Francisco is transferred to a very small and damp room, where he soon dies. The women who came running in horror, his wife and daughter, no longer hear those helpful and obsequious notes in the owner’s voice, only irritation and displeasure that the hotel’s reputation could be forever ruined. He does not allow his body to be moved to another room and refuses to help with the search for the coffin, offering in return a long bottle box. This is how the main character spends his last night in Capri - a cold, musty room and a simple box. It would seem that this is where the summary of “Mr. from San Francisco” comes to an end. But don’t rush, because ahead, even if they are insignificant scenes, are the most profound, leading the reader to the most important thing...

The next day, the wife, daughter and dead old man - as the author now calls him - are sent back to San Francisco by ship. Finishing the summary of “Mr. from San Francisco”, one should certainly describe the same “Atlantis”, on board of which there are the same idle faces, the same breakfasts and walks, and the same heroes... But no one suspects, and no one is interested in what is going on in the soul of each of those present and who is hidden in the tarred coffin deep below in the dark, cold hold...

In conclusion, I would like to say that if I. A. Bunin had named his work differently, and, say, instead of “Mr. from San Francisco,” at the moment you would be reading “Citizen from San Francisco,” a summary, main idea the works would not have changed. The dullness, emptiness and purposelessness of existence lead to only one end - in the distant hold there is a coffin not with a person, but with a body without a name...

A gentleman from San Francisco, who is never named by name in the story, since, the author notes, no one remembered his name either in Naples or Capri, goes with his wife and daughter to the Old World for two whole years so that to have fun and travel. He worked hard and is now rich enough to afford such a vacation.

At the end of November, the famous Atlantis, which looks like a huge hotel with all the amenities, sets sail. Life on the ship goes smoothly: they get up early, drink coffee, cocoa, chocolate, take baths, do gymnastics, walk along the decks to whet their appetite; then they go to the first breakfast; after breakfast they read newspapers and calmly wait for second breakfast; the next two hours are devoted to relaxation - all decks are lined with long reed chairs, on which travelers lie, covered with blankets, looking at the cloudy sky; then - tea with cookies, and in the evening - what constitutes the main goal of this entire existence - dinner.

A wonderful orchestra plays exquisitely and tirelessly in a huge hall, behind the walls of which the waves of the terrible ocean roar, but low-cut ladies and men in tailcoats and tuxedos do not think about it. After dinner, dancing begins in the ballroom, men in the bar smoke cigars, drink liqueurs, and are served by blacks in red camisoles.

Finally, the ship arrives in Naples, the family of the gentleman from San Francisco stays in an expensive hotel, and here their life also flows according to a routine: early in the morning - breakfast, after - visiting museums and cathedrals, second breakfast, tea, then preparing for dinner and in the evening - a hearty lunch. However, December in Naples this year turned out to be stormy: wind, rain, mud on the streets. And the family of the gentleman from San Francisco decides to go to the island of Capri, where, as everyone assures them, it is warm, sunny and lemons bloom.

Small the steamboat, rolling from side to side on the waves, transports a gentleman from San Francisco with his family, seriously suffering from seasickness, to Capri. The funicular takes them to a small stone town at the top of the mountain, they settle into a hotel, where everyone warmly welcomes them, and prepare for dinner, having already fully recovered from seasickness. Having dressed before his wife and daughter, a gentleman from San Francisco heads to a cozy, quiet hotel reading room, opens a newspaper - and suddenly the lines flash before his eyes, his pince-nez flies off his nose, and his body, writhing, slides to the floor. Another guest was present. The hotel owner runs into the dining room screaming, everyone jumps up from their seats, the owner tries to calm the guests, but the evening is already irreparably ruined.

The gentleman from San Francisco is transferred to the smallest and worst room; his wife, daughter, servants stand and look at him, and now what they were waiting for and fearing happened - he dies. The wife of a gentleman from San Francisco asks the owner to allow the body to be moved to their apartment, but the owner refuses: he values these rooms too much, and tourists would begin to avoid them, since the whole of Capri would immediately know about what happened. You can't get a coffin here either - the owner can offer a long box of soda water bottles.

