What Bunin said about love. Ivan Bunin

Vladimir Korolenko

Children of the Dungeon

1. Ruins

My mother died when I was six years old. My father, completely absorbed in his grief, seemed to completely forget about my existence. Sometimes he caressed my little sister Sonya and took care of her in his own way, because she had the features of her mother. I grew up like a wild tree in a field - no one surrounded me with special care, but no one constrained my freedom.

The place where we lived was called Knyazhye-Veno, or, more simply, Knyazh-gorodok. It belonged to a seedy but proud Polish family and resembled any of the small towns of the Southwestern region.

If you approach the town from the east, the first thing that catches your eye is the prison, the best architectural decoration of the city. The city itself lies below sleepy, moldy ponds, and you have to go down to it along a sloping highway, blocked by a traditional “outpost”. A sleepy disabled person lazily lifts the barrier - and you are in the city, although, perhaps, you do not notice it right away. “Gray fences, vacant lots with heaps of all sorts of rubbish are gradually interspersed with dim-witted huts sunk into the ground. Further, a wide square gapes in different places with the dark gates of Jewish “visiting houses”; government institutions are depressing with their white walls and barracks-like lines. A wooden bridge, thrown across a narrow river, groans, trembles under the wheels, and staggers like a decrepit old man. Beyond the bridge stretches a Jewish street with shops, shops, and awnings. The stench, the dirt, the heaps of children crawling in the street dust. But another minute. - and you are already outside the city. The birch trees whisper quietly over the graves of the cemetery, and the wind stirs the grain in the fields and rings with a sad, endless song in the wires of the roadside telegraph.

The river over which the aforementioned bridge was thrown flowed from a pond and flowed into another. Thus, the town was fenced from the north and south by wide expanses of water and swamps. The ponds became shallower year by year, overgrown with greenery, and tall, thick reeds waved like the sea in the huge swamps. There is an island in the middle of one of the ponds. There is an old, dilapidated castle on the island.

I remember with what fear I always looked at this majestic decrepit building. There were legends and stories about him, one more terrible than the other. They said that the island was built artificially, by the hands of captured Turks. “The old castle stands on human bones,” the old-timers said, and my frightened childhood imagination pictured thousands of Turkish skeletons underground, supporting with their bony hands the island with its tall pyramidal poplars and the old castle. This, of course, made the castle seem even more terrible, and even on clear days, when, sometimes, encouraged by the light and loud voices of birds, we came closer to it, it often brought on us fits of panic horror - the black hollows of the long-dug out windows; in the empty halls there was a mysterious rustling sound: pebbles and plaster, breaking off, fell down, awakening a echo, and we ran without looking back, and behind us for a long time there was knocking, and stomping, and cackling.

And on stormy autumn nights, when the giant poplars swayed and hummed from the wind blowing from behind the ponds, horror spread from the old castle and reigned over the entire city.

On the western side, on the mountain, among decaying crosses and collapsed graves, stood a long-abandoned chapel. Its roof had caved in in some places, the walls were crumbling, and instead of a high-pitched, high-pitched copper bell, owls began singing their ominous songs in it at night.

There was a time when old castle served as a free refuge for every poor person without the slightest restrictions. Everything that could not find a place for itself in the city, which for one reason or another had lost the opportunity to pay even a pittance for shelter and a place to stay at night and in bad weather - all this was drawn to the island and there, among the ruins, bowed its victorious heads, paying for hospitality only with the risk of being buried under piles of old garbage. “Lives in a castle” - this phrase has become an expression of extreme poverty. The old castle cordially received and sheltered the temporarily impoverished scribe, and lonely old women, and rootless tramps. All these poor people tormented the insides of the decrepit building, breaking off the ceilings and floors, stoking the stoves, cooking something and eating something - in general, somehow maintaining their existence.

