Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev. Faust. Tale by I.S. Turgenev's "Faust" as a reflection of the writer's creative quest

From the memoirs of I. S. Turgenev The late Mikhail Semenovich Shchepkin brought me to Gogol. I remember the day of our visit: October 20, 1851. Gogol then lived in Moscow on Nikitskaya, in Talyzin’s house, with Count Tolstoy. We arrived at one o'clock in the afternoon; he received us immediately. His room

“Letter from St. Petersburg” by I. S. Turgenev [This letter was the reason for Turgenev’s arrest and exile to the village. It was published (after it was banned by St. Petersburg censorship) in Mosk. Vedomosti", 1852, No. 32 of March 13 for signed T-v and with the mark “February 24, 1852 St. Petersburg.”

Current page: 1 (book has 6 pages in total)

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

A story in nine letters

Entbehren sollst du, sollst entbehren.

"Faust" (part 1) (1)

Letter one

From Pavel Alexandrovich B...

to Semyon Nikolaevich V...

On the fourth day I arrived here, dear friend, and, as promised, I take up the pen and write to you. A light rain falls in the morning: it is impossible to go out; Yes, and I want to chat with you. Here I am again in my old nest, which I haven’t been to - it’s scary to say - for nine whole years. What, what has not happened in these nine years! Really, when you think about it, I’ve definitely become a different person. And indeed it’s different: do you remember in the living room the small, dark mirror of my great-grandmother, with such strange curls in the corners - you used to keep thinking about what it saw a hundred years ago - as soon as I arrived, approached him and involuntarily became embarrassed. I suddenly saw how I had aged and changed in Lately . However, I’m not the only one who has aged. My little house, which has been dilapidated for a long time, is now barely standing, it’s all crooked, and has grown into the ground. My good Vasilyevna, the housekeeper (you probably haven’t forgotten her: she regaled you with such delicious jam), was completely dry and hunched over; When she saw me, she couldn’t even scream and didn’t cry, but just groaned and coughed, sat down in exhaustion on a chair and waved her hand. Old man Terenty is still invigorated, still stands straight and twists his legs as he walks, dressed in the same yellow nankeen pantaloons and shod in the same creaky goat shoes, with a high instep and bows, from which you were more than once moved by emotion... But, my God! - how those pantaloons now dangle on his skinny legs! how his hair turned white! and his face completely shrank into a fist; and when he spoke to me, when he began to give orders and commands in the next room, I felt both funny and sorry for him. All his teeth have disappeared, and he mumbles with a whistle and hiss. But the garden has become surprisingly prettier: modest bushes of lilac, acacia, honeysuckle (remember, we planted them) have grown into magnificent solid bushes; birches, maples - all this stretched out and spread out; The linden alleys are especially good. I love these alleys, I love the delicate gray-green color and the delicate smell of the air under their arches; I love the motley grid of light circles on the dark ground - I don’t have sand, you know. My beloved oak tree has already become a young oak tree. Yesterday, in the middle of the day, I sat in his shadow on a bench for more than an hour. I felt very good. All around the grass was blooming so merrily; there was a golden light on everything, strong and soft; he even penetrated into the shadows... And what birds were heard! I hope you haven't forgotten that birds are my passion. The turtle doves cooed incessantly, the oriole whistled from time to time, the chaffinch did its sweet little dance, the blackbirds got angry and chattered, the cuckoo echoed in the distance; suddenly, like a madman, a woodpecker screamed piercingly. I listened, listened to all this soft, united hum, and I didn’t want to move, but my heart was either laziness or tenderness. And more than one garden has grown: I constantly come across thick-set, hefty boys, whom I just can’t recognize as old boys I knew. And your favorite, Timosha, has now become such a Timofey that you cannot imagine. You were then afraid for his health and predicted consumption for him; And now you should look at his huge red arms, how they stick out from the narrow sleeves of his nankeen coat, and how round and thick his muscles bulge out everywhere! The back of the head is like a bull’s, and the head is all covered in cool blond curls - a perfect Hercules of Farnese! (2) However, his face changed less than the others, it didn’t even increase in volume very much, and the cheerful, as you said, “yawning” smile remained the same. I took him as my valet; I abandoned my St. Petersburg one in Moscow: he really loved to shame me and make me feel his superiority in the capital’s treatment. I didn’t find any of my dogs; everyone transferred. Only Nefka lived the longest - and she did not wait for me, as Argos waited for Ulysses; (3) she did not have to see her former owner and hunting companion with her dull eyes. But the Shavka is intact and barks just as hoarsely, and one of her ears is also torn, and there are burrs in her tail, as it should be. I moved into your former room. True, the sun hits it, and there are a lot of flies in it; but it smells less of an old house than in other rooms. Strange affair! this musty, slightly sour and sluggish smell has a strong effect on my imagination: I won’t say that it was unpleasant to me, on the contrary; but it arouses sadness in me, and finally despondency. Just like you, I really love old pot-bellied chests of drawers with copper plaques, white armchairs with oval backs and crooked legs, glass chandeliers spotted with flies, with a large egg made of purple foil in the middle - in a word, all sorts of grandfather’s furniture; but I can’t see all this all the time: some kind of anxious boredom (that’s right!) takes over me. In the room where I settled, the furniture was the most ordinary, homemade; however, I left in the corner a narrow and long cabinet with shelves on which various old Testament blown dishes made of green and blue glass can barely be seen through the dust; and on the wall I ordered to hang, do you remember, that female portrait, in a black frame, which you called the portrait of Manon Lescaut. (4) He darkened a little during these nine years; but the eyes look just as thoughtfully, slyly and tenderly, the lips laugh just as frivolously and sadly, and the half-plucked rose just as quietly falls from thin fingers. The curtains in my room amuse me a lot. They were once green, but turned yellow from the sun: scenes from d’Arlencourt’s “The Hermit” were painted on them in black paint. (5) On one curtain, this hermit, with a huge beard, bulging eyes and sandals, is dragging some disheveled young lady into the mountains; on the other, there is a fierce fight between four knights in berets and with puffs on their shoulders; one lies, en raccourci, killed - in a word, all the horrors are presented, and there is such an imperturbable calm all around, and from the very curtains such gentle reflections fall on the ceiling... A kind of spiritual peace has come over me since I settled here; I don’t want to do anything, I don’t want to see anyone, I have nothing to dream about, I’m too lazy to think; but don’t be too lazy to think: these are two different things, as you yourself well know. Memories of childhood first washed over me... wherever I walked, whatever I looked at, they arose from everywhere, clear, clear to the smallest detail, and as if motionless in their distinct definition... Then these memories were replaced by others, then... then I quietly turned away from past, and only some kind of drowsy burden remained in my chest. Imagine! sitting on the dam, under a willow tree, I suddenly unexpectedly began to cry and would have cried for a long time, despite my already advanced years, if I had not been ashamed of a passing woman, who looked at me with curiosity, then, without turning her face to me, bowed directly and low and passed by. I would very much like to remain in this mood (of course, I won’t cry anymore) until my departure from here, that is, until September, and I would be very upset if any of the neighbors decided to visit me. However, there seems to be nothing to fear from this; I don’t even have close neighbors. You, I am sure, will understand me; you yourself know from experience how beneficial solitude is often... I need it now, after all kinds of wanderings.

And I won't be bored. I brought several books with me, and here I have a decent library. Yesterday I opened all the cabinets and spent a long time rummaging through the moldy books. I found many interesting things that I had not noticed before: “Candida” in a handwritten translation from the 70s; (6) statements and journals of the same time; “The Triumphant Chameleon” (i.e. Mirabeau); (7) “Le Paysan perverti” (8), etc. I came across children’s books, both my own, and my father’s, and my grandmother’s, and even, imagine, my great-grandmother: on one old, old French grammar, in a variegated binding, written in large letters: Ce livre appartient à m-lle Eudoxie de Lavrine and the year displayed is 1741. I saw books that I had once brought from abroad, among other things, Goethe’s Faust. You may not know that there was a time when I knew “Faust” by heart (the first part, of course) from word to word; I could not read enough of him... But other days mean other dreams, and over the past nine years I have hardly had to pick up Goethe. With what an inexplicable feeling I saw a small book that was too familiar to me (a bad edition of 1828). (9) I took it with me, lay down on the bed and began to read. How the whole magnificent first scene affected me! The appearance of the Spirit of the Earth, his words, remember: “On the waves of life, in the whirlwind of creation,” aroused in me a long-unexplored thrill and cold delight. I remembered everything: Berlin, and my student days, and Fraulein Klara Stich, (10) and Seidelmann in the role of Mephistopheles, (11) and the music of Radziwill (12) and everything and everyone... For a long time I could not fall asleep: my youth came and became before me like a ghost; fire, poison ran through her veins, her heart expanded and did not want to shrink, something rushed along its strings, and desires began to boil...

These are the dreams your almost forty-year-old friend indulged in, sitting alone in his lonely house! What if someone spied on me? Well, so what? I wouldn't be at all ashamed. Being ashamed is also a sign of youth; And do you know why I began to notice that I was trying? That's why. Now I try to exaggerate to myself my cheerful feelings and tame the sad ones, but in my youth I did exactly the opposite. It happens that you rush around with your sadness like a treasure, and are ashamed of a cheerful outburst...

And yet it seems to me that, despite all my life experience, there is still something in the world, friend Horatio, that I have not experienced, (13) and this “something” is almost the most important.

Oh, what I've gotten myself into! Goodbye! Until another time. What are you doing in St. Petersburg? By the way: Savely, my village cook, tells you to bow. He also aged, but not too much, he gained weight and became a little flabby. He also makes chicken soups with boiled onions well, cheesecakes with a patterned border, and Pigus - the famous steppe dish Pigus, which will make your tongue turn white and stand on your tongue for a whole day. But he still dries out the fried food so that even if you knock it on the plate, it’s like real cardboard. However, goodbye!

Your P.B.

Letter two

From the same to the same

I have some rather important news to tell you, dear friend. Listen! Yesterday, before lunch, I wanted to take a walk - just not in the garden; I walked along the road to the city. Walking with quick steps along a long straight road without any purpose is very pleasant. You seem to be doing something, hurrying somewhere. I look: a stroller is coming towards me. “Isn’t it to me?” - I thought with secret fear... However, no: in the carriage sits a gentleman with a mustache, a stranger to me. I've calmed down. But suddenly this gentleman, having caught up with me, orders the coachman to stop the horses, politely raises his cap and asks me even more politely: am I such and such? - calling me by name. I, in turn, stop and with the cheerfulness of a defendant being led to interrogation, I answer: “I am such and such,” and I myself look like a ram at the gentleman with a mustache and think to myself: “But I’ve seen him somewhere... That!"

-You don’t recognize me? - he says, meanwhile getting out of the stroller.

- No way, sir.

- And I recognized you immediately.

Word for word: it turns out that it was Priimkov, remember, our former university friend. “What is this important news? - you think at this moment, dear Semyon Nikolaich. “Priimkov, as far as I remember, was a rather empty fellow, although he was not evil or stupid.” That's right, my friend, but listen to the continuation of the conversation.

“I was very happy,” he says, “when I heard that you had come to your village, to our neighborhood.” However, I wasn’t the only one who was happy.

“Let me find out,” I asked, “who else was so kind...

- My wife.

- Your wife!

- Yes, my wife: she is an old friend of yours.

– May I know what your wife’s name is?

– Her name is Vera Nikolaevna; she was born Yeltsova...

- Vera Nikolaevna! – I exclaim involuntarily...

This is the very important news that I told you about at the beginning of the letter.

