Summer evening
Four o'clock in the afternoon; the day is hot, but the air is clean and fragrant. The sun diligently heats the dark gray walls of a large, clumsy house, standing far from the other village huts. One thing can be said about its architecture: it was probably unfinished when it was covered with a roof. The windows, small and sparse, are tightly closed. The house also has a garden; but it does not protect him at all from the sun; except for lilac bushes and acacias, no trees are visible in it. However, it contains everything necessary for a village garden: a covered avenue of acacias, with an arbor, a few decrepit benches placed on badly swept paths; to the side are ridges with strawberries, and bushes of currants and raspberries stretch along the fence. A half-decayed terrace, with columns and white-painted wooden railings, leads out into the garden, and a path leads from it; it descends to a small river, which is all covered with marsh lilies and other herbs. A narrow bridge in Chinese style is thrown across the river. Those who cross it need to have a sufficient supply of courage, because in some places the boards rotted, and the rest jumped at the touch. But he was richly rewarded for his courage when he suddenly found himself in a beautiful forest instead of a dull, bare garden. Huge trees here replaced the gazebo and covered alley, green soft grass with flowers - rotten wooden benches. Here everything breathed so cheerfully and luxuriously, as if not a small river, but a whole sea separated two gardens.
Entering the house, we will see one of the main rooms, unusually wide and low, with a floor painted with thick brown paint, with a sooty ceiling, with furniture in which every thing testifies to the old age and the deprivation of comforts. High chairs, painted white, with a bouquet of roses on the back, with straw cushions tied to the seat, huddled tightly next to each other, fringing the walls. In the middle of the room is a round dining table with countless thin legs, resembling a huge petrified spider. In the corner opposite the windows there is a massive outbuilding in a clumsy cover made of thick gray cloth. On the smoky yellow wall is a barometer mounted in ebony. In one corner there was a wall clock with pood weights, which, due to their vastness, were more suitable for decorating the tower. knight's castle than the dining room of a peaceful peasant.
To the monotonous beat of the pendulum, an elderly woman walked around the room, with a pale and stern face. In her large and irregular features there was a complete absence of the slightest tenderness. Throwing her hands back, she walked with a heavy step, lost in thought. Her half-mourning dress was in harmony with the gloom of the room: it consisted of a dark cotton bonnet and a fringed velvet cape; a huge bunch of keys jingled behind his belt; a tulle cap with dark ribbons covered the hair of a woman, black with grey.
A girl and an old man were sitting at the window covered with serpentine, facing each other. The contrast of years sharply showed youth, full of life, and mild old age. Despite the completely childish dress of the girl, she could safely be given sixteen years old. A chintz, faded, light-colored dress with short sleeves that showed plump and beautiful hands, and a little white baby cape could not hide the lush shoulders. The girl was combed a la chinoise. (V chinese style (French)) Her slightly wavy hair was pulled up, revealing a beautiful forehead and temples. Her braid, very thick, descended low to the back of her head, on which naturally small puffs curled. The head was so gracefully placed on her beautiful shoulders that it involuntarily attracted attention. The features of the face were small, except for the eyes, clear and bold; but in outline beautiful lips, despite the still childish expression of his whole face, so much energy was already expressed that you could not help guessing about the strength of character. Harmony dominated the whole figure of the girl, from her fiery eyes to her beautiful fingers, with which she worked with beads on paper - an occupation invented for the loss of sight.
The old man was very vertically challenged: almost all of him could sit down in Voltaire's faded armchairs. His face was meek, his features small, but, despite his decrepitude, they still retained their shape. From under the white knitted cap with which his head was covered, sparse long gray hair fell and lay on the collar of a calico dressing gown. Huge glasses almost covered his entire small face. On his knees lay a book, and on the window beside him a snuff box and a pink checkered handkerchief.
Silence was languid all around in the house; only one measured-heavy tread, now drowned out by the pendulum's strike, now echoing it, resounded monotonously around the hall. An attentive eye, however, would have noticed a small comedy that was silently played out in the midst of a general silence. Just tall woman she turned her back to the windows, as a girl took her head off her work and looked behind the screens that stood by the window. The old man did the same. They smiled as they looked out the window; at times the girl could hardly contain her laughter. But as soon as the tall woman reached the door opposite the windows and turned around, the girl and the old man fearfully turned to their studies; their faces quickly assumed a serious expression.
