Who wrote the gentleman from San Francisco. The history of creation and analysis of the story “Mr. from San Francisco” by I.A. Bunin
“Mr. from San Francisco” is one of the most famous stories Russian prose writer Ivan Alekseevich Bunin. It was published in 1915 and has long become a textbook; it is taught in schools and universities. Behind the apparent simplicity of this work are hidden deep meanings and problems that never lose relevance.
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History of creation and plot of the story
According to Bunin himself, the inspiration for writing “Mr...” was Thomas Mann’s story “Death in Venice.” At that time, Ivan Alekseevich had not read the work of his German colleague, but only knew that in it an American was dying on the island of Capri. So “The Mister from San Francisco” and “Death in Venice” are in no way connected, except perhaps by a good idea.
In the story, a certain gentleman from San Francisco, together with his wife and young daughter, set off on a long journey from the New World to the Old World. The gentleman worked all his life and made a substantial fortune. Now, like all people of his status, he can afford a well-deserved rest. The family is sailing on a luxury ship called Atlantis. The ship is more like a luxury mobile hotel, where an eternal holiday lasts and everything works in order to bring pleasure to its obscenely rich passengers.
The first tourist point on the route of our travelers is Naples, which greets them unfavorably - the weather in the city is disgusting. Soon the gentleman from San Francisco leaves the city to go to the shores of sunny Capri. However, there, in the cozy reading room of a fashionable hotel, unexpected death from an attack awaits him. The gentleman is hastily transferred to the cheapest room (so as not to spoil the reputation of the hotel) and in a blind box in the hold of the Atlantis, he is sent home to San Francisco.
Main characters: characteristics of images
Mister from San Francisco
We get acquainted with the gentleman from San Francisco from the first pages of the story, because he is central character works. Surprisingly, the author does not honor his hero with a name. Throughout the entire narrative, he remains “Mister” or “Mr.” Why? The writer honestly admits this to his reader - this faceless man is “in his desire to buy the delights of real life with his existing wealth.”
Before we hang labels, let's get to know this gentleman better. What if he's not so bad? So, our hero worked hard all his life (“the Chinese, whom he hired thousands of to work for him, knew this well”). He turned 58 years old and now he has every financial and moral right to arrange a great vacation for himself (and his family as well).
“Until this time, he did not live, but only existed, although very well, but still pinning all his hopes on the future.”
Describing the appearance of his nameless master, Bunin, who was distinguished by his ability to notice individual features in everyone, for some reason does not find anything special in this man. He casually draws his portrait - “dry, short, poorly cut, but tightly sewn... a yellowish face with a trimmed silver mustache... large teeth... a strong bald head.” It seems that behind this crude “ammunition”, which is given out along with a solid fortune, it is difficult to discern the thoughts and feelings of a person, and, perhaps, everything sensual simply sours in such storage conditions.
With a closer acquaintance with the gentleman, we still learn little about him. We know that he wears elegant, expensive suits with suffocating collars, we know that at dinner at “Antlantis” he eats his fill, smokes red-hot with cigars and gets drunk on liqueurs, and this brings pleasure, but essentially we know nothing more.
It’s amazing, but during the entire long journey on the ship and stay in Naples, not a single enthusiastic exclamation sounded from the gentleman’s lips; he does not admire anything, is not surprised by anything, does not reason about anything. The trip brings him a lot of inconvenience, but he cannot not go, because this is what all people of his rank do. That’s how it’s supposed to be - first Italy, then France, Spain, Greece, certainly Egypt and the British Isles, on the way back exotic Japan...
Exhausted by seasickness, he sails to the island of Capri (an obligatory point on the route of any self-respecting tourist). In a luxurious room at the best hotel on the island, a gentleman from San Francisco constantly says “Oh, this is terrible!”, without even trying to understand what exactly is terrible. The pricks of cufflinks, the stuffiness of a starched collar, naughty gouty fingers... I’d rather go to the reading room and drink local wine, all respected tourists certainly drink it.
