Spring, bright day was tending towards evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float past, but went into the very depths of the azure.
In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O ... (it happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one of about fifty, the other already an old woman, seventy years old.
The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time, a lively and resolute man, bilious and stubborn, died about ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born in the poor class, he early understood the need to pave the way for himself and fill the money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, intelligent, and, when he wanted, very amiable. Marya Dmitrievna (in the maiden name of Pestov) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty versts from O ..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovsky, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoye, but did not live long in it; in the second year after her marriage to Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time, Kalitin bought a house in the city of O ..., where he settled with his wife for permanent residence. The house had a large garden; on one side it went straight into the field, out of the city. “So,” Kalitin, a great reluctant to rural silence, decided, “there is no need to go to the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once in her heart regretted her pretty Pokrovsky with a cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his mind and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna was already so accustomed to her home and city life that she herself did not want to leave O ...
Marya Dmitrievna in her youth had a reputation as a pretty blonde; and at fifty her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although they were a little swollen and flattened. She was more sensitive than kind, and until her mature years she retained her institute manners; she spoiled herself, was easily irritated, and even wept when her habits were broken; on the other hand, she was very affectionate and amiable when all her desires were fulfilled and no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the nicest in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much inherited as acquired by her husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best state institutions in St. Petersburg.
The old woman who sat with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovsky. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was reputed to be an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone in the face, and with the most meager means behaved as if she were followed by thousands. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a chicken hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in her old age, small, sharp-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, held herself upright, and spoke quickly and distinctly, in a thin and resonant voice. 0, she constantly wore a white cap and a white jacket.
– What are you talking about? she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. “What are you sighing about, my mother?
“Yes,” she said. What wonderful clouds!
So you feel sorry for them, don't you? Marya Dmitrievna made no answer.
- Why is Gedeonovsky missing? said Marfa Timofeevna, deftly moving her needles (she was knitting a large woolen scarf). - He would have sighed with you - otherwise he would have lied something.
“How sternly you always speak of him!” Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.
- Venerable! repeated the old woman reproachfully.
- And how he was devoted to the late husband! said Marya Dmitrievna, “until now she cannot think of him indifferently.
- Still would! he pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” grumbled Marfa Timofeevna, and the knitting needles went even faster in her hands.
“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and if he opens his mouth, he will lie or gossip. And also a state adviser! Well, and then to show: popovich!
- Who is without sin, auntie? It has this weakness, of course. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive an upbringing, he does not speak French; but he, your will, is a pleasant man.
Yes, he licks your hands. He speaks French, but what a disaster! I myself am not strong in the French "dialecht". It would be better if he didn’t speak in any way: he wouldn’t lie. Why, by the way, he is easy to remember, ”added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing into the street. “Here he is walking, your pleasant man. What a long, like a stork!
Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofyevna looked at her with a smile.
- What is it with you, no gray hair, my mother? You scold your Palashka. What is she looking at?
“Aunty, you always…” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair.
- Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! squeaked a red-cheeked Cossack, jumping out from behind the door.
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
Noble Nest
I
Spring, bright day was tending towards evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float past, but went into the very depths of the azure.
In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O ... (it happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one of about fifty, the other already an old woman, seventy years old.
The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time, a lively and resolute man, bilious and stubborn, died about ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born in the poor class, he early understood the need to pave the way for himself and fill the money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, intelligent, and, when he wanted, very amiable. Marya Dmitrievna (in the maiden name of Pestov) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty versts from O ..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovsky, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoye, but did not live long in it; in the second year after her marriage to Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time, Kalitin bought a house in the city of O ..., where he settled with his wife for permanent residence. The house had a large garden; on one side it went straight into the field, out of the city. “So,” Kalitin, a great reluctant to rural silence, decided, “there is no need to go to the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once in her heart regretted her pretty Pokrovsky with a cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his mind and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna was already so accustomed to her home and city life that she herself did not want to leave O ...
Marya Dmitrievna in her youth had a reputation as a pretty blonde; and at fifty her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although they were a little swollen and flattened. She was more sensitive than kind, and until her mature years she retained her institute manners; she spoiled herself, was easily irritated, and even wept when her habits were broken; on the other hand, she was very affectionate and amiable when all her desires were fulfilled and no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the nicest in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much inherited as acquired by her husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best state institutions in St. Petersburg.
The old woman who sat with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovsky. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was reputed to be an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone in the face, and with the most meager means behaved as if she were followed by thousands. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a chicken hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in her old age, small, sharp-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, held herself upright, and spoke quickly and distinctly, in a thin and resonant voice. 0, she constantly wore a white cap and a white jacket.
– What are you talking about? she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. “What are you sighing about, my mother?
“Yes,” she said. What wonderful clouds!
So you feel sorry for them, don't you? Marya Dmitrievna made no answer.
- Why is Gedeonovsky missing? said Marfa Timofeevna, deftly moving her needles (she was knitting a large woolen scarf). - He would have sighed with you - otherwise he would have lied something.
“How sternly you always speak of him!” Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.
- Venerable! repeated the old woman reproachfully.
- And how he was devoted to the late husband! said Marya Dmitrievna, “until now she cannot think of him indifferently.
- Still would! he pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” grumbled Marfa Timofeevna, and the knitting needles went even faster in her hands.
“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and if he opens his mouth, he will lie or gossip. And also a state adviser! Well, and then to show: popovich!
- Who is without sin, auntie? It has this weakness, of course. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive an upbringing, he does not speak French; but he, your will, is a pleasant man.
Yes, he licks your hands. He speaks French, but what a disaster! I myself am not strong in the French "dialecht". It would be better if he didn’t speak in any way: he wouldn’t lie. Why, by the way, he is easy to remember, ”added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing into the street. “Here he is walking, your pleasant man. What a long, like a stork!
Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofyevna looked at her with a smile.
- What is it with you, no gray hair, my mother? You scold your Palashka. What is she looking at?
“Aunty, you always…” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair.
- Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! squeaked a red-cheeked Cossack, jumping out from behind the door.
II
A tall man entered, wearing a neat frock coat, short trousers, gray suede gloves and two ties, one black on top, the other white on the bottom. Everything in him breathed propriety and decency, from his handsome face and smoothly combed temples to boots without heels and without squeaks. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofyevna, and, slowly pulling off his gloves, went up to Marya Dmitrievna's hand. After kissing her respectfully and twice in a row, he sat down unhurriedly in an armchair and with a smile, rubbing the very tips of his fingers, said:
- Are Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?
“Yes,” answered Marya Dmitrievna, “she is in the garden.”
- And Elena Mikhailovna?
- Lenochka is in the garden too. - Is there anything new?
“How not to be, sir, how not to be,” objected the guest, blinking slowly and stretching his lips. “Hm! .. yes, please, there is news, and surprising: Fyodor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived.
- Fedya! exclaimed Marfa Timofeyevna. - Yes, you, completely, don’t you compose, my father?
No, no, I saw them myself.
Well, that's not proof yet.
“They have become very healthy,” continued Gedeonovsky, showing an air of not hearing Marfa Timofeevna’s remarks, “they have become even wider in the shoulders, and a blush all over her cheek.”
“He has recovered,” Marya Dmitrievna said with an emphasis, “it seems, why would he get well?”
- Yes, sir, - Godeonovsky objected, - another in his place would be ashamed to appear in the world.
- Why is that? interrupted Marfa Timofeevna, “what kind of nonsense is this? The man returned to his homeland - where do you order him to go? And thankfully it was his fault!
- The husband is always to blame, madam, I dare to report to you when the wife behaves badly.
- It's you, father, that's why you say that you yourself were not married. Gedeonovsky forced a smile.
“Allow me to inquire,” he asked after a short silence, “to whom is this nice little scarf assigned?” Marfa Timofyevna glanced quickly at him.
“And he is appointed,” she objected, “who never gossips, does not cheat and does not compose, if only there is such a person in the world. I know Fedya well; he is only to blame for spoiling his wife. Well, yes, and he married for love, and nothing worthwhile ever comes out of these love weddings, ”added the old woman, looking indirectly at Marya Dmitrievna and getting up. - And now, my father, sharpen your teeth on anyone, even on me; I'll leave, I won't interfere. And Marfa Timofeevna left.
“Here she is always like that,” said Marya Dmitrievna, following her aunt with her eyes, “always!”
