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Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy

Family happiness

We mourned for our mother, who died in the fall, and lived all winter in the village, alone with Katya and Sonya.

Katya was an old friend of the house, a governess who nursed us all, and whom I remembered and loved as long as I could remember. Sonya was my little sister. We spent a gloomy and sad winter in our old Pokrovsk house. The weather was cold and windy, so that the snowdrifts were higher than the windows; the windows were almost always frozen and dim, and for almost the entire winter we did not go or drive anywhere. Rarely did anyone come to us; and whoever came did not add to the fun and joy in our house. Everyone had sad faces, everyone spoke quietly, as if afraid to wake someone up, they did not laugh, sighed and often cried, looking at me and especially at little Sonya in a black dress. There was still a sense of death in the house; sadness and horror of death were in the air. Mom’s room was locked, and I felt creepy, and something pulled me to look into this cold and empty room when I passed her to sleep.

I was seventeen years old then, and in the very year of her death, my mother wanted to move to the city to take me out. The loss of my mother was a strong grief for me, but I must admit that because of this grief I also felt that I was young and good, as everyone told me, but I was killing the second winter in solitude in the village. Before the end of winter, this feeling of melancholy, loneliness and just boredom increased to such an extent that I did not leave the room, did not open the piano and did not pick up books. When Katya tried to persuade me to do this or that, I answered: I don’t want to, I can’t, but in my heart I said: why? Why do anything when my best time is wasted so much? For what? And to “why” there was no other answer than tears.

They told me that I had lost weight and looked ugly during this time, but that didn’t even bother me. For what? for whom? It seemed to me that my whole life should pass in this lonely wilderness and helpless melancholy, from which I myself, alone, did not have the strength or even the desire to escape. At the end of winter, Katya began to fear for me and decided to take me abroad at all costs. But this required money, and we hardly knew what we had left after our mother, and every day we waited for the guardian who was supposed to come and sort out our affairs. The guardian arrived in March.

- Well, thank God! - Katya said to me once, when I was like a shadow, idle, without thoughts, without desires, walking from corner to corner, - Sergei Mikhailych arrived, sent to ask about us and wanted to be there for dinner. Shake yourself up, my Masha,” she added, “what will he think of you?” He loved you all so much.

Sergei Mikhailych was our close neighbor and friend of our late father, although much younger than him. Besides the fact that his arrival changed our plans and made it possible to leave the village, since childhood I had become accustomed to loving and respecting him, and Katya, advising me to shake myself up, guessed that of all the people I knew, it would hurt me the most to appear in an unfavorable light in front of Sergei Mikhailych . Besides the fact that I, like everyone in the house, from Katya and Sonya, his goddaughter, to the last coachman, loved him out of habit, he had a special meaning for me because of one word my mother said in front of me. She said that she would like such a husband for me. At the time it seemed surprising and even unpleasant to me; my hero was completely different. My hero was thin, lean, pale and sad. Sergei Mikhailych was no longer a young man, tall, stocky and, as it seemed to me, always cheerful; but, despite the fact, these words of my mother sunk into my imagination, and six years ago, when I was eleven years old, and he told me you, played with me and nicknamed me the violet girl, I sometimes asked myself, not without fear , what will I do if he suddenly wants to marry me?

Before dinner, to which Katya added cream cake and spinach sauce, Sergei Mikhailych arrived. I saw through the window how he drove up to the house in a small sleigh, but as soon as he drove around the corner, I hurried into the living room and wanted to pretend that I had not expected him at all. But, hearing the pounding of feet in the hallway, his loud voice and Katya’s steps, I could not resist and went to meet him halfway. He held Katya by the hand, spoke loudly and smiled. Seeing me, he stopped and looked at me for some time without bowing. I felt embarrassed and felt myself blushing.

- Ah! is it really you? - he said in his decisive and simple manner, spreading his arms and approaching me. - Is it possible to change like that! how you have grown! That's a violet! You have become a whole rose.

He took my hand with his big hand and shook it so tightly, honestly, it just didn’t hurt. I thought that he would kiss my hand, and I leaned towards him, but he shook my hand again and looked straight into my eyes with his firm and cheerful gaze.

I haven't seen him for six years. He has changed a lot; he had aged, turned black and had acquired sideburns, which did not suit him at all; but there were the same simple techniques, an open, honest face with large features, intelligent sparkling eyes and a gentle, childlike smile.

Five minutes later he ceased to be a guest, but became his own person for all of us, even for people who, it was clear from their helpfulness, were especially happy about his arrival.

He behaved completely differently from the neighbors who came after mother’s death and considered it necessary to remain silent and cry while sitting with us; he, on the contrary, was talkative, cheerful and did not say a word about mother, so at first this indifference seemed strange and even indecent to me on the part of such a close person. But then I realized that it was not indifference, but sincerity, and I was grateful for it.

In the evening, Katya sat down to pour tea in her old place in the living room, as happened with her mother; Sonya and I sat down next to her; old Gregory brought him his father's old pipe, which he had found, and he, as in the old days, began to walk up and down the room.

– How many terrible changes are there in this house, just think! - he said, stopping.

“Yes,” Katya said with a sigh and, covering the samovar with the lid, looked at him, ready to cry.

– I think you remember your father? – he turned to me.

“Not enough,” I answered.

- And how good it would be for you to be with him now! - he said, quietly and thoughtfully looking at my head above my eyes. – I loved your father very much! – he added even more quietly and it seemed to me that his eyes became shiny.

- And then God took her! - Katya said and immediately put the napkin on the teapot, took out a handkerchief and began to cry.

“Yes, terrible changes in this house,” he repeated, turning away. “Sonya, show me the toys,” he added after a while and went out into the hall.

I looked at Katya with tear-filled eyes when he left.

- This is such a nice friend! - she said.

And indeed, somehow I felt warm and good from the sympathy of this stranger and good person.

From the living room you could hear Sonya's squeak and his fussing with her. I sent him tea; and you could hear him sit down at the piano and begin to hit the keys with Sonya’s little hands.

I was pleased that he addressed me so simply and in a friendly, commanding manner; I stood up and approached him.

“Play this,” he said, opening Beethoven’s notebook to the adagio of the sonata quasi una fantasia. “Let’s see how you play,” he added and walked away with the glass to the corner of the hall.

For some reason I felt that it was impossible for me to refuse with him and make prefaces that I was playing badly; I obediently sat down at the clavichord and began to play as best I could, although I was afraid of the court, knowing that he understood and loved music. The Adagio was in the tone of that feeling of memory that was evoked by the conversation over tea, and I played, it seems, decently. But he didn’t let me play the scherzo. “No, you’re not playing well,” he said, coming up to me, “leave that, but the first one is not bad. You seem to understand music." This moderate praise made me so happy that I even blushed. It was so new and pleasant for me that he, my father’s friend and equal, spoke to me one on one seriously, and no longer like a child, as before. Katya went upstairs to put Sonya to bed, and the two of us remained in the hall.

He told me about my father, how he got along with him, how happily they once lived, when I was still sitting with books and toys; and for the first time my father, in his stories, seemed to me to be a simple and sweet man, such as I had not known him until now. He also asked me about what I loved, what I read, what I intended to do, and gave advice. For me now he was not a joker and a merry fellow who teased me and made toys, but a serious, simple and loving person, for whom I felt involuntary respect and sympathy. It was easy and pleasant for me, and at the same time I felt involuntary tension while talking with him. I was afraid for every word I said; I so wanted to earn his love myself, which I had already acquired only because I was my father’s daughter.

Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy

Family happiness

Part one

Part two

Days, weeks, two months of secluded village life passed unnoticed, as it seemed then; and yet the feelings, excitement and happiness of these two months would be enough for a lifetime. My and his dreams about how our village life would work out came true in a completely different way than we expected. But our life was no worse than our dreams. There was no this strict work, the fulfillment of the duty of self-sacrifice and life for another, that I imagined for myself when I was a bride; there was, on the contrary, only a selfish feeling of love for each other, a desire to be loved, causeless, constant fun and oblivion of everything in the world. True, he sometimes went off to do something in his office, sometimes he went to the city on business and did housework; but I saw how hard it was for him to tear himself away from me. And he himself later admitted how everything in the world, where I was not, seemed to him such nonsense that he could not understand how he could deal with it. It was the same for me. I read, studied music, and was a mother, and at school; but all this only because each of these activities was connected with him and deserved his approval; but as soon as the thought of him did not mix with any business, I gave up, and it seemed so funny to me to think that there was anything in the world other than him. Maybe it was a bad, selfish feeling; but this feeling gave me happiness and raised me high above the whole world. He alone existed for me in the world, and I considered him the most beautiful, infallible person in the world; therefore, I could not live for anything else than for him, as in order to be in his eyes what he considered me to be. And he considered me the first and most beautiful woman in the world, gifted with all possible virtues; and I tried to be this woman in the eyes of the first and best person in the whole world. One day he came into my room while I was praying to God. I looked back at him and continued to pray. He sat down at the table so as not to disturb me and opened the book. But it seemed to me that he was looking at me, and I looked back. He smiled, I laughed and could not pray. -Have you prayed yet? - I asked. -- Yes. Yes, continue, I'll leave. - Yes, you are praying, I hope? He wanted to leave without answering, but I stopped him. - My soul, please, for me, read prayers with me. He stood next to me and, awkwardly lowering his hands, with a serious face, stammering, began to read. Occasionally he turned to me, looking for approval and help on my face. When he finished, I laughed and hugged him. - All of you, all of you! “It’s like I’m turning ten years old again,” he said, blushing and kissing my hands. Our house was one of the old village houses in which several related generations lived, respecting and loving one another. Everything smelled of good, honest family memories, which suddenly, as soon as I entered this house, seemed to become my memories too. The decoration and order of the house were carried out by Tatyana Semyonovna in the old-fashioned way. This is not to say that everything was elegant and beautiful; but from servants to furniture and food there was a lot of everything, everything was neat, durable, neat and inspired respect. In the living room there was furniture arranged symmetrically, portraits hung, and homemade rugs and stripes were spread on the floor. In the sofa room there was an old piano, wardrobes of two different styles, sofas and tables with brass and inlays. In my office, decorated with the efforts of Tatyana Semyonovna, there was the best furniture of various centuries and styles and, among other things, an old dressing table, which at first I could not look at without shyness, but which later, like an old friend, became dear to me. Tatyana Semyonovna could not be heard, but everything in the house went on like clockwork, although there were a lot of extra people. But all these people, who wore soft boots without heels (Tatyana Semyonovna considered the creaking of the soles and the clatter of heels to be the most unpleasant thing in the world), all these people seemed proud of their rank, were in awe of the old lady, looked at my husband and me with patronizing affection and, it seemed, , did their job with particular pleasure. Every Saturday, the floors in the house were washed and carpets were beaten out, every first day prayers were served with the blessing of water, every name day of Tatyana Semyonovna, her son (and mine - for the first time this fall) feasts were held for the entire neighborhood. And all this has been done invariably since Tatyana Semyonovna could remember herself. The husband did not interfere with housekeeping and only took care of the field farming and peasants, and did a lot. He got up very early even in winter, so that when I woke up, I was no longer there to find him. He usually returned to tea, which we drank alone, and almost always at this time, after the troubles and troubles around the house, he was in that special cheerful mood that we called wild delight. Often I demanded that he tell me what he did in the morning, and he told me such nonsense that we died of laughter; sometimes I demanded a serious story, and he kept a smile and told it. I looked at his eyes, at his moving lips and did not understand anything, I was only glad that I saw him and heard his voice. “Well, what did I say? Repeat,” he asked. But I couldn't repeat anything. It was so funny that he was telling me not about himself and me, but about something else. It’s definitely not the same no matter what happens there. Only much later did I begin to understand a little and take an interest in his concerns. Tatyana Semyonovna did not come out until lunch, drank tea alone and only greeted us through the ambassadors. In our special, extravagantly happy little world, the voice from her other, sedate, decent corner sounded so strange that often I could not stand it and only laughed in response to the maid, who, folding her hand over her hand, measuredly reported that Tatyana Semyonovna was ordered to find out how they slept after yesterday's party, and silently ordered to report that their side had been hurting all night, and the stupid dog in the village was barking and preventing them from sleeping. “They also ordered to ask how you liked the current cookies, and asked to note that it was not Taras who baked today, but Nikolasha for the first time, and they said it was very good, especially the pretzels, but he overcooked the crackers.” We weren't together much until lunch. I played, read alone, he wrote, left again; but by dinner, at four o’clock, we met in the living room, mother floated out of her room, and poor noblewomen, wanderers, of whom there were always two or three living in the house, appeared. Regularly every day, the husband, out of old habit, offered his mother his hand for dinner; but she demanded that he give me another, and regularly every day we crowded and got confused at the door. Mother presided over dinner, and the conversation was decently reasonable and somewhat solemn. My husband and I's simple words pleasantly broke up the solemnity of these dinner meetings. Disputes and ridicule of each other sometimes ensued between the son and mother; I especially loved these disputes and ridicule, because they most powerfully expressed the tender and firm love that bound them. After dinner, maman would sit in the living room on a large armchair and grind tobacco or cut the pages of newly received books, and we would read aloud or go to the sofa to the clavichord. We read a lot together during this time, but music was our favorite and best pleasure, each time awakening new strings in our hearts and as if revealing each other to us again. When I played his favorite things, he sat on the far sofa, where I could hardly see him, and out of shyness of feeling he tried to hide the impression that the music made on him; but often, when he did not expect it, I got up from the piano, approached him and tried to catch traces of excitement on his face, the unnatural shine and moisture in his eyes, which he tried in vain to hide from me. Mom often wanted to look at us in the sofa room, but, it’s true, she was afraid to embarrass us, and sometimes, as if not looking at us, she passed through the sofa room with an imaginary serious and indifferent face; but I knew that she had no reason to go to her place and return so soon. I poured evening tea in the large living room, and again everyone in the house gathered at the table. This solemn meeting in front of the mirror of the samovar and the distribution of glasses and cups embarrassed me for a long time. It seemed to me that I was still unworthy of this honor, too young and frivolous to turn the tap of such a large samovar, to put a glass on Nikita’s tray and say: “To Pyotr Ivanovich, Marya Minichna,” to ask: “Is it sweet?” and leave lumps of sugar for the nanny and honored people. “Nice, nice,” my husband often said, “like a big one,” and this embarrassed me even more. After tea, maman played solitaire or listened to Marya Minichna tell fortunes; then she kissed and baptized us both, and we went home. For the most part, however, we sat together past midnight, and that was the best and most enjoyable time. He told me about his past, we made plans, sometimes philosophized and tried to say everything quietly so that we would not be heard upstairs and would not be reported to Tatyana Semyonovna, who demanded that we go to bed early. Sometimes, when we were hungry, we would quietly go to the buffet, get a cold dinner through Nikita’s patronage, and eat it by one candle in my office. We lived with him like strangers in this big old house, in which the strict spirit of antiquity and Tatyana Semyonovna stood over everything. Not only she, but people, old girls, furniture, paintings inspired me with respect, some fear and the consciousness that he and I were a little out of place here, and that we needed to live here very carefully and attentively. As I remember now, I see that much - both this binding, unchanging order, and this abyss of idle and curious people in our house - was inconvenient and difficult; but then this very constraint enlivened our love even more. Not only me, but he didn’t show any sign that he didn’t like anything. On the contrary, he even seemed to be hiding himself from what was bad. Mama’s lackey Dmitry Sidorov, a great lover of a pipe, regularly every day after dinner, when we were in the sofa room, went to my husband’s office to take his tobacco from the box; and you should have seen with what cheerful fear Sergei Mikhailych approached me on tiptoe and, wagging his finger and winking, pointed at Dmitry Sidorovich, who had no idea that he was being seen. And when Dmitry Sidorov left without noticing us, out of joy that everything ended well, as in any other case, my husband said that I was lovely and kissed me. Sometimes this calmness, forgiveness and as if indifference to everything did not please me, I did not notice that it was the same in me, and considered it weakness. “Like a child who doesn’t dare show his will!” I thought. “Oh, my friend,” he answered me when I once told him that I was surprised by his weakness, “can you be dissatisfied with anything when you are as happy as I am?” It is easier to give in than to bend others, I was convinced of this long ago; and there is no situation in which one cannot be happy. And we feel so good! I can't be angry; For me now there is no bad thing, there is only pathetic and funny. And most importantly - le mieux est lennemi du bien. *[the best is the enemy of the good] Would you believe it, when I hear the bell, I receive a letter, it’s just that when I wake up, I get scared. It’s scary that you have to live, that something will change; and it couldn’t be better than now. I believed, but did not understand him. I felt good, but it seemed that all this was so, and not otherwise, it should be and always happens to everyone, and that there was, somewhere, another, although not greater, but different happiness. So two months passed, winter came with its colds and snowstorms, and I, despite the fact that he was with me, began to feel lonely, began to feel that life was repeating itself, and there was nothing new in either me or him, but that, on the contrary, we seem to be returning to the old. He began to do things without me more than before, and again it began to seem to me that there was some special world in his soul into which he did not want to let me. His constant calm irritated me. I loved him no less than before, and no less than before, I was happy with his love; but my love stopped and did not grow any more, and besides love, some new restless feeling began to creep into my soul. It was not enough for me to love after I experienced the happiness of loving him. I wanted movement, not a calm flow of life. I wanted excitement, danger and self-sacrifice for feelings. I had an excess of strength that found no place in our quiet life. I was overcome by gusts of melancholy, which I, like something bad, tried to hide from him, and gusts of frantic tenderness and gaiety that frightened him. He noticed my condition even before me and suggested going to the city; but I asked him not to travel and not to change our way of life, not to disturb our happiness. And sure enough, I was happy; but what tormented me was that this happiness did not cost me any labor, no sacrifice, when the forces of labor and sacrifice tormented me. I loved him and saw that I was everything to him; but I wanted everyone to see our love, so that they would prevent me from loving, and I would still love him. My mind and even my feelings were busy, but there was another feeling of youth, the need for movement, which did not find satisfaction in our quiet life. Why did he tell me that we can go to the city whenever I want? If he had not told me this, perhaps I would have understood that the feeling that tormented me was harmful nonsense, my fault, that the sacrifice I was looking for was here in front of me, in the suppression of this feeling. The thought that I could escape from melancholy only by moving to the city involuntarily occurred to me; and at the same time, I felt ashamed and sorry to tear him away from everything that he loved. And time passed, the snow covered more and more of the walls of the house, and we were all alone, and we were still the same in front of each other; and there, somewhere in the brilliance, in the noise, crowds of people worried, suffered