But maybe you don’t find anything important in this either... I’ll have to tell you something from my past... long past life.

When you and I left the university in 183..., I was twenty-three years old. You entered the service; I, as you know, decided to go to Berlin. But there was nothing to do in Berlin before October. I wanted to spend the summer in Russia, in the countryside, to be thoroughly lazy for the last time, and then get to work in earnest. To what extent this last assumption came true, there is no need to talk about it now... “But where should I spend the summer?” – I asked myself. I didn’t want to go to my village: my father had recently passed away, I had no close relatives, I was afraid of loneliness, boredom... And therefore I gladly accepted the offer of one of my relatives, my cousin, to stay with him on his estate, in T** *th province. He was a wealthy man, kind and simple, he lived as a gentleman and had lordly chambers. I moved in with him. My uncle had a large family: two sons and five daughters. In addition, there were a lot of people living in his house. Guests kept arriving, but it was still no fun. The days passed noisily, there was no opportunity for privacy. Everything was done together, everyone tried to distract themselves with something, come up with something, and by the end of the day everyone was terribly tired. There was something vulgar about this life. I was already starting to dream about leaving and was only waiting for my uncle’s name day to pass, but on the very day of these name days at the ball I saw Vera Nikolaevna Eltsova - and stayed.

She was then sixteen years old. She lived with her mother on a small estate, about five miles from my uncle. Her father - a very remarkable man, they say - quickly reached the rank of colonel and would have gone even further, but he died in his young years, accidentally shot by a comrade while hunting. Vera Nikolaevna remained a child after him. Her mother was also an extraordinary woman: she spoke several languages ​​and knew a lot. She was seven or eight years older than her husband, whom she married for love; he secretly took her away from her parents' house. She barely survived his loss and until her death (according to Priimkov, she died soon after her daughter’s wedding) she wore only black dresses. I vividly remember her face: expressive, dark, with thick, gray hair, large, stern, as if extinct eyes and a straight, thin nose. Her father - his last name was Ladanov - lived in Italy for fifteen years. Vera Nikolaevna's mother was born from a simple peasant woman from Albano, who the day after her birth was killed by a Trasteverine man, her fiancé, from whom Ladanov kidnapped her... This story caused a lot of noise in its time. Returning to Russia, Ladanov not only did not leave his home, he did not leave his office, he studied chemistry, anatomy, cabalistics, he wanted to prolong human life, he imagined that he could enter into relations with spirits, call the dead... His neighbors considered him a sorcerer. He loved his daughter extremely, he taught her everything himself, but he did not forgive her for her escape with Yeltsov, did not let either her or her husband come into his sight, predicted a sad life for both of them and died alone. Left a widow, Mrs. Yeltsova devoted all her leisure time to raising her daughter and received almost no one. When I met Vera Nikolaevna, just imagine, she had never been to any city in her life, not even her own district one.

Vera Nikolaevna did not resemble ordinary Russian young ladies: she had some special imprint on her. From the first time I was struck by the amazing calmness of all her movements and speeches. She seemed not to worry about anything, not to worry, answered simply and intelligently, and listened attentively. The expression on her face was sincere and truthful, like that of a child, but somewhat cold and monotonous, although not thoughtful. She was rarely cheerful and not like others: the clarity of an innocent soul, more joyful than cheerfulness, shone throughout her entire being. She was short, very well built, a little thin, had regular and delicate features, a beautiful even forehead, golden brown hair, a straight nose, like her mother’s, rather full lips; the black-gray eyes looked somehow too straight from under fluffy, upward-curved eyelashes. Her hands were small, but not very beautiful: people with talents do not have such hands... and indeed, Vera Nikolaevna did not have any special talents. Her voice rang like that of a seven-year-old girl. I was introduced to her mother at my uncle’s ball and, a few days later, I went to see them for the first time.

Mrs. Yeltsova was a very strange woman, with character, persistent and focused. She had a strong influence on me: I both respected her and was afraid of her. Everything was done according to the system, and she raised her daughter according to the system, but did not restrict her freedom. The daughter loved her and believed her blindly. As soon as Ms. Eltsova gave her a book and said: don’t read this page - she would rather skip the previous page than look at the forbidden page. But Ms. Yeltsova also had her own idees fixes, her own skates. She, for example, was afraid like fire of everything that could act on the imagination; and therefore her daughter, until the age of seventeen, did not read a single story, not a single poem, and in geography, history and even natural history she often baffled me, the candidate, and not the last candidate, as you may remember. I once tried to talk to Ms. Yeltsova about her hobby, although it was difficult to involve her in conversation: she was very silent. She just shook her head.

“You say,” she said at last, “to read poetic works.” And healthy And nice... I think you need to choose in advance in life: or useful, or pleasant, and so already decide, once and for all. And I once wanted to combine both... This is impossible and leads to death or vulgarity.

Yes, this woman was an amazing creature, an honest, proud creature, not without fanaticism and superstition of her kind. “I'm afraid of life,” she once told me. And indeed, she was afraid of her, afraid of those secret forces on which life is built and which occasionally, but suddenly, make their way to the surface. Woe to the one on whom they are played! These forces had a terrible effect on Yeltsova: remember the death of her mother, her husband, her father... It intimidated at least someone. I haven't seen her ever smile. It was as if she had locked herself and thrown the key into the water. She must have suffered a lot of grief in her lifetime and never shared it with anyone: she hid everything within herself. She had so accustomed herself not to give free rein to her feelings that she was even ashamed to show her passionate love for her daughter; she never kissed her in front of me, never called her by a diminutive name, always Vera. I remember one word of hers; I once told her that all of us, modern people, are broken... “There’s no point in breaking yourself,” she said, “you have to break yourself completely or not touch yourself...”

Very few people went to Yeltsova; but I visited her often. I was secretly aware that she favored me; and I really liked Vera Nikolaevna. We talked with her, walked... Mother did not interfere with us; The daughter herself did not like to be without her mother, and I, for my part, also did not feel the need for a solitary conversation. Vera Nikolaevna had a strange habit of thinking out loud; At night, in her sleep, she spoke loudly and clearly about what had struck her during the day. One day, looking at me carefully and, as usual, quietly leaning on her hand, she said: “It seems to me that B. is a good person; but you can’t rely on him.” The relationship between us was the most friendly and even; only once did I think that I noticed there, somewhere far away, in the very depths of her bright eyes, something strange, some kind of bliss and tenderness... But maybe I was mistaken.

Meanwhile, time passed, and it was time for me to get ready to leave. But I still hesitated. It happened that when I thought, when I remembered that soon I would no longer see this sweet girl to whom I had become so attached, I would feel terrible... Berlin began to lose its attractive power. I did not dare to admit to myself what was happening in me, and I did not understand what was happening in me - as if a fog was wandering in my soul. Finally, one morning everything suddenly became clear to me. “What else should I look for,” I thought, “where should I strive? After all, the truth will not be given into your hands. Isn’t it better to stay here and get married?” And, imagine, this thought of marriage did not frighten me at all then. On the contrary, I was glad for her. Moreover, on the same day I announced my intention, not to Vera Nikolaevna, as one might expect, but to Yeltsova herself. The old woman looked at me.

“No,” she said, “my dear, go to Berlin and break down some more.” You are kind; but this is not the kind of husband Vera needs.

I looked down, blushed, and, which will probably surprise you even more, immediately internally agreed with Yeltsova. A week later I left and since then I have not seen either her or Vera Nikolaevna.

I described my adventures to you briefly because I know you don’t like anything “spatial.” Arriving in Berlin, I very soon forgot Vera Nikolaevna... But, I admit, the unexpected news about her excited me. I was struck by the thought that she was so close, that she was my neighbor, that I would see her one of these days. The past, as if from the earth, suddenly grew in front of me and moved towards me. Priimkov told me that he visited me precisely with the aim of renewing our old acquaintance and that he hoped to see me at his place very soon. He told me that he served in the cavalry, retired as a lieutenant, bought an estate eight miles from me and intends to start farming, that he had three children, but that two died, leaving a five-year-old daughter.

- And your wife remembers me? – I asked.

“Yes, he remembers,” he answered with a slight hesitation. - Of course, she was still, one might say, a child then; but her mother always praised you very much, and you know how much she values ​​every word of the deceased.

Yeltsova’s words came back to my mind that I was not fit for her Vera... “So, You it was good,” I thought, looking at Priimkov with amusement. He stayed with me for several hours. He is a very good, dear fellow, he speaks so modestly, looks so good-naturedly; it is impossible not to love him... but his mental abilities have not developed since we knew him. I will definitely go to him, maybe tomorrow. I am extremely curious to see what came out of Vera Nikolaevna?

You, villain, are probably laughing at me now, sitting at your director’s desk; But I’ll still write to you what impression it will make on me. Goodbye! Until the next letter.

Entbehren sollst du, sollst entbehren (*).
"Faust" (part 1).

(*Renounce<от своих желаний>you must renounce (German).)

LETTER FIRST

From Pavel Alexandrovich V... to Semyon Nikolaevich V...