- Their summers! What to do with! Gedeonovsviy remarked. - So they deign to say: who is not cunning. Who doesn't cheat? Age is like that. One of my friends, a respected and, I will tell you, a man of no small rank, used to say that there is no one, they say, a chicken, and she approaches the grain with cunning - everything strives, as if to approach from the side. And when I look at you, my mistress, your disposition is truly angelic; please give me your snow-white hand.
Marya Dmitrievna smiled weakly and held out her plump hand to Gedeonovsky, with the fifth finger severed. He kissed her lips, and she pushed her chair towards him and, bending slightly, asked in an undertone:
"So you saw him?" In fact, he is nothing, healthy, cheerful?
“More fun, nothing, sir,” objected Gedeonovsky in a whisper.
“Have you heard where his wife is now?”
- Recently I was in Paris, sir; now, it is heard, she has moved to the Italian state.
- This is terrible, really, - Fedino's position; I don't know how he takes it. Certainly misfortunes happen to everyone; but after all, it can be said that it was published throughout Europe. Gideon sighed.
- Yes, yes, yes. After all, they say, she was acquainted with artists and pianists, and, as they say, with lions and animals. Shame is gone completely...
“Very, very sorry,” said Marya Dmitrievna. - In a related way: after all, he is my great-nephew, Sergei Petrovich, you know.
- How, sir, how, sir. How can I not know, with everything that belongs to your family? Have mercy, sir.
- He will come to us, what do you think?
- It must be assumed, sir; but by the way, they are heard to be going to their village. Marya Dmitrievna raised her eyes to heaven.
“Ah, Sergei Petrovich, Sergei Petrovich, how I think about how we women should behave carefully!”
- A woman is a woman, Marya Dmitrievna. There are, unfortunately, such - the nature of the fickle ... well, and summer; again, the rules are not inspired from the beginning. (Sergei Petrovich took a checkered blue handkerchief out of his pocket and began to unfold it.) Such women, of course, do exist. (Sergei Petrovich raised the corner of the handkerchief one by one to his eyes.) But generally speaking, if you think about it, that is ... The dust in the city is unusual, he concluded.
“Maman, maman,” cried a pretty girl of about eleven years old, running into the room, “Vladimir Nikolaevich is coming to us on horseback!”
Marya Dmitrievna got up; Sergei Petrovich also stood up and bowed. “To Elena Mikhailovna, our lowest,” he said, and, moving into a corner for decency, he began to blow his long and regular nose.
What a wonderful horse he has! the girl continued. - He was at the gate just now and told Liza and me that he would drive up to the porch.
There was a clatter of hooves, and a slender rider on a beautiful bay horse appeared in the street and stopped in front of the open window.
III
Hello, Marya Dmitrievna! exclaimed the rider in a sonorous and pleasant voice. How do you like my new purchase? Marya Dmitrievna went up to the window.
Hello, Waldemar! Ah, what a fine horse! Who did you buy it from?
- At the repairman ... I took it dearly, robber.
- What is her name?
- Orland ... Yes, this name is stupid; I want to change... Eh bien, eh bien, mon garcon... How restless! The horse snorted, stepped over its feet and waved its foamy muzzle.
- Lenochka, stroke her, don't be afraid...
The girl stretched out her hand from the window, but Orland suddenly reared up and rushed to the side. The rider did not get lost, took the horse by the leg, pulled him with a whip along the neck and, despite his resistance, put him again in front of the window.
“Prenez garde, prenez garde,” Marya Dmitrievna repeated.
- Lenochka, caress him, - the rider objected, - I will not let him go free.
The girl again stretched out her hand and timidly touched the quivering nostrils of Orland, who was constantly trembling and biting at the bit.
– Bravo! exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, “now get down and come to us.”
The rider dashingly turned his horse, gave him spurs, and, galloping along the street at a short gallop, rode into the yard. A minute later he ran, brandishing his whip, from the front door into the drawing-room; at the same time, on the threshold of another door, a slender, tall, black-haired girl of about nineteen appeared - Marya Dmitrievna's eldest daughter, Liza.
IV
The young man with whom we have just introduced the readers was nicknamed Vladimir Nikolayich Panshin. He served in St. Petersburg as an official for special assignments in the Ministry of the Interior. He came to the city of O ... to fulfill a temporary government assignment and was at the disposal of the governor, General Sonnenberg, who was a distant relative. Panshin's father, a retired staff captain, a well-known player, a man with sweet eyes, a rumpled face and nervous twitching in his lips, rubbed his whole life between the nobility, visited English clubs in both capitals and was known as a clever, not very reliable, but sweet and sincere fellow . Despite all his dexterity, he was almost constantly at the very edge of poverty and left his only son a small and upset fortune. But he, in his own way, took care of his upbringing: Vladimir Nikolaevich spoke excellent French, good English, bad German. And so it follows: decent people are ashamed to speak good German; but to use a German word in some, for the most part funny, cases - you can, c "est meme tres chic, as Petersburg Parisians express it. From the age of fifteen, Vladimir Nikolaich already knew how to enter any living room without embarrassment, it's nice to turn around in it and, by the way, retire Panshin's father brought many connections to his son: shuffling cards between two robbers or after a successful "grand slam", he did not miss the opportunity to launch a word about his "Volodka" to some important person, a hunter for commercial games. For his part, Vladimir Nikolaich during his stay at the university, from which he came out with the rank of a real student, he met some noble young people and became a member of the best houses. necessary - respectful, where possible - impudent, excellent comrade, un charmant garcon... The cherished region opened up before him. Panshin soon understood the secret of secular science; he knew how to imbue real respect for its charters, knew how to engage in nonsense with half-mocking importance and show that he respects everything important is nonsense; danced well, dressed in English. In a short time he was known as one of the most amiable and dexterous young people in Petersburg. Panshin was really very dexterous, no worse than his father; but he was also very gifted. Everything was given to him: he sang sweetly, briskly painted, wrote poetry, played very well on stage. He was only in his twenty-eighth year, and he was already a chamber junker and had a very good rank. Panshin firmly believed in himself, in his mind, in his insight; he walked forward boldly and (gaily, at full speed; his life flowed like clockwork. He was used to being liked by everyone, old and young, I imagined that he knew people, especially women: he knew well their everyday weaknesses. As a person not alien to art, he felt heat in himself, and a certain enthusiasm, and enthusiasm, and as a result of this he allowed himself various deviations from the rules: he went on a rampage, got acquainted with persons who did not belong to the world, and in general behaved freely and simply; but in his soul he was cold and cunning ", and during the most violent revelry, his intelligent brown eye watched and looked out for everything; this brave, this free young man could never forget himself and be completely carried away. To his credit, it must be said that he never boasted of his victories. He ended up in Marya Dmitrievna's house immediately upon his arrival in O ... and soon he became completely at home in it. Marya Dmitrievna did not like the soul in him.
Panshin graciously bowed to everyone in the room, shook hands with Marya Dmitrievna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna, lightly patted Gedeonovsky on the shoulder, and turning on his heel, caught Lenochka by the head and kissed her on the forehead.
“And you are not afraid to ride such an evil horse?” Marya Dmitrievna asked him.
- Pardon me, she is submissive; and here, I'll tell you what I'm afraid of: I'm afraid to play preference with Sergei Petrovich; yesterday at the Belenitsyns he beat me to the nines.
Gedeonovsky laughed a thin and obsequious laugh: he fawned over a young brilliant official from St. Petersburg, the governor's favorite. In his conversations with Marya Dmitrievna, he often mentioned Panshin's remarkable abilities. After all, he reasoned, how not to praise? And in the highest sphere of life, a young man succeeds, and serves approximately, and not the slightest pride. However, Panshin and in St. Petersburg was considered a efficient official: the work was in full swing in his hands; he spoke of it jokingly, as it should be for a secular person who does not attach much importance to his work, but there was a "performer." Bosses love such subordinates; he himself had no doubt that, if he wanted to, he would eventually be a minister.
“You are so kind as to say that I beat you,” Gedeonovsky said, “and last week who won twelve rubles from me?” yes still...
“Villain, villain,” Panshin interrupted him with gentle, but slightly contemptuous carelessness, and, no longer paying attention to him, went up to Liza.