The attention of the old man and the girl was attracted by a tall boy standing at the windows in the garden ... however, he could only be called a boy by his costume, and even by the grimaces and jumps that he now made. His broad shoulders were enclosed in a narrow blue cloth jacket, the sleeves of which barely reached the wrists of his muscular arms. On the postponed collar of the shirt fell light blond long hair. He was rather tall in stature and generally had the appearance of an undergrowth. His cheeks burned with a bright blush, sweat rolled in hail from his open forehead; but he did not notice anything and diligently grimaced and broke down. However, his pranks, which so occupied the old man and the girl, were destined to end soon.
The tall woman accidentally, before reaching the door, turned her head and took the old man and the girl by surprise. As if sensing the keen eyes fixed on them, they both shuddered and bowed their heads, one to the book, the other to the work. With a sarcastic smile, the tall woman silently left the hall through the side door. The girl exchanged expressive glances with the old man and timidly listened to the knock of the door in the next room, which opened onto the terrace. A minute later a tall woman returned to the hall; out of breath, she dragged after her the prankster, caught unawares in the garden - he reluctantly followed her, leaning against her with his whole body. With all the strength of your tall and powerful shoulders, she seated the boy on a chair by the wing and said menacingly:
- - I'm waiting, waiting for him, I think - still in class, and he deigns to grimace like some buffoon. - And, with a contemptuous mien, turning to the old man, who, like a schoolboy, buried himself in a book, she added: - - Aren't you ashamed?
Then, quickly turning her head away, she approached the girl, who bowed her head low over her work, ready to accept the storm that was already gravitating over her.
- And you, ma'am! exclaimed the tall woman, badly concealing her anger, and yet trying to make her voice more even. if only out of delicacy, if there is no gratitude in you, they obeyed your benefactors. They would not yawn at the windows, but would work.
Pouring out her anger in this way, the tall woman came closer and closer to the girl. Holding back rapid breathing, a poor girl she compressed her lips, on which a smile seemed to wander; her cheeks burned, and with a trembling hand she caught the bead, which stubbornly dodged it.
- - I will teach you a lesson, madam, I will make you not smile, but cry when you are told the case. Taken from the mercy...
Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov (November 28 (December 10) ( 18211210 ) , Nemirov - December 27, 1877 (January 8), St. Petersburg) - Russian poet, writer and publicist.
Birth
Belonged to the nobility, once rich family Yaroslavl province (in our time - Yaroslavl region); was born in Vinnitsa district, Podolsk province, where at that time he quartered the regiment in which Nekrasov's father served. He was a man who had experienced a lot in his lifetime. He was not spared by the Nekrasovs' family weakness - a love of cards (Sergey Nekrasov, the poet's grandfather, lost almost all his fortune in cards). In the life of the poet, the cards also belonged big role, but he played happily and often said that fate does only its due, returning to the family through the grandson what it took away through the grandfather. A passionate and passionate man, Alexei Sergeevich Nekrasov really liked women. He was loved by Elena Andreevna Zakrevskaya, a Varshavian, daughter of a wealthy holder of the Kherson Governorate. Parents did not agree to marry a well-bred daughter to a poor, poorly educated army officer; the marriage took place without their consent. He wasn't happy. Referring to childhood memories, the poet always spoke of his mother as a sufferer, a victim of a rough and depraved environment. In a number of poems, especially in " Latest songs”, in the poem “Mother” and in “Knight for an Hour”, Nekrasov painted a bright image of the one who brightened up the unattractive environment of his childhood with her noble personality. The charm of memories of his mother was reflected in the work of Nekrasov by his unusual participation in female lobe. None of the Russian poets has done so much for the apotheosis of wives and mothers, as precisely the harsh and "allegedly callous" representative of the "muse of revenge and sorrow."
early years
USSR stamp, 1971
Nekrasov's childhood passed in family estate Nekrasov, the village of Greshnev, Yaroslavl province and county, where father Alexei Sergeevich Nekrasov (1788-1862), having retired, moved. A huge family (Nekrasov had 13 brothers and sisters [only three survived - two brothers and a sister]), neglected cases and a number of processes on the estate forced Nekrasov's father to take the place of police officer. When traveling, he often took with him little Nicholas, and the arrival of the police officer in the village always marks something unhappy: dead body, knocking out arrears, etc. - and a lot, thus, lay in the sensitive soul of the boy of sad pictures of national grief.