and rejoiced, not thinking about us and our passing existence. The worst thing for me was that I felt how every day the habits of life shackled our life into one specific form, how our feelings became not free, but were subordinate to the even, dispassionate flow of time. We were cheerful in the morning, respectful at lunch, tender in the evening. “Good!..” I said to myself, “it’s good to do good and live honestly, as he says; but we’ll still have time to do that, and there’s something for which I only now have the strength.” That’s not what I needed, I needed a fight; I needed the feeling to guide us in life, and not life to guide the feeling. I wanted to go with him to the abyss and say: here’s a step, I’ll throw myself there, here’s a movement, and I’m lost - and so that he, turning pale at the edge of the abyss, would take me in his strong hands, hold me over it, so that It would swell in my heart and take me wherever I want. This condition even affected my health, and my nerves began to fray. One morning I was worse than usual; He returned from the office in a bad mood, which rarely happened to him. I immediately noticed this and asked what was wrong with him? but he didn't want to tell me, saying it wasn't worth it. As I later found out, the police officer called our men and, out of dislike for my husband, demanded illegal things from them and threatened them. My husband still could not digest all this so that it was all just funny and pitiful, he was irritated and therefore did not want to talk to me. But it seemed to me that he did not want to talk to me because he considered me a child who could not understand what was occupying him. I turned away from him, fell silent and told him to ask Marya Minichna, who was visiting us, for tea. After tea, which I finished especially quickly, I took Marya Minichna into the sofa room and began talking loudly to her about some nonsense that was not at all interesting to me. He walked around the room, occasionally glancing at us. For some reason these glances now had such an effect on me that I wanted to talk and even laugh more and more; I thought everything I said and everything that Marya Minichna said was funny. Without saying anything to me, he went completely into his office and closed the door behind him. As soon as he was no longer heard, all my gaiety suddenly disappeared, so Marya Minichna was surprised and began to ask what was wrong with me. Without answering her, I sat down on the sofa, and I wanted to cry. “And why is he changing his mind?” I thought. “Some nonsense that seems important to him, but try to tell me, I’ll show him that it’s all nonsense. No, he needs to think that I won’t understand, he needs to humiliate me with your majestic calmness and always be right with me. But I’m right when I’m bored, empty, when I want to live, move,” I thought, “and not stand in one place and feel how time passes through me ". I want to go forward and every day, every hour I want something new, but he wants to stop and stop me with him. And how easy it would be for him! For this he does not need to take me to the city, for this he only needs to be like this, like me, don’t break yourself, don’t hold back, but live simply. This is what he advises me, but he himself is not simple. That’s what!” I felt tears welling up in my heart and that I was annoyed with him. I was afraid of this irritation and went to him. He sat in his office and wrote. Hearing my steps, he looked back for a moment, indifferently, calmly, and continued writing. I didn't like this look; Instead of going up to him, I stood at the table where he was writing, and, opening the book, began to look into it. He pulled away again and looked at me. - Masha! are you out of sorts? -- he said. I answered with a cold look that said: “There’s no need to ask! What kind of pleasantries?” He shook his head and smiled timidly, tenderly, but for the first time my smile did not answer his smile. -What did you have today? - I asked: - why didn’t you tell me? - Nonsense! a little trouble,” he answered. “However, now I can tell you.” Two men went to the city... But I didn’t let him finish. “Why didn’t you tell me then, when I asked over tea?” “I would have told you something stupid, I was angry then.” “That’s when I needed it.” -- For what? - Why do you think that I can never help you with anything? - What do you think? - he said, throwing the pen. “I think I can’t live without you.” In everything, in everything, not only do you help me, but you do everything. That's enough! - he laughed. - I live only for you. It seems to me that everything is fine only because you are here, that you are needed... “Yes, I know that, I’m a sweet child who needs to be reassured,” I said in such a tone that he was surprised, as if for the first time saw, looked at me. “I don’t want peace, you have enough of it, very much of it,” I added. “Well, you see what’s the matter,” he began hastily, interrupting me, apparently afraid to let me say everything: “how would you judge him?” “Now I don’t want to,” I answered. Although I wanted to listen to him, it was so pleasant for me to destroy his calm. “I don’t want to play at life, I want to live,” I said, “just like you.” His face, on which everything was reflected so quickly and vividly, expressed pain and intense attention. - I want to live smoothly with you, with you... But I couldn’t finish: such sadness, deep sadness was expressed on his face. He was silent for a moment. - Why are you living unevenly with me? - he said: - because I, and not you, mess with the police officer and drunken men... - Yes, not only this, - I said. “For God’s sake, understand me, my friend,” he continued, “I know that anxiety always hurts us, I lived and learned this.” I love you and therefore I cannot help but want to relieve you of worries. This is my life, in love for you: therefore, don’t bother me to live. - You are always right! - I said without looking at him. I was annoyed that again everything was clear and calm in his soul, when in me there was annoyance and a feeling similar to repentance. - Masha! What happened to you? -- he said. “It’s not about whether I’m right or you’re right, but about something completely different: what do you have against me?” Don’t suddenly talk, think and tell me everything you think. You are unhappy with me, and you are probably right, but let me understand what I am to blame for. But how could I tell him my soul? The fact that he understood me so immediately, that again I was a child in front of him, that I could not do anything that he did not understand and did not foresee, excited me even more. “I don’t have anything against you,” I said. “I’m just bored and I don’t want it to be boring.” But you say that this is how it should be, and again you are right! I said this and looked at him. I achieved my goal, his calmness disappeared, fear and pain were on his face. “Masha,” he spoke in a quiet, excited voice. - It's no joke what we're doing now. Now our fate is being decided. I ask you not to answer me and listen. Why do you want to torture me? But I interrupted him. - I know you'll be right. “It’s better not to speak, you’re right,” I said coldly, as if it was not I, but some evil spirit who was speaking inside me. - If only you knew what you were doing! - he said in a trembling voice. I cried and felt better. He sat next to me and was silent. I felt sorry for him, ashamed of myself, and annoyed for what I had done. I didn't look at him. It seemed to me that he should either look sternly or bewilderedly at me at that moment. I looked back: a meek, gentle gaze, as if asking for forgiveness, was fixed on me. I took his hand and said: “Forgive me!” I don't know what I said. -- Yes; but I know what you said, and you spoke the truth. -- What? - I asked. “That we need to go to St. Petersburg,” he said. “We have nothing to do here now.” “As you wish,” I said. He hugged me and kissed me. “Forgive me,” he said. - I am guilty before you. That evening I played for him for a long time, and he walked around the room and whispered something. He had the habit of whispering, and I often asked him what he whispered, and he always, after thinking, answered me exactly what he whispered: mostly poetry and sometimes terrible nonsense, but such nonsense by which I knew the mood of his soul . -What are you whispering today? - I asked. He stopped, thought and, smiling, answered two verses by Lermontov: ..... And he is crazy and asks for storms, As if there is peace in storms! “No, he is more than a man; he knows everything!” I thought: “how can you not love him!” I stood up, took his hand and began to walk with him, trying to keep track of each other. -- Yes? - he asked smiling, looking at me. “Yes,” I said in a whisper; and some kind of cheerful mood took over both of us, our eyes laughed, and we took more and more steps, and stood on tiptoe more and more. And with the same step, to the great indignation of Gregory and the surprise of mother, who was playing solitaire in the living room, they went through all the rooms to the dining room, and there they stopped, looked at each other and burst out laughing. Two weeks later, before the holiday, we were in St. Petersburg. Our trip to St. Petersburg, a week in Moscow, him and my family, settling into a new apartment, the road, new cities, faces - all this passed like a dream. All this was so varied, new, cheerful, all this was so warm and brightly illuminated by his presence, his love, that quiet village life seemed to me something long ago and insignificant. To my great surprise, instead of the secular pride and coldness that I expected to find in people, everyone greeted me with such genuine affection and joy (not only relatives, but also strangers) that it seemed that they were all only thinking about me, only They expected me to feel good about themselves. It was also unexpected for me in a secular circle that seemed to me the best; My husband discovered many acquaintances that he never told me about; and often it was strange and unpleasant for me to hear harsh judgments from him about some of these people who seemed so kind to me. I couldn’t understand why he treated them so dryly and tried to avoid many acquaintances that seemed flattering to me. It seemed to me that the more kind people you know, the better, and everyone was kind. “You see how we will settle,” he said before leaving the village: “we are little Croesus here, but there we will be very poor, and therefore we need to live in the city only until the Holy Day and not go out into the world, otherwise let's get confused: yes and for you; I wouldn't want to.... - Why light? - I answered: - just watch our relatives’ theaters, listen to opera and good music, and even earlier the Saint will return to the village. But as soon as we arrived in St. Petersburg, these plans were forgotten. I suddenly found myself in such a new happy world, so many joys overwhelmed me, such new interests appeared before me that I immediately, albeit unconsciously, renounced my entire past and all the plans of this past. “It was all like that, jokes; it hadn’t started yet; but this is real life! And what will happen?” I thought. The anxiety and the onset of melancholy that had disturbed me in the village suddenly, as if by magic, completely disappeared. My love for my husband became calmer, and the thought never occurred to me: does he love me less? Yes, I could not doubt his love, every thought of mine was immediately understood, the feeling was shared, the desire was fulfilled by him. His calmness disappeared here or no longer irritated me. Moreover, I felt that, in addition to his former love for me, he was also admiring me here. Often after a visit, a new acquaintance, or an evening with us, where I, internally trembling from the fear of making a mistake, performed the position of mistress of the house, he would say: “What a girl! nice! don't be timid. Really, good!" And I was very happy. Soon after our arrival, he wrote a letter to his mother, and when he called me to write on his behalf, he did not want to let me read what was written, as a result of which I, of course, demanded and read it." You don’t recognize Masha,” he wrote, “and I myself don’t recognize her. Where does this sweet, graceful self-confidence, afabel, even worldly intelligence and courtesy come from? And all this is simple, sweet, good-natured. Everyone is delighted with her, and I myself can’t stop looking at her, and if it were possible, I would love her even more." "Ah! so that’s what I am!” I thought. And so I felt happy and good, it even seemed that I loved him even more. My success with all our friends was completely unexpected for me. From all sides they told me that they especially liked me there uncle, here auntie is crazy about me, he tells me that there are no women like me in St. Petersburg, she assures me that I should want to be the most sophisticated woman in society. Especially my husband’s cousin, Princess D., a middle-aged society woman, suddenly who fell in love with me, more than anyone else, told me flattering things that made my head spin.When my cousin invited me to go to the ball for the first time and asked my husband about it, he turned to me and, slightly noticeably, smiling slyly, asked: Do I want to go? I nodded my head in agreement and felt myself blushing. “It’s like a criminal confessing what she wants,” he said, laughing good-naturedly. “But you said that we shouldn’t go out into society, and you don’t like it either.” - I answered, smiling and looking at him with a pleading look. “If you really want to, then we’ll go,” he said. - Really, it’s better not to. -- I want to? Very? - he asked again. I didn't answer. “The world is still a small sorrow,” he continued, “but secular unfulfilled desires are both bad and ugly.” “We definitely have to go, and we’ll go,” he concluded decisively. To tell you the truth,” I said, “I didn’t want anything in the world more than this ball.” We went, and the pleasure I experienced exceeded all my expectations. At the ball, even more than before, it seemed to me that I was the center around which everything was moving, that for me only this large hall was illuminated, music was playing and this crowd of people had gathered, admiring me. Everyone, from the hairdresser and the maid to the dancers and old men passing through the room, seemed to tell me or make me feel that they loved me. The general judgment that was formed about me at this ball and conveyed to me by my cousin was that I was completely unlike other women, that there was something special, rustic, simple