The spring, bright day was approaching evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float by, but went into the very depths of the azure.

In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets provincial town Oh... (this happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one about fifty years old, the other an old woman, seventy years old.

The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time - a lively and decisive man, bilious and stubborn - died ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born into a poor class, he early realized the need to make his way and make money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, smart and, when he wanted, very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in her maiden name Pestova) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty miles from O..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovskoye, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to St. Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live in it for long; in the second year after her wedding to Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time, Kalitin purchased a house in the city of O..., where he and his wife settled permanently. There was a large garden next to the house; on one side it went straight into the field, outside the city. “So,” decided Kalitin, a great reluctance to rural silence, “there is no need to wander into the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once in her soul regretted her pretty Pokrovsky with its cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his intelligence and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna had already become so accustomed to her home and to city life that she herself did not want to leave O...

Marya Dmitrievna in her youth enjoyed the reputation of a pretty blonde; and at fifty years old her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although they were a little swollen and blurred. She was more sensitive than kind, and retained her college habits until her mature years; she spoiled herself, became easily irritated and even cried when her habits were violated; but she was very affectionate and kind, when all her wishes were fulfilled and no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the most pleasant in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much hereditary as acquired by her husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best government institutions in St. Petersburg.

The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovskoye. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone's face and, with the meager means, behaved as if thousands were following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in old age, small, pointed-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a thin and sonorous voice. 0, she always wore a white cap and a white jacket.

-What are you talking about? – she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. -What are you sighing about, my mother?

“Yes,” she said. – What wonderful clouds!

– So you feel sorry for them, or what? Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.

- Why is Gedeonovsky missing? - Marfa Timofeevna said, deftly moving her knitting needles (she was knitting a large woolen scarf). “He would have sighed with you, or he would have lied something.”

– How you always speak strictly of him! Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.

- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.

- And how devoted he was to his late husband! - said Marya Dmitrievna, - she still cannot remember him indifferently.

- Of course! “he pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” Marfa Timofeevna grumbled, and the knitting needles moved even faster in her hands.

“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and when he opens his mouth, he lies or gossips.” And also a state councilor! Well, and then to prove: Popovich!

- Who is without sin, auntie? Of course, he has this weakness. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive any education; he does not speak French; but he, your will, nice person.

- Yes, he keeps licking your hands. He speaks French, but he says, “What a disaster!” I myself am not strong in the French dialect. It would be better if he didn’t speak in any way: he wouldn’t lie. Yes, by the way, he’s easy to remember,” added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing at the street. “Here he comes, your nice man.” So long, like a stork!

Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofeevna looked at her with a grin.

- What is it that you have, no gray hair, my mother? Scold your Broadsword. What is she looking at?

“You, auntie, always...” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair.

– Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! - the red-cheeked Cossack squeaked, jumping out from behind the door.

