The garden has faded and dressed all day the nightingale sang in the garden. Make a sentence with the word "nightingale" in different meanings

The garden faded and dressed, the nightingale sang in the garden all day, the lower frames of the windows in my room were raised all day, which became even dearer to me than the old one, these windows, made up of small squares, a dark oak ceiling, oak armchairs and the same bed with smooth and sloping dumps.

The nights were moonlit, and I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night at its deepest hour, when even the nightingale did not sing.

And all the time, blissfully bored, day by day, here and there, one or another nightingale chirped.

A nightingale chirped drowsily somewhere, and the scent of mignonette wafted indistinctly from the flower garden by the balcony.

In the garden the nightingale sang its last, pre-dawn song.

Lavretsky remembered that a nightingale sang in the Kalitins' garden too; he also remembered the quiet movement of Lisa's eyes when, at the first sound of it, they turned to the dark window.

In the Kalitins' garden, in a large lilac bush, lived a nightingale; his first evening sounds were heard in the intervals of eloquent speech; the first stars lit up in the rosy sky above the motionless tops of the lindens.

All was quiet in the room; only a faint crackle was heard wax candles; Yes, sometimes the knock of a hand on the table, Yes, an exclamation or counting points, Yes, a broad wave poured into the windows, along with a dewy coolness, a mighty, insolently ringing, song of a nightingale.

They were sitting near Marfa Timofeyevna and seemed to be following her game; Yes, they really followed her, - but meanwhile, each of them had a heart growing in their chest, and nothing was lost for them: the nightingale sang for them, and the stars burned, and the trees whispered softly, lulled by both sleep and the bliss of summer, and warmth.

Hor spoke little, chuckled and understood to himself; Kalinich explained himself with fervour, although he did not sing like a nightingale, like a brisk factory man.

It was already completely dark and beginning to get colder; a nightingale chirped loudly in the grove.

They walk in a shady grove and listen to the singing of a nightingale.

Porfiry Vladimirych felt that the holiday had arrived in his street, and he dispersed like a nightingale.

One must not think that Judas was a hypocrite in the sense of, for example, Tartuffe or any modern French bourgeois who crumbles like a nightingale over part of the social foundations.

Unconsciously staggering and bending over, she stood there for a quarter of an hour, and suddenly she imagined Lubinka, who, perhaps at that very moment, was pouring like a nightingale in some Kremenchug, among a merry company.

The thaw is the singing of the nightingale, the pensive whistle of the oriole, the awakening of all the sounds that fill the world of God, as if nature, all in sounds, is looking for and eager to pour out after a long forced silence; the thaw is the croaking of a crow, on a par with a nightingale rejoicing in the warmth.

Finally, the rivers turned blue and overflowed; the first young grass appeared in the field; frogs chirped in a nearby pond, a nightingale chirped in a nearby grove.

Then, jam, jam, jam, cream, cream, cream, at night let the nightingale in.

A general protest begins: the pedestal protests against the statue of Juno, the wasp against the eagle, the bullfinch against the nightingale, and most of all the author of the manuscript protests against the bad habit of protesting.

Ivan Timofeich was overflowing like a nightingale, telling the details of our miraculous conversion to the path of benevolence.

The former head of the nozzles, the new one - clicks like a nightingale.

The majestic thunder of the Ukrainian nightingale is pouring, and it seems that even the moon has heard it in the middle of the sky.

Everything was quiet; in the deep thicket of the forest only the rumbles of the nightingale were heard.

I remember this touched me a lot. What was most touching of all was the gradual return to life of her sister, the way she gradually comes to her senses, becomes calmer and simpler and already sometimes faintly smiles at the table at the stupid and sweet questions of the children, and Pyotr Petrovich and the father are restrained, but invariably affectionate and attentive to her. …

And surprisingly soon these sadly happy days flashed by for me. Having parted with Ankhen late in the evening, sweetly tormented by the endless farewell to her, I, having come home, immediately went into the office and fell asleep. dead sleep with the thought of tomorrow's date. In the morning I sat impatiently with a book in my hands in a sunny garden, waiting for the moment when I could again run across the river to take Ankhen somewhere for a walk. During these hours, the girls always walked with us, younger daughters Wiegand, but they always ran ahead, did not interfere with us ...

At noon, I returned home for dinner, after dinner I re-read Faust - and waited for the evening meeting ... In the evenings, a young moon shone in the lower gardens, nightingales sang mysteriously and cautiously. Ankhen sat on my knees, hugged me and I heard the beating of her heart, for the first time in my life I felt the blissful heaviness of a female body ...

She finally left. I have never wept so violently as I did that day. But with what tenderness, with what agony of the sweetest love for the world, for life, for body and soul human beauty which, without knowing it, Ankhen revealed to me, I wept!

And in the evening, when, already stupefied with tears and quiet, I again for some reason wandered across the river, the tarantass that was taking Ankhen to the station overtook me, and the coachman, stopping, handed me a number of the St. Petersburg magazine, in which I, about a month ago, sent poetry for the first time. I unfolded it on the move and, like lightning, the magic letters of my name struck me in the eyes ...

The next day, early in the morning, I went on foot to Baturino. At first I walked along a dry, already rolled dirt road, among a couple of arable lands shining in the morning, then through the Pisarev forest, sunny, light green, full of bird song in spring, last year's rotting foliage and the first lilies of the valley ... When I arrived in Baturin, my mother even threw up her hands, seeing my thinness and expression of cropped eyes. I kissed her, handed her the magazine and went to my room, staggering from fatigue and not recognizing the familiar house, marveling at how small and old it had become ...

That spring I was only sixteen years old. However, when I returned to Baturino, I had already completely established myself in the thought that my entry into a full, full-fledged adult life was over.

