Online reading of the book My Family and Other Animals A word in its own defense. Gerald Durrell my family and other animals

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So, sometimes I managed to believe in the incredible six times before breakfast.

White Queen.

Lewis Carroll, "Alice Through the Looking Glass"

I tried to give here accurate portraits of my relatives, without embellishing anything, and they pass through the pages of the book as I saw them. But to explain the funniest part of their behavior, I must immediately say that at the time when we lived in Corfu, everyone was still very young: Larry, the oldest, was twenty-three years old, Leslie was nineteen, Margot was eighteen, and I, the youngest was only ten years old. None of us ever had an accurate idea of my mother’s age for the simple reason that she never remembered her birthdays. I can only say that my mother was old enough to have four children. At her insistence, I also explain that she was a widow, otherwise, as my mother astutely noted, people can think anything.

In order for all the events, observations and joys of these five years of life to be squeezed into a work no larger in volume than the Encyclopedia Britannica, I had to rearrange, fold, and trim everything, so that in the end almost nothing remained of the true duration of events. I also had to discard many incidents and persons that I would have described here with great pleasure.

Of course, this book could not have been published without the support and help of some people. I am talking about this in order to share responsibility for it equally among everyone. So, I express my gratitude to:

Dr. Theodore Stephanides. With characteristic generosity, he allowed me to use materials from his unpublished work on the island of Corfu and provided me with many bad puns, of which I used some.

To my family. After all, they still gave me the bulk of the material and helped me a lot while the book was being written, desperately arguing about every case that I discussed with them, and occasionally agreeing with me.

To my wife, for making me happy with her loud laughter while reading the manuscript. As she later explained, my spelling made her laugh.

Sophie, my secretary, who undertook to place commas and mercilessly eradicate all illegal agreements.

I would like to express special gratitude to my mother, to whom this book is dedicated. Like the inspired, gentle and sensitive Noah, she skillfully steered her ship with her awkward offspring through the stormy sea of \u200b\u200blife, always ready for rebellion, always surrounded by dangerous financial shoals, always without confidence that the crew would approve of her management, but in the constant consciousness of her full responsibility for any malfunction on the ship. It is simply incomprehensible how she endured this voyage, but she endured it and did not even lose her mind very much. As my brother Larry rightly said, we can be proud of the way we raised her; She does us all credit.

I think that my mother managed to reach that happy nirvana where nothing shocks or surprises anymore, and as proof I will at least cite this fact: recently, one Saturday, when my mother was alone in the house, they suddenly brought her several cages. There were two pelicans, a scarlet ibis, a vulture and eight monkeys. A less resilient person might have been confused by such a surprise, but mother was not at a loss. On Monday morning I found her in the garage, where she was being chased by an angry pelican, which she was trying to feed sardines from a can.

“It’s good that you came, dear,” she said, barely catching her breath. “That pelican was a little difficult to handle.” I asked how she knew these were my animals. - Well, of course, yours, dear. Who else could send them to me?

As you can see, the mother understands at least one of her children very well.

And in conclusion, I want to especially emphasize that everything told here about the island and its inhabitants is the absolute truth. Our life in Corfu could easily pass for one of the brightest and funniest comic operas. It seems to me that the whole atmosphere, all the charm of this place was correctly reflected by the sea map that we had then. It depicted the island and the coastline of the adjacent continent in great detail, and below, in a small inset, there was the inscription:

We warn you: the buoys that mark the shoals are often out of place here, so sailors need to be careful when sailing off these shores.

Gerald Durrell

My family and other animals

Dedicated to my mother

But I have my own melancholy, composed of many elements, extracted from many objects, and, in essence, the result of reflections taken from my wanderings, plunging into which I experience the most humorous sadness.

William Shakespeare. How do you like it (Translation by T. Shchepkina-Kupernik)

Defender's speech

On some days, I managed to believe in a dozen impossibilities before breakfast!

The White Queen in "Alice in Wonderland" (Translation by N. Demurova)

This is the story of my entire family's five-year stay on the Greek island of Corfu. It was intended as a description of local nature, with nostalgic notes, but I made a big mistake by introducing my loved ones on the very first pages. Having established themselves on paper, they began to take over the space and invite a variety of friends to share the chapters of this book with them. Only with great difficulty and all sorts of tricks did I manage to save separate pages dedicated exclusively to animals.

I tried to paint an accurate, without exaggeration, portrait of my family; they look the same as I saw them. At the same time, in order to explain their somewhat eccentric behavior, I think it is necessary to clarify that in those days of their stay in Corfu everyone was still quite young: the eldest, Larry, was twenty-three, Leslie was nineteen, Margot was eighteen, and I was the youngest , was an impressionable ten-year-old youth. It was difficult for us to judge our mother's age for the simple reason that she never really remembered the date of her birth; so I’ll just say: she was the mother of four children. And she also insists that I make it clear that she is a widow, because, as she very astutely noted, you never know what people might think about.

In order to condense five years of events, observations and general good times into a volume smaller than the Encyclopedia Britannica, I had to shorten, simplify and move the material, with the result that little remained of the original sequence of events. I was also forced to bracket out a bunch of episodes and characters that I would have loved to describe.

I doubt that this book would have been completed without the help and enthusiastic support of the following people. I mention this so that there is someone to shift the blame to. So, my thanks:

Dr. Theodore Stefanides. With characteristic generosity, he allowed me to use the sketches for his unpublished work on Corfu, and gave me killer puns, some of which I used.

My family, who, unwittingly, supplied me with the necessary material and provided invaluable assistance in writing the book by fiercely disputing everything, almost never agreeing with this or that fact about which I consulted with them.

My wife, who delighted me with Homeric laughter while reading the manuscript, followed by the confession that it was my spelling errors that amused her so much.

To my secretary Sophie, who is responsible for inserting commas and ruthlessly removing split infinitives.

I would like to give special recognition to my mother, to whom this book is dedicated. Like the kind, energetic, sensitive Noah, she navigated her ark with her eccentric offspring through the stormy waves of life, showing the greatest dexterity and constantly faced with a possible riot on the ship, every now and then risking running aground of overexpenditures and excesses, without any certainty that her navigational abilities will be approved by the team, but knowing full well that all the trouble will fall on her if something goes wrong. The fact that she survived this test can be considered a miracle, but she survived it and, moreover, managed to maintain her sanity. As my brother Larry rightly says, we can be proud of the way we raised our mother; she does us credit. She found a state of happy nirvana, when nothing can shock or surprise, which is proven by at least a recent example: on the weekend, when she was alone in the house, several cages with two pelicans, a bright red ibis, a vulture were unexpectedly delivered at once. a vulture and eight monkeys. At the sight of such a contingent, a weaker mortal would most likely have trembled, but not my mother. On Monday morning I found her in the garage being chased by an angry pelican that she was trying to feed with canned sardines.

- Darling, it’s so good that you came. “She was already out of breath. – This pelican is somehow not very willing to communicate.

When I asked why she decided that this my wards, came the answer:

- Dear, who else could send me pelicans?

Finally, I want to emphasize that all the jokes about the island and the islanders are not fictional. Life in Corfu is somewhat like a colorful comic opera. The atmosphere and charm of the place, it seems to me, was fairly accurately reflected by our map issued by the British Admiralty; it showed the island and neighboring coastlines in detail. And below, in a frame, a note:

Because buoys marking shallow waters are often misplaced, mariners should be vigilant when entering these waters.

Part one

There's joy in being crazy,

Which is known only to crazy people.

John Dryden. Spanish monk. II, 2

Migration

The prickly wind blew out July like a pitiful candle and drove back the leaden August sky. A needle-like, stinging drizzle began to charge, which, with gusts of wind, moved back and forth like a matte gray sheet. On the Bournemouth coast, beach cabins turned their impassive wooden faces towards the grey-green, foamy, scalloped sea that eagerly rolled onto the concrete pier. Seagulls descended on the city and, on their strained wings, flew over the roofs of houses with pitiful moans. This weather will be a test for anyone.

On a day like this my family as a whole did not make a very favorable impression, for such weather brought with it the usual assortment of illnesses to which we were all susceptible. After lying on the floor, sticking tags on a collection of shells, I caught a cold, which instantly clogged my entire nasal cavity like cement, so that I had to wheeze through my open mouth. My brother Leslie, huddled in a pitiful shadow by the burning fireplace, suffered from an inflammation of the middle ear, and some kind of fluid was constantly oozing from his ears. My sister Margot had new pimples on her face, which already resembled a red veil. The mother developed a severe runny nose and an attack of rheumatism in addition. And only my older brother Larry was like a cucumber, except for the fact that he was irritated by our ailments.

It all started with him. The rest were too lethargic to think about anything other than their illnesses; Larry was conceived by Providence itself as a mini-firework, exploding with ideas in other people's heads, after which he quietly curled up like a cat and did not take any responsibility for the consequences. By evening his irritability reached its peak. At some point, thoughtfully looking around the room, he chose his mother as the main culprit of all misfortunes.

– Why do we tolerate this vile climate? – he suddenly asked and pointed to the window, distorted by the streams of rain. - Just look! Better yet, look at us... Margot looks like a bowl of purple oatmeal... Leslie wanders around with cotton swabs sticking out of her ears like two antennas... Jerry breathes like he was born with a cleft palate... What about you? Every day you look more decrepit and depressed.

The mother looked up from the tome entitled “ Simple recipes from Rajputana."

- Nothing like this! – she was indignant.

“Yes,” Larry insisted. “You’re starting to look like an Irish washerwoman... and your household could serve as illustrations for a medical encyclopedia.”

Unable to come up with a scathing response, Mom settled for a glare before burying her face in her book again.

“We need the sun,” Larry continued. – Les, do you agree with me? Forest?.. Forest... Forest!

Leslie pulled a healthy bunch of cotton wool out of his ear.

- What you said? - he asked.

- You see! – Larry turned triumphantly to his mother. “The conversation with him turned into a strategic operation. I ask you, how can you live with this? One does not hear what is said to him, and the words of the other cannot be understood. It's time to do something. I cannot compose immortal prose in an atmosphere of darkness and eucalyptus.

“Yes, dear,” the mother responded vaguely.

“We all need sunshine.” – Larry walked decisively around the room again. – We need a country where we can grow.

“Yes, dear, that would be good,” the mother agreed, listening to him with half an ear.

This morning I received a letter from George. He praises Corfu very much. Why don't we pack our bags and head to Greece?

- Very good, dear. “If that’s what you want,” the mother said recklessly. Usually she was on guard with Larry so that she wouldn't be caught at her word later.

- When? – he immediately clarified, somewhat surprised by such responsiveness.

Realizing that she had made a tactical mistake, the mother carefully put down “Simple Recipes from Rajputana.”

“It seems to me that it would be wise, dear, if you went yourself and prepared the ground,” she replied. “Then you will write to me that everything is arranged, and then we can all come.”

Larry looked at her with a devastating look.

“You said the same thing when I suggested going to Spain,” he reminded her. “As a result, I sat for two endless months in Seville waiting for your arrival, and all you did was write me lengthy letters with questions about drainage and drinking water, as if I were some kind of city employee.” No, if we go to Greece, we will all do it together.

- Arrange? Lord, what are you talking about? Sell it.

- What are you saying, I can’t. “She was shocked by his proposal.

- Why so?

- I just bought it.

- So sell it while it’s still in good condition.

“Darling, don’t be stupid,” she said firmly. - Excluded. That would be crazy.

We traveled light, taking with us only the essentials. When we opened our suitcases for inspection at customs, their contents clearly reflected the character and interests of each. Thus, Margot’s luggage consisted of translucent clothes, three books on weight loss and a whole battery of bottles with various elixirs for removing pimples. Leslie packed a couple of loose sweaters and trousers, in which were wrapped two revolvers, a blowgun, a book called “Your Own Gunsmith,” and a leaking bottle of lubricating oil. Larry took with him two suitcases of books and a leather suitcase with clothes. Mother's luggage was wisely divided between carry-on items and volumes on cooking and gardening. I took only what was supposed to brighten up my tiring journey: four natural history textbooks, a butterfly net, a dog and a jam jar with caterpillars threatening to turn into chrysalises. So, fully armed, we left the chilly shores of England.

Rainy and sad France, Switzerland like a Christmas card, abundant, noisy and fragrant Italy flashed through the window, leaving vague memories. The small ship set sail from the Italian heel into the pre-sunset sea, and while we were sleeping in stuffy cabins, at some point in its movement along the lunar sea path, it crossed the invisible dividing line and entered the bright mirror world of Greece. Apparently this change gradually penetrated our blood, because we all woke up with the first rays of the sun and poured out onto the upper deck.

The sea played with smooth blue muscles in the pre-dawn haze, and a foam trail with sparkling bubbles behind the stern seemed like the creeping tail of a white peacock. The pale sky in the east, near the horizon, was marked with a yellow spot. Ahead of the course, a chocolate smear of sushi with a foamy frill emerged from the fog. This was Corfu, and we strained our eyes, trying to make out mountains, peaks, valleys, ravines and beaches, but everything was limited to general outlines. Suddenly the sun came out from behind the horizon, and the sky sparkled with blue enamel, like the eye of a jay. For an instant, myriads of clearly defined sea swirls flashed and turned into royal purple with green sparkles. The fog flew up in light ribbons, and the entire island with mountains, as if sleeping under wrinkled brown blankets, was revealed to our eyes, and green olive groves hid in the folds. Beaches stretched along the curved coastline, snow-white like elephant tusks, with splashes of golden, reddish and white rocks scattered here and there. We rounded the northern cape, which was a smooth rust-red shoulder with huge caves carved into it. Dark waves, raising a foamy wake, gradually carried it towards the caves, and already there, in front of the open mouths, it disintegrated among the rocks with a greedy hiss. And then the mountains gradually faded away, and a silvery-green iridescent haze of olive trees and individually protruding black cypress trees appeared, a kind of edifying index fingers on a blue background. The water in the shallow bays was azure in color, and even through the noise of the engines one could hear the piercing, victorious chorus of cicadas coming from the shore.

Unknown Island

From the noisy, bustling customs office we emerged onto the sun-drenched embankment. All around was a city, rising up in ledges, with chaotically scattered colorful houses, whose open green shutters resembled the wings of moths - such a countless swarm. Behind us lay the bay, smooth as a plate, shimmering with an unrealistically fiery blue.

Larry walked quickly with his head held high and such royal arrogance on his face that no one paid attention to his height, but he kept a vigilant eye on the porters carrying his suitcases. Short, strong Leslie hurried after him with hidden belligerence in his eyes, and then Margot trotted along with her yards of muslin and a battery of bottles with lotions. Mother, a kind of quiet, downtrodden missionary among the rebels, was dragged against her will on the leash of the violent Roger to the nearest lamppost, where she stood in prostration while he freed himself from the excess of feelings accumulated during his stay in the dog kennel. Larry chose two amazingly decrepit horse-drawn carriages. All the luggage was loaded into one, and he sat down in the second and looked at our group with displeasure.

- Well? - he asked. – What are we waiting for?

“We are waiting for our mother,” Leslie explained. Roger found a lamppost.

