Some underline things in ink!
Some even tear pages out!
And he himself used to be so barbaric and clumsy, such a Cro-Magnon, that he rubbed a hole in a page with a spit-covered finger! "And the candle by which Anna read a life full of alarm and deceit…" Idiot. He'd rubbed a hole in it, Lord forgive him. It was the same as if you'd found the secret glade in the forest by some miracle-all covered in crimson tulips and golden trees- and finally embraced the sweet Princess Bird, and while embracing her you'd gone and poked your dirty finger in her bright, self-admiring eye!
Varvara Lukinishna said that Nikita Ivanich gave her the book. So, he was caught out in a lie, the old man! You do have books, you old drunk, you hide them somewhere, bury them, won't let good people read them… They aren't in the izba, Benedikt knew that izba like the back of his hand, he'd spent a lot of time there… They aren't in the shed, we carved the pushkin in the shed… There's only rusht in the pantry… In the bathhouse maybe?
Benedikt thought about the bathhouse and got mad. He could feel his face puffing up with anger: the bathhouse is damp, books would mildew there. Here he'd come, asking nicely, offering to trade. He'd brought a valuable present. He didn't begrudge anything; he sat with the Oldeners for half a day, listened to their nonsense-but no, they had to go and lie, had to pretend, and pull the wool over his eyes, look away, brush him off, deny everything. No, no, not us, we don't have any books, don't even bother to look for any!…
And they invited that stinking bastard, that Degenerator, to sit at the table with them. Yes, Terenty Petrovich. What do you think, Terenty Petrovich? Would you care for some rusht, Terenty Petrovich? They fed him and got him drunk, and then they got mad at him for some reason, and threw him out in the snow like a sack of turnips… Served him right, of course.
But they treated Benedikt the same way: they laughed and left him with nothing to show for his trouble…
The old man said: the heavens and the heart, it's all the same, and you remember that. What's in the sky? There's darkness and blizzards, stormy whirlwinds. In summer, stars: the Trough, the Bowl, Horsetail, Nail Clippings, the Belly Button, there are tons of them! They're all written down in a book, he said, and that book lies locked behind seven gates, and that book holds the secret of how to live, only the pages are all shuffled… and the letters aren't like ours. Go and look for it, he said. Pushkin looked for it, and you go and look too. I'm looking, I'm looking, just think how many people I've shaken down: Theofilactus, Eensy Weensy, Zuzya, Nenila the Hare, Methuselah and Churilo, the twins; Osip, Revolt, Eulalia, Avenir, Maccabee, Zoya Gurevna… January, Ulcer, Sysoy, Ivan Pricklin… They caught them all with the hook, dragged them across the floor, all of them grabbed the tables and stools, all of them howled bloody murder when they were taken away to be treated… Noooooo, that is, doooooon't…!
What do you mean, don't? It says: Books shouldn't be kept at home, and whoever keeps them shouldn't hide them, and whoever hides them should be treated.
Because everything's gotten out of hand under Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. And who grabbed the main book and hid it-the one where it says how to live? Roach Efimich had books with letters that weren't like ours right out in plain view, two dozen of them, all clean and dry. Is that where the precious writings are? Probably not. Nikita Ivanich said they're locked behind seven gates, in a valley of fog… So keep on thinking, Benedikt…
Go and hitch up Teterya. To make sure he wouldn't swear the whole time or give anything away, so he'd keep his mouth shut, Benedikt made him a plug, that is, a gag: you take a rag, roll it up, tie it with a string, and stuff it in between the blabbermouth's teeth; then you fasten it around the ears. And off you go, at a gallop, but without songs!
"Where ya going so late, Benny?"
"I've got, I have to… go talk about art…"
From the threshold of the gate Let the wilting beauty gaze Whether gentle or depraved Whether spiteful or quite chaste.
Who cares about her charming hands! Who needs her bed's warm heat Come on, brother, let's retreat, Let's soar above the sands!
But the weather is bad: the air is heavy and full of alarm. The blizzard is rotten, like it was mixed with water, and the snow no longer sparkles as it did, it sticks to things. On the corners, at the crossroads, on the squares, the people stand around in bunches -more than three at a time. They huddle, looking at the sky or talking, or just standing there fretting.
Why is there unrest among the people?… He just passed two Golubchiks with worried faces, their eyes flitting back and forth. Others run past, waving their hands. And those guys over there were chatting, then they ran back in their houses and slammed the gates. Benedikt stopped in the sleigh, watching people he knew. Poltorak whizzed by like a wheel and was gone: he has three legs, you could never catch up with him.
There's a woman being led by the elbow: she can't walk on her own, she beats her breast with her hand, and cries out: "Oh, woe is me! Woe is me!…" She slumps. What's going on…?
"Konstantin Leontich!" Benedikt cried out. "Stop, Konstan-tin Leontich!… What's wrong, what happened?"
Konstantin Leontich, agitated, hatless, his coat buttoned wrong, answered in a strange voice: "There was just an announcement: it's a leap year!"
"What, again?"
"Yes, yes! We're all so upset… They let us go home early."
"Why?" worried Benedikt. "They didn't give any reason?"
"We don't know anything yet… I'm in a hurry, Golubchik, forgive me. My wife doesn't know yet. Our livestock is still in the yard, the attic window has to be closed shut, you know how it is…"
So that's it… leap year: await misfortune! Furry stars, a bad harvest, hungry livestock. Grain comes up withered in the fields, if there's a drought. If there's a flood and storms, on the other hand, horsetail will take over like it's swelled with water, it'll grow higher than the trees, its roots will dig down into the clay on which the city stands: it will bring on mudslides and carve out new ravines. The woods will be sprinkled with fake firelings. If you don't watch out the Chechens will attack, and what an affliction that will be! And if the summer turns out to be cold and stormy, with winds, nothing good'll come of it, and the harpies will awake! God forbid!
Why is it that some years are leap years and others are just plain years? Who knows! What can you do? Nothing at all, you just have to put up with it!
But the people get anxious. Hostility and dissatisfaction rise. Why? Because a bad year is never shorter, just the opposite: they deliberately mock us, they make it longer. They add an extra day: here you go, all yours! And an extra day means extra work, extra taxes, all kinds of human vexation-you could just cry! And they put that day in February. There's a poem that goes:
February! Grab the inks and cry!
Well, that's what the Scribes do. So do cooks and woodcutters, not to mention the people who get called up for roadwork.
Some say: Well, it's extra work, but it means you live longer, right? You get an extra day on earth, get to eat an extra pancake or pie! Is that so bad? You think you're about to die-but no, there's another dawn to greet, another sun to shine, and in the evening you can dance and drink! Though it would be better if this day wasn't added in winter, when life seems dreary, but in the summer, in the good weather.
Yeah, sure! Don't hold your breath! Good weather. If they wanted to make things easier for people, they wouldn't add this day to a leap year but to a regular year, and not just one day, but two or three, or a whole week, and make it a holiday!
Meanwhile, they'd arrived at the izba where Varvara Lukinishna lived.
"Wait here."
Teterya grunted under the gag and rolled his eyes.
"I said: Wait and be quiet."
No, there he goes, moaning again, waving his felt boot.