Even in the winter it seemed to me that I already knew a lot that is necessary for any adult person: both the structure of the universe and some kind of ice Age, and savages of the Stone Age, and the life of ancient peoples, and the invasion of Rome by barbarians, and Kievan Rus, and the discovery of America, and French Revolution, and Byronism, and romanticism, and people of the forties, and Zhelyabov, and Pobedonostsev, not to mention the many faces and fictional lives that have entered into me forever, with all their feelings and destinies, that is, all these, too, as if everyone needs Hamlets, Don Carlos, Childe Harolds, Onegins, Pechorins, Rudins, Bazarovs... Now my life experience seemed to me enormous. I returned mortally tired, but with a strong readiness to start living from now on some kind of completely “full” life. What was this life supposed to be? I thought that it was to experience, among all her impressions and my favorite deeds, as many as possible some high poetic joys, to which I considered myself even having some special right. “We entered life with wonderful hope…” I also entered it with wonderful hope… although what grounds did I have for that?

There was a feeling that I had “everything ahead”, a feeling of my youthful strength, bodily and mental health, some beauty of the face and great merits of constitution, freedom and confidence of movements, light and quick step, courage and dexterity - as, for example, I rode! There was a consciousness of his youthful purity, noble motives, truthfulness, contempt for all baseness. There was an elevated mental structure, both innate and acquired by reading poets who constantly spoke about the poet’s high purpose, that “poetry is God in the holy dreams of the earth”, that “art is a step towards better world". There was some kind of soul-lifting joy even in that bitter passion with which I repeated at other times something completely opposite - the caustic lines of Lermontov and Heine, the complaints of Faust, turning his dying, disappointed look to the moon outside the Gothic window, or cheerful , the shameless sayings of Mephistopheles ... But didn’t I sometimes realize that it’s not enough to have wings to fly, that wings also need air and their development?

I could not help feeling those very special feelings that all young men who write have already seen their name in print. But I could not help but know that one swallow does not make spring. My father, in moments of irritation, called me "a minor of the nobility"; I consoled myself with the fact that I was not the only one who learned "little by little, something and somehow"; but I well understood how dubious this consolation was. I was secretly (despite the fact that I was already infected, thanks to reading and brother George, many free opinions) I was still very proud that we were Arsenyevs. But I could not but remember at the same time our ever-growing poverty and the fact that carelessness towards it even reached some unnatural measure in us. I grew up and remained in the strange conviction that, with all the virtues of my brothers, especially George, I was nevertheless the main heir to all that wonderful thing that, with all his shortcomings, so unusually stood out for me from all the people I knew my father. But the father was no longer the same as before; he seemed to have given up on everything now, he was most often intoxicated - and what was I supposed to experience when I saw his constantly excited face, gray unshaven chin, majestically disheveled head, broken shoes, tattered arkhaluk of Sevastopol times? And what pain sometimes caused me thoughts about my aging mother, about the growing Olya! I often experienced cruel pity for myself, having dined, for example, with one okroshka and returning to my room, to my books and my only wealth - my grandfather's box made of Karelian birch, where all my most cherished things were kept: covered with "elegies" and "stanzas "sheets of gray, smelling of mint shag, paper, bought in our village shop ...

I sometimes thought about my father's youth: what a terrible difference from my youth! He had almost everything that befitted a happy youth of his environment, rank and needs, he grew up and lived in a carelessness quite natural in that still large nobility, which he so freely and calmly used, he knew no barriers to his young whims and desires, everywhere with every right and cheerful arrogance felt like Arseniev. And I had only a box made of Karelian birch, an old double-barreled shotgun, a thin Kabardinka, a worn-out Cossack saddle ...

How I sometimes wanted to be smart, shiny! And when I was going to visit, I had to put on the same gray jacket of brother Georgy, in which they had once taken him to prison in Kharkov and for which I secretly suffered from acute shame while visiting. I was deprived of a sense of ownership, but how I sometimes dreamed of wealth, of beautiful luxury, of all kinds of freedom and all the bodily and spiritual joys associated with them! I dreamed of distant travels, of extraordinary female beauty, about friendship with some imaginary wonderful young men, peers and comrades in aspirations, in heartfelt ardor and tastes ...

But didn’t I sometimes realize that my foot had never set foot further than our county town, that the whole world was still closed to me by long familiar fields and slopes, that I saw only peasants and women, that our entire circle of acquaintances was limited to two or three small local estates and Vasilevsky, and the shelter of all my dreams - my old corner room with rotting lifting frames and colored upper glass of two windows to the garden?

The garden faded and dressed, the nightingale sang in the garden all day, the lower frames of the windows in my room were raised all day, which became even dearer to me than the old one, these windows, made up of small squares, a dark oak ceiling, oak armchairs and the same bed with smooth and sloping dumps ... At first, all I did was lie with a book in my hands, either absently reading, or listening to the nightingale's clatter, thinking about that "full" life that I should live from now on, and sometimes unexpectedly falling asleep short and deep sleep, from which I woke up every time with a particularly fresh astonishment at the novelty and charm of the surroundings and wanted to eat so much that I jumped up and went either for jam to the pantry, that is, to an abandoned closet, the glass door of which opened into the hall, or for black bread into the people's room. , where it was always empty during the day - only Leonty lay in a dark corner on a hot and weedy stove, long and incredibly thin, densely overgrown with yellow bristles and all peeling from old age, a former grandmother's cook, who for many years for some reason defended his own from imminent death incomprehensible, completely cave existence ... Hopes for happiness, for happy life which is about to begin! But for this it is often enough to wake up like this after a sudden and short sleep and run for a crust of black bread or hear that they are calling to the balcony for tea, and after tea think that now you need to go saddle a horse and roll where your eyes look at the evening high road…

The nights were moonlit, and I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night at its deepest hour, when even the nightingale did not sing. There was such silence all over the world that I seemed to wake up from the excess of this silence. For a moment I was seized by fear, - Pisarev suddenly remembered, a tall shadow seemed to be near the door to the living room ... But after a moment this shadow was gone, only a simple corner was visible, darkening through the thin twilight of the room, and behind the open windows it shone and called into its bright silent kingdom lunar garden. And I got up, cautiously opened the door to the living room, saw in the twilight a portrait of my grandmother in a cap looking at me from the wall, looked into the hall where I spent so many wonderful hours in moonlit nights in winter ... it now seemed more mysterious and lower, because the moon, which went in the summer to the right of the house, did not look into it, and it itself became gloomier: the linden behind its northern windows, densely covered with foliage, closely blocked these windows with its dark huge tent ... to the balcony, every time I again and again, to bewilderment, even to some anguish, marveled at the beauty of the night: what is it and what to do with it!