The funeral of Nekrasov, which took place by itself without any organization, was the first case of a nationwide return of the last honors to the writer. Already at the very funeral of Nekrasov, a fruitless dispute began, or rather continued, about the relationship between him and the two the greatest representatives Russian poetry - Pushkin and Lermontov. Dostoevsky, who said a few words at the open grave of Nekrasov, put (with certain reservations) these names side by side, but several young voices interrupted him with shouts: "Nekrasov is higher than Pushkin and Lermontov." The dispute went into print: some supported the opinion of young enthusiasts, others pointed out that Pushkin and Lermontov were spokesmen for the entire Russian society, and Nekrasov - only one "circle"; finally, others indignantly rejected the very idea of a parallel between creativity, which brought Russian verse to the pinnacle of artistic perfection, and Nekrasov's "clumsy" verse, as if devoid of any artistic significance.
The meaning of creativity
All these points of view are not one-sided. The significance of Nekrasov is the result of a number of conditions that created both his charm and those fierce attacks to which he was subjected both during his lifetime and after his death. From the point of view of the elegance of verse, Nekrasov not only cannot be placed next to Pushkin and Lermontov, but is inferior even to some minor poets. None of our great Russian poets has so many verses that are downright bad from all points of view; he himself bequeathed many poems not to be included in the collection of his works.
Nekrasov is not sustained even in his masterpieces: and in them the prosaic, sluggish and awkward verse suddenly hurts the ear. Between the poets of the “civilian” direction there are poets who are much higher than Nekrasov in terms of technique: Pleshcheev is elegant, Minaev is a virtuoso of verse.
But it is precisely the comparison with these poets, who were not inferior to Nekrasov in “liberalism”, that shows that the secret of the enormous, hitherto unprecedented influence that Nekrasov’s poetry had on a number of Russian generations is not in civic feelings alone. Its source is that, not always reaching external manifestations artistry, Nekrasov none of the greatest artists The Russian word is not inferior in strength. From whatever side you approach Nekrasov, he never leaves you indifferent and always excites.
And if we understand “art” as the sum of impressions leading to the final effect, then Nekrasov is a profound artist: he expressed the mood of one of the most remarkable moments of Russian historical life. The main source of strength achieved by Nekrasov is precisely that the opponents, taking a narrowly aesthetic point of view, especially reproached him - in his "one-sidedness". Only this one-sidedness was in complete harmony with the melody of the "unkind and sad" muse, to whose voice Nekrasov listened from the first moments of his conscious existence.
Nekrasov's first long poem, "Sasha", which opens with a magnificent lyrical introduction - a song of joy about returning to his homeland - belongs to the best images jaded by the reflection of the people of the 1840s, people who “roam the world, looking for gigantic things for themselves, since the legacy of rich fathers freed them from small labors”, for whom “love is more worried about the head - not blood”, for whom “what the last book says, then on the soul from above and will lie down. Written before Turgenev's "Rudin", Nekrasov's "Sasha" (), in the person of the hero of the poem Agarin, was the first to note many essential features of the Rudin type.
In the face of the heroine, Sasha, Nekrasov too before Turgenev brought out a nature striving for the light, the main outlines of its psychology reminiscent of Elena from "On the Eve". The poem "Unfortunate" () is scattered and motley, and therefore not clear enough in the first part; but in the second, where in the person of Mole, exiled for an unusual crime, Nekrasov, in part, brought out Dostoevsky, there are strong and expressive stanzas.
The fierce singer of grief and suffering completely transformed, became surprisingly gentle, soft, and gentle, as soon as it came to women and children. later folk epic Nekrasov - a huge poem written in an extremely original size “Who in Rus' should live well" (-) already in its size alone (about 5000 verses) the author could not quite succeed.
There is a lot of jokes in it, a lot of anti-artistic exaggeration and thickening of colors, but there are also many places of amazing power and accuracy of expression. The best thing about the poem are separate, episodically inserted songs and ballads. The best, last part of the poem, “A Feast for the Whole World”, is especially rich in them, ending with the famous words: “you are poor, you are abundant, you are powerful, you are powerless, Mother Rus'” and with a cheerful exclamation: “in slavery, the saved heart is free , gold, gold, people's heart. Another poem by Nekrasov, “Russian Women” (-), is also not fully sustained, but its end - Volkonskaya's meeting with her husband in the mine - belongs to the most touching scenes of all Russian literature.