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
Noble nest
I
The spring, bright day was approaching evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float by, but went into the very depths of the azure.
In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O... (this happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one about fifty years old, the other an old woman, seventy years old.
The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time - a lively and decisive man, bilious and stubborn - died ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born into a poor class, he early realized the need to make his way and make money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, smart and, when he wanted, very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in her maiden name Pestova) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty miles from O..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovskoye, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to St. Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live in it for long; in the second year after her wedding to Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time, Kalitin purchased a house in the city of O..., where he and his wife settled permanently. There was a large garden next to the house; on one side it went straight into the field, outside the city. “So,” decided Kalitin, a great reluctance to rural silence, “there is no need to wander into the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once in her soul regretted her pretty Pokrovsky with its cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his intelligence and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna had already become so accustomed to her home and to city life that she herself did not want to leave O...
Marya Dmitrievna in her youth enjoyed the reputation of a pretty blonde; and at fifty years old her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although they were a little swollen and blurred. She was more sensitive than kind, and retained her college habits until her mature years; she spoiled herself, became easily irritated and even cried when her habits were violated; but she was very affectionate and kind, when all her wishes were fulfilled and no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the most pleasant in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much hereditary as acquired by her husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best government institutions in St. Petersburg.
The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovskoye. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone's face and, with the meager means, behaved as if thousands were following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in old age, small, pointed-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a thin and sonorous voice. 0, she always wore a white cap and a white jacket.
-What are you talking about? – she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. -What are you sighing about, my mother?
“Yes,” she said. – What wonderful clouds!
– So you feel sorry for them, or what? Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.
- Why is Gedeonovsky missing? - Marfa Timofeevna said, deftly moving her knitting needles (she was knitting a large woolen scarf). “He would have sighed with you, or he would have lied something.”
– How you always speak strictly of him! Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.
- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.
- And how devoted he was to his late husband! - said Marya Dmitrievna, - she still cannot remember him indifferently.
- Of course! “he pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” Marfa Timofeevna grumbled, and the knitting needles moved even faster in her hands.
“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and when he opens his mouth, he lies or gossips.” And also a state councilor! Well, and then to prove: Popovich!
- Who is without sin, auntie? Of course, he has this weakness. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive any education; he does not speak French; but he is, as you please, a pleasant person.
- Yes, he keeps licking your hands. He speaks French, but he says, “What a disaster!” I myself am not strong in the French dialect. It would be better if he didn’t speak in any way: he wouldn’t lie. Yes, by the way, he’s easy to remember,” added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing at the street. “Here he comes, your nice man.” So long, like a stork!
Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofeevna looked at her with a grin.
- What is it that you have, no gray hair, my mother? Scold your Broadsword. What is she looking at?
“You, auntie, always...” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair.
– Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! - the red-cheeked Cossack squeaked, jumping out from behind the door.
II
A tall man entered, wearing a neat frock coat, short trousers, gray suede gloves and two ties - one black on top, the other white on the bottom. Everything about him exuded decency and decency, from his handsome face and smoothly combed temples to his boots without heels and without squeaking. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofeevna and, slowly taking off his gloves, walked up to Marya Dmitrievna’s hand. Having kissed her respectfully and twice in a row, he slowly sat down in a chair and with a smile, rubbing the very tips of his fingers, said:
– Is Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?
“Yes,” answered Marya Dmitrievna, “she is in the garden.”
– And Elena Mikhailovna?
- Helen is in the garden too. - Is there anything new?
“How not to be, sir, how not to be, sir,” the guest objected, blinking slowly and pursing his lips. - Hm!.. yes, please, there is news, and amazing: Fyodor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived.
- Fedya! - Marfa Timofeevna exclaimed. “Aren’t you just making things up, my father?”
- No, sir, I saw them myself.
- Well, this is not proof yet.
“They are much healthier,” Gedeonovsky continued, pretending that he had not heard Marfa Timofeevna’s remark, “his shoulders have become even wider, and his cheeks are flushed.”
“He’s gotten better,” said Marya Dmitrievna with emphasis, “it seems, why should he get better?”
“Yes, sir,” objected Godeonovsky, “anyone else in his place would be ashamed to appear in the world.”
- Why is this? - Marfa Timofeevna interrupted, - what kind of nonsense is this? A man has returned to his homeland - where do you tell him to go? And fortunately he was to blame!
“The husband is always to blame, madam, I dare to tell you when his wife behaves badly.”
“That’s why you say it, father, because you yourself were never married.” Gedeonovsky smiled forcedly.
“Let me be curious,” he asked after a short silence, “who is this cute scarf assigned to?” Marfa Timofeevna quickly glanced at him.
“And it is assigned to him,” she objected, “who never gossips, does not cheat, and does not make up things, if only there is such a person in the world.” I know Fedya well; His only fault is that he spoiled his wife. Well, he married for love, and nothing good ever comes out of these love weddings,” added the old woman, looking indirectly at Marya Dmitrievna and standing up. “And now, my father, you can sharpen your teeth on anyone, even me; I'll leave, I won't interfere. And Marfa Timofeevna left.
“She’s always like this,” said Marya Dmitrievna, following her aunt with her eyes, “always!”
- Their summer! What to do, sir! – Gedeonovsviy noted. - So they deign to say: whoever is not cunning. Who doesn't cheat? This is the age. One of my friends, a respectable man and, let me tell you, a man of no small rank, used to say that every day a chicken approaches the grain with cunning - it always strives to approach from the side. And when I look at you, my lady, your disposition is truly angelic; Please give me your snow-white hand.
Marya Dmitrievna smiled faintly and extended her plump hand to Gedeonovsky with the fifth finger separated. He pressed his lips to hers, and she pulled her chair towards him and, bending slightly, asked in a low voice:
- So you saw him? Is he really okay, healthy, cheerful?
“It’s more fun, sir,” Gedeonovsky objected in a whisper.
-Have you heard where his wife is now?
- IN lately I was in Paris, sir; Now, it is heard, she has moved to the Italian state.
- This is terrible, really, - Fedino’s situation; I don't know how he bears it. Misfortunes certainly happen to everyone; but, one might say, it was published all over Europe. Gideonovsky sighed.
- Yes, sir, yes, sir. After all, they say, she was acquainted with artists and pianists, and, as they say, with lions and animals. I completely lost my shame...
“Very, very sorry,” said Marya Dmitrievna. - In a family way: after all, he, Sergei Petrovich, you know, is my great-nephew.
- How, sir, how, sir. How can I not know everything that concerns your family? Have mercy, sir.
– Will he come to us, what do you think?
- It must be assumed, sir; but, by the way, you can hear them getting ready for their village. Marya Dmitrievna raised her eyes to the sky.
- Oh, Sergei Petrovich, Sergei Petrovich, how I think about how we women need to behave carefully!
– Woman to woman rose, Marya Dmitrievna. There are, unfortunately, those who have a fickle temperament... well, summer; again the rules were not instilled in them from childhood. (Sergei Petrovich took a checkered blue scarf from his pocket and began to unfold it.) Such women, of course, exist. (Sergei Petrovich brought the corner of the handkerchief one by one to his eyes.) But generally speaking, if we think about it, that is... The dust in the city is unusual,” he concluded.
“Maman, maman,” cried a pretty girl of about eleven, running into the room, “Vladimir Nikolaich is coming to us on horseback!”
Marya Dmitrievna stood up; Sergei Petrovich also stood up and bowed. “To Elena Mikhailovna, our deepest regards,” he said and, retreating to a corner for the sake of appearances, began blowing his long and straight nose.
- What a wonderful horse he has! – the girl continued. “He was at the gate now and told Lisa and me that he would drive up to the porch.
The clatter of hooves was heard, and a slender rider on a beautiful bay horse appeared on the street and stopped in front of the open window.
III
– Hello, Marya Dmitrievna! – the rider exclaimed in a sonorous and pleasant voice. – How do you like my new purchase? Marya Dmitrievna went to the window.
– Hello, Woldemar! Oh, what a nice horse! Who did you buy it from?
- From the repairman... He took it dearly, robber.
-What's her name?
- Orlando... Yes, this name is stupid; I want to change... Eh bien, eh bien, mon garcon... What a restless one! The horse snorted, shifted his feet and waved his foamy muzzle.
- Helen, pet her, don’t be afraid...
The girl extended her hand from the window, but Orland suddenly reared up and rushed to the side. The rider was not lost, he took the horse in his leg, pulled him along the neck with a whip and, despite his resistance, put him again in front of the window.
“Prenez garde, prenez garde,” Marya Dmitrievna repeated.
“Helen, caress him,” the rider objected, “I won’t let him take liberties.”
The girl again extended her hand and timidly touched the fluttering nostrils of Orland, who incessantly shuddered and gnawed at the bit.
- Bravo! - exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, - now get off and come to us.
The rider dashingly turned his horse, gave him spurs and, galloping down the street, rode into the yard. A minute later he ran, waving his whip, from the front door into the living room; at the same time, on the threshold of another door, a slender, tall, black-haired girl of about nineteen appeared - eldest daughter Marya Dmitrievna, Lisa.
IV
The young man we just introduced our readers to was called Vladimir Nikolaich Panshin. He served in St. Petersburg as an official on special assignments in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He came to the city of O... to fulfill a temporary government assignment and was at the disposal of the governor, General Sonnenberg, to whom he was a distant relative. Panshin's father, a retired captain, a famous player, a man with sweet eyes, a rumpled face and a nervous twitch in his lips, spent his entire life rubbing shoulders between the nobility, visited English clubs in both capitals and was known as a clever, not very reliable, but sweet and sincere fellow . Despite all his dexterity, he was almost constantly on the verge of poverty and left his only son a small and upset fortune. But he, in his own way, took care of his upbringing: Vladimir Nikolaich spoke French perfectly, English well, German poorly. This is how it should be: decent people are ashamed to speak good German; but to use a Germanic word in some, for the most part funny, cases - you can, c "est meme tres chic, as the St. Petersburg Parisians put it. From the age of fifteen, Vladimir Nikolaich already knew how to enter any living room without embarrassment, pleasantly turn around in it and conveniently leave. Panshin’s father brought his son many connections; shuffling the cards between two rubbers or after a successful “grand slam”, he did not miss the opportunity to spread the word about his “Volodka” to some important person who was a hunter of commercial games. For his part, Vladimir Nikolaich, during his stay at the university, from where he came out with rank. full-time student, met some distinguished young people and became an best houses. He was readily accepted everywhere; he was very handsome, cheeky, funny, always healthy and ready for anything; where necessary - respectful, where possible - daring, an excellent comrade, un charmant garcon. The treasured region opened up before him. Panshin soon understood the secret of secular science; he knew how to be imbued with real respect for its rules, he knew how to deal with nonsense with half-mocking importance and show the appearance that he considers everything important to be nonsense; He danced well and dressed in English. In a short time he became known as one of the most amiable and clever young men in St. Petersburg. Panshin was indeed very dexterous, no worse than his father; but he was also very gifted. Everything was possible for him: he sang sweetly, drew smartly, wrote poetry, and played quite well on stage. He was only twenty-eight years old, and he was already a chamber cadet and had a very considerable rank. Panshin firmly believed in himself, in his mind, in his insight; he walked forward boldly and cheerfully, in full swing; his life flowed like clockwork. He was used to being liked by everyone, old and young, I imagined that he knew people, especially women: he knew their everyday weaknesses well. As a person not alien to art, he felt both heat and some passion and enthusiasm in himself, and as a result of this he allowed himself various deviations from the rules: he partied, became acquainted with people who did not belong to the world, and generally behaved freely and simply, but in his soul he was cold and cunning; , and during the most violent revelry, his smart brown eye kept watch and looked out for everything; this brave, this free young man could never forget himself and get carried away completely. To his credit, it must be said that he never boasted of his victories. immediately upon arriving in O... and soon became completely comfortable with him. Marya Dmitrievna doted on him.
Panshin kindly bowed to everyone in the room, shook hands with Marya Dmitrievna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna, lightly patted Gedeonovsky on the shoulder and, turning on his heel, caught Lenochka by the head and kissed her forehead.
“And you’re not afraid to ride such an angry horse?” - Marya Dmitrievna asked him.
- For pity’s sake, she’s humble; but I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of: I’m afraid of playing preference with Sergei Petrovich; Yesterday at the Belenitsyns he beat me to pieces.
Gedeonovsky laughed a thin and obsequious laugh: he was ingratiating himself with the young brilliant official from St. Petersburg, the governor’s favorite. In his conversations with Marya Dmitrievna, he often mentioned Panshin’s remarkable abilities. After all, he reasoned, how could he not praise? And in the highest sphere of life, the young man succeeds, and serves exemplarily, without the slightest pride. However, Panshin was considered a efficient official even in St. Petersburg: the work was in full swing in his hands; he spoke about her jokingly, as befits a secular person who does not attach much importance to his works, but he was a “performer.” Bosses love such subordinates; he himself had no doubt that, if he wanted, he would eventually become a minister.
“You deign to say that I beat you,” said Gedeonovsky, “and last week who won twelve rubles from me?” yes still...
“Villain, villain,” Panshin interrupted him with affectionate, but slightly contemptuous carelessness, and, no longer paying attention to him, walked up to Lisa.
“I couldn’t find the Oberon Overture here,” he began. - Belenitsyna only boasted that she had everything classical music, - in fact, she has nothing except polkas and waltzes; but I have already written to Moscow, and in a week you will have this overture. By the way,” he continued, “I wrote a new romance yesterday; the words are also mine. Do you want me to sing it for you? I don't know what came of it; Belenitsyna found him very nice, but her words mean nothing - I want to know your opinion. However, I think it’s better after.
- Why after? - Marya Dmitrievna intervened, - why not now?
“I’m listening, sir,” said Panshin with a kind of bright and sweet smile that suddenly appeared and disappeared on him, “he pulled up a chair with his knee, sat down at the piano and, having struck a few chords, sang, clearly separating the words, the following romance:
The moon floats high above the earth Between pale clouds; But a magic ray moves from above like a wave of the sea.
My soul has recognized you as its moon, and moves - both in joy and in sorrow - by you alone.
The soul is full of longing for love, longing for silent aspirations; It’s hard for me... But you are alien to turmoil, Like that moon.
The second verse was sung by Panshin with special expression and strength; in the stormy accompaniment the play of waves could be heard. After the words: “It’s hard for me...” - he sighed slightly, lowered his eyes and lowered his voice - morendo. When he finished, Liza praised the motive, Marya Dmitrievna said: “Lovely,” and Gedeonovsky even shouted: “Delightful!” both poetry and harmony are equally delightful!..” Helen looked at the singer with childish awe. In a word, everyone present really liked the work of the young amateur; but behind the door of the living room in the hall stood the man who had just arrived, already old man, to whom, judging by the expression of his downcast face and the movements of his shoulders, Panshin’s romance, although very nice, did not bring pleasure. After waiting a little and brushing the dust from his boots with a thick handkerchief, this man suddenly narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips gloomily, bent his already stooped back, and slowly entered the living room.
- A! Christopher Fedorych, hello! - Panshin exclaimed first of all and quickly jumped out of his chair.
“I didn’t even suspect that you were here; I would never have decided to sing my romance in front of you.” I know you are not a fan of light music.
“I wasn’t listening,” the man who entered said in bad Russian and, bowing to everyone, stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.
“You, Monsieur Lemme,” said Marya Dmitrievna, “have come to give Liza a music lesson?”
- No, not Lisafet Mikhailovna, but Elen Mikhailovna.
- A! Well, that's great. Helen, go upstairs with Mr. Lemm. The old man started to follow the girl, but Panshin stopped him.
“Don’t leave after the lesson, Khristofor Fedorych,” he said, “Lizaveta Mikhailovna and I will play the Beethoven Sonata for four hands.”
The old man grumbled something under his breath, and Panshin continued in German, pronouncing the words poorly:
“Lizaveta Mikhailovna showed me the spiritual cantata that you presented to her,” beautiful thing! Please don’t think that I don’t know how to appreciate serious music - on the contrary: it is sometimes boring, but it is very useful.
The old man blushed from ear to ear, cast an indirect glance at Lisa and hurriedly left the room.
Marya Dmitrievna asked Panshin to repeat the romance; but he announced that he did not want to offend the ears of the learned German, and invited Lisa to study the Beethoven sonata. Then Marya Dmitrievna sighed and, for her part, invited Gedeonovsky to walk with her in the garden. “I would like,” she said, “to talk and consult with you about our poor Fed.” Gedeonovsky grinned, bowed, took his hat with two fingers with his gloves neatly placed on one of its brims, and left with Marya Dmitrievna. Panshin and Lisa remained in the room; she took out and opened the sonata; both sat down at the piano in silence. From above came the faint sounds of scales played by Lenochka’s unsteady fingers.
V
Christopher Theodor Gottlieb Lemm was born in 1786, in the Kingdom of Saxony, in the city of Chemnitz, from poor musicians. His father played the horn, his mother the harp; He himself had already been practicing on three different instruments for the fifth year. At the age of eight he was orphaned, and at ten he began to earn a piece of bread for himself with his art. He led a wandering life for a long time, played everywhere - in taverns, and at fairs, and at peasant weddings, and at balls; Finally he got into the orchestra and, moving higher and higher, reached the conductor's seat. He was a pretty bad performer, but he knew music thoroughly. In his twenty-eighth year he moved to Russia. He was signed by a great gentleman who himself hated music, but ran the orchestra out of arrogance. Lemm lived with him for seven years as a bandmaster and left him empty-handed: the master went bankrupt, wanted to give him a bill of exchange for himself, but later refused him this too - in a word, he did not pay him a penny. He was advised to leave; but he did not want to return home - a beggar from Russia, from great Russia , this bonanza of artists; he decided to stay and try his luck. For twenty years, the poor German tried his luck: he visited various gentlemen, lived in Moscow and in provincial cities, endured and endured a lot, learned poverty, fought like a fish on ice; but the thought of returning to his homeland did not leave him amid all the disasters to which he was exposed; she was the only one who supported him. Fate, however, was not pleased to please him with this last and first happiness: at fifty years old, sick, decrepit before his time, he was stuck in the city of O... and remained there forever, having completely lost all hope of leaving Russia, which he hated, and somehow supporting lessons from my meager existence. Lemm's appearance was not in his favor. He was short, stooped, with crooked shoulder blades and a retracted stomach, with large flat feet, with pale blue nails on the hard, unbending fingers of his sinewy red hands; his face was wrinkled, sunken cheeks and compressed lips, which he constantly moved and chewed, which, given his usual silence, gave an almost sinister impression; his gray hair hung in tufts over his low forehead; His tiny, motionless eyes smoldered dully like freshly poured coals; He walked heavily, throwing his clumsy body over at every step. Some of his movements were reminiscent of the clumsy preening of an owl in a cage, when she feels that they are looking at her, but she herself can barely see with her huge, yellow, fearfully and drowsily blinking eyes. Old, inexorable grief put its indelible stamp on the poor musicus, distorted and disfigured his already inconspicuous figure; but for someone who knew how not to dwell on first impressions, something kind, honest, something extraordinary was visible in this dilapidated creature. An admirer of Bach and Handel, an expert in his field, gifted with a lively imagination and that courage of thought that is accessible to one Germanic tribe, Lemm over time - who knows? - would have become one of the great composers of his homeland, if life had led him differently; but he was not born under a lucky star! He wrote a lot in his lifetime - and he did not manage to see a single one of his works published; He didn’t know how to get down to business as he should, to bow at the right time, to bother on time. Once, a long time ago, one of his fans and friends, also German and also poor, published two of his sonatas at his own expense - and even those remained entirely in the basements of music stores; They sank silently and without a trace, as if someone had thrown them into the river at night. Lemm finally gave up on everything; Moreover, the years had taken their toll: he became callous, numb, like his fingers became numb. Alone, with an old cook he took from an almshouse (he was never married), he lived in O... in a small house, not far from the Kalitino house; I walked a lot, read the Bible, a collection of Protestant psalms, and Shakespeare in Schlegel’s translation. He hadn't composed anything for a long time; but, apparently, Liza, his best student, knew how to stir him up: he wrote for her the cantata that Panshin mentioned. The words of this cantata were borrowed by him from a collection of psalms; He composed some of the poems himself. It was sung by two choirs - the choir of the lucky and the choir of the unlucky; By the end, both of them were reconciled and sang together: “Merciful God, have mercy on us sinners, and drive away from us all evil thoughts and earthly hopes.” On the title page, very carefully written and even painted, it read: “Only the righteous are right. Spiritual cantata. Composed and dedicated to the girl Elizaveta Kalitina, my dear student, her teacher, H. T. G. Lemm.” The words: “Only the righteous are right” and “Elizabeth Kalitina” were surrounded by rays. At the bottom was written: “For you alone, fur Sie allein.” “That’s why Lemm blushed and looked sideways at Lisa; he was very hurt when Panshin started talking about his cantata in front of him.
VI
Panshin loudly and decisively struck the first chords of the sonata (he played the second hand), but Liza did not begin her part. He stopped and looked at her. Lisa's eyes, fixed directly on him, expressed displeasure; her lips did not smile, her whole face was stern, almost sad.
- What's wrong with you? – he asked.
– Why didn’t you keep your word? - she said. “I showed you Christopher Fedorych’s cantata on the condition that you not tell him about it.”
“I’m sorry, Lizaveta Mikhailovna,” I had to say by the way.
“You upset him—and me too.” Now he won't trust me either.
– What do you want us to do, Lizaveta Mikhailovna? From my young nails I can’t see the German indifferently: I’m tempted to tease him.
– What are you saying, Vladimir Nikolaich! This German is a poor, lonely, murdered man - and you don’t feel sorry for him? Do you feel like teasing him? Panshin was embarrassed.
“You’re right, Lizaveta Mikhayaovna,” he said. “It’s all my fault because of my eternal thoughtlessness.” No, don't contradict me; I know myself well. My thoughtlessness did me a lot of harm. By her grace, I became known as an egoist.
Panshin was silent. No matter where he started the conversation, he usually ended up talking about himself, and it came out somehow sweet and soft, sincerely, as if involuntarily.
“And in your house,” he continued, “your mother, of course, favors me - she is so kind; you... however, I don’t know your opinion about me; but your aunt just can’t stand me. I, too, must have offended her with some thoughtless, stupid word. She doesn't love me, does she?
“Yes,” said Lisa with a slight hesitation, “she doesn’t like you.”
Panshin quickly ran his fingers over the keys; a barely noticeable smile crossed his lips.
- Well, what about you? - he said, - do I also seem selfish to you?
“I don’t know you well yet,” Liza objected, “but I don’t consider you an egoist; On the contrary, I should be grateful to you...
“I know, I know what you want to say,” Panshin interrupted her and again ran his fingers over the keys, “for the notes, for the books that I bring you, for bad drawings, with which I decorate your album, and so on, and so on. I can do all this - I can still be selfish. I dare to think that you are not bored with me and that you do not consider me to be a bad person, but still you believe that I - what, you know, is that said? - I won’t spare either my father or my friend for the sake of saying it.
“You are absent-minded and forgetful, like all secular people,” said Lisa, “that’s all.” Panshin frowned a little.
“Listen,” he said, “let’s not talk about me anymore; Let's play our sonata. I only ask you one thing,” he added, smoothing the sheets of the notebook lying on the music stand with his hand, “think about me what you want, even call me an egoist - so be it!” but don’t call me a secular person: this nickname is unbearable for me... Anch"io sono pittore. I am also an artist, although a bad one, and this, namely that I am a bad artist, I will prove to you right now in practice. Let's begin.
“Let’s get started,” said Lisa.
The first adagio went quite well, although Panshin made mistakes several times. He played his own and what he had learned very nicely, but he understood it poorly. But the second part of the sonata - a rather fast allegro - did not go well at all: on the twentieth bar, Panshin, who was two bars behind, could not stand it and pushed his chair away with a laugh.
- No! - he exclaimed, - I can’t play today; It’s good that Lemm didn’t hear us; he would have fainted. Lisa stood up, closed the piano and turned to Panshin.
- What are we going to do? – she asked.
- I recognize you in this question! There is no way you can sit idly by. Well, if you want, let's draw before it gets completely dark. Perhaps another muse - the muse of drawing - what was her name? I forgot... he will be more kind to me. Where is your album? I remember that my landscape is not finished there.
Liza went into another room to get the album, and Panshin, left alone, took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, rubbed his nails and looked, somehow demolished, at his hands. He had them very beautiful and white; on the thumb of his left hand he wore a screw-shaped gold ring. Lisa is back; Panshin sat down by the window and unfolded the album.
- Yeah! - he exclaimed, - I see that you have begun to sketch my landscape - and it’s wonderful. Very good! Just here - give me a pencil - the shadows are not very strong. Look.
And Panshin laid out several long strokes in a sweeping manner. He constantly painted the same landscape: large, disheveled trees in the foreground, a clearing in the distance and jagged mountains in the sky. Lisa looked over his shoulder at his work.
“In drawing, and in life in general,” said Panshin, bending his head first to the right, then to the left, “lightness and courage are the first thing.”
At that moment Lemm entered the room and, bowing dryly, wanted to leave; but Panshin threw the album and pencil aside and blocked his way.
-Where are you going, dear Christopher Fedoritch? Aren't you staying to drink tea?
“I’m going home,” Lemm said in a gloomy voice, “my head hurts.”
- Well, what nonsense - stay. We will argue about Shakespeare.
“My head hurts,” the old man repeated.
“And we started to work on the Beethoven sonata without you,” Panshin continued, kindly taking him by the waist and smiling brightly, “but things didn’t go well at all.” Imagine, I couldn’t hit two notes in a row correctly.
“You should sing your Romance Lutchi again,” Lemm objected, moving Panshin’s hands away and walking out. Lisa ran after him. She caught up with him on the porch.
“Christopher Fedorych, listen,” she said to him in German, walking him to the gate along the short green grass of the yard, “I’m guilty of you - forgive me.” Lemm didn't answer.
– I showed Vladimir Nikolaevich your cantata; I was sure that he would appreciate it, and he certainly liked it very much. Lemm stopped.
“It’s nothing,” he said in Russian and then added in his native language: “but he can’t understand anything; How can you not see this? He's an amateur - that's all!
“You’re being unfair to him,” Liza objected, “he understands everything, and he can do almost everything himself.”
- Yes, everything is number two, light goods, rush work. He likes it, and he likes it, and he himself is happy with it - well, bravo. But I’m not angry, this cantata and I are both old fools; I'm a little ashamed, but that's okay.
“Forgive me, Christopher Fedorych,” Lisa said again.
“Nothing, nothing,” he repeated again in Russian, “you are a kind girl... But someone is coming to you.” Farewell. You are a very kind girl.
And Lemm walked with hasty steps towards the gate, through which some gentleman unfamiliar to him, in a gray coat and a wide straw hat, was entering. Having bowed politely to him (he bowed to all new faces in the city of O...; he turned away from acquaintances on the street - this was the rule he made for himself), Lemm walked past and disappeared behind the fence. The stranger looked after him in surprise and, peering at Lisa, walked straight up to her.
VII
“You don’t recognize me,” he said, taking off his hat, “but I recognized you, even though eight years have passed since I saw you in last time. You were a child then. I'm Lavretsky. Is your mother at home? Can I see her?
“Mother will be very happy,” Liza objected, “she heard about your arrival.”
– I think your name is Elizaveta? - said Lavretsky, climbing the steps of the porch.
- Yes.
– I remember you well; Even then you had a face that you never forget; I brought you candy then.
Lisa blushed and thought: how strange he is. Lavreshchiy stopped for a minute in the hallway. Lisa entered the living room, where Panshin’s voice and laughter could be heard; he was telling some city gossip to Marya Dmitrievna and Gedeonovokoy, who had already returned from the garden, and he himself laughed loudly at what he was telling. At the name of Lavretsky, Marya Dmitrievna became all alarmed, turned pale and went to meet him,
- Hello, hello, my dear cousin! “- she exclaimed in a drawn-out and almost tearful voice, “how glad I am to see you!”
“Hello, my good cousin,” Lavretsky objected and shook her outstretched hand in a friendly manner. - How does God have mercy on you?
- Sit down, sit down, my dear Fyodor Ivanovich. Oh, how glad I am! Let me, first of all, introduce you to my daughter Lisa...
“I introduced myself to Lizaveta Mikhailovna,” Lavretsky interrupted her.
- Monsieur Panshin... Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky... Sit down! I look at you and, really, I can’t even believe my eyes. How is your health?
– As you can see, I’m thriving. And you, cousin, no matter how I jinx you, have not lost weight in these eight years.
“Just think how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other,” Marya Dmitrievna said dreamily. -Where are you from now? Where did you leave... that is, I wanted to say,” she hastily picked up, “I wanted to say, how long will you be staying with us?”
“I have now arrived from Berlin,” Lavretsky objected, “and tomorrow I am going to the village - probably for a long time.”
– Of course, you will live in Lavriki?
– No, not in Lavriki; and I have a village, about twenty-five versts from here; so I'm going there.
- This is the village that you got from Glafira Petrovna?
- The same one.
- For mercy, Fyodor Ivanovich! You have such a wonderful house in Lavriki! Lavretsky frowned slightly.
- Yes... but in that village there is an outbuilding; and I don’t need anything else for now. This place is the most convenient for me now.
Marya Dmitrievna again became so confused that she even straightened up and spread her arms. Panshin came to her aid and entered into a conversation with Lavretsky. Marya Dmitrievna calmed down, sat back in her chair and only occasionally inserted a word; but at the same time she looked so pitifully at her guest, sighed so significantly and shook her head so sadly that he finally could not stand it and rather sharply asked her: was she healthy?
“Thank God,” objected Marya Dmitrievna, “but what?”
- So, it seemed to me that you were not at ease.
Marya Dmitrievna assumed a dignified and somewhat offended look. “If that’s the case,” she thought, “I don’t care at all; it’s clear to you, my father, that everything is like water off a duck’s back; Another would have died of grief, but you were still blown away.” Marya Dmitrievna did not stand on ceremony with herself; out loud she spoke more gracefully.
Lavretsky really did not look like a victim of fate. His red-cheeked, purely Russian face, with a large white forehead, a slightly thick nose and wide, regular lips, exuded steppe health, strong, durable strength. He was beautifully built, and his blond hair curled on his head like a young man’s. In his eyes alone, blue, bulging and somewhat motionless, one could notice either thoughtfulness or fatigue, and his voice sounded somehow too even.
Panshin, meanwhile, continued to carry on the conversation. He brought up the benefits of sugar production, about which he had recently read two French brochures, and with calm modesty began to expound their contents, without, however, mentioning them in a single word.
- But this is Fedya! – Marfa Timofeevna’s voice suddenly rang out in the next room behind the half-open door, “Fedya, exactly!” - And the old woman quickly entered the living room. Lavretsky had not yet risen from his chair when she hugged him. “Show yourself, show yourself,” she said, moving away from his face. - Eh! Yes, how nice you are. He has aged, but has not deteriorated at all, really. Why are you kissing my hands? Why don’t you kiss me, if my wrinkled cheeks don’t disgust you. Probably, he didn’t ask about me: what, they say, is my aunt alive? But you were born in my arms, such an arrow! Well, it’s all the same; where were you supposed to remember me? Only you are smart for coming. “And what, my mother,” she added, turning to Marya Dmitrievna, “did you treat him to something?”
“I don’t need anything,” Lavretsky said hastily.
- Well, at least drink some tea, my father. Oh my God! He came from God knows where, and they won’t give him a cup of tea. Lisa, go and do something quickly. I remember when he was little he was a terrible glutton, and even now he must love to eat.
“My respect, Marfa Timofeevna,” said Panshin, approaching the departing old woman from the side and bowing low.
“Excuse me, my lord,” objected Marfa Timofeevna, “I didn’t notice you in my joy.” “You have become like your mother, like a little darling,” she continued, turning again to Lavretsky, “only you had your father’s nose, and it remains your father’s.” Well, how long will you stay with us?
- I'm leaving tomorrow, auntie.
- Where?
- To my place, in Vasilyevskoye.
- Tomorrow?
- Tomorrow.
- Well, if tomorrow, then tomorrow. God bless you, you know better. Just look, come and say goodbye. “The old lady patted him on the cheek. “I didn’t think I’d wait for you; and it’s not like I was going to die; no – I’ll probably be enough for another ten years: all of us, the Pestovs, are tenacious; your late grandfather used to call us two-core; but God knows how long you would have spent time abroad. Well, well done, well done; tea, are you still lifting ten pounds with one hand? Your deceased father, I’m sorry, he was so absurd for what he was doing, but he did a good job of hiring a Swiss for you; Do you remember, you fought with him on fists; Is this what they call gymnastics? But, however, it was me who cackled so much; only she prevented Mr. Panshin (she never called him, as she should have, Panshin) from reasoning. However, let’s better drink tea; Yes, let’s go to the terrace, father, to drink it; Our cream of the crop is glorious - not like in your London and Paris. Let's go, let's go, and you, Fedyusha, give me your hand. ABOUT! Yes, how fat she is! I bet you won't fall.
Everyone got up and went to the terrace, with the exception of Gedeonovsky, who quietly left. Throughout Lavretsky’s conversation with the mistress of the house, Panshin and Marfa Timofeevna, he sat in the corner, blinking attentively and stretching out his lips with childish curiosity: he was now in a hurry to spread the news of the new guest throughout the city.