I still experience something similar on nights like these. What happened then when all this was new, when there was such a sense of smell that the smell of dewy burdock differed from the smell of damp grass! The extraordinarily high triangle of spruce, illuminated by the moon only from one side, still ascended with its jagged tip into the transparent night sky, where several rare stars glowed, small, peaceful, and so infinitely distant and marvelous, truly Lord's, that I wanted to kneel and cross myself. on them. The empty clearing in front of the house was flooded with a strong and strange light. To the right, above the garden, the full moon shone in the clear and empty sky, with the slightly darkening reliefs of its deathly pale face filled with a bright, luminous whiteness from within. And she and I, now long known to each other, looked at each other for a long time, silently and silently expecting something from each other ... What? I only knew that something was missing for us with her ...

Then I walked with my shadow along the dewy, iridescent grass of the clearing, entered the motley twilight of the alley leading to the pond, and the moon obediently followed me. I walked, looking back - it, shining like a mirror and splitting, rolled through the black and in places brightly shining pattern of branches and leaves. I stood on a dewy slope towards a full-flowing pond, shining widely with its golden surface near the dam to the right. I stood and looked - and the moon stood and looked. Near the shore, under me, there was a shaky, dark-mirror abyss of the underwater sky, on which ducks hung, slept lightly, hiding their heads under their wings and deeply reflected in it, ducks; behind the pond to the left, in the distance, the estate of Uvarov, the landowner, whose illegitimate son was Glebochka, darkened in the distance; across the pond, opposite, lay point-blank clay slopes illuminated by the moon, and further on, at night, a bright village pasture and a row of blackened huts behind it ... What silence - only something living can be silent like that! The wildly alarming cry of ducks suddenly awakening and rocking their unsteady mirror sky under them sounded like thunder through the surrounding gardens ... When I slowly walked further, along the pond to the right, the moon again quietly rolled next to me above the dark tops of the trees frozen in their nightly beauty ...

And so we circled the whole garden. It seemed that we were thinking together - and all about one thing: about the mysterious, languishing-love happiness of life, about my mysterious future, which must certainly be happy, and, of course, all the time about Ankhen. The image of Pisarev, both alive and dead, was forgotten more and more. What's left of grandma besides her portrait on the wall in the living room? So did Pisarev: thinking about him, I now saw in my mind only his large portrait hanging in the sofa room of the Vasilyevsky house, a portrait of the time when he had just married (and, truly, I hoped to live forever!). The former still came to mind: where is this man now, what has become of him, what is that immortal life where does he seem to be? But the unanswered questions no longer plunged into anxious bewilderment, there was even something consoling in them: where he is - only God knows, whom I do not understand, but in whom I must believe and believe in order to live and be happy.

Ankhen tormented longer. Even during the day, no matter what I looked at, no matter what I felt, read, or thought, she was behind everything, tenderness for her, memories associated with her, pain, that there was no one to tell how much I love her and how much beauty in the world that we could enjoy together; there is nothing to say about the night - here she completely controlled me. But time passed - and now Ankhen also gradually began to turn into a legend, lose her living appearance: somehow I could not believe that she had once been with me and that she was still somewhere; already thinking about it and feeling it, I began only poetically, with longing in general about love, about some common beautiful female image, mixed with the images of the poems of Pushkin, Lermontov, Byron ...

Somehow, at the beginning of the summer, I read in Nedelya, which I subscribed to that year, about the publication of complete collection poems by Nadson. What delight aroused then even in the most remote province this name! I had already read some of Nadson's books and, no matter how hard I tried, I could not move myself. "Let the poison of ruthless doubts in the tormented chest freeze" - it seemed to me only bad idle talk. I could not have much respect for the verses that said that the marsh sedge grows over the pond and even bends over it with "green branches." But still - Nadson was "an untimely deceased poet", a young man with a beautiful and sad look, "faded among roses and cypresses on the shores of the azure southern sea ..." When I read in the winter about his death and that his metal coffin, "drowned in flowers”, sent for a solemn burial “to frosty and foggy Petersburg”, I went out to dinner so pale and agitated that even my father began to look at me anxiously and calmed down only when I explained the reason for my grief. “Ah, is that all? he asked in surprise, having learned that this reason was the death of Nadson.

And he added angrily with relief: “What nonsense is getting into your head, though!” Now the article of the Week again excited me terribly. Over the winter, Nadson's fame increased even more. And the thought of this glory suddenly hit me in the head like that, suddenly aroused such an ardent desire and own glory, to achieve which it was necessary to begin this very minute, without delaying a single moment, that tomorrow I decided to follow Nadson to the city in order to find out already properly what he is, what he, in addition to his poetic death, still leads to such admiration throughout Russia. There was nothing to ride on: the Kabardinka was lame, the working horses were too thin and ugly - it was necessary to go on foot. And so I went, although the city was at least thirty miles away. I got out early, walked along the hot and empty high road without rest, and at three o'clock was already entering the library on Torgovaya Street. A young lady with curls on her forehead, bored alone in a narrow room lined from top to bottom with upholstered books, looked at me, exhausted by the road and the sun, for some reason very curiously. "Nadson's turn," she said casually. “Don’t wait until a month before…

I was taken aback, confused - what is it like to wave thirty miles away for free! - however, it turned out that she only wanted to torment me a little: - But you are also a poet? she added at once, smiling. - I know you, I Vidal was a high school student ... I will give you my own copy ...

I burst into gratitude and, all red with embarrassment and pride, ran out into the street with a precious book so joyfully that I almost knocked down some thin girl of about fifteen in a gray linen dress, who had just left the tarantass, which was standing near pavement. The tarantass was harnessed by a trio of strange horses - they were all piebald, all strong and small, suit for suit, harmony for harmony.