I arrived here on the fourth day, dear friend, and, as promised, I undertake
pen and I am writing to you. A light rain falls in the morning: it is impossible to go out; yes me too
I want to chat with you. Here I am again in my old nest, in which I
was - it’s scary to say - for nine whole years. What, what has not happened in these
nine years! Really, when you think about it, I’ve definitely become a different person. Yes indeed
in another matter: do you remember my small, dark mirror in the living room?
great-grandmothers, with such strange curls in the corners - you all used to
thought about what it saw a hundred years ago - I, as soon as
arrived, approached him and involuntarily became embarrassed. I suddenly saw how old I am
and has changed recently. However, I’m not the only one who has aged. My little house,
It has been dilapidated for a long time, now it barely holds on, it is all crooked, rooted in the ground.
My good Vasilievna, housekeeper (you probably haven’t forgotten her: she made you feel so
she treated herself to delicious jam), she was completely dry and hunched over; when she saw me
I couldn’t even scream and didn’t cry, but just groaned and coughed,
She sat down exhausted on a chair and waved her hand. Old man Terenty is still cheerful,
still stands straight and, as he walks, twists his legs, which are tied into the same
yellow nankeen pantaloons and shod in the same squeaky sawhorses
shoes, with a high rise and bows, from which you came to more than once
tenderness... But, my God! - how these pantalos now dangle on his
skinny legs! how his hair turned white! and the face completely shrank into
cam; and when he spoke to me, when he began to give orders and
giving orders in the next room, I felt both funny and sorry for him. All
his teeth have disappeared, and he mumbles with a whistle and hiss. But the garden
surprisingly prettier: modest bushes of lilac, acacia, honeysuckle (remember,
you and I planted them) they grew into magnificent continuous bushes; birch,
maples - all this stretched out and spread out; linden alleys are especially good
become. I love these alleys, I love the delicate gray-green color and delicate smell
air under their arches; I love the mottled grid of light circles on dark
I don’t have any earth or sand, you know. My favorite oak tree has become young
oak Yesterday, in the middle of the day, I sat in his shadow on a bench for more than an hour. To me
it was very good. All around the grass was blooming so merrily; there was gold on everything
light, strong and soft; he even penetrated into the shadows... And what birds were heard! You,
I hope I haven't forgotten that birds are my passion. The turtle doves cooed incessantly,
from time to time an oriole whistled, a chaffinch showed off its sweet little dance, blackbirds
they were angry and chattering, the cuckoo was responding in the distance; suddenly, like crazy,
The woodpecker screamed shrilly. I listened, listened to all this soft, united hum, I
I didn’t want to move, but my heart was either laziness or tenderness. And not
one garden has grown: I constantly catch my eye on thick, hefty guys,
in which I just can’t recognize my former acquaintances as boys. And your
the favorite, Timosha, has now become such a Timofey that you can’t imagine
can. You were then afraid for his health and predicted consumption for him; A
should you look now at his huge red hands, how they stick out from
the narrow sleeves of his nankeen frock coat, and how they bulge out everywhere
round and thick muscles! The back of my head is like a bull's, my head is all cool
blond curls - the perfect Hercules of Farnese! However, his face
changed less than others, did not even increase much in volume, and
the cheerful, as you said, “yawning” smile remained the same. I took him with me
to valets; I abandoned my St. Petersburg one in Moscow: he really loved
shame me and make me feel superior in the capital's treatment.
I didn’t find any of my dogs; everyone transferred. One Nefka lived the longest
- and she did not wait for me, as Argos waited for Ulysses; she didn't have to see
the former owner and hunting companion with his dimmed eyes. And Shavka
is intact and still barks hoarsely, and one ear is also torn, and there are burrs in the tail,
as it should be. I moved into your former room. True, the sun is in it
it strikes, and there are many flies in it; but it smells less like an old house than in the others
rooms. Strange affair! this musty, slightly sour and sluggish smell is strong
affects my imagination: I won’t say that he was unpleasant to me,
against; but it arouses sadness in me, and finally despondency. Me, just like
and you, I really love old pot-bellied chests of drawers with copper plaques, white armchairs with
oval backs and crooked legs, fly-infested glass chandeliers, with
a large egg made of purple foil in the middle - in a word, all sorts of old-fashioned
furniture; but I can’t see all this all the time: some kind of alarming boredom
(that's right!) will take possession of me. In the room where I settled, the furniture is the most
ordinary, homemade; however, I left a narrow and long cabinet with
shelves on which various Old Testament blown-up items are barely visible through the dust
tableware made of green and blue glass; and I ordered it to be hung on the wall, remember,
that portrait of a woman in a black frame, which you called the portrait of Manon
Lesko. He darkened a little during these nine years; but the eyes are looking
just as thoughtfully, slyly and tenderly, lips just as frivolously and sadly
they laugh, and the half-plucked rose just as quietly falls from thin fingers. Very
The curtains in my room amuse me. They were once green but have turned yellow
from the sun: scenes from d'Arlencourt are painted on them in black paints
"The Hermit". On one curtain is this hermit, with a huge beard, eyes
bulging and in sandals, dragging some disheveled young lady into the mountains; on
another - there is a fierce fight between four knights in berets and
puffs on the shoulders; one lies, en raccourci (from perspective (French).), killed -
in a word, all the horrors are presented, and there is such imperturbable calm all around, and
from the very curtains such gentle reflections fall on the ceiling... Some kind of spiritual
silence has come over me since I settled here; I don't want anything
to do, I don’t want to see anyone, I have nothing to dream about, I’m too lazy to think; but think
Don’t be lazy: these are two different things, as you yourself well know. Childhood memories
first they washed over me... wherever I walked, whatever I looked at, they
appeared from everywhere, clear, clear to the smallest detail, and as if
motionless in their distinct certainty... Then these memories
were replaced by others, then... then I quietly turned away from the past, and
Only some kind of drowsy burden remained in my chest. Imagine! sitting on
the dam, under the willow tree, I suddenly suddenly began to cry and would have cried for a long time,
despite his already advanced years, if he had not been ashamed of the passing woman,
who looked at me curiously, then, without turning her face to me,
She bowed straight and low and walked past. I would really like to stay like this
mood (of course, I won’t cry anymore) until my
departure from here, that is, until September, and I would be very upset if
one of the neighbors decided to visit me. However, beware of this
there seems to be nothing; I don’t even have close neighbors. I'm sure you'll understand
me; you know from experience how beneficial solitude is often... It
I need it now, after all my wanderings.
And I won't be bored. I brought several books with me, and here I have
The library is decent. Yesterday I opened all the cabinets and rummaged through
moldy books. I found many interesting things that I had not noticed before
things: "Candida" in a handwritten translation from the 70s; statements and journals
same time; "The Triumphant Chameleon" (that is, Mirabeau); "Le Paysan
perverti" ("Depraved peasant" (French).), etc. I got them
children's books, and my own, and my father's, and my grandmother's, and even,
imagine my great-grandmother: in one old, old French
grammar, in a colorful binding, written in large letters: Ce livre
appartient a m-lle Eudoxie de Lavrine (This book belongs to the girl Eudoxie
Lavrina (French) and the year is displayed - 1741. I saw the books I brought
once from abroad, among other things, Goethe's Faust. Maybe you
It’s unknown that there was a time when I knew “Faust” by heart (the first part,
of course) from word to word; I couldn’t read enough to them... But other days -
other dreams, and during the last nine years I have hardly had to take Goethe
in your hands. With what an inexplicable feeling I saw the little one, too much for me
a familiar book (a bad edition from 1828). I took her with me, lay down on
bed and started reading. How did the whole magnificent first one affect me?
scene! The appearance of the Earth Spirit, his words, do you remember: “On the waves of life, in
whirlwind of creation,” aroused in me a long-unexplored thrill and chill
delight. I remembered everything: Berlin, my student days, and Fraulein Klara
Stich, and Seidelmann in the role of Mephistopheles, and Radziwill's music and everything and everyone...
For a long time I could not fall asleep: my youth came and stood before me like
ghost; fire, poison ran through her veins, her heart expanded and
wanted to shrink, something rushed along his strings, and desires began to boil...
This is how your almost forty-year-old friend indulged in dreams, sitting,
alone, in your lonely little house! What if someone spied on me? Well,
so what? I wouldn't be at all ashamed. Being ashamed is also a sign
youth; And do you know why I began to notice that I was getting old? That's why. I
Now I try to exaggerate to myself my cheerful feelings and
to tame the sad ones, but in my younger days I did exactly the opposite. It happened
you carry around your sadness as if it were treasure, and you are ashamed of your cheerful outburst...
And yet it seems to me that, despite all my life experience, there is
there is something else in the world, friend Horatio, that I have not experienced, and this “something” -
almost the most important thing.
Oh, what I've gotten myself into! Goodbye! Until another time. What are you doing in
St. Petersburg? By the way: Savely, my village cook, tells you to bow. He
He also aged, but not too much, he gained weight and became a little flabby. Also good
makes chicken soups with boiled onions, cheesecakes with a patterned border and
Pigus - the famous steppe dish Pigus, which will make your tongue turn white and
stood like a stake for a whole day. But it still dries out fried food.
so that even if you knock it on a plate, it’s real cardboard. However, goodbye!

Your P.B.