* * *
On the same day, at eleven o’clock in the evening, this is what happened in Mrs. Kalitina’s house. Downstairs, on the threshold of the living room, seizing a convenient moment, Vladimir Nikolaich said goodbye to Liza and said to her, holding her hand: “You know who attracts me here; you know why I constantly go to your house; Why are there words when everything is already clear? Lisa did not answer him and, without smiling, slightly raising her eyebrows and blushing, looked at the floor, but did not take her hand away; and upstairs, in Marfa Timofeevna’s room, by the light of a lamp hanging in front of dim ancient images, Lavretsky was sitting on an armchair, leaning on his knees and resting his face in his hands;

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Noble nest

The spring, bright day was approaching evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float by, but went into the very depths of the azure.

In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O... (this happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one about fifty years old, the other an old woman, seventy years old.

The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time - a lively and decisive man, bilious and stubborn - died ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born into a poor class, he early realized the need to make his way and make money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, smart and, when he wanted, very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in her maiden name Pestova) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty miles from O..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovskoye, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to St. Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live in it for long; in the second year after her wedding to Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time, Kalitin purchased a house in the city of O..., where he and his wife settled permanently. There was a large garden next to the house; on one side it went straight into the field, outside the city. “So,” decided Kalitin, a great reluctance to rural silence, “there is no need to wander into the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once in her soul regretted her pretty Pokrovsky with its cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his intelligence and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna had already become so accustomed to her home and to city life that she herself did not want to leave O...

Marya Dmitrievna in her youth enjoyed the reputation of a pretty blonde; and at fifty years old her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although they were a little swollen and blurred. She was more sensitive than kind, and retained her college habits until her mature years; she spoiled herself, became easily irritated and even cried when her habits were violated; but she was very affectionate and kind, when all her wishes were fulfilled and no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the most pleasant in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much hereditary as acquired by her husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best government institutions in St. Petersburg.