Even stranger was the coachman, who was sitting stooped on the box: impossibly dry, lean, and impossibly tattered, but extremely dapper, a red-haired Caucasian with a brown hat folded back. And in the tarantass sat a portly and stately lady in a wide flaxen coat. The mistress looked at me rather sternly and in surprise, while the girl staggered aside with real fright, miraculously flashing in her black consumptive eyes and on her whole thin and clean face of a somewhat lilac hue with some kind of touchingly painful lips. I was even more lost, exclaiming with excessive vehemence and sophistication: "Oh, forgive me for God's sake!" and, without looking back, flew down the street to the bazaar, with the only thought of quickly doing at least a cursory glance at the book and drinking tea in a tavern. However, this meeting was not destined to end so easily.

I was definitely lucky that day. Baturin peasants were sitting in the tavern. These peasants, seeing me with that joyful surprise with which fellow villagers always meet in the city, shouted in unison: - Isn't this our barchuk? Barchuk! We ask for mercy! Do not hesitate! Sit down!

I sat down, also extremely pleased, hoping to get home with them, and indeed they immediately offered to give me a ride. It turned out that they had come for bricks, that their carts were outside the city, at brick factories near Beglaya Sloboda, and that in the "evening" they were moving back. The evening, however, was spent entirely in laying bricks. I sat in the factories for an hour, two, three, endlessly looking at the empty evening field that stretched out in front of me across the highway, and the peasants put everything on and on. Even towards evening the bell rang in the city, and the sun went down quite low over the reddened field, and they kept putting everything on. I was simply exhausted from boredom and fatigue, when suddenly one peasant said mockingly, dragging a whole apron of fresh pink bricks to the cart and shaking his head at the troika that was gathering dust along the road near the highway: “And there is lady Bibikova coming. This is it to us, to Uvarov. He told me on the third day that he was waiting for her to visit him and was trading a ram for the kill ... Another picked up: - It's true, she is. There, and this flayer on the goats ...

I looked more closely, immediately recognized the piebald horses that had been standing near the library that very day, and suddenly realized what it was that secretly worried me all the time from the moment I jumped out of there: it was worried about her, this thin girl. Hearing that she was coming just to us, in Baturin, I even jumped up from my seat, bombarded the peasants with hasty questions and immediately learned a lot: that the lady Bibikova is the mother of this girl and that she is a widow, that the girl is studying at an institute in Voronezh - peasants they called the Institute a “noble establishment”—that they live in their “estate” near Zadonsk in a poor and poor way, that they are relatives of Uvarov, that another relative, their Zadonsk neighbor Markov, gave them horses, that his skewbald horses are known throughout the province, and like the flayer Caucasian, who was at first, as usual, Markov's rider, and then "got accustomed" to him, became his bosom friend, contacting him terrible thing: he once beaten to death with a whip a gypsy horse thief who wanted to steal the most important uterus from the Markov herd ...

We left only at twilight and trudged all night from one foot to the other, as much as their hundred-pound luggage allowed the feeble horses. And what a night it was! At dusk, as soon as we got out onto the highway, the wind began to blow, it became fast and somehow unsteady, it was getting dark anxiously from the clouds approaching from the east, it began to thunder heavily, shaking the whole sky, and more and more frightening, illuminating with red flashes ... Half an hour later came pitch darkness, in which it vomited from all sides with either a hot or a very fresh wind, blinded in all directions by pink and white lightning rushing across the black fields and deafened every minute by monstrous peals and blows, with an incredible roar and a dry, hissing crackling bursting above our very heads. And then it blew furiously like a real hurricane, lightning flashed through the clouds, in their entire height, jagged, white-hot snakes with some kind of ferocious trembling and horror - and a shattering downpour poured, with a furious rumble, cutting us under the blows already uninterrupted, among such of apocalyptic brilliance and flame, that the infernal darkness of the heavens opened up above us, it seemed, to their very utmost depths, where glittering mountains of clouds flashed like some kind of supernatural, pre-modern Himalayas copper ... On me, lying on cold bricks and covered with all the ropes and Armenians, which only the peasants could give me, the thread was gone alive in five minutes. What was this hell and flood to me! I was already at the mercy of my new love...

Pushkin was for me at that time a true part of my life.

When did he enter me? I heard about him from infancy, and his name was always mentioned among us with some kind of almost kindred familiarity, as the name of a person completely “ours” in that general, special circle to which we belonged together with him. Yes, he wrote everything only “ours”, for us and with our feelings. The storm that in his poems covered the sky with darkness, "snow whirlwinds twisting", was the same one that raged in winter evenings around Kamensky farm. Mother sometimes read to me (singingly and dreamily, in an old-fashioned way, with a sweet, languid smile): “Yesterday I sat at a bowl of punch with a hussar” - and I asked: “Which hussar, mother? With the dead uncle? She read: “A flower withered, earless, forgotten in a book, I see” - and I saw this flower in her own girlish album ... As for my youth, all of it passed with Pushkin.

We can’t separate Lermontov from her either:

The silent steppe turns blue, and in a ring

Silver Caucasus embraces it,

Over the sea, he frowns, quietly dozing.

Like a giant leaning over a shield,

Listening to the stories of the wandering waves,

And the Black Sea is noisy, not ceasing ...

What wondrous youthful longing for distant wanderings, what a passionate dream of the distant and beautiful, and what a cherished soulful sound these lines answered, awakening, forming my soul! And yet most of all I was with Pushkin. How many feelings he gave birth to in me! And how often did I accompany them with my own feelings and all that among which and by which I lived!

So I wake up on a frosty sunny morning, and I am doubly joyful, because I exclaim with him: “frost and sun, a wonderful day” - with him, who not only spoke so wonderfully about this morning, but also gave me some wonderful image.

You are still dozing, my lovely friend...

So, waking up in a snowstorm, I remember that today we are going hunting with hounds, and again I start the day just like he did:

Questions: is it warm? did the blizzard subside

Is there powder or not?

And can the bed

Leave for the saddle, or better until dinner

Messing around with your neighbor's old magazines?