LETTER SECOND

From the same to the same

I have some rather important news to tell you, dear friend. Listen!
Yesterday, before lunch, I wanted to take a walk - just not in the garden; I went along
road to the city. Walk without any purpose with quick steps along a long straight line
the road is very pleasant. You seem to be doing something, hurrying somewhere. I look: he’s driving
there's a stroller coming towards you. "Isn't it to me?" - I thought with secret fear... However
no: in the carriage sits a gentleman with a mustache, a stranger to me. I've calmed down. But
suddenly this gentleman, having caught up with me, orders the coachman to stop the horses,
politely raises his cap and asks me even more politely: am I so-and-so?
- calling me by name. I, in turn, stop and cheerfully
the defendant, who is being led to interrogation, I answer: “I am such and such,” and I myself look,
like a ram, at the gentleman with a mustache and I think to myself: “But I saw him
somewhere!"
-You don't recognize me? - he says, meanwhile getting out of the stroller.
- No way, sir.
- And I recognized you immediately.
Word for word: it turns out that it was Priimkov, remember, our former
university friend. “What kind of important news is this?” you think
a moment, dear Semyon Nikolaich. - Priimkov, as far as I remember, was small
was quite empty, although not evil or stupid." That’s all true, my friend, but listen
continuation of the conversation.
“I was very happy,” he says, “when I heard that you had arrived in your
village, in our neighborhood. However, I wasn’t the only one who was happy.
“Let me find out,” I asked, “who else was so kind...
- My wife.
- Your wife!
- Yes, my wife: she is an old friend of yours.
- May I know what your wife’s name is?
- Her name is Vera Nikolaevna; she was born Yeltsova...
- Vera Nikolaevna! - I exclaim involuntarily...
This is the very important news that I told you about in
the beginning of the letter.
But maybe you don’t find anything important in this either... I’ll have to
tell you something from my past... long past life.
When you and I left the university in 183... year, I was
twenty three years old. You entered the service; I, as you know, have decided
go to Berlin. But there was nothing to do in Berlin before October. To me
I wanted to spend the summer in Russia, in the countryside, to have a good time in
the last time, and then get to work in earnest. How far has this come true?
the last guess, there is no need to expand on this now... "But where
Should I spend the summer?" I asked myself. I shouldn't go to my village
I wanted: my father recently passed away, I had no close relatives, I
I was afraid of loneliness, boredom... And therefore I gladly accepted the offer of one
my relative, cousin, to stay with him on his estate, in T***oi
provinces. He was a wealthy, kind and simple man, he lived as a gentleman and
had lordly I moved in with him. My uncle had a large family: two sons and
five daughters. In addition, there were a lot of people living in his house. Guests
They kept running in and out, but it was still no fun. The days passed noisily
there was no privacy. Everything was done together, everyone tried
something to do, come up with something, and by the end of the day everyone was tired
scary. There was something vulgar about this life. I was already starting to dream about
departure and only waited for my uncle’s name day to pass, but on the very day of these
On my name day at the ball I saw Vera Nikolaevna Eltsova - and stayed.
She was then sixteen years old. She lived with her mother in a small
little estate, about five versts from my uncle. Her father is a man, they say, very
remarkable - he quickly reached the rank of colonel and would have gone even further, but
died at a young age, accidentally shot by a friend while hunting. Faith
Nikolaevna remained a child after him. Her mother was also a woman
extraordinary: she spoke several languages ​​and knew a lot. She was
seven or eight years older than her husband, whom she married for love; He
secretly took her from her parents' house. She could barely bear his loss and
death itself (according to Priimkov, she died soon after her daughter’s wedding)
wore only black dresses. I vividly remember her face, expressive, dark, with
thick, gray hair, large, stern, as if dull eyes and
straight thin nose. Her father - his last name was Ladanov - about fifteen years old
lived in Italy. Vera Nikolaevna's mother was born from a simple peasant woman from
Albano, who was killed the day after her birth by a Trasteverine man, her fiancé,
from whom Ladanov kidnapped her... This story caused a lot of trouble in its time
noise. Returning to Russia, Ladanov not only from home, from his office
went out, studied chemistry, anatomy, cabalistics, wanted to prolong life
human, imagined that it was possible to enter into relations with spirits, to call
dead... The neighbors considered him a sorcerer. He loved his daughter extremely,
he taught her everything, but did not forgive her for her escape with Yeltsov, did not let her come to him
in front of neither her nor her husband, he predicted a sad life for both of them and died alone.
Left a widow, Mrs. Yeltsova devoted all her leisure time to raising
daughters and received almost no one. When I met Vera
Nikolaevna, just imagine, she has never been to any city in her life, even in
in your district,
Vera Nikolaevna did not look like ordinary Russian young ladies: she
there was some special imprint. I was struck by her the first time
the amazing calmness of all her movements and speeches. She seemed to care about nothing
she didn’t fuss, didn’t worry, answered simply and intelligently, listened attentively.
The expression on her face was sincere and truthful, like that of a child, but somewhat
cold and monotonous, although not thoughtful. She was rarely cheerful and not
just like others: the clarity of an innocent soul, more joyful than gaiety, shone in
her whole being. She was small in stature, very well built, a little
thin, had regular and gentle features, a beautiful even forehead,
golden brown hair, a straight nose, like her mother’s, rather full lips;
gray and black eyes looked somehow too straight from under the fluffy ones, upward
curled eyelashes. Her hands were small, but not very beautiful: people with
There are no such talented hands... and indeed, Vera Nikolaevna
There were no special talents. Her voice rang like that of a seven-year-old
girls. At my uncle’s ball I was introduced to her mother and, for several days
later, I went to see them for the first time.
Mrs. Yeltsova was a very strange woman, with character, persistent and
focused. She had a strong influence on me: I respected her and
I was afraid of her. Everything was done according to the system, and she raised her daughter according to
system, but did not restrict its freedom. The daughter loved her and believed her blindly. It was worth it
give Ms. Eltsova a book and say: don’t read this page - she
He would rather skip the previous page than look at the forbidden page. But also
Mrs. Eltsova had her own idees fixes (obsessive ideas (French).), her own
skates. For example, she was afraid like fire of everything that could affect
imagination; and therefore her daughter did not read any
one story, not a single poem, but in geography, history and even
natural history often baffled me, the candidate, and the candidate
not one of the last, as you may remember. I tried once
talk with Ms. Yeltsova about her hobby, although it was difficult to involve her in
conversation: she was very silent. She just shook her head.
“You say,” she said at last, “to read poetic
works are _and_ useful _and_ pleasant... I think we need to choose in advance
life: _or_ useful, _or_ pleasant, and so decide once and for all. And I
I once wanted to combine both... This is impossible and leads to death
or to vulgarity.
Yes, this woman was an amazing creature, an honest, proud creature,
not without fanaticism and superstition of a kind. "I'm afraid of life," she told me
one day. And indeed, she was afraid of her, afraid of those secret forces on which
life is built and which occasionally, but suddenly, make their way out. Grief
to the one on whom they are played! These forces had a terrible effect on Yeltsova: remember
the death of her mother, her husband, her father... This at least scared someone. I didn't see
May she ever smile. It's like it's locked with a lock and key.
threw it into the water. She must have suffered a lot of grief in her lifetime and
I never shared it with anyone: I hid everything inside myself. She had previously taught
herself not to give free rein to her feelings, that she was even ashamed to show passionate
his love for his daughter; she never kissed her in front of me, never
called her by her diminutive name, always Vera. I remember one word of hers; I
once told her that all of us, modern people, are broken... "Breaking
There’s no point in yourself,” she said, “you have to break yourself completely or not.”
touch..."
Very few people went to Yeltsova; but I visited her often. I'm secretly
I realized that she favored me; and I really liked Vera Nikolaevna.
We talked with her, walked... Mother did not interfere with us; I didn’t like my daughter herself
to be without a mother, and I, for my part, also did not feel the need
private conversation. Vera Nikolaevna had a strange habit of thinking out loud; By
at night she spoke loudly and clearly in her sleep about what struck her
during the day. One day, looking at me carefully and, as usual,
quietly leaning her hand on her, she said: “It seems to me that B. is good
Human; but you can’t rely on him.” The relationship between us was the most
friendly and even; only once did I think I noticed there,
somewhere far away, in the very depths of her bright eyes, something strange, some
bliss and tenderness... But maybe I was mistaken.
Meanwhile, time passed, and it was time for me to get ready to leave. But I'm all
hesitated. It happened when I thought, when I remembered that soon I would no longer see this
dear girl to whom I have become so attached - I will feel terrible... Berlin
began to lose its attractive power. I didn't dare admit to myself
about what was happening in me, but I didn’t understand what was happening in me -
It was as if fog was wandering in my soul. Finally, one morning everything suddenly became clear to me.
“What else should I look for,” I thought, “where should I strive? After all, the truth is still in
I won't give a hand. Wouldn’t it be better to stay here and get married?” And, imagine
To myself, this thought of marriage did not frighten me at all then. On the contrary, I
I was happy about her. Moreover, on the same day I announced my intention, only
not to Vera Nikolaevna, as one might expect, but to Yeltsova herself. Old woman
looked at me.
“No,” she said, “my dear, go to Berlin, break yourself.”
more. You are kind; but this is not the kind of husband Vera needs.
I looked down, blushed and, what will probably surprise you even more, immediately
I internally agreed with Yeltsova. A week later I left and haven't been there since.
I saw neither her nor Vera Nikolaevna.
I described my adventures to you briefly, because I know you don’t like
nothing "spatial". Arriving in Berlin, I very soon forgot Vera
Nikolaevna... But, I admit, the unexpected news about her excited me.
I was struck by the thought that she was so close, that she was my neighbor, that I
I'll see you in a few days. The past, as if from the earth, suddenly grew up in front of me, and so
came towards me. Priimkov told me that he visited me precisely for the purpose of
to renew our old acquaintance and that he hopes in the very near future
time to see me at your place. He told me that he served in the cavalry, went out to
resignation as a lieutenant, bought an estate eight miles from me and intends
take care of the house, that he had three children, but that two died,
left behind a five-year-old daughter.
- And your wife remembers me? - I asked.
“Yes, he remembers,” he answered with a slight hesitation. - Of course, she then
she was still, one might say, a child; but her mother always praised you very much, and
you know how she values ​​every word of the deceased.
Yeltsova’s words came back to my mind that I was not fit for her Vera...
“So _you_ are good enough,” I thought, looking at Priimkov with a sidelong glance.
He stayed with me for several hours. He is a very good, dear fellow, so
He speaks modestly and looks so good-naturedly; you can't help but love him... but
His mental abilities have not developed since we knew him. I
I’ll definitely go to him, maybe tomorrow. I'm extremely curious
see what came out of Vera Nikolaevna?
You, villain, are probably laughing at me now, sitting at your
director's desk; but I’ll still write to you what impression she
will effect me. Goodbye! Until the next letter.

Your P.B.

LETTER THIRD

From the same to the same

Well, brother, I was with her, I owned her. First of all I must tell you
amazing circumstance: believe me or not believe me, as you want, but she almost
nothing has changed either in her face or in her figure. When she came out to meet me, I
I almost gasped: a seventeen-year-old girl, and that’s it! Only the eyes are not like yours
girls; However, even in her youth her eyes were not childish, they were too light.
But the same calm, the same clarity, the same voice, not a single wrinkle on the forehead,
as if she had been lying somewhere in the snow all these years. And she's twenty now
eight years old, and she had three children... It’s unclear! Please don't think
that I am exaggerating out of prejudice; on the contrary, I find this “constancy” in her
I didn't like it at all.
A twenty-eight-year-old woman, a wife and mother, should not be like
girl: it was not for nothing that she lived. She greeted me very warmly; But
Priimkov was simply delighted with my arrival: this good-natured fellow looks as if to
who to attach to. Their house is very cozy and clean. Vera Nikolaevna and dressed
was a girl: all in white, with a blue belt and a thin gold chain on
neck. Her daughter is very sweet and not at all like her; she resembles her
grandma. In the living room, above the sofa, hangs a portrait of this strange woman,
strikingly similar. He caught my eye as soon as I entered. It seemed
she looked at me sternly and carefully. We sat down and reminisced about the old days
and little by little we started talking. I couldn't help but glance at the gloomy
portrait of Yeltsova. Vera Nikolaevna was sitting right under him: this is her favorite
place. Imagine my amazement: Vera Nikolaevna still hasn’t read a single
one novel, not a single poem - spruce, not one like her
expressed, a fictitious composition! This incomprehensible indifference to
the sublime pleasures of the mind angered me. In a woman who is smart and how much
I can judge that for those who are sensitive to this, this is simply unforgivable.
“Well,” I asked, “have you made it a rule never to read such books?
do not read?
“I didn’t have to,” she answered, “there was no time.”
- No time! I am surprised! If only you,” I continued, turning to
Prilmkov, - they wanted your wife.
“It would be my pleasure...” Priimkov began, but Vera Nikolaevna
interrupted.
- Don’t pretend: you’re a bit of a poetry hunter yourself.
“As for poetry, for sure,” he began, “I’m not very good; but novels, for example...
- What are you doing, what do you do in the evenings? - I asked, - in
do you play cards?
“Sometimes we play,” she answered, “but you never know what to do?” We
We also read: there are good works, besides poetry.
- Why do you attack poetry like that?
- I don’t attack them: since childhood I’ve gotten used to not reading these fictional
essays; mother wanted it that way, and the more I live, the more
I am convinced that everything that mother did, everything that she said,
it was the truth, the holy truth.
- Well, as you wish, but I cannot agree with you: I am convinced that you
You are in vain depriving yourself of the purest, most legitimate pleasure. After all, you
you do not reject music, painting: why do you reject poetry?
- I don’t reject her: I still haven’t met her - that’s all.
- So I'll take it on! After all, your mother didn’t forbid you for life
Are you familiar with works of fine literature?
- No; As soon as I got married, my mother removed all prohibitions from me; to me
it never occurred to me to read... how did you say it?., well, in a word,
read novels.
I listened to Vera Nikolaevna in bewilderment: I did not expect this.
She looked at me with her calm gaze. Birds look like that when
not to be afraid of.
- I'll bring you a book! - I exclaimed. (It flashed in my head
I recently read Faust.)
Vera Nikolaevna sighed quietly.
- This... this won't be George Sand? - she asked, not without timidity.
- A! So you've heard of her? Well, at least she, what’s the problem?.. No,
I'll bring you another author. You haven't forgotten your German, have you?
- No, I haven’t forgotten.
“She speaks like a German,” Priimkov picked up.
- Very well! I'll bring it to you... but you'll see what kind of food I give you
I'll bring you an amazing thing.
- Well, okay, I'll see. Now let’s go to the garden, otherwise Natasha won’t be there
sitting.
She put on a round straw hat, a child's hat, just like
which her daughter put on, only a little bigger, and we went to the garden. I was walking
next to her. On fresh air, in the shadow of tall linden trees her face seemed to me
even cuter, especially when she turned slightly and threw her head back,
to look at me from under the edge of the hat. If it weren't for those who followed us
Priimkov, if it weren’t for the girl jumping in front of us, I really could
to think that I am not thirty-five years old, but twenty-three years old; that I just
I'm still going to Berlin, especially since the garden in which we were
resembled the garden on Yeltsova’s estate. I couldn't resist and conveyed my impression
Vera Nikolaevna.
“Everyone tells me that I haven’t changed much outwardly,” she answered, “
however, I remained the same internally.
We approached a small Chinese house.
“We didn’t have such a house in Osipovka,” she said, “but you didn’t
Look how it has collapsed and faded so much: it’s very nice and cool inside.
We entered the house. I looked back.
“Do you know what, Vera Nikolaevna,” I said, “tell me to my
When you arrive, bring a table and a few chairs here. It's truly wonderful here.
I’ll read you here... Goethe’s Faust... that’s what I’ll read to you.
“Yes, there are no flies here,” she noted innocently, “but when will you arrive?”
- Day after tomorrow.
“Okay,” she objected, “I’ll order.” Natasha, who is with us
She entered the house, suddenly screamed and jumped back all pale.
- What's happened? - asked Vera Nikolaevna.
“Oh, mom,” said the girl, pointing her finger into the corner, “look,
what a scary spider!..
Vera Nikolaevna looked into the corner - a large motley spider was quietly crawling
along the wall.
- What is there to be afraid of? - she said, - he doesn’t bite, look.
And before I could stop her, she took the ugly insect into
hand, let it run across her palm and threw it out.
- Well, how brave you are! - I exclaimed.
- Where is the courage here? This spider is not poisonous.
- Apparently, you are still strong in natural history; and I would like him in
I didn't take my hands.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Vera Nikolaevna repeated.
Natasha silently looked at both of us and grinned.
- How similar she is to your mother! - I noticed.
“Yes,” Vera Nikolaevna objected with a smile of pleasure, “it’s me.”
very pleased. God grant that she resembles her in more ways than one!
We were called to lunch, and after lunch I left. N.B. Lunch was very good and
delicious - I’m noticing this in parentheses for you, it’s overeaten! I'll take them to see them tomorrow
"Fausta". I'm afraid that old man Goethe and I will fail. I'll describe everything to you
in detail.
Well, now what do you think about all “these incidents”? I suppose - what
did she make a strong impression on me that I was ready to fall in love, etc.?
Nonsense, brother! It's time to know the honor. Quite a fool; full! Not in mine
years to start life again. Moreover, women have never been the same to me before
I liked them... However, what kind of women I liked!!