- Oh my God! - Larry assumed an exemplary posture and shouted: - Mom, come on already! Can't the dog wait?

“I’m coming, dear,” the mother responded somehow submissively and insincerely, since Roger did not express any desire to part with the lamppost.

“That dog is nothing but trouble all the way,” said Larry.

“Don’t be so impatient,” Margot said indignantly. - This is his nature... Besides, in Naples we waited you a whole hour.

“I had an upset stomach,” Larry told her coldly.

“He might have an upset stomach too,” Margo announced triumphantly. – Everyone is smeared with the same world.

“You mean we’re birds of a feather.”

– It doesn’t matter what I wanted to say. You deserve each other.

At this moment the mother approached, somewhat disheveled, and we were faced with the task of how to place Roger in the carriage. The first time he encountered such a mobile vehicle, he treated it with suspicion. In the end, we had to manually, amid desperate barking, push him inside, then, panting, climb in ourselves and hold him tightly. The horse, frightened by all this fuss, began to trot, and at some point we all made a heap on the floor, under which Roger moaned loudly.

“Nice start,” Larry complained bitterly. – I expected that we would enter like a king with his retinue, and what happened... We appear in the city like a troupe of medieval acrobats.

“Darling, don’t continue,” the mother said in a soothing tone and straightened her hat on her head. - We'll be at the hotel soon.

Our carriage rode into town to the clatter of hooves and the ringing of bells, while we sat on our horsehair seats and tried to act like the royalty Larry demanded. Roger, tightly held by Leslie, stuck his head out and rolled his eyes as if he was on his last legs. The wheels thundered along a narrow street where four unkempt mongrels were basking in the sun. Roger cowered all over, looked them up and down, and burst into a gut-wrenching tirade. The mongrels immediately perked up and, barking loudly, ran after the carriage. We could forget about the royal posture, since now two of us were holding back the violent Roger, and the rest, leaning out of the carriage, were waving magazines and books with all their might, trying to drive away the pack that had followed us. But this only inflamed them even more, and with each turn their number only increased, so that when we drove out onto the main street, there were two and a half dozen dogs hovering around the wheels, completely hysterical.

– Can anyone do anything? – Larry raised his voice to cover this bedlam. “This already looks like a scene from Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

“I wish I had done it myself rather than criticize others,” snapped Leslie, who was at war with Roger.

- Quite, or what?..

“Accidentally,” Larry answered lightheartedly. - Lost practice. I haven't held a whip in my hands for a long time.

- Well, damn it, look more carefully. – Leslie was belligerent.

“Darling, calm down, he didn’t do it on purpose,” the mother intervened.

Larry swung his whip again and this time knocked her hat off.

“You’re more trouble than dogs,” Margo said.

“Be careful, dear,” said the mother, picking up the hat. -You could hurt someone. Well, this whip.

But then the carriage stopped in front of an entrance with the sign “Swiss boarding house”. The mongrels, sensing that now they would finally come to terms with this effeminate black dog riding around in a carriage, surrounded us in a dense, rapidly breathing wedge. The hotel door opened, and an old porter with sideburns came out and stared dispassionately at this street chaos. Subduing and transporting the heavy Roger to the hotel was no easy task and required the combined efforts of the entire family to pull it off. Larry had already forgotten about the royal posture and even got the taste for it. Jumping onto the pavement, he performed a little dance with a whip, clearing the road from the dogs, along which Leslie, Margot, mother and I carried the struggling, snarling Roger. As we tumbled into the hall, the receptionist slammed the door behind us and leaned back against it, wiggling his mustache. The manager approached us and looked at us warily and at the same time with curiosity. Mother stood in front of him with her hat askew and with my jar of caterpillars in her hand.

- Here you go! – She smiled contentedly, as if this was the most ordinary visit. - We are the Darrells. Rooms have been reserved for us, if I'm not mistaken?

“Very sweet,” the mother beamed. “Then perhaps we’ll go to our place and rest a little before lunch.”

With truly royal grace, she led the entire family upstairs.

Later we went down to the spacious, gloomy dining room with dusty palm trees in tubs and lopsided figurines. We were served by the same porter with sideburns, who, in order to turn into the main waiter, had only to put on a tailcoat and a starched shirtfront that creaked like an army of crickets. The food was plentiful and tasty, and we fell upon it out of hunger. When the coffee arrived, Larry leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

“The food is tolerable,” he generously praised. - How do you like this place, mother?

- The food is decent, anyway. – Mother refused to develop this topic.

“The service seems okay,” Larry continued. “The manager personally moved my bed closer to the window.

“Personally, when I asked for paper, I didn’t get any help from him,” Leslie noted.

- Papers? – the mother was surprised. - Why do you need paper?

- To the toilet... it's over.

– You didn’t pay attention. There’s a full box next to the toilet,” Margot announced publicly.

- Margot! – the mother exclaimed in horror.

- So what? Haven't you seen her?

Larry chuckled loudly.

“Due to some problems with the city sewerage,” he explained especially for his sister, “this box is intended for... uh... waste after you have dealt with natural needs.

Margot's face turned crimson and expressed both confusion and disgust.

- So this... this... oh my God! I must have caught some kind of infection! – she howled and ran out of the dining room in tears.

“What unsanitary conditions,” the mother said sternly. - It's just disgusting. Anyone can make a mistake, but in reality, it won’t take long for you to become infected with typhus.

“If they had organized everything as it should, there wouldn’t have been any mistakes,” Leslie returned to his previously expressed complaint.

- So be it, dear, but I don’t think this should be discussed now. Isn’t it better to find a separate home as soon as possible, before we all get infected?

In her room, half-naked Margot poured bottles of disinfectant liquid on herself, and her mother periodically checked for half a day to see if the symptoms of the diseases developing in her had already appeared, which Margot did not even doubt. Mom’s peace of mind was shaken by the fact that the road that passed by the “Swiss boarding house”, as it turned out, led to the local cemetery. While we were sitting on the balcony, an endless funeral procession passed by. The inhabitants of Corfu obviously believed that the most striking moment in mourning the deceased was the funeral, and therefore each subsequent procession was more magnificent than the previous one. The carriages, decorated with yards of scarlet and black crape, were drawn by horses that carried so many plumes and blankets that it was surprising how they could still move. Six or seven carriages carried the mourners, who could not contain their deep sadness, and behind them, in a kind of hearse, rode the deceased in a coffin so large and luxurious that it rather resembled an enormous birthday cake. There were white coffins with purple, black-scarlet and deep blue vignettes, and there were sparkling black ones with elaborate gold or silver trim and shiny brass handles. It dwarfed anything I had ever seen. This, I decided, is how I should leave this world: with dressed-up cavalry, mountains of flowers and a whole retinue of relatives stricken with genuine grief. Leaning over the balcony railing, I watched the floating coffins as if enchanted.

“What kind of epidemic is this, if it’s not contagious,” Larry noted logically.

“In short,” the mother refused to get drawn into the medical discussion, “we must find out everything.” Larry, can you call public health?

“It doesn’t matter,” the mother said decisively. “Then we’ll get out of here.” We need to find a house in the suburbs, and quickly.

Right in the morning we started looking for accommodation, accompanied by the hotel guide Mr. Beeler, a plump little man with obsequious eyes and cheekbones smooth from sweat. He left the hotel in a rather cheerful mood, clearly not knowing what awaited him. Anyone who has not been looking for housing with my mother cannot imagine the whole picture. We wandered around the island in a cloud of dust, and Mr. Beeler showed us one villa after another, in all the variety of sizes, colors and conditions, and mother in response resolutely shook her head. When the tenth and last villa on his list was shown to her and once again the answer was “no,” the unfortunate Mr. Beeler sat down on the steps and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“Madam Darrell,” he spoke after some silence, “I showed you everything I knew, and nothing suited you.” Madam, what are your requirements? Why weren't you satisfied with these villas?

His mother looked at him in surprise.

– Didn’t you pay attention? – she asked. “None of them had a bathroom.”

Mr. Beeler's eyes widened.

“Madam,” he almost howled in frustration, “why do you need a bathroom?” You have the sea!

We returned to the hotel in deathly silence.

The next morning, my mother decided that we would take a taxi and go in search ourselves. She had no doubt that a villa with a bathtub was hidden somewhere. We did not share her confidence, so she led a somewhat heated group, busy sorting things out, to the taxi rank on the main square. At the sight of the innocent passengers, the taxi drivers poured out of their cars and swooped down on us like vultures, trying to outshout each other. The voices became louder and louder, there was fire in their eyes, someone was clinging to their opponent, and everyone was baring their teeth. And then they took hold of us and, it seems, were ready to tear us to pieces. Actually, it was the most innocent of possible quarrels, but we had not yet had time to get used to the Greek temperament, and it seemed that our lives were in danger.

- Larry, do something already! – the mother squeaked, not without difficulty breaking free from the arms of the hefty taxi driver.

“Tell them that you will complain to the British consul.” “Larry had to shout over the noise.

- Darling, don’t be stupid. “The mother lost her breath. “Just tell them we don’t understand anything.”

Margo, quietly boiling, wedged herself into the general mass.

“We are England,” she said to the wildly gesticulating taxi drivers. – We don’t understand Greek.

“If this guy shoves me again, he’ll get it in my eye,” Leslie muttered, filling with blood.

Gerald Durrell
My family and other animals

Ivanova Yulia Nikolaevna ( [email protected])
“My Family and Other Animals”: “Peace”; Moscow; 1986
annotation

The book "My Family and Other Animals" is a humorous saga about the childhood of the future famous zoologist and writer on the Greek island of Corfu, where his extravagant family spent five blissful years. Young Gerald Darrell makes his first discoveries in the land of insects, constantly increasing the number of household members. He welcomes Achilles the tortoise, Quasimodo the pigeon, Ulysses the owl and many, many other funny animals into his family, leading to big and small dramas and fun adventures.

Gerald Durrell
My family and other animals

A word in my own defense

So, sometimes I managed to believe in the incredible six times before breakfast.
White Queen.
Lewis Carroll, "Alice Through the Looking Glass"

In this book I talked about the five years our family lived on the Greek island of Corfu. At first, the book was conceived simply as a story about the animal world of the island, in which there would be a little sadness for bygone days. However, I immediately made a serious mistake by letting my relatives into the first pages. Having found themselves on paper, they began to strengthen their positions and invited all sorts of friends with them to all chapters. Only at the cost of incredible efforts and great resourcefulness did I manage to defend several pages here and there that I could devote entirely to animals.
I tried to give here accurate portraits of my relatives, without embellishing anything, and they pass through the pages of the book as I saw them. But to explain the funniest part of their behavior, I must immediately say that at the time when we lived in Corfu, everyone was still very young: Larry, the oldest, was twenty-three years old, Leslie was nineteen, Margot was eighteen, and I, the youngest was only ten years old. None of us ever had an accurate idea of my mother’s age for the simple reason that she never remembered her birthdays. I can only say that my mother was old enough to have four children. At her insistence, I also explain that she was a widow, otherwise, as my mother astutely noted, people can think anything.
In order for all the events, observations and joys of these five years of life to be squeezed into a work no larger in volume than the Encyclopedia Britannica, I had to rearrange, fold, and trim everything, so that in the end almost nothing remained of the true duration of events. I also had to discard many incidents and persons that I would have described here with great pleasure.
Of course, this book could not have been published without the support and help of some people. I am talking about this in order to share responsibility for it equally among everyone. So, I express my gratitude to:
Dr. Theodore Stephanides. With characteristic generosity, he allowed me to use materials from his unpublished work on the island of Corfu and provided me with many bad puns, of which I used some.
To my family. After all, they still gave me the bulk of the material and helped me a lot while the book was being written, desperately arguing about every case that I discussed with them, and occasionally agreeing with me.
To my wife, for making me happy with her loud laughter while reading the manuscript. As she later explained, my spelling made her laugh.
Sophie, my secretary, who undertook to place commas and mercilessly eradicate all illegal agreements.
I would like to express special gratitude to my mother, to whom this book is dedicated. Like the inspired, gentle and sensitive Noah, she skillfully steered her ship with her awkward offspring through the stormy sea of \u200b\u200blife, always ready for rebellion, always surrounded by dangerous financial shoals, always without confidence that the crew would approve of her management, but in the constant consciousness of her full responsibility for any malfunction on the ship. It is simply incomprehensible how she endured this voyage, but she endured it and did not even lose her mind very much. As my brother Larry rightly said, we can be proud of the way we raised her; She does us all credit.
I think that my mother managed to reach that happy nirvana where nothing shocks or surprises anymore, and as proof I will at least cite this fact: recently, one Saturday, when my mother was alone in the house, they suddenly brought her several cages. There were two pelicans, a scarlet ibis, a vulture and eight monkeys. A less resilient person might have been confused by such a surprise, but mother was not at a loss. On Monday morning I found her in the garage, where she was being chased by an angry pelican, which she was trying to feed sardines from a can.
“It’s good that you came, dear,” she said, barely catching her breath. “That pelican was a little difficult to handle.” I asked how she knew these were my animals. - Well, of course, yours, dear. Who else could send them to me?
As you can see, the mother understands at least one of her children very well.
And in conclusion, I want to especially emphasize that everything told here about the island and its inhabitants is the absolute truth. Our life in Corfu could easily pass for one of the brightest and funniest comic operas. It seems to me that the whole atmosphere, all the charm of this place was correctly reflected by the sea map that we had then. It depicted the island and the coastline of the adjacent continent in great detail, and below, in a small inset, there was the inscription:
We warn you: the buoys that mark the shoals are often out of place here, so sailors need to be careful when sailing off these shores.