“I couldn't find the Oberon Overture here,” he began. - Belenitsyna only boasted that she had all the classical music - in fact, she has nothing but polkas and waltzes; but I have already written to Moscow, and in a week you will have this overture. By the way,” he continued, “I wrote a new romance yesterday; the words are mine too. Do you want me to sing to you? I don't know what came of it; Belenitsyna found him pretty, but her words mean nothing - I want to know your opinion. However, I think it's better after.
Why after? Marya Dmitrievna intervened, “why not now?
“Listen, sir,” said Panshin with a kind of bright and sweet smile that suddenly appeared and disappeared on him, “he pushed a chair forward with his knee, sat down at the pianoforte and, having struck a few chords, sang, clearly separating the words, the following romance:
The moon floats high above the earth Between pale clouds; But from above it moves the sea wave Magic ray.
The sea of my soul recognized you as Its moon, And it moves - both in joy and in sorrow - by You alone.
The soul is full of longing for love, longing for mute aspirations; It's hard for me... But you are a stranger to turmoil, Like that moon.
The second verse was sung by Panshin with special expression and power; in a stormy accompaniment, the overflowing waves were heard. After the words: “It’s hard for me ...” - he sighed slightly, lowered his eyes and lowered his voice - morendo. When he had finished, Lisa praised the motive, Marya Dmitrievna said: “Lovely,” and Gedeonovsky even shouted: “Delightful! both poetry and harmony are equally delightful!..” Lenochka looked at the singer with childish reverence. In a word, everyone present very much liked the work of the young dilettante; but behind the drawing-room door in the hall stood an old man who had just arrived, already an old man, to whom, judging by the expression of his downcast face and the movements of his shoulders, Panshin's romance, although lovely, did not give pleasure. After waiting a little and brushing the dust from his boots with thick handkerchiefs, this man suddenly shrank his eyes, sullenly compressed his lips, bent his already stooped back, I slowly entered the living room.
- A! Christopher Fyodoritch, hello! Panshin exclaimed first of all and quickly jumped up from his chair.
“I had no idea that you were here—I would never have dared to sing my romance in your presence. I know you're not into light music.
“I didn’t listen,” the man who came in said in bad Russian, and, bowing to everyone, awkwardly stopped in the middle of the room.
“You, Monsieur Lemm,” said Marya Dmitrievna, “have you come to give a music lesson to Liza?”
- No, not Lisafet Mikhailovna, but Helen Mikhailovna.
- A! Wow, that's great. Lenochka, go upstairs with Mr. Lemm. The old man started to follow the girl, but Panshin stopped him.
“Don’t leave after the lesson, Christopher Fyodoritch,” he said, “Lizaveta Mikhailovna and I will play the Beethoven sonata in four hands.”
The old man muttered something under his breath, while Panshin continued in German, pronouncing the words poorly:
- Lizaveta Mikhailovna showed me the spiritual cantata that you offered her - a wonderful thing! Please don't think that I don't know how to appreciate serious music - on the contrary: it is sometimes boring, but it is very useful.
The old man blushed to the ears, cast an indirect glance at Liza, and hurried out of the room.
Marya Dmitrievna asked Panshin to repeat the romance; but he announced that he did not wish to offend the ears of the learned German, and suggested to Lisa that she study the Beethoven sonata. Then Marya Dmitrievna sighed and, for her part, invited Gedeonovsky to walk with her in the garden. “I want,” she said, “to talk and consult with you about our poor Fed.” Gedeonovsky grinned, bowed, took his hat with two fingers, with gloves neatly placed on one of its brim, and withdrew with Marya Dmitrievna. Panshin and Liza remained in the room; she took out and opened the sonata; both sat silently at the piano. From above came the faint sounds of scales played by Lenochka's unsteady fingers.
V
Christopher Theodor Gottlieb Lemm was born in 1786, in the Kingdom of Saxony, in the city of Chemnitz, from poor musicians. His father played the horn, his mother the harp; he himself had been practicing on three different instruments by the fifth year. At the age of eight he became an orphan, and from the age of ten he began to earn a piece of bread for himself with his art. He led a wandering life for a long time, playing everywhere - in taverns, and at fairs, and at peasant weddings, and at balls; finally got into the orchestra and, moving higher and higher, reached the conductor's place. He was a rather poor performer, but he knew music thoroughly. In the twenty-eighth year he moved to Russia. He was ordered by a great gentleman who himself could not stand music, but kept the orchestra out of arrogance. Lemm lived with him for seven years as bandmaster and left him empty-handed: the master went bankrupt, wanted to give him a bill of exchange, but subsequently refused him this too - in a word, he did not pay him a penny. He was advised to leave; but he did not want to return home - a beggar from Russia, from great Russia, this gold mine of artists; he decided to stay and try his luck. For twenty years, the poor German tried his luck: he visited various masters, lived both in Moscow and in provincial cities, endured and endured a lot, learned poverty, fought like a fish on ice; but the thought of returning to his homeland did not leave him in the midst of all the disasters to which he was subjected; She was the only one who supported him. Fate, however, was not pleased to please him with this last and first happiness: fifty years old, ill, decrepit for the time being, he got stuck in the city of O ... and stayed in it forever, having finally lost all hope of leaving Russia that he hated and somehow supporting lessons from their meager existence. Lemm's outward appearance did not favor him. He was short, round-shouldered, with crookedly protruding shoulder blades and a retracted belly, with large flat feet, with pale blue nails on the hard, unbent fingers of sinewy red hands; his face had wrinkled, sunken cheeks and compressed lips, with which he constantly moved and chewed, which, with his usual silence, produced an almost ominous impression; his gray hair hung in tufts over his low forehead; like freshly filled embers, his tiny, motionless eyes smoldered muffledly; he walked heavily, tossing his clumsy body at every step. Some of his movements were reminiscent of the clumsy preening of an owl in a cage, when she feels that she is being looked at, but she herself can barely see with her huge, yellow, timidly and drowsily blinking eyes. An old, inexorable grief has put its indelible mark on the poor musicus, distorted and disfigured his already unprepossessing figure; but for someone who knew how not to dwell on first impressions, something good, honest, something extraordinary could be seen in this dilapidated creature. An admirer of Bach and Handel, an expert in his field, endowed with a vivid imagination and that boldness of thought that is available to one Germanic tribe, Lemm in time - who knows? - would have become one of the great composers of his homeland, if life had led him differently; but he was not born under a lucky star! He wrote a lot in his lifetime - and he did not manage to see a single of his works published; he did not know how to get down to business properly, to bow by the way, to plead in time. Somehow, a long time ago, one of his admirers and friends, also a German and also poor, published two of his sonatas at his own expense, and even those remained entirely in the cellars of music stores; they sank dully and without a trace, as if someone had thrown them into the river at night. Lemm finally gave up on everything; moreover, the years took their toll: he became callous, stiff, as his fingers were stiff. Alone, with an old cook he had taken from an almshouse (he had never been married), he lived in O ... in a small house, not far from the Kalitinsky house; I walked a lot, read the Bible, and a collection of Protestant psalms, and Shakespeare in the Schlegel translation. He hadn't written anything for a long time; but, apparently, Liza, his best student, knew how to stir him up: he wrote for her the cantata that Panshin mentioned. The words of this cantata were borrowed by him from the collection of psalms; some of the poems he wrote himself. It was sung by two choirs - the choir of the fortunate and the choir of the unlucky; both of them were reconciled by the end and sang together: “O merciful God, have mercy on us sinners, and drive away from us all evil thoughts and earthly hopes.” On the title page, very carefully written and even painted, stood: “Only the righteous are right. Spiritual cantata. Composed and dedicated to the maiden Elizaveta Kalitina, my dear student, by her teacher, H. T. G. Lemm.” The words: “Only the righteous are right” and “Elizaveta Kalitina” were surrounded by rays. At the bottom was written: "For you alone, fur Sie allein." That's why Lemm blushed and looked askance at Liza; he was very hurt when Panshin spoke in front of him about his cantata.
VI
Panshin loudly and resolutely took the first chords of the sonata (he played the second hand), but Lisa did not begin her part. He stopped and looked at her. Liza's eyes, fixed directly on him, expressed displeasure; her lips did not smile, her whole face was stern, almost sad.
- What's wrong with you? he asked.
Why didn't you keep your word? - she said. “I showed you a cantata by Christopher Fyodoritch on the condition that you not tell him about it.
“I’m sorry, Lizaveta Mikhailovna,” I had to say.