However, the days came when discord arose among this society, huddled under the roof of gray ruins. Then old Janusz, who had once been one of the small county employees, secured for himself something like the title of manager and began to reform. For several days there was such noise on the island, such screams were heard that at times it seemed as if the Turks had escaped from their underground dungeons. It was Janusz who sorted the population of the ruins, separating the “good Christians” from the unknown individuals. When order was finally restored to the island, it turned out that Janusz left mostly former servants or descendants of servants of the count's family in the castle. These were all some old men in shabby frock coats and chamarkas, with huge blue noses and gnarled sticks, old women, loud and ugly, but despite complete impoverishment they had retained their bonnets and cloaks. All of them formed a closely knit aristocratic circle, which received the right of recognized begging. On weekdays, these old men and women walked with prayer on their lips to the houses of the wealthier townspeople, spreading gossip, complaining about fate, shedding tears and begging, and on Sundays they lined up in long rows near the churches and majestically accepted handouts in the name of “Mr. Jesus” and "Pannas of Our Lady"

Attracted by the noise and shouts that rushed from the island during this revolution, I and several of my comrades made our way there and, hiding behind the thick trunks of poplars, watched as Janusz, at the head of an entire army of red-nosed elders and ugly old women, drove out of the castle the last residents who were subject to expulsion . Evening was coming. A cloud hanging over high peaks poplars, it was already raining. Some unfortunate people dark personalities, wrapped in utterly torn rags, frightened, pitiful and embarrassed, they scurried around the island, like moles driven out of their holes by boys, trying again to sneak unnoticed into one of the openings of the castle. But Janusz and the old witches, screaming and cursing, drove them from everywhere, threatening them with pokers and sticks, and a silent watchman stood to the side, also with a heavy club in his hands.

And the unfortunate dark personalities involuntarily, dejectedly, disappeared behind the bridge, leaving the island forever, and one after another they drowned in the slushy twilight of the quickly descending evening.

Since this memorable evening, both Janusz and the old castle, from which previously a vague grandeur wafted over me, lost all their attractiveness in my eyes. It used to be that I loved to come to the island and admire its gray walls and mossy old roof, even from a distance. When, at dawn, various figures crawled out of it, yawning, coughing and crossing themselves in the sun, I looked at them with some kind of respect, as if they were creatures clothed in the same mystery that shrouded the entire castle. They sleep there at night, they hear everything that happens there, when the moon peers into the huge halls through the broken windows or when the wind rushes into them during a storm.

I loved to listen when Janusz used to sit down under the poplars and, with the loquacity of a seventy-year-old man, begin to talk about the glorious past of the deceased building.

But from that evening both the castle and Janusz appeared before me in a new light. Having met me the next day near the island, Janusz began to invite me to his place, assuring me with a pleased look that now “the son of such respectable parents” could safely visit the castle, since he would find quite decent society in it. He even led me by the hand to the castle itself, but then I tearfully snatched my hand from him and started to run. The castle became disgusting to me. The windows on the upper floor were boarded up, and the lower floor was in the possession of bonnets and cloaks. The old women crawled out of there in such an unattractive form, flattered me so cloyingly, cursed among themselves so loudly. But most importantly, I could not forget the cold cruelty with which the triumphant residents of the castle drove away their unfortunate roommates, and when I remembered the dark personalities left homeless, my heart sank.

The city spent several nights after the described coup on the island very restless: dogs barked, house doors creaked, and the townsfolk, every now and then going out into the street, knocked on the fences with sticks, letting someone know that they were on their guard. The city knew that people were wandering along its streets in the stormy darkness of a rainy night, hungry and cold, shivering and wet; Realizing that cruel feelings must be born in the hearts of these people, the city became wary and sent its threats towards these feelings. And night, as if on purpose, descended to the ground amid a cold downpour and left, leaving low running clouds above the ground. And the wind raged amid the bad weather, shaking the tops of the trees, knocking the shutters and singing to me in my bed about dozens of people deprived of warmth and shelter.

But then spring finally triumphed over the last gusts of winter, the sun dried up the earth, and at the same time the homeless wanderers disappeared somewhere. The barking of dogs at night calmed down, the townsfolk stopped knocking on the fences, and the life of the city, sleepy and monotonous, went on its way.

Only the unfortunate exiles did not find their own track in the city. True, they did not wander the streets at night; they said that they found shelter somewhere on the mountain, near the chapel, but how they managed to settle down there, no one could say for sure. Everyone only saw that from the other side, from the mountains and ravines surrounding the chapel, the most incredible and suspicious figures descended into the city in the morning, and disappeared at dusk in the same direction. With their appearance, they disturbed the quiet and dormant flow of city life, standing out as gloomy spots against the gray background. The townsfolk looked sideways at them with hostile alarm. These figures did not at all resemble the aristocratic beggars from the castle - the city did not recognize them, and their relationship to the city was purely combative in nature: they preferred to scold the average person than to flatter him, to take it themselves rather than beg for it. Moreover, as often happens, among this ragged and dark crowd of unfortunates there were persons who, in their intelligence and talents, could have been an honor to the most select society of the castle, but did not get along in it and preferred the democratic society of the chapel.