A sharp wind blew out July like a candle, and the leaden August sky hung over the earth. The fine prickly rain lashed endlessly, swelling with gusts of wind into a dark gray wave. The bathhouses on the beaches of Bournemouth turned their blind wooden faces towards the green-gray foamy sea, which rushed furiously against the concrete bank of the shore. The seagulls, in confusion, flew into the depths of the shore and then, with pitiful moans, rushed around the city on their elastic wings. This weather is specifically designed to torment people.
That day our whole family looked rather unsightly, as the bad weather brought with it the usual set of colds, which we caught very easily. For me, stretched out on the floor with a collection of shells, it brought a severe runny nose, filling my entire skull like cement, so that I was breathing wheezing through my open mouth. My brother Leslie, perched by the lit fireplace, had both his ears inflamed, and blood was constantly oozing from them. Sister Margot has new pimples on her face, already dotted with red dots. Mom’s nose was running heavily and, in addition, she had an attack of rheumatism. Only my older brother Larry was not affected by the disease, but it was already enough how angry he was, looking at our ailments.
Of course, Larry started all this. The rest at that time were simply unable to think about anything other than their illnesses, but Providence itself destined Larry to rush through life like a small bright firework and ignite thoughts in the brains of other people, and then, curled up as a cute kitten , refuse any responsibility for the consequences. That day, Larry’s anger was growing with increasing force, and finally, looking around the room with an angry look, he decided to attack his mother as the obvious culprit of all the troubles.
– And why do we endure this damned climate? - he asked unexpectedly, turning to the rain-drenched window. - Look over there! And, for that matter, look at us... Margot is swollen like a plate of steamed porridge... Leslie is wandering around the room with fourteen fathoms of cotton stuffed in each ear... Jerry talks as if he was born with a wolfish mouth... And look at you! Every day you look more and more terrible.
Mom glanced over the huge volume entitled “Simple Recipes from Rajputana” and was indignant.
- Nothing like this! - she said.
“Don’t argue,” Larry persisted. “You’ve begun to look like a real laundress... and your children resemble a series of illustrations from a medical encyclopedia.”
To these words, my mother could not find a completely destructive answer and therefore limited herself to just one gaze before again hiding behind the book she was reading.
“The sun... We need the sun!” Larry continued. “Do you agree, Less?.. Less... Less!” Leslie pulled a large piece of cotton wool out of one ear. - What you said? - he asked.
- Here you see! - Larry said triumphantly, turning to his mother. - A conversation with him turns into a complex procedure. Well, pray tell, is this really the case? One brother doesn’t hear what they say to him, the other you yourself cannot understand. It's time to finally do something. I can’t create my immortal prose in such a dull atmosphere where it smells of eucalyptus tincture. “Of course, honey,” my mother answered absently. “The sun,” Larry said, getting down to business again. “The sun, that’s what we need... a land where we could grow up in freedom.”
“Of course, honey, that would be nice,” my mother agreed, almost not listening to him.
This morning I received a letter from George. He writes that Corfu is a delightful island. Maybe we should pack our bags and go to Greece?
“Of course, honey, if you want,” Mom said carelessly.
Where Larry was concerned, Mom usually acted with great caution, trying not to commit herself to words. - When? – Larry asked, surprised at her compliance. Mom, realizing her tactical mistake, carefully omitted “Simple Recipes from Rajputana.”
“It seems to me, dear,” she said, “it’s better for you to go alone first and sort everything out.” Then you write to me, and if it’s good there, we’ll all come to you. Larry looked at her with a withering gaze. “You said the same thing when I suggested going to Spain,” he recalled. “I sat in Seville for two whole months waiting for your arrival, and you just wrote me long letters about drinking water and sewerage, as if I were the secretary of the municipal council.” or something like that. No, if you go to Greece, then only everyone together.
“You’re exaggerating everything, Larry,” my mother said plaintively. “In any case, I can’t leave right away.” We need to decide something with this house. - Decide? Lord, what is there to decide? Sell it, that's all.
“I can’t do this, honey,” my mother answered, shocked by such a proposal. - Can not? Why can not you? - But I just bought it. - So sell it before it peels off.
- Don't be stupid, honey. “This is out of the question,” my mother said firmly. “It would be simply madness.”
And so we sold the house and, like a flock of migrating swallows, flew south away from the gloomy English summer.
We traveled light, taking with us only what we considered vital. When we opened our luggage for inspection at customs, the contents of the suitcases clearly demonstrated the character and interests of each of us. Margot's luggage, for example, consisted of a pile of transparent clothes, three books with tips on how to maintain a slim figure, and a whole battery of bottles with some kind of acne liquid. Leslie's suitcase contained two sweaters and a pair of underpants, which contained two revolvers, a blowgun, a book called "Be Your Own Gunsmith" and a large bottle of lubricating oil that was leaking; Larry carried with him two chests of books and a suitcase of clothes. Mom's luggage was wisely divided between clothes and books on cooking and gardening. I took with me on the trip only what could brighten up the long, boring journey: four books on zoology, a butterfly net, a dog and a jam jar filled with caterpillars that could turn into chrysalises at any moment.
So, fully equipped by our standards, we left the cold shores of England.
France flashed by, sad, drenched in rain; Switzerland, which looks like a Christmas cake; bright, noisy, saturated with pungent smells Italy - and soon only vague memories remained of everything. The tiny steamer rolled away from Italy's heel and went out into the twilight sea. While we were sleeping in our stuffy cabins, somewhere in the middle of the moon-polished water surface, the ship crossed the invisible dividing line and found itself in the bright looking glass of Greece. Gradually, the feeling of this change somehow penetrated into us, we all woke up from an incomprehensible excitement and went out onto the deck.
In the light of the early morning dawn the sea rolled its smooth blue waves. Behind the stern, like a white peacock's tail, stretched light foamy streams sparkling with bubbles. The pale sky was beginning to turn yellow in the east. Ahead, a vague blur of chocolate-brown earth appeared with a fringe of white foam below. This was Corfu. Straining our eyes, we peered into the outlines of the mountains, trying to distinguish valleys, peaks, gorges, beaches, but in front of us there was still only the silhouette of the island. Then the sun suddenly immediately emerged from behind the horizon, and the whole sky was filled with an even blue glaze, like the eye of a jay. The sea flared up for a moment with all its smallest waves, taking on a dark, purple hue with green highlights, the fog quickly rose up in soft rivulets, and the island opened up in front of us. Its mountains seemed to be sleeping under a crumpled brown blanket, and olive groves were green in its folds. Among the disorderly jumble of sparkling rocks of gold, white and red, white beaches curved like tusks. We walked around the northern cape, a smooth steep cliff with caves washed out in it. Dark waves carried there white foam from our wake and then, at the very openings, they began whistling among the rocks. Behind the cape, the mountains retreated and were replaced by a slightly sloping plain with silvery green olive trees. Here and there a dark cypress rose to the sky like a pointing finger. The water in the shallow bays was a clear blue color, and from the shore, even through the noise of the steamship engines, we could hear the triumphant ringing of cicadas.

1. Unexpected Island

Having made our way through the hustle and bustle of customs, we found ourselves on an embankment flooded with bright sunlight. A city rose up the steep slopes in front of us - tangled rows of colorful houses with green shutters, like the open wings of a thousand butterflies. Behind us lay the mirror-like surface of the bay with its unimaginable blue.
Larry walked at a brisk pace, his head thrown back proudly and with an expression of such regal arrogance on his face that one could not notice his short stature. He did not take his eyes off the porters, who could barely cope with his two chests. The strong Leslie marched militantly behind him, and behind him, in waves of perfume and muslin, walked Margot. Mom, who looked like a captured restless little missionary, was forcibly dragged away by the impatient Roger to the nearest lamppost. She stood there, staring into space, while he released his tense feelings after being cooped up for a long time. Larry hired two surprisingly filthy cabs, put his luggage in one, climbed into the other and looked around angrily. - Well? – he asked. “What are we still waiting for?” “We’re waiting for mom,” Leslie explained. “Roger found a lantern.”
- Oh my God! - Larry exclaimed and, straightening up in the carriage to his full height, roared:
- Hurry up, mom! The dog can be patient.
“I’m coming, honey,” my mother responded obediently, without moving from her place, because Roger was not yet planning to leave the post. “This dog bothered us all the way,” said Larry.
“You have to have patience,” Margot said indignantly. “It’s not the dog’s fault... We’ve been waiting for you for an hour in Naples.”
“My stomach was upset then,” Larry explained coldly.
“And maybe he has a stomach too,” Margot answered triumphantly. “What’s the difference?” What in the forehead, what on the forehead. – Did you mean to say on the forehead? –– Whatever I want, it’s the same thing.
But then my mother came up, slightly disheveled, and our attention turned to Roger, who had to be placed in the carriage. Roger had never ridden in such carriages before, so he looked at him with suspicion. In the end, we had to drag him in by force and then squeeze in after him amid frantic barking, not allowing him to jump out of the carriage. The horse, frightened by all this fuss, took off and ran at full speed, and we fell into a heap, crushing Roger, who screamed as loud as he could.
“That's a good start,” Larry grumbled. “I was hoping we'd have a noble and majestic appearance, and here's how it turned out... We ride into town like a troupe of medieval acrobats.”
“It’s enough, it’s enough, honey,” his mother reassured him, straightening her hat. “Soon we’ll be at the hotel.”
When the cab drove into the city with a clang and knock, we, having settled somehow on the hairy seats, tried to assume the noble and majestic appearance that Larry so much needed. Roger, squeezed in Leslie's powerful embrace, hung his head over the edge of the carriage and rolled his eyes, as if he was dying. Then we rushed past an alley where four shabby mongrels were basking in the sun. Seeing them, Roger became tense and barked loudly. Immediately the revived mongrels rushed after the carriage with a piercing squeal. Not a trace of all our noble greatness remained, since two were now holding the distraught Roger, and the rest, leaning back, desperately waved books and magazines, trying to drive away the shrill pack, but only irritated them even more.

Gerald Durrell

My family and other animals

A word in my own defense

So, sometimes I managed to believe in the incredible six times before breakfast.

White Queen.

Lewis Carroll, "Alice Through the Looking Glass"

I tried to give here accurate portraits of my relatives, without embellishing anything, and they pass through the pages of the book as I saw them. But to explain the funniest thing in their behavior, I must immediately say that at the time when we lived in Corfu, everyone was still very young: Larry, the oldest, was twenty-three years old, Leslie was nineteen, Margot was eighteen, and I, the youngest was only ten years old. None of us ever had an accurate idea of my mother’s age for the simple reason that she never remembered her birthdays. I can only say that my mother was old enough to have four children. At her insistence, I also explain that she was a widow, otherwise, as my mother astutely noted, people can think anything.

Dr. Theodore Stephanides. With characteristic generosity, he allowed me to use materials from his unpublished work on the island of Corfu and provided me with many bad puns, of which I used some.

To my wife - for the fact that while reading the manuscript she gave me pleasure with her loud laughter. As she later explained, my spelling made her laugh.

Sophie, my secretary, who undertook to place commas and mercilessly eradicate all illegal agreements.

It’s good that you came, honey,” she said, barely catching her breath. - This pelican was a bit difficult to handle. I asked how she knew these were my animals. - Well, of course, yours, dear. Who else could send them to me?

As you can see, the mother understands at least one of her children very well.

We warn you: the buoys that mark the shoals are often out of place here, so sailors need to be careful when sailing off these shores.

That day our whole family looked rather unsightly, as the bad weather brought with it the usual set of colds, which we caught very easily. For me, stretched out on the floor with a collection of shells, it brought a severe runny nose, filling my entire skull like cement, so that I was breathing wheezing through my open mouth. My brother Leslie, perched by the lit fireplace, had both his ears inflamed, and blood was constantly oozing from them. Sister Margot has new pimples on her face, already dotted with red dots. Mom’s nose was running heavily and, in addition, she had an attack of rheumatism. Only my older brother Larry was not affected by the disease, but it was already enough how angry he was, looking at our ailments.

Of course, Larry started all this. The rest at that time were simply unable to think about anything other than their illnesses, but Providence itself destined Larry to rush through life like a small bright firework and ignite thoughts in the brains of other people, and then, curled up as a cute kitten , refuse any responsibility for the consequences. That day, Larry’s anger was growing with increasing force, and finally, looking around the room with an angry look, he decided to attack his mother as the obvious culprit of all the troubles.

And why do we endure this damned climate? - he asked unexpectedly, turning to the rain-drenched window. - Look over there! And, for that matter, look at us... Margot is swollen like a plate of steamed porridge... Leslie is wandering around the room with fourteen fathoms of cotton stuffed in each ear... Jerry talks as if he was born with a cleft palate... And look at you ! Every day you look more and more terrible.

Mom glanced over the huge volume entitled “Simple Recipes from Rajputana” and was indignant.

Nothing like this! - she said.

“Don’t argue,” Larry persisted. - You began to look like a real laundress... and your children resemble a series of illustrations from a medical encyclopedia.

To these words, my mother could not find a completely destructive answer and therefore limited herself to just one gaze before again hiding behind the book she was reading.

The sun... We need the sun! - Larry continued. - Do you agree, Less?.. Less... Less! Leslie pulled a large piece of cotton wool out of one ear. - What you said? - he asked.

Here you see! - Larry said triumphantly, turning to his mother. - A conversation with him turns into a complex procedure. Well, pray tell, is this really the case? One brother doesn’t hear what they say to him, the other you yourself cannot understand. It's time to finally do something. I can’t create my immortal prose in such a dull atmosphere where it smells of eucalyptus tincture. “Of course, honey,” my mother answered absently. “The sun,” Larry said, getting down to business again. - The sun, that’s what we need... a land where we could grow in freedom.

Of course, honey, that would be nice,” my mother agreed, almost not listening to him.

This morning I received a letter from George. He writes that Corfu is a delightful island. Maybe we should pack our bags and go to Greece?

“Of course, honey, if you want,” my mother said carelessly.

Where Larry was concerned, Mom usually acted with great caution, trying not to commit herself to words. - When? - Larry asked, surprised at her compliance. Mom, realizing her tactical mistake, carefully lowered “Simple Recipes from Rajputana.”

It seems to me, honey,” she said, “it’s better for you to go alone first and sort everything out.” Then you write to me, and if it’s good there, we’ll all come to you. Larry looked at her with a withering gaze. “You said the same thing when I suggested going to Spain,” he reminded. “I sat in Seville for two whole months waiting for your arrival, and you just wrote me long letters about drinking water and sanitation, as if I were the secretary of the municipal council or something like that.” No, if you go to Greece, then only everyone together.

“You’re exaggerating everything, Larry,” my mother said plaintively. - In any case, I can’t leave right away. We need to decide something with this house. - Decide? Lord, what is there to decide? Sell it, that's all.

“I can’t do this, honey,” my mother answered, shocked by such a proposal. - Can not? Why can not you? - But I just bought it. - So sell it before it peels off.

Don't be stupid, honey. This is out of the question,” my mother said firmly. - It would be simply madness.

And so we sold the house and, like a flock of migrating swallows, flew south away from the gloomy English summer.

We traveled light, taking with us only what we considered vital. When we opened our luggage for inspection at customs, the contents of the suitcases clearly demonstrated the character and interests of each of us. Margot's luggage, for example, consisted of a pile of transparent clothes, three books with tips on how to maintain a slim figure, and a whole battery of bottles with some kind of acne liquid. Leslie's suitcase contained two sweaters and a pair of underpants, which contained two revolvers, a blowgun, a book called "Be Your Own Gunsmith" and a large bottle of lubricating oil that was leaking; Larry carried with him two chests of books and a suitcase of clothes. Mom's luggage was wisely divided between clothes and books on cooking and gardening. I took with me on the trip only what could brighten up the long, boring journey: four books on zoology, a butterfly net, a dog and a jam jar filled with caterpillars that could turn into chrysalises at any moment.

So, fully equipped by our standards, we left the cold shores of England.

France flashed by, sad, drenched in rain; Switzerland, which looks like a Christmas cake; bright, noisy, saturated with pungent odors Italy

And soon all that was left were vague memories. The tiny steamer rolled away from Italy's heel and went out into the twilight sea. While we were sleeping in our stuffy cabins, somewhere in the middle of the moon-polished water surface, the ship crossed the invisible dividing line and found itself in the bright looking glass of Greece. Gradually, the feeling of this change somehow penetrated into us, we all woke up from an incomprehensible excitement and went out onto the deck.