The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovskoye. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone's face and, with the meager means, behaved as if thousands were following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in old age, small, pointed-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a thin and sonorous voice. 0, she always wore a white cap and a white jacket.

-What are you talking about? – she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. -What are you sighing about, my mother?

“Yes,” she said. – What wonderful clouds!

– So you feel sorry for them, or what? Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.

- Why is Gedeonovsky missing? - Marfa Timofeevna said, deftly moving her knitting needles (she was knitting a large woolen scarf). “He would have sighed with you, or he would have lied something.”

– How you always speak strictly of him! Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.

- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.

- And how devoted he was to his late husband! - said Marya Dmitrievna, - she still cannot remember him indifferently.

- Of course! “he pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” Marfa Timofeevna grumbled, and the knitting needles moved even faster in her hands.

“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and when he opens his mouth, he lies or gossips.” And also a state councilor! Well, and then to prove: Popovich!

- Who is without sin, auntie? Of course, he has this weakness. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive any education; he does not speak French; but he is, as you please, a pleasant person.

- Yes, he keeps licking your hands. He speaks French, but he says, “What a disaster!” I myself am not strong in the French dialect. It would be better if he didn’t speak in any way: he wouldn’t lie. Yes, by the way, he’s easy to remember,” added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing at the street. “Here he comes, your nice man.” So long, like a stork!

Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofeevna looked at her with a grin.

- What is it that you have, no gray hair, my mother? Scold your Broadsword. What is she looking at?

“You, auntie, always...” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair.

– Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! - the red-cheeked Cossack squeaked, jumping out from behind the door.

A tall man entered, wearing a neat frock coat, short trousers, gray suede gloves and two ties - one black on top, the other white on the bottom. Everything about him exuded decency and decency, from his handsome face and smoothly combed temples to his boots without heels and without squeaking. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofeevna and, slowly taking off his gloves, walked up to Marya Dmitrievna’s hand. Having kissed her respectfully and twice in a row, he slowly sat down in a chair and with a smile, rubbing the very tips of his fingers, said:

– Is Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?

“Yes,” answered Marya Dmitrievna, “she is in the garden.”

– And Elena Mikhailovna?

- Helen is in the garden too. - Is there anything new?

“How not to be, sir, how not to be, sir,” the guest objected, blinking slowly and pursing his lips. - Hm!.. yes, please, there is news, and amazing: Fyodor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived.

- Fedya! - Marfa Timofeevna exclaimed. “Aren’t you just making things up, my father?”

- No, sir, I saw them myself.

- Well, this is not proof yet.

“They are much healthier,” Gedeonovsky continued, pretending that he had not heard Marfa Timofeevna’s remark, “his shoulders have become even wider, and his cheeks are flushed.”

“He’s gotten better,” said Marya Dmitrievna with emphasis, “it seems, why should he get better?”

“Yes, sir,” objected Godeonovsky, “anyone else in his place would be ashamed to appear in the world.”

- Why is this? - Marfa Timofeevna interrupted, - what kind of nonsense is this? A man has returned to his homeland - where do you tell him to go? And fortunately he was to blame!

“The husband is always to blame, madam, I dare to tell you when his wife behaves badly.”

“That’s why you say it, father, because you yourself were never married.” Gedeonovsky smiled forcedly.

“Let me be curious,” he asked after a short silence, “who is this cute scarf assigned to?” Marfa Timofeevna quickly glanced at him.

“And it is assigned to him,” she objected, “who never gossips, does not cheat, and does not make up things, if only there is such a person in the world.” I know Fedya well; His only fault is that he spoiled his wife. Well, he married for love, and nothing good ever comes out of these love weddings,” added the old woman, looking indirectly at Marya Dmitrievna and standing up. “And now, my father, you can sharpen your teeth on anyone, even me; I'll leave, I won't interfere. And Marfa Timofeevna left.

“She’s always like this,” said Marya Dmitrievna, following her aunt with her eyes, “always!”

- Their summer! What to do, sir! – Gedeonovsviy noted. - So they deign to say: whoever is not cunning. Who doesn't cheat? This is the age. One of my friends, a respectable man and, let me tell you, a man of no small rank, used to say that every day a chicken approaches the grain with cunning - it always strives to approach from the side. And when I look at you, my lady, your disposition is truly angelic; Please give me your snow-white hand.

Marya Dmitrievna smiled faintly and extended her plump hand to Gedeonovsky with the fifth finger separated. He pressed his lips to hers, and she pulled her chair towards him and, bending slightly, asked in a low voice:

- So you saw him? Is he really okay, healthy, cheerful?

“It’s more fun, sir,” Gedeonovsky objected in a whisper.

-Have you heard where his wife is now?

– Recently I was in Paris, sir; Now, it is heard, she has moved to the Italian state.

- This is terrible, really, - Fedino’s situation; I don't know how he bears it. Misfortunes certainly happen to everyone; but, one might say, it was published all over Europe. Gideonovsky sighed.

- Yes, sir, yes, sir. After all, they say, she was acquainted with artists and pianists, and, as they say, with lions and animals. I completely lost my shame...

“Very, very sorry,” said Marya Dmitrievna. - In a family way: after all, he, Sergei Petrovich, you know, is my great-nephew.

- How, sir, how, sir. How can I not know everything that concerns your family? Have mercy, sir.

– Will he come to us, what do you think?

- It must be assumed, sir; but, by the way, you can hear them getting ready for their village. Marya Dmitrievna raised her eyes to the sky.

- Oh, Sergei Petrovich, Sergei Petrovich, how I think about how we women need to behave carefully!

– Woman to woman rose, Marya Dmitrievna. There are, unfortunately, those who have a fickle temperament... well, summer; again the rules were not instilled in them from childhood. (Sergei Petrovich took a checkered blue scarf from his pocket and began to unfold it.) Such women, of course, exist. (Sergei Petrovich brought the corner of the handkerchief one by one to his eyes.) But generally speaking, if we think about it, that is... The dust in the city is unusual,” he concluded.

“Maman, maman,” cried a pretty girl of about eleven, running into the room, “Vladimir Nikolaich is coming to us on horseback!”

Marya Dmitrievna stood up; Sergei Petrovich also stood up and bowed. “To Elena Mikhailovna, our deepest regards,” he said and, retreating to a corner for the sake of appearances, began blowing his long and straight nose.

- What a wonderful horse he has! – the girl continued. “He was at the gate now and told Lisa and me that he would drive up to the porch.

The clatter of hooves was heard, and a slender rider on a beautiful bay horse appeared on the street and stopped in front of the open window.

– Hello, Marya Dmitrievna! – the rider exclaimed in a sonorous and pleasant voice. – How do you like my new purchase? Marya Dmitrievna went to the window.

– Hello, Woldemar! Oh, what a nice horse! Who did you buy it from?

- From the repairman... He took it dearly, robber.

-What's her name?

- Orlando... Yes, this name is stupid; I want to change... Eh bien, eh bien, mon garcon... What a restless one! The horse snorted, shifted his feet and waved his foamy muzzle.

- Helen, pet her, don’t be afraid...

The girl extended her hand from the window, but Orland suddenly reared up and rushed to the side. The rider was not lost, he took the horse in his leg, pulled him along the neck with a whip and, despite his resistance, put him again in front of the window.

“Helen, caress him,” the rider objected, “I won’t let him take liberties.”

The girl again extended her hand and timidly touched the fluttering nostrils of Orland, who incessantly shuddered and gnawed at the bit.

- Bravo! - exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, - now get off and come to us.

The rider dashingly turned his horse, gave him spurs and, galloping down the street, rode into the yard. A minute later he ran, waving his whip, from the front door into the living room; at the same time, on the threshold of another door, a slender, tall, black-haired girl of about nineteen appeared - Marya Dmitrievna’s eldest daughter, Lisa.

The young man we just introduced our readers to was called Vladimir Nikolaich Panshin. He served in St. Petersburg as an official on special assignments in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He came to the city of O... to fulfill a temporary government assignment and was at the disposal of the governor, General Sonnenberg, to whom he was a distant relative. Panshin's father, a retired captain, a famous player, a man with sweet eyes, a rumpled face and a nervous twitch in his lips, spent his entire life rubbing shoulders between the nobility, visited English clubs in both capitals and was known as a clever, not very reliable, but sweet and sincere fellow . Despite all his dexterity, he was almost constantly on the verge of poverty and left his only son a small and upset fortune. But he, in his own way, took care of his upbringing: Vladimir Nikolaich spoke French perfectly, English well, German poorly. This is how it should be: decent people are ashamed to speak good German; but to use a Germanic word in some, mostly funny, cases is possible, c "est meme tres chic, as the St. Petersburg Parisians express it. From the age of fifteen, Vladimir Nikolaich already knew how to enter any living room without embarrassment, pleasantly twirl around in it and conveniently leave Panshin’s father brought many connections to his son; shuffling cards between two rubbers or after a successful “grand slam”, he did not miss the opportunity to spread the word about his “Volodka” to some important person who was a hunter of commercial games. During his stay at the university, from where he graduated with the rank of a full student, he met some noble young people and began to be accepted into the best houses; he was very good-looking, cheeky, funny, always healthy and ready for anything; necessary - respectful where possible - daring, an excellent comrade, un charmant garcon. The treasured region opened up before him. Panshin soon understood the secret of secular science; he knew how to truly respect its rules, knew how to engage in nonsense with half-mocking importance and show the appearance of reverence. everything important is nonsense; He danced well and dressed in English. In a short time he became known as one of the most amiable and clever young men in St. Petersburg. Panshin was indeed very dexterous, no worse than his father; but he was also very gifted. Everything was possible for him: he sang sweetly, drew smartly, wrote poetry, and played quite well on stage. He was only twenty-eight years old, and he was already a chamber cadet and had a very considerable rank. Panshin firmly believed in himself, in his mind, in his insight; he walked forward boldly and cheerfully, in full swing; his life flowed like clockwork. He was used to being liked by everyone, old and young, I imagined that he knew people, especially women: he knew their everyday weaknesses well. As a person not alien to art, he felt both heat and some passion and enthusiasm in himself, and as a result of this he allowed himself various deviations from the rules: he partied, became acquainted with people who did not belong to the world, and generally behaved freely and simply, but in his soul he was cold and cunning; , and during the most violent revelry, his smart brown eye kept watch and looked out for everything; this brave, this free young man could never forget himself and get carried away completely. To his credit, it must be said that he never boasted of his victories. immediately upon arriving in O... and soon became completely comfortable with him. Marya Dmitrievna doted on him.

