Read the work White Nights in full. “...Or was he created in order to stay at least for a moment in the neighborhood of your heart?...

A young man of twenty-six years old is a petty official who has been living for eight years in St. Petersburg in the 1840s, in one of apartment buildings along the Catherine Canal, in a room with cobwebs and smoky walls. After service, his favorite pastime is walking around the city. He notices passers-by and houses, some of them become his “friends”. However, he has almost no acquaintances among people. He is poor and lonely. With sadness, he watches as the residents of St. Petersburg gather for their dacha. He has nowhere to go. Going out of town, he enjoys the northern spring nature, who looks like a “sick and sick” girl, who for one moment becomes “wonderfully beautiful.”

Returning home at ten in the evening, the hero sees a female figure at the canal grate and hears sobbing. Sympathy prompts him to make an acquaintance, but the girl timidly runs away. A drunk man tries to pester her, and only a “bough stick”, which ends up in the hero’s hand, saves the pretty stranger. They talk to each other. The young man admits that before he knew only “housewives,” but he never spoke to “women” and therefore is very timid. This calms down the fellow traveler. She listens to the story about the “novels” that the guide created in his dreams, about falling in love with ideal fictional images, about the hope of someday meeting in reality with worthy of love girl. But now she’s almost home and wants to say goodbye. The dreamer begs for new meeting. The girl “needs to be here for herself,” and she does not mind the presence of a new acquaintance tomorrow at the same hour in the same place. Her condition is “friendship”, “but you can’t fall in love.” Like the Dreamer, she needs someone to trust, someone to ask for advice.

On their second meeting, they decide to listen to each other's "stories". The hero begins. It turns out that he is a “type”: in the “strange corners of St. Petersburg” live “neuter creatures” like him - “dreamers” - whose “life is a mixture of something purely fantastic, ardently ideal and at the same time dull prosaic and ordinary " They are afraid of the company of living people, as they spend long hours among “magical ghosts,” in “ecstatic dreams,” and in imaginary “adventures.” “You speak as if you are reading a book,” Nastenka guesses the source of the plots and images of her interlocutor: the works of Hoffmann, Merimee, V. Scott, Pushkin. After intoxicating, “voluptuous” dreams, it is painful to wake up in “loneliness”, in your “musty, unnecessary life.” The girl feels sorry for her friend, and he himself understands that “such a life is a crime and a sin.” After the “fantastic nights,” he already “has moments of sobering that are terrible.” "Dreams survive", the soul wants " real life" Nastenka promises the Dreamer that now they will be together. And here is her confession. She is an orphan. Lives with an old blind grandmother in a small house of her own. Until the age of fifteen I studied with a teacher, and two last year sits, “pinned” with a pin to the dress of her grandmother, who otherwise cannot keep track of her. A year ago they had a tenant, a young man of “pleasant appearance.” He gave his young mistress books by V. Scott, Pushkin and other authors. He invited them and their grandmother to the theater. The opera “The Barber of Seville” was especially memorable. When he announced that he was leaving, the poor recluse decided on a desperate act: she gathered her things in a bundle, came to the tenant’s room, sat down and “cryed in three streams.” Fortunately, he understood everything, and most importantly, he managed to fall in love with Nastenka. But he was poor and without a “decent place”, and therefore could not get married right away. They agreed that exactly a year later, having returned from Moscow, where he hoped to “arrange his affairs,” the young man would wait for his bride on a bench near the canal at ten o’clock in the evening. A year has passed. He has been in St. Petersburg for three days already. He is not at the appointed place... Now the hero understands the reason for the girl’s tears on the evening of their acquaintance. Trying to help, he volunteers to deliver her letter to the groom, which he does the next day.

Because of the rain, the third meeting of the heroes occurs only through the night. Nastenka is afraid that the groom will not come again, and cannot hide her excitement from her friend. She dreams feverishly about the future. The hero is sad because he himself loves the girl. And yet, the Dreamer has enough selflessness to console and reassure the despondent Nastenka. Touched, the girl compares the groom with a new friend: “Why is he not you?.. He is worse than you, even though I love him more than you.” And he continues to dream: “Why aren’t we all like brothers and brothers? Why the most best person always seems to be hiding something from the other and is silent from him? Everyone looks like that, as if he is harsher than he really is...” Gratefully accepting the Dreamer’s sacrifice, Nastenka also shows concern for him: “you are getting better,” “you will fall in love...” “God grant you happiness with her.” ! In addition, now her friendship is with the hero forever.