Here is the spring twilight, the golden Venus over the garden, the windows are opened to the garden, and again he is with me, expressing my cherished dream:

Hurry my beauty

gold star of love

She ascended to heaven!

It’s already completely dark, and the nightingale languishes over the whole garden, languishes:

and my soul is full of unspeakable dreams of that unknown one, created by him and forever captivating me, which somewhere out there, in another, distant country, goes in this quiet hour - To the shores drowned by noisy waves ...

My feelings for Lisa Bibikova depended not only on my childishness, but also on my love for our everyday life, with which all Russian poetry was once so closely connected.

I was in love with Liza in a poetic old fashion and as a being who fully belonged to our environment.

The spirit of this environment, romanticized by my imagination, seemed to me all the more beautiful because it disappeared forever before my eyes.

I saw how poor our life became, but it was all the more dear to me; I even somehow rejoiced in this poverty ... perhaps because in this I found closeness with Pushkin, whose house, according to Yazykov's description, showed a picture that was also far from rich:

Here and there a wall is covered with thin wallpaper, The floor is not repaired, two windows And a glass door between them, A sofa in front of the image in the corner Yes, a couple of chairs ...

However, at the time when Liza lived in Baturino, our poor life was decorated with hot June days, the dense greenery of shady gardens, the smell of fading jasmine and flowering roses, swimming in the pond, which, from our shore, was shady from the garden and drowned in thick cool grass, was picturesquely autumned by tall willows, its young shiny foliage, flexible glossy branches ... So forever Liza connected for me with these first days of bathing, with June pictures and smells - jasmine, roses, wild strawberries at dinner, these coastal willows, long leaves of which are very odorous and bitter in taste, warm water and the mud of a sun-warmed pond...

I didn’t go to the Uvarovs that summer - Glebochka spent the summer at an agricultural school, where he was transferred in view of his small successes in the gymnasium; the Uvarovs did not visit us either, they were in strained relations with us, - eternal history petty village quarrels; However, Uvarova still asked our father for permission to swim in the pond on our side and came along with the Bibikovs almost every day, and now and then, as if by chance, I met them on the shore and bowed with particular courtesy, moreover, Mrs. Bibikova, who always walked like something graciously important, with her head held high, in a wide robe and with a shaggy sheet on her shoulder, she answered me already quite affably and even with a smile, remembering how I jumped out of the library then, in the city.

At first shyly, and then more and more friendly and lively, Liza also answered, already somewhat tanned and with a certain brilliance in her wide eyes. Now she went about in a white sailor suit with a blue collar and a rather short blue skirt, nothing covering her black head from the sun with a braided and large white bow knotted, slightly curled black braid. She did not swim, only sat on the shore while her mother and Uvarova bathed somewhere under a particularly thick willow; but she sometimes took off her shoes to walk on the grass, to enjoy her delicate freshness, and I saw her barefoot several times. The whiteness of her legs in the green grass was inexpressibly charming...

And moonlit nights came again, and I thought up not to sleep at all at night - to go to bed only at sunrise, and at night sit by candlelight in my room, read and write poetry, then wander in the garden, look at the Uvarov estate from the dam of the pond. ., During the day, women and girls often stood on this dam and, leaning towards a large flat pebble lying in the water on the bank, tucking themselves above their knees, large, red, but still tender, feminine, strongly and well, talking in quick, lively voices, wet gray shirts beat with rollers; sometimes they straightened up, wiped the sweat from their foreheads on their rolled up sleeves, with playful ease, hinting at something, said when I happened to pass by: “Barchuk, ah, did you lose what?” - and again they bent down and beat even more cheerfully, spanked and laughed at something, talking, and I quickly walked away: it was already difficult for me to look at them, bowed, to see their bare knees ...

Then, to our other neighbor, to the one whose estate was across the street from ours and whose son was in exile, to old man Alferov, his distant relatives, St. tall, cheerful and energetic, free to handle. She loved to play croquet, click anything with a photographic camera, ride horseback, and imperceptibly I became a fairly frequent visitor to this estate, entered into some kind of friendship with Asya, in which she pushed me around like a boy, and showed same time, a clear pleasure from the company of this boy.

And in the evening, when, already stupefied with tears and quiet, I again for some reason wandered across the river, the tarantass that was taking Ankhen to the station overtook me, and the coachman, stopping, handed me a number of the St. Petersburg magazine, in which I, about a month ago, sent poetry for the first time. I unfolded it on the move and, like lightning, the magic letters of my name struck me in the eyes ...

The next day, early in the morning, I went on foot to Baturino. At first I walked along a dry, already rolled dirt road, among a couple of arable lands shining in the morning, then through the Pisarev forest, sunny, light green, full of bird song in spring, last year's rotting foliage and the first lilies of the valley ... When I arrived in Baturin, my mother even threw up her hands, seeing my thinness and expression of cropped eyes. I kissed her, handed her the magazine and went to my room, staggering from fatigue and not recognizing the familiar house, marveling at how small and old it had become ...

That spring I was only sixteen years old. However, when I returned to Baturino, I had already completely established myself in the thought that my entry into a full, full-fledged adult life was over.

Even in winter, it seemed to me that I already knew a lot that every adult needs: the structure of the universe, and some kind of ice age, and savages of the Stone Age, and the life of ancient peoples, and the invasion of Rome by barbarians, and Kievan Rus, and the discovery of America , and the French Revolution, and Byronism, and romanticism, and the people of the forties, and Zhelyabov, and Pobedonostsev, not to mention the many faces and fictional lives that have entered into me forever, with all their feelings and destinies, that is, all of these, too, supposedly the necessary Hamlets, Don Carlos, Childe Harolds, Onegins, Pechorins, Rudins, Bazarovs... Now my life experience seemed to me enormous. I returned mortally tired, but with a strong readiness to start living from now on some kind of completely “full” life. What was this life supposed to be? I thought that it was to experience, among all her impressions and my favorite deeds, as many as possible some high poetic joys, to which I considered myself even having some special right. “We entered life with wonderful hope…” I also entered it with wonderful hope… although what grounds did I have for that?

