СТЕФАН ЦВЕЙГ «ПИСЬМО НЕЗНАКОМКИ». Аудиокнига. Читает Александр Бордуков

The Publishing House of the Soviet Union and the Publishing House of the Dead and the Sons present Stephen Zweig. A Letter of a Stranger When the famous writer R, after a three-day excursion to the mountains, returned to Vienna early in the morning and bought a newspaper at the railway station, he, with a glance at the date, remembered that today was his birthday. He was forty-one. He quickly came to his senses, but this did not affect him at all. He glanced through the rustling pages of the newspaper, and went home in his car. The servant reported on two visitors who had come to him during his absence, as well as on several phone calls, and handed him the accumulated letters on a tray. He looked at them carefully, and opened several envelopes, which he was interested in because of their senders. One letter, written in a handwriting he did not know, and which seemed very voluminous, he put aside for the time being. Meanwhile, he was served tea, and, sitting comfortably in his chair, he once again looked through the newspaper and several printed ads. Then he smoked a cigar, and only now he took the delayed letter. It consisted of about two to three dozen pages, written in a handwriting he did not know, rather a manuscript than a letter. Unwittingly, he looked through the envelope again, looking for some forgotten explanatory note in it. But the envelope was empty, and neither on the envelope nor on the sheets were the address of the sender, and there was no signature. He thought it strange, and again took the message in his hands. To you, who never knew me, it stood at the top as an address, as a title. He was surprised. Did it refer to him, or to some fictional person? Suddenly, curiosity awoke in him, and he began to read. Yesterday my child died. For three days and three nights I struggled with death because of this little tender life. I sat at his bed for forty hours, while his poor heated body was shaking with a fever caused by the flu. I applied cold compresses to his burning forehead, and day and night I held in my hands his trembling little hands. On the third evening they left me. My eyes refused to look, they closed completely involuntarily. For three or four hours I fell asleep on a hard chair, and at that time death came for him. Now he lies here, this cute poor boy, in his narrow child's bed, just the way he died. Only his eyes are closed, his smart dark eyes, and his hands are folded on his white shirt, and four candles are brightly burning at the four corners of his bed. I do not dare to look at him, I do not dare to move, because when the candles are flashing, shadows run through his face and his closed mouth, and it seems to me then that the features of his face come to life, and I wonder that he has not died, that he will wake up again and tell me with his hoarse voice something childishly sweet, tender. But I know that he has died, and therefore I do not want to look here, so that hope does not come to life in me again, and I do not want to be enchanted again. I know, I know, my child died yesterday. Now I have only you in the world, only you, who knows nothing about me, who at this time, without suspecting anything, entertains and plays with people and things. Only you, you who never knew me, and whom I always loved. I took the fifth candle and put it here at the table, at which I sit and write to you, for I cannot be alone with my dead child without making my soul cry. And to whom should I turn in this terrible moment, if not to you, who made and makes everything for me? Maybe I do not know how to talk to you clearly enough, maybe you do not understand me, you see, my head is like in a fog, knocking in the air, my whole body is aching. It seems to me that I have a fever, maybe I have a flu, which is sneaking from house to house, and it would be good, because then I would go after my child, and I would not have to do anything against myself. Sometimes it gets dark in front of my eyes, maybe I will not even be able to finish this letter, but I want to gather all my strength to once, just this once, to tell you everything, to you, my beloved, who never knew me. I want to talk to only you, to tell you everything for the first time. You must know all my life, which has always been yours, and about which you did not know anything. But you must know my secret only when I die, when you do not need to give me an answer, when what makes me burn like a fever, then tremble in anger, will actually be the end. If I still have to live, then I will tear this letter and I will be silent again, as I have always been silent. If you hold it in your hands, then know that this dead tells you her life, her life, which was yours from the very first to the very last conscious hour. Do not be afraid of my words. The dead does not need anything else. She does not need love, she does not need regret, she does not need consolation. I want only one thing from you, that you believe everything that the sorrow that is destined for you gives you. I ask you, believe me. After all, it is impossible to lie at the time when the only child died. I will reveal to you all my life, my life, which, in fact, began only from the day I saw you. Before that, she was dim, hazy, and I never remembered her. She was definitely a basement with dust and cobweb and dim people, about whom my heart knows nothing else. When you came, I was 13 years old, and I lived in the same house where you live now, in the same house where you hold this letter in your hands. The last moment of my life I lived on the same site opposite your apartment. You probably don't remember us anymore. The widow of a small official, she always wore a traure and a thin teenager. After