Nekrasov's lyricism arose on the grateful soil of burning and strong passions who owned it, and a sincere consciousness of their moral imperfection. To a certain extent living soul it was his “guilts” that saved Nekrasov, about which he often spoke, referring to the portraits of friends who “reproachfully from the walls” looked at him. His moral shortcomings gave him a living and immediate source of impulsive love and a thirst for purification.
The strength of Nekrasov's appeals is psychologically explained by what he did in moments of sincere repentance. In none of our writers did repentance play such an outstanding role as in Nekrasov's. He is the only Russian poet who has developed this purely Russian trait. Who forced this "practitioner" to speak with such force about his moral falls, why did he have to expose himself from such an unfavorable side and indirectly confirm gossip and stories? But obviously it was stronger than him. The poet conquered the practical man; he felt that repentance evokes the best pearls from the bottom of his soul and - he surrendered himself entirely to a spiritual impulse. But to repentance, Nekrasov owes his best work - “Knight for an Hour”, which alone would be enough to create a first-class poetic reputation. And the famous "Vlas" also got out of a mood that deeply felt the cleansing power of repentance. This also adjoins the magnificent poem “When from the darkness of delusion I called out a fallen soul”, which even such critics who were not well disposed towards Nekrasov as Almazov and Apollon Grigoriev 1878 spoke with enthusiasm.
The description of the lake in the novel matches its sinister purpose. Dead calmness and gloomy solemnity are present in it: “There were mountains around the lake, on three sides, as if serving as a fence; covered with rare spruce bushes and trees, they gave this place the appearance of a fortress, in which the surface of the water was eternally smooth, like a mirror. Huge trees, leaning towards the water, cast terrible shadows on it, and the arms of the lake, endlessly meandering, shone somewhere in the distance between the dense forest. A kind of despondency spread around the lake, which was calm even in a storm. The wind raging on the mountains, howling, as if afraid to disturb the calmness of the lake; only the tops of the trees swayed slowly and filled the air with a strange rumble. The gloomy and sprawling spruce forest stood motionless, stretching its long boughs towards the lake, as if trying to protect it from the sun. Sedge, reeds of terrible height bordered the lake, and emerald moss in the form of grass treacherously hid between the bushes of the spruce forest. Of course, it would be useless for researchers of Nekrasov's work to look for a similar lake in the Yaroslavl province. Artistic description is generalized. However, we venture to suggest that in the life of the poet " dead lake' still existed. It is still located five kilometers from former estate Nekrasov Greshnevo and is called Ivanov or Ivanovsky. It happened on July 23, 1834. From the meager testimony recorded in the Yaroslavl district court, it was possible to learn that on this day, at six o'clock in the evening, the poet's father Alexei Sergeevich went with his sons, a student of the Yaroslavl gymnasium Fyodor Alekseevich Uspensky, taken on vacation as a tutor for Nikolai and Andrei Nekrasov , and two yards for hunting. Having reached the lake and taking one of the two guns, Fyodor Uspensky lagged behind the Nekrasovy fathoms by a hundred (about 213 meters). Soon a shot rang out, and, looking around, the poet's father saw that Uspensky was "walking along a shallow place in the lake." As if sensing something was wrong, the Nekrasovs turned back and "soon heard a cry and, running there, saw Uspensky, completely dying in the water." Having quickly undressed, Aleksey Sergeevich, not knowing how to swim himself, rushed into the water to help the young man and had almost reached him, when he himself began to sink. With great difficulty, the Greshnev landowner got ashore. All this happened in front of the Nekrasov brothers and one of the courtyards. Having called the peasants and having brought the raft, the Nekrasovs deep night searched for Ouspensky's body. The incident was reported to the sots of the villages of Timokhin and Dievo-Gorodishcha. On the fourth day, the body of the young man floated to the surface of the lake and was probably buried in the village of Nikolo-ramenye, Poshekhonsky district, where the schoolboy was from. Since no perpetrators of the tragedy were found, it was decided "to give this case to the judgment of God, and the case, having been considered resolved, to give it to the archive." In the novel "Dead Lake" there is an episode when the landowner Kuratov and his courtyards are looking for the body of a gypsy who committed suicide in the lake: look for a gypsy There were tears in his voice. He