I shudder - my heart hurts -
I am ashamed of my idols.

In any case, I am very glad to be in this neighborhood, glad to have the opportunity to see each other
with an intelligent, simple, bright creature; and what will happen next, you will find out in your own way
time.
Your P.B.

LETTER FOUR

From the same to the same

The reading took place yesterday, dear friend, and how exactly, the paragraphs follow.
First of all, I hasten to say: unexpected success... that is, “success” is not that
word... Well, listen. I arrived at lunchtime. There were six of us at the table: she,
Priimkov, daughter, governess (insignificant white figure), me and some
old German, in a short brown tailcoat, clean, shaved, shabby, with
the most humble and honest face, with a toothless smile, with the smell of chicory
coffee... all old Germans smell like that. I was introduced to him: it was someone
Schimmel, teacher German language from Priimkov's neighbors, princes X...x. Faith
Nikolaevna seems to favor him and invited him to attend
reading. We dined late and didn’t leave the table for a long time, then we went for a walk.
The weather was wonderful. In the morning it was raining and the wind was noisy, but in the evening everything calmed down.
Together with her we went out into an open clearing. Right above the clearing, easy and high
there was a large pink cloud; gray stripes stretched across it like smoke; on
at the very edge of it, now appearing, now disappearing, a star trembled, and a little
further away the white crescent of the month could be seen on the slightly reddened azure. I pointed out to Vera
Nikolaevna at this cloud.
“Yes,” she said, “that’s wonderful, but look here.”
I looked back. Covering the setting sun, a huge
dark blue cloud; with her appearance she resembled a fire-breathing mountain; her
the top was scattered across the sky in a wide sheaf; a bright border surrounded her with an ominous
purple and in one place, in the very middle, pierced through its heavy
enormity, as if escaping from a red-hot crater...
“There will be a thunderstorm,” Priimkov noted.
But I'm moving away from the main thing. I forgot to tell you in my last letter,
that, having arrived home from the Priimkovs, I regretted that I had named “Faust”;
Schiller would have been much better suited for the first time, since things went well
Germans. The first scenes before I met Gretchen especially frightened me; about
Mephistopheles I was not at peace either. But I was influenced by Faust and
I couldn’t read anything else with pleasure. When it was already completely dark, we
went to the Chinese house; it had been cleaned up the day before. Directly against
door, in front of the sofa, stood round table, covered with carpet; all around
armchairs and chairs were arranged; a lamp was burning on the table. I sat down on the sofa
took out a book. Vera Nikolaevna sat on the chairs a little further away,
not far from the door. Behind the door, in the darkness, stood out, swaying slightly,
green acacia branch illuminated by a lamp; occasionally a stream flowed into the room
night air. Priimkov sat down near me at the table, the German next to him.
The governess stayed with Natasha in the house. I made a little introductory
speech: mentioned the ancient legend of Doctor Faustus, the meaning of Mephistopheles,
Goethe himself and asked to stop me if anything seemed incomprehensible. After
I cleared my throat... Priyamkov asked me if I needed water with sugar and,
from everything you could see, I was very pleased with myself for what he did to me
this question. I refused. Deep silence reigned. I started reading, no
looking up; I was embarrassed, my heart was beating, and my voice was trembling. First
an exclamation of sympathy escaped the German, and as he continued reading he was alone
broke the silence... “Amazing! sublime!” he repeated, occasionally adding:
“But this is deep.” Priimkov, as I could see, was bored: in German
he understood rather poorly and he himself admitted that he didn’t like poetry!.. At ease
it was for him! At the table I wanted to hint that reading can be done without
him, and conferred with him. Vera Nikolaevna did not move; once or twice I sneaked
I looked at her: her eyes were attentively and directly fixed on me; her
my face seemed pale. After Faust's first meeting with Gretchen, she
separated from the back of the chair, folded her arms and remained in that position
motionless to the end. I felt that Priimkov had to feel sick, and this
At first I was cooled down, but little by little I forgot about him, got excited and read with
fervently, with enthusiasm... I read for one Vera Nikolaevna: the inner voice
told me that Faust had an effect on her. When I finished (intermezzo I
I missed it: this piece, in style, already belongs to the second part; yes from "Night"
on Brocken" I threw something out)... when I finished, when this sounded
the last "Henry!" - the German said with emotion: “God! How wonderful!”
Priimkov, as if overjoyed (the poor man!) jumped up, sighed and began
thank me for the pleasure given... But I did not answer him: I
I looked at Vera Nikolaevna... I wanted to hear what she would say. She stood up
walked with hesitant steps to the door, stood on the threshold and quietly went out
garden. I rushed after her. She had already walked a few steps away; dress
she was slightly whiter in the thick shadow.
- What? - I shouted, - you didn’t like it? She stopped.
-Can you leave me this book? - her voice rang out.
- I’ll give it to you, Vera Nikolaevna, if you want to have it.
- Thank you! - she answered and disappeared.
Priimkov and the German approached me.
- How amazingly warm! - Priimkov noted, “it’s even stuffy.” But where is the wife?
went?
“I think I’m going home,” I answered.
“I think it’s time for dinner soon,” he objected. - You read excellently,
- he added a little later.
“Vera Nikolaevna seemed to like Faust,” I said.
- Without a doubt! - Priimkov exclaimed.
- O, sure! - Schimmel picked up.
We came to the house.
- Where is the lady? - Priimkov asked the maid we met.
- You wanted to go to the bedroom.
Priimkov went to the bedroom. I went out onto the terrace with Schimmel.
The old man raised his eyes to the sky.
- How many stars! - he said slowly, taking a sniff of tobacco, - and that’s all
worlds,” he added and sniffed another time.
I did not consider it necessary to answer him and just silently looked up.
A secret bewilderment weighed heavily on my soul... The stars, it seemed to me, were serious
looked at us. About five minutes later Priimkov appeared and called us into the dining room.
Vera Nikolaevna soon arrived. We sat down.
“Look at Verochka,” Priimkov told me.
I looked at her.
- What? don't you notice anything?
I really noticed a change in her face, but I don't know why,
answered:
- There is nothing.
“Her eyes are red,” Przhimkov continued.
I said nothing.
- Imagine, I came upstairs and found her: she was crying. This from
it hasn't happened to her for a long time. I can help you when was the last time
I cried when Sasha died. That's what you've done with your Faust!
- he added with a smile.
“So, Vera Nikolaevna,” I began, “you now see that I was
right when...
“I didn’t expect this,” she interrupted me, “but God still knows if they’re right.”
You. Maybe that’s why my mother forbade me to read such books, because
she knew...
Vera Nikolaevna stopped.
- What did you know? - I repeated. - Speak.
- For what? I’m already ashamed: what was I crying about? However, we are still
We'll talk to you. There was a lot I didn't quite understand.
- Why didn’t you stop me?
- I understood all the words and their meaning, but...
She did not finish her speech and became thoughtful. At that moment, from the garden rushed
the sound of leaves suddenly shaken by the rushing wind. Vera Nikolaevna
shuddered and turned to face the open window.
- I told you that there will be a thunderstorm! - Priimkov exclaimed. - And you,
Verochka, why are you shuddering so much?
She looked at him silently. Faintly and far away flashing lightning
mysteriously reflected on her motionless face.
“Everything is by the grace of Faust,” Priimkov continued. - After dinner we need
will be on the side now... isn't it, Mr. Schimmel?
- After moral pleasure, physical rest is just as
as beneficial as he is useful,” the good German objected and drank a glass of vodka.
After dinner we immediately separated. Saying goodbye to Vera Nikolaevna, I shook
her hand; her hand was cold. I came to the room assigned to me and for a long time
stood in front of the window before undressing and getting into bed. Prediction
Priimkov's dream came true: a thunderstorm approached and broke out. I listened to the sound of the wind, the knock
and the patter of rain, I watched how with each flash they prayed to the church, close
built over the lake, then suddenly appeared black on a white background, then white on
black, then again was swallowed up by darkness... But my thoughts were far away. I thought about
Vera Nikolaevna, I thought about what she would tell me when she read it herself
“Fausta,” I thought about her tears, remembered how she listened...
The storm had long passed - the stars were shining, everything around was silent. Some kind of
a bird unknown to me sang in different voices, repeating several times in a row
the same knee. Her ringing lonely voice sounded strange among the deep
silence; and I still didn't go to bed...
The next morning I went into the living room before everyone else and stopped in front of
portrait of Yeltsova. “What, did you take it,” I thought with a secret feeling of mockery
celebrations - after all, I read a forbidden book to your daughter! " Suddenly I
it seemed... you probably noticed that the eyes en face always seem
directed directly at the viewer... but this time, really, it seemed to me that
The old woman reproachfully turned them on me.
I turned away, went to the window and saw Vera Nikolaevna. With an umbrella on
shoulder, with a light white scarf on her head, she walked through the garden. I immediately left
home and greeted her.
“I haven’t slept all night,” she told me, “I have a headache; I
went out into the air - maybe it will pass.
- Is this really from yesterday’s reading? - I asked.
- Of course: I’m not used to it. There are things in this book of yours from
which I just can’t get rid of; I think they are the ones that burn me so much
head,” she added, putting her hand to her forehead.
“And it’s wonderful,” I said, “but here’s what’s bad: I’m afraid that this
insomnia and headache have not discouraged you from reading such things.
- You think? - she objected and casually picked a branch of wild jasmine.
- God knows! It seems to me that once you set foot on this road, you will never go back.
will return.
She suddenly threw the branch to the side.
“Let’s go and sit in this gazebo,” she continued, “and please, before
Until I speak to you myself, do not mention to me... about this book.
(She seemed afraid to say the name “Faust.”)
We entered the gazebo and sat down.
“I won’t tell you about Faust,” I began, “but you will allow me
congratulate you and tell you that I envy you.
-Are you jealous of me?
- Yes; to you, as I know you now, with your soul, how much is to come
pleasures! There are great poets besides Goethe: Shakespeare, Schiller... and ours too
Pushkin... and you need to get to know him.
She was silent and drew with her umbrella in the sand.
Oh, my friend Semyon Nikolaich! if you could see how sweet she was
this moment: pale almost to the point of transparency, slightly tilted, tired,
internally upset - and yet clear as the sky! I talked, I talked
for a long time, then fell silent - and sat there silently and looked at her...
She did not raise her eyes and continued either drawing with her umbrella or erasing
drawn. Suddenly, nimble children's steps were heard: Natasha ran into
gazebo. Vera Nikolaevna straightened up, I stood up, to my surprise, with
She hugged her daughter with some kind of impetuous tenderness... This is not in her habits.
Then Priimkov appeared. The gray-haired but neat baby Schimmel left before
light so as not to miss the lesson. We went to have tea.
However, I am tired; it's time to end this letter. It should appear to you
absurd, vague. I feel confused myself. I feel uneasy. I don't know,
what's wrong with me? Every now and then I imagine a small room with bare walls,
lamp, open door; the smell and freshness of the night, and there, near the door,
attentive young face, light white clothes... I understand now why I
wanted to marry her: apparently I wasn’t so stupid before my trip to Berlin,
as I still thought. Yes, Semyon Nikolaich, in in a strange state spirit
your friend is there. All this, I know, will pass... and if it doesn’t, well, what?
and? it won't work. But I’m still pleased with myself: firstly, I had an amazing time
evening; and secondly, if I awakened this soul, who can blame me?
Old woman Yeltsova is nailed to the wall and must remain silent. Old woman!.. Details
Not all of her life is known to me; but I know that she ran away from her father's house:
Apparently, it was not for nothing that she was born from an Italian mother. She wanted to insure her
daughter... Let's see.
I throw down the pen. You mocking man, please think about me
you want, but don’t mock me in writing. You and I are old friends and
must spare each other. Goodbye!