Panshin kindly bowed to everyone in the room, shook hands with Marya Dmitrievna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna, lightly patted Gedeonovsky on the shoulder and, turning on his heel, caught Lenochka by the head and kissed her forehead.

“And you’re not afraid to ride such an angry horse?” - Marya Dmitrievna asked him.

- For pity’s sake, she’s humble; but I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of: I’m afraid of playing preference with Sergei Petrovich; Yesterday at the Belenitsyns he beat me to pieces.

Gedeonovsky laughed a thin and obsequious laugh: he was ingratiating himself with the young brilliant official from St. Petersburg, the governor’s favorite. In his conversations with Marya Dmitrievna, he often mentioned Panshin’s remarkable abilities. After all, he reasoned, how could he not praise? And in the highest sphere of life, the young man succeeds, and serves exemplarily, without the slightest pride. However, Panshin was considered a efficient official even in St. Petersburg: the work was in full swing in his hands; he spoke about her jokingly, as befits a secular person who does not attach much importance to his works, but he was a “performer.” Bosses love such subordinates; he himself had no doubt that, if he wanted, he would eventually become a minister.

“You deign to say that I beat you,” said Gedeonovsky, “and last week who won twelve rubles from me?” yes still...

“Villain, villain,” Panshin interrupted him with affectionate, but slightly contemptuous carelessness, and, no longer paying attention to him, walked up to Lisa.

“I couldn’t find the Oberon Overture here,” he began. “Belenitsyna only boasted that she had all classical music, but in reality she has nothing except polkas and waltzes; but I have already written to Moscow, and in a week you will have this overture. By the way,” he continued, “I wrote a new romance yesterday; the words are also mine. Do you want me to sing it for you? I don't know what came of it; Belenitsyna found him very nice, but her words mean nothing - I want to know your opinion. However, I think it’s better after.

- Why after? - Marya Dmitrievna intervened, - why not now?

“I’m listening, sir,” said Panshin with a kind of bright and sweet smile that suddenly appeared and disappeared on him, “he pulled up a chair with his knee, sat down at the piano and, having struck a few chords, sang, clearly separating the words, the following romance:

The moon floats high above the earth Between pale clouds; But a magic ray moves from above like a wave of the sea.

My soul has recognized you as its moon, and moves - both in joy and in sorrow - by you alone.

The soul is full of longing for love, longing for silent aspirations; It’s hard for me... But you are alien to turmoil, Like that moon.

The second verse was sung by Panshin with special expression and strength; in the stormy accompaniment the play of waves could be heard. After the words: “It’s hard for me...” - he sighed slightly, lowered his eyes and lowered his voice - morendo. When he finished, Liza praised the motive, Marya Dmitrievna said: “Lovely,” and Gedeonovsky even shouted: “Delightful!” both poetry and harmony are equally delightful!..” Helen looked at the singer with childish awe. In a word, everyone present really liked the work of the young amateur; but behind the door of the living room in the hallway stood a newly arrived, already old man, to whom, judging by the expression of his downcast face and the movements of his shoulders, Panshin’s romance, although very nice, did not bring pleasure. After waiting a little and brushing the dust from his boots with a thick handkerchief, this man suddenly narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips gloomily, bent his already stooped back, and slowly entered the living room.

- A! Christopher Fedorych, hello! - Panshin exclaimed first of all and quickly jumped out of his chair.

“I wasn’t listening,” the man who entered said in bad Russian and, bowing to everyone, stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“You, Monsieur Lemme,” said Marya Dmitrievna, “have come to give Liza a music lesson?”

- No, not Lisafet Mikhailovna, but Elen Mikhailovna.

- A! Well, that's great. Helen, go upstairs with Mr. Lemm. The old man started to follow the girl, but Panshin stopped him.

“Don’t leave after the lesson, Khristofor Fedorych,” he said, “Lizaveta Mikhailovna and I will play the Beethoven Sonata for four hands.”

The old man grumbled something under his breath, and Panshin continued in German, pronouncing the words poorly:

– Lizaveta Mikhailovna showed me the spiritual cantata that you presented to her – a wonderful thing! Please don’t think that I don’t know how to appreciate serious music - on the contrary: it is sometimes boring, but it is very useful.

The old man blushed from ear to ear, cast an indirect glance at Lisa and hurriedly left the room.

Marya Dmitrievna asked Panshin to repeat the romance; but he announced that he did not want to offend the ears of the learned German, and invited Lisa to study the Beethoven sonata. Then Marya Dmitrievna sighed and, for her part, invited Gedeonovsky to walk with her in the garden. “I would like,” she said, “to talk and consult with you about our poor Fed.” Gedeonovsky grinned, bowed, took his hat with two fingers with his gloves neatly placed on one of its brims, and left with Marya Dmitrievna. Panshin and Lisa remained in the room; she took out and opened the sonata; both sat down at the piano in silence. From above came the faint sounds of scales played by Lenochka’s unsteady fingers.

Christopher Theodor Gottlieb Lemm was born in 1786, in the Kingdom of Saxony, in the city of Chemnitz, from poor musicians. His father played the horn, his mother the harp; He himself had already been practicing on three different instruments for the fifth year. At the age of eight he was orphaned, and at ten he began to earn a piece of bread for himself with his art. He led a wandering life for a long time, played everywhere - in taverns, and at fairs, and at peasant weddings, and at balls; Finally he got into the orchestra and, moving higher and higher, reached the conductor's seat. He was a pretty bad performer, but he knew music thoroughly. In his twenty-eighth year he moved to Russia. He was signed by a great gentleman who himself hated music, but ran the orchestra out of arrogance. Lemm lived with him for seven years as a bandmaster and left him empty-handed: the master went bankrupt, wanted to give him a bill of exchange for himself, but later refused him this too - in a word, he did not pay him a penny. He was advised to leave; but he did not want to return home - a beggar from Russia, from great Russia, this gold mine of artists; he decided to stay and try his luck. For twenty years, the poor German tried his luck: he visited various gentlemen, lived in Moscow and in provincial cities, endured and endured a lot, learned poverty, fought like a fish on ice; but the thought of returning to his homeland did not leave him amid all the disasters to which he was exposed; she was the only one who supported him. Fate, however, was not pleased to please him with this last and first happiness: at fifty years old, sick, decrepit before his time, he was stuck in the city of O... and remained there forever, having completely lost all hope of leaving Russia, which he hated, and somehow supporting lessons from my meager existence. Lemm's appearance did not favor him. He was short, stooped, with crooked shoulder blades and a retracted stomach, with large flat feet, with pale blue nails on the hard, unbending fingers of his sinewy red hands; his face was wrinkled, sunken cheeks and compressed lips, which he constantly moved and chewed, which, given his usual silence, gave an almost sinister impression; his gray hair hung in tufts over his low forehead; His tiny, motionless eyes smoldered dully like freshly poured coals; He walked heavily, throwing his clumsy body over at every step. Some of his movements were reminiscent of the clumsy preening of an owl in a cage, when she feels that they are looking at her, but she herself can barely see with her huge, yellow, fearfully and drowsily blinking eyes. Old, inexorable grief put its indelible stamp on the poor musicus, distorted and disfigured his already inconspicuous figure; but for someone who knew how not to dwell on first impressions, something kind, honest, something extraordinary was visible in this dilapidated creature. An admirer of Bach and Handel, an expert in his field, gifted with a lively imagination and that courage of thought that is accessible to one Germanic tribe, Lemm over time - who knows? - would have become one of the great composers of his homeland, if life had led him differently; but he was not born under a lucky star! He wrote a lot in his lifetime - and he did not manage to see a single one of his works published; He didn’t know how to get down to business as he should, to bow at the right time, to bother on time. Once, a long time ago, one of his fans and friends, also German and also poor, published two of his sonatas at his own expense - and even those remained entirely in the basements of music stores; They sank silently and without a trace, as if someone had thrown them into the river at night. Lemm finally gave up on everything; Moreover, the years had taken their toll: he became callous, numb, like his fingers became numb. Alone, with an old cook he took from an almshouse (he was never married), he lived in O... in a small house, not far from the Kalitino house; I walked a lot, read the Bible, a collection of Protestant psalms, and Shakespeare in Schlegel’s translation. He hadn't composed anything for a long time; but, apparently, Liza, his best student, knew how to stir him up: he wrote for her the cantata that Panshin mentioned. The words of this cantata were borrowed by him from a collection of psalms; He composed some of the poems himself. It was sung by two choirs - the choir of the lucky and the choir of the unlucky; By the end, both of them were reconciled and sang together: “Merciful God, have mercy on us sinners, and drive away from us all evil thoughts and earthly hopes.” On the title page, very carefully written and even painted, it read: “Only the righteous are right. Spiritual cantata. Composed and dedicated to the girl Elizaveta Kalitina, my dear student, her teacher, H. T. G. Lemm.” The words: “Only the righteous are right” and “Elizabeth Kalitina” were surrounded by rays. At the bottom was written: “For you alone, fur Sie allein.” “That’s why Lemm blushed and looked sideways at Lisa; he was very hurt when Panshin started talking about his cantata in front of him.