and charming about me. This success flattered me so much that I openly told my husband how much I would like to go to two or three more balls this year, “and in order to be thoroughly satisfied with them,” I added, twisting my soul. My husband readily agreed and at first traveled with me with visible pleasure, rejoicing at my successes and, it seemed, completely forgetting or renouncing what he had said before. Subsequently, he apparently began to get bored and burdened by the life we ​​led. But I had no time for that; Even if I sometimes noticed his attentive, serious gaze, questioningly directed at me, I did not understand its meaning. I was so foggy by this suddenly excited, as it seemed to me, love for me in all strangers, by this air of grace, pleasure and novelty, which I breathed here for the first time, so suddenly his moral influence, which was suppressing me, disappeared here, so pleasantly In this world I had the opportunity not only to become equal to him, but to become higher than him, and for that reason to love him even more and more independently than before, that I could not understand that he could see what was unpleasant for me in social life. I experienced a new feeling of pride and self-satisfaction when, entering the ball, all eyes turned to me, and he, as if ashamed to admit to the crowd that he owned me, hurried to leave me and got lost in the black crowd of tailcoats. “Wait!” I often thought, searching with my eyes at the end of the hall for his unnoticed, sometimes bored figure, “wait!” I thought, “we’ll come home, and you will understand and see for whom I tried to be good and brilliant, and what do I love out of everything that surrounds me this evening? It seemed to me sincerely that my successes pleased me only for him, only in order to be able to sacrifice them to him. The only thing that social life could be harmful for me, I thought, was the possibility of becoming infatuated with one of the people I met in the world, and the jealousy of my husband; but he believed in me so much, seemed so calm and indifferent, and all these young people seemed so insignificant to me in comparison with him, that even the only, according to my concepts, danger of the world did not seem terrible to me. But, despite the fact that the attention of many people in the world gave me pleasure, flattered my vanity, made me think that there was some merit in my love for my husband, and made my treatment of him more self-confident and seemingly more careless. “And I saw you talking very animatedly to N.N.,” I said one day, returning from a ball, shaking my finger at him and naming one of the famous ladies of St. Petersburg with whom he actually spoke that evening. I said this to stir him up; he was especially silent and boring. - Oh, why say that? And you say, Masha! - he missed it through his teeth and winced as if from physical pain. - How it doesn’t suit you and me! Leave it to others; these false relationships can ruin our real ones, and I still hope that the real ones will return. I felt ashamed and fell silent. - Will they come back, Masha? What do you think? -- he asked. “They have never spoiled and will never spoil,” I said, and then it certainly seemed so to me. “God willing,” he said, “otherwise it’s time for us to go to the village.” But he only told me this once, the rest of the time it seemed to me that he felt just as good as I did, and I was so happy and happy. If he is sometimes bored,” I consoled myself, “then I was bored for him in the village; if our relationship has changed somewhat, then it will all come back again as soon as we are left alone with Tatyana Semyonovna in our Nikolsky house in the summer. So the winter passed unnoticed for me, and we, against our plans, even spent the Holy Day in St. Petersburg. On Fomina, when we were already getting ready to go, everything was packed, and my husband, who was already shopping for gifts, things, flowers for village life, was in a particularly gentle and cheerful mood, a cousin unexpectedly came to us and began to ask us to stay until Saturday, with in order to go to the reception with Countess R. She said that Countess R. really called me, that Prince M., who was then in St. Petersburg, had wanted to meet me since the last ball, only for this purpose he went to the reception and said that I was the most pretty woman in Russia. The whole city was supposed to be there, and, in a word, it wouldn’t have been like anything if I hadn’t gone. The husband was on the other side of the living room, talking to someone. - So, are you going, Marie? - said the cousin. “We wanted to go to the village the day after tomorrow,” I answered hesitantly, looking at my husband. Our eyes met, he hastily turned away. “I’ll persuade him to stay,” said the cousin, “and we’ll go on Saturday to turn heads.” Yes? “It would have upset our plans, but we got it done,” I answered, starting to give up. “Yes, it would be better for her to go to bow to the prince this evening,” the husband said from the other end of the room in an irritated, restrained tone that I had not yet heard from him. - Ah! “He’s jealous, I see it for the first time,” the cousin laughed. “But it’s not for the prince, Sergei Mikhailovich, but for all of us that I persuade her.” How Countess R. asked her to come! “It depends on her,” the husband said coldly and left. I saw that he was more excited than usual; this tormented me, and I did not promise my cousin anything. As soon as she left, I went to my husband. He walked back and forth thoughtfully and did not see or hear me tiptoe into the room. “He already imagines Nikola’s sweet house,” I thought, looking at him, “and morning coffee in the bright living room, and its fields, men, and evenings in the sofa, and nightly mysterious dinners.” “No!” I decided. with herself, “I will give all the balls in the world and the flattery of all the princes in the world for his joyful embarrassment, for his quiet affection.” I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t going to the reception and didn’t want to, when he suddenly looked around and, seeing me, frowned and changed the meekly thoughtful expression of his face. Again insight, wisdom and protective calm were expressed in his gaze. He didn’t want me to see him as a simple person; he needed to be a demigod on a pedestal to always stand in front of me. - What are you doing, my friend? - he asked, casually and calmly turning to me. I didn't answer. I was annoyed that he was hiding from me, that he did not want to remain the way I loved him. - Do you want to go to the reception on Saturday? -- he asked. “I wanted to,” I answered, “but you don’t like it.” “Yes, and everything is packed,” I added. He never looked at me so coldly, never spoke to me so coldly. “I won’t leave until Tuesday and I’ll tell you to unpack your things,” he said, “so you can go if you want.” Do me a favor and go. I won't leave. As always, when he was excited, he began to walk unsteadily around the room and did not look at me. “I absolutely don’t understand you,” I said, standing still and watching him with my eyes, “you say that you are always so calm (he never said that). Why are you talking to me so strangely? I am ready to sacrifice this pleasure for you, and you somehow ironically, as you have never spoken to me, demand that I go. -- Well! You sacrifice (he especially emphasized this word), and I sacrifice, what’s better. The fight of generosity. What other family happiness? “It was the first time I heard such fiercely mocking words from him.” And his mockery did not shame me, but insulted me, and his bitterness did not frighten me, but communicated itself to me. Did he, who was always afraid of phrases in our relations, always sincere and simple, say this? And for what? Because I really wanted to sacrifice him pleasure, in which I could not see anything bad, and because a minute before that I understood and loved him so much. Our roles changed, he avoided direct and simple words, and I looked for them. “You have changed a lot,” I said, sighing. -What have I done wrong to you? It’s not a party, but something else old that you have in your heart against me. Why insincerity? Weren't you yourself so afraid of her before? Tell me straight, what do you have against me? “He’ll say something,” I thought, remembering with self-satisfaction that he had nothing to reproach me with for this whole winter. I went out into the middle of the room, so that he had to pass close to me, and looked at him. “He’ll come up, hug me, and it’ll all be over,” it occurred to me, and I even felt sorry that I wouldn’t have to prove to him how wrong he was. But he stopped at the end of the room and looked at me. - Don’t you understand everything? -- he said. -- No. - Well, I'll tell you. It’s disgusting to me, for the first time it’s disgusting, what I feel and what I can’t help but feel. - He stopped, apparently frightened by the rough sound of his voice. - So what? - I asked with tears of indignation in my eyes. “It’s disgusting that the prince found you pretty, and that because of this you run to meet him, forgetting your husband, and yourself, and the dignity of a woman, and you don’t want to understand what your husband should feel for you, if in you no sense of dignity; on the contrary, you come to tell your husband that you are sacrificing, that is, “It is a great happiness for me to appear to His Highness, but I am sacrificing to him.” The further he spoke, the more he became inflamed by the sounds of his own voice, and this voice sounded poisonous, harsh and rude. I had never seen or expected to see him like this; blood rushed to my heart, I was afraid, but at the same time a feeling of undeserved shame and offended pride worried me, and I wanted to take revenge on him. “I’ve been expecting this for a long time,” I said, “speak, speak.” “I don’t know what you expected,” he continued, “I could have expected the worst, seeing you every day in this filth, idleness, luxury of stupid society; and waited... I waited for the fact that now I feel ashamed and hurt more than ever; I feel bad for myself when your friend got into my heart with his dirty hands and started talking about jealousy, my jealousy, for whom? to a person whom neither you nor I know. And you, as if on purpose, want to not understand me and want to sacrifice for me, what?.. I’m ashamed of you, I’m ashamed of your humiliation!.. Victim! - he repeated. “Ah! so this is the power of a husband,” I thought. “To insult and humiliate a woman who is not guilty of anything. This is the rights of a husband, but I will not submit to them.” “No, I’m not sacrificing anything to you,” I said, feeling my nostrils unnaturally dilate and the blood leaving my face. “I’ll go to the reception on Saturday, and I’ll definitely go.” “And God grant you a lot of pleasure, but it’s all over between us!” - he shouted in a fit of already uncontrollable rage. “But you won’t torment me anymore.” I was a fool that... - he began again, but his lips began to tremble, and with a visible effort he restrained himself from finishing what he began. I was afraid and hated him at that moment. I wanted to tell him a lot and take revenge for all the insults; but if I had opened my mouth, I would have cried and dropped myself in front of him. I silently left the room. But as soon as I stopped hearing his steps, I was suddenly horrified by what we had done. I became afraid that this connection, which constituted all my happiness, would be severed forever, and I wanted to return. “But has he calmed down enough to understand me when I silently extend my hand to him and look at him?” I thought. “Will he understand my generosity? What if he calls my grief a pretense? Or with the consciousness of rightness and with pride will he calmly accept my repentance and forgive me? And why, why did he, whom I loved so much, insult me ​​so cruelly?.." I did not go to him, but to my room, where I sat alone for a long time and cried, remembering with horror every word of the conversation between us, replacing these words with others, adding other, kind words, and again remembering with horror and a feeling of insult what happened. When I went out to tea in the evening and met my husband in front of S., who was with us, I felt that from that day on a whole abyss had opened between us. S. asked me when we were going? I did not have time to respond. “On Tuesday,” answered the husband, “we are still going to a reception with Countess R. You’re going, aren’t you?” - he turned to me. I was frightened by the sound of this simple voice and timidly looked back at my husband. His eyes looked straight at me, their gaze was angry and mocking, their voice was even and cold. “Yes,” I answered. In the evening, when we were alone, he came up to me and extended his hand. “Please forget what I told you,” he said. I took his hand, a trembling smile was on my face, and tears were ready to flow from my eyes, but he took his hand away and, as if afraid of a sensitive scene, sat down on a chair quite far from me. “Does he really still think he’s right?” I thought, and the ready explanation and request not to go to the reception stopped on my tongue. “We must write to mother that we have postponed our departure,” he said, “otherwise she will worry.” - When do you think you’ll go? - I asked. “On Tuesday, after the reception,” he answered. “I hope this is not for me,” I said, looking into his eyes, but the eyes only looked and did not tell me anything, as if they were hidden from me by something. His face suddenly seemed old and unpleasant to me. We went to the reception, and it seemed that good friendly relations had been established between us again: but these relations were completely different than before. At the reception I was sitting between the ladies when the prince came up to me, so I had to get up to talk to him. Getting up, I involuntarily looked for my husband and saw that he was looking at me from the other end of the hall and turned away. I suddenly felt so ashamed and hurt that I became painfully embarrassed and blushed with my face and neck under the prince’s gaze. But I had to stand and listen to what he told me, looking down at me. Our conversation was not long, he had no place to sit next to me, and he probably felt that I was very awkward with him. The conversation was about the last ball, about where I live for the summer, etc. Moving away from me, he expressed a desire to meet my husband, and I saw how they came together and talked at the other end of the hall. The prince must have said something about me, because in the middle of the conversation