And finally the fourth night. The girl finally felt abandoned “inhumanly” and “cruelly.” The dreamer again offers help: go to the offender and force him to “respect” Nastenka’s feelings. However, pride awakens in her: she no longer loves the deceiver and will try to forget him. The “barbaric” act of the tenant sets off the moral beauty of the friend sitting next to him: “You wouldn’t do that? Wouldn’t you throw someone who would come to you on her own into the eyes of shameless mockery of her weak, stupid heart?” The dreamer no longer has the right to hide the truth that the girl has already guessed: “I love you, Nastenka!” He doesn’t want to “torment” her with his “selfishness” in a bitter moment, but what if his love turns out to be necessary? And indeed, the answer is: “I don’t love him, because I can only love what is generous, what understands me, what is noble...” If the Dreamer waits until the previous feelings completely subside, then the girl’s gratitude and love will go to him alone. Young people joyfully dream of a future together. At the moment of their farewell, the groom suddenly appears. Screaming and trembling, Nastenka breaks free from the hero’s hands and rushes towards him. Already, it would seem, the hope for happiness, for genuine life, that is coming true leaves the Dreamer. He silently looks after the lovers.

The next morning, the hero receives a letter from the happy girl asking for forgiveness for his involuntary deception and with gratitude for his love, which “cured” her. heartbroken" One of these days she is getting married. But her feelings are contradictory: “Oh God! If only I could love you both at once!” And yet the Dreamer must remain “eternally a friend, brother...”. Again he is alone in a suddenly “old” room. But even fifteen years later, he fondly remembers his short-lived love: “may you be blessed for the minute of bliss and happiness that you gave to another, lonely, grateful heart! A whole minute of bliss! Is this really not enough for even a person’s entire life?..”

It was a wonderful night, the kind of night that can only happen when we are young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, such a bright sky that, looking at it, you involuntarily had to ask yourself: can all sorts of angry and capricious people really live under such a sky? This is also a young question, dear reader, very young, but God send it to your soul more often!.. Speaking about capricious and various angry gentlemen, I could not help but remember my well-behaved behavior all that day. From the very morning I began to be tormented by some amazing melancholy. It suddenly seemed to me that everyone was abandoning me, alone, and that everyone was abandoning me. Of course, everyone has the right to ask: who are all these people? because I’ve been living in St. Petersburg for eight years now, and I haven’t been able to make almost a single acquaintance. But why do I need acquaintances? I already know the whole of St. Petersburg; That’s why it seemed to me that everyone was leaving me when the whole of St. Petersburg rose up and suddenly left for the dacha. I became afraid to be alone, and for three whole days I wandered around the city in deep melancholy, absolutely not understanding what was happening to me. Whether I go to Nevsky, whether I go to the garden, whether I wander along the embankment - not a single face from those whom I am accustomed to meeting in the same place, at a certain hour, whole year. They, of course, don’t know me, but I know them. I know them briefly; I have almost studied their faces - and I admire them when they are cheerful, and I mope when they become misty. I almost became friends with one old man whom I meet every single day, at a certain hour, on the Fontanka. The face is so important, thoughtful; He keeps whispering under his breath and waving his left hand, and in his right he has a long, knotty cane with a gold knob. Even he noticed me and takes emotional part in me. If it happened that I would not be at the same place on the Fontanka at a certain hour, I am sure that the blues would attack him. This is why we sometimes almost bow to each other, especially when we are both in a good mood. The other day, when we had not seen each other for two whole days and on the third day we met, we were already grabbing our hats, but fortunately we came to our senses in time, lowered our hands and walked next to each other with sympathy. I am also familiar with the houses. When I walk, everyone seems to run ahead of me into the street, look at me through all the windows and almost say: “Hello; How is your health? and I, thank God, am healthy, and a floor will be added to me in the month of May.” Or: “How is your health? and I’ll be repaired tomorrow.” Or: “I almost burned out, and at the same time I was scared,” etc. Of these, I have favorites, there are short friends; one of them intends to undergo treatment this summer with an architect. I’ll come in every day on purpose so that they don’t cover it up somehow, God forbid!.. But I’ll never forget the story of one very pretty light pink house. It was such a nice little stone house, it looked at me so welcomingly, it looked so proudly at its clumsy neighbors that my heart rejoiced when I happened to pass by. Suddenly, last week, I was walking down the street and, as I looked at a friend, I heard a plaintive cry: “And they are painting me yellow!” Villains! barbarians! they spared nothing: neither columns, nor cornices, and my friend turned yellow as a canary. I was almost filled with bile on this occasion, and I still was not able to see my disfigured poor man, who was painted to match the color of the celestial empire.