called the gypsy by name, as if thinking of calling her from the bottom of the lake, which was lit by thousands of torches and bonfires located on the shore to warm themselves by throwing themselves into the lake. The whisper of people who seemed to be afraid to drown out Kuratov’s voice, the majestic calm of nature - everything was full of despondency and horror ... ”It is quite possible that Nekrasov’s memories of that July night formed the basis of this episode. By the way, the image of the landowner Kuratov partly reminds us of the poet's father. Having become the culprit of the death of a gypsy, this hero, pursued by pangs of conscience, soon dies in the lake himself. And yet, there is much unclear in the materials of the case about the death of Fyodor Uspensky. So, for example, they say that a young man, having decided to get a shot duck, "through his negligence swam into a deep place of the lake and, having exhausted his strength, could not save himself from drowning." However, for some reason, the witnesses do not report about the things left by the schoolboy on the shore. It turns out that Ouspensky went after the game with a gun, a bag in which there were charges, and in clothes, and this is unlikely. A hint about the circumstances of the death of the young man, in our opinion, can be found in the dialogue of the heroes of the novel “Dead Lake”: “When they went ashore, the dapper gentleman, shaking the water off himself, said: - Wow! which cold water! And for sure: I noticed that there are whirlpools in the lake, and they are pulling down. - And how many of them, and even at the very shores! And whoever does not know this lake, swims to the shore and thinks that the earth will rise and fall. Here and at the house you can only go to the lake, otherwise it’s all a swamp, - the gypsy orated, while the bather squeezed out his coat. Apparently, the high school student Uspensky did not swim after the duck, but fell into one of the so-called whirlpools. It happened, probably so unexpectedly for him, that he, having lost his self-control, died. N. A. Nekrasov never remembered the death of Fyodor Uspensky. But his death, of course, could not but affect the mind of the poet, who, as you know, grew up as a very vulnerable and impressionable boy. It is possible that he felt guilty towards the young man. In any case, the water element attracted the poet to itself like a magnet. Sometimes he even tested his fate. So one day, according to E. Ya. Kolbasin, he, not knowing how to swim, to prove his love to a woman, threw himself from a boat in the middle of the Volga and only by a lucky chance was saved by his companions. The novel "Dead Lake" has a completely happy ending. The young generation of nobles showed their economic abilities in full splendor: they drained the swamps near the lake, skillfully turned the impregnable forest into beautiful park. “The lake lost its frightening mystery and only according to legend kept its gloomy name,” such was the utopia of Nikolai Nekrasov. The real Ivanovo Lake still has winding and swampy shores. And only fishermen sometimes visit him, unaware of the tragedy that happened here many years ago. Grigory KRASILNIKOV, head of the Abbakumtsevo branch of the N. A. Nekrasov Museum-Reserve "Karabikha".
Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov, Avdotya Yakovlevna Panaeva
dead lake
Part one
Summer evening
Four o'clock in the afternoon; the day is hot, but the air is clean and fragrant. The sun diligently heats the dark gray walls of a large, clumsy house, standing far from the other village huts. One thing can be said about its architecture: it was probably unfinished when it was covered with a roof. The windows, small and sparse, are tightly closed. The house also has a garden; but it does not protect him at all from the sun; except for lilac bushes and acacias, no trees are visible in it. However, it contains everything necessary for a village garden: a covered avenue of acacias, with an arbor, a few decrepit benches placed on badly swept paths; to the side are ridges with strawberries, and bushes of currants and raspberries stretch along the fence. A half-decayed terrace, with columns and white-painted wooden railings, leads out into the garden, and a path leads from it; it descends to a small river, which is all covered with marsh lilies and other herbs. A narrow bridge in Chinese style is thrown across the river. Those who cross it need to have a sufficient supply of courage, because in some places the boards rotted, and the rest jumped at the touch. But he was richly rewarded for his courage when he suddenly found himself in a beautiful forest instead of a dull, bare garden. Huge trees here replaced the gazebo and covered alley, green soft grass with flowers - rotten wooden benches. Here everything breathed so cheerfully and luxuriously, as if not a small river, but a whole sea separated two gardens.