In addition to these people who stood out from the crowd, there was also a dark mass of pitiful ragamuffins huddled around the chapel, whose appearance at the market always caused great alarm among the traders, who were in a hurry to cover their goods with their hands, just as hens cover their chickens when a kite appears in the sky. There were rumors that these poor people, completely deprived of all means of living since their expulsion from the castle, formed a friendly community and, among other things, were engaged in petty theft in the city and the surrounding area.

The organizer and leader of this community of unfortunates was Pan Tyburtsy Drab, the most wonderful personality of all those who did not get along in the old castle.

The origin of Drab was shrouded in the most mysterious obscurity. Some attributed to him an aristocratic name, which he covered with shame and therefore was forced to hide. But the appearance of Pan Tyburtsy had nothing aristocratic about him. He was tall, his large facial features were coarsely expressive. Short, slightly reddish hair stuck out apart; the low forehead, the lower jaw somewhat protruding forward and the strong mobility of the face resembled something like a monkey; but the eyes, sparkling from under the overhanging eyebrows, looked stubbornly and gloomily, and in them, along with slyness, shone sharp insight, energy and intelligence. While his face changed a whole series grimace, these eyes always retained the same expression, which is why it always felt somehow unconsciously creepy to look at the antics of this strange man. There seemed to be a deep, constant sadness flowing underneath him.

Pan Tyburtsy's hands were rough and covered with calluses, his large feet walked like a man. In view of this, most ordinary people did not recognize his aristocratic origin. But then how to explain his amazing learning, which was obvious to everyone? There was not a tavern in the whole city in which Pan Tyburtsy, in order to instruct the crests gathered on market days, did not pronounce, standing on a barrel, entire speeches from Cicero, entire chapters from Xenophon. crests, generally endowed by nature with a rich imagination, knew how to somehow put their own meaning into these animated, albeit incomprehensible speeches... And when, beating himself on the chest and sparkling his eyes, he addressed them with the words: “Patres conscripti”, - they also frowned and said to each other:

That's how the enemy's son barks!

When then Pan Tyburtsy, raising his eyes to the ceiling, began to recite long Latin texts, the mustachioed listeners watched him with fearful and pitiful sympathy. It seemed to them then that Tyburtsy’s soul was hovering somewhere in an unknown country, where they did not speak Christian language, and that she was experiencing some kind of sad adventures there. His voice sounded with such dull, sepulchral peals that the listeners sitting in the corners, the most weakened from the vodka, lowered their heads, hung their long “chuprins” and began to sob.

Oh-oh, mother, that’s pitiful, give him an encore! - And tears dripped from the eyes and flowed down the long mustache.

And when the speaker, suddenly jumping off the barrel, burst into cheerful laughter, the gloomy faces of the crests suddenly cleared up and their hands reached for their pockets wide pants for coppers. Delighted by the successful ending to the tragic adventures of Pan Tyburtsy, the crests gave him vodka, hugged him, and coppers fell jingling into his cap.

In view of such astonishing learning, there appeared new legend, that Pan Tyburtsy was once a yard boy of some count, who sent him along with his son to the school of the Jesuit fathers, in fact, for the purpose of cleaning the boots of the young panic. It turned out, however, that while the young count was idle, his lackey intercepted all the wisdom that was assigned to the master's head.

No one also knew where Mr. Tyburtsy’s children came from, and yet the fact stood there, even two facts: a boy of about seven, but tall and developed beyond his years, and a little three-year-old girl. Pan Tyburtsy brought the boy with him from the first days when he himself appeared. As for the girl, he was away for several months before she appeared in his arms.

A boy named Valek, tall, thin, black-haired, sometimes wandered sullenly around the city without much business, putting his hands in his pockets and throwing glances around that confused the hearts of the girls. The girl was seen only once or twice in the arms of Pan Tyburtsy, and then she disappeared somewhere, and no one knew where she was.