In the light of the early morning dawn the sea rolled its smooth blue waves. Behind the stern, like a white peacock's tail, stretched light foamy streams sparkling with bubbles. The pale sky was beginning to turn yellow in the east. Ahead, a vague blur of chocolate-brown earth appeared with a fringe of white foam below. This was Corfu. Straining our eyes, we peered into the outlines of the mountains, trying to distinguish valleys, peaks, gorges, beaches, but in front of us there was still only the silhouette of the island. Then the sun suddenly immediately emerged from behind the horizon, and the whole sky was filled with an even blue glaze, like the eye of a jay. The sea flared up for a moment with all its smallest waves, taking on a dark, purple hue with green highlights, the fog quickly rose up in soft rivulets, and the island opened up in front of us. Its mountains seemed to be sleeping under a crumpled brown blanket, and olive groves were green in its folds. Among the disorderly jumble of sparkling rocks of gold, white and red, white beaches curved like tusks. We walked around the northern cape, a smooth steep cliff with caves washed out in it. Dark waves carried white foam there from our wake and then, at the very openings, began whistling among the rocks. Behind the cape, the mountains retreated and were replaced by a slightly sloping plain with silvery green olive trees. Here and there a dark cypress rose to the sky like a pointing finger. The water in the shallow bays was a clear blue color, and from the shore, even through the noise of the steamship engines, we could hear the triumphant ringing of cicadas.

1. Unexpected Island

Having made our way through the hustle and bustle of customs, we found ourselves on an embankment flooded with bright sunlight. A city rose up the steep slopes in front of us.

Tangled rows of colorful houses with green shutters, like the open wings of a thousand butterflies. Behind us lay the mirror-like surface of the bay with its unimaginable blue.

Larry walked at a brisk pace, his head thrown back proudly and with an expression of such regal arrogance on his face that one could not notice his short stature. He did not take his eyes off the porters, who could barely cope with his two chests. The strong Leslie marched militantly behind him, and behind him, in waves of perfume and muslin, walked Margot. Mom, who looked like a captured restless little missionary, was forcibly dragged away by the impatient Roger to the nearest lamppost. She stood there, staring into space, while he released his tense feelings after being cooped up for a long time. Larry hired two surprisingly filthy cabs, put his luggage in one, climbed into the other and looked around angrily. - Well? - he asked. -What are we still waiting for? “We’re waiting for mom,” Leslie explained. - Roger found a lantern.

Oh my God! - Larry exclaimed and, straightening up in the carriage to his full height, roared:

Hurry up, mom! The dog can be patient.

“I’m coming, darling,” my mother responded obediently, without moving from her place, because Roger was not yet going to leave the post. “That dog bothered us all the way,” said Larry.

“You have to have patience,” Margot was indignant. - It’s not the dog’s fault... We’ve been waiting for you for an hour in Naples.

“My stomach was upset then,” Larry explained coldly.

And maybe he has a stomach too,” Margot answered triumphantly. - Who cares? What in the forehead, what on the forehead. - Did you mean to say - on the forehead? - Whatever I want, it's the same thing.

But then my mother came up, slightly disheveled, and our attention turned to Roger, who had to be placed in the carriage. Roger had never ridden in such carriages before, so he looked at him with suspicion. In the end, we had to drag him in by force and then squeeze in after him amid frantic barking, not allowing him to jump out of the carriage. The horse, frightened by all this fuss, took off and ran at full speed, and we fell into a heap, crushing Roger, who screamed as loud as he could.

"Nice start," Larry grumbled. - I was hoping that we would have a noble and majestic appearance, and this is how it all turned out... We enter the city like a troupe of medieval acrobats.

“It’s enough, it’s enough, honey,” his mother reassured him, straightening her hat. - We'll be at the hotel soon.

When the cab drove into the city with a clang and knock, we, having settled somehow on the hairy seats, tried to assume the noble and majestic appearance that Larry so much needed. Roger, squeezed in Leslie's powerful embrace, hung his head over the edge of the carriage and rolled his eyes, as if he was dying. Then we rushed past an alley where four shabby mongrels were basking in the sun. Seeing them, Roger became tense and barked loudly. Immediately the revived mongrels rushed after the carriage with a piercing squeal. Not a trace of all our noble greatness remained, since two were now holding the distraught Roger, and the rest, leaning back, desperately waved books and magazines, trying to drive away the shrill pack, but only irritated them even more. With each new street there were more and more dogs, and when we rolled along the main thoroughfare of the city, twenty-four dogs were already spinning around our wheels, bursting with anger.

Why don't you do anything? - Larry asked, trying to drown out the dog's barking. - It's just a scene from Uncle Tom's Cabin.

“I wish I could have done something to deflect criticism,” Leslie snapped, continuing his duel with Roger.

Larry quickly jumped to his feet, snatched the whip from the hands of the surprised coachman and lashed it at the pack of dogs. However, he did not reach the dogs, and the whip hit the back of Leslie’s head.

What the heck? - Leslie seethed, turning his face, purple with anger, towards him. -Where are you looking?

“I did it by accident,” Larry explained matter-of-factly. - There was no training... I haven’t held a whip in my hands for a long time.

So think with your stupid head what you’re doing,” Leslie blurted out. “Calm down, honey, he didn’t do it on purpose,” said my mother.

Larry cracked his whip at the pack again and knocked Mom's hat off her head.

You’re more disturbing than the dogs,” Margot noted. “Be careful, honey,” said mom, grabbing her hat. - So you can kill someone. You'd better leave the whip alone.

At that moment, the cab driver stopped at the entrance, above which in French it was marked: “Swiss boarding house.” The mongrels, sensing that they could finally get a hold of the pampered dog who rode around in cabs, surrounded us with a dense, snarling wall. The hotel door opened, an old gatekeeper with sideburns appeared on the threshold and began to indifferently watch the commotion on the street. It was not easy for us to drag Roger from the carriage to the hotel. Lifting a heavy dog, carrying it in your arms and restraining it all the time - this required the joint efforts of the whole family. Larry, no longer thinking about his majestic pose, was now having fun with all his might. He jumped to the ground and, whip in hand, moved along the sidewalk, breaking through the dog barrier. Leslie, Margot, Mom and I followed him along the cleared passage with Roger growling and tearing from his hands. When we finally squeezed into the hotel lobby, the gatekeeper slammed the front door and leaned so hard on it that his mustache quivered. The owner who appeared at that moment looked at us with curiosity and fear. Mom, with her hat askew, came up to him, clutching my jar of caterpillars in her hands, and with a sweet smile, as if our arrival was the most ordinary thing, said:

Our last name is Darrell. I hope they left a number for us?

Yes, madam,” answered the owner, walking aside the still grumbling Roger. - On the second floor... four rooms with a balcony.

How good,” my mother beamed. “Then we’ll go straight up to our room and rest a little before eating.”

And with quite majestic nobility she led her family upstairs.

After a while we went downstairs and had breakfast in a large, dull room filled with dusty palm trees in pots and crooked sculptures. We were served by a gatekeeper with sideburns, who, having changed into a tailcoat and a celluloid shirtfront that creaked like a whole platoon of crickets, now turned into a head waiter. The food, however, was plentiful and tasty, and everyone ate with great appetite. When the coffee arrived, Larry leaned back in his chair with a blissful sigh.

Suitable food,” he said generously. - What do you think about this place, mom?

The food here is good, honey,” Mom answered evasively. “They are polite guys,” Larry continued. - The owner himself moved my bed closer to the window.

He wasn't all that courteous when I asked him for papers,” Leslie said.

Papers? - Mom asked. - Why do you need paper?

For the toilet... it wasn’t there,” Leslie explained.

Shhh! “Not at the table,” my mother said in a whisper.

“You just didn’t look well,” Margot said in a clear, loud voice. - They have a whole drawer of it there.

Margot, darling! - Mom exclaimed in fear. - What's happened? Have you seen the box? Larry chuckled.

“Due to some oddities in the city sewer system,” he kindly explained to Margot, “this box is intended for... uh... Margot blushed.

You mean... you mean... what it was... Oh my God!

And, bursting into tears, she ran out of the dining room.

Yes, it’s very unhygienic,” my mother said sternly. - It's just ugly. In my opinion, it doesn’t even matter whether you made a mistake or not, you can still catch typhoid fever.

No one would be mistaken if there was real order here,” Leslie said.

Certainly cute. But I think we shouldn’t start arguing about this now. It’s best to quickly find a home before anything happens to us.

To add insult to injury, the Swiss Boarding House was located on the route to the local cemetery. As we sat on our balcony, funeral processions stretched down the street in an endless line. Obviously, of all the rituals, the inhabitants of Corfu valued funerals most of all, and each new procession seemed more magnificent than the previous one. The hackney carriages were buried in red and black crepe, and the horses were wrapped in so many blankets and plumes that it was difficult to even imagine how they could move. Six or seven such carriages with people overcome by deep, uncontrollable grief followed each other in front of the body of the deceased, and it rested on a cart-like cart in a large and very elegant coffin. Some coffins were white with lush black, scarlet and blue decorations, others were black, lacquered, entwined with intricate gold and silver filigree and with shiny copper handles. I have never seen such alluring beauty before. This, I decided, is how I should die, with horses in blankets, a sea of flowers and a crowd of grief-stricken relatives. Hanging from the balcony, I watched in ecstatic self-forgetfulness as the coffins floated by below.

After each procession, when the wailing died away in the distance and the clatter of hooves fell silent, my mother began to worry more and more.

“Well, clearly, this is an epidemic,” she finally exclaimed, looking around the street with alarm.

What nonsense,” Larry responded brightly. - Don’t get on your nerves in vain.

But, my dear, there are so many of them... It’s unnatural.

There is nothing unnatural about death; people die all the time.

Yes, but they don't die like flies if everything is in order.

Maybe they accumulate them, and then bury everyone at the same time,” Leslie said heartlessly.

“Don’t be stupid,” Mom said. - I'm sure it's all from the sewer. If it works like this, people cannot be healthy.

God! - Margot said in a sepulchral voice. - So I got infected.

“No, no, honey, it’s not transferable,” my mother said absently. - It's probably something non-contagious.

I don’t understand what kind of epidemic we can talk about if it’s something non-contagious,” Leslie noted logically.

In any case,” said my mother, not allowing herself to be drawn into medical disputes, “we need to find out all this.” Larry, could you call someone at your local health department?

There's probably no health care here,” Larry replied. - And if it had been, they wouldn’t have told me anything.

Well,” my mother said decisively, “we have no other choice.” We have to leave. We must leave the city. You need to immediately look for a house in the village.

The next morning we set out to look for a house, accompanied by Mr. Beeler, the hotel agent. He was a short, fat man with an ingratiating look and perpetual perspiration. When we left the hotel, he was in a rather cheerful mood, but at that time he did not yet know what awaited him ahead. And not a single person could imagine this if he had never helped his mother look for housing. We rushed all over the island in clouds of dust, and Mr. Beeler showed us one house after another. They were very diverse in size, color and location, but mother resolutely shook her head, rejecting each of them. Finally we looked at the tenth house, the last one on Beeler’s list, and Mom shook her head again. Mr. Beeler sank down onto the steps, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

Madam Darrell,” he finally said, “I showed you all the houses I knew, and not a single one suited you.” What do you need, madam? Tell me, what is the disadvantage of these houses? Mom looked at him in surprise.

Haven't you noticed? - she asked. - None of them have a bath.

Mr. Beeler looked at Mom, his eyes wide. “I don’t understand, madam,” he said with true anguish, “why do you need a bath?” Isn't there a sea here? In complete silence we returned to the hotel. The next morning, my mother decided that we should take a taxi and go searching alone. She was sure that somewhere on the island there was still a house with a bathroom hiding. We did not share my mother’s faith, we grumbled and bickered while she led us, like an obstinate herd, to the taxi rank on the main square. The taxi drivers, noticing our innocent innocence, swooped down on us like kites, trying to outshout one another. Their voices became louder, fire flared in their eyes. They grabbed each other's hands, gnashed their teeth and pulled us in different directions with such force, as if they wanted to tear us apart. In fact, it was the gentlest of gentle techniques, it’s just that we were not yet accustomed to the Greek temperament, and therefore it seemed to us as if our lives were in danger.

What should we do, Larry? - Mom screamed, with difficulty breaking free from the tenacious embrace of the huge driver.

Tell them that we will complain to the English consul,” Larry advised, trying to shout over the drivers.

“Don’t be stupid, honey,” my mother said breathlessly. - Just explain to them that we don’t understand anything. Margot rushed to the rescue with a stupid smile. “We are English,” she shouted shrilly. - We don't understand Greek.

If this guy pushes me again, I’ll punch him in the ear,” Leslie said, flushing with anger.

“Calm down, honey,” my mother said with difficulty, still fighting off the driver who was pulling her towards his car. - In my opinion, they don’t want to offend us.

And at this time everyone suddenly fell silent. Overriding the general hubbub, a low, strong, booming voice thundered in the air, like a volcano might have had.

Turning around, we saw an old Dodge at the side of the road, and behind the wheel was a short, stocky man with huge arms and a wide, weather-beaten face. He cast a frowning glance from under his jaunty cap, opened the car door, rolled out onto the sidewalk and swam in our direction. Then he stopped and, frowning even deeper, began to look at the silent taxi drivers. - Did they besiege you? - he asked his mother. “No, no,” my mother answered, trying to smooth things over. - We just couldn't understand them.

“You need a person who can speak your language,” he repeated again. “Otherwise these scum... excuse the word... they will cheat their own mother.” Just a minute, I'll show them now.

And he unleashed such a stream of Greek words on the drivers that he almost knocked them off their feet. Expressing their anger and resentment with desperate gestures, the drivers returned to their cars, and this eccentric, having sent after them the last and, obviously, destroying salvo, turned to us again. “Where do you need to go?” he asked almost fiercely.

We're looking for a home,” Larry said. -Can you take us out of town?

Certainly. I can take you anywhere. Just tell me. “We are looking for a house,” my mother said firmly, “that would have a bath.” Do you know such a house?

His tanned face wrinkled funny in thought, his black eyebrows frowned.

Bath? - he asked. - Do you need a bath?

“All the houses we’ve already seen had no baths,” my mother answered.

“I know a house with a bathroom,” said our new acquaintance. - I just doubt whether it will suit you in size.

Can you take us there? - Mom asked.

Certainly can. Get in the car.

Everyone climbed into the spacious car, and our driver sat behind the wheel and turned on the engine with a terrible noise. Constantly giving deafening signals, we rushed through the crooked streets on the outskirts of the city, maneuvering among loaded donkeys, carts, village women and countless dogs. During this time, the driver managed to start a conversation with us. Every time he uttered a phrase, he turned his big head towards us to check how we reacted to his words, and then the car began to rush along the road like a crazed swallow.

Are you English? That's what I thought... The English always need a bath... there is a bath in my house... my name is Spiro, Spiro Hakiaopoulos... but everyone calls me Spiro-American because I lived in America... Yes, I spent eight years in Chicago... That's where I learned speak English so well... I went there to make money... Eight years later I said: “Spiro,” I said, “you’ve had enough already...” and returned to Greece... brought this car... the best on the island... no one has there's no such thing. All the English tourists know me, and everyone asks me when they come here... they understand that they will not be cheated.