Your P.B.

LETTER FIFTH

From the same to the same

I haven’t written to you for a long time, dear Semey Nikolaich; it seems like more than a month.
There was a lot to write about, but laziness overcame me. To tell the truth, I hardly remembered
you all this time. But from your last letter to me I can conclude,
that you are making assumptions about me that are unfair, that is, not
quite fair. You think that I'm passionate about Vera (I'm somehow embarrassed
call her Vera Nikolaevna); you're wrong. Of course I see her
often, I like her extremely... who wouldn't like her? wanted
I'd like to see you if you were me. Amazing creation! Insight
instantaneous next to the child's inexperience, clear, common sense and innate
a sense of beauty, a constant desire for truth, for the high, and understanding
everything, even the vicious, even the funny - and above it all, like white wings
angel, quiet feminine charm... What can I say! We read a lot, a lot
talked to her during this month. Reading with her is a pleasure like mine
haven't tried it yet. It’s like you’re discovering new countries. She is not delighted with anything
comes: everything noisy is alien to her; she glows quietly, all over, when she has something
I like it, and the face looks so noble and kind... just kind
expression. From early childhood, Vera did not know what a lie was: she
she is accustomed to the truth, she breathes it, and therefore in poetry only truth seems to her
natural; she immediately, without difficulty or tension, recognizes her as a familiar
face... great advantage and happiness! It’s impossible not to remember her kindly for this
mother. How many times have I thought, looking at Vera: yes, Goethe is right: " a kind person V
in his vague aspiration he always feels where the real road is" (Faust,
prologue of the 1st part.). One thing is annoying: my husband keeps moving around here. (Please don't
laugh with a stupid laugh, do not defile even the thought of our pure friendship.) He
as capable of understanding poetry as I am disposed to play the flute, and not
he wants to get away from his wife, he also wants to be enlightened. Sometimes she makes me herself
makes you lose patience; suddenly he finds some poem about it: he doesn’t want to read it,
not talking, sewing in a hoop, fiddling with Natasha, with the housekeeper, in the kitchen
suddenly runs away or just sits with his hands folded and looks out the window, not
then he will start playing fools with the nanny... I noticed: in these cases, to her
you shouldn’t pester, but it’s better to wait until she comes up and speaks
or pick up a book. There is a lot of independence in her, and I am very happy about that.
Sometimes, do you remember, in the days of our youth, some girl would repeat to you,
as best he can, your words, and you admire this echo and, perhaps,
you worship him until you figure out what’s going on; and this one... no: this one itself
to yourself. She will not take anything on faith; you cannot intimidate her with authority; she argues
He won’t, but he won’t give in either. She and I discussed “Faust” more than once: but
- strange affair! - she doesn’t say anything about Gretchen herself, but only listens,
what will I tell her? Mephistopheles scares her not like the devil, but as “something that
in every person there can be "... These are her own words. I began to
explain to her that we call this “something” reflection; but she didn't understand
the words reflection in the German sense: she only knows one French
"reflexion" ("reflection" (French)) and got used to considering it useful.
Our relationship is amazing! From some point of view I can say that
I have a great influence on her and, as it were, educate her; but she doesn’t either
noticing, in many ways changes me for the better. For example, I only like her
I recently discovered what an abyss of conventional, rhetorical in many
beautiful, famous poetic works. Why does she stay?
cold, it is already suspected in my eyes. Yes, I have become better, clearer. Be to
close to her, seeing her and remaining the same person is impossible.
What will come of all this? - you ask. Yes, right, I think -
Nothing. I will have a very pleasant time until September, and then I will leave. Dark and
Life will seem boring to me in the first months... I’ll get used to it. I know how dangerous it is
any connection between a man and a young woman, how imperceptibly
one feeling gives way to another. I would have been able to break away if I had not realized
that we are both completely at peace. True, one day something happened between us
strange. I don’t know how and as a result of what - I remember we read Onegin - I
kissed her hand. She moved away slightly, fixed her gaze on me (I,
except her, I have never seen such a look from anyone: there is both thoughtfulness and
attention, and some kind of severity)... suddenly blushed, got up and left. In that
I haven't been able to be alone with her for a day. She avoided me and beat four
I played my trump card with my husband, nanny and governess for hours! The next morning she
invited me to go to the garden. We walked all the way to the lake. She suddenly didn't
turning to me, she quietly whispered: “Please, don’t do this in the future!”
- and immediately began to tell me something... I was very ashamed.
I must admit that the image of her does not leave my head, and I can hardly
Is it not with this intention that I began to write a letter to you so that I could
think and talk about her. I hear the snorting and trampling of horses: this is being served to me
stroller I'm going to them. My coachman no longer asks me where to go,
when I get into the carriage, it takes me straight to the Priimkovs. Two miles before them
village, at a sharp turn in the road, their estate suddenly peeks out from behind
birch grove... Every time my heart becomes happy as soon as
its windows will flash in the distance. Schimmel (this harmless old man occasionally approaches them
arrives; Princes X...x, thank God, they saw only once)... Schimmel
No wonder he speaks with his characteristic modest solemnity, pointing to
the house where Vera lives: “This is the abode of peace!” It's like a peaceful person has settled in this house.
angel...

Dress me with your wing,
Calm the anxiety of your heart, -
And the shadow will be blessed
For the enchanted soul...

Well, that's enough, though; Otherwise, God knows what you’ll think. Until next time
times... Will I write something next time? Goodbye! By the way, she never
will say: goodbye, but always: well, goodbye. I really like this.

Your P.B.

P.S. I don't remember if I told you that she knows that I am for her
wooed.

LETTER SIX

From the same to the same

Admit it, you are expecting a letter from me, either desperate or...
enthusiastic... No such luck. My letter will be like all letters. New
nothing happened, and it seems that nothing can happen. The other day we were riding
in a boat on the lake. I'll describe this ride to you. There were three of us: she, Schimmel and me.
I don’t understand why she wants to invite this old man so often. X...e
they sulk at him, saying that he began to neglect his lessons. However,
this time he was funny. Priimkov did not come with us: he had a headache.
The weather was nice and cheerful: large, as if torn white clouds
blue sky, shine everywhere, noise in the trees, splashing and sloshing of water
shores, runaway waves, golden snakes, freshness and sun! First we and
German rowing; then we raised the sail and rushed off. The bow of the boat began to dive,
and behind the stern the wake hissed and foamed. She sat at the helm and began to rule; on the head
she tied a scarf: the hat would have been blown off; curls burst out from under him and softly
were fighting through the air. She held the steering wheel firmly with her tanned hand and
smiled at the splashes that occasionally flew into her face. I took a nap at the bottom of the boat,
not far from her feet; the German took out his pipe, lit his knaster and - imagine -
sang in a rather pleasant bass voice. First he sang an old song: "Freu"t
euch des Lebens" ("Enjoy life" (German).), then an aria from "The Magic
flutes", then a romance called: "The ABC of Love" - ​​"Das A-B-C der Liebe".
In this romance, - with decent jokes, of course - the whole
the alphabet, starting with A, Be, Tse, De, - Ven ikh dikh ze! (When I see you! (German)
Wenn ich dich seh"!) and ending with: U, Fau, Ve, X - Mah einen knix! (Do
Knixen! (German: Mach "einen Knix!).) He sang all the verses with a sensitive
expression; but you should have seen how roguishly he squinted his left eye at
word: gut! Vera laughed and shook her finger at him. I noticed that,
As far as it seems to me, Mr. Schimmel, in his time, was no small mistake. "Oh yes, and
I could stand up for myself!” he objected with importance, knocking out the ashes from
pipe into his palm and, reaching into the pouch with his fingers, smartly, from the side, bit
chibouk mouthpiece. “When I was a student,” he added, “oh-ho-ho!” More
he didn't say anything. But what was that “oh-ho-ho”! Vera asked him to sing
some student song, and he sang to her: “Knaster, den gelben” (), but
I faked the last note. He got very excited. Meanwhile the wind
intensified, the waves rolled in quite large, the boat tilted slightly;
swallows darted low around us. We set sail and began
tack. The wind suddenly jumped, we didn’t have time to cope - the wave splashed
over the side, the boat scooped up heavily. And then the German showed himself to be a fine fellow;
he snatched the rope from me and set the sail properly, saying: “Here
how it's done in Cuxhafen!" - "So macht man"s in Guxhafen!"
Vera was probably scared because she turned pale, but in her own way
as usual, didn’t say a word, picked up her dress and put her socks on
boat crossbar. A poem by Goethe suddenly came to my mind (I
for some time now, everyone has been infected with it)... do you remember: “Thousands sparkle on the waves
wavering stars," and read it aloud. When I came to the verse: "Eyes
my, why are you lowering yourself?" - she raised her eyes slightly (I was sitting lower
her: her gaze fell on me from above) and looked into the distance for a long time, squinting in the wind...
A light rain fell instantly and bubbled across the water. I suggested to her
your coat; she threw it over her shoulders. We landed on the shore - not at
pier - and reached the house on foot. I led her by the arm. Everything seems to me
I wanted to tell her something; but I was silent. However, I remember asking her
Why does she, when she is at home, always sit under the portrait of Mrs. Yeltsova,
like a chick under its mother's wing? “Your comparison is very correct,” she objected.
she, - I would never want to leave from under her wing." - "I would not want to leave
“free?” I asked again. She didn’t answer.
I don’t know why I told you about this walk, except because it
remained in my memory as one of the brightest events of the past days,
although in essence what kind of event is this? I felt so happy and silent
fun, and tears, light and happy tears, just begged from the eyes.
Yes! imagine, the next day, walking past the gazebo in the garden, I hear
suddenly - someone’s pleasant, sonorous female voice sings: “Freu”t euch des
Lebens..." I looked into the gazebo: it was Vera. "Bravo! - I exclaimed, - I
I didn’t know you had such a nice head!” She became ashamed and fell silent. Except
jokes, she has an excellent, strong soprano. And I don't think she even suspected
that she has a good voice. How many untouched riches still lie hidden in it! She
doesn't know herself. But isn't it true that such a woman in our time
rarity?

