The third watch is completed, and there are three more watches

The uproar in Paris has not yet passed, the debate around Gallian continues, and the originally one-sided public opinion begins to take a turn. Since the publication of "I Am Not a Poet", more and more writers of the younger generation have begun to side with Galian, including the Goncourt brothers, against the old-fashioned generation such as Mérimée and Sainte-Beuve.

After arguing with me for a while, they are surprised to find that since Garion published his last poem, he has inexplicably disappeared. When Baudelaire and Flou Biden visited, they were gone, not even Aldi and Madame Balanchi, as if Garion had simply disappeared from Paris.

Trace.

And now, the steamship from the port of Calais to the port of Costa has slowly started, ready to cross the English Channel and head in the direction of the opposite shore. Garion stood on deck, leaning against the railing, the salty smell of the sea breeze blowing in his face, blowing through his hair and collar. As Europe began to gradually enter the cold winter, Garion involuntarily took a heather pipe from his pocket and put it in his mouth, turned his back to the sea breeze, and tried to light a match with great difficulty.

After several failed strokes, Garion finally gave up on the idea of smoking, removed his pipe, and held it in his hand. At this moment he saw Turgenev staggering towards him, followed by a strong smell of wine, which instantly overshadowed the saltiness of the sea breeze.

Garion couldn't help pinching his nose, the only people who could drink drunk in broad daylight were the fighting nations.

"блять, what kind of cigarette to smoke? Real men deserve a bottle of vodka! ”

As he spoke, Turgenev conjured a bottle of vodka out of nowhere, stuffed it into Garion's hand, patted him on the shoulder and said, "Come on a bottle man, do you know how useless that guy was in Mérimée before?" I made an appointment to talk about publishing me, and I was invited to dinner and drank vodka with me in a small cup. I just unscrewed the cap and poured it into my mouth, causing him to scream God. ”

"Hahahaha."

Garion couldn't help but laugh out loud, and could even imagine Mérimée's panicked expression, at least to give a wake-up call to Parisian writers who boasted of a good amount of alcohol in the future.

Don't fight with the Russians.

"Lord Garrian, you're becoming more and more like a writer."

For no reason, Garion raised his head and looked at Turgenev beside him.

"When I first met you, you were no different from a normal person. Laughing, happy, melancholy, angry. And now you have the same melancholy as the sick writer of Paris, like a specimen soaked in alcohol, without a trace of life. ”

The bold Turgenev pointed through Galion's current situation, "Now you have too many things in your heart, people have pushed you to the position of conscience in Paris, the burden on your shoulders is too heavy, you are just an ordinary writer." ”

After being mentioned by Turgenev, he suddenly realized that he was really getting more and more depressed. When he slept, Mrs. Balanchi hugged him from behind, and she would sigh softly.

"Honey, you're smiling less and less."

Garion was stunned for a moment, and he suddenly realized that since he became a writer, he had become less and less happy.

The vast majority of writers who have crossed the sky like meteors in history have chosen to judge themselves. Korsinki killed himself with a plastic bag in a half-filled bathtub, he wrote in his last book that he just wanted to sleep a little longer than usual, and after Thompson wrote in his suicide note that the world was too boring, he ended his life with a bullet,

It is rare to be optimistic, like Turgenev.

"Because writers are miserable, have you ever seen a few Parisian authors who ended up with a good beginning? Either died tragically or depressed, and Tsarist Russia was not only rich in vodka, but also poets with suicidal tendencies. ”

"What is it about you that is in pain?"

Turgenev laughed at Garion's sadness, "Struggling on the verge of poverty like Dostoevsky? Become a political puppet like Pushkin? You have a happy family, a rich dividend income, a stable and prosperous French society, oh damn it, there are not even serfs here, what else are you not satisfied with? ”

In the face of his aggressive questioning, Garion pondered for a moment and then whispered, "I am in as much pain as Tolstoy. ”

Turgenev was stunned, the expression on his face changed from shock to anger, and he slammed the vodka in his hand to the ground, tearing it apart and shattering to the ground.

"What are you kidding. Who was Tolstoy? He was an earl, had his own estate, had countless lands, and woods. After inheriting this inheritance from his ancestors, he personally bought a large tract of land, with farm servants and servants, and had no worries about food and clothing. Lord Garion, who are you sarcastic? ”

The warm wine spewed out of the other party's mouth and quickly condensed into a white mist in the air, disappearing into the vast sea.

Garion shook his head, Turgenev was not aware of his old friend's pain.

Tolstoy had a large income from renting out land, and his works could be sold for a high standard of remuneration, but he was the most miserable writer of his time. When he was still very young, the words "alive", "not dead", "if still alive......" appeared in his diary

When Tolstoy reached his 80th birthday, he received congratulatory letters from all over the world. Congratulations to him for creating great spiritual wealth for human civilization. Tolstoy, however, said: "I am tired of all this. ”

"His pain stems from social injustice, and so do I."

Garion put his hands in his pockets, but Turgenev saw a deep sadness in his eyes.

The anger that had been entrenched in his chest disappeared without a trace after seeing those eyes.

"Social injustice still exists, and there is no room for peace. Tolstoy went out into the streets, into the slums, into the slums, into the slums, at the slums, at the beggars, at the hands of the poor, and it was extremely painful. His friend Gleiski persuaded him that all this was the essence of society and that it was normal. And Tolstoy was almost going to quarrel with his friends, and he stubbornly said, no, this society is not like this! What is considered normal to the average person is the source of his suffering. ”

Although Turgenev believed that Kalian did not know Tolstoy, he was like an old friend for many years, and he fully understood the thoughts of the other party.

That was not God's intention in creating the world. All human beings should be created equal, free and dignified. ”

The more Garian spoke, the cold sweat on Turgenev's back suddenly disappeared.

The writer standing in front of him, with a sad look on his face, remembered before he was in a trance that the last time he saw this look of compassion was in the St. Petersburg Cathedral, between the organ and the choir.

The look of Jesus.