We drove along a road covered with a thick layer of silky white dust, billowing behind us in huge thick clouds. On the sides of the road there were thickets of prickly pear, like a fence of green plates, deftly placed on top of each other and dotted with cones of bright crimson fruit. Vineyards with curly greenery on tiny vines floated past, olive groves with hollow trunks turning their surprised faces from under the gloom of its own shadow, striped thickets of reeds with leaves fluttering like green flags. Finally we roared up the hillside, Spiro slammed on the brakes and the car stopped in a cloud of dust.

Here,” Spiro pointed with his short thick finger, “is the very house with the bathroom you need.”

Mom, who had been driving all the way with her eyes tightly closed, now carefully opened them and looked around. Spiro pointed to a gentle slope that went straight down to the sea. The entire hill and valleys around were buried in the soft greenery of olive groves, turning silver like fish scales as soon as the breeze touched the foliage. In the middle of the slope, surrounded by tall slender cypress trees, nestled a small strawberry-pink house, like some exotic fruit framed by greenery. The cypress trees swayed slightly in the wind, as if they were painting the sky for our arrival to make it even bluer.

2. Strawberry pink house

This small square house stood in the middle of a small garden with an expression of some kind of determination on its pink face. The green paint on his shutters had turned white from the sun, cracked and blistered here and there. In the garden, with a hedge of tall fuchsias, flower beds of the most varied shapes were laid out, edged with smooth white pebbles. Light paved paths wound like a narrow ribbon around flower beds in the shape of stars, crescents, circles, and triangles, slightly larger than a straw hat. The flowers in all the flower beds, long abandoned unattended, were lushly overgrown with grass. Silk petals the size of saucers fell from the roses - fiery red, silvery white, without a single wrinkle. The marigolds stretched their fiery heads towards the sun, as if they were his children. Near the ground, among the greenery, the velvet stars of daisies modestly shone, and sad violets peeked out from under the heart-shaped leaves. Above the small balcony, a bougainvillea tree stretches lushly, hung, as if for a carnival, with lanterns of bright crimson flowers; on the closed fuchsia bushes, like little ballerinas in tutus, thousands of blossoming buds froze in trembling anticipation. The warm air was saturated with the aroma of fading flowers and filled with the quiet, soft rustling and buzzing of insects. We immediately wanted to live in this house as soon as we saw it. He stood as if waiting for our arrival, and we all felt at home here.

Having burst into our lives so unexpectedly, Spiro now set about organizing all our affairs. As he explained, he would be much more useful because everyone here knew him, and he would try not to cheat us.

“Don’t worry about anything, Mrs. Darrell,” he said, frowning. - Leave everything to me.

And so Spiro began to go shopping with us. After an hour of incredible effort and loud debate, he would eventually manage to reduce the price of an item by two drachmas, which was about one penny. This, of course, is not money, he explained, but it’s all about the principle! And, of course, the thing was that he really loved to bargain. When Spiro learned that our money had not yet arrived from England, he lent us a certain amount and undertook to talk properly with the director of the bank about his poor organizational skills. And the fact that this did not depend at all on the poor director did not bother him in the slightest. Spiro paid our hotel bills, procured a cart to transport our luggage to the pink house, and took us there ourselves in his car, along with a pile of food that he had purchased for us.

As we soon discovered, his claim that he knew every inhabitant of the island and that everyone knew him was not idle boasting. Wherever his car stopped, a dozen voices always called Spiro by name, inviting him to a cup of coffee at a table under a tree. Policemen, peasants and priests greeted him warmly on the street, fishermen, grocers, cafe owners greeted him as sibling. "Ah, Spiro!" - they said and smiled affectionately at him, like a naughty but sweet child. He was respected for his honesty and ardor, and most of all they valued in him his truly Greek fearlessness and contempt for all kinds of officials. When we arrived on the island, customs officers confiscated two suitcases containing linen and other things from us on the grounds that they were goods for sale. Now that we had moved into the strawberry-pink house and the question of bedding arose, my mother told Spiro about the suitcases detained at customs and asked for his advice.

Those are the times, Mrs. Darrell! - he roared, turning purple with anger. - Why have you been silent until now? There are only scum at customs. Tomorrow we will go there with you, and I will put them in place. I know everyone there, and they know me. Leave the matter to me - I will put them all in their place.

The next morning he took my mother to customs. In order not to miss the fun show, we also went with them. Spiro burst into the customs office like an angry tiger.

Where are these people's things? - he asked the plump customs officer.

Are you talking about suitcases with goods? - asked the customs officer, carefully pronouncing the English words.

Don't understand what I'm talking about?

They are here,” the official said cautiously.

“We came for them,” Spiro frowned. - So prepare them.

He turned and solemnly walked out to look for someone to help him load the luggage. When he returned, he saw that the customs officer had taken the keys from his mother and was just opening the lid on one of the suitcases. Spiro roared with anger and instantly jumped up to the customs officer and slammed the lid right on his fingers.

Why are you opening it, you son of a bitch? - he asked fiercely. The customs officer, waving his pinched hand in the air, said angrily that it was his duty to inspect the luggage.

Duty? - Spiro asked mockingly. - What does duty mean? Duty to attack poor foreigners? 0treat them like smugglers? Do you consider this a duty?

Spiro stopped for a moment, took a breath, grabbed both huge suitcases and headed towards the exit. On the threshold, he turned around to release another charge as a farewell.

I know you, Kristaki, and you better not start talking to me about responsibilities. I have not forgotten how you were fined twenty thousand drachmas for killing fish with dynamite, and I do not want every criminal to talk to me about their duties.

We returned from customs in triumph, having collected our luggage without inspection and completely safe.

These bastards think that they are the masters here,” Spiro commented, apparently unaware that he himself was acting as the master of the island.

Having once undertaken to take care of us, Spiro remained with us. In a few hours he turned from a taxi driver into our protector, and within a week he became our guide, philosopher and friend. Very soon we already perceived him as a member of our family, and almost not a single event or undertaking could take place without him. He was always on hand with his booming voice and furrowed eyebrows, arranging our affairs, telling us how much to pay for what, keeping a close eye on us, and telling Mom everything she thought she needed to know. A heavy, awkward angel with tanned skin, he guarded us so tenderly and carefully, as if we were foolish children. He looked at his mother with sincere adoration and lavished compliments on her everywhere in a loud voice, which embarrassed her a lot.

“You have to think about what you are doing,” he told us with a serious look. - You can’t upset mom.

Why so? - Larry asked with feigned surprise. - She never tries for us, so why should we think about her?

“For God’s sake, Master Larry, don’t joke like that,” Spiro said with pain in his voice.

“He’s absolutely right, Spiro,” Leslie confirmed with all seriousness. - She's not such a good mother.

Don't you dare say that, don't you dare! - Spiro roared. - If I had such a mother, I would kneel down every morning and kiss her feet.

So we moved into the pink house. Each arranged his own life and adapted to the situation in accordance with his habits and tastes. Margot, for example, sunbathed in the olive groves in a microscopic bathing suit and gathered around her a whole gang of handsome village guys who always appeared as if from underground if it was necessary to drive away a bee or move a deck chair. Mom considered it her duty to tell her that she considered these sunbathings rather unreasonable.

After all, this suit, my dear,” she explained, “doesn’t cover so much.”

Don’t be old-fashioned, Mom,” Margot flushed. - After all, we only die once.

To this remark, which contained as much surprise as truth, my mother did not find an answer.

To bring Larry's chests into the house, three strong country boys had to sweat and strain for half an hour, while Larry himself ran around and gave valuable instructions. One chest turned out to be so huge that it had to be dragged through the window. When both chests were finally in place, Larry spent a happy day unpacking them, so cluttering the whole room with books that it was impossible to get in or out. Then he built crenellated towers along the walls out of books and spent the whole day in this fortress with his typewriter, going out only to the table. The next morning Larry appeared in a very bad mood, because some peasant had tied his donkey right next to the fence of our garden. From time to time the donkey raised his head and screamed protractedly in his hysterical voice.

Well think about it! - said Larry. “Isn’t it funny that future generations will be deprived of my book just because some brainless idiot decided to tie this vile beast of burden right under my window?”

“Yes, honey,” my mother responded. - Why don’t you remove it if it bothers you?

Dear Mommy, I don’t have time to drive donkeys through olive groves. I threw a book at him on the history of Christianity. What else do you think I could have done?

This poor animal is tied up,” said Margot. “You can’t think that it will go away on its own.”

There should be a law prohibiting leaving these vile animals near the house. Can one of you take him away? - Why on earth? - said Leslie. - He doesn't bother us at all. “Well, people,” Larry lamented. - No reciprocity, no participation in one's neighbor.

“You have a lot of sympathy for your neighbor,” Margot noted.

“It’s all your fault, Mom,” Larry said seriously. - Why was it necessary to raise us to be such selfish people?

Just listen! - Mom exclaimed. - I raised them to be selfish!

Of course,” said Larry. “Without outside help, we would not have been able to achieve such results.”

In the end, my mother and I untied the donkey and took him away from the house. Meanwhile, Leslie unpacked his pistols and began firing from the window at an old tin can. After experiencing an already deafening morning, Larry rushed out of the room and declared that he could hardly work if the whole house shook to the ground every five minutes. Offended, Leslie said that he needed to train. Larry replied that this shooting was not like training, but like a sepoy uprising in India. Mom, whose nerves also suffered from gunshots, suggested training with an unloaded pistol. Leslie tried for half an hour to explain to her why this was impossible, but in the end he had to take the tin can and move some distance from the house. The shots sounded somewhat muffled now, but still made us flinch.

Without ceasing to monitor us, my mother at the same time continued to conduct her own affairs. The whole house was filled with the aroma of herbs and the pungent smell of garlic and onions, various pots and pans were boiling in the kitchen, and between them, my mother moved with glasses that had slid to one side, muttering something under her breath. A pyramid of tattered books rose on the table, into which my mother looked from time to time. If it was possible to leave the kitchen, my mother happily dug in the garden, angrily pruning and tearing something off, inspiredly sowing and replanting something.

The garden also attracted me. Together with Roger, we discovered a lot of interesting things there. Roger, for example, learned that you should not sniff hornets, that village dogs run away with a loud squeal if you look at them through the gate, and that chickens that suddenly jump from fuchsia bushes and fly away with a mad clucking, although desirable, are not allowed prey .

This toy-sized garden was real to me. magical land, where in the flower thicket such living creatures scurried about as I had never seen before. In each rose bud, among the tight silk petals, lived tiny, crab-like spiders, hastily scurrying away from your prying eyes. Their small transparent bodies were colored to match the colors of the flowers they lived on: pink, cream, wine red, buttery yellow. Ladybugs crawled along aphid-strewn stems like varnished toys.

Pale red with large black spots, bright red with brown spots, orange with gray and black specks. Round, pretty ladybugs crawled from stem to stem and ate the anemic aphids. And carpenter bees, looking like fluffy blue bears, flew over the flowers with a solid, businesslike hum. Neat, smooth hawk moths merrily flew over the paths, sometimes freezing in the air on open, trembling wings to launch their long flexible proboscis into the middle of the flower. Large black ants scurried along the white paved paths, gathering in groups around some oddity: a dead caterpillar, a piece of pink petal, or a panicle of grass full of seeds. And from the surrounding olive groves the endless ringing of cicadas flowed through the fuchsia fence. If the sultry midday haze suddenly began to make sounds, this would be just such an amazing ringing singing.

At first I was simply stunned by this riot of life right on our doorstep and could only wander around the garden in amazement, watching first one insect or another, every minute following a bright butterfly flying over the hedge. Over time, when I became a little accustomed to such an abundance of insects among the flowers, my observations became more focused. Squatting or stretching out on my stomach, I could now spend hours watching the habits of various living creatures around me, while Roger sat somewhere nearby with an expression of complete resignation on his muzzle. In this way I discovered many amazing things.

I learned that small crab spiders can change their color like a chameleon. Take the spider from the red rose, where it sat like a coral bead, and place it in the cool depths of the white rose. If the spider remains there (and they usually do), you will see how it gradually turns pale, as if this change is taking away its strength. And two days later he is already sitting among the white petals just like a pearl.

Spiders of a completely different kind lived in the dry foliage under the fuchsia fence.

Little evil hunters, dexterous and fierce, like tigers. Eyes sparkling in the sun, they walked around their estate among the foliage, stopping from time to time, pulling themselves up on their hairy legs, to look around. Noticing some fly sitting down to bask in the sun, the spider froze, then slowly, slowly, not exceeding the growth rate of the blade of grass, it began to rearrange its legs, imperceptibly moving closer and closer and attaching its saving silk thread to the surface of the leaves along the way. And so, when he was very close, the hunter stopped, moved his legs slightly, looking for more reliable support, then rushed forward, straight at the dozing fly, and embraced it in his hairy embrace. Not once have I seen a victim walk away from a spider if it had chosen the desired position in advance.

All these discoveries brought me into indescribable delight, I had to share it with someone, and so I burst into the house and amazed everyone with the news that the incomprehensible black caterpillars with thorns that lived on roses were not caterpillars at all, but young ladybug, or the equally surprising news that lacewings lay eggs on stilts. I was lucky enough to see this last miracle with my own eyes. Having noticed a lacewing on a rose bush, I began to watch how it climbed the leaves, and admired its beautiful, delicate wings, as if made of green glass, and its huge transparent golden eyes. After some time, the lacewing stopped in the middle of the leaf, lowered its abdomen, sat there for a minute, then raised its tail, and, to my amazement, a colorless thread, thin as a hair, stretched out from there, and then an egg appeared at its very tip. Having rested a little, the lacewing did the same thing again, and soon the entire surface of the leaf was covered, as it were, with miniature thickets of moss.

Having finished laying, the female slightly moved her antennae and flew away in the green haze of her gas wings.

But perhaps the most exciting discovery I made in this colorful Lilliput was an earwig nest. I have been trying to find him for a long time, but to no avail. And now, having now stumbled upon it by accident, I was so happy, as if I had suddenly received a wonderful gift. The nest was under a piece of bark that I accidentally moved from its place. Under the bark there was a small depression, probably dug by the insect itself, and a nest was built in it. An earwig sat in the middle of the nest, obscuring a pile of white eggs. She sat on them like a chicken, not even driven away by the streams of sunlight when I lifted the bark. I couldn’t count the eggs, but there were very few of them. Apparently, she hasn’t had time to put everything aside yet.

With great care I covered it again with a piece of bark and from that moment began to jealously watch the nest. I built a protective wall of stones around it and, in addition, placed an inscription written in red ink next to it on a post to warn everyone at home. The inscription read: “ASTAROGNO

EARwig NEST - LOOK OUT OF THE PAZHALLUST.” It is noteworthy that both correctly spelled words were related to biology. Almost every hour I subjected the earwig to a close, ten-minute examination. I didn’t dare check on her more often, fearing that she might leave the nest. Gradually the pile of eggs under her grew, and the earwig apparently got used to the fact that the bark roof above her head was constantly rising. It even seemed to me that she was beginning to recognize me and nodded her antennae in a friendly manner.