he looked back in our direction, smiling. The husband suddenly flushed, bowed low and was the first to leave the prince. I also blushed, I felt ashamed of the idea that the prince should have received about me and especially about my husband. It seemed to me that everyone noticed my awkward shyness while I was talking with the prince, noticed his strange act; God knows how they could explain it; Don’t they really know our conversation with my husband? My cousin took me home, and on the way we talked about my husband. I couldn’t resist and told her everything that happened between us on the occasion of this unfortunate reception. She reassured me, saying that it was an insignificant, very ordinary disagreement that would not leave any traces; She explained to me from her point of view the character of her husband, found that he was very uncommunicative and had become proud; I agreed with her, and it seemed to me that now I myself began to understand him calmer and better. But then, when my husband and I were left alone, this trial about him, like a crime, lay on my conscience, and I felt that the abyss that now separated us from each other had become even larger. From that day on, our lives and our relationships completely changed. We weren't as comfortable being alone as before. There were questions that we avoided, and in the third person it was easier for us to speak than face to face. As soon as the conversation turned to life in the village or the ball, it was as if the boys' eyes were running around, and it was awkward to look at each other. It was as if we both felt where the abyss was that separated us, and were afraid to approach it. I was convinced that he was proud and hot-tempered, and I had to be careful not to touch his weaknesses. He was sure that I could not live without light, that the village was not for me, and that I had to submit to this unfortunate taste. And we both avoided talking directly about these subjects, and we both falsely judged each other. We have long ceased to be for each other the most perfect people in the world, but made comparisons with others and secretly judged each other. I became unwell before leaving, and instead of the village we moved to the dacha, from where my husband went alone to his mother. When he left, I had already recovered enough to go with him, but he tried to persuade me to stay, as if he was afraid for my health. I felt that he was afraid not for my health, but for the fact that we would not be well in the village; I didn’t really insist and stayed. Without him I felt empty and lonely, but when he arrived, I saw that he no longer added to my life what he had added before. Our previous relationship, when it happened that every thought or impression that was not conveyed to him, like a crime, weighed me down, when every action or word of his seemed to me a model of perfection, when we wanted to laugh at something out of joy, looking at each other, these relationships are so imperceptibly moved into others, which we didn’t even notice when they were gone. Each of us developed our own individual interests and concerns, which we no longer tried to make common. We are no longer embarrassed by the fact that everyone has their own separate world, alien to the other. We got used to this idea, and after a year the boys even stopped running around in their eyes; when we looked at each other. His fits of joy with me, his childishness, completely disappeared, his all-forgiveness and indifference to everything, which previously outraged me, disappeared, there was no more of that deep look that used to embarrass and delight me, there were no more prayers, delights together, we didn’t even see each other often, he he was constantly on the move and was not afraid, did not regret leaving me alone; I was constantly in the light, where I didn’t need it. There were no more scenes or disagreements between us, I tried to please him, he fulfilled all my desires, and it was as if we loved each other. When we were alone, which was rare, I felt no joy, no excitement, no confusion with him, as if I was left with myself. I knew very well that this was my husband, not some new, unknown person, but a good man - my husband, whom I knew as myself. I was sure that I knew everything he would do, what he would say, how he would look; and if he did or looked differently than I expected, then it already seemed to me that it was he who was mistaken. I didn't expect anything from him. In a word, it was my husband and nothing more. It seemed to me that this was how it should be, that there were no others and there had never even been any other relationship between us. When he left, especially at first, I felt lonely, scared, without him I felt more strongly the importance of his support for me; when he arrived, I threw myself on his neck with joy, although after two hours I completely forgot this joy, and there was no point in talking to him. Only in the moments of quiet, moderate tenderness that happened between us, did it seem to me that something was wrong, that something hurt me in my heart, and in his eyes, it seemed to me that I read the same thing. I felt this boundary of tenderness, beyond which now he seemed not to want, and I could not cross. Sometimes I was sad about this, but there was no time to think about anything, and I tried to forget this sadness of a vaguely felt change in the entertainment that was always ready for me. Social life, which at first befuddled me with brilliance and flattery of pride, soon completely took over my inclinations, became a habit, imposed its shackles on me and occupied in my soul all the space that was ready for feeling. I was never left alone with myself and was afraid to think about my situation. All my time from late morning to late night was occupied and did not belong to me, even if I did not go out. It was no longer fun or boring for me, but it seemed that it was always supposed to be this way and not otherwise. So three years passed, during which our relationship remained the same, as if it had stopped, frozen, and could not get worse or better. During these three years, two important events happened in our family life, but both did not change my life. These were the birth of my first child and the death of Tatyana Semyonovna. At first, a maternal feeling overwhelmed me with such force and produced such an unexpected delight in me that I thought a new life would begin for me; but two months later, when I began to travel again, this feeling, decreasing and decreasing, turned into a habit and a cold performance of duty. The husband, on the contrary, from the time of the birth of our first son, became the same meek, calm homebody and transferred his former tenderness and fun to the child. Often, when I entered the nursery in a ball gown to baptize the child for the night, and found my husband in the nursery, I noticed his seemingly reproachful and sternly attentive gaze directed at me, and I felt ashamed. I was suddenly horrified by my indifference to the child and asked myself: “Am I really worse than other women? But what can I do?” I thought, “I love my son, but I can’t sit with him all day long, I’m bored; I won't do anything." The death of his mother was a great grief to him; It was hard for him, as he said, to live in Nikolskoye after her, and although I felt sorry for her, and I sympathized with my husband’s grief, I now felt more pleasant and calmer in the village. We spent most of these three years in the city, I went to the village only once for two months, and in the third year we went abroad. We spent the summer on the waters. I was then twenty-one years old, our fortune, I thought, was in a flourishing position, I did not demand anything from family life beyond what it gave me; everyone I knew seemed to love me; My health was good, my toilets were the best on the waters, I knew that I was good, the weather was beautiful, some kind of atmosphere of beauty and grace surrounded me, and I had a lot of fun. I was not as cheerful as I was in Nikolskoye, when I felt that I was happy in myself, that I was happy because I deserved this happiness, that my happiness was great, but it should be even greater, that I still wanted more and more happiness . It was different then; but this summer I felt good too. I didn’t want anything, I didn’t hope for anything, I wasn’t afraid of anything, and my life seemed to me to be full, and my conscience seemed to be at peace. Among all the youth of this season, there was not a single person whom I could in any way distinguish from others or even from old Prince K., our envoy who looked after me. One was young, the other was old, one was a blond Englishman, the other a Frenchman with a beard, all of them were equal to me, but I needed all of them. These were all equally indifferent faces that made up the joyful atmosphere of life that surrounded me. Only one of them, the Italian Marquis D., attracted my attention more than others with his courage in expressing admiration for me. He never missed a chance to be with me, to dance, ride a horse, be in a casino, etc., and tell me that I was good. Several times I saw him from the windows near our house, and often the unpleasant gaze of his sparkling eyes made me blush and look around. He was young, handsome, elegant and, most importantly, his smile and forehead expression resembled my husband, although much better than him. He struck me with this resemblance, although in general, in his lips, in his eyes, in his long chin, instead of the charm of my husband’s expression of kindness and ideal calm, he had something rough, animalistic. I believed then that he loved me passionately, and sometimes I thought about him with proud condolences. I sometimes wanted to calm him down, to change him into a tone of semi-friendly, quiet confidence, but he sharply rejected these attempts and continued to unpleasantly confuse me with his unexpressed, but ready to express himself at any moment, passion. Although without admitting it to myself, I was afraid of this man and, against my will, I often thought about him. My husband knew him and, even more than with our other acquaintances, for whom he was only his wife’s husband, he behaved coldly and arrogantly. Towards the end of the season I got sick and didn’t leave the house for two weeks. When I went out to music in the evening for the first time after my illness, I learned that the long-awaited Lady S, known for her beauty, had arrived without me. A circle formed around me, I was greeted joyfully, but an even better circle was formed around the visiting lioness. Everyone around me talked only about her and her beauty. They showed her to me, and indeed, she was lovely, but I was unpleasantly struck by the smugness of her face, and I said so. This day seemed boring to me, everything that was so fun before. The next day Lady S. arranged a trip to the castle, which I declined. Almost no one stayed with me, and everything completely changed in my eyes. Everything and everyone seemed stupid and boring to me, I wanted to cry, finish the course as quickly as possible and go back to Russia. I had some kind of bad feeling in my soul, but I had not yet admitted it to myself. I showed myself weak and stopped showing up in large society, only occasionally going out in the morning alone to drink water or with L.M., a Russian friend, going to the surrounding area. The husband was not there at the time; he went to Heidelberg for several days, waiting for the end of my course so that he could go to Russia, and occasionally came to see me. One day Lady S. took the whole party on a hunt, and L.M. and I went to the castle after dinner. As we walked in the carriage along the winding highway between the centuries-old chestnut trees, through which these pretty, elegant Baden surroundings, illuminated by the setting rays of the sun, opened up further and further, we began to talk seriously, as we had never spoken before. L.M., whom I had known for a long time, now seemed to me for the first time as a good, intelligent woman, with whom I could talk everything and with whom it was pleasant to be a friend. We talked about family, children, about the emptiness of life here, we wanted to go to Russia, to the village, and somehow we felt sad and good. Under the influence of the same serious feeling, we entered the castle. The walls were shady and fresh, the sun was playing above the ruins, someone’s steps and voices could be heard. From the door, as if in a frame, one could see this charming, but cold for us Russians, Baden picture. We sat down to rest and silently watched the setting sun. The voices were heard more clearly, and it seemed to me that they called my last name. I began to listen and involuntarily heard every word. The voices were familiar; it was the Marquis D. and the Frenchman, his friend, whom I also knew. They talked about me and about Lady S. The Frenchman compared me and her and analyzed the beauty of both. He didn't say anything offensive, but my blood rushed to my heart when I heard his words. He explained in detail what was good about me and what was good about Lady S. I already had a child, and Lady S. was nineteen years old, my braid was better, but the lady’s figure was more graceful, the lady was a big lady, while “Your,” he said, “is so-so, one of these little Russian princesses who begin to appear here so often.” He concluded that I was doing a great job without trying to fight Lady S., and that I was finally buried in Baden. -- I feel sorry for her. “Unless she wants to be consoled with you,” he added with a cheerful and cruel laugh. “If she leaves, I’ll go after her,” said a voice with an Italian accent roughly. - Happy mortal! he can still love! - the Frenchman laughed. -- Be in love! - said the voice and was silent. - I can’t help but love! without this there is no life. - Making a novel out of life is one good thing. And my novel never stops in the middle, and I will finish this one to the end. “Bonne chance, mon ami, *[I wish you success, my friend],” said the Frenchman. We didn’t hear any more, because they went around the corner, and we heard their footsteps on the other side. They came down the stairs and a few minutes later came out of the side door and were quite surprised to see us. I blushed when the Marquis D. approached me, and I became scared when, leaving the castle, he gave me his hand. I couldn’t refuse, and behind L.M., who was walking with his friend, we went to the stroller. I was offended by what the Frenchman said about me, although I secretly realized that he only named what I myself felt; but the