So, you understand, reader, how familiar I am with all of St. Petersburg.

I have already said that I was tormented by anxiety for three whole days, until I guessed the reason for it. And I felt bad on the street (this one wasn’t there, that one wasn’t there, where did so-and-so go?) - and at home I wasn’t myself. For two evenings I sought: what am I missing in my corner? Why was it so awkward to stay there? - and with bewilderment I looked around my green, smoky walls, the ceiling, hung with cobwebs, which great success Matryona was getting confused, looking through all her furniture, inspecting every chair, thinking, is there trouble here? (because if I have even one chair that’s not standing the way it was yesterday, then I’m not myself) I looked out the window, and it was all in vain... it didn’t feel any easier! I even decided to call Matryona and immediately gave her a fatherly reprimand for the cobwebs and general sloppiness; but she just looked at me in surprise and walked away without answering a word, so that the web is still happily hanging in place. Finally, only this morning I figured out what was the matter. Eh! Why, they’re running away from me to the dacha! Forgive me for the trivial word, but I had no time for high-flown language... because everything that was in St. Petersburg either moved or moved to the dacha; because every respectable gentleman of respectable appearance who hired a cab, in my eyes immediately turned into a respectable father of the family, who, after ordinary official duties, goes lightly to the depths of his family, to the dacha; because every passerby now had a completely special kind, who almost said to everyone he met: “We, gentlemen, are here only in passing, but in two hours we will leave for the dacha.” If the window opened, on which thin fingers, white as sugar, first drummed, and the head of a pretty girl poked out, beckoning to a peddler with pots of flowers, I immediately, immediately imagined that these flowers were only bought that way, that is, not at all for to enjoy spring and flowers in a stuffy city apartment, but that very soon everyone will move to the dacha and take the flowers with them. Moreover, I had already made such progress in my new, special kind of discoveries that I could already unmistakably, by one look, indicate which dacha someone lived in. The inhabitants of the Kamenny and Aptekarsky Islands or the Peterhof Road were distinguished by their studied elegance of techniques, smart summer suits and the beautiful carriages in which they arrived in the city. Residents of Pargolovo, even further away, at first glance “inspired” with their prudence and solidity; the visitor to Krestovsky Island had a calm and cheerful appearance. Did I manage to meet a long procession of dray drivers, lazily walking with reins in their hands next to carts loaded with whole mountains of all kinds of furniture, tables, chairs, Turkish and non-Turkish sofas and other household belongings, on which, on top of all this, she often sat, at the very top Voza, a frail cook who cherishes her master's property like the apple of her eye; I looked at the boats, heavily loaded with household utensils, gliding along the Neva or Fontanka, to the Black River or the islands - the carts and boats multiplied tenfold, became lost in my eyes; it seemed that everything was up and moving, everything was moving in whole caravans to the dacha; it seemed that all of Petersburg was threatening to turn into a desert, so that finally I felt ashamed, offended and sad: I had absolutely nowhere to go and there was no need to go to the dacha. I was ready to leave with every cart, to leave with every gentleman of respectable appearance who hired a cab; but no one, absolutely no one, invited me; as if they had forgotten me, as if I were truly a stranger to them!

I walked a lot and for a long time, so that I had already completely forgotten, as usual, where I was, when suddenly I found myself at the outpost. Instantly I felt cheerful, and I stepped beyond the barrier, walked between the sown fields and meadows, did not hear fatigue, but only felt with all my strength that some burden was falling from my soul. All the passers-by looked at me so welcomingly that they almost bowed resolutely; everyone was so happy about something, every single one of them was smoking cigars. And I was glad as never happened to me before. It was as if I suddenly found myself in Italy - nature struck me so strongly, a half-sick city dweller who almost suffocated within the city walls.