Entering the house, we will see one of the main rooms, unusually wide and low, with a floor painted with thick brown paint, with a sooty ceiling, with furniture in which every thing testifies to the old age and the deprivation of comforts. High chairs, painted white, with a bouquet of roses on the back, with straw cushions tied to the seat, huddled tightly next to each other, fringing the walls. In the middle of the room is a round dining table with countless thin legs, resembling a huge petrified spider. In the corner opposite the windows there is a massive outbuilding in a clumsy cover made of thick gray cloth. On the smoky yellow wall is a barometer mounted in ebony. In one corner there was a wall clock with pood weights, which, due to their hugeness, were more suitable to decorate the tower of a knight's castle than the dining room of a peaceful peasant.
To the monotonous beat of the pendulum, an elderly woman walked around the room, with a pale and stern face. In her large and irregular features there was a complete absence of the slightest tenderness. Throwing her hands back, she walked with a heavy step, lost in thought. Her half-mourning dress was in harmony with the gloom of the room: it consisted of a dark cotton bonnet and a fringed velvet cape; a huge bunch of keys jingled behind his belt; a tulle cap with dark ribbons covered the hair of a woman, black with grey.
A girl and an old man were sitting at the window covered with serpentine, facing each other. The contrast of years sharply showed youth, full of life, and meek old age. Despite the completely childish dress of the girl, she could safely be given sixteen years old. A chintz, faded, light-colored dress with short sleeves that showed plump and beautiful hands, and a little white baby cape could not hide the magnificent shoulders. The girl was combed a la chinoise. (Chinese style (French)) Her slightly wavy hair was pulled up, revealing a beautiful forehead and temples. Her braid, very thick, descended low to the back of her head, on which naturally small puffs curled. The head was so gracefully placed on her beautiful shoulders that it involuntarily attracted attention. The features of the face were small, except for the eyes, clear and bold; and in the outline of her beautiful lips, in spite of the still childish expression of her whole face, so much energy was already expressed that you could not help guessing about the strength of character. Harmony dominated the whole figure of the girl, from her fiery eyes to her beautiful fingers, with which she worked with beads on paper - an occupation invented for the loss of sight.
The old man was very small in stature: he could almost all sit down in Voltaire's faded armchairs. His face was meek, his features small, but, despite his decrepitude, they still retained their shape. From under the white knitted cap with which his head was covered, sparse long gray hair fell and lay on the collar of a calico dressing gown. Huge glasses almost covered his entire small face. On his knees lay a book, and on the window beside him a snuff box and a pink checkered handkerchief.
Silence was languid all around in the house; only one measured-heavy tread, now drowned out by the pendulum's strike, now echoing it, resounded monotonously around the hall. An attentive eye, however, would have noticed a small comedy that was silently played out in the midst of a general silence. As soon as the tall woman turned her back to the windows, the girl took her head off her work and looked behind the screens that stood by the window. The old man did the same. They smiled as they looked out the window; at times the girl could hardly contain her laughter. But as soon as the tall woman reached the door opposite the windows and turned around, the girl and the old man fearfully turned to their studies; their faces quickly assumed a serious expression.
The attention of the old man and the girl was attracted by a tall boy standing at the windows in the garden ... however, he could only be called a boy by his costume, and even by the grimaces and jumps that he now made. His broad shoulders were enclosed in a narrow blue cloth jacket, the sleeves of which barely reached the wrists of his muscular arms. Light blond long hair fell down the collar of his shirt. He was rather tall in stature and generally had the appearance of an undergrowth. His cheeks burned with a bright blush, sweat rolled in hail from his open forehead; but he did not notice anything and diligently grimaced and broke down. However, his pranks, which so occupied the old man and the girl, were destined to end soon.