“You upset him—and me too. Now he won't trust me either.
- What do you want to do, Lizaveta Mikhailovna? From young nails I cannot see a German with indifference: it just tempts me to tease him.
“What are you talking about, Vladimir Nikolaitch! This German is a poor, lonely, murdered man - and you don't feel sorry for him? Do you feel like teasing him? Panshin was confused.
“You are right, Lizaveta Mikhailovna,” he said. - All the fault - my eternal thoughtlessness. No, don't mind me; I know myself well. My thoughtlessness did me a lot of harm. By her grace, I was known as an egoist.
Panshin was silent. Whatever he started a conversation with, he usually ended by talking about himself, and it came out of him somehow sweetly and softly, sincerely, as if involuntarily.
“Here, in your house,” he continued, “your mother, of course, favors me - she is so kind; you ... however, I do not know your opinion about me; but your aunt just can't stand me. I, too, must have offended her with some thoughtless, stupid word. She doesn't love me, does she?
“Yes,” Lisa said with a slight hesitation, “she doesn’t like you.
Panshin quickly ran his fingers over the keys; A faint smile flickered across his lips.
- Well, and you? he said, “do I also seem selfish to you?”
“I still don’t know you very well,” objected Liza, “but I don’t consider you an egoist; On the contrary, I should be grateful to you...
“I know, I know what you want to say,” Panshin interrupted her and again ran his fingers over the keys, “for the notes, for the books that I bring you, for the bad drawings with which I decorate your album, and so on, and so on.” . I can do all this - I still be selfish. I dare to think that you are not bored with me and that you do not consider me a bad person, but still you think that I am—how, I mean, is it said? - for a red word I will not regret either my father or my friend.
“You are absent-minded and forgetful, like all secular people,” Liza said, “that’s all. Panshin frowned slightly.
“Listen,” he said, “let's not talk about me anymore; let's play our sonata. I only ask you of one thing,” he added, smoothing out the sheets of a notebook lying on the music stand with his hand, “think of me what you want, even call me an egoist—so be it! but don’t call me a secular person: this nickname is unbearable to me ... Anch "io sono pittore. I am also an artist, although a bad one, and this, namely, that I am a bad artist, I will prove to you right away in practice. Let's start.
“Let’s start,” Lisa said.
The first adagio went fairly well, although Panshin made many mistakes. He played his own and memorized very nicely, but he did not understand well. On the other hand, the second part of the sonata, a rather fast allegro, did not go at all: on the twentieth bar, Panshin, two bars behind, could not stand it and laughingly pushed his chair back.
- No! he exclaimed, “I can’t play today; it's good that Lemm didn't hear us; he would have fainted. Liza got up, closed the piano, and turned to Panshin.
– What are we going to do? she asked.
- I recognize you in this matter! There is no way you can sit idly by. Well, if you like, let's draw before it's completely dark. Perhaps another muse - the muse of drawing - what, I mean, was her name? I forgot... it will be more favorable to me. Where is your album? I remember that my landscape is not finished there.
Liza went into another room for an album, and Panshin, left alone, took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, rubbed his nails and looked, somehow rueful, at his hands. They were very beautiful and white; on the thumb of his left hand he wore a helical gold ring. Lisa is back; Panshin sat down by the window and opened the album.
– Aha! he exclaimed, “I see you have begun to sketch my landscape—and it is wonderful. Very good! Here only - give me a pencil - the shadows are not quite strong. See.
And Panshin boldly laid out several long strokes. He constantly painted the same landscape: in the foreground large disheveled trees, in the distance a clearing and jagged mountains in the sky. Lisa looked over his shoulder at his work.
“In a drawing, and indeed in life in general,” Panshin said, bending his head first to the right, then to the left, “lightness and courage are the first thing.”
At that moment Lemm entered the room and, bowing dryly, was about to leave; but Panshin threw the album and pencil aside and blocked his path.
"Where are you going, dear Christopher Fyodoritch?" Aren't you staying for tea?
“I’m home,” Lemm said in a sullen voice, “my head hurts.”
- Well, what a trifle - stay. We will argue about Shakespeare.
“My head hurts,” the old man repeated.
“And without you we set to work on the Beethoven sonata,” continued Panshin, kindly taking him by the waist and smiling brightly, “but things did not go smoothly at all. Imagine, I could not take two notes in a row correctly.
"You should sing lutchi's romance again," objected Lemm, moving Panshin's hands away, and went out. Lisa ran after him. She caught up with him on the porch.
“Kristofor Fyodoritch, listen,” she said to him in German, escorting him to the gate across the short green grass of the yard, “I am guilty before you—forgive me. Lemm didn't answer.
– I showed Vladimir Nikolayevich your cantata; I was sure that he would appreciate her - and she certainly liked him very much. Lemm stopped.
“It’s nothing,” he said in Russian and then added in his native language: “but he can’t understand anything; how can you not see it? He is an amateur - and that's it!
“You are unfair to him,” objected Lisa, “he understands everything, and he can do almost everything himself.
- Yes, all the second number, light goods, hasty work. He likes it, and he likes it, and he himself is pleased with it - well, bravo. And I'm not angry, this cantata and I are both old fools; I'm a little ashamed, but that's okay.
"Forgive me, Christopher Fyodoritch," Liza said again.
“Nothing, nothing,” he repeated again in Russian, “you are a kind girl ... But someone is coming to you. Farewell. You are a very kind girl.
And Lemm, with a hurried step, went to the gate, through which some unknown gentleman entered, in a gray coat and a wide straw hat. Bowing politely to him (he bowed to all the new faces in the city of O ...; he turned away from acquaintances in the street - such was his rule), Lemm passed by and disappeared behind the fence. The stranger looked after him with surprise, and, peering at Lisa, went straight up to her.
VII
“You don’t recognize me,” he said, taking off his hat, “but I recognized you, even though eight years have passed since I last saw you. You were then a child. I am Lavretsky. Is your mother at home? Can you see her?
“Mother will be very glad,” objected Lisa, “she heard about your arrival.
"Your name is Elizabeth, isn't it?" said Lavretsky, climbing the steps of the porch.
- Yes.
– I remember you well; you already had such a face that you do not forget; I then brought you sweets.
Lisa blushed and thought: how strange he is. Lavreshchiy stopped for a minute in the hallway. Liza entered the drawing-room, where Panshin's voice and laughter could be heard; he was telling some town gossip to Marya Dmitrievna and Gedeonovsky, who had already managed to return from the garden, and he himself laughed out loud at what he was telling. At the name of Lavretsky, Marya Dmitrievna became all alarmed, turned pale, and went to meet him.
Hello, hello, my dear cousin! she exclaimed in a drawn-out and almost tearful voice, “how glad I am to see you!”
“Hello, my good cousin,” objected Lavretsky, and shook her outstretched hand in a friendly way. How is the Lord favoring you?
“Sit down, sit down, my dear Fyodor Ivanovich. Oh, how glad I am! Let me first introduce you to my daughter Lisa...
“I myself introduced myself to Lizaveta Mikhailovna,” Lavretsky interrupted her.
- Monsieur Panshin ... Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky ... Yes, sit down! I look at you and, really, I can’t even believe my eyes. How is your health?
- As you can see, I'm prospering. And you, cousin, - how not to jinx you - have not lost weight in these eight years.
“What do you think, how long have we not seen each other,” said Marya Dmitrievna dreamily. – Where are you from now? Where did you leave ... that is, I wanted to say, - she hastily picked up, - I wanted to say, how long will you be with us?
“I have now arrived from Berlin,” Lavretsky objected, “and tomorrow I am going to the countryside—probably for a long time.
- Of course, you will live in Lavriky?
– No, not in Lavriky; and I have, about twenty-five versts from here, a small village; so I'm going there.
- This is the village that you got from Glafira Petrovna?
- The same one.
“Have mercy, Fyodor Ivanovich! You have such a wonderful house in Lavriky! Lavretsky frowned slightly.
- Yes ... but in that village there is an outbuilding; and I don't need anything else. This place is the most convenient for me now.
Marya Dmitrievna was again so confused that she even straightened up and spread her arms. Panshin came to her aid and entered into a conversation with Lavretsky. Marya Dmitrievna calmed down, sank into the back of her chair, and only occasionally put in her little word; but at the same time she looked so pitifully at her guest, sighed so significantly and shook her head so despondently, that he finally could not stand it and quite sharply asked her: is she well?
