CHAPTER 22. THE TRAIN OF MEMORIES.

January 22, 1915.

The man who was presently on the metal roof of a train rushing swiftly forward, beside, and truly, with a significant number of people, with an elusive anxiety suddenly clutched at the shoulders of the grey-haired man sitting in front of him—a single moment later he involuntarily felt the aforementioned man flinch, however, it must be admitted, that flinching by no means caused the awakening of an extraordinarily anxious shiver: it was fleeting, like a breath, like a stranger's gaze, like a fifteen-year-old boy’s love—it was fleeting because it was not unfamiliar. This was the man. He was perfectly aware that if his being did not have a reliable support, his life would be in relative danger, or, if you will, in relative safety. But did he, in those moments, think about the safety of that very being which now served as his reliable support to one degree or another? The life of his support meant nothing to him—his own life meant everything to him. In the event that his support was in significant danger, he would release it without a moment's hesitation to save his own life. Such was the man. Why did he grab the grey-haired man? This was known to no one but his own being. What was driving the train to rush forward? This was well known to everyone, with the exception of... his being! Where was he rushing? This was unknown to him. From where had he started the journey? This fact was also unknown to him. He was rushing nonstop—and it was in this movement that his entire life consisted: a line that had no point A, just as it had no point B—it was a closed ouroboros. Such was the man. He always liked to comprehend everything in a visual, contemplative way—he always acted this way when he was unable to act otherwise. This is what he was doing now—comprehending everything, that is, nature, in a visual, contemplative way. In these moments, extraordinarily lovely mountain ranges, the exceptionally charming Colima volcano, and numerous parabolic hills floated before his eyes. But what were all these mountain ranges, the Colima volcano, and parabolic hills to him without the inhabitants of nature? Nothing. With an indescribable curiosity, studying the uncommonly exquisite landscapes of nature, he, at the very same time, with no less curiosity, also studied untamed, semi-wild animals—presently, while relatively comprehending the true essence of those untamed, semi-wild animals, he involuntarily recalled that very animal which he had once managed to tame: he involuntarily recalled his faithful, but now deceased, dog—Elpir. Elpir! The memories of him shone extraordinarily brightly in the memory of this man—they shone despite the chaotically booming conversations of all those who were nearby. His memories were too strong. His thoughts were too free. His mind was too firm. He knew how to be alone while in a noisy crowd—with no less success he also knew how to create a noisy, but by no means reckless, crowd within himself when he was in solitude. Such was the man. Such was how he also raised his faithful, tamed dog. Elpir! What a dog he was! During the hunt, he always, invariably always, with an indescribable selflessness, delivered the bodies of extraordinarily hefty brown-winged chachalacas to his master—after the hunt, however... he always, invariably always, it must be admitted, not without the will of his master, received only a few tiny bones. One way or another, it must be noted that such rewards in no way affected the quality and quantity of the duties performed by the said dog—duties that were conjoined not only with hunting for his master, but also guarding him. He loved hunting, and consequently loved to increase his master's well-being—he loved hunting because he knew how to hunt. Hunting—that was his calling, that was his life. His master loved hunting to no lesser extent—he loved hunting because during it he gained surprisingly hefty results. No, if so, then he, of course, did not love the hunt, but its consequences—Elpir, however, loved the process: that very process, after which the said dog was as satisfied as his master—the master was physically sated, and he was sated not only spiritually, but also, what is important, intellectually. Nevertheless, despite the fact that his master received most of the prey, or rather, practically all of it, he did not feel a sense of injustice in the least—he only felt a certain incompleteness in his satisfaction: in his mind, the thought always existed that he and his master should always share the obtained prey equally—these were only his thoughts. Thoughts to which his master would have been indifferent even if he could have distinguished them, and consequently heeded them. Such was his way of thinking—the way of thinking of Elpir. Was he capable of comprehending that his master needed to feed with this prey not only his whole family, but also his good friends, as well as, what is important, his insatiable companions? Of course not. Upon receiving bones, he should have felt joy, but he was slightly indignant, and a slight indignation, as is known, is the cornerstone of a colossal indignation. However, despite all the significant and insignificant injustices, as the said dog called all that was contrary not only to his nature, but also to his intentions, he sincerely loved his master—he was sincerely grateful to him not only for the food and shelter provided, but also for all the knowledge and all the feelings that he had at one time or another bestowed upon him.

At the very hour when the train had crossed the plain, the said man fully realized that it was as good as it was bad—certain dangers had passed, certain dangers were still ahead. Such was the man. He was not able to feel a sparkling joy because of the obstacles he had just overcome, however, he always knew, he knew perfectly well, how to feel substantial apprehensions regarding his immediate as well as his distant future. In his life, there was never a yesterday, of course, with the exception of extraordinarily vivid memories, but in his mind and in his heart there was always a tomorrow—how he was mistaken about this! It was precisely because he had no yesterday that he also had no tomorrow. That was the kind of person he was. He was capable of feeling, but he was not sensitive—thus, gazing at the seemingly endless hills, he felt the most sincere feeling of deep satisfaction: satisfaction because before his eyes were still virgin, still unsullied by the hand of man, natural deposits—grass, flowers, trees, water, sand, and stones. At this hour, everything before his eyes was such as it, it seemed, was in the first moments of its creation. Was it really so? It is quite possible. Was it so in the mind of the said man? Undoubtedly. He did not see civilization where it was—he saw nature where it was not. This is what this man thought in those moments—a man who was rushing swiftly forward on the metal roof of a bulky train in the company of a seemingly countless number of people, or rather in the company of uniform faces, entirely similar to one another.