And having reached his “mecca” in the hotel reading room, the gentleman from San Francisco dies, but we don’t feel sorry for him. No, no, we don’t want righteous reprisal, we simply don’t care, as if a chair breaks. We wouldn't shed tears over the chair.
In pursuit of wealth, this deeply limited man did not know how to manage money, and therefore bought what society imposed on him - uncomfortable clothes, unnecessary travel, even a daily routine according to which all travelers were required to rest. Early rise, first breakfast, walk along the deck or “enjoying” the sights of the city, second breakfast, voluntary-forced sleep (everyone should be tired at this time!), getting ready and the long-awaited dinner, plentiful, satisfying, drunk. This is what the imaginary “freedom” of a rich man from the New World looks like.
Master's wife
The wife of the gentleman from San Francisco, alas, also has no name. The author calls her “Mrs.” and characterizes her as “a large, broad and calm woman.” She, like a faceless shadow, follows her wealthy husband, walks along the deck, has breakfast, dinner, and “enjoys” the sights. The writer admits that she is not very impressionable, but, like all older American women, she is a passionate traveler... At least she is supposed to be one.
The only emotional outburst occurs after the death of a spouse. The Mrs. is indignant that the hotel manager refuses to place the body of the deceased in expensive rooms and leaves him to “spend the night” in a wretched, damp room. And not a word about the loss of their spouse, they have lost respect, status - that’s what occupies the unhappy woman.
Master's daughter
This sweet miss doesn't call negative emotions. She is not capricious, not arrogant, not talkative; on the contrary, she is very reserved and shy.
“Tall, thin, with magnificent hair, perfectly styled, with aromatic breath from violet cakes and with the most delicate pink pimples near the lips and between the shoulder blades.”
At first glance, the author is favorable to this lovely person, but he does not even give his daughter a name, because again there is nothing individual about her. Remember the episode when she is in awe, talking on board the Atlantis with the crown prince, who was traveling incognito. Everyone, of course, knew that this was an oriental prince and knew how fabulously rich he was. The young miss went crazy with excitement when he paid attention to her, she may even have fallen in love with him. Meanwhile, the eastern prince was not at all good-looking - small, like a boy, a thin face with tight dark skin, a sparse mustache, an unattractive European outfit (after all, he was traveling incognito!). You're supposed to fall in love with a prince, even if he's a complete freak.
Other characters
As a contrast to our cold trio, the author intersperses descriptions of characters from the people. This is the boatman Lorenzo (“a carefree reveler and a handsome man”), and two highlanders with bagpipes at the ready, and simple Italians meeting the boat from the shore. All of them are inhabitants of a joyful, cheerful, beautiful country, they are its masters, its sweat and blood. They do not have countless fortunes, tight collars and social duties, but in their poverty they are richer than all the gentlemen from San Francisco, their cold wives and gentle daughters combined.
The gentleman from San Francisco understands this on some subconscious, intuitive level... and hates all these “garlic-smelling people,” because he can’t just run barefoot along the shore - he has a second breakfast on schedule.
Analysis of the work
The story can be roughly divided into two unequal parts - before and after the death of the gentleman from San Francisco. We are witnessing a vibrant metamorphosis that has occurred in literally everything. How suddenly the money and status of this man, this self-proclaimed ruler of life, depreciated. The hotel manager, who just a few hours ago was smiling sweetly in front of a wealthy guest, now allows himself undisguised familiarity in relation to Mrs., Miss and the deceased Mr. Now this is not an honored guest who will leave a substantial sum at the box office, but just a corpse that risks casting a shadow on the high-society hotel.
With expressive strokes, Bunin paints the chilling indifference of everyone around to the death of a person, starting from the guests, whose evening is now overshadowed, and ending with his wife and daughter, whose journey is hopelessly ruined. Fierce selfishness and coldness - everyone thinks only about themselves.
The ship Atlantis becomes a generalized allegory of this thoroughly false bourgeois society. It is also divided into classes by its decks. In luxurious halls, rich people with their companions and families have fun and get drunk, and in the holds, those whom representatives of high society do not even consider to be people work until they sweat. But the world of money and lack of spirituality is doomed, which is why the author calls his allegory ship in honor of the sunken continent “Atlantis”.