“Thank God,” objected Marya Dmitrievna, “but what?
“Yeah, I thought you were uncomfortable.
Marya Dmitrievna assumed a dignified and somewhat offended air. “And if so,” she thought, “I don’t care at all; you can see, my father, everything is like water off a duck's back; another would have withered away from grief, but you were still blown away. Marya Dmitrievna did not stand on ceremony with herself; out loud she spoke more gracefully.
Lavretsky really did not look like a victim of fate. From his red-cheeked, purely Russian face, with a large white forehead, a slightly thick nose and wide, regular lips, one could smell the health of the steppe, strong, durable strength. He was well built, and his blond hair curled on his head like a young man's. In his eyes alone, blue, bulging and somewhat motionless, one could notice either thoughtfulness or fatigue, and his voice sounded somehow too even.
Panshin meanwhile continued to keep up the conversation. He turned on the benefits of sugar-making, about which he had recently read two French pamphlets, and with calm modesty began to expound their contents, without, however, mentioning a single word about them.
- But this is Fedya! Marfa Timofeevna's voice suddenly rang out in the next room behind the half-open door. "Fedya, for sure!" - And the old woman quickly entered the living room. Lavretsky had not yet had time to rise from his chair, when she already embraced him. “Show yourself, show yourself,” she said, moving away from his face. - E! yes you are nice. Aged, but not grown ugly at all, right. Why are you kissing my hands - you kiss me yourself, if my shriveled cheeks are not disgusting to you. Probably, he did not ask about me: what, they say, is my aunt alive? But you were born in my arms, such a shot! Well, it's all the same; Where were you to remember me! Only you are smart enough to come. And what, my mother,” she added, turning to Marya Dmitrievna, “did you treat him to something?
"I don't need anything," Lavretsky said hastily.
- Well, at least drink some tea, my father. Oh my God! He came from nowhere, and they won't give him a cup of tea. Liza, go and do it, hurry up. I remember he was a terrible glutton when he was little, and even now he must love to eat.
“My respects, Marfa Timofeevna,” Panshin said, approaching the old woman from the side and bowing low.
“Excuse me, my lord,” objected Marfa Timofeevna, “I didn’t notice you in my joy. You have become like your mother, like a little dove,” she continued, turning again to Lavretsky, “only your nose was your father’s, and your father’s still remains. Well, how long are you with us?
- I'm going tomorrow, auntie.
- Where?
- To myself, to Vasilyevskoye.
- Tomorrow?
- Tomorrow.
- Well, if tomorrow, then tomorrow. God bless, you know better. Just you, look, come and say goodbye. The old woman patted him on the cheek. - I did not think to wait for you; and not that I was going to die; no - I'll probably have enough for another ten years: all of us, the Pestovs, are tenacious; your late grandfather used to call us two-stranded; but the Lord knew you, how much more you would have blabbed abroad. Well, well done you, well done; tea, do you still raise ten pounds with one hand? Your late father, excuse me, he was so absurd, but he did well that he hired you a Swiss; remember, you fought with him on fists; gymnastics, is it called? But, however, that it was I who cackled so; only Mr. Panshin (she never properly called him Panshin) was hindered from reasoning. And yet, let us better drink tea; yes, let’s go to the terrace, father, to drink it; we have nice cream - not like in your Londons and Parises. Let's go, let's go, and you, Fedyusha, give me your hand. ABOUT! Yes, she is so fat! Don't fall with you.
Everyone got up and went to the terrace, with the exception of Gedeonovsky, who silently withdrew. Throughout Lavretsky's conversation with the mistress of the house, Panshin and Marfa Timofeevna, he sat in a corner, blinking attentively and with childish curiosity, stretching out his lips: he was now in a hurry to spread the news of the new guest around the city.
* * *
On the same day, at eleven o'clock in the evening, this is what happened in the house of Mrs. Kalitina. Downstairs, on the threshold of the living room, seizing a convenient moment, Vladimir Nikolaevich said goodbye to Liza and said to her, holding her hand: “You know who attracts me here; you know why I go to your house incessantly; Why are there words when everything is clear anyway. Liza made no answer to him and, not smiling, slightly raising her eyebrows and blushing, looked at the floor, but did not take her hand away; and upstairs, in Marfa Timofeevna's room, by the light of an icon-lamp hanging in front of dim old images, Lavretsky sat on an armchair, leaning on his knees and resting his face in his hands;
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
Noble Nest
Noble NestIvan Sergeevich Turgenev
School Library (Children's Literature)
The book includes a novel by the remarkable Russian writer I. S. Turgenev "The Nest of Nobles". This work is one of the best examples of Russian literature of the 19th century, “the beginning of love and light, beating with a living spring in every line” (M. E. Saltykov-Shchedrin).
Critical articles about the novel are included as appendices: D. I. Pisarev “The Nest of Nobles. Roman by I. S. Turgenev” and A. Grigoriev “I. S. Turgenev and his activities. Regarding the novel "The Noble Nest".
I. S. Turgenev
Noble Nest
© Publishing House "Children's Literature". 2002
© V. P. Panov. Illustrations, 1988
Noble Nest
Spring, bright day was tending towards evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float past, but went into the very depths of the azure.
In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O ... (it happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one of about fifty, the other already an old woman, seventy years old.
The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time, a lively and resolute man, bilious and stubborn, died about ten years ago. He received a fair education, studied at the university, but, born in the poor class, he early understood the need to pave his way and fill the money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, intelligent, and, when he wanted, very amiable. Marya Dmitrievna (in the maiden name of Pestov) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty versts from O ..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovsky, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoye, but did not live long in it; in the second year after her marriage to Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time, Kalitin bought a house in the city of O ..., where he settled with his wife for permanent residence. The house had a large garden; on one side it went straight into the field, out of the city. “So,” Kalitin, a great reluctant to rural silence, decided, “there is no need to go to the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once in her heart regretted her pretty Pokrovsky with a cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his mind and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna was already so accustomed to her home and city life that she herself did not want to leave O ...
Marya Dmitrievna in her youth had a reputation as a pretty blonde; and at fifty her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although they were a little swollen and flattened. She was more sensitive than kind, and until her mature years she retained her institute manners; she spoiled herself, was easily irritated, and even wept when her habits were broken; on the other hand, she was very affectionate and amiable when all her desires were fulfilled and no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the nicest in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much inherited as acquired by her husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best state institutions in St. Petersburg.
The old woman who sat with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovsky. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was reputed to be an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone in the face, and with the most meager means behaved as if she were followed by thousands. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a chicken hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in her old age, small, sharp-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, held herself upright, and spoke quickly and distinctly, in a thin and resonant voice. She constantly wore a white cap and a white jacket.
– What are you talking about? she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. “What are you sighing about, my mother?
“Yes,” she said. What wonderful clouds!
So you feel sorry for them, don't you?
Marya Dmitrievna made no answer.
- Why is Gedeonovsky missing? said Marfa Timofeevna, deftly moving her needles (she was knitting a large woolen scarf). - He would have sighed with you - otherwise he would have lied something.
“How sternly you always speak of him!” Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.
- Venerable! repeated the old woman reproachfully.
- And how he was devoted to the late husband! said Marya Dmitrievna, “until now she cannot think of him indifferently.
- Still would! he pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” grumbled Marfa Timofeevna, and the knitting needles went even faster in her hands.
“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and if he opens his mouth, he will lie or gossip. And also a state adviser! Well, and then say: priest!
- Who is without sin, auntie? It has this weakness, of course. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive an upbringing, he does not speak French; but he, your will, is a pleasant man.
Yes, he licks your hands. He doesn't speak French, what a disaster! I myself am not strong in the French "dialecht". It would be better if he didn’t speak in any way: he wouldn’t lie. Why, by the way, he is easy to remember, ”added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing into the street. “Here he is walking, your pleasant man. What a long, like a stork!
Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofyevna looked at her with a smile.
- What is it with you, in any way, gray hair, my mother? You scold your Palashka. What is she looking at?
“Aunty, you always…” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair.
- Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! squeaked a red-cheeked Cossack, jumping out from behind the door.