marquis’s words surprised and outraged me with their rudeness. I was tormented by the thought that I heard his words, and despite that, he is not afraid of me. It was disgusting for me to feel him so close to me; and, without looking at him, without answering him and trying to hold my hand so as not to hear him, I hurriedly followed L.M. and the Frenchman. The Marquis said something about the beautiful view, about the unexpected happiness of meeting me and something else, but I did not listen to him. At that time I was thinking about my husband, about my son, about Russia; I was ashamed of something, I felt sorry for something, I wanted something, and I was in a hurry to get home, to my lonely room at the Hotel de Bade, so that in the open space I could think about everything that had just now risen in my soul. But L.M. walked quietly, the carriage was still far away, and my gentleman, it seemed to me, was persistently reducing his pace, as if trying to stop me. "Can't be!" I thought and resolutely walked faster. But positively, he held me and even pressed my hand. L.M. turned the corner of the road, and we were completely alone. I felt scared. “Sorry,” I said coldly and wanted to free my hand, but the lace of my sleeve got caught on his button. He leaned his chest towards me and began to unfasten it, and his ungloved fingers touched my hand. Some new feeling of either horror or pleasure ran like a chill down my spine. I looked at him in order to express with a cold gaze all the contempt that I felt for him; but my look did not express that; it expressed fear and excitement. His burning, wet eyes, right next to my face, looked passionately at me, at my neck, at my chest, his both hands fingered my hand above the wrist, his open lips said something, said that he loved me, that I everything was for him, and those lips came closer to me, and their hands squeezed mine tighter and burned me. Fire ran through my veins, my eyes grew dark, I trembled, and the words with which I wanted to stop him dried up in my throat. Suddenly I felt a kiss on my cheek and, trembling and growing cold, I stopped and looked at him. Unable to speak or move, I, horrified, expected and desired something. All this lasted for an instant. But this moment was terrible! I saw him like that in just that moment. His face was so clear to me: this steep, low forehead visible from under his straw hat, similar to my husband’s forehead, this beautiful straight nose with flared nostrils, this long sharply pomaded mustache and beard, these smoothly shaved cheeks and a tanned neck. I hated, I was afraid of him, he was such a stranger to me; but at that moment the excitement and passion of this hated, stranger, resonated so strongly in me! I so irresistibly wanted to surrender to the kisses of that rough and beautiful mouth, the embrace of those white hands with thin veins and rings on their fingers. So I was drawn to rush headlong into the suddenly opening, attracting abyss of forbidden pleasures... “I’m so unhappy,” I thought, “let even more and more misfortunes gather on my head.” He hugged me with one arm and leaned towards my face. “Let, let shame and sin accumulate on my head again and again.” “Je vous aime, *[I love you],” he whispered in a voice that was so similar to my husband’s voice. My husband and child were remembered to me as long-ago former dear beings with whom everything was over. But suddenly at that time, from around the bend, the voice of L.M. was heard, calling me. I came to my senses, pulled out my hand and, without looking at him, almost ran after L.M. We got into the stroller, and I just looked at him. He took off his hat and asked something, smiling. He did not understand the inexpressible disgust that I felt for him at that moment. My life seemed so miserable to me, the future so hopeless, the past so black! L.M. spoke to me, but I did not understand her words. It seemed to me that she was speaking to me only out of pity, in order to hide the contempt that I aroused in her. In every word, in every look, I felt this contempt and insulting pity. The kiss burned my cheek with shame, and the thought of my husband and child was unbearable to me. Left alone in my room, I hoped to think about my situation, but I was afraid to be alone. I did not finish the tea that was served to me, and, without knowing why, with feverish haste I immediately began to get ready to take the evening train to Heidelberg to see my husband. When the girl and I sat down in an empty carriage, the car started moving, and the fresh air smelled at me through the window, I began to come to my senses and imagine my past and future more clearly. My whole married life from the day we moved to St. Petersburg suddenly appeared to me in a new light and fell like a reproach on my conscience. For the first time, I vividly remembered our first time in the village, our plans, for the first time the question came to my mind: what were his joys during all this time? And I felt guilty before him. “But why didn’t he stop me, why was he a hypocrite in front of me, why did he avoid explanations, why did he insult me?” I asked myself. “Why didn’t he use his power of love over me? Or didn’t he love me?” But no matter how guilty he was, the kiss of a stranger was right there on my cheek, and I felt it. The closer and closer I got to Heidelberg, the more clearly I imagined my husband and the more terrible the upcoming date became for me. “I’ll tell him everything, everything, I’ll pay him everything with tears of repentance,” I thought, “and he’ll forgive me.” But I myself didn’t know what “everything” I would tell him was, and I myself didn’t believe that he would forgive me. But as soon as I entered my husband’s room and saw his calm, albeit surprised face, I felt that I had nothing to tell him, nothing to confess and nothing to ask for his forgiveness. Unspoken grief and remorse had to remain within me. - How did you come up with this? - he said: - and I wanted to go to you tomorrow. “But, looking closer at my face, he seemed afraid. -- What you? What happened to you? - he said. “Nothing,” I answered, barely holding back tears. - I've just arrived. We'll go home to Russia tomorrow. He looked at me silently and carefully for quite a long time. - Tell me, what happened to you? -- he said. I involuntarily blushed and lowered my eyes. A feeling of insult and anger flashed in his eyes. I was afraid of the thoughts that might come to him, and with a power of pretense that I myself did not expect in myself, I said: “Nothing happened, I just felt bored and sad, and I thought a lot about our life and about you.” I have been guilty of you for so long! Why do you go with me to places you don’t want to go? I’ve been guilty of you for a long time,” I repeated, and again tears welled up in my eyes. - Let's go to the village and forever. - Ah! my friend, spare me from sensitive scenes,” he said coldly: “what do you want to go to the village, that’s great, because we don’t have much money; and what is forever is a dream. I know you won't get along. But if you drink some tea, it will be better,” he concluded, getting up to call the man. I imagined everything that he could think about me, and I was offended by the terrible thoughts that I attributed to him when I met the incorrect and seemingly ashamed gaze directed at me. No! he does not want and cannot understand me! I said that I would go see the child and left him. I wanted to be alone and cry, cry, cry... The long-unheated empty Nikolsky house came to life again, but what lived in it did not come to life. Mom was no longer there, and we were alone against each other. But now we not only didn’t need loneliness, it was already embarrassing us. The winter was all the worse for me because I was sick and only recovered after the birth of my second son. Our relationship with my husband continued to be also coldly friendly, as during our city life, but in the village every floorboard, every wall, sofa reminded me of what he was for me, and what I had lost. It was as if there was an unforgiven grudge between us, as if he was punishing me for something and pretending that he didn’t notice it. There was nothing to ask for forgiveness for, there was no reason to ask for mercy: he punished me only by not giving me all of himself, all of his soul, as before; but he didn’t give it to anyone or anything, as if he no longer had it. Sometimes it occurred to me that he was only pretending to be like this in order to torment me, and that the old feeling was still alive in him, and I tried to evoke it. But every time he seemed to avoid frankness, as if he suspected me of pretense and was afraid, as if I were ridiculous, of any sensitivity. His look and tone said: I know everything, I know everything, there’s nothing to say, I know everything you want to say. I also know that you will say one thing and do another. At first I was offended by this fear of frankness, but then I got used to the idea that it was not lack of frankness, but a lack of need for frankness. I would not dare now to suddenly tell him that I love him, or ask him to say prayers with me, or invite him to listen to me play. There were already familiar conditions of decency between us. We each lived separately. He with his activities, in which I did not need and did not want to participate now, I with my idleness, which did not offend or sadden him as before. The children were still too small and could not yet unite us. But spring came, Katya and Sonya came to the village for the summer, they began to rebuild our house in Nikolskoye, we moved to Pokrovskoye. It was the same old Pokrovsky house with its terrace, with a movable table and pianos in the bright hall and my former room with white curtains and my girlish dreams, as if forgotten there. In this room there were two cribs, one was mine, in which in the evenings I baptized the sprawling, plump Kokosha, and the other was small, in which Vanya’s face peeked out from the diapers. Having crossed them, I often stopped in the middle of a quiet room, and suddenly old, forgotten young visions rose from all corners, from the walls, from the curtains. Old voices began to sing girlish songs. And where are these visions? where are these cute, sweet songs? Everything I hardly dared to hope for came true. Vague, merging dreams became reality; and reality became a hard, difficult and joyless life. But everything is the same: the same garden is visible through the window, the same platform, the same path, the same bench over there over the ravine, the same nightingale songs rushing from the pond, the same lilacs in full bloom, and the same moon stands over the house ; and everything is so scary, it’s so impossible to change! So cold is everything that could be so dear and close! Just like in the old days, the two of us quietly, sitting in the living room, talk to Katya and talk about him. But Katya wrinkled, turned yellow, her eyes do not sparkle with joy and hope, but express sympathetic sadness and regret. We do not admire him in the old way, we judge him, we are not surprised why and why we are so happy, and it is not in the old way that we want to tell the whole world what we think; We, like conspirators, whisper to each other and ask each other for the hundredth time, why has everything changed so sadly? And he is still the same, only the wrinkle between his eyebrows is deeper, there are more gray hairs at his temples, but his deep, attentive gaze is constantly obscured from me by a cloud. I’m still the same, but I have neither love nor desire for love. There is no need for work, no self-satisfaction. And the former religious delights and the former love for him, the former fullness of life seem so distant and impossible to me. I would not now understand what before seemed so clear and fair to me: happiness is to live for another. Why for someone else? when you don’t want to live for yourself? I completely gave up music ever since I moved to St. Petersburg; but now the old piano, the old notes, have taken a fancy to me again. One day I was unwell, I was left alone at home; Katya and Sonya went with him to Nikolskoye to look at the new building. The tea table was set, I went downstairs and sat down at the piano while waiting for them. I opened the sonata quasi una fantasia *[in the form of a fantasy] and began to play it. No one was seen or heard, the windows were open to the garden; and familiar, sadly solemn sounds were heard in the room. I finished the first part and, completely unconsciously, out of old habit, looked back at the corner in which he used to sit, listening to me. But he was not there; the chair, which had not been moved for a long time, stood in its corner; and through the window one could see a lilac bush at a bright sunset, and the freshness of the evening poured into the open windows. I leaned on the piano with both hands, covered my face with them and thought. I sat like that for a long time, painfully remembering the old, irrevocable and timidly inventing something new. But it was as if there was nothing ahead, as if I wanted and hoped for nothing. “Have I really outlived my time!” I thought, raised my head in horror and, in order to forget and not think, began to play again, and still the same andante. “My God!” I thought, “forgive me if I am guilty, or return to me everything that was so beautiful in my soul, or teach me what to do? How should I live now?” The noise of wheels was heard on the grass, and cautious, familiar steps were heard in front of the porch and on the terrace and then died away. But it was no longer the same feeling that responded to the sound of these familiar steps. When I finished, footsteps were heard behind me, and a hand lay on my shoulder. “What a clever girl you are to play this sonata,” he said. I was silent. -You didn’t drink tea? I shook my head negatively and did not look back at him, so as not to betray the traces of excitement remaining on my face. - They will arrive now; the horse went crazy, and they left on foot from the main road, he said. “Let’s wait for them,” I said and went out onto the terrace, hoping that he would follow me; but he asked about the children and went to them. Again his presence, his simple, kind voice dissuaded me from the idea that I had lost something. What more could you want? He is kind, meek, he is a good husband, a good father, I myself don’t know what else I lack. I went out onto the balcony and sat under the canvas of the terrace on the same bench on which I sat on the day of our explanation. The sun had already set, it was beginning to get dark, and a dark spring