There is something inexplicably touching in our St. Petersburg nature, when, with the onset of spring, it suddenly displays all its power, all the powers given to it by heaven, becomes pubescent, discharged, adorned with flowers... Somehow, involuntarily, it reminds me of that wasted girl and the ailment, which you sometimes look at with regret, sometimes with some kind of compassionate love, sometimes you simply don’t notice it, but which suddenly, for one moment, somehow unexpectedly becomes inexplicably, wonderfully beautiful, and you, amazed, intoxicated , you involuntarily ask yourself: what force made these sad, thoughtful eyes shine with such fire? what brought the blood to those pale, thinner cheeks? What has filled these tender features with passion? Why is this chest heaving so much? What so suddenly brought strength, life and beauty to the face of the poor girl, made it sparkle with such a smile, come alive with such a sparkling, sparkling laugh? You look around, you are looking for someone, you guess... But the moment passes, and perhaps tomorrow you will again meet the same thoughtful and absent-minded look as before, the same pale face, the same humility and timidity in your face. movements and even repentance, even traces of some kind of deadening melancholy and annoyance for a momentary infatuation... And it’s a pity for you that instant beauty withered so quickly, so irrevocably, that it flashed before you so deceptively and in vain - it’s a pity because even you didn't have time to love her...

Still, my night was better than my day! That's how it was.

I came back to the city very late, and ten o’clock had already struck when I began to approach the apartment. My road went along the canal embankment, on which at this hour you will not meet a living soul. True, I live in the most remote part of the city. I walked and sang, because when I am happy, I certainly hum something to myself, like everyone else. happy man who has neither friends nor good acquaintances and who, in a joyful moment, has no one to share his joy with. Suddenly the most unexpected adventure happened to me.

A woman stood to the side, leaning against the canal railing; Leaning on the grating, she apparently looked very carefully at the muddy water of the canal. She was dressed in a cute yellow hat and a flirty black cape. “This is a girl, and definitely a brunette,” I thought. She didn’t seem to hear my steps, didn’t even move when I walked past, holding my breath and with my heart pounding. "Strange! - I thought, “she must be really thinking about something,” and suddenly I stopped dead in my tracks. I thought I heard a muffled sob. Yes! I was not deceived: the girl was crying, and a minute later there was more and more sobbing. My God! My heart sank. And no matter how timid I am with women, it was such a moment!.. I turned back, stepped towards her and would certainly have said: “Madam!” - if only I didn’t know that this exclamation has already been uttered a thousand times in all Russian high-society novels. This alone stopped me. But while I was looking for the word, the girl woke up, looked around, caught herself, looked down and slid past me along the embankment. I immediately followed her, but she guessed, left the embankment, crossed the street and walked along the sidewalk. I didn't dare cross the street. My heart was fluttering like a caught bird. Suddenly one incident came to my aid.

On the other side of the sidewalk, not far from my stranger, a gentleman in a tailcoat, respectable years old, but one cannot say that he had a respectable gait, suddenly appeared. He walked, staggering and carefully leaning against the wall. The girl walked like an arrow, hastily and timidly, as all girls generally walk who do not want anyone to volunteer to accompany them home at night, and, of course, the swinging gentleman would never have caught up with her if my fate had not encouraged him to look for artificial remedies. Suddenly, without saying a word to anyone, my master takes off and flies as fast as he can, running, catching up with my stranger. She walked like the wind, but the swaying gentleman overtook, overtook, the girl screamed - and... I bless fate for the excellent knotty stick that happened this time in my right hand. I instantly found myself on the other side of the sidewalk, instantly the uninvited gentleman understood what was going on, took into account an irresistible reason, fell silent, fell behind, and only when we were already very far away did he protest against me in quite energetic terms. But his words barely reached us.

“Give me your hand,” I said to my stranger, “and he won’t dare pester us anymore.”

She silently gave me her hand, still trembling with excitement and fear. O uninvited master! how I blessed you at this moment! I glanced at her: she was pretty and brunette - I guessed right; Tears of recent fright or former grief still glistened on her black eyelashes - I don’t know. But a smile was already sparkling on his lips. She also glanced at me furtively, blushed slightly and looked down.

“You see, why did you drive me away then?” If I had been here, nothing would have happened...

- But I didn’t know you: I thought you too...

- Do you really know me now?

- A little. For example, why are you trembling?

- Oh, you guessed it right the first time! - I answered in delight that my girlfriend is smart: this never interferes with beauty. - Yes, at first glance you guessed who you were dealing with. That’s right, I’m timid with women, I’m nervous, I don’t argue, no less than you were a minute ago when this gentleman scared you... I’m kind of scared now. It was like a dream, and even in my dreams I never imagined that I would ever talk to any woman.

- How? really?..

“Yes, if my hand trembles, it’s because it has never been clasped by such a pretty little hand as yours.” I'm completely unaccustomed to women; that is, I never got used to them; I'm alone... I don't even know how to talk to them. And now I don’t know - did I tell you something stupid? Tell me straight; I warn you, I'm not touchy...