Problems of the work
In the story “Mr. from San Francisco,” Ivan Bunin raises the following questions:
- What is the true importance of money in life?
- Is it possible to buy joy and happiness?
- Is it worth enduring constant hardship for the sake of an illusory reward?
- Who is freer: the rich or the poor?
- What is the purpose of man in this world?
The last question is especially interesting to discuss. It is certainly not new - many writers have thought about the meaning of human existence. Bunin does not go into complex philosophy, his conclusion is simple - a person must live in such a way as to leave a mark behind him. Whether these are works of art, reforms in the lives of millions, or bright memories in the hearts of loved ones, does not matter. The gentleman from San Francisco left nothing behind; no one will sincerely grieve for him, not even his wife and daughter.
Place in literature: Literature of the 20th century → Russian literature of the 20th century → The works of Ivan Bunin → The story “The Gentleman from San Francisco” (1915).
We also recommend that you familiarize yourself with the work Clean Monday. Ivan Bunin considered this work his best work.
Mr. from San Francisco: main characters, analysis of the work, problems
5 (100%) 2 votesThe main idea of the story is to understand the essence of human existence: human life is fragile and perishable, therefore it becomes disgusting if it lacks authenticity and beauty. First published in 1915 in the collection “The Word” in the Russian Empire.
Encyclopedic YouTube
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Hi all! Let me remind you that in this section I briefly retell the books I have read. That is, after watching this short story, you will know as much about the book as the person who read it. What is this story about? Nothing. There lived a rich man and suddenly he died. All. But, if you dig deeper, then: there are people who are actually dead while still alive. And when they die, nothing changes in the world. Like the death of Akaki Akakievich in Gogol’s “The Overcoat”. If anyone wants to know in more detail how the main character reclined, watch the story to the end. Ivan Bunin wrote this story exactly 100 years ago - in 1915. Events take place during the same period. A gentleman from San Francisco (the author decided not to even give him a name) together with his wife and daughter are sailing on the Atlantis steamer to Europe. He is 58 years old and for the first time he decided to take a break from work. He has enough dough. But he is rich only in money, not spiritually, because “he did not live (as the author writes), but existed.” He had huge plans - over 2 years of travel, he would visit several cities in Italy, France, go to England, Greece, Palestine, Egypt and even Japan on the way back. At the same time, he definitely wanted to “have a little fun” with the young fairies during his trip. The ship arrives in Naples. A family from San Francisco is staying in an expensive hotel. But in December it was cold there, so they go to the island of Capri (this is in Italy), where, according to rumors, it is warm and sunny. Almost no events happen in the story. It feels like everything is marking time in one place. You read and read and... fall asleep. A gentleman from San Francisco in the evening before dinner at the hotel decided to go to the reading room to read something. He opened the newspaper and suddenly he felt sick - he began to choke and wheeze. In general, our gentleman from San Francisco died. His wife and daughter placed his body in a coffin and headed back to America. On the same ship on which they sailed to Europe. Only this time the gentleman from San Francisco was not on the upper deck among the elite, but lay below - in the dark hold... That's it. Interesting: Ivan Bunin called our modern “chaise lounges” “longchairs”. Quote: “The next two hours were devoted to rest. All the decks were then filled with longchairs, on which travelers lay, covered with blankets, looking at the cloudy sky and at the foamy mounds flashing overboard, or sweetly dozing off”...
History of creation
According to Bunin, the writing of the story was facilitated by the cover of Thomas Mann’s story “Death in Venice” that he accidentally saw in the summer of 1915 in a bookstore window in Moscow in the summer of 1915: in early September 1915, while visiting a cousin in the Oryol province, “ For some reason I remembered this book and the sudden death of some American who arrived in Capri, at the Quisisana hotel, where we lived that year, and immediately decided to write “Death in Capri,” which I did in four days - not hurrying, calmly, in harmony with the autumn calm of the gray and already quite short and fresh days and the silence in the estate... I, of course, crossed out the title “Death on Capri” as soon as I wrote the first line: “Mr. from San Francisco...” And San Francisco, and everything else (except for the fact that some American actually died after dinner at Kwisisan) I made up... I read “Death in Venice” in Moscow only at the end of autumn. This is a very unpleasant book» .