A tall man entered, wearing a neat frock coat, short trousers, gray suede gloves and two ties, one black on top, the other white on the bottom. Everything in him breathed propriety and decency, from his handsome face and smoothly combed temples to boots without heels and without squeaks. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofyevna, and, slowly pulling off his gloves, went up to Marya Dmitrievna's hand. After kissing her respectfully and twice in a row, he sat down unhurriedly in an armchair and with a smile, rubbing the very tips of his fingers, said:
- Are Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?
“Yes,” answered Marya Dmitrievna, “she is in the garden.”
- And Elena Mikhailovna?
- Lenochka is in the garden too. Is there anything new?
“How not to be, sir, how not to be,” objected the guest, blinking slowly and stretching his lips. “Hm! .. yes, please, there is news, and surprising: Fyodor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived.
- Fedya! exclaimed Marfa Timofeyevna. - Yes, you, completely, don’t you compose, my father?
No, no, I saw them myself.
Well, that's not proof yet.
“They have become very healthy,” continued Gedeonovsky, showing an air of not hearing Marfa Timofeevna’s remarks, “they have become even wider in the shoulders, and a blush all over her cheek.”
“He has recovered,” Marya Dmitrievna said with an emphasis, “it seems, why would he get well?”
“Yes, sir,” objected Gedeonovsky, “another person in his place would be ashamed to appear in the light.
- Why is that? interrupted Marya Timofeyevna, “what kind of nonsense is this? The man returned to his homeland - where do you order him to go? And thankfully it was his fault!
- The husband is always to blame, madam, I dare to report to you when the wife behaves badly.
- It's you, father, that's why you say that you yourself were not married.
Gedeonovsky forced a smile.
“Allow me to inquire,” he asked after a short silence, “to whom is this nice little scarf assigned?”
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
Noble Nest
Spring, bright day was tending towards evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float past, but went into the very depths of the azure.
In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O ... (it happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one of about fifty, the other already an old woman, seventy years old.
The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time, a lively and resolute man, bilious and stubborn, died about ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born in the poor class, he early understood the need to pave the way for himself and fill the money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, intelligent, and, when he wanted, very amiable. Marya Dmitrievna (in the maiden name of Pestov) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty versts from O ..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovsky, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoye, but did not live long in it; in the second year after her marriage to Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time, Kalitin bought a house in the city of O ..., where he settled with his wife for permanent residence. The house had a large garden; on one side it went straight into the field, out of the city. “So,” Kalitin, a great reluctant to rural silence, decided, “there is no need to go to the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once in her heart regretted her pretty Pokrovsky with a cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his mind and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna was already so accustomed to her home and city life that she herself did not want to leave O ...
Marya Dmitrievna in her youth had a reputation as a pretty blonde; and at fifty her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although they were a little swollen and flattened. She was more sensitive than kind, and until her mature years she retained her institute manners; she spoiled herself, was easily irritated, and even wept when her habits were broken; on the other hand, she was very affectionate and amiable when all her desires were fulfilled and no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the nicest in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much inherited as acquired by her husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best state institutions in St. Petersburg.
The old woman who sat with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovsky. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was reputed to be an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone in the face, and with the most meager means behaved as if she were followed by thousands. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a chicken hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in her old age, small, sharp-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, held herself upright, and spoke quickly and distinctly, in a thin and resonant voice. 0, she constantly wore a white cap and a white jacket.
– What are you talking about? she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. “What are you sighing about, my mother?
“Yes,” she said. What wonderful clouds!
So you feel sorry for them, don't you? Marya Dmitrievna made no answer.
- Why is Gedeonovsky missing? said Marfa Timofeevna, deftly moving her needles (she was knitting a large woolen scarf). - He would have sighed with you - otherwise he would have lied something.
“How sternly you always speak of him!” Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.
- Venerable! repeated the old woman reproachfully.
- And how he was devoted to the late husband! said Marya Dmitrievna, “until now she cannot think of him indifferently.
- Still would! he pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” grumbled Marfa Timofeevna, and the knitting needles went even faster in her hands.
“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and if he opens his mouth, he will lie or gossip. And also a state adviser! Well, and then to show: popovich!
- Who is without sin, auntie? It has this weakness, of course. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive an upbringing, he does not speak French; but he, your will, is a pleasant man.
Yes, he licks your hands. He speaks French, but what a disaster! I myself am not strong in the French "dialecht". It would be better if he didn’t speak in any way: he wouldn’t lie. Why, by the way, he is easy to remember, ”added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing into the street. “Here he is walking, your pleasant man. What a long, like a stork!
Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofyevna looked at her with a smile.
- What is it with you, no gray hair, my mother? You scold your Palashka. What is she looking at?
“Aunty, you always…” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair.
- Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! squeaked a red-cheeked Cossack, jumping out from behind the door.
A tall man entered, wearing a neat frock coat, short trousers, gray suede gloves and two ties, one black on top, the other white on the bottom. Everything in him breathed propriety and decency, from his handsome face and smoothly combed temples to boots without heels and without squeaks. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofyevna, and, slowly pulling off his gloves, went up to Marya Dmitrievna's hand. After kissing her respectfully and twice in a row, he sat down unhurriedly in an armchair and with a smile, rubbing the very tips of his fingers, said:
- Are Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?
“Yes,” answered Marya Dmitrievna, “she is in the garden.”
- And Elena Mikhailovna?
- Lenochka is in the garden too. - Is there anything new?
“How not to be, sir, how not to be,” objected the guest, blinking slowly and stretching his lips. “Hm! .. yes, please, there is news, and surprising: Fyodor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived.
- Fedya! exclaimed Marfa Timofeyevna. - Yes, you, completely, don’t you compose, my father?
No, no, I saw them myself.
Well, that's not proof yet.
“They have become very healthy,” continued Gedeonovsky, showing an air of not hearing Marfa Timofeevna’s remarks, “they have become even wider in the shoulders, and a blush all over her cheek.”
“He has recovered,” Marya Dmitrievna said with an emphasis, “it seems, why would he get well?”
- Yes, sir, - Godeonovsky objected, - another in his place would be ashamed to appear in the world.
- Why is that? interrupted Marfa Timofeevna, “what kind of nonsense is this? The man returned to his homeland - where do you order him to go? And thankfully it was his fault!
- The husband is always to blame, madam, I dare to report to you when the wife behaves badly.
- It's you, father, that's why you say that you yourself were not married. Gedeonovsky forced a smile.
“Allow me to inquire,” he asked after a short silence, “to whom is this nice little scarf assigned?” Marfa Timofyevna glanced quickly at him.
“And he is appointed,” she objected, “who never gossips, does not cheat and does not compose, if only there is such a person in the world. I know Fedya well; he is only to blame for spoiling his wife. Well, yes, and he married for love, and nothing worthwhile ever comes out of these love weddings, ”added the old woman, looking indirectly at Marya Dmitrievna and getting up. - And now, my father, sharpen your teeth on anyone, even on me; I'll leave, I won't interfere. And Marfa Timofeevna left.
“Here she is always like that,” said Marya Dmitrievna, following her aunt with her eyes, “always!”
- Their summers! What to do with! Gedeonovsviy remarked. - So they deign to say: who is not cunning. Who doesn't cheat? Age is like that. One of my friends, a respected and, I will tell you, a man of no small rank, used to say that there is no one, they say, a chicken, and she approaches the grain with cunning - everything strives, as if to approach from the side. And when I look at you, my mistress, your disposition is truly angelic; please give me your snow-white hand.
Marya Dmitrievna smiled weakly and held out her plump hand to Gedeonovsky, with the fifth finger severed. He kissed her lips, and she pushed her chair towards him and, bending slightly, asked in an undertone:
"So you saw him?" In fact, he is nothing, healthy, cheerful?
“More fun, nothing, sir,” objected Gedeonovsky in a whisper.
“Have you heard where his wife is now?”
- Recently I was in Paris, sir; now, it is heard, she has moved to the Italian state.
- This is terrible, really, - Fedino's position; I don't know how he takes it. Certainly misfortunes happen to everyone; but after all, it can be said that it was published throughout Europe. Gideon sighed.
- Yes, yes, yes. After all, they say, she was acquainted with artists and pianists, and, as they say, with lions and animals. Shame is gone completely...
“Very, very sorry,” said Marya Dmitrievna. - In a related way: after all, he is my great-nephew, Sergei Petrovich, you know.
- How, sir, how, sir. How can I not know, with everything that belongs to your family? Have mercy, sir.