dead lake
Thank you for downloading the book for free. electronic library http://nekrasovnikolai.ru/ Enjoy reading! Dead lake. Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov, Avdotya Yakovlevna Panaeva Part One Chapter I Summer Evening Four o'clock in the afternoon; the day is hot, but the air is clean and fragrant. The sun diligently heats the dark gray walls of a large, clumsy house, standing far from the other village huts. One thing can be said about its architecture: it was probably unfinished when it was covered with a roof. The windows, small and sparse, are tightly closed. The house also has a garden; but it does not protect him at all from the sun; except for lilac bushes and acacias, no trees are visible in it. However, it contains everything necessary for a village garden: a covered avenue of acacias, with an arbor, a few decrepit benches placed on badly swept paths; aside - ridges with strawberries, and bushes of currants and raspberries stretch along the fence. A half-decayed terrace, with columns and white-painted wooden railings, leads out into the garden, and a path leads from it; it descends to a small river, which is all covered with marsh lilies and other herbs. A narrow bridge in Chinese style is thrown across the river. Those who cross it need to have a sufficient supply of courage, because in some places the boards rotted, and the rest jumped at the touch. But he was richly rewarded for his courage when he suddenly found himself in a beautiful forest instead of a dull, bare garden. Huge trees replaced the gazebo and covered alley here, green soft grass with flowers - rotten wooden benches. Here everything breathed so cheerfully and luxuriously, as if not a small river, but a whole sea separated two gardens. Entering the house, we will see one of the main rooms, unusually wide and low, with a floor painted with thick brown paint, with a sooty ceiling, with furniture in which every thing testifies to the old age and the deprivation of comforts. High chairs, painted white, with a bouquet of roses on the back, with straw cushions tied to the seat, huddled tightly next to each other, fringing the walls. In the middle of the room is a round dining table with countless thin legs, resembling a huge petrified spider. In the corner opposite the windows there is a massive outbuilding in a clumsy cover made of thick gray cloth. On the smoky yellow wall is a barometer framed in ebony. In one corner there was a wall clock with pood weights, which, due to their hugeness, were more suitable to decorate the tower of a knight's castle than the dining room of a peaceful peasant. To the monotonous beat of the pendulum, an elderly woman walked around the room, with a pale and stern face. In her large and irregular features there was a complete absence of the slightest tenderness. Throwing her hands back, she walked with a heavy step, lost in thought. Her half-mourning dress was in harmony with the gloom of the room: it consisted of a dark cotton bonnet and a fringed velvet cape; a huge bunch of keys jingled behind his belt; a tulle cap with dark ribbons covered the hair of a woman, black with grey. A girl and an old man were sitting at the window covered with serpentine, facing each other. The contrast of years sharply showed youth, full of life, and meek old age. Despite the completely childish dress of the girl, she could safely be given sixteen years old. A chintz, faded, light-colored dress with short sleeves that showed plump and beautiful hands, and a little white baby cape could not hide the magnificent shoulders. The girl was combed a la chinoise. (Chinese-style (French)) Her slightly wavy hair was pulled up, revealing a beautiful forehead and temples. Her braid, very thick, descended low to the back of her head, on which naturally small puffs curled. The head was so gracefully placed on her beautiful shoulders that it involuntarily attracted attention. The features of the face were small, except for the eyes, clear and bold; and in the outline of her beautiful lips, in spite of the still childish expression of her whole face, so much energy was already expressed that you could not help guessing about the strength of character. Harmony dominated the entire figure of the girl, from her fiery eyes to her beautiful fingers, with which she worked with beads on paper, - occupation , invented for the loss of vision. The old man was very small in stature: he could almost all sit down in Voltaire's faded armchairs. His face was meek, his features small, but, despite his decrepitude, they still retained their shape. From under the white knitted cap with which his head was covered, sparse long gray hair fell and lay on the collar of a calico dressing gown. Huge glasses almost covered his entire small face. On his lap lay a book, and on the window beside him was a snuff box and a pink checkered handkerchief. Silence was languid all around in the house; only one measured-heavy tread, now drowned out by the pendulum's strike, now echoing it, resounded monotonously around the hall. An attentive eye, however, would have noticed a small comedy that was silently played out in the midst of a general silence. As soon as the tall woman turned her back to the windows, the girl took her head off her work and looked behind the screens that stood by the window. The old man did the same. They smiled as they looked out the window; at times the girl could hardly contain her laughter. But as soon as the tall woman reached the door opposite the windows and turned around, the girl and the old man fearfully turned to their studies; their faces quickly assumed a serious expression. The attention of the old man and the girl was attracted by a tall boy standing at the windows in the garden ... however, he could only be called a boy by his costume, and even