Summary
From the point of view of composition, the narrative can be divided into two unequal parts: the journey of the gentleman from San Francisco on the ship Atlantis to the shores of Italy and the return journey of the ship Atlantis to the shores of the USA with the body of the gentleman in a coffin in the hold of the ship. The description of the gentleman's trip to Capri is conducted in dry, detached language; The gentleman himself has no name, he is faceless in his desire to buy the delights of real life with his existing wealth. One of the striking symbols in this part of the story is a dancing couple of hired actors, depicting genuine passion in the dance. In a hotel in Capri, a gentleman dies unexpectedly, losing not only his life, but also all the privileges of a rich man, becoming a burden to everyone around him, from the hotel owner, who opposes the coffin remaining in his apartment, to his own family, who does not know , what to do with the master's body. The description of the natural world, the world of poor people on the island of Capri, is written in a living language full of symbolic images and therefore stands out against the background of the general style of the work. At the end of the story, the master’s body returns home, to the grave, on the shores of the New World, on the same ship that carried him with great honor to the Old World, but now his body lies in a tarred coffin at the bottom of the hold, and on the ship in light, shining There is a crowded ball in the halls with chandeliers.
Reviews from contemporaries
After the story was released periodicals gave him high marks. Thus, critic A. Derman wrote in the magazine “Russian Thought” in 1916: “ More than ten years separate us from the end of Chekhov's work, and during this period, if we exclude what was made public after the death of L. N. Tolstoy, did not appear in Russian work of art, equal in power and significance to the story “The Gentleman from San Francisco”... How did the artist evolve? On the scale of his feelings... With some solemn and righteous sadness, the artist painted a large image of enormous evil - an image of sin in which the life of a modern city man with an old heart takes place, and the reader feels here not only the legality, but also the justice and beauty of the author’s own coldness towards his hero..."The magazine "Russian wealth" from 1917 gave a more restrained response: " The story is good, but it suffers from shortcomings of its merits, as the French say. The contrast between the superficial splendor of our modern culture and its insignificance in the face of death is expressed in the story with exciting force, but it exhausts it to the bottom... »
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 on the way back... And that’s all It went great 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 the mouths of piles of coal, with a roar thrown into them by people drenched in acrid, dirty sweat and naked to the waist, crimson from the flames; 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 , shaved, long, in an old-fashioned tailcoat, there was a famous Spanish writer, there was a beauty all over the world, 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 delicately for them, It’s charming that only one commander knew that this couple had been hired by Lloyd to play at love for good money and had 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 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 the tram rails are 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 a meeting with an ugly man, in whom unusual blood flowed, awakened in her, because, in the end, it doesn’t matter what exactly awakens a girl’s soul - whether money, fame, nobility... Everyone assured that It’s not at all the same in Sorrento or Capri - it’s warmer and sunny 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: last days, thanks to the bad weather, he drank too much in the evenings and admired too much “living pictures” in some brothels. 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 , shimmering like black oil, golden boas flowed from the lanterns of the pier... Then suddenly the anchor thundered and splashed into the water, the furious cries of the boatmen rang out from everywhere - and immediately my soul felt lighter, the wardroom shone brighter, I wanted to eat, drink, smoke, move... Ten minutes later, the family from San Francisco got off into a large barge, fifteen minutes later they stepped onto the stones of the embankment, and then got into a light trailer and buzzed up the slope, among the stakes in the vineyards, dilapidated stone fences and wet , gnarled, covered here and there with thatched canopies of orange trees, with the shine of orange fruits and thick glossy foliage, sliding downhill, past the open windows of the trailer... The earth smells sweet in Italy after the rain, and everyone has their own special smell. islands! 