To my bitter disappointment, all my efforts and constant supervision went to waste. The children came out at night. It seemed to me that after everything I had done, she could hesitate a little, wait for my arrival. However, they were all already there, a wonderful brood of tiny, fragile earwigs, as if carved from ivory. They quietly swarmed under the mother’s body, crawled between her legs, and the more courageous ones even climbed onto her jaws. It was a touching sight. The next day the nursery was empty: my whole lovely family scattered around the garden. Later I met one of the cubs. He, of course, had grown a lot, got stronger and turned brown, but I recognized him immediately. He was sleeping, buried in pink petals, and when I disturbed him, he only raised his jaws. I wanted to think that it was a greeting, a friendly greeting, but my conscience forced me to admit that he was simply warning a possible enemy. But I forgave him everything. After all, he was very young when we last saw each other.

Soon I managed to make friends with the village girls who drove past our garden every morning and evening. The chatter and laughter of these noisy and brightly dressed fat women, sitting on the backs of donkeys, echoed throughout all the surrounding groves. Driving past our garden in the morning, the girls smiled cheerfully at me and shouted loud words of greeting, and in the evening, on the way back, they drove up to the garden itself and, risking falling off the backs of their fold-eared horses, with a smile they handed me various gifts through the fence: an amber bunch grapes that still retained the warmth of the sun, pitch-black ripe figs with burst barrels, or a huge watermelon with a cool pink core. Little by little I learned to understand their conversation. At first my ear began to isolate individual sounds from the general unclear stream, then these sounds suddenly acquired meaning, and I began to slowly, hesitantly pronounce them myself and finally began without any grammar rules put together separate awkward phrases from these newly learned words. This delighted our neighbors, as if I was telling them the most exquisite compliments. Leaning over the fence, they listened intently as I tried to say a greeting or a simple phrase, and when I somehow managed it, they happily nodded, smiled and clapped their hands. Gradually I remembered all their names, found out who was whose relative, who was already married and who was going to get married, and various other details. Then I found out who lived where, and if Roger and I happened to pass by someone's house in the olive groves, the whole family poured out into the street, greeting us with loud and joyful greetings, and a chair was immediately taken out of the house so that I could sit under the vines and eat grapes with them.

Little by little, the island imperceptibly but powerfully subjugated us to its spell. Every day carried such calmness, such detachment from time, that I wanted to hold on to it forever. But then the night again shed its dark covers, and a new day awaited us, brilliant and bright, like a child’s decal, and with the same impression of unreality.

3. Man with Golden Bronzes

In the morning, when I woke up, bright sunlight streamed into my bedroom in golden stripes through the shutters. In the morning air there was the smell of smoke from the stove lit in the kitchen, there was the ringing rooster crowing, the distant barking of dogs, the sad ringing of bells, if at that time goats were being driven to the pasture.

We had breakfast in the garden under the shade of a small tangerine tree. The cool, shining sky had not yet acquired the piercing blue of midday; its hue was light, milky opal. The flowers have not yet fully woken up from their sleep, the roses are thickly sprinkled with dew, the marigolds are tightly closed. At breakfast everything was usually quiet and calm, because at such an early hour no one wanted to chat, and only towards the very end of breakfast did coffee, toast and eggs do their job. Everyone gradually came to life and began to tell each other what each of them was going to do and why they were going to do it, and then they began to seriously discuss whether it was worth taking on this business. I did not take part in such discussions, since I knew exactly what I was going to do and tried to finish eating as quickly as possible.

Do you have to choke on your food? - Larry asked in an angry voice, deftly wielding a toothpick from a match.

Chew better, honey,” Mom said quietly. - There’s no hurry.

No hurry? What if Roger is waiting impatiently for you at the garden gate and watching you with restless brown eyes? There is nowhere to rush when among the olive trees the first sleepy cicadas are already tuning their violins? There is nowhere to rush when the whole island with its cool, star-clear mornings is waiting for its explorer? But I could hardly hope that my family would be able to agree with my point of view, so I began to eat more slowly until their attention switched to something else, and then I stuffed my mouth to capacity again.

Having finally finished eating, I hurriedly got up from the table and ran to the gate, where Roger’s questioning glance greeted me. Through the cast-iron bars of the gate we looked at the olive groves, and I hinted to Roger that perhaps it would be better for us not to go anywhere today. He waved the stump of his tail in protest and touched my hand with his nose. No, no, I’m really not going to go anywhere. It would probably start to rain soon, and I looked anxiously at the clear, shining sky. With his ears pricked up, Roger also looked at the sky, then turned to me with a pleading look. Well, maybe it won’t rain now, I continued, but later it will definitely start, so the best thing to do is sit in the garden with a book. Roger desperately grabbed the gate with his huge black paw and looked at me again. His upper lip began to curl into an ingratiating smile, revealing white teeth, and her short tail trembled with excitement. This was his main trump card. After all, he understood perfectly well that I could not resist such a funny smile. I stopped teasing Roger and ran to get my matchboxes and butterfly net. The creaking gate opened, slammed shut again, and Roger, like a whirlwind, rushed through the olive groves, welcoming the new day with his loud bark.

In those days when I was just beginning my acquaintance with the island, Roger was my constant companion. Together we ventured farther and farther from home, found secluded olive groves to explore and remember, made our way through myrtle thickets - a favorite haunt of blackbirds, entered narrow valleys shrouded in the thick shade of cypress trees. Roger was an ideal companion for me, his affection did not turn into obsession, his courage did not turn into cockiness, he was smart, good-natured and cheerfully endured all my inventions. If I happened to slip somewhere on a slope damp with dew, Roger was already right there, snorting as if in mockery, throwing a quick glance at me, shaking himself, sneezing and, licking sympathetically, smiling at me with his crooked smile. If I found something interesting—an anthill, a leaf with a caterpillar, a spider swaddling a fly with a silk swaddle—Roger would stop and wait for me to finish my research. When it seemed to him that I was too slow, he came closer, barked pitifully and began to wag his tail. If the find was trivial, we immediately moved on, but if we came across something that deserved close attention, I only had to look sternly at Roger, and he immediately understood that the matter would drag on for a long time. His ears then drooped, he stopped wagging his tail, trudged to the nearest bush and stretched out in the shadows, looking at me with the eyes of a sufferer.

During these trips, Roger and I made acquaintances with many people in different places. Among them was, for example, cheerful, fat Agati, who lived in a small dilapidated house on the mountain. She always sat near her house with a spindle in her hands and spun sheep wool. She must have long since passed seventy, but her hair was still black and shiny. They were neatly braided and wrapped around a pair of polished cow horns, an ornament which can still be seen on some old peasant women. Agati sat in the sun in a scarlet bandage twisted over her horns, in her hands, like a top, a spindle went up and down, her fingers deftly guided the thread, and her wrinkled lips opened wide, revealing an uneven row of already yellowed teeth - she sang a song in a hoarse voice. but still in a strong voice.

It was from her that I learned the most beautiful and most famous folk songs. Sitting on an old tin can, I ate grapes and pomegranates from her garden and sang along with her. Agati interrupted the singing every now and then to correct my pronunciation. Verse after verse we sang a cheerful, lively song about the river - how it flows from the mountains and irrigates gardens and fields and how trees bend under the weight of fruits. With intense coquetry making eyes at each other, we sang a funny love song called “Deception.”

Deception, deception,” we deduced, shaking our heads, “there is deception all around, but it was I who taught you to tell all people how much I love you.”

Then we moved on to sad melodies and first sang the leisurely but lively song “Why are you leaving me?” and, completely softened, began to sing a long, sensitive song in trembling voices. As we approached the final, most heartbreaking part, Agati’s eyes were clouded with mist, her chin trembled with excitement, and she pressed her hands to her ample chest. Finally, the last sound of our not very harmonious singing died away, Agati wiped her nose with the corner of her bandage and turned to me.

Well, tell me, aren’t we dumbasses? Of course they are dunces. We sit here in the sun and eat. And also about love! I'm too old for this, you're too young, and yet we waste time and sing about her. Okay, let's have a glass of wine.

Besides Agati, among my favorites was the old shepherd Yani, a tall, stooped man with a large aquiline nose and an incredible mustache. The first time I met him was on a very hot day, after Roger and I had spent more than an hour trying in vain to get a large green lizard out of its hole in a rock wall. Feeling drowsy from the heat and fatigue, we stretched out near five low cypress trees, casting an even, clear shadow on the burnt grass. I lay listening to the quiet, sleepy tinkling of the bells, and soon I saw a herd of goats. Passing the cypress trees, each goat stopped, stared at us with its senseless yellow eyes and moved on, shaking its large, bagpipe-like udder and crunching the leaves of the bush. These measured sounds and the quiet ringing of bells completely lulled me to sleep. When the whole herd passed by and the shepherd appeared, I was almost falling asleep. The old man stopped, leaning on a dark olive stick, and looked at me. His small black eyes looked sternly from under bushy eyebrows, his huge shoes pressed the heather tightly to the ground.

“Good afternoon,” he called out to me angrily. -Are you a foreigner... little lord?

I already knew then that for some reason the peasants consider all Englishmen to be lords, and I answered the old man in the affirmative. He turned and shouted at the goat, which had risen on its hind legs and was nibbling at a young olive tree, then turned to me again.

“I want to tell you something, little lord,” he said. “It’s dangerous to lie under the trees here.”

I looked at the cypress trees, did not find anything dangerous in them and asked the old man why he thought so.

It’s good to sit under them; they have thick shade, cool, like water in a spring. But the trouble is that they put a person to sleep. And you should never, under any circumstances, go to sleep under a cypress tree.

He stopped, stroked his mustache, waited until I asked why he couldn’t sleep under the cypress trees, and continued:

Why, why! Because when you wake up, you will become a different person. Yes, these black cypress trees are very dangerous. While you sleep, their roots grow into your brain and steal your mind. When you wake up, you are no longer normal, your head is as empty as a whistle.

I asked him if this applied only to cypress trees or to all trees.

No, only to the cypress trees,” the old man answered and looked sternly at the trees under which I was lying, as if afraid that they might overhear our conversation. - Only cypress trees steal your mind. So watch out, little lord, don't sleep here.

He gave me a slight nod, glanced angrily at the dark pyramids of cypress trees again, as if expecting an explanation from them, and began to carefully make his way through the myrtles towards the hillside where his goats were scattered.

Later we became Yani good friends. I always met him during my excursions, and sometimes I went into his small house, where he treated me to fruit and gave me all sorts of instructions, advising me to be more careful on walks.

But perhaps one of the most unusual and attractive personalities that I had the opportunity to meet on my campaigns was the Man with the Golden Bronzes. It was like he came straight out of a fairy tale and was simply irresistible. I was not able to meet him often, and I looked forward to these meetings with great impatience. The first time I saw him was on a deserted road leading to one of the mountain villages. I heard him much earlier than I saw him, as he was playing a melodious song on a shepherd’s pipe, stopping from time to time to utter a few words in some wonderful, nasal voice. When he appeared around a bend in the road, Roger and I stopped and gaped in amazement.

He had a sharp, fox-like face and large, slanting eyes of a dark brown, almost black color. There was something strange, elusive about them, and they were covered with some kind of coating, like on a plum, some kind of pearly film, almost like a cataract. Small in stature, thin, with an incredibly thin neck and wrists, he was dressed in a fantastic outfit. On his head was a shapeless hat with a very wide, drooping brim, once dark green, but now gray with dust, covered with wine stains and burned with cigarettes. On the hat fluttered a whole forest of feathers tucked into the ribbon - cockerel, owl, hoopoe, a kingfisher wing, a hawk's paw and one large, dirty white feather, probably a swan. An old, worn shirt was brown with sweat, and an incredible tie made of dazzling blue satin dangled from his neck. The dark, shapeless jacket had multi-colored patches on it - a white one with roses on the sleeve, a red triangle with white speckles on the shoulder. From the bulging pockets of this robe, all their contents almost fell out: combs, balloons, painted images, snakes, camels, dogs and horses carved from olive wood, cheap mirrors, bright scarves and wicker loaves with cumin. His trousers, also in patches, fell over scarlet leather shoes with turned up toes and large black and white pom-poms. On the back of this amazing man were piled cages with pigeons and chickens, some mysterious bags and a large bunch of fresh green leeks. With one hand he held the pipe, in the other he clutched a bunch of threads with gold bronzes the size of an almond tied at the ends. Sparkling in the sun, golden-green beetles flew around the hat and hummed desperately, trying to break free from the threads that tightly clasped their bodies. From time to time, a beetle, tired of spinning around uselessly, would rest for a minute on his hat before setting off again on the endless carousel.

When the Man with the Golden Bronzes noticed us, he stopped with exaggerated amazement, took off his funny hat and made a deep bow. This unexpected attention had such an effect on Roger that he barked in surprise. The man smiled, put his hat back on, raised his hands and waved at me with his long, bony fingers. I looked at him with joyful surprise and politely greeted him. The man once again made a courteous bow and, when I asked if he was returning from a holiday, nodded his head. Then he raised the pipe to his lips, extracted a cheerful melody from it, made several jumps in the middle of the dusty road and, stopping, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder where he had come from. Smiling, he patted his pockets and rubbed his thumb against his index finger - this is how money is usually represented. And then I suddenly realized that the Man with Bronzes was mute. We stood in the middle of the road, I continued to talk to him, and he answered me with a very witty pantomime. When I asked why he needed bronzes and why he tied them by threads, he extended his hand, palm down, indicating small children, then took one thread with a beetle at the end and began to twirl it over his head. The insect immediately came to life and began to fly in its orbit around the hat, and he looked at me with shining eyes, pointed to the sky, spread his arms and hummed loudly through his nose, making all sorts of turns and descents on the road. It was immediately clear that it was an airplane. Then he pointed to the beetles, again indicated the small children with his palm and began to twirl a whole bunch of beetles over his head, so that they all buzzed angrily.

Tired of this explanation. The man with the Bronzes sat down on the edge of the road and played a simple melody on his pipe, stopping from time to time to sing a few bars in his unusual voice. There were no distinct words, just a stream of nasal and guttural sounds, moos and squeaks. However, he pronounced them with such vividness and with such amazing facial expressions that it seemed to you that these strange sounds had some meaning.

Having then put his pipe into his bulging pocket, the man looked at me thoughtfully, threw a small bag off his shoulder, untied it and, to my amazement and delight, shook out half a dozen turtles onto the dusty road. Their shells were oiled to a shine, and he somehow managed to decorate his front legs with scarlet bows. The turtles slowly pulled their heads and legs out from under their shiny shells and lazily crawled along the road. I looked at them with delighted eyes. I especially liked one small turtle, no larger than a teacup. She seemed more alive than the others, her eyes were clear and her shell was lighter - a mixture of amber, chestnut and burnt sugar. She moved with all the agility available to a turtle. I watched her for a long time, trying to convince myself that at home she would be received with great delight and, perhaps, even congratulated on such a glorious acquisition. The lack of money did not bother me in the slightest, because I could simply ask the person to come to us for money tomorrow. It didn’t even occur to me that he might not believe me.