- No, nothing, nothing; against. And if you already demand that I be frank, then I will tell you that women like such timidity; and if you want to know more, then I like her too, and I will not drive you away from me all the way home.

“What you will do to me,” I began, gasping with delight, “is that I will immediately stop being timid, and then - goodbye to all my means!”

- Facilities? what means, for what? This is really bad.

- I’m sorry, I won’t, it came out of my mouth; but how do you want there to be no desire at such a moment...

- Do you like it, or what?

- Well, yes; Yes, for God's sake, be kind. Judge who I am! After all, I’m already twenty-six years old, and I’ve never seen anyone. Well, how can I speak well, deftly and appropriately? It will be more profitable for you when everything is open, outward... I don’t know how to remain silent when my heart speaks in me. Well, it doesn’t matter... Believe it or not, not a single woman, ever, ever! No dating! and I only dream every day that finally, someday I will meet someone. Oh, if you only knew how many times I have been in love this way!..

- But how, in whom?

- Yes, not to anyone, to the ideal, to the one that you dream about in a dream. I create entire novels in my dreams. Oh, you don't know me! True, it’s impossible without that, I met two or three women, but what kind of women are they? these are all such housewives that... But I’ll make you laugh, I’ll tell you that several times I thought of talking, just like that, to some aristocrat on the street, of course, when she was alone; speak, of course, timidly, respectfully, passionately; to say that I am dying alone, so that she does not drive me away, that there is no way to recognize at least some woman; to inspire her that even in a woman’s duties it is not possible to refuse the timid plea of ​​such an unfortunate person as me. That, finally, all I demand is just to say a few brotherly words to me, with sympathy, not to drive me away from the first step, to take my word for it, to listen to what I have to say, to laugh me, if you like, to reassure me, to say two words to me, just two words, then at least let her and I never meet!.. But you laugh... However, that’s why I’m saying it...

- Don't be annoyed; I laugh at the fact that you are your own enemy, and if you had tried, you would have succeeded, perhaps, even if it was on the street; the simpler the better... Not a single good woman, unless she is stupid or especially angry about something at that moment, would dare to send you away without these two words that you so timidly beg... However, what am I! Of course, I would take you for a madman. I judged by myself. I myself know a lot about how people live in the world!

“Oh, thank you,” I shouted, “you don’t know what you’ve done for me now!”

- Good good! But tell me why you knew that I was the kind of woman with whom... well, whom you considered worthy... of attention and friendship... in a word, not a mistress, as you call it. Why did you decide to approach me?

- Why? Why? But you were alone, that gentleman was too bold, now it’s night: you yourself must agree that this is a duty... - No, no, even before, there, on the other side. After all, you wanted to come to me?

- There, on the other side? But I really don’t know how to answer; I'm afraid... You know, I was happy today; I walked, sang; I was out of town; this has never happened to me before happy moments. You... maybe it seemed to me... Well, forgive me if I remind you: it seemed to me that you were crying, and I... I couldn’t hear it... my heart was embarrassed... Oh , My God! Well, really, couldn’t I grieve for you? Was it really a sin to feel brotherly compassion for you?.. Sorry, I said compassion... Well, yes, in a word, could I really offend you by involuntarily taking it into my head to approach you?..

“Leave it, enough, don’t talk...” said the girl, looking down and squeezing my hand. “It’s my own fault for talking about this; but I’m glad that I wasn’t mistaken about you... but now I’m home; I need to come here, to the alley; there are two steps... Farewell, thank you...

- So is it really, will we never see each other again?.. Will it really remain like this?

“You see,” the girl said, laughing, “at first you only wanted two words, and now... But, however, I won’t tell you anything... Maybe we’ll meet again...

“I’ll come here tomorrow,” I said. - Oh, forgive me, I’m already demanding...

- Yes, you are impatient... you are almost demanding...

- Listen, listen! – I interrupted her. - Forgive me if I tell you something like that again... But here’s the thing: I can’t help but come here tomorrow. I'm a dreamer; I have so little real life that I consider moments like this, as now, so rare that I cannot help but repeat these minutes in my dreams. I will dream about you all night, all week, all year. I will certainly come here tomorrow, exactly here, to this same place, at this very hour, and I will be happy, remembering yesterday. This place is so nice to me. I already have two or three such places in St. Petersburg. I even cried once from the memory, like you... Who knows, maybe you, ten minutes ago, cried from the memory... But forgive me, I forgot again; Have you ever been especially happy here...