by the grimaces and jumps that he now made. His broad shoulders were enclosed in a narrow blue cloth jacket, the sleeves of which barely reached the wrists of his muscular arms. Light blond long hair fell down the collar of his shirt. He was rather tall in stature and generally had the appearance of an undergrowth. His cheeks burned with a bright blush, sweat rolled in hail from his open forehead; but he did not notice anything and diligently grimaced and broke down. However, his pranks, which so occupied the old man and the girl, were destined to end soon. The tall woman accidentally, before reaching the door, turned her head and took the old man and the girl by surprise. As if sensing the keen eyes fixed on them, they both shuddered and bowed their heads, one to the book, the other to work. With a sarcastic smile, the tall woman silently left the hall through the side door. The girl exchanged expressive glances with the old man and timidly listened to the knock of the door in the next room, which opened onto the terrace. A minute later a tall woman returned to the hall; out of breath, she dragged after her the prankster, caught unawares in the garden - he reluctantly followed her, resting his whole body. With all the strength of her tall stature and powerful shoulders, she seated the boy on a chair by the wing and said menacingly: - I'm waiting, waiting for him, I think - still in the classroom, and he deigns to grimace like some buffoon. - And, with a contemptuous mien, turning to the old man, who, like a schoolboy, buried himself in a book, she added: - Aren't you ashamed? Then, quickly turning her head away, she approached the girl, who bowed her head low over her work, ready to accept the storm that was already gravitating over her. - And you, ma'am! exclaimed the tall woman, badly hiding her anger and, however, trying to make her voice evener. if only out of delicacy, if there is no gratitude in you, they obeyed your benefactors. They would not yawn at the windows, but would work. Pouring out her anger in this way, the tall woman came closer and closer to the girl. Holding back her accelerated breathing, the poor girl pressed her lips together, on which a smile seemed to wander; her cheeks burned, and with a trembling hand she caught the bead, which stubbornly dodged it. The tall woman's voice rose steadily, her face flushed with anger. She continued: “I will teach you a lesson, madam, I will make you not smile, but cry when you are told the business. Taken from the milos... But then it was interrupted by a strong thud of the wing cover and a wild cry: it was a young man who was yelling, biting his hand and jumping up and down. The tall woman rushed towards him; in a moment the anger vanished from her face, replaced by fright. She anxiously looked at the boy, repeating: - - All your pranks! And she wanted to touch his hand; but he cried out wildly: "Ai, it hurts!" - and dodged. – - Water cold and vinegar, rather, rather! the tall woman said abruptly, handing a bunch of keys to a girl who ran up to her. Water and vinegar were brought, and a bruised hand young man tied. Five minutes later he was sitting round table behind a book, and a tall woman against him with yard-long needles with which she knitted a woolen scarf. Silence reigned in the room, broken, however, very soon by a strong blow, which the boy awarded himself on the forehead, chasing an annoying fly. His unexpected trick made the girl laugh; but her laughter was interrupted by the menacing look of a tall woman and the imperative exclamation: - - Read aloud! The young man obeyed. But he read first in a bass voice and unusually quickly, then he squeaked, distorting the German words (he read in German) so hilariously that, except for the tall woman, everyone could hardly restrain themselves from laughing. Having lost her patience, she snatched the book away from him and, throwing it away, said menacingly: - Wait, my dear, you stop amusing my sloth, let him come! It seemed that this threat had an effect on the rascal: he leaned on the table with his hands, pulled into the narrow and short sleeves of the jacket, laid his head on them and began to humbly look at the flies running around the table. Everyone was deep in their studies; the girl accidentally raised her head and met the eyes of the young man: laughter flashed like lightning on their faces; she suppressed him with a cough, and he burst into a hysterical burst of laughter. The tall woman and the old man started; throwing aside her knitting and folding her hands, the first stared in bewilderment at the laughing youth, who was covering his mouth with his aching hand. - What are you laughing at? she asked passionately. He jumped up and drummed on the table with his bandaged hand. - - Ah-ah-ah! you seem to have all the pain gone from laughter? - said a caustically tall woman and, examining his hand, with her heart pushed the rascal to the wing, grumbling: - Dare to deceive! But he did not let up: sitting behind the wing, he continually blew his nose and coughed forcibly, glancing askance at the girl. - - You seem to have decided to piss me off today; but you won't succeed - get out of here!! said the tall woman commandingly. There was so much strength and firmness in her voice that the young man lowered his eyes, but, nevertheless, did not move from his place. - - I'm telling you! she added impatiently. - - I'm guilty, I won't do it again! - he answered in a submissive voice and took a chord. - - I don't want to hear your apologies! said the tall woman in a meeker voice, and, turning her back to the wing, began to knit. The young man played with great animation; a lot of mechanical labor was also visible in his game. He played one of Beethoven's sonatas. It was hard to believe that it was the same naughty who in a minute