all, we lived very modestly, as if lost in our local poverty. You may have never heard our last name, since there was no nameplate on our door. No one came to us, no one asked us. After all, it was a long time ago, 15-16 years ago. No, of course, you don't remember me anymore, my beloved. But I, I remember every little detail. I still remember that day, no, that hour, when I first heard about you, when I saw you for the first time. Yes, how can I not remember it, since from that moment life began for me. Be patient, darling, I will tell you everything, everything from the very beginning. Sleep, I ask you, for another quarter of an hour and listen to everything about the one who, throughout her life, did not get tired of loving you. Before you moved to our house, nasty, evil, mischievous people lived in your apartment. Although they themselves were poor, they most hated the poverty of their neighbors, our poverty, because our poverty did not want anything in common with their uncultured rudeness. My husband was a drunkard and beat his wife. We often woke up at night from the rumble of falling chairs and broken plates. One day my wife ran up the stairs, beaten to blood, with ruffled hair, and her drunk husband ran after her and shouted until they appeared from other apartments and threatened him with police. My wife did not allow me any acquaintance with them and did not allow me to talk with their children, who took revenge on me for this in any case. When they met me on the street, they shouted at me bad words and once threw me with such hard combs of snow that blood flowed from my forehead. The whole house, by some common instinct, suddenly something happened. It seems to me that my husband was imprisoned for theft and they had to leave with all their belongings. Everyone sighed with relief. A few days was hanging at the gates of the ad about renting an apartment. Then it was rented and through the manager soon everyone learned that the apartment was rented by a writer, a lonely quiet gentleman. And for the first time I heard your name. A few days later painters, plasterers and carpenters came to clean and tidy the apartment after the previous dirty residents and began to hammer, knock, clean and scratch. But my mother was only satisfied with this, rejoicing that the end of the disgrace in the neighboring apartment had come. I did not manage to see you even during the move. Your servant, a small, serious gray man, who gave all the instructions, quietly and busily, and somewhat from above, watched us all. He inspired respect for us all. Firstly, because in our house lying in the outskirts a male servant was an unusual phenomenon. And then because he was so exquisitely polite with everyone, although he did not put himself in contact with servants and did not start friendly conversations with them. My mother from the very first day he began to bow respectfully, like a lady. Even with me, a girl, he was always friendly. When he called your name, he did it with a well-known reverence, with some special respect. It was immediately clear that he was attached to you not only as a servant. I thank him for this, this glorious old Eoghan, although I envied him that he could always be with you and serve you. I tell you, my beloved, all these little funny things so that you understand how from the very beginning you possessed all the thoughts of such a fragile, frightened child as I was. Even before you came into my life, you were already surrounded by the halo of wealth, originality and mystery. And we all in our little house, after all, people who live in confined circumstances, are always curious about everything new that happens near their doors, were already looking forward to your arrival. And this curiosity to see you even intensified in me When I was at school, I saw a furniture van standing in front of the house. Almost all the things, the bulky furniture, the carriers carried upstairs, and now they carried little things. I stopped at the door to admire everything, because all your things were so special that I had never seen. There were Indian idols, Italian sculptures, big paintings, and then, at the end, there were books. So many and so beautiful that I never imagined. And all of them were put by the door, and your servant took them and carefully smelled the dust from each of them. I was walking around with curiosity more and more so that I did not dare to touch anything, although I really wanted to feel the soft skin of some interweavings. I was just looking at their names from the side. There were French, English, and other languages that I did not know. I think I could look at them for hours. But then my mother looked at you even earlier than I saw you. I had only a dozen cheap books in worn covers that I loved most of all and that I read over and over again. And now I began to worry about what a person who belongs to and who read all these wonderful books should be like, who knew so many languages, who was so rich and so educated. For me, this mass of books was connected with some kind of unearthly bliss. I tried to imagine your image. You were an old man with glasses and a long white beard, resembling our geography teacher. But I was already sure that you should be beautiful, just like an old man. Then, that night, before I saw you, I had a dream for the first time. Dear friends, you have listened to the phonogram created by the Publishing House of the Soviet Union and the Publishing House of Pokidyshev and Sonovia. Copying, reproducing, processing and other use of this phonogram or any part of it without the consent of the author is illegal and involves criminal, administrative and civil liability in accordance with the laws of the Russian Federation. All rights are protected.