I asked the Man with the Golden Bronzes how much the little turtle was worth. He showed both hands with fingers spread. However, I have never seen peasants on the island make a deal just like that, without haggling. I shook my head decisively and raised two fingers, automatically imitating my salesman. He closed his eyes in horror and raised nine fingers. Then I picked up three. He shook his head, thought for a moment and showed six fingers. I also shook my head and showed five. The Man with the Golden Bronzes shook his head again and sighed heavily. We both now sat motionless and looked with the determined, unceremonious curiosity of small children at the turtles crawling uncertainly along the road. A little later the Man with the Golden Bronzes pointed to the little turtle and again raised six fingers. I shook my head and raised a high five. Roger yawned loudly. He was tired of this silent bargaining. The man with the bronze caps lifted the turtle from the ground and showed me with gestures what a smooth and beautiful shell it had, what a straight head, what sharp claws. I was relentless. He shrugged, handed me the turtle and raised five fingers.

Then I said that I didn’t have money and that I had to come to our house tomorrow for it. He nodded in response, as if this was the most common thing. I couldn’t wait to return home as soon as possible and show everyone my new acquisition, so I immediately said goodbye, thanked the man and rushed as fast as I could down the road. Having reached the place where I had to turn into the olive groves, I stopped and took a good look at my purchase. Of course, I have never seen such a beautiful turtle before. I think it cost twice as much as I paid for it. I stroked the turtle’s scaly head with my finger, carefully put it in my pocket, and looked back before descending the hillock. The Man with the Golden Bronzes stood in the same place, but now he was dancing something like a jig, swaying, jumping, playing along with himself on the pipe, and on the road, at his feet, small turtles swarmed.

My turtle turned out to be a very smart and sweet creature with an extraordinary sense of humor. She was given the name Achilles. At first we tied her leg in the garden, but then, when the turtle became completely tame, she could go wherever she pleased. Very soon Achilles learned to recognize his name. You only had to call out to him two or three times, wait a little, and he would inevitably appear from somewhere, hobbling on tiptoe along the narrow paved path and craning his neck with excitement. He really liked to be fed from his hands, he would then sit like a prince in the sun, and we would take turns handing him lettuce leaves, dandelion leaves or a bunch of grapes. He loved grapes as passionately as Roger, and the rivalry between them never abated. Achilles usually sat with his mouth full and slowly chewed the grapes, filling himself with juice, and Roger lay somewhere nearby and, drooling, looked at him with envious eyes. Roger, too, was always given his fair share, but he probably still thought that it was not worthwhile to waste delicacies on turtles. If I stopped watching him, Roger would sneak up to Achilles after feeding and greedily lick the grape juice from him. Offended by such unceremoniousness, Achilles grabbed Roger by the nose, and if he continued to lick too persistently, he hid in his shell with an indignant hiss and did not appear from there until we took Roger away.

But even more than grapes, Achilles loved strawberries. He became simply insane at the mere sight of her. He began to rush from side to side, looked pleadingly at you with his small, button-like eyes and turned his head after you, checking whether you were going to give him berries or not. Achilles could swallow small strawberries, the size of a pea, right away, but if you offered him a berry the size of, say, a hazelnut, his behavior became unusual for a turtle. Grabbing the berry and holding it tightly in his mouth, he hurriedly hobbled to some secluded, safe place among the flower beds, lowered the berry to the ground, slowly ate it, and then returned for another.

Along with an irresistible passion for strawberries, Achilles developed a passion for human society. One had only to enter the garden to sunbathe, read, or with some other intention, when a rustle was heard among the Turkish carnations and the wrinkled, serious muzzle of Achilles poked out from there. If you were sitting on a chair, Achilles simply crawled as close as possible to your feet and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep - his head fell out of his shell and touched the ground. But if you lay down on the mat to sunbathe, Achilles had no doubt that you were stretched out on the ground simply for his pleasure. He would rush along the path towards you, climb onto the mat and, in joyful excitement, stop for a minute to estimate which part of your body should be chosen for the climb. And then you suddenly felt the sharp claws of a turtle digging into your thigh - it was she who began a decisive assault on your stomach. Of course, you don’t like this kind of rest, you decisively shake off the turtle and drag the bedding to another part of the garden. But this is just a temporary respite. Achilles will persistently circle around the garden until he finds you again. In the end, everyone got so tired of it and I began to receive so many complaints and threats that I had to lock up the turtle every time someone came into the garden. But one fine day someone left the garden gate unlocked, and Achilles was not in the garden. Without hesitating for a second, everyone rushed to search for him, although before that, for days on end, threats to kill the turtle had been heard everywhere. Now everyone was scouring the olive groves and shouting:

Achilles... strawberries, Achilles... Achilles... strawberries... Finally we found him. Walking with his usual detachment, Achilles fell into an old well, long destroyed and overgrown with ferns. Much to our chagrin, he was dead. Neither Leslie's attempts to perform artificial respiration, nor Margot's offer to stuff strawberries down his throat (to give the turtle, as she put it, a vital stimulus) could bring Achilles back to life. Sadly and solemnly, we buried his body under a strawberry bush (my mother’s idea). Everyone remembered the short eulogy written by Larry, which he read in a trembling voice. And only one Roger spoiled the whole thing. No matter how hard I tried to reason with him, he did not stop wagging his tail throughout the entire funeral ceremony.

Soon after the sad separation from Achilles, I acquired another pet from the Man with the Golden Bronzes. This time it was a pigeon, almost still a chick, which had to be given bread with milk and soaked grain. This bird had the ugliest appearance. Feathers stuck out from his red, wrinkled skin, mixed with the nasty yellow fluff that chicks have, as if it were hair etched with hydrogen peroxide. Due to his ugly appearance, Larry suggested calling him Quasimodo. I agreed. I liked the word, but at that time I did not yet understand its meaning. When Quasimodo had already learned to get his own food and his feathers had long grown back, he still had a tuft of yellow fluff on his head, which gave him the appearance of a pouting judge in a too-tight wig.

Quasimodo grew up in unusual conditions, without parents who could teach him wisdom, so he apparently did not consider himself a bird and refused to fly, preferring to walk everywhere. If he needed to climb onto a table or chair, he would stop at the bottom, begin to nod his head and coo in his soft contralto until someone picked him up from the floor. He was always eager to take part in all our affairs and even tried to go for walks with us. We, however, tried to stop these impulses, because the pigeon had to be carried on the shoulder, and then you risked your clothes, or it hobbled behind on its own legs, and you had to adapt to its step. If you went too far ahead, you suddenly heard a heartbreaking coo, and, turning around, you saw Quasimodo rushing after you as fast as he could, his tail fluttering desperately, his iridescent chest swelling with indignation.

Quasimodo agreed to sleep only in the house. No amount of persuasion or lectures could force him to settle in the dovecote that I built especially for him. He still preferred the edge of Margot's bed. However, later he was banished to the sofa in the living room, because every time Margo turned over in bed at night, Quasimodo woke up, walked on the blanket and sat on her face with a gentle coo.

Larry was the first to discover his musical abilities. Dove not only loved music, but seemed to be able to distinguish between two specific melodies - the waltz and the military march. If they played different music, he would move closer to the gramophone and sit there with his eyes half-closed, his chest thrust out and humming something under his breath. If it was a waltz, the dove began to glide around the gramophone, spinning, bowing and cooing in a tremulous voice. March, and especially jazz, on the contrary, forced him to stretch out to his full height, inflate his chest and march back and forth across the room. His cooing became so loud and hoarse that he seemed about to suffocate. Quasimodo never tried to do all this to any music other than marches and waltzes. True, sometimes, if he did not hear any music at all for a long time, he began (delighted that he finally heard it) to march to a waltz or vice versa. However, every time he invariably stopped and corrected his mistake.

One fine day, when we went to wake up Quasimodo, we suddenly discovered that he had fooled us all, because there, among the pillows, lay a white shiny egg. This event greatly influenced Quasimodo, he became angry, irritable and, if you extended your hand to him, he would peck it furiously. Then the second egg appeared, and Quasimodo’s character changed completely. He, or rather she, became more and more agitated, treated us as if we were her worst enemies. She tried to get to the kitchen door for food unnoticed, as if she feared for her life. Even the gramophone could not lure her back into the house. Last time I saw her on an olive tree, where she was cooing with the most feigned embarrassment, and a little further away on a branch was a large and very courageous-looking dove, cooing in complete self-forgetfulness.

At first, the Man with the Golden Bronzes came to our house quite often and each time brought some new item for my menagerie: a frog or a sparrow with a broken wing. One day, my mother and I, in a fit of excessive kindness, bought up his entire stock of golden bronzes and, when he left, released them in the garden. Bronzovki filled our entire house for a long time. They crawled on the beds, climbed into the bathroom, bumped into lamps in the evenings and rained emeralds onto our laps.

The last time I saw the Man with the Golden Bronzes was one evening when he was sitting on a hillock by the road. He was probably returning from a holiday somewhere, where he drank a lot of wine, and now he was swaying from side to side. He walked and played a sad melody on his pipe. I called out to him loudly, but he did not turn around, but only waved his hand at me in a friendly manner. At a bend in the road, his silhouette was clearly visible against the background of the pale lilac evening sky. I could clearly see the shabby hat with feathers, the bulging pockets of his jacket, the bamboo cages with sleepy doves and the slow circle dance of barely noticeable dots - these were golden bronzes circling above his head. But now he had already disappeared around the bend, and now in front of me there was only a pale sky, where the silver feather of the new moon floated. In the distance, in the thickening twilight, the gentle sounds of the pipe died away.

4. Full wallet of knowledge

As soon as we moved into the strawberry-pink house, my mother immediately decided that I couldn’t remain ignorant and, in general, I needed to get at least some kind of education. But what could you do on a small Greek island? Whenever this issue was raised, the whole family rushed to solve it with incredible enthusiasm. Everyone knew what occupation was most suitable for me, and everyone defended their point of view with such vehemence that all disputes about my future always ended in a furious roar.

“He has more than enough time,” Leslie said. - In the end, he can read books himself. Is not it? I can teach him how to shoot, and if we buy a boat, I can teach him how to sail it.

But, dear, will this be of any use to him in the future?

Mom asked and added absentmindedly: “Unless he goes to the merchant fleet or somewhere else.”

“I think he definitely needs to learn to dance,” said Margot, “otherwise he will grow up to be just an uncouth lout.”

Of course, dear, but this is not at all in a hurry. First he needs to master subjects such as mathematics, French... and his spelling is very poor.

Literature,” Larry said with conviction. - That's what he needs. Good, solid knowledge of literature. The rest will follow by itself. I always try to give him good books.

What nonsense! - Larry answered without hesitation. “It’s important that he already has the right idea about sex.” “You’re just crazy about sex,” Margot said in a stern voice. - No matter what they ask, you always interfere with your sex. - What he needs is more exercise in the fresh air. If he learns to shoot and set a sail... - Leslie began.

Uh! Come on, stop all this stuff... now you'll start preaching cold showers.

You imagine too much about yourself and know everything better than others. You can't even listen to someone else's point of view.

A limited point of view like yours? Do you really think that I will listen to her? - OK OK. Why swear? - Mom said. - Yes, Larry is so reckless.

Nice job! - Larry was indignant. “I’m much more reasonable than anyone in this house.”

Of course, dear, but cursing won't achieve anything. We need someone who can train Jerry and develop his inclinations.

“He seems to have only one tendency,” Larry added caustically, “namely, the desire to kill everything in the house with animals.” This tendency of his, I think, does not need to be developed. We are already in danger from everywhere. Just this morning I went to light a cigarette and a huge bumblebee jumped out of the box. “And I have a grasshopper,” Leslie grumbled. “Yes, this needs to end,” Margot said. - Not just anywhere, but on my dressing table I found a disgusting jar with some worms.

Poor boy, he had no bad intentions,” his mother said peacefully. - He's so into it all.

I could still endure a bumblebee attack, Larry reasoned, if it led to anything. Otherwise, now he’s just going through such a period... by the age of fourteen it will end.

“This period,” his mother objected, “began when he was two years old, and somehow it doesn’t seem to be ending.

Well then, said Larry. “If you want to fill him with all sorts of unnecessary information, I think George will undertake to teach him.”

That's wonderful! - Mom was happy. - Please go to him. The sooner he starts, the better.

With my arm around Roger's shaggy neck, I sat in the dark under the open window and listened with interest, but not without indignation, as my fate was decided. When the matter was finally settled, I began to wonder who George was and why I needed lessons so much, but the scent of flowers was diffused in the evening gloom, and the dark olive groves were so beautiful and mysterious that I forgot about the danger of education hanging over me and went with Roger into the blackberry thickets to catch fireflies.

George turned out to be an old friend of Larry; he came to Corfu to write. There was nothing so unusual about this, because in those days everyone Larry knew was a writer, poet or artist. Besides, it was thanks to George that we ended up in Corfu. He wrote such enthusiastic letters about this island that Larry simply could not imagine living anywhere else. And now this George had to pay for his indiscretion. He came to discuss my education with my mother, and we were introduced. We looked at each other suspiciously. George was a very tall and very thin man, he moved with the strange, unscrewed grace of a puppet. His thin, gaunt face was half hidden by a sharp dark beard and large tortoiseshell-framed glasses. He spoke in a low, melancholy voice, and there was a hint of sarcasm in his deadpan jokes. Every time he said something witty, he smiled slyly into his beard, not caring about the impression he made.

George took teaching me seriously. He was not even afraid of the fact that it was impossible to get textbooks on the island. He simply rummaged through his entire library and on the appointed day appeared armed with the most fantastic selection of books. Concentrated and patiently, he taught me the rudiments of geography from maps on the back of the cover of an old volume of the Encyclopedia, English from a wide variety of books, from Wilde to Gibbon, French from a thick, bright book called Petit Larousse, and arithmetic from memory. However, from my point of view, the most important thing was to spend some time on natural history, and George began to conscientiously teach me how to make observations and how to write in a diary. And then my enthusiastic but stupid fascination with nature entered a certain direction. I saw that writing down allowed me to learn and remember so much more. The only times I wasn't late for class were when we were studying science.

Every morning, at nine o'clock, the figure of George solemnly appeared among the olive trees, dressed in shorts, sandals and a huge straw hat with frayed brims. George had a stack of books tucked under his arm and a cane in his hand, which he was swinging quite vigorously.

Good morning. I hope that the student is looking forward to his teacher? - he greeted me, smiling gloomily.

A green twilight reigned in the small dining room with the shutters closed from the sun. Flies, deflated by the heat, slowly crawled along the walls or flew drowsily around the room with a sleepy buzz, and outside the window the cicadas enthusiastically greeted the new day with a piercing ringing. George stood at the table and neatly laid out his books on it.