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 suits and with canvas bags on their shoulders. , who do not need anyone’s services and are not at all generous with 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, which were pulled up high with silk braces, and his 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, he glanced casually out the open window: a gentle air blew on him from the darkness, he imagined the top of an old palm tree spreading its fronds across the stars, which seemed gigantic, he could hear the distant, even sound of the sea... In the reading room, cozy, quiet and bright only above the tables , standing, some gray-haired German, looking like Ibsen, in silver round glasses and with crazy, amazed eyes, was rustling newspapers. 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, closed his entire newspaper sheet. 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 a stunted banana grew under a high stone wall crested with broken glass - 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. On this 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 Americans and American women were again supposed to perch today, having woken up and eaten their fill. , Germans and German women, and after whom they again had to run along rocky paths, and all up the mountain, right up to the very top of Monte Tiberio, poor old Capri women with sticks in their sinewy hands, in order to urge 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 ordinary people there, among whom, as always, without any business, stood Lorenzo, a tall old boatman, a carefree reveler and a handsome man, famous throughout Italy, who served more than once 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 he could calmly stand even until the evening, looking around with a regal demeanor, showing off with his rags, a clay pipe and a red woolen 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 swam, and the shining morning vapors above 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 an overwhelming human soul strictly, the 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"Mr. from San Francisco"- story by Ivan Alekseevich Bunin. It is a parable telling about the insignificance of wealth and power in the face of death. The main idea of the story is to understand the essence of human existence: human life is fragile and perishable, therefore it becomes disgusting if it lacks authenticity and beauty. First published in 1915 in the collection "The Word" in the Russian Empire.
History of creation
According to Bunin, the writing of the story was facilitated by the cover of Thomas Mann’s story “Death in Venice”, accidentally seen in the summer of 1915 in Moscow in a bookstore window: in early September 1915, while visiting a cousin in the Oryol province, “ For some reason I remembered this book and the sudden death of some American who arrived in Capri, at the Quisisana hotel, where we lived that year, and immediately decided to write “Death in Capri,” which I did in four days - not hurrying, calmly, in harmony with the autumn calm of the gray and already quite short and fresh days and the silence in the estate... I, of course, crossed out the title “Death on Capri” as soon as I wrote the first line: “Mr. from San Francisco...” And San Francisco, and everything else (except for the fact that some American actually died after dinner at Kwisisan) I made up... I read “Death in Venice” in Moscow only at the end of autumn. This is a very unpleasant book» .
Summary
From the point of view of composition, the narrative can be divided into two unequal parts: the journey of the gentleman from San Francisco on the ship Atlantis to the shores of Italy and the return journey of the ship Atlantis to the shores of the USA with the body of the gentleman in a coffin in the hold of the ship. The description of the gentleman's trip to Capri is conducted in dry, detached language; The gentleman himself has no name, he is faceless in his desire to buy the delights of real life with his existing wealth. One of the striking symbols in this part of the story is a dancing couple of hired actors, depicting genuine passion in the dance. In a hotel in Capri, a gentleman dies unexpectedly, losing not only his life, but also all the privileges of a rich man, becoming a burden to everyone around him, from the hotel owner, who opposes the coffin remaining in his apartment, to his own family, who does not know , what to do with the master's body. The description of the natural world, the world of poor people on the island of Capri, is written in a living language full of symbolic images and therefore stands out against the background of the general style of the work. At the conclusion of the story, the master’s body returns home, to the grave, on the shores of the New World, on the same ship that carried him with great honor to the Old World, but now his body lies in a tarred coffin at the bottom of the hold, and on the ship in light, shining There is a crowded ball in the halls with chandeliers.