- He will come to us, what do you think?
- It must be assumed, sir; but by the way, they are heard to be going to their village. Marya Dmitrievna raised her eyes to heaven.
“Ah, Sergei Petrovich, Sergei Petrovich, how I think about how we women should behave carefully!”
- A woman is a woman, Marya Dmitrievna. There are, unfortunately, such - the nature of the fickle ... well, and summer; again, the rules are not inspired from the beginning. (Sergei Petrovich took a checkered blue handkerchief out of his pocket and began to unfold it.) Such women, of course, do exist. (Sergei Petrovich raised the corner of the handkerchief one by one to his eyes.) But generally speaking, if you think about it, that is ... The dust in the city is unusual, he concluded.
“Maman, maman,” cried a pretty girl of about eleven years old, running into the room, “Vladimir Nikolaevich is coming to us on horseback!”
Marya Dmitrievna got up; Sergei Petrovich also stood up and bowed. “To Elena Mikhailovna, our lowest,” he said, and, moving into a corner for decency, he began to blow his long and regular nose.
What a wonderful horse he has! the girl continued. - He was at the gate just now and told Liza and me that he would drive up to the porch.
There was a clatter of hooves, and a slender rider on a beautiful bay horse appeared in the street and stopped in front of the open window.
Hello, Marya Dmitrievna! exclaimed the rider in a sonorous and pleasant voice. How do you like my new purchase? Marya Dmitrievna went up to the window.
Hello, Waldemar! Ah, what a fine horse! Who did you buy it from?
- At the repairman ... I took it dearly, robber.
- What is her name?
- Orland ... Yes, this name is stupid; I want to change... Eh bien, eh bien, mon garcon... How restless! The horse snorted, stepped over its feet and waved its foamy muzzle.
- Lenochka, stroke her, don't be afraid...
The girl stretched out her hand from the window, but Orland suddenly reared up and rushed to the side. The rider did not get lost, took the horse by the leg, pulled him with a whip along the neck and, despite his resistance, put him again in front of the window.
- Lenochka, caress him, - the rider objected, - I will not let him go free.
The girl again stretched out her hand and timidly touched the quivering nostrils of Orland, who was constantly trembling and biting at the bit.
– Bravo! exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, “now get down and come to us.”
The rider dashingly turned his horse, gave him spurs, and, galloping along the street at a short gallop, rode into the yard. A minute later he ran, brandishing his whip, from the front door into the drawing-room; at the same time, on the threshold of another door, a slender, tall, black-haired girl of about nineteen appeared - Marya Dmitrievna's eldest daughter, Liza.
The young man with whom we have just introduced the readers was nicknamed Vladimir Nikolayich Panshin. He served in St. Petersburg as an official for special assignments in the Ministry of the Interior. He came to the city of O ... to fulfill a temporary government assignment and was at the disposal of the governor, General Sonnenberg, who was a distant relative. Panshin's father, a retired staff captain, a well-known player, a man with sweet eyes, a rumpled face and nervous twitching in his lips, rubbed his whole life between the nobility, visited English clubs in both capitals and was known as a clever, not very reliable, but sweet and sincere fellow . Despite all his dexterity, he was almost constantly at the very edge of poverty and left his only son a small and upset fortune. But he, in his own way, took care of his upbringing: Vladimir Nikolaevich spoke excellent French, good English, bad German. And so it follows: decent people are ashamed to speak good German; but to use a German word in some, for the most part funny, cases - you can, c "est meme tres chic, as Petersburg Parisians express it. From the age of fifteen, Vladimir Nikolaich already knew how to enter any living room without embarrassment, it's nice to turn around in it and, by the way, retire Panshin's father brought many connections to his son: shuffling cards between two robbers or after a successful "grand slam", he did not miss the opportunity to launch a word about his "Volodka" to some important person, a hunter for commercial games. For his part, Vladimir Nikolaich during his stay at the university, from which he came out with the rank of a real student, he met some noble young people and became a member of the best houses. necessary - respectful, where possible - impudent, excellent comrade, un charmant garcon... The cherished region opened up before him. Panshin soon understood the secret of secular science; he knew how to imbue real respect for its charters, knew how to engage in nonsense with half-mocking importance and show that he respects everything important is nonsense; danced well, dressed in English. In a short time he was known as one of the most amiable and dexterous young people in Petersburg. Panshin was really very dexterous, no worse than his father; but he was also very gifted. Everything was given to him: he sang sweetly, briskly painted, wrote poetry, played very well on stage. He was only in his twenty-eighth year, and he was already a chamber junker and had a very good rank. Panshin firmly believed in himself, in his mind, in his insight; he walked forward boldly and (gaily, at full speed; his life flowed like clockwork. He was used to being liked by everyone, old and young, I imagined that he knew people, especially women: he knew well their everyday weaknesses. As a person not alien to art, he felt heat in himself, and a certain enthusiasm, and enthusiasm, and as a result of this he allowed himself various deviations from the rules: he went on a rampage, got acquainted with persons who did not belong to the world, and in general behaved freely and simply; but in his soul he was cold and cunning ", and during the most violent revelry, his intelligent brown eye watched and looked out for everything; this brave, this free young man could never forget himself and be completely carried away. To his credit, it must be said that he never boasted of his victories. He ended up in Marya Dmitrievna's house immediately upon his arrival in O ... and soon he became completely at home in it. Marya Dmitrievna did not like the soul in him.
Panshin graciously bowed to everyone in the room, shook hands with Marya Dmitrievna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna, lightly patted Gedeonovsky on the shoulder, and turning on his heel, caught Lenochka by the head and kissed her on the forehead.
“And you are not afraid to ride such an evil horse?” Marya Dmitrievna asked him.
- Pardon me, she is submissive; and here, I'll tell you what I'm afraid of: I'm afraid to play preference with Sergei Petrovich; yesterday at the Belenitsyns he beat me to the nines.
Gedeonovsky laughed a thin and obsequious laugh: he fawned over a young brilliant official from St. Petersburg, the governor's favorite. In his conversations with Marya Dmitrievna, he often mentioned Panshin's remarkable abilities. After all, he reasoned, how not to praise? And in the highest sphere of life, a young man succeeds, and serves approximately, and not the slightest pride. However, Panshin and in St. Petersburg was considered a efficient official: the work was in full swing in his hands; he spoke of it jokingly, as it should be for a secular person who does not attach much importance to his work, but there was a "performer." Bosses love such subordinates; he himself had no doubt that, if he wanted to, he would eventually be a minister.
“You are so kind as to say that I beat you,” Gedeonovsky said, “and last week who won twelve rubles from me?” yes still...
“Villain, villain,” Panshin interrupted him with gentle, but slightly contemptuous carelessness, and, no longer paying attention to him, went up to Liza.
“I couldn't find the Oberon Overture here,” he began. - Belenitsyna only boasted that she had all the classical music - in fact, she has nothing but polkas and waltzes; but I have already written to Moscow, and in a week you will have this overture. By the way,” he continued, “I wrote a new romance yesterday; the words are mine too. Do you want me to sing to you? I don't know what came of it; Belenitsyna found him pretty, but her words mean nothing - I want to know your opinion. However, I think it's better after.
Why after? Marya Dmitrievna intervened, “why not now?
“Listen, sir,” said Panshin with a kind of bright and sweet smile that suddenly appeared and disappeared on him, “he pushed a chair forward with his knee, sat down at the pianoforte and, having struck a few chords, sang, clearly separating the words, the following romance:
The moon floats high above the earth Between pale clouds; But from above it moves the sea wave Magic ray.
The sea of my soul recognized you as Its moon, And it moves - both in joy and in sorrow - by You alone.
The soul is full of longing for love, longing for mute aspirations; It's hard for me... But you are a stranger to turmoil, Like that moon.
The second verse was sung by Panshin with special expression and power; in a stormy accompaniment, the overflowing waves were heard. After the words: “It’s hard for me ...” - he sighed slightly, lowered his eyes and lowered his voice - morendo. When he had finished, Lisa praised the motive, Marya Dmitrievna said: “Lovely,” and Gedeonovsky even shouted: “Delightful! both poetry and harmony are equally delightful!..” Lenochka looked at the singer with childish reverence. In a word, everyone present very much liked the work of the young dilettante; but behind the drawing-room door in the hall stood an old man who had just arrived, already an old man, to whom, judging by the expression of his downcast face and the movements of his shoulders, Panshin's romance, although lovely, did not give pleasure. After waiting a little and brushing the dust from his boots with thick handkerchiefs, this man suddenly shrank his eyes, sullenly compressed his lips, bent his already stooped back, I slowly entered the living room.
