Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 10

Getting into the university’s history department felt like a breath of fresh air for Dmitry. Finally, he was among people who found the same things fascinating! Professor Boris Nikolaevich Krylov – gray-haired, stern, with piercing eyes – taught the course on medieval history. His lectures weren’t just recitations of facts; they were true one-man theater. He could tell the story of the Crusades or the fall of Constantinople in a way that sent shivers down students’ spines.

“History,” Professor Krylov would say, “is not a collection of dates and names. It is living people who loved, suffered, made mistakes, performed great deeds. And if you don’t feel this, if you can’t imagine yourself in their place – you’re not historians, just rote learners.”

How right he was! Dmitry thought. I really could imagine myself in the place of a medieval knight or a Byzantine emperor. I felt their joys and pains, their fears and hopes. And now? Now I don’t even feel my own emotions.

In his second year he met Katya Shipilova – a delicate girl with huge dark eyes who was studying art history. They met in the library, where both of them stayed late preparing for seminars.

Katya, Dmitry thought with pain. The only girl I ever truly loved. And the one I lost through my own foolishness.

They dated for two years – sophomore and junior year. Dmitry was happier than he’d ever been. He felt he had found a kindred spirit, someone who understood him without words.

Anton Veselsky, Dmitry remembered his rival’s name. Son of wealthy parents, future businessman. Confident, successful, with prospects. And what was I? A failed historian dreaming about the dead past.

He walked over to their table. Katya went pale, and Anton stood and extended his hand:

“You must be Dima? Katya told me about you.”

“Told you?” Dmitry repeated, feeling everything burning inside. “And what did she tell you?”

“That you two were friends,” Anton replied calmly. “And that you’re really into history.”

Friends, Dmitry repeated to himself. Two years of a relationship turned into “friendship.” Two years of love erased from memory like an unwanted recording.

“Katya, I need to talk to you,” he said quietly.

“Dima, don’t,” she avoided his gaze. “We’ve already talked about everything. You understand…”

“No, I don’t understand,” he replied. “Explain it to me, please.”

They went outside, and there, under the cold St. Petersburg sky, Katya said the words he would remember for the rest of his life:

“Dima, you’re a good person, but you live in the past. Dead knights are more interesting to you than living people. You dream about heroic deeds and don’t see what’s happening right next to you. And I don’t want to live in a museum.”

In a museum, he repeated now, lying on the couch. She said I live in a museum. And she was right. Even then, in my fourth year, I was a living exhibit. And now I’m just a sphinx.