Reviews from contemporaries
After the story was published, periodicals gave it high praise. Thus, critic A. Derman wrote in the magazine “Russian Thought” in 1916: “ More than ten years separate us from the end of Chekhov's work, and during this period, if we exclude what was published after the death of L. N. Tolstoy, no work of art has appeared in Russian, equal in power and significance to the story “The Mister from San Francisco” “... In what way has the artist evolved? On the scale of his feelings... With some solemn and righteous sadness, the artist painted a large image of enormous evil - an image of sin in which the life of a modern city man with an old heart takes place, and the reader feels here not only the legality, but also the justice and beauty of the author’s own coldness towards his hero..."The magazine "Russian Wealth" from 1917 gave a more restrained response: " The story is good, but it suffers from shortcomings of its merits, as the French say. The contrast between the superficial splendor of our modern culture and its insignificance in the face of death is expressed in the story with exciting force, but it exhausts it to the bottom... »
Notes
Literature
- I. Bunin Collected Works, volume 4. - Moscow: Fiction, 1966. - P. 483-488 (notes to the volume).
- Baboreko A.K. Bunin Series “ZhZL” - M.: Young Guard, 457 pp., 2004
- A gentleman from San Francisco in the Maxim Moshkov library
| Works of Ivan Alekseevich Bunin | ||
|---|---|---|
| Fiction | Antonov apples (1900) In August (1901) Dreams (1904) Village (1910) Sukhodol (1912) Easy breath (1916) Mister from San Francisco (1916) Chang's Dreams (1916) Looped ears (1917) Mitya's love (1924) Life of Arsenyev (1927-33) bird shadow (1931) Dark alleys (1943) |  |
| Poetry | Poems by Bunin | |
| Memories | Damn days (1925-26) About Chekhov (1955) | |
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See what “Mr. from San Francisco” is in other dictionaries:
MR.- IN modern Russia a form of polite address given the surname or title of any citizen, regardless of his social or nationality. Etymologically connected with the word lord, one of the names of God in Orthodoxy* and... ... Linguistic and regional dictionary
- (1870 1953), Russian writer, honorary academician of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences (1909). He emigrated in 1920. In lyric poetry he continued the classical traditions (collection “Falling Leaves”, 1901). In stories and stories he showed (sometimes with a nostalgic mood) impoverishment... ... encyclopedic Dictionary
Ivan Alekseevich (1877–) is one of the greatest masters of the short story in modern Russian literature and an outstanding poet. R. in Voronezh, in the family of a small estate, but belonging to an old noble family. Appeared in print in 1888. In 1910–1911 B.... ... Literary encyclopedia
A talented poet and fiction writer. Genus. in 1870 noble family Voronezh province. He studied at the Yeletsk gymnasium. Since 1887, he began publishing poems and stories in illustrated and children’s magazines, later in “Russian Bogatstvo”,… … Large biographical encyclopedia
Wikipedia has articles about other people with this surname, see Bunin. Ivan Bunin Ivan Bunin. Nizhny Novgorod, 1901 ... Wikipedia
1. Ivan Alekseevich BUNIN (1870 1953), Russian writer, honorary academician of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences (1909). He emigrated in 1920. In lyric poetry he continued the classical traditions (collection Listopad, 1901). In stories and stories he showed (sometimes with nostalgic... ... Russian history
Yours, m.; yours, yours, f.; yours, yours, cf.; pl. theirs, theirs. 1. possessive. places Belonging to oneself, peculiar to oneself; own. Do it yourself. Don't believe your eyes. Your own head on your shoulders. Everyone has their own life, their own worries... Small academic dictionary
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Bunin’s story “Mr. from San Francisco” tells the story of how everything is devalued before the fact of death. Human life is subject to decay, it is too short to be wasted in vain, and the main idea of this instructive story is to understand the essence of human existence. The meaning of life for the hero of this story lies in his confidence that he can buy everything with his existing wealth, but fate decided otherwise. We offer an analysis of the work “Mr. from San Francisco” according to plan; the material will be useful in preparing for the Unified State Exam in literature in 11th grade.
Brief Analysis
Year of writing– 1915
History of creation– In a store window, Bunin accidentally noticed the cover of Thomas Mann’s book “Death in Venice”, this was the impetus for writing the story.