There was a feeling that I had “everything ahead”, a feeling of my youthful strength, bodily and mental health, some beauty of my face and great virtues of constitution, freedom and confidence of movements, light and quick steps, courage and dexterity - as, for example, I traveled I'm riding! There was a consciousness of his youthful purity, noble motives, truthfulness, contempt for all baseness. There was an elevated mental structure, both innate and acquired by reading poets who constantly spoke about the poet's high purpose, that "poetry is God in the holy dreams of the earth", that "art is a step towards a better world." There was some kind of soul-lifting joy even in that bitter passion with which I repeated at other times something completely opposite - the caustic lines of Lermontov and Heine, the complaints of Faust, turning his dying, disappointed look to the moon outside the Gothic window, or cheerful , the shameless sayings of Mephistopheles ... But didn’t I sometimes realize that it’s not enough to have wings to fly, that wings also need air and their development?

I could not help feeling those very special feelings that all young men who write have already seen their name in print. But I could not help but know that one swallow does not make spring. My father, in moments of irritation, called me "a minor of the nobility"; I consoled myself with the fact that I was not the only one who learned "little by little, something and somehow"; but I well understood how dubious this consolation was. I was secretly (despite the fact that I was already infected, thanks to reading and brother George, many free opinions) I was still very proud that we were Arsenyevs. But I could not but remember at the same time our ever-growing poverty and the fact that carelessness towards it even reached some unnatural measure in us. I grew up and remained in the strange conviction that, with all the virtues of my brothers, especially George, I was nevertheless the main heir to all that wonderful thing that, with all his shortcomings, so unusually stood out for me from all the people I knew my father. But the father was no longer the same as before; he seemed to have given up on everything now, he was most often intoxicated - and what was I supposed to experience when I saw his constantly excited face, gray unshaven chin, majestically disheveled head, broken shoes, tattered arkhaluk of Sevastopol times? And what pain sometimes caused me thoughts about my aging mother, about the growing Olya! I often experienced cruel pity for myself, having dined, for example, with one okroshka and returning to my room, to my books and my only wealth - my grandfather's box made of Karelian birch, where all my most cherished things were kept: covered with "elegies" and "stanzas "sheets of gray, smelling of mint shag, paper, bought in our village shop ...

I sometimes thought about my father's youth: what a terrible difference from my youth! He had almost everything that befitted a happy youth of his environment, rank and needs, he grew up and lived in a carelessness quite natural in that still large nobility, which he so freely and calmly used, he knew no barriers to his young whims and desires, everywhere with every right and cheerful arrogance felt like Arseniev. And I had only a box made of Karelian birch, an old double-barreled shotgun, a thin Kabardinka, a worn-out Cossack saddle ...

How I sometimes wanted to be smart, shiny! And when I was going to visit, I had to put on the same gray jacket of brother Georgy, in which they had once taken him to prison in Kharkov and for which I secretly suffered from acute shame while visiting. I was deprived of a sense of ownership, but how I sometimes dreamed of wealth, of beautiful luxury, of all kinds of freedom and all the bodily and spiritual joys associated with them! I dreamed of distant travels, of extraordinary female beauty, of friendship with some imaginary wonderful young men, peers and comrades in aspirations, in heartfelt ardor and tastes ...

But didn’t I sometimes realize that my foot had never set foot further than our county town, that the whole world was still closed to me by long familiar fields and slopes, that I saw only peasants and women, that our entire circle of acquaintances was limited to two or three small local estates and Vasilevsky, and the shelter of all my dreams - my old corner room with rotting lifting frames and colored upper glass of two windows to the garden?

The garden faded and dressed, the nightingale sang in the garden all day, the lower frames of the windows in my room were raised all day, which became even dearer to me than the old one, these windows, made up of small squares, a dark oak ceiling, oak armchairs and the same bed with smooth and sloping dumps ... At first, all I did was lie with a book in my hands, either reading absently, or listening to the clatter of a nightingale, thinking about that “full” life that I should live from now on, and sometimes unexpectedly falling into a short and deep sleep, waking up from which, every time, I was somehow especially freshly amazed at the novelty and charm of the surroundings and was so hungry that I jumped up and went either for jam to the pantry, that is, to an abandoned closet, the glass door of which opened into the hall, or for black bread into the people's room, where it was always empty during the day, - only Leonty lay in a dark corner on a hot and weedy stove, long and incredibly thin, densely overgrown with yellow bristles and all peeling from old age, a former grandmother's cook, already many For some reason, for some reason, he defended his incomprehensible, completely cave existence from imminent death ... Hopes for happiness, for a happy life, which is about to begin! But for this it is often enough to wake up like this after a sudden and short sleep and run for a crust of black bread or hear that they are calling to the balcony for tea, and for tea to think that now you need to go saddle a horse and roll aimlessly along the evening high road …

→ Part 1

The garden faded and dressed, the nightingale sang in the garden all day, the lower frames of the windows in my room were raised all day, which became even dearer to me than the old one, these windows, made up of small squares, a dark oak ceiling, oak armchairs and the same bed with smooth and sloping dumps ... At first, all I did was lie with a book in my hands, either reading absently, or listening to the clatter of a nightingale, thinking about that “full” life that I should live from now on, and sometimes unexpectedly falling into a short and deep sleep, waking up from which, every time, I was somehow especially freshly amazed at the novelty and charm of the surroundings and was so hungry that I jumped up and went either for jam to the pantry, that is, to an abandoned closet, the glass door of which opened into the hall, or for black bread into the people's room, where it was always empty during the day, - only Leonty lay in a dark corner on a hot and weedy stove, long and incredibly thin, densely overgrown with yellow bristles and all peeling from old age, a former grandmother's cook, already many For some reason, for some reason, he defended his incomprehensible, completely cave existence from imminent death ... Hopes for happiness, for a happy life, which is about to begin! But for this it is often enough to wake up like this after a sudden and short sleep and run for a crust of black bread or hear that they are calling to the balcony for tea, and for tea to think that now you need to go saddle a horse and roll aimlessly along the evening high road …