I

A bright spring day was approaching evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and seemed not to float by, but to go into the very depths of the azure.

In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O... (this happened in 1842), two women were sitting: one about fifty years old, the other an old woman, seventy years old.

The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time - a lively and decisive man, bilious and stubborn - died ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born into a poor class, he early realized the need to make his own way and make money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, smart and, when he wanted, very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in her maiden name Pestova) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty miles from O..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovskoye, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to St. Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live in it for long; in the second year after her wedding with Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate, and at the same time Kalitin acquired a house in the city of O..., where and settled with his wife permanently. There was a large garden next to the house; on one side it went straight into the field, outside the city. “So,” decided Kalitin, a great reluctance to rural silence, “there is no need to wander into the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once in her soul regretted her pretty Pokrovsky with its cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his intelligence and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna had already become so accustomed to her home and to city life that she herself did not want to leave O...

Marya Dmitrievna in her youth enjoyed the reputation of a pretty blonde; and at fifty years old her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although they were a little swollen and blurred. She was more sensitive than kind, and retained her college habits until her mature years; she spoiled herself, became easily irritated and even cried when her habits were violated; but she was very affectionate and kind, when all her wishes were fulfilled and no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the most pleasant in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much hereditary as acquired by her husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best government institutions in St. Petersburg.

The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovskoye. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone's face and, with the meager means, behaved as if thousands were following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin, and as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in old age, small, pointed-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a thin and sonorous voice. She always wore a white cap and a white jacket.

-What are you talking about? – she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. -What are you sighing about, my mother?

“Yes,” she said. – What wonderful clouds!

– So you feel sorry for them, or what?

Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.

- Why is Gedeonovsky missing? - Marfa Timofeevna said, deftly moving her knitting needles (she was knitting a large woolen scarf). “He would have sighed with you, or he would have lied something.”

– How you always speak strictly of him! Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.

- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.

- And how devoted he was to his late husband! - said Marya Dmitrievna, - she still cannot remember him indifferently.

- Of course! “he pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” Marfa Timofeevna grumbled, and the knitting needles moved even faster in her hands.

“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and when he opens his mouth, he lies or gossips.” And also a state councilor! Well, let’s just say: Popovich!

- Who is without sin, auntie? Of course, he has this weakness. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive any education; he does not speak French; but he is, as you please, a pleasant person.

- Yes, he keeps licking your hands. He doesn’t speak French, what a disaster! I myself am not strong in the French dialect. It would be better if he didn’t speak in any way: he wouldn’t lie. Yes, by the way, he’s easy to remember,” added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing at the street. “Here he comes, your nice man.” So long, like a stork!

Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofeevna looked at her with a grin.

- What is it that you have, no gray hair, my mother? Scold your Broadsword. What is she looking at?

“You, auntie, always...,” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair.

– Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! - the red-cheeked Cossack squeaked, jumping out from behind the door.

II

A tall man entered, wearing a neat frock coat, short trousers, gray suede gloves and two ties - one black on top, the other white on the bottom. Everything about him exuded decency and decency, from his handsome face and smoothly combed temples to his boots without heels and without squeaking. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofeevna and, slowly taking off his gloves, walked up to Marya Dmitrievna’s hand. Having kissed her respectfully and twice in a row, he slowly sat down in a chair and with a smile, rubbing the very tips of his fingers, said:

– Is Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?

“Yes,” answered Marya Dmitrievna, “she is in the garden.”

– And Elena Mikhailovna?

- Helen is in the garden too. Is there anything new?

“How not to be, sir, how not to be, sir,” the guest objected, blinking slowly and pursing his lips. - Hm!.. yes, please, there is news, and amazing: Fyodor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived.

- Fedya! - Marfa Timofeevna exclaimed. “Aren’t you just making things up, my father?”

- No, sir, I saw them myself.

- Well, this is not proof yet.

“They are much healthier,” Gedeonovsky continued, pretending that he had not heard Marfa Timofeevna’s remark, “his shoulders have become even broader, and there is a blush on his cheek.”

“He’s gotten better,” said Marya Dmitrievna with emphasis, “it seems, why should he get better?”

“Yes, sir,” objected Gedeonovsky, “anyone else in his place would be ashamed to appear in the world.”

- Why is this? - Marfa Timofeevna interrupted, - what kind of nonsense is this? A man has returned to his homeland - where do you tell him to go? And fortunately he was to blame!

“The husband is always to blame, madam, I dare to tell you when his wife behaves badly.”

“That’s why you say it, father, because you yourself were never married.”

Gedeonovsky smiled forcedly.

“Let me be curious,” he asked after a short silence, “who is this cute scarf assigned to?”

Marfa Timofeevna quickly glanced at him.

“And it is assigned to him,” she objected, “who never gossips, does not cheat, and does not make up things, if only there is such a person in the world.” I know Fedya well; His only fault is that he spoiled his wife. Well, he married for love, and nothing good ever comes out of these love weddings,” added the old woman, looking indirectly at Marya Dmitrievna and standing up. “And now, my father, you can sharpen your teeth on anyone, even me; I'll leave, I won't interfere. - And Marfa Timofeevna left.

“She’s always like this,” said Marya Dmitrievna, following her aunt with her eyes, “always!”

- Their summer! What to do, sir! – Gedeonovsky noted. - So they deign to say: whoever is not cunning. Who doesn't cheat? This is the age. One of my friends, a venerable man and, let me tell you, a man of no small rank, used to say: sometimes a chicken approaches the grain with cunning - it always strives to approach from the side. And when I look at you, my lady, your disposition is truly angelic; Please give me your snow-white hand.

Marya Dmitrievna smiled faintly and extended her plump hand to Gedeonovsky with the fifth finger separated. He pressed his lips to hers, and she pulled her chair towards him and, bending slightly, asked in a low voice:

- So you saw him? Is he really okay, healthy, cheerful?

“Merry, sir, nothing,” Gedeonovsky objected in a whisper.

-Have you heard where his wife is now?

– Recently I was in Paris, sir; Now, it is heard, she has moved to the Italian state.

“It’s terrible, really,” Fedino’s situation; I don't know how he bears it. Misfortunes certainly happen to everyone; but, one might say, it was published all over Europe.

Gedeonovsky sighed.

- Yes, sir, yes, sir. After all, they say, she was acquainted with artists and pianists, and, as they say, with lions and animals. I completely lost my shame...

“Very, very sorry,” said Marya Dmitrievna. - In a family way, because he, Sergei Petrovich, you know, is my great-nephew.

- How, sir, how, sir. How can I not know everything that concerns your family? Have mercy, sir.

– Will he come to us, what do you think?

- It must be assumed, sir; but, by the way, you can hear them getting ready for their village.

Marya Dmitrievna raised her eyes to the sky.

- Oh, Sergei Petrovich, Sergei Petrovich, how I think about how we women need to behave carefully!

– Woman to woman rose, Marya Dmitrievna. There are, unfortunately, those who have a fickle temperament... well, summer; again the rules were not instilled in them from childhood. (Sergei Petrovich took a checkered blue scarf from his pocket and began to unfold it.) Such women, of course, exist. (Sergei Petrovich brought the corner of the handkerchief one by one to his eyes.) But generally speaking, if we think about it, that is... The dust in the city is unusual,” he concluded.

“Maman, maman,” cried a pretty girl of about eleven, running into the room, “Vladimir Nikolaevich is coming to us on horseback!”

Marya Dmitrievna stood up; Sergei Petrovich also stood up and bowed. “To Elena Mikhailovna, our deepest regards,” he said and, retreating to a corner for the sake of appearances, began blowing his long and straight nose.

- What a wonderful horse he has! – the girl continued. “He was at the gate now and told Lisa and me that he would drive up to the porch.

The clatter of hooves was heard, and a slender rider on a beautiful bay horse appeared on the street and stopped in front of the open window.

III

– Hello, Marya Dmitrievna! – the rider exclaimed in a sonorous and pleasant voice. – How do you like my new purchase?

Marya Dmitrievna went to the window.

– Hello, Woldemar! Ah, what a nice horse! Who did you buy it from?

- From the repairman... He took it dearly, robber.

-What's her name?

- Orlando... Yes, this name is stupid; I want to change... Eh bien, eh bien, mon garçon... What a restless one!

The horse snorted, shifted his feet and waved his foamy muzzle.

- Helen, pet her, don’t be afraid...

The girl extended her hand from the window, but Orland suddenly reared up and rushed to the side. The rider was not lost, he took the horse in his leg, pulled him along the neck with a whip and, despite his resistance, put him again in front of the window.

“Prenez garde, prenez garde,” Marya Dmitrievna repeated.

“Helen, caress him,” the rider objected, “I won’t let him take liberties.”

The girl again extended her hand and timidly touched the fluttering nostrils of Orland, who incessantly shuddered and gnawed at the bit.

- Bravo! - exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, - now get off and come to us.

The rider dashingly turned his horse, gave him spurs and, galloping down the street, rode into the yard. A minute later he ran, waving his whip, from the front door into the living room; at the same time, on the threshold of another door, a slender, tall, black-haired girl of about nineteen appeared - Marya Dmitrievna’s eldest daughter, Lisa.