Subject– The opposites that surround a person everywhere are the main theme of the work - life and death, wealth and poverty, power and insignificance. All this reflects the philosophy of the author himself.
Composition– The problems of “Mr. from San Francisco” contain both a philosophical and socio-political character. The author reflects on the frailty of existence, on man’s attitude to spiritual and material values, from the point of view of various strata of society. The plot of the story begins with the master's journey, the climax is his unexpected death, and in the denouement of the story the author reflects on the future of humanity.
Genre– A story that is a meaningful parable.
Direction– Realism. Bunin's story takes on a deep philosophical meaning.
History of creation
The history of the creation of Bunin's story dates back to 1915, when he saw the cover of a book by Thomas Mann. After that, he was visiting his sister, he remembered the cover, for some reason it evoked an association in him with the death of one of the American vacationers, which happened during a vacation in Capri. Immediately a sudden decision came to him to describe this incident, which he did as quickly as possible. short term– the story was written in just four days. With the exception of the deceased American, all other facts in the story are completely fictitious.
Subject
In “The Gentleman from San Francisco,” an analysis of the work allows us to highlight the main idea of the story, which consists in philosophical reflections the author about the meaning of life, about the essence of being.
Critics were enthusiastic about the work of the Russian writer, interpreting the essence of the philosophical story in their own way. Theme of the story- life and death, poverty and luxury, in the description of this hero, who lived his life in vain, reflects the worldview of the entire society, divided into classes. High society with everything material assets Those who have the opportunity to buy everything that is on sale do not have the most important thing - spiritual values.
On the ship, the dancing couple, depicting sincere happiness, is also fake. These are actors who were bought to play love. There is nothing real, everything is artificial and feigned, everything is purchased. And the people themselves are false and hypocritical, they are faceless, which is what meaning of the name this story.
And the master has no name, his life is aimless and empty, he does not bring any benefit, he only uses the benefits created by representatives of another, lower class. He dreamed of buying everything possible, but he didn’t have time; fate had its own way and took his life. When he dies, no one remembers him; he only causes inconvenience to those around him, including his family.
The point is that he died - and that’s it, he doesn’t need any wealth, luxury, power or honor. He doesn't care where he lies - in a luxurious inlaid coffin, or in a simple soda box. Life was in vain, he did not experience real, sincere human feelings, did not know love and happiness in the worship of the golden calf.
Composition
The narrative of the story is divided into two parts: how a gentleman sails on a ship to the coast of Italy, and the journey of the same gentleman back, on the same ship, only in a coffin.
In the first part, the hero enjoys all the possible benefits that money can buy, he has all the best: a hotel room, gourmet dishes, and all the other delights of life. The gentleman has so much money that he planned a trip for two years, together with his family, his wife and daughter, who also do not deny themselves anything.
But after climax When the hero suffers sudden death, everything changes dramatically. The hotel owner does not even allow the gentleman’s corpse to be placed in his room, having allocated the cheapest and most inconspicuous one for this purpose. There is not even a decent coffin in which to place the gentleman, and he is placed in an ordinary box, which is a container for some kind of food. On the ship, where the gentleman was blissfully on deck among high society, his place is only in the dark hold.
Genre
“Mr. from San Francisco” can be briefly described as genre story ah, but this story is filled with deep philosophical content, and differs from other Bunin works. Usually, Bunin's stories contain a description of nature and natural phenomena, striking in its liveliness and realism.
In the same work there is a main character around whom the conflict of this story is tied. Its content makes you think about the problems of society, about its degradation, which has turned into a soulless, mercantile being who worships only one idol - money, and has renounced everything spiritual.
The whole story is subordinated philosophical direction, and in plot-wise- This is an instructive parable that gives a lesson to the reader. The injustice of a class society, where the lower part of the population languishes in poverty, and the cream of high society waste their lives senselessly, all this, in the end, leads to a single ending, and in the face of death everyone is equal, both poor and rich, it cannot be bought off by any money.
Bunin's story "Mr. from San Francisco" is rightfully considered one of the most outstanding works in his work.