We had a strange conversation yesterday. The conversation first turned to ghosts.
Imagine: she believes in them and says that she has her reasons for it. Priimkov,
who sat right there, lowered his eyes and shook his head, as if confirming it
words. I began to question her, but soon noticed that this conversation was
she doesn't like it. We started talking about imagination, about the power of imagination. I
told me that when I was young, I dreamed a lot about happiness (a common activity
people who are unlucky or unlucky in life), among other things, I dreamed of
what a blessing it would be to spend a few weeks with the woman you love
in Venice. I thought about this so often, especially at night, that I
little by little a whole picture formed in my head, which I could, if I wished,
call before you: you just had to close your eyes. That's what I need
I imagined: night, the moon, the light from the moon is white and gentle, the smell... you
do you think lemon? no, vanilla, cactus scent, wide expanse of water, flat
an island overgrown with olive trees; on the island, near the shore, a small marble
house, with open windows; music is heard, God knows where; trees in the house
with dark leaves and the light of a half-curtained lamp; spread from one window
a heavy velvet robe with gold fringe and one end lies on the water; A
lean your elbows on the mantle, _he_ and _she_ are sitting next to each other and looking into the distance where
Venice is visible. All this seemed to me so clearly, as if I
saw it with my own eyes. She listened to my nonsense and said that she too
also often dreams, but that her dreams are of a different kind: she either imagines
himself in the steppes of Africa, with some traveler, or looking for traces
Franklin on the Arctic Ocean; vividly imagines all the hardships that
must be subjected to all the difficulties with which one has to fight...
“You’ve read a lot of travel,” her husband remarked.
“Maybe,” she objected, “but if you’re going to dream, what kind of a hunt is that?”
dream about the impossible?
- Why not? - I picked up. - What is the poor unrealizable to blame?
“I didn’t put it that way,” she said, “I wanted to say: what the
want to dream about yourself, about your happiness? There is nothing to think about him; it's not
comes - why chase after him! It’s like health: when you don’t notice it,
that means it exists.
These words surprised me. This woman has a great soul, believe me... From
In Venice the conversation turned to Italy, to the Italians. Priimkov came out, Vera and I
left alone.
“And Italian blood flows in your veins,” I noted.
“Yes,” she objected, “would you like me to show you a portrait of my grandmother?”
- Do me a favor.
She went to her office and brought out a rather large gold
medallion. Having opened this medallion, I saw beautifully written miniature
portraits of Eltsova's father and his wife - this peasant woman from Albano. Vera's grandfather
I was struck by the resemblance to my daughter. Only his features are bordered
white cloud of powder, seemed even stricter, sharper and sharper, and in small
Some kind of gloomy stubbornness shone through his yellow eyes. But what kind of face did he have?
Italians! voluptuous, open like a blooming rose, with large
with moist, bulging eyes and smugly smiling, rosy lips!
The thin sensual nostrils seemed to tremble and dilate, as if after
recent kisses; the dark cheeks smelled of heat and health, luxury
youth and feminine power... This forehead has never been thought of, and thank God! She
drawn in her Albanian attire; the painter (master!) placed
a grape branch in her hair, black as pitch, with bright gray reflections:
this bacchanalian decoration suits the expression of her face perfectly. AND
Do you know who this face reminded me of? My Manon Lescaut in a black frame. AND
what is most surprising: looking at this portrait, I remembered that Vera,
despite the complete dissimilarity of outlines, sometimes something similar flashes
this smile, this look...
Yes, I repeat: neither she herself nor anyone else in the world knows everything yet,
what is hidden in it...
By the way! Yeltsova, before her daughter’s wedding, told her all her
life, death of his mother, etc., probably for an instructive purpose. On Vera
what especially affected her was that she heard about her grandfather, about this mysterious
Ladanov. Is this why she believes in ghosts? Strange! she's like that herself
pure and bright, but afraid of everything dark and underground and believes in it...
But enough. Why write all this? However, since it is already
written, then let it go to you.

Your P.B.

LETTER SEVEN

From the same to the same

I take up my pen ten days after my last letter... Oh, my
friend, I can’t hide anymore... How hard it is for me! how I love her! You
can you imagine with what bitter shudder I write this fatal
word. I am not a boy, not even a youth; I'm no longer at the time to cheat
It’s almost impossible to deceive someone else, but it costs nothing to deceive yourself. I know everything
and I see clearly. I know that I am about forty years old, that she is the wife of another, that she
loves her husband; I know very well that from the unhappy feeling that
took possession of me, except for secret torment and the final waste of life
strength, there is nothing to expect - I know all this, I don’t hope for anything and don’t
Want; but that doesn’t make it any easier for me. Already about a month ago I began to notice that
My attraction to her became stronger and stronger. This is part of me
embarrassed, partly even pleased... But could I expect that with me
will everything repeat itself that, like youth, seemed to have no return? Yes
what am I saying! That "I never loved, no, never! Manon Lescaut, Fretillons
- these were my idols. Such idols are easy to break; and now... I just
Now I know what it means to love a woman. I'm ashamed to even talk about it;
but that's how it is. I'm ashamed... Love is still selfishness; and at my age to be selfish
impermissible: you cannot live for yourself at thirty-seven years old; must live with
benefit, with the goal on earth, to fulfill one’s duty, one’s business. And I started
to work... Here again everything is scattered like a whirlwind! Now I understand what I mean
wrote to you in my first letter; I understand what a test it is for me
was missing. How suddenly this blow fell on my head! I stand and
I look ahead senselessly: a black curtain hangs before my very eyes; in my heart
hard and scary! I can restrain myself, I am outwardly calm not only when
others, even in private; I really shouldn’t rage like a boy! But
a worm has crawled into my heart and is sucking it day and night. How will it end? Until now
Since then, in her absence, I have been sad and worried, and in her presence I immediately calmed down...
Now I’m restless even in front of her - that’s what scares me. Oh my friend, how hard it is
be ashamed of your tears, hide them!.. Only youth is allowed to cry;
tears come to her alone...
I cannot re-read this letter; it came out of me involuntarily, like
moan. I can’t add anything, tell anything... Give me time: I’m spinning in
myself, take control of my soul, I will speak to you like a man, and now
I would like to lean my head against your chest and...
O Mephistopheles! and you're not helping me. I stopped with the intention
intentionally irritated the ironic vein in himself, reminded himself how
these complaints, these
outpourings... No, Mephistopheles is powerless, and his tooth has become dull... Farewell.

Your P.B.

LETTER EIGHT

From the same to the same

My dear friend, Semyon Nikolaich!

You took my last letter too much to heart. You know how I am
always tended to exaggerate my feelings. This is how I feel
it happens involuntarily: womanly nature! Over the years this will, of course, pass; But,
I admit with a sigh, I still haven’t “corrected” to this day. And therefore
calm down. I will not deny the impression Vera made on me, but
I will say again: there is nothing unusual in all this. Come to you
here, as you write, it doesn’t follow at all. Jump a thousand miles God knows
because of what - yes, it would be madness! But I am very grateful to you for this new
proof of your friendship and, believe me, I will never forget it. Your
a trip here is still inappropriate because I myself intend to go to
Petersburg. Sitting on your sofa, I will tell you a lot, but now, really, not
I want: what the hell, I’ll babble and make a mess again. Before leaving, I'll give you some more
I'll write. So, see you soon. Be healthy and cheerful and don’t worry
too much about the fate of P.B., devoted to you.