IV

The young man we just introduced our readers to was called Vladimir Nikolaich Panshin. He served in St. Petersburg as an official on special assignments in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He came to the city of O... to fulfill a temporary government assignment and was at the disposal of the governor, General Sonnenberg, to whom he was a distant relative. Panshin's father, a retired captain, a famous player, a man with sweet eyes, a rumpled face and a nervous twitch in his lips, spent his entire life rubbing shoulders between the nobility, visited English clubs in both capitals and was known as a clever, not very reliable, but sweet and sincere fellow . Despite all his dexterity, he was almost constantly on the verge of poverty and left his only son a small and upset fortune. But he, in his own way, took care of his upbringing: Vladimir Nikolaich spoke French perfectly, English well, German poorly. This is how it should be: decent people are ashamed to speak good German; but to use a Germanic word in some, mostly funny, cases is possible, c’est même très chic, as the St. Petersburg Parisians say. From the age of fifteen, Vladimir Nikolaich already knew how to enter any living room without embarrassment, pleasantly twirl around in it and conveniently leave. Panshin's father provided his son with many connections; shuffling cards between two rubbers or after a successful “grand slam”, he never missed an opportunity to spread the word about his “Volodka” to some important person who was a hunter of commercial games. For his part, Vladimir Nikolaich, during his stay at the university, from where he graduated with the rank of full student, met some noble young people and began to enter the best houses. He was readily accepted everywhere; he was very handsome, cheeky, funny, always healthy and ready for anything; where necessary - respectful, where possible - daring, an excellent comrade, un charmant garçon. The treasured region opened up before him.

Panshin soon understood the secret of secular science; he knew how to be imbued with real respect for its rules, he knew how to deal with nonsense with half-mocking importance and show the appearance that he considers everything important to be nonsense; He danced well and dressed in English. In a short time he became known as one of the most amiable and clever young men in St. Petersburg. Panshin was indeed very dexterous, no worse than his father; but he was also very gifted. Everything was possible for him: he sang sweetly, drew smartly, wrote poetry, and played quite well on stage. He was only twenty-eight years old, and he was already a chamber cadet and had a very considerable rank. Panshin firmly believed in himself, in his mind, in his insight; he walked forward boldly and cheerfully, in full swing; his life flowed like clockwork. He was used to being liked by everyone, old and young, and imagined that he knew people, especially women: he knew their everyday weaknesses well. As a person who is not alien to art, he felt in himself both heat, and some passion, and enthusiasm, and as a result, he allowed himself various deviations from the rules: he went on carousing, became acquainted with people who did not belong to the world, and generally behaved freely and simply; but in his soul he was cold and cunning, and during the most violent revelry his smart brown eye kept watch and looked out for everything; this brave, this free young man could never forget himself and get carried away completely. To his credit, it must be said that he never boasted of his victories. He ended up in Marya Dmitrievna's house immediately upon his arrival in O... and soon became completely at home in it. Marya Dmitrievna doted on him.

Panshin kindly bowed to everyone in the room, shook hands with Marya Dmitrievna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna, lightly patted Gedeonovsky on the shoulder and, turning on his heel, caught Lenochka by the head and kissed her forehead.

“And you’re not afraid to ride such an angry horse?” - Marya Dmitrievna asked him.

- For pity’s sake, she’s humble; but I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of: I’m afraid of playing preference with Sergei Petrovich; Yesterday at the Belenitsyns he beat me to pieces.

Gedeonovsky laughed a thin and obsequious laugh: he was ingratiating himself with the young brilliant official from St. Petersburg, the governor’s favorite. In his conversations with Marya Dmitrievna, he often mentioned Panshin’s remarkable abilities. After all, he reasoned, how could he not praise? And in the highest sphere of life, the young man succeeds, and serves exemplarily, without the slightest pride. However, Panshin was considered a efficient official even in St. Petersburg: the work was in full swing in his hands; he spoke about her jokingly, as befits a secular person who does not attach much importance to his works, but he was a “performer.” Bosses love such subordinates; he himself had no doubt that, if he wanted, he would eventually become a minister.

“You deign to say that I beat you,” said Gedeonovsky, “and last week who won twelve rubles from me?” yes still...

“Villain, villain,” Panshin interrupted him with affectionate, but slightly contemptuous carelessness, and, no longer paying attention to him, walked up to Lisa.

“I couldn’t find Oberon’s overture here,” he began. “Belenitsyna only boasted that she had all classical music, but in reality she has nothing except polkas and waltzes; but I have already written to Moscow, and in a week you will have this overture. By the way,” he continued, “I wrote a new romance yesterday; the words are also mine. Do you want me to sing for you? I don't know what came of it; Belenitsyna found him very nice, but her words mean nothing - I want to know your opinion. However, I think it’s better after.

- Why after? - Marya Dmitrievna intervened, - why not now?

“I’m listening, sir,” said Panshin with a kind of bright and sweet smile that suddenly appeared and disappeared on him, “he pulled up a chair with his knee, sat down at the piano and, having struck a few chords, sang, clearly separating the words, the following romance:

The moon floats high above the earth
Between pale clouds;
But it moves from above like a wave of the sea
Magic ray.
The sea recognized you in my soul
With your moon
And it moves - both in joy and in sorrow -
You alone.
The longing of love, the longing of silent aspirations
The soul is full;
It’s hard for me... But you are a stranger to turmoil,
Like that moon.

The second verse was sung by Panshin with special expression and strength; in the stormy accompaniment the play of waves could be heard. After the words: “It’s hard for me...” - he sighed slightly, lowered his eyes and lowered his voice - morendo. When he finished, Liza praised the motive, Marya Dmitrievna said: “Lovely,” and Gedeonovsky even shouted: “Delightful!” both poetry and harmony are equally delightful!..” Helen looked at the singer with childish awe. In a word, everyone present really liked the work of the young amateur; but behind the door of the living room in the hallway stood a newly arrived, already old man, to whom, judging by the expression of his downcast face and the movements of his shoulders, Panshin’s romance, although very nice, did not bring pleasure. After waiting a little and brushing the dust off his boots with a thick handkerchief, this man suddenly narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips gloomily, bent his already stooped back and slowly entered the living room.

- A! Christopher Fedorych, hello! - Panshin exclaimed first of all and quickly jumped out of his chair. “I didn’t even suspect that you were here; I would never have decided to sing my romance in front of you.” I know you are not a fan of light music.

“I wasn’t listening,” the man who entered said in bad Russian and, bowing to everyone, stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“You, Monsieur Lemme,” said Marya Dmitrievna, “have come to give Liza a music lesson?”

- No, not Lisafet Mikhailovna, but Elen Mikhailovna.

- A! Well, that’s great. Helen, go upstairs with Mr. Lemm.

The old man started to follow the girl, but Panshin stopped him.

“Don’t leave after the lesson, Khristofor Fedorych,” he said, “Lizaveta Mikhailovna and I will play a Beethoven sonata for four hands.”

The old man grumbled something under his breath, and Panshin continued in German, pronouncing the words poorly:

– Lizaveta Mikhailovna showed me the spiritual cantata that you presented to her – a wonderful thing! Please don’t think that I don’t know how to appreciate serious music - on the contrary: it is sometimes boring, but it is very useful.

The old man blushed from ear to ear, cast an indirect glance at Lisa and hurriedly left the room.

Marya Dmitrievna asked Panshin to repeat the romance; but he announced that he did not want to offend the ears of the learned German, and invited Lisa to study a Beethoven sonata. Then Marya Dmitrievna sighed and, for her part, invited Gedeonovsky to walk with her in the garden. “I would like,” she said, “to talk and consult with you about our poor Fed.” Gedeonovsky grinned, bowed, took his hat with two fingers with his gloves neatly placed on one of its brims, and left with Marya Dmitrievna. Panshin and Lisa remained in the room: she took out and opened the sonata; both sat down at the piano in silence. From above came the faint sounds of scales played by Lenochka’s unsteady fingers.

The spring, bright day was approaching evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float by, but went into the very

The depth of azure.
In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O... (this happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one

About fifty years old, the other is already an old woman, seventy years old.
The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time, is a lively and

Determined, bilious and stubborn, he died ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born into the class

Poor, I realized early on the need to pave the way for myself and earn money. Marya Dmitrievna married him for love: he was good-looking, smart and,

When he wanted, he was very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in her maiden name Pestova) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute,

And, having returned from there, she lived fifty miles from O..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovskoye, with her aunt and older brother. This brother is coming soon

He moved to St. Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya

Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live in it for long; in the second year after her wedding to Kalitin, who in a few days managed

To win her heart, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time Kalitin

He bought a house in the city of O..., where he and his wife settled permanently. There was a large garden next to the house; on one side it went straight into

Field, outside the city. “So,” decided Kalitin, a great reluctance to rural silence, “there is no need to wander into the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once

My soul regretted my pretty Pokrovsky with its cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and

I was in awe of his intelligence and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna already

She got so used to her home and city life that she didn’t want to leave O...
Marya Dmitrievna in her youth enjoyed the reputation of a pretty blonde; and at five to ten years old her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although a little

They swollen and floated. She was more sensitive than kind, and retained her college habits until her mature years; she spoiled herself, easily

She became irritated and even cried when her habits were violated; but she was very affectionate and kind when all her wishes were fulfilled and no one

He contradicted me. Her house was one of the most pleasant in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much hereditary as

Bought by my husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best government institutions in St. Petersburg.
The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years

In Pokrovsky. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, told everyone the truth to their faces and in the most meager circumstances.

She behaved as if she had thousands following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him

She got married and retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and

Quick-eyed even in old age, small, sharp-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a subtle and sonorous voice.