At dawn, a cab driver carries the body of a gentleman from San Francisco to the pier, a steamboat transports him across the Bay of Naples, and the same Atlantis, on which he arrived with honor in the Old World, now carries him, dead, in a tarred coffin, hidden from the living deep below, in the black hold. Meanwhile, on the decks the same life continues as before, everyone has breakfast and lunch in the same way, and the ocean wavering behind the windows is still just as scary.

The gentleman from San Francisco - a story written by I.A. Bunin. at the end of 1915.

The problem of human existence is brought to the fore here. Does a person's status matter when facing death?

A person’s consumerist attitude towards life leads him to the point that after death he becomes of no use to anyone, even his relatives.

I.A. Bunin endowed his work with artistic features. Symbolism of the story's images:

the ship is called “Atlantis” - a once lost country in the ocean;
the ocean is life with its surprises and unpredictability, it is free and alive;
Italy – the joy of the sensations of life, the beauty of the world and sunny life;
the author does not give the hero a name, which speaks of his uselessness and meaninglessness;
Bunin's characters do not speak in the work, speech characteristics are completely absent;
the text is filled with complex sentences, descriptions, and emotionally charged vocabulary;
antithesis is the basis of the story (life - death, "Atlantis" - the ocean, the passengers of the ship - the people of Italy, God - the Devil, etc.);
ring composition story.

A certain gentleman, whose name we do not know (the author calls him “Mr. from San Francisco”), goes on a trip with his family. All his life he worked hard to save a lot of money. I limited myself in many things in order to earn a decent rest. And, indeed, he was known as a very rich man. His wife and daughter accompanied him on this “cruise”.

The gentleman from San Francisco had a big plan. He expected to visit many countries and cities. And he expected to spend at least two years on such an exciting journey. At first everything went well. They sailed on a ship with the symbolic name “Atlantis”. There were a lot of passengers on the ship. And the ship itself was comfortable and reliable (as everyone who was on it thought).

The ocean was harsh, gloomy and scary. But no one paid attention to this. Everyone was sure that they were safe. Music played all day and evening on the ship. People drank, ate, danced, played poker and found other entertainment. Soon the ship arrived in Naples. The gentleman from San Francisco was not impressed by Italy.

He and his wife had already quarreled in the morning. Bad feeling, rainy weather, monotonous days for Mr. melancholy and anger. They seemed to be on the island of Capri. A gentleman from San Francisco and his family were preparing for dinner. Everything went as usual. Lackeys scurried around in front of his nose, trying to please him in everything and not miss a single wish.

The guests slowly converged in the dining room. The gentleman dressed before dinner and went down to the reading room. But as soon as he picked up the newspaper, something unexpected happened to him. He suddenly shook, wheezed and slid to the floor. All the guests were scared. The gentleman from San Francisco was taken to the smallest, dampest and cheapest hotel room. There he died in the presence of a doctor, wife, daughter and a couple of servants.

Night fell, and he...was left completely alone. The owner of the hotel did not allow his wife to transfer the body of the deceased gentleman to his room. The coffin could not be found on the island, and the gentleman lay in a soda box... In the morning, the ship was already carrying the gentleman’s family back from San Francisco.

For almost a week, the body of the now old man from San Francisco was transferred from ship to ship, from port to port, until it ended up on the same Atlantis that carried him here in style. But now he was not traveling first class, but in the hold, away from human eyes. There was a ball on the ship, everything played, sang and twirled as usual, there was a celebration every day. But our master no longer saw all this.

Theme of life and death

I. Bunin puts it sharply social problem in this story. What does a person mean in this life if he has a lot of money? And does he still mean the same after his death? The Atlantis passengers did not notice the beauty of life, respecting only it material values. The gentleman from San Francisco did not notice the sunshine of Italy, the cheerfulness of the people. He stands above them. But where did he end up after his death? In the hold at the very bottom in some box. Now he does not even deserve the attention of people who a day ago were ready to fulfill any request for him. The frailty of life turns out to be higher than wealth.