LETTER NINE

From the same to the same

I did not answer your letter for a long time; I've been thinking about him all these days. I
felt that it was inspired in you not by idle curiosity, but by true
friendly participation; but I still hesitated: should I follow your
advice, should your wish be fulfilled? Finally, I made up my mind, I will tell you everything.
Whether my confession will make me feel better, as you think, I don’t know; but I think,
that I have no right to hide from you what has changed my life forever; to me
It seems that I would even remain guilty... alas! even more guilty before that
an unforgettable, sweet shadow, if I had not believed our sad secret
the only heart that I still cherish. You may be alone on earth
remember the Faith, and you judge it frivolously and falsely: I allow this
I can not. Find out everything. Alas! All this can be conveyed in two words. What
was between us, flashed instantly, like lightning, and like lightning it brought
death and destruction...
Since she was gone, since I settled in this wilderness,
which I will never leave until the end of my days, more than two years have passed, and that’s all
my memory is so clear, my wounds are still alive, my grief is so bitter...
I won't complain. Complaints, irritating, satisfy sadness, but not mine.
I'll tell you.
Do you remember my last letter - the letter in which I decided to
dispel your fears and advise you not to leave St. Petersburg? You
suspected his forced swagger, you didn’t believe our speedy
date: you were right. On the eve of the day when I wrote to you, I learned
that I am loved.
Having written these words, I realized how difficult it would be for me to continue my
story to the end. The persistent thought of her death will torment me since
with redoubled force, these memories will burn me... But I will try
I’ll control myself and either stop writing or won’t say an unnecessary word.
That's how I found out that Vera loved me. First of all I owe you
say (and you will believe me) that until that day I absolutely did not
suspected. True, she sometimes began to wonder what had never happened to her before.
happened; but I didn’t understand why this was happening to her. Finally, one day
On the seventh of September - a memorable day for me - this is what happened. You know,
how I loved her and how hard it was for me. I wandered like a shadow, I had no place
find. I wanted to stay at home, but I couldn’t bear it and went to her. I
I found her alone in the office. Priimkov was not at home: he had gone hunting. When
I went to Vera, she looked at me intently and did not answer my
bow. She was sitting by the window; on her lap lay a book that I recognized
immediately: it was my Faust. Her face expressed fatigue. I sat down opposite her.
She asked me to read aloud that Faust scene with Gretchen where she
asks him if he believes in God. I took the book and started reading. When I
finished, I looked at her. Leaning his head against the back of the chair and crossing his arms
chest, arms, she still looked at me intently.
I don’t know why my heart suddenly started beating.
- What have you done to me! - she said in a slow voice.
- How? - I said with embarrassment.
- Yes, what have you done to me! - she repeated.
“You mean,” I began, “why did I convince you to read such
books?
She stood up silently and walked out of the room. I looked after her.
At the threshold of the door she stopped and turned to me.
“I love you,” she said, “that’s what you did to me.”
Blood rushed to my head...
“I love you, I’m in love with you,” Vera repeated.
She left and locked the door behind her. I won't describe to you what
happened to me then. I remember I went out into the garden, climbed into the wilderness, leaned
to the tree, and how long I stood there, I can’t say. I seemed to freeze; feeling
from time to time a wave of bliss ran through my heart... No, I won’t say
about it. Priimkov's voice called me out of my stupor; they sent him to tell him that
I arrived: he returned from hunting and was looking for me. He was amazed to find me in the garden
alone, without a hat, and led me into the house. “The wife is in the living room,” he said, “
let's go to her." You can imagine what feelings I went through
threshold of the living room. Vera sat in the corner, behind the embroidery hoop; I glanced at her furtively
and didn’t look up for a long time afterwards. To my surprise, she seemed calm; V
There was no alarm in the sound of her voice in what she said. I finally
decided to look at her. Our eyes met... She slightly
blushed and leaned over the canvas. I began to watch her. It's like she
was perplexed; a sad smile occasionally touched her lips.
Priimkov left. She suddenly raised her head and asked quite loudly
me:
- What do you intend to do now?
I was embarrassed and hastily, in a dull voice, answered that I intended to fulfill
the duty of an honest man is to leave, “because,” I added, “I
I love you, Vera Nikolaevna, you probably noticed this a long time ago." She again
leaned towards the canvas and thought.
“I have to talk to you,” she said, “come today.”
in the evening after tea to our house... you know, where you read Faust.
She said it so clearly that even now I don’t understand how
Priimkov, who was entering the room at that very moment, did not hear anything.
Quietly, painfully quietly, this day passed. Vera sometimes looked around with such
with an expression as if she was asking herself: was she in a dream? And at the same time on
determination was written on her face. And I... I couldn’t come to my senses. Faith me
loves! These words were constantly revolving in my mind; but I did not understand them - neither
I didn’t understand myself or her. I didn't believe something so unexpected, so
amazing happiness; with an effort he recalled the past and also looked, said,
like in a dream...
After tea, when I was already starting to think about how to unnoticed
sneak out of the house, she herself suddenly announced that she wanted to go for a walk, and
invited me to accompany her. I stood up, took my hat and walked after her. I didn't dare
to speak, I could hardly breathe, I waited for her first word, waited for an explanation; but she
was silent. Silently we walked to the Chinese house, silently entered it, and then - I
I still don’t know, I can’t understand how it happened - we suddenly
found themselves in each other's arms. Some invisible force threw me to her,
her - to me. In the fading light of day, her face, with her curls thrown back,
instantly lit up with a smile of self-forgetfulness and bliss, and our lips merged?
kiss...
This kiss was the first and the last.
Vera suddenly escaped from my hands and, with an expression of horror in her widened
eyes, staggered back...
“Look around,” she told me in a trembling voice, “you’re not doing anything.”
see? I quickly turned around.
- Nothing. Do you really see anything?
- I don’t see it now, but I saw it. She breathed deeply and rarely.
- Whom? What?
“My mother,” she said slowly and trembled all over.
I also shuddered, as if I was overcome with cold. I suddenly felt terrified
like a criminal. Wasn't I a criminal at that moment?
- Come on! - I started, - what are you? Tell me better...
- No, for God's sake, no! - she interrupted and grabbed her head. - This
madness... I'm going crazy... You can't joke about this - it's death...
Farewell...
I extended my hands to her.
“Stop, for God’s sake, for a moment,” I exclaimed with involuntary
impulse. I didn't know what I was saying and could barely stand on my feet. - For God's sake...
because it's cruel.
She looked at me.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow evening,” she said, “not today, please...
leave today... tomorrow evening come to the garden gate, near the lake. I
I’ll be there, I’ll come... I swear to you that I’ll come,” she added with
passion, and her eyes sparkled - whoever stopped me, I swear! I
I'll tell you everything, just let me go today.
And before I could say a word, she was gone.
Shocked to the core, I remained where I was. My head was spinning.
Through the insane joy that filled my whole being,
sad feeling... I looked around. The deaf damp one seemed scary to me
the room in which I stood, with its low arch and dark walls.
I walked out and walked with heavy steps towards the house. Vera was waiting for me
on the terrace; she entered the house as soon as I approached and immediately left
to your bedroom.
I left.
How I spent the night and the next day until the evening is impossible to describe.
I only remember that I was lying face down, hiding my face in my hands, remembering her smile
before the kiss, he whispered: “Here she is, finally...”
I also remembered Eltsova’s words, conveyed to me by Vera. She told her
once: “You are like ice: until you melt, you are strong as a stone, but you will melt, and
there will be no trace of you left."
Another thing that came to my mind: Vera and I once talked about this.
What does skill and talent mean?
“I only know one thing,” she said, “to remain silent until the last minute.”
I didn’t understand anything then.
“But what does her fright mean?..” I asked myself. “Is she really
Have you seen Eltsova? Imagination!” I thought and again indulged in sensations
expectations.
On the same day I wrote to you - with what thoughts, it’s terrible to remember - then
crafty letter.
In the evening - the sun had not yet set - I was already standing about fifty paces from
garden gate, in a tall and dense vineyard on the shore of the lake. I came from home
on foot. I confess to my shame: fear, the most cowardly fear, filled my
chest, I shuddered constantly... but I did not feel remorse.
Hiding between the branches, I relentlessly looked at the gate. She doesn't
dissolved. Now the sun has set, now it’s evening; now the stars have appeared, and
the sky turned black. Nobody showed up. I had a fever. Night has come. I
Couldn't stand it any longer, he carefully came out of the vineyard and crept up to the gate. All
it was quiet in the garden. I called Vera in a whisper, clicked another time, a third time...
No one's voice responded. Another half hour passed, an hour passed; completely dark
became. The waiting tired me; I pulled the gate towards me, opened it at once and
tiptoed towards the house like a thief. I stopped in the shade of the linden trees.
Almost all the windows in the house were lighted; people walked back and forth but
rooms. This surprised me: my watch, how much I could discern in the dim light
in the light of the stars, it showed half past twelve. Suddenly there was a knock behind
home: the carriage was leaving the yard.
“Apparently, guests,” I thought. Having lost all hope of seeing Vera, I
got out of the garden and walked home with nimble steps. The night was dark
September, but warm and without wind. The feeling is not so much annoyance as
the sadness that had taken possession of me gradually dissipated, and I came to myself
home a little tired from fast walking, but calmed by the silence of the night,
happy and almost cheerful. I entered the bedroom, sent Timofey away,
undressing, he threw himself onto the bed and plunged into thought.
At first my dreams were gratifying; but soon I noticed a strange thing in myself
change. I began to feel some secret, gnawing melancholy, some
deep, inner restlessness. I could not understand why it was happening;
but I felt terrified and languid, as if imminent misfortune threatened me, as if
someone dear was suffering at that moment and called me for help. On the table
the wax candle burned with a small, motionless flame, the pendulum beat heavily
and measuredly. I rested my head on my hand and began to look into the empty twilight of my
lonely room. I thought about Vera, and my soul ached: everything I care about
I was happy, it seemed to me, as it should be, a misfortune, a hopeless
harmful. The feeling of melancholy grew and grew within me, I could not lie there any longer; to me
suddenly it seemed again that someone was calling me in a pleading voice... I
raised his head and shuddered; for sure, I was not deceived: a plaintive cry
rushed from afar and clung, as if rattling, to the black glass of the windows. To me
I got scared: I jumped out of bed and opened the window. A distinct groan burst into
room and seemed to spin above me. All frozen with horror, I listened to him
the last, dying overflow. It seemed as if someone was being slaughtered in the distance, and
the unfortunate man begged in vain for mercy. Was it an owl screaming in the grove, or something else?
what creature made that groan, I didn’t give myself an idea at the time, but, like Mazepa
Kochubey, responded with a cry to the ominous sound.
- Vera, Vera! - I exclaimed, - is it you calling me?
Timofey, sleepy and amazed, appeared before me.
I came to my senses, drank a glass of water, moved to another room; but no sleep
visited me. My heart beat painfully, although infrequently. I couldn't anymore
indulge in dreams of happiness; I no longer dared to believe him.
The next day, before lunch, I went to Priimkov. He met me
with a concerned face.
“My wife is sick,” he began, “she’s lying in bed; I sent for
doctor.
- What with her?
- I don't understand. Yesterday evening I went into the garden and suddenly came back outside
myself, scared. The maid came running after me. I come and ask my wife:
What happened to you? She doesn’t answer and immediately falls ill; At night delirium appeared. IN
I'm delirious, God knows what I said, I remembered you. The maid told me
an amazing thing: as if Verochka saw her dead mother in the garden,
as if it seemed to her that she was walking towards her, with open arms.
You can imagine how I felt at these words.
“Of course, this is nonsense,” Priimkov continued, “but I must
I must admit that extraordinary things like this happened to my wife.
- And, tell me, is Vera Nikolaevna very unwell?
- Yes, I’m unwell: I felt bad at night; now she is in oblivion.
- What did the doctor do?
- The doctor said that the disease has not yet been determined...

I cannot continue as I began, dear friend: it costs me
too much effort and it irritates my wounds too much. Illness speaking
in the words of the doctor, she was determined, and Vera died from this disease. She's two
I didn’t live weeks after the fateful day of our instant meeting. I saw her
again before her passing. I have no more cruel memory. I have already
I knew from the doctor that there was no hope. Late in the evening, when everyone had already gone to bed
house, I crept up to the door of her bedroom and looked into it. Vera lay on
bed with closed eyes, thin, small, with a feverish blush on
cheeks. I looked at her, petrified. Suddenly she opened her eyes and stared
them at me, peered and, holding out her emaciated hand -

What does he want in the hallowed place,
This... this one... (*) -

(* Was will er an dem heiligen Ort,
Der da... der dort...
"Faust", 1st part. Last scene.

she said in a voice so terrible that I started to run. She
Almost the entire time of her illness she raved about Faust and her mother, whom
called her either Martha or Mother Gretchen.
Vera died. I attended her funeral. Since then I left everything and settled
here forever.
Think now about what I have told you; think about her, about this
a creature that died so soon. How did this happen, how to interpret it
incomprehensible interference of the dead in the affairs of the living, I don’t know and will never know
will; but you will agree that it’s not a fit of whimsical blues, like you
you put it, forced me to withdraw from society. I'm not the same as you
knew me: I believe a lot now that I didn’t believe before. I've been doing this all this time
I thought so much about this unfortunate woman (I almost said girl), about her
origin, about the secret game of fate, which we, the blind, call blind
by chance. Who knows how many seeds everyone living on earth leaves behind?
destined to rise only after his death? Who can tell what mysterious chain
the fate of a person is connected with the fate of his children, his offspring, and how they are reflected
on them are his aspirations, how are his mistakes exacted from them? We all should
humble yourself and bow your heads before the Unknown.
Yes, Vera died, but I survived. I remember when I was still a child, in our
there was a beautiful vase made of transparent alabaster in the house. Not a single spot
disgraced her virgin whiteness. One day, left alone, I began to pump
the plinth on which it stood... the vase suddenly fell and broke into pieces. I
froze with fright and stood motionless in front of the fragments. My father came in and saw
me and said: “Look what you’ve done: we won’t have our
a beautiful vase; Now nothing can fix it." I began to cry.
It seemed like I had committed a crime.
I grew up and thoughtlessly broke the vessel a thousand times
most precious...
In vain do I tell myself that I could not expect such an instant outcome,
that it surprised me with its suddenness, that I did not suspect what
the creature was Vera. She definitely knew how to remain silent until the last minute. To me
I should have run away as soon as I felt that I loved her, I loved a married woman
woman; but I stayed - and the beautiful creature was broken into pieces, and with a dumb
I look with despair at the work of my hands.
Yes, Yeltsova jealously guarded her daughter. She saved it to the end and,
at the first careless step, she took her with her to the grave.
It's time to finish... I didn't tell you even a hundredth part of what I should have said;
but that was enough for me. Let everything that exists fall to the bottom of the soul again.
surfaced... As I finish, I’ll tell you:
I took one conviction from experience recent years: life is not a joke and
fun, life is not even pleasure... life is hard work. Renunciation,
constant renunciation - this is its secret meaning, its solution: not fulfillment
favorite thoughts and dreams, no matter how sublime they may be, - fulfillment
debt, that's what a person should take care of; without putting chains on yourself,
iron chains of duty, he cannot reach the end of his career without falling;
and in our youth we think: the freer you are, the better, the further you will go.
Youth is allowed to think like that; but it’s a shame to amuse yourself with deception when
The stern face of truth finally looked into your eyes.
Goodbye! First I would have added: be happy; now I'll tell you:
try to live, it is not as easy as it seems. Remember me, not during the hours
sorrow - in hours of reflection, and preserve in your soul the image of Faith in all its
pure purity... Farewell again!