There was talk about some kind of dungeons on the mountain near the chapel, and since such dungeons are not uncommon in those parts, everyone believed these rumors, especially since all these people lived somewhere. And they usually disappeared in the evening in the direction of the chapel. There, with his sleepy gait, a half-crazed old beggar, who was nicknamed “the professor,” hobbled there, Pan Tyburtsy walked decisively and quickly. Other dark personalities went there in the evening, drowning in the twilight, and there was no brave man who would dare to follow them along the clay cliffs. The mountain, pitted with graves, enjoyed a bad reputation. In the old cemetery, blue lights lit up on damp autumn nights, and in the chapel the owls squawked so piercingly and loudly that even the fearless blacksmith’s heart sank from the cries of the damned bird.

2. Me and my father

Bad, young man, bad! - old Janusz often told me from the castle, meeting me on the streets of the city among the listeners of Pan Tyburtsy.

And the old man shook his gray beard at the same time.

It's bad, young man - you're in bad society!.. It’s a pity, it’s a pity for the son of respectable parents.

Indeed, since my mother died, and my father’s stern face became even gloomier, I was very rarely seen at home. On late summer evenings, I sneaked through the garden like a young wolf cub, avoiding meeting my father, opened my window, half-closed by the thick green lilacs, using special devices, and quietly went to bed. If my little sister was still awake in her rocking chair in the next room, I would go up to her and we would quietly caress each other and play, trying not to wake up the grumpy old nanny.

And in the morning, just before dawn, when everyone was still sleeping in the house, I was already making a dewy trail in the thick, tall grass of the garden, climbing over the fence and walking to the pond, where the same tomboyish comrades were waiting for me with fishing rods, or to the mill, where the sleepy the miller had just pulled back the sluices and the water, shuddering sensitively on the mirror surface, rushed into the “trough” and cheerfully set about the day’s work.

The large mill wheels, awakened by the noisy shocks of the water, also shuddered, somehow reluctantly gave way, as if too lazy to wake up, but after a few seconds they were already spinning, splashing foam and bathing in cold streams. Behind them, thick shafts slowly and steadily began to move, inside the mill, gears began to rumble, millstones rustled, and white flour dust rose in clouds from the cracks of the old, old mill building.

Then I moved on. I liked to meet the awakening of nature; I was glad when I managed to scare away a sleepy lark, or drive a cowardly hare out of a furrow. Drops of dew fell from the tops of the tremors, from the heads of meadow flowers, as I made my way through the fields to the country grove. The trees greeted me with whispers of lazy drowsiness.

I managed to make a long detour, and yet in the city every now and then I met sleepy figures opening the shutters of houses. But now the sun has already risen over the mountain, from behind the ponds a loud bell can be heard calling the schoolchildren, and hunger calls me home for morning tea.

In general, everyone called me a tramp, a worthless boy, and so often reproached me for various bad inclinations that I finally became imbued with this conviction myself. My father also believed this and sometimes made attempts to educate me, but these attempts always ended in failure.

At the sight of the stern and gloomy face, on which lay the stern stamp of incurable grief, I became timid and withdrawn into myself. I stood in front of him, shifting, fiddling with my panties, and looking around. At times something seemed to rise in my chest, I wanted him to hug me, sit me on his lap and caress me. Then I would cling to his chest, and perhaps we would cry together - the child and the stern man - about our common loss. But he looked at me with hazy eyes, as if over my head, and I shrank all under this gaze, incomprehensible to me.

Do you remember mother?

Did I remember her? Oh yes, I remembered her! I remembered how it used to be, waking up at night, I would look for her tender hands in the darkness and press myself tightly to them, covering them with kisses. I remembered her when she sat sick in front of the open window and sadly looked around at the wonderful spring picture, saying goodbye to her last year of your life.

Oh yes, I remembered her!.. When she, all covered with flowers, young and beautiful, lay with the mark of death on her pale face, I, like an animal, hid in a corner and looked at her with burning eyes, before which the whole horror of the riddle was revealed for the first time about life and death.

And now often, in the dead of midnight, I woke up, full of love, which was crowded in my chest, overwhelming child's heart, woke up with a smile of happiness. And again, as before, it seemed to me that she was with me, that I would now meet her loving, sweet caress.

Yes, I remembered her!.. But to the question of the tall, gloomy man in whom I wanted, but could not feel kindred spirit, I shrank even more and quietly pulled my little hand out of his hand.