cloud hung over the house and garden, only from behind the trees could be seen the clear edge of the sky with the dying dawn and the evening star just breaking out. There was the shadow of a light cloud over everything, and everything was waiting for a quiet spring rain. The wind froze, not a single leaf, not a single grass moved, the smell of lilac and bird cherry was so strong, as if the whole air was in bloom, stood in the garden and on the terrace and suddenly weakened and then intensified in waves, so that you wanted to close your eyes and see nothing , not to hear except this sweet smell. Dahlias and rose bushes were still without color, stretched out motionless on their dug-up black border, as if they were slowly growing upward along their white planed stands; the frogs with all their might, as if at last before the rain, which would drive them into the water, crackled in unison and shrilly from under the ravine. One thin continuous watery sound stood above this cry. The nightingales called to each other alternately, and one could hear them anxiously flying from place to place. Again this spring, one nightingale tried to settle in the bush under the window, and when I went out, I heard it move behind the alley and from there clicked once and fell silent, also waiting. It was in vain that I reassured myself: I was both waiting and regretting something. He came back from above and sat down next to me. “It looks like it will wet ours,” he said. “Yes,” I said, and we were both silent for a long time. And the cloud without wind sank lower and lower; everything became quieter, odorous and motionless, and suddenly a drop fell and seemed to bounce on the canvas canopy of the terrace, another broke on the gravel of the path; there was a slap on the burdock, and a large, fresh, intensifying rain began to fall. The nightingales and frogs were completely silent, only a thin watery sound, although it seemed further away because of the rain, was still in the air, and some bird, probably huddled in the dry leaves not far from the terrace, was evenly playing out its two monotonous notes. He got up and wanted to leave. -- Where are you going? - I asked, holding him. - It’s so good here. “We need to send an umbrella and galoshes,” he answered. - No need, it will pass now. He agreed with me, and we remained together at the railing of the terrace. I leaned my hand on the slimy wet crossbar and stuck my head out. The fresh rain sprinkled unevenly on my hair and neck. The cloud, brightening and thinning, poured over us; the steady sound of rain was replaced by rare drops falling from above and from the leaves. Again the frogs began to chatter below, the nightingales perked up again and began to call out from the wet bushes, first on this side, then on the other. Everything brightened up before us. - How good! - he said, sitting down on the railing and running his hand through my wet hair. This simple caress had an effect on me like a reproach; I wanted to cry. - And what else does a person need? -- he said. “Now I’m so happy that I don’t need anything, I’m completely happy!” “That’s not how you once told me about your happiness,” I thought. “No matter how great it was, you said that you still wanted something more and more. And now you are calm and satisfied when I have there seems to be unspoken repentance and unshed tears in my soul.” “And I feel good,” I said, “but I’m sad precisely because everything is so good in front of me.” I am so incoherent, incomplete, I still want something; and it’s so beautiful and calm here. Really, don’t you also have some kind of melancholy mixed with enjoying nature, as if you want something impossible, and feel sorry for something that has passed? He took his hand from my head and was silent for a while. “Yes, this has happened to me before, especially in the spring,” he said, as if remembering. - And I, too, sat through the nights, wishing and hoping, and good nights!.. But then everything was ahead, and now everything is behind; “Now I’ve had enough of what I have, and I’m glad,” he concluded so confidently and casually that, no matter how painful it was for me to hear it, I believed that he was telling the truth. - And you don’t want anything? - I asked. “Nothing is impossible,” he answered, guessing my feeling. “You’re getting your head wet,” he added, caressing me like a child, once again running his hand through my hair, “you envy both the leaves and the grass because the rain wets them, you’d like to be both the grass and leaves and rain. And I just rejoice in them, as in everything in the world that is good, young and happy. - And don’t you regret anything from the past? - I continued to ask, feeling that my heart was becoming heavier and heavier. He thought for a moment and fell silent again. I saw that he wanted to answer completely sincerely. -- No! - he answered briefly. -- Not true! not true! - I spoke, turning to him and looking into his eyes. - Do you regret the past? -- No! - he repeated again, - I am grateful for it, but I do not regret the past. “But wouldn’t you like to turn him back?” -- I said. He turned away and began to look into the garden. “I don’t want to, just as I don’t want wings to grow on me,” he said. -- It is forbidden! -And you don’t correct the past? don't you blame yourself or me? -- Never! Everything was for the better! -- Listen! - I said, touching his hand so that he would look back at me. “Listen, why didn’t you ever tell me that you wanted me to live exactly the way you wanted, why did you give me freedom that I didn’t know how to use, why did you stop teaching me?” If you had wanted it, if you had led me differently, nothing, nothing would have happened,” I said in a voice in which cold annoyance and reproach, rather than former love, were more and more strongly expressed. - What would not have happened? - he said in surprise, turning to me: - and so there is nothing. Everything is fine. “Very good,” he added, smiling. “Doesn’t he understand, or, even worse, doesn’t want to understand?” - I thought, and tears came to my eyes. “It wouldn’t be that, although I am innocent of you, I am punished by your indifference, even contempt,” I suddenly said. “It wouldn’t have happened that, without any fault of mine, you suddenly took away from me everything that was dear to me.” - What are you doing, my soul! - he said, as if not understanding what I was saying. - No, let me finish... You took your trust, love, even respect from me; because I won’t believe that you love me now, after what happened before. No, I need to immediately express everything that has been tormenting me for a long time,” I interrupted him again. - Is it my fault that I didn’t know life, and you left me alone to look for... Is it my fault that now, when I myself have understood what is needed, when I, for almost a year now, have been fighting to get back to you , you push me away, as if you don’t understand what I want, and everything is so that you can’t be blamed for anything, but that I’m both guilty and unhappy! Yes, you want to throw me again into that life that could make both mine and your misfortune. - Why did I show you this? - he asked with sincere fear and surprise. “Didn’t you say just yesterday, and you keep saying, that I won’t live here, and that we need to go to St. Petersburg again for the winter, which I hate?” - I continued. - In order to support me, you avoid any frankness, any sincere, tender word with me. And then, when I completely fall, you will reproach me and rejoice at my fall. “Wait, wait,” he said sternly and coldly, “it’s not good what you’re saying now.” This only proves that you are ill-disposed against me, that you don’t... - That I don’t love you? speak! speak! - I finished, and tears flowed from my eyes. I sat down on the bench and covered my face with a scarf. "That's how he understood me!" I thought, trying to hold back the sobs that were choking me. “It’s over, our old love is over,” said some voice in my heart. He did not come to me, did not console me. He was offended by what I said. His voice was calm and dry. “I don’t know what you reproach me for,” he began, “if it’s that I didn’t love you as much as before...” “I did!” “I said into my handkerchief, and bitter tears poured down on him even more abundantly. - Then time and ourselves are to blame for this. Every pore has its own love... - He paused. - And tell you the whole truth? if you already want frankness. Just as in that year, when I first knew you, I spent nights without sleep, thinking about you, and made my own love, and this love grew and grew in my heart, so in St. Petersburg and abroad, I did not sleep terrible nights and broke, destroyed this love that tormented me. I did not destroy her, but destroyed only what tormented me, I calmed down and still love, but with a different love. “Yes, you call it love, but this is torment,” I said. “Why did you let me live in the world, if it seemed so harmful to you that you stopped loving me for it?” “Not light, my friend,” he said. “Why didn’t you use your power,” I continued, “why didn’t you tie me up and kill me?” It would be better for me now than to lose everything that made up my happiness, I would feel good, I wouldn’t be ashamed. I started sobbing again and covered my face. At this time, Katya and Sonya, cheerful and wet, entered the terrace with loud talking and laughter; but when they saw us, they became quiet and immediately left. We were silent for a long time when they left; I cried my tears and felt better. I looked at him. He sat with his head resting on his hands and wanted to say something in response to my gaze, but he just sighed heavily and leaned his elbows again. I walked up to him and took his hand away. His gaze turned thoughtfully to me. “Yes,” he said, as if continuing his thoughts. “All of us, and especially you women, need to live through all the nonsense of life ourselves in order to return to life itself; and you can’t trust anyone else. You were still far from having lived through this charming and sweet nonsense that I admired in you; and I left you to survive and felt that I had no right to embarrass you, although for me the time had long passed. “Why did you live with me and let me live through this nonsense if you love me?” -- I said. - Because that’s what you would like, but you couldn’t believe me; you had to find out yourself, and you found out. “You reasoned, you reasoned a lot,” I said. - You loved little. We were silent again. “It’s cruel what you just said, but it’s true,” he said, suddenly getting up and starting to walk along the terrace, “yes, it’s true.” It was my fault! - he added, stopping in front of me. “Either I shouldn’t have allowed myself to love you at all, or I should have loved you more simply, yes.” “Let’s forget everything,” I said timidly. “No, what has passed will never come back, you will never come back,” and his voice softened when he said this. “It’s all back now,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. He pulled my hand away and shook it. - No, I didn’t say the truth that I don’t regret the past; no, I regret, I cry for that past love that no longer exists and cannot exist anymore. Who is to blame for this? I don’t know. Love remains, but not the same, its place remains, but it is all sick, there is no strength and richness in it, only memories and gratitude remain: but... - Don’t say that... "- I interrupted. “Let everything be as before again... Is it possible? Yes? - I asked, looking into his eyes. But his eyes were clear, calm and did not look deeply into mine. At that time As I said, I already felt that what I wanted and what I asked him for was impossible. He smiled with a calm, gentle, as it seemed to me, senile smile. “How young you are, and how old I am,” he said "I no longer have in me what you are looking for; why deceive yourself?" he added, continuing to smile in the same way. I silently stood next to him, and my soul became calmer. "Let's not try to repeat life," - he continued, “let’s not lie to ourselves. And that there are no old worries and worries, and thank God! We have nothing to look for and worry about. We have already found, and enough happiness has fallen to our lot. Now we really need to erase ourselves and give “Here’s the way,” he said, pointing to the nurse, who came up with Vanya and stopped at the door of the terrace. “That’s right, dear friend,” he concluded, bending my head towards him and kissing it. Not a lover, but an old friend kissed me. And from the garden the fragrant freshness of the night rose ever stronger and sweeter, the sounds and silence became ever more solemn, and the stars began to light up in the sky more often. I looked at him, and my soul suddenly felt light; as if they had taken away from me that sick moral nerve that made me suffer. I suddenly clearly and calmly realized that the feeling of that time had irrevocably passed, like time itself, and that returning it now was not only impossible, but it would be difficult and embarrassing. And really, was this time so good, which seemed so happy to me? And so long, long ago all this happened!.. - However, it’s time to drink tea! - he said, and we went into the living room together. At the door I again met the nurse and Vanya. I took the child in my arms, covered his exposed red legs, pressed him to me and, barely touching my lips, kissed him. As if in a dream, he moved his little hand with his wrinkled fingers spread out and opened his dull little eyes, as if looking for or remembering something; suddenly these little eyes stopped at me, a spark of thought flashed in them, plump protruding lips began to gather and opened into a smile. "My, my, my!" - I thought, with a happy tension in all my limbs, pressing him to my chest and with difficulty restraining myself from hurting him. And I began to kiss his cold legs, tummy and arms and his head, which was slightly overgrown with hair. My husband came up to me, I quickly covered the child’s face and opened it again. - Ivan Sergeich! - said the husband, touching his chin with his finger. But I quickly closed Ivan Sergeich again. No one but me had to look at him for long. I looked at my husband, his eyes were laughing, looking into mine, and for the first time after a long time it was easy and joyful to look into them. From that day on, my affair with my husband ended; the old feeling became a dear, irrevocable memory, and a new feeling of love for the children and for the father of my children marked the beginning of a different, but completely different happy life, which I have not yet lived at the present moment... 1859