We’ll see, we’ll see,” he muttered, running his long index finger over our carefully laid out schedule. - Yes, yes, arithmetic. If I remember correctly, we were working on a huge task, trying to determine how long it would take six workers to build a wall if three of them completed it in a week. It seems we spent as much time on this task as the workers on the wall. Okay, let's gird our loins and try again. Maybe you don't like the content of the task? Let's see if we can make it more interesting.

He bent over the problem book, thoughtfully pinching his beard, then, redoing the problem in a new way, he wrote it out in his large, clear handwriting.

Two caterpillars eat eight leaves in a week. How long will it take four caterpillars to eat the same amount of leaves? Well, try to decide now.

While I was struggling with the impossible problem of voracious caterpillars, George was busy with other things. He was a skilled swordsman and at that time was passionate about studying local village dances. And so, while I was solving the problem, George moved around the darkened room, practicing fencing or practicing dance steps. I was somehow embarrassed by all these exercises, and subsequently I always attributed my inability to mathematics to them. Even now, as soon as I face the simplest arithmetic problem, the lanky figure of George immediately appears in front of me. He dances around the dimly lit dining room and hums some vague melody under his breath in a low voice.

Tam-ti-tam-ti-tam... - comes as if from a disturbed hive. - Tiddle-tiddle-tamti-di... left foot forward... three steps to the right... tam-ti-tam-ti-tam-ti-dam... back, around, up and down... tiddle-idle-umpty-dee...

He walks and pirouettes like a yearning crane. Then the buzzing suddenly subsides, an inflexibility appears in his gaze, and George takes a defensive position, pointing an imaginary rapier at an imaginary opponent. With his eyes narrowed and his glasses flashing, he chases his enemy across the room, deftly avoiding the furniture, and finally, having driven him into a corner, he feints and weaves around with the agility of a wasp. Lunge. Hit. Hit. I can almost see the shine of steel. And here is the final moment - with a sharp movement from below and to the side, the enemy’s weapon is pulled to the side, a quick jerk back, then a deep straight lunge, and the tip of the rapier plunges straight into the enemy’s heart. Having forgotten about the problem book, I watch with delight all of George’s movements. We never made much progress in mathematics.

Things were much better with geography, because George was able to give this subject a zoological flavor. We drew huge maps with him, furrowed with mountains, and then applied symbols in certain places along with images of the most interesting animals that lived there. Thus, it turned out that the main products of Ceylon were elephants and tea, India - tigers and rice, Australia - kangaroos and sheep, and in the oceans the blue smooth lines of sea currents carried with them not only hurricanes, trade winds, good and bad weather, but also whales, albatrosses, penguins and walruses. Our maps were real works of art. The main volcanoes on them erupted whole streams of fiery jets and sparks, making you fear that paper continents might burst into flames, and the highest mountain ranges of the world shone with such blue and white from ice and snow that, looking at them, you involuntarily began to shiver from the cold. Our brown, sun-baked deserts were completely covered with mounds of pyramids and camel humps, and the tropical forests were so dense and so lush that clumsy jaguars, flexible snakes and frowning gorillas could only get through them with great difficulty. At the edges of the forest, thin natives cut down painted trees, clearing clearings, apparently only so that they could write “coffee” or “grain” in uneven block letters. Our wide, forget-me-not blue rivers were dotted with boats and crocodiles. Our oceans did not seem deserted, because everywhere, unless there were fierce storms raging there and a terrible tidal wave hanging over a lonely palm island, life was in full swing. The good-natured whales allowed even the most pitiful galleons, bristling with harpoons, to relentlessly pursue them; octopuses, innocent as babies, gently squeezed small vessels in their tentacles; Schools of toothy sharks chased Chinese junks, and fur-clad Eskimos followed huge herds of walruses across ice fields where polar bears and penguins roamed in droves. These were maps that lived their own lives; you could study them, think about them, and add something to them. In short, these cards actually meant something.

At first our history lessons went without noticeable success, until George realized that if he added a little zoology to the dull facts and attracted some completely extraneous details, he could completely capture my attention. Thus, I became aware of some historical data that, as far as I know, had not been recorded anywhere before. From lesson to lesson I watched with bated breath as Hannibal crossed the Alps. I was little concerned about the reasons that pushed him to such a feat, and I was not at all interested in what he was thinking of doing on the other side. But in this expedition, very poorly organized, in my opinion, I was attracted by the opportunity to find out the names of every single elephant. I also learned that Hannibal specifically appointed a person not only to feed and protect the elephants, but also to give them bottles of hot water in cold weather. This interesting fact apparently remains unknown to most serious historians. Another detail that history books don't mention is Columbus. When he set foot on American soil, his first words were: “Oh my God, look... a jaguar!” After such an introduction, how could you not become interested in the history of this continent? In this way, George, having a careless student and completely unsuitable books on his hands, tried to revive his teaching and make the lessons interesting.

Roger, of course, thought that I was just wasting time in the mornings. However, he did not leave me and, while I was managing my studies, he calmly dozed under the table. From time to time, when I was away reading a book, Roger would wake up, shake his fur, yawn loudly, and start wagging his tail. But then he noticed that I was returning to the table again. His ears then immediately drooped, he trudged back to his corner and plopped down on the floor with a humble sigh. George did not object to Roger's presence in the lessons, since he behaved quite decently and did not distract my attention. Only occasionally, when he happened to fall into a very deep sleep and suddenly heard the barking of a village dog, Roger, instantly waking up, began to growl angrily. But then, realizing where he was, he looked with embarrassment at our condemning faces, twitched his tail and shyly looked away to the side.

For some time, Quasimodo was also present at the lessons and behaved wonderfully. All morning he sat on my lap, dozing, cooing quietly to himself. But I soon had to expel him myself, because one day he knocked over a bottle of green ink right in the middle of a large, very beautiful map that I had just drawn. Of course, this barbarity was not premeditated, but still I was very angry.

For a whole week Quasimodo tried to win my favor. He sat by the door and cooed charmingly through the crack, but every time my heart began to soften, I looked at his disgusting bright green tail and became hardened again.

Achilles also attended the lesson once, but he did not like being locked up. He endlessly wandered around the room, poking at the door and baseboards, then, huddled somewhere under a sofa or closet, he began to scratch himself with such force that we had to rescue him from there. And since the room was so small, in order to move one thing, we essentially had to move all the furniture. After the third move, George stated that he had never worked for Carter Paterson (American Freight Agency) and was not used to such efforts, so it was better to let Achilles out into the garden.

So there was only Roger left. Of course, it's comforting to be able to rest my feet on his shaggy back while you're working on a task, but it was still hard for me to concentrate when the sunlight poured into the room through the cracks in the shutters and stretched out in stripes on the table and on the floor, reminding me of the many all sorts of things that I could do now.

There, outside the window, awaited me were spacious olive groves filled with the ringing of cicadas, vineyards on the slopes, separated by mossy stone walls along which painted lizards scurried, dense thickets of myrtle trees dotted with insects, and a rocky wasteland where flocks of elegant goldfinches fluttered with joyful whistles. one thistle flower to another.

With all this in mind, George wisely instituted special outdoor lessons. Now, on certain days, he began to appear with a large terry towel, and together we went out through the olive groves onto the road covered with dust, like white velvet, then turned to the side and walked along the ridge of miniature rocks along a narrow goat path until it led us to a secluded bay with a white sandy beach in the shape of a crescent. Near the shore, providing a pleasant shade, there was a grove of squat olive trees. From the top of a small rock, the water in this cove seemed so calm and transparent, as if it were not there at all, and the fish, scurrying over the pockmarked, wavy sand, seemed to be floating in the air. Through the six-foot layer of clear water, sea anemones with bright, delicate tentacles raised upward and hermit crabs dragging their twisted houses behind them were visible on the rocks.

Having thrown off our clothes under the olive trees, we entered the warm, light water and swam, face down, over rocks and algae, diving sometimes to get from the bottom some particularly bright shell or a particularly large hermit crab with an anemone on its cap-like shell, decorated with a pink flower. Here and there on the sandy bottom elongated dark curtains of kelp algae could be seen, and sea cucumbers, or sea cucumbers, lived among them. Having lowered our feet into the water, we tried to see the bottom under the dense plexus of narrow shiny leaves of green and black algae, over which we soared like hawks over a forest. In the gaps between the algae lay sea cucumbers, probably the most disgusting in appearance among all the inhabitants of the sea. About six inches long, they looked just like bloated sausages, covered with thick, warty brown skin. These primitive, incomprehensible creatures lay motionless in one place, only swaying slightly in the oncoming waves, drawing in sea water from one end of their body and releasing it from the other. The tiny plant and animal organisms that lived in the water were filtered somewhere inside the sausage and entered its simple stomach. You can’t say that sea cucumbers lead such an interesting life. They simply sway monotonously and endlessly draw water into themselves. It is difficult to imagine that they would be able to somehow protect themselves or even need such protection. And yet they have an unusual way of expressing their displeasure. Pull them out of the sea, and without visible muscular effort they will shoot a stream of water into the air from some end of their body.

It was with this water pistol that we came up with a game. Taking each sea cucumber in our hands, we forced our weapon to release a stream, noticed the point where the stream touched the surface of the water, and quickly swam there. The winner was the one who found the most different things in this place. sea creatures. At times, as in any game, we began to get excited, accuse each other of cheating, and argue. That's when sea cucumbers turned out to be especially suitable weapons that could be directed at the enemy. Having used the services of sausages, we then always returned them to their original place in the underwater thickets. And when they came there again another time, everything was unchanged. The sea cucumbers lay in exactly the same position as we had left them, and swayed peacefully from side to side.

Having exhausted all the possibilities of sea cucumbers, we began to collect shells for my collection or embarked on long discussions about the animals we found. Sometimes George suddenly realized that all these activities, no matter how exciting they were, still could not be called education in the strict sense of the word. Then we moved closer to the shore and settled in a shallow place. While the lesson continued, schools of small fish gathered around us and lightly nibbled our legs.

So, the French and English flotillas converged for a decisive battle. When the enemy appeared, Nelson stood on the bridge and looked through the telescope... He had already been warned about the approach of the French by a friendly seagull... What?.. Oh, I think it was a large seagull... So, the ships turned around in front of each other... of course , in those days they could not move at high speed, they were sailing after all... not a single motor, not even an outboard. The English sailors were a little nervous because the French seemed very strong. But when they noticed that Nelson was not even paying attention to them, but was sitting calmly on the bridge and fiddling with his collection of bird eggs, they decided that they simply had nothing to fear...

The sea, like a warm silky blanket, enveloped my body and gently rocked it. There were no waves, only a faint underwater movement, the pulse of the sea, lulling me to sleep. Bright fish scurried around my feet. They stood on my head and tried to grab my skin with their toothless jaws. Among the drooping olive trees, a cicada quietly whispered something.

- ... and they hastened to carry Nelson off the deck so that none of the crew would notice anything... He was mortally wounded and now lay here below, and the battle was still raging above him. “Kiss me, Hardy,” Nelson said his last words and died. What? Oh yes. He had already warned Hardy that he could take his collection of bird eggs if anything happened... So, although England lost its best sailor, the battle was won, and this had important consequences for Europe...

A shabby boat floated past the bay; a tanned fisherman in torn pants stood at its stern and waved an oar. Raising his hand, the fisherman lazily sent us a greeting, and his oar, like a fish tail, cut through the calm blue sea, creaked pitifully in the air and sank into the water with a slight smacking sound.

5. Spider Treasure

One day, on a sweltering hot day, when everything except the thundering cicadas was asleep, Roger and I went wandering through the mountains, expecting to return home in the evening. At first our path went through olive groves, speckled with glare of bright sunlight, where the air was hot and still, then the trees remained below, and we, climbing the slope, finally reached a bare rocky peak and sat down there to rest. Below, at our feet, the island peacefully dozed, shimmering in the sultry haze, like watercolor: gray-green olive foliage, dark cypress trees, multi-colored rocks near the shore and a calm sea, opal, blue, jade, with two or three folds on a smooth surface - in those places where it skirted rocky headlands overgrown with olive trees. Directly below us shone a small bay with a white sandy beach in the shape of a crescent, a bay so shallow and with such dazzling sand at the bottom that the water in it was pale blue, almost white. After climbing the mountain, I was pouring sweat in three streams, and Roger sat with his tongue hanging out, with wisps of foam on his muzzle. We decided that it was not worth climbing the mountains now; it was better to go for a swim instead. Quickly descending the slope to a quiet, deserted bay, sparkling under the burning rays of the sun, we, exhausted, plunged into the warm, shallow water. I sat and dug into the sandy bottom, sometimes pulling out a smooth pebble or a shard of bottle glass, rolled and polished by the sea to such an extent that it turned into an amazing, translucent green gem. I passed on all these findings to Roger, who was monitoring my actions. He didn’t know what to do with them, however, not wanting to offend me, he took them carefully between his teeth, and then, deciding that I was no longer looking at him, he again dropped them into the water and sighed heavily.

While I was drying off on a rock, Roger was running around in the shallows, trying to catch one of the blue-finned blennies with their pouty, meaningless faces. These fish darted among the stones with the speed of swallows. Out of breath, Roger pursued them with a concentrated look, without taking his eyes off the clear water. After drying off a little, I put on my pants and shirt and called out to Roger. He walked towards me reluctantly, endlessly turning back, following with his gaze the fishes still scurrying around the sun-pierced sandy bottom of the bay. Approaching closer, Roger shook himself violently and doused me from head to toe with spray flying from his curly fur.

After bathing, my skin became covered with a silky crust of salt, and I became sleepy and lethargic. Roger and I walked at a lazy pace from the bay to the road, and then, suddenly feeling very hungry, I began to figure out how best to get to the nearest house where I could get food.

End of free trial.

Gerald Durrell

MY FAMILY AND OTHER ANIMALS

A word in my own defense

So, sometimes I managed to believe in the incredible six times before breakfast.

White Queen.

Lewis Carroll, "Alice Through the Looking Glass"

Of course, this book could not have been published without the support and help of some people. I am talking about this in order to share responsibility for it equally among everyone.

So, I express my gratitude to:

Dr. Theodore Stephanides. With characteristic generosity, he allowed me to use materials from his unpublished work on the island of Corfu and provided me with many bad puns, of which I used some.

To my wife - for the fact that while reading the manuscript she gave me pleasure with her loud laughter. As she later explained, my spelling made her laugh.

Sophie, my secretary, who undertook to place commas and mercilessly eradicate all illegal agreements.

It’s good that you came, honey,” she said, barely catching her breath. - This pelican was a bit difficult to handle.

I asked how she knew these were my animals.

Well, of course, yours, dear. Who else could send them to me?

As you can see, the mother understands at least one of her children very well.

Mom glanced over the huge volume entitled “Simple Recipes from Rajputana” and was indignant.

Nothing like this! - she said.

“Don’t argue,” Larry persisted. - You began to look like a real laundress... and your children resemble a series of illustrations from a medical encyclopedia.

To these words, my mother could not find a completely destructive answer and therefore limited herself to just one gaze before again hiding behind the book she was reading.

The sun... We need the sun! - Larry continued. - Do you agree, Less?.. Less... Less!

Leslie pulled a large piece of cotton wool out of one ear.

What you said? - he asked.

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