And he turned away from me with annoyance and pain. He felt that he did not have the slightest influence on me, that there was some kind of wall between us. He loved her too much when she was alive, not noticing me because of his happiness. Now I was blocked from him by severe grief.

And little by little the abyss that separated us became wider and deeper. He became more and more convinced that I was a bad, spoiled boy, with a callous, selfish heart, and the consciousness that he should, but could not, take care of me, should love me, but did not find this love in his heart, further increased his reluctance. And I felt it. Sometimes, hiding in the bushes, I watched him; I saw him walking along the alleys, accelerating his gait, and groaning dully from unbearable mental anguish. Then my heart lit up with pity and sympathy. Once, when, clutching his head with his hands, he sat down on a bench and began to sob, I could not stand it and ran out of the bushes onto the path, obeying a vague impulse that pushed me towards this man. But, hearing my steps, he looked at me sternly and besieged me with a cold question:

What do you need?

I didn't need anything. I quickly turned away, ashamed of my outburst, afraid that my father would read it in my embarrassed face. Running into the thicket of the garden, I fell face down into the grass and cried bitterly from frustration and pain.

From the age of six I already experienced the horror of loneliness.

Sister Sonya was four years old. I loved her passionately, and she repaid me with the same love; but the established view of me as an inveterate little robber erected a high wall between us. Every time I started playing with her, in my own noisy and playful way, the old nanny, always sleepy and always fighting, with eyes closed, chicken feathers for pillows, immediately woke up, quickly grabbed my Sonya and took her to her place, throwing angry looks at me; in such cases she always reminded me of a disheveled hen, I compared myself to a predatory kite, and Sonya to a little chicken. I felt very sad and annoyed. It is not surprising, therefore, that I soon stopped all attempts to entertain Sonya with my criminal games, and after a while I felt cramped in the house and in the kindergarten, where I did not find greetings or affection from anyone. I started wandering. My whole being then trembled with some strange premonition of life. It seemed to me that somewhere out there, in this big and unknown light, behind the old garden fence, I would find something; it seemed that I had to do something and could do something, but I just didn’t know what exactly. I began to instinctively run away from the nanny with her feathers, and from the familiar lazy whisper of the apple trees in our small garden, and from the stupid clatter of knives chopping cutlets in the kitchen. Since then, the names of street urchin and tramp have been added to my other unflattering epithets, but I did not pay attention to this. I got used to the reproaches and endured them, just as I endured sudden rain or the heat of the sun. I listened gloomily to the comments and acted in my own way. Staggering through the streets, I peered with childishly curious eyes at the simple life of the town with its shacks, listened to the hum of the wires on the highway, trying to catch what news was rushing along them from distant big cities, or the rustle of ears of corn, or the whisper of the wind on the high Haidamak roads. graves. More than once my eyes opened wide, more than once I stopped with painful fear before the pictures of life. Image after image, impression after impression filled the soul with bright spots; I learned and saw a lot of things that children much older than me had not seen.

When all the corners of the city became known to me, down to the last dirty nooks and crannies, then I began to look at the chapel visible in the distance, on the mountain. At first, like a timid animal, I approached her with different sides, still hesitating to climb the mountain, which was notorious. But, as I became familiar with the area, only quiet graves and destroyed crosses appeared before me. There were no signs of any habitation or human presence anywhere. Everything was somehow humble, quiet, abandoned, empty. Only the chapel itself looked out, frowning, through its empty windows, as if it were thinking some sad thought. I wanted to examine it all, look inside to make sure that there was nothing there but dust. But since it would be scary and inconvenient to undertake such an excursion alone, I gathered on the streets of the city a small detachment of three tomboys, attracted by the promise of buns and apples from our garden.

3. I make a new acquaintance

We went on an excursion after lunch and, approaching the mountain, began to climb clay landslides dug up by shovels of residents and spring streams. Landslides exposed the slopes of the mountain, and in some places white, decayed bones could be seen sticking out of the clay. In one place a wooden coffin was displayed, in another a human skull bared its teeth.

Finally, helping each other, we hurriedly climbed the mountain from the last cliff. The sun was beginning to set. The slanting rays softly gilded the green grass of the old cemetery, played on the rickety crosses, and shimmered in the surviving windows of the chapel. It was quiet, there was an air of calm and deep world abandoned cemetery. Here we no longer saw any skulls, bones, or coffins. Green, fresh grass lovingly hid the horror and ugliness of death with an even canopy.