- A! Christopher Fyodoritch, hello! Panshin exclaimed first of all and quickly jumped up from his chair.
“I didn’t listen,” the man who came in said in bad Russian, and, bowing to everyone, awkwardly stopped in the middle of the room.
“You, Monsieur Lemm,” said Marya Dmitrievna, “have you come to give a music lesson to Liza?”
- No, not Lisafet Mikhailovna, but Helen Mikhailovna.
- A! Wow, that's great. Lenochka, go upstairs with Mr. Lemm. The old man started to follow the girl, but Panshin stopped him.
“Don’t leave after the lesson, Christopher Fyodoritch,” he said, “Lizaveta Mikhailovna and I will play the Beethoven sonata in four hands.”
The old man muttered something under his breath, while Panshin continued in German, pronouncing the words poorly:
- Lizaveta Mikhailovna showed me the spiritual cantata that you offered her - a wonderful thing! Please don't think that I don't know how to appreciate serious music - on the contrary: it is sometimes boring, but it is very useful.
The old man blushed to the ears, cast an indirect glance at Liza, and hurried out of the room.
Marya Dmitrievna asked Panshin to repeat the romance; but he announced that he did not wish to offend the ears of the learned German, and suggested to Lisa that she study the Beethoven sonata. Then Marya Dmitrievna sighed and, for her part, invited Gedeonovsky to walk with her in the garden. “I want,” she said, “to talk and consult with you about our poor Fed.” Gedeonovsky grinned, bowed, took his hat with two fingers, with gloves neatly placed on one of its brim, and withdrew with Marya Dmitrievna. Panshin and Liza remained in the room; she took out and opened the sonata; both sat silently at the piano. From above came the faint sounds of scales played by Lenochka's unsteady fingers.
Christopher Theodor Gottlieb Lemm was born in 1786, in the Kingdom of Saxony, in the city of Chemnitz, from poor musicians. His father played the horn, his mother the harp; he himself had been practicing on three different instruments by the fifth year. At the age of eight he became an orphan, and from the age of ten he began to earn a piece of bread for himself with his art. He led a wandering life for a long time, playing everywhere - in taverns, and at fairs, and at peasant weddings, and at balls; finally got into the orchestra and, moving higher and higher, reached the conductor's place. He was a rather poor performer, but he knew music thoroughly. In the twenty-eighth year he moved to Russia. He was ordered by a great gentleman who himself could not stand music, but kept the orchestra out of arrogance. Lemm lived with him for seven years as bandmaster and left him empty-handed: the master went bankrupt, wanted to give him a bill of exchange, but subsequently refused him this too - in a word, he did not pay him a penny. He was advised to leave; but he did not want to return home - a beggar from Russia, from great Russia, this gold mine of artists; he decided to stay and try his luck. For twenty years, the poor German tried his luck: he visited various masters, lived both in Moscow and in provincial cities, endured and endured a lot, learned poverty, fought like a fish on ice; but the thought of returning to his homeland did not leave him in the midst of all the disasters to which he was subjected; She was the only one who supported him. Fate, however, was not pleased to please him with this last and first happiness: fifty years old, ill, decrepit for the time being, he got stuck in the city of O ... and stayed in it forever, having finally lost all hope of leaving Russia that he hated and somehow supporting lessons from their meager existence. Lemm's outward appearance did not favor him. He was short, round-shouldered, with crookedly protruding shoulder blades and a retracted belly, with large flat feet, with pale blue nails on the hard, unbent fingers of sinewy red hands; his face had wrinkled, sunken cheeks and compressed lips, with which he constantly moved and chewed, which, with his usual silence, produced an almost ominous impression; his gray hair hung in tufts over his low forehead; like freshly filled embers, his tiny, motionless eyes smoldered muffledly; he walked heavily, tossing his clumsy body at every step. Some of his movements were reminiscent of the clumsy preening of an owl in a cage, when she feels that she is being looked at, but she herself can barely see with her huge, yellow, timidly and drowsily blinking eyes. An old, inexorable grief has put its indelible mark on the poor musicus, distorted and disfigured his already unprepossessing figure; but for someone who knew how not to dwell on first impressions, something good, honest, something extraordinary could be seen in this dilapidated creature. An admirer of Bach and Handel, an expert in his field, endowed with a vivid imagination and that boldness of thought that is available to one Germanic tribe, Lemm in time - who knows? - would have become one of the great composers of his homeland, if life had led him differently; but he was not born under a lucky star! He wrote a lot in his lifetime - and he did not manage to see a single of his works published; he did not know how to get down to business properly, to bow by the way, to plead in time. Somehow, a long time ago, one of his admirers and friends, also a German and also poor, published two of his sonatas at his own expense, and even those remained entirely in the cellars of music stores; they sank dully and without a trace, as if someone had thrown them into the river at night. Lemm finally gave up on everything; moreover, the years took their toll: he became callous, stiff, as his fingers were stiff. Alone, with an old cook he had taken from an almshouse (he had never been married), he lived in O ... in a small house, not far from the Kalitinsky house; I walked a lot, read the Bible, and a collection of Protestant psalms, and Shakespeare in the Schlegel translation. He hadn't written anything for a long time; but, apparently, Liza, his best student, knew how to stir him up: he wrote for her the cantata that Panshin mentioned. The words of this cantata were borrowed by him from the collection of psalms; some of the poems he wrote himself. It was sung by two choirs - the choir of the fortunate and the choir of the unlucky; both of them were reconciled by the end and sang together: “O merciful God, have mercy on us sinners, and drive away from us all evil thoughts and earthly hopes.” On the title page, very carefully written and even painted, stood: “Only the righteous are right. Spiritual cantata. Composed and dedicated to the maiden Elizaveta Kalitina, my dear student, by her teacher, H. T. G. Lemm.” The words: “Only the righteous are right” and “Elizaveta Kalitina” were surrounded by rays. At the bottom was written: "For you alone, fur Sie allein." That's why Lemm blushed and looked askance at Liza; he was very hurt when Panshin spoke in front of him about his cantata.
Spring, bright day was tending towards evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float past, but went into the very
Azure deep.
In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O ... (it happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one
Fifty years old, the other is already an old woman, seventy years old.
The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial pro-curator, a well-known businessman in his time, is a lively and
Decisive, bilious and stubborn, he died about ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born in the estate
Poor, early realized the need to pave the way for me to fill the money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, smart, and
When you want, very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in the maidenness of Pestov) lost her parents in childhood, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute,
And, returning from there, she lived fifty miles from O ..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovsky, with her aunt and with her older brother. This brother is coming soon
He moved to Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya
Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoye, but did not live long in it; in the second year after her wedding with Kalitin, who managed to
To win her heart, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without a manor; and at the same time Kalitin
I bought a house in the city of O ..., where I settled with my wife for permanent residence. The house had a large garden; on one side it went straight into
Field, out of town. “So,” Kalitin, a great reluctant to rural silence, decided, “there is no need to go to the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once in
Her soul regretted her pretty Pokrovsky with a cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and
She was in awe of his mind and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna was already
She was so accustomed to her home and city life that she herself did not want to leave O ...
Marya Dmitrievna in her youth had a reputation as a pretty blonde; and at the age of five or ten her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although a little
They swelled up and fell apart. She was more sensitive than kind, and until her mature years she retained her institute manners; she spoiled herself easily
Irritated and even cried when her habits were violated; on the other hand, she was very affectionate and amiable, when all her desires were fulfilled and no one
He rebuked. Her house was one of the nicest in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much hereditary as
Acquired by husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best state institutions in St. Petersburg.
The old woman who sat with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father's sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years.
In Pokrovsky. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was reputed to be an eccentric, had an independent disposition, told everyone the truth in the eyes and with the most meager
Means held on as if she were followed by thousands. She could not stand the late Kalitin, and as soon as her niece married him
Married, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten years with a peasant in a smokehouse. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. black haired and
Quick-eyed even in her old age, small, sharp-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, held herself upright, and spoke quickly and distinctly, in a thin and sonorous voice.