The nights were moonlit, and I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night at its deepest hour, when even the nightingale did not sing. There was such silence all over the world that I seemed to wake up from the excess of this silence. For a moment I was seized by fear, - Pisarev suddenly remembered, a tall shadow seemed to be near the door to the living room ... But after a moment this shadow was gone, only a simple corner was visible, darkening through the thin twilight of the room, and behind the open windows it shone and called into its bright silent kingdom lunar garden. And I got up, carefully opened the door to the living room, saw in the dusk a portrait of my grandmother in a cap looking at me from the wall, looked into the hall where I spent so many beautiful hours on moonlit nights in winter ... it seemed now more mysterious and lower, because the moon that walked in the summer to the right of the house, did not look into it, and it itself became gloomier: the linden behind its northern windows, densely covered with foliage, closely blocked these windows with its dark huge tent ... Going out onto the balcony, each time I again and again, to bewilderment, even to some torment, marveled at the beauty of the night: what is it and what to do with it!

I still experience something similar on nights like these. What happened then when all this was new, when there was such a sense of smell that the smell of dewy burdock differed from the smell of damp grass! The extraordinarily high triangle of spruce, illuminated by the moon only from one side, still ascended with its jagged tip into the transparent night sky, where several rare stars glowed, small, peaceful, and so infinitely distant and marvelous, truly Lord's, that I wanted to kneel and cross myself. on them. The empty clearing in front of the house was flooded with a strong and strange light. To the right, above the garden, the full moon shone in the clear and empty sky, with the slightly darkening reliefs of its deathly pale face filled with a bright, luminous whiteness from within. And she and I, now long known to each other, looked at each other for a long time, silently and silently expecting something from each other ... What? I only knew that something was missing for us with her ...

Then I walked with my shadow along the dewy, iridescent grass of the clearing, entered the motley twilight of the alley leading to the pond, and the moon obediently followed me. I walked, looking back - it, shining like a mirror and splitting, rolled through the black and in places brightly shining pattern of branches and leaves. I stood on a dewy slope towards a full-flowing pond, shining widely with its golden surface near the dam to the right. I stood and looked - and the moon stood and looked. Near the shore, under me, there was a shaky, dark-mirror abyss of the underwater sky, on which ducks hung, slept lightly, hiding their heads under their wings and deeply reflected in it, ducks; behind the pond to the left, in the distance, the estate of Uvarov, the landowner, whose illegitimate son was Glebochka, darkened in the distance; across the pond, opposite, lay point-blank clay slopes illuminated by the moon, and further on, at night, a bright village pasture and a row of blackened huts behind it ... What silence - only something living can be silent like that! The wildly alarming cry of ducks suddenly awakening and rocking their unsteady mirror sky under them sounded like thunder through the surrounding gardens ... When I slowly walked further, along the pond to the right, the moon again quietly rolled next to me above the dark tops of the trees frozen in their nightly beauty ...

And so we circled the whole garden. It seemed that we were thinking together - and all about one thing: about the mysterious, languishing-love happiness of life, about my mysterious future, which must certainly be happy, and, of course, all the time about Ankhen. The image of Pisarev, both alive and dead, was forgotten more and more. What's left of grandma besides her portrait on the wall in the living room? So did Pisarev: thinking about him, I now saw in my mind only his large portrait hanging in the sofa room of the Vasilyevsky house, a portrait of the time when he had just married (and, truly, I hoped to live forever!). The former still came to mind: where is this man now, what has become of him, what is that eternal life where he supposedly resides? But the unanswered questions no longer plunged into anxious bewilderment, there was even something consoling in them: where he is - only God knows, whom I do not understand, but in whom I must believe and believe in order to live and be happy.

Ankhen tormented longer. Even during the day, no matter what I looked at, no matter what I felt, read, or thought, she was behind everything, tenderness for her, memories associated with her, pain, that there was no one to tell how much I love her and how much beauty in the world that we could enjoy together; there is nothing to say about the night - here she completely controlled me. But time passed - and now Ankhen also gradually began to turn into a legend, lose her living appearance: somehow I could not believe that she had once been with me and that she was still somewhere; already I began to think about her and feel her only poetically, with longing for love in general, for some general beautiful female image, mixed with the images of the poems of Pushkin, Lermontov, Byron ...

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I sometimes thought about my father's youth: what a terrible difference from my youth! He had almost everything that befitted a happy youth of his environment, rank and needs, he grew up and lived in a carelessness quite natural in that still large nobility, which he so freely and calmly used, he knew no barriers to his young whims and desires, everywhere with every right and cheerful arrogance felt like Arseniev. And I had only a box made of Karelian birch, an old double-barreled shotgun, a thin Kabardinka, a worn-out Cossack saddle ...

How I sometimes wanted to be smart, shiny! And when I was going to visit, I had to put on the same gray jacket of brother Georgy, in which they had once taken him to prison in Kharkov and for which I secretly suffered from acute shame while visiting. I was deprived of a sense of ownership, but how I sometimes dreamed of wealth, of beautiful luxury, of all kinds of freedom and all the bodily and spiritual joys associated with them! I dreamed of distant travels, of extraordinary female beauty, of friendship with some imaginary wonderful young men, peers and comrades in aspirations, in heartfelt ardor and tastes ...

But didn’t I sometimes realize that my foot had never set foot further than our county town, that the whole world was still closed to me by long familiar fields and slopes, that I saw only peasants and women, that our entire circle of acquaintances was limited to two or three small local estates and Vasilevsky, and the shelter of all my dreams - my old corner room with rotting lifting frames and colored upper glass of two windows to the garden?