Vigdorova Frida Abramovna

Family happiness

Frida Abramovna VIGDOROVA

Family happiness

The novels “Family Happiness” (1962) and “Beloved Street” (1964) were published shortly before the death of F. Vigdorova and were not republished after 1966. The author's personality is especially fully reflected in the main characters of the dilogy. These are books about family relationships, about raising children, about life, about death, about friendship and about decency.

I have lived a lot, and it seems to me that I have found what I need to be happy.

L. Tolstoy. "Family happiness"

Sometimes people think that they were the first to discover the beauty of spring, winter or the silence of the morning sea. The charm of a person, the sky or a tree. How did Andrey discover Sasha? Very simple. He attended the Air Force Academy. She was finishing school. The yard where Sasha lived was separated from the street by an iron patterned fence. It was spring. Sasha and Andrey took their exams. He is at the academy, she is in her tenth grade.

Andrey just passed the theory of aerial shooting. He didn't just pass. A young and very stern professor with a long pale face and narrow, sharp eyes said to him:

I'm glad. We can talk to you. Quite a meaningful speech. And you know how to think independently. Well done!

The young, strict professor rarely praised. And here he was not stingy. “I’m glad,” he said, “well done! You know how to think independently!”

It is always difficult for a person to be alone with his joy. Andrei, of course, had comrades, but no family. Like most academy students, he rented a room. And now, when Andrei returns home, mother’s eyes will not rise to meet him. And he will not answer mockingly: “Failed!”

I wanted to sleep. Now he will come and lie down. But no one will cover him with a blanket. But he knew that some of his comrades were covered with a blanket, they were even served tea and said: “Rest, Volodya, rest, dear!” Andrei thought about all this, looked around and was simply in no hurry.

PART ONE

Andrey was born and grew up in Kaluga. On the outskirts stood a spacious log house. The smell of resin did not fade, did not leave it, although the logs from which it was made were very old.

When spring came, the whole house was filled with the smells of earth, foliage, and garden. The rooms were cool, the floors were painted, cleanly washed, and the wind flowed through the open windows.

And now, when Andrei became an adult, every new spring brought him these unforgettable smells of his childhood - earth, grass, wind.

The windows in their house opened early, much earlier than others.

In my father’s office there was a massive desk, carved, huge, and a deep leather chair. There were cabinets along the walls - very old, full of ancient medical books. Andrei’s great-grandfather read them, and he laid the foundation for this library. Father - Nikolai Petrovich - rarely took them off the shelf, but treasured them. And everything together - the table, the chair, the bookcases - was respectfully called “father’s library.” Dad’s library was always clean, cool and a little gloomy: the windows faced north, and elderberry bushes grew right next to the windows.

Mom also had her own room and her own books. But with mom everything was different. Her room was flooded with bright light, and lilacs peeked through the windows. The sun wandered from one window to another.

There were no curtains, only light light curtains. And it seemed as if the room was floating right into the garden. There was always some kind of book on my mother’s chair, and she loved books that seemed boring to Andrei as a child: Chekhov, Goncharov, Ibsen and Hamsun.

Everything in the world was revealed to Andrey by his mother.

Listen, how quiet it is,” she said. And he realized that silence can be listened to.

“Don’t turn on the light,” she asked, “let’s sit like this.” - And he learned how good it is to be quiet and quiet together.

One day in late autumn they were walking through the forest, along yellow forest paths. The first snow had just fallen - thin, sparse, as if not snow, but drizzle. And suddenly mom said:

Look, birch leaves are like gold dimes in the snow. Right? And the maple ones look like the footprint of a bird's foot. But look at the oak tree, spread out.

Like a bear trail! - said Andrey. The mother responded with a joyful laugh:

Yes Yes! It was as if the bear had passed!

Yes, she also taught him to see this, to rejoice in this.

He couldn't tell how she raised him; he didn't even know that he was being "educated." One day, returning from school, he said:

Mom, Elena Fedorovna, says: “Moskvin, you are behaving exemplarily, I instruct you after school to bring me the names of the children who behave badly during recess.” What should I do? I won't write it down

The mother replied:

From what? Write! Yes, just always one last name - I’ll sing my own.

Andrei felt amused - in fact, how well and simply she came up with it.

And another time it was like that. Mother worked in the garden - she grew flowers herself: in early spring - forget-me-nots, pansies, in summer - roses and phlox, in autumn - asters and dahlias.

Returning from the city garden, where he played Cossack robbers with the boys, Andrei stood and thoughtfully watched how, squatting, she dug in the ground. Both were silent

And suddenly, looking up at him, she asked with gentle mockery:

Aren't you tired of standing?

He was then seven years old. Perhaps no most merciless reproach would have been imprinted in his memory as deeply as these mocking words.

They did all the housework together: washed the floors, whitewashed the walls in the summer (the mother did not recognize painters). When she was washing, Andrei brought water from the well. And they went to the river to rinse. They carried a basket of laundry together, and along the way he could ask about everything in the world. She never answered: “It’s too early for you to know that” or: “You won’t understand that.”

One day she told Andrei the story of the English captain Scott, who discovered the South Pole fifteen days later than the Norwegian Amundsen. For a long time, Andrei couldn’t help but think about how they walked back - five friends across the snowy desert on heavy skis, deceived in their hope, in their dream. Just think - fifteen days late!

He saw the captain, who, lying in a tent, with a numb hand, wrote down on paper his last words to friends and family. They were found dead. It seems like in a year. They lay as death had found them - deceived, exhausted, but not giving up. There were no planes then, thought Andrei. I would get on a plane and fly to them. I would land and - here it is, a tent, I run, run there, my feet get stuck in the snow...

Captain Scott,” he said in a trembling voice, “you are saved!” I'm a Soviet pilot! I've come for you!

I'm so glad! - Mom was responsible for Captain Scott. This answer seemed frivolous to Andrey; he expected

More lofty, beautiful, solemn words, but still he was glad that she entered the game so quickly, so easily, did not find fault, did not say: “There were no Soviet pilots then,” no, she did not need to explain anything.

Help my friends,” she says. - They behaved courageously!

Yes Yes! This is exactly how the captain should have answered! Per

His words are not about himself - about his friends!

And Andrei gave the brave researchers wine, gave them medicine, put them on a plane, and they flew high above the endless snowy plain.

Waking up in the morning, Andrei heard:

Hello Darling!

So she said and ran her hand over his cheek. And he recalled the sound of this voice in his memory every time it was difficult for him, long after her death. "Hello!" - this word meant that the day was beginning, that they would be together. And now, as an adult, seeing a cup of milk, he remembered that white cup with red peas that was once waiting for him on the kitchen table. Coming from school, he stopped at the threshold and changed his shoes so as not to leave any traces in the rooms. And a hot stove, and the crackling of firewood, and a cup of milk, and a simple word “Hello!” - all this filled him with a feeling of peace.

She was the main person in the house. Andrei grew up with this feeling and did not understand how it could be otherwise.

Family happiness Lev Tolstoy

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Title: Family Happiness

About the book “Family Happiness” by Leo Tolstoy

“Family Happiness” is a novel by the classic of Russian literature Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy. Not a very well-known novel, we know more about Anna Karenina, War and Peace, but it’s a pity... “Family Happiness” is a book about romantic illusions and what happens to people in marriage, about unsatisfied ambitions and true love.

After the death of their mother, the young girls Maria and Sonya are left completely alone on the estate, with only their governess with them. For Maria this is a double blow - she is seventeen, and this year she had to go to St. Petersburg and be introduced to society. She dreamed of shining at balls, meeting her one and only... But now these dreams are not destined to come true...

The girls' guardian, a friend of their late father, Sergei Mikhailovich, comes to the estate. By Maria's standards, he is already old, he is 37. But they quickly get along, they both love to read and play the piano, take long walks and talk a lot. And Maria eventually realizes that she has fallen in love with her guardian. Sergei Mikhailovich is trying to cool the girl’s ardor; he even tells her fictitious stories about young beauties who married old men and were unhappy in their marriage. But in fact, he himself is infatuated with Maria. In the end, the girl almost proposes to him herself.

The newlyweds settle in the village, on the estate of Sergei Mikhailovich. And in the first years of marriage they are so happy, so passionate about each other that they don’t think about anything else. But Sergei Mikhailovich begins to think that Maria is bored. And he decides to move to St. Petersburg so that his young wife can have fun. It is as if he wants to return to Maria the youth that she did not have - balls, gentlemen, luxurious trips and beautiful outfits. And Maria likes it all - she likes it too much! So much so that she is no longer sure whether she wants to go back to the estate with her husband...

Is it possible to return love and passion? Or, having been married for several years, do you need to look for other feelings? Or will there be no more feelings except irritation and resentment? It is these questions that Leo Tolstoy seeks answers to in his book “Family Happiness.” Therefore, reading the novel is interesting at all times.

When the novel “Family Happiness” was published in 1859, neither the public nor literary criticism paid almost any attention to it. And Leo Tolstoy himself wrote that, having started reading his “Family Happiness” a few years later, he was surprised at what a “shameful disgusting thing” it was. But this is exactly the case when you want to disagree with the classic. Masha, of course, lacks the tragic charm of Anna Karenina, and Sergei Mikhailovich is far from Vronsky. But this is precisely why reading “Family Happiness” is so interesting. This is an ordinary story of two ordinary people - kind, loving, decent. Leo Tolstoy described what inevitably happens in every marriage. Therefore, it is best to read “Family Happiness” after several years of family life - then this book can even save you.

On our website about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book “Family Happiness” by Leo Tolstoy in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

Quotes from the book “Family Happiness” by Leo Tolstoy

I felt that I was all his and that I was happy with his power over me.

And every thought was his thought, and every feeling was his feeling. I didn’t know then that this was love, I thought that it could always be like this, that this feeling was given for nothing.

He opened up to me a whole life of joys in the present, without changing anything in my life, without adding anything except himself to every impression. All the same things had been silently around me since childhood, and as soon as he came, all the same things spoke and vyingly sought into my soul, filling it with happiness.

I have lived a lot, and it seems to me that I have found what I need to be happy. A quiet, secluded life in our rural wilderness, with the opportunity to do good to people who find it so easy to do good to which they are not accustomed; then labor, - labor that seems to be beneficial; then rest, nature, books, music, love for a loved one - this is my happiness, the higher of which I have never dreamed. And here, on top of all this, a friend like you, family, maybe everything a person could want.