We were alone; only sparrows fussed around and swallows silently flew in and out of the windows of the old chapel, which stood, sadly drooping, among the graves overgrown with grass, modest crosses, dilapidated stone tombs, on the ruins of which thick greenery lay, full of colorful heads of buttercups, porridge, and violets.

There is no one,” said one of my companions.

The sun is setting,” another noted, looking at the sun, which had not set yet, but stood over the mountain.

The door of the chapel was tightly boarded up, the windows were high above the ground; however, with the help of my comrades, I hoped to climb them and look inside the chapel.

No need! - one of my companions cried out, suddenly losing all his courage, and grabbed me by the hand.

Go to hell, woman! - the eldest of our small army shouted at him, readily offering his back.

I bravely climbed onto it, then he straightened up and I stood with my feet on his shoulders. In this position, I easily reached for the frame with my hand and, making sure of its strength, went up to the window and sat down on it.

Well, what's there? - they asked me from below with keen interest.

I was silent. Leaning over the doorframe, I looked inside the chapel, and from there I smelled the solemn silence of an abandoned temple. The interior of the tall, narrow building was devoid of any decoration. The rays of the evening sun, freely bursting into open windows, painted old, tattered walls with bright gold. I saw inner side a locked door, collapsed choirs, old, decayed columns, as if swaying under an unbearable weight. The corners were covered with cobwebs, and in them huddled that special darkness that lies in all the corners of such old buildings. It seemed much further from the window to the floor than to the grass outside. I looked as if into a deep hole and at first I could not see any objects that barely stood out on the floor with strange outlines.

Meanwhile, my comrades were tired of standing below, waiting for news from me, and therefore one of them, having done the same as I had done before, hung next to me, holding onto the window frame.

What is it? - He pointed with curiosity to a dark object visible next to the throne.

Pop's hat.

No, a bucket.

Why is there a bucket here?

Perhaps it once contained coals for a censer.

No, it's really a hat. However, you can look. Let's tie a belt to the frame and you'll climb down it.

Yes, of course, I’ll come down... Climb yourself if you want.

Well then! Do you think I won't climb?

And climb!

Acting on my first impulse, I tightly tied two straps, touched them to the frame and, giving one end to a comrade, hung on the other. When my foot touched the floor, I winced; but a look at my friend’s sympathetic face, bending toward me, restored my cheerfulness. The click of the heel rang under the ceiling and echoed in the emptiness of the chapel, in its dark corners. Several sparrows fluttered from their places in the choir and flew out into a large hole in the roof. From the wall on whose windows we were sitting, a stern face with a beard suddenly looked at me, crown of thorns. It was a gigantic crucifix leaning down from just under the ceiling. I was terrified; my friend's eyes sparkled with breathtaking curiosity and participation.

Will you come over? - he asked quietly.

“I’ll come,” I answered in the same way, gathering my courage. But at that moment something completely unexpected happened.

First there was a knock and the noise of plaster falling down on the choir. Something fussed overhead, shook a cloud of dust in the air, and a large gray mass, flapping its wings, rose to the hole in the roof. The chapel seemed to go dark for a moment. A huge old owl, worried about our fuss, flew out of a dark corner and flashed against the background blue sky in flight and shied away.

I felt a surge of convulsive fear.

Get up! - I shouted to my friend, grabbing my belt.

Don't be afraid, don't be afraid! - he reassured, preparing to lift me into the light of day and sun.

But suddenly his face was distorted with fear; he screamed and instantly disappeared, jumping from the window. I instinctively looked around and saw a strange phenomenon, which struck me, however, more with surprise than horror.

The dark object of our dispute, a hat or bucket, which in the end turned out to be a pot, flashed in the air and disappeared under the throne before my eyes.

I only managed to make out the outline of a small, seemingly child’s hand.

It is difficult to convey my feelings at that moment; the feeling I experienced cannot even be called fear. I was in the next world. From somewhere, as if from another world, for a few seconds I heard in quick bursts the alarming patter of three pairs of children’s feet. But soon he too calmed down. I was alone, as if in a coffin, due to some strange and inexplicable phenomena.

Time did not exist for me, so I could not say how soon I heard a restrained whisper under the throne:

Why doesn't he climb back?

What will he do now? - the whisper was heard again.