The garden faded and dressed, the nightingale sang in the garden all day, the lower frames of the windows in my room were raised all day, which became even dearer to me than the old one, these windows, made up of small squares, a dark oak ceiling, oak armchairs and the same bed with smooth and sloping dumps ... At first, all I did was lie with a book in my hands, either reading absently, or listening to the clatter of a nightingale, thinking about that “full” life that I should live from now on, and sometimes unexpectedly falling into a short and deep sleep, waking up from which, every time, I was somehow especially freshly amazed at the novelty and charm of the surroundings and was so hungry that I jumped up and went either for jam to the pantry, that is, to an abandoned closet, the glass door of which opened into the hall, or for black bread into the people's room, where it was always empty during the day, - only Leonty lay in a dark corner on a hot and weedy stove, long and incredibly thin, densely overgrown with yellow bristles and all peeling from old age, a former grandmother's cook, already many For some reason, for some reason, he defended his incomprehensible, completely cave existence from imminent death ... Hopes for happiness, for a happy life, which is about to begin! But for this it is often enough to wake up like this after a sudden and short sleep and run for a crust of black bread or hear that they are calling to the balcony for tea, and for tea to think that now you need to go saddle a horse and roll aimlessly along the evening high road …

The nights were moonlit, and I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night at its deepest hour, when even the nightingale did not sing. There was such silence all over the world that I seemed to wake up from the excess of this silence. For a moment I was seized by fear, - Pisarev suddenly remembered, a tall shadow seemed to be near the door to the living room ... But after a moment this shadow was gone, only a simple corner was visible, darkening through the thin twilight of the room, and behind the open windows it shone and called into its bright silent kingdom lunar garden. And I got up, carefully opened the door to the living room, saw in the dusk a portrait of my grandmother in a cap looking at me from the wall, looked into the hall where I spent so many beautiful hours on moonlit nights in winter ... it seemed now more mysterious and lower, because the moon that walked in the summer to the right of the house, did not look into it, and it itself became gloomier: the linden behind its northern windows, densely covered with foliage, closely blocked these windows with its dark huge tent ... Going out onto the balcony, each time I again and again, to bewilderment, even to some torment, marveled at the beauty of the night: what is it and what to do with it!

I still experience something similar on nights like these. What happened then when all this was new, when there was such a sense of smell that the smell of dewy burdock differed from the smell of damp grass! The extraordinarily high triangle of spruce, illuminated by the moon only from one side, still ascended with its jagged tip into the transparent night sky, where several rare stars glowed, small, peaceful, and so infinitely distant and marvelous, truly Lord's, that I wanted to kneel and cross myself. on them. The empty clearing in front of the house was flooded with a strong and strange light. To the right, above the garden, the full moon shone in the clear and empty sky, with the slightly darkening reliefs of its deathly pale face filled with a bright, luminous whiteness from within. And she and I, now long known to each other, looked at each other for a long time, silently and silently expecting something from each other ... What? I only knew that something was missing for us with her ...

Then I walked with my shadow along the dewy, iridescent grass of the clearing, entered the motley twilight of the alley leading to the pond, and the moon obediently followed me. I walked, looking back - it, shining like a mirror and splitting, rolled through the black and in places brightly shining pattern of branches and leaves. I stood on a dewy slope towards a full-flowing pond, shining widely with its golden surface near the dam to the right. I stood and looked - and the moon stood and looked. Near the shore, under me, there was a shaky, dark-mirror abyss of the underwater sky, on which ducks hung, slept lightly, hiding their heads under their wings and deeply reflected in it, ducks; behind the pond to the left, in the distance, the estate of Uvarov, the landowner, whose illegitimate son was Glebochka, darkened in the distance; across the pond, opposite, lay point-blank clay slopes illuminated by the moon, and further on, at night, a bright village pasture and a row of blackened huts behind it ... What silence - only something living can be silent like that! The wildly alarming cry of ducks suddenly awakening and rocking their unsteady mirror sky under them sounded like thunder through the surrounding gardens ... When I slowly walked further, along the pond to the right, the moon again quietly rolled next to me above the dark tops of the trees frozen in their nightly beauty ...

And so we circled the whole garden. It seemed that we were thinking together - and all about one thing: about the mysterious, languishing-love happiness of life, about my mysterious future, which must certainly be happy, and, of course, all the time about Ankhen. The image of Pisarev, both alive and dead, was forgotten more and more. What's left of grandma besides her portrait on the wall in the living room? So did Pisarev: thinking about him, I now saw in my mind only his large portrait hanging in the sofa room of the Vasilyevsky house, a portrait of the time when he had just married (and, truly, I hoped to live forever!). The former still came to mind: where is this man now, what has become of him, what is that eternal life where he supposedly resides? But the unanswered questions no longer plunged into anxious bewilderment, there was even something consoling in them: where he is - only God knows, whom I do not understand, but in whom I must believe and believe in order to live and be happy.

Ankhen tormented longer. Even during the day, no matter what I looked at, no matter what I felt, read, or thought, she was behind everything, tenderness for her, memories associated with her, pain, that there was no one to tell how much I love her and how much beauty in the world that we could enjoy together; there is nothing to say about the night - here she completely controlled me. But time passed - and now Ankhen also gradually began to turn into a legend, lose her living appearance: somehow I could not believe that she had once been with me and that she was still somewhere; already I began to think about her and feel her only poetically, with longing for love in general, for some general beautiful female image, mixed with the images of the poems of Pushkin, Lermontov, Byron ...

Somehow, at the beginning of the summer, I read in Nedelya, which I subscribed to that year, about the publication of a complete collection of Nadson's poems. What delight aroused then even in the most remote province this name! I had already read some of Nadson's books and, no matter how hard I tried, I could not move myself. "Let the poison of ruthless doubts in the tormented chest freeze" - it seemed to me only bad idle talk. I could not have much respect for the verses that said that the marsh sedge grows over the pond and even bends over it with "green branches." But still - Nadson was "an untimely deceased poet", a young man with a beautiful and sad look, "faded among roses and cypresses on the shores of the azure southern sea ..." When I read in the winter about his death and that his metal coffin, "drowned in flowers”, sent for a solemn burial “to frosty and foggy Petersburg”, I went out to dinner so pale and agitated that even my father began to look at me anxiously and calmed down only when I explained the reason for my grief. “Ah, is that all? he asked in surprise, having learned that this reason was the death of Nadson.