Rated the book
A wonderful Russian classic... even with a bunch of flaws, for me it's still a GREAT RUSSIAN CLASSIC.
I read, enjoyed, savored, stretched out the pleasure as best I could. This incredibly cozy charming style of writing, these heroes, their stories and destinies - this is my reading from the first to the last letter.
Meanwhile, the novel is not at all perfect, and its flaws are obvious even to the most uncritical reader.
Perhaps the most obvious shortcoming is the apparent underdevelopment of the novel, so to speak. There are a lot of gaps in the plot, pieces of many stories fall into nowhere, many lines break off, characters playing a prominent role in the narrative suddenly simply disappear from the pages, some links are missing.
It is very noticeable that the novel was written for the magazine, when the first chapters are already in print, and the last ones have not even been invented yet. It is quite natural that as you write, there is a need to correct something or add to the previously published one, but this is no longer possible. This is probably why the stories of many characters seem crumpled, not detailed, even drawn in and a little illogical. I would not say that this moment greatly spoiled the impression, but the feeling of incompleteness remained. I wanted more details about Petrusha, and about the laundress Nastasya Kirillovna with her grandchildren, and about the blind music teacher, and not only about them ... A lot interesting characters in the novel, but often their fates are only touched upon in passing and seem to be forgotten, and yet they are assigned a certain (sometimes significant) role in the narrative. It's a pity...
You can also blame the novel for being too dramatic, for excessive wringing of hands, sobbing sobs and other hysterical manifestations for the sake of the female half of the readers. But what melodramatic classic does without it?
There are some other little things that you can find fault with, but against the general background, they really do not deserve any attention. Because even if one can call the construction of the plot not the most successful, the numerous advantages of the novel still more than compensate for any shortcomings.
Delightful descriptions of Russian nature, lively and spectacular images of the life of various strata Russian society, interesting characters, amazing dialogues ... And all this without any tediousness and unnecessary verbosity, often inherent in literature of this kind.
So beautiful and attractive that a few hours after the final lines of the novel, when I had already started reading another (very good, at first glance) book, I suddenly caught myself thinking that I miss ... I miss " dead lake", according to his unhurried addictive syllable, according to his atmosphere of the captivating Russianness of the sample mid-nineteenth century. For me, this book turned out to be the kind of reading that brings pleasure to the process itself, when you don’t expect the ending (and don’t want it), but simply enjoy what is written.
Rated the book
Coming as a child on vacation to his grandmother in a private house there was nothing special for me to read there in the pre-Internet-pre-tablet-pre-computer era, the old issues of the Rabotnitsa magazine, there were one or two books and counted. But one book I read, an old, shabby volume without a cover, thick, with yellowed pages. Recently, I remembered this thoroughly forgotten book and decided to find out what I read in my childhood about the nobility of the 19th century. I only remembered that the name contained the word lake, and that there was a girl, Lyuba, who later became an actress.
I had to reformulate and clarify my request to comrade Google several times, until he finally understood me and gave me as an option: "Dead Lake", N.A. Nekrasov. Nekrasov? So it was Nekrasov? Alas and ah, shame on my gray hair, but all my life I thought that Nekrasov was a poet and only a poet.
When re-reading many years later, the magic that I felt in childhood did not arise for me, but nevertheless I read the book with pleasure. I cannot call this book a masterpiece of world literature, I have some vague feeling that this is such a mass market of the 19th century for exalted ladies "to cry and suffer." Such a book was probably secretly read at night by young schoolgirls ....
But a master is a master, and Nekrasov cannot write badly, even when he writes a novel purely for the needs of the public. Bright characters, good language, family secrets, revenge, old grievances, broken fates, is read quite fascinatingly and with interest.
By the way, in the 19th century, the profession of an actress was not at all considered cherished dream girls like now. In the classics, this is described repeatedly, the actresses mostly went out of hopelessness, after the ruin of the family, the acting profession was slightly above the plinth in prestige, among the most categorical the word "actress" was almost equal to the words "kept woman" or something worse. Yes, there were a few stars who were in a special position, but most of the actors, especially provincial theaters, eked out a rather miserable existence.
While reading the book, I constantly had the thought: "Why are they all so nervous there"? Maybe we have become stronger after a couple of centuries, but these are endless: "Ah, he/he cried out wringing his hands", "She/he had a nervous attack", "He/she staggered and fell unconscious on the hands of such and such" and "He/she became ill" meet every couple of pages :-)).
And so, I recommend the book to those who want to get to know Nekrasov as a prose writer, or when they want something "romantic" and "sensitive" of the 19th century.
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. Dining room in the middle round 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 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 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 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.
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 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 form. 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.
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...
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".
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 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 form. 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.
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 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 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 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.
- - 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...