“Okay,” said the girl, “I’ll probably come here tomorrow, also at ten o’clock.” I see that I can’t stop you anymore... That’s the thing, I need to be here; don’t think that I’m making an appointment with you; I'm warning you, I need to be here for myself. But... well, I’ll tell you straight out: it will be okay if you come; firstly, there may be troubles again, like today, but that’s aside... in a word, I would just like to see you... to say a few words to you. But, you see, you won’t judge me now? Don’t think that I make dates so easily... I would, if only... But let it be my secret! Just forward the agreement...

- Agreement! say, say, say everything in advance; “I agree to anything, I’m ready for anything,” I cried out in delight, “I am responsible for myself – I will be obedient, respectful... you know me...

“It’s precisely because I know you that I’m inviting you tomorrow,” the girl said, laughing. - I know you completely. But, look, come with a condition; first of all (just be kind and do what I ask - you see, I’m speaking frankly), don’t fall in love with me... This is impossible, I assure you. I’m ready for friendship, here’s my hand to you... But you can’t fall in love, please!

“I swear to you,” I shouted, grabbing her hand...

- Come on, don’t swear, I know you can catch fire like gunpowder. Don't judge me if I say so. If only you knew... I also don’t have anyone with whom I could say a word, who I could ask for advice. Of course, you shouldn’t look for advisers on the street, but you’re an exception. I know you as if we had been friends for twenty years... Isn’t it true, you won’t change?

“You’ll see... but I don’t know how I’ll survive even a day.”

– Sleep better; good night - and remember that I have already entrusted myself to you. But you exclaimed so well just now: is it really possible to give an account of every feeling, even brotherly sympathy! Do you know, this was said so well that the thought immediately flashed through me of trusting you...

- For God's sake, but what? What?

- Till tomorrow. Let this be a secret for now. So much the better for you; at least from a distance it will look like a novel. Maybe I’ll tell you tomorrow, or maybe not... I’ll talk to you in advance, we’ll get to know each other better...

- Oh, yes, I’ll tell you everything about myself tomorrow! But what is it? It’s like a miracle is happening to me... Where am I, my God? Well, tell me, are you really unhappy that you didn’t get angry, as someone else would have done, and didn’t drive me away at the very beginning? Two minutes and you made me happy forever. Yes! happy; who knows, maybe you have reconciled me with yourself, resolved my doubts... Maybe such moments come to me... Well, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, you will know everything, everything...

- Okay, I accept; you will begin...

- Agree.

- Goodbye!

- Goodbye!

And we parted. I walked all night; I could not decide to return home. I was so happy... see you tomorrow!

NIGHT TWO

- Well, here we are! - she told me, laughing and shaking both hands.

– I’ve been here for two hours already; you don’t know what happened to me all day!

– I know, I know... but to the point. Do you know why I came? After all, it’s not nonsense to talk like yesterday. Here's the thing: we need to act smarter moving forward. I thought about all this for a long time yesterday.

- In what ways to be smarter? For my part, I'm ready; but, really, nothing smarter has ever happened to me in my life than now.

- Indeed? First of all, I beg you, don’t shake my hands like that; secondly, I inform you that I have been thinking about you for a long time today.

- Well, how did it end?

- How did it end? It ended with the need to start everything again, because at the end of it all, I decided today that you are still completely unknown to me, that yesterday I acted like a child, like a girl, and, of course, it turned out that it was all my fault. kind heart, that is, I praised myself, as it always ends when we start sorting out our own. And because, in order to correct the mistake, I decided to find out about you myself. in more detail. But since there is no one to find out about you, you must tell me everything yourself, all the ins and outs. Well, what kind of person are you? Hurry up - start, tell your story.

- History! - I shouted, frightened, - history! But who told you that I have my story? I have no story...

- So how did you live if there is no history? – she interrupted, laughing.

- Absolutely no stories! so, he lived, as we say, on his own, that is, completely alone - alone, completely alone - do you understand what one is?

- Yes, like one? So you've never seen anyone?

- Oh no, I see, I see - but still I’m alone.

- Well, aren’t you talking to anyone?

- In a strict sense, with no one.

- Who are you, explain yourself! Wait, I guess: you probably have a grandmother, just like me. She is blind and has not let me go anywhere for my entire life, so I have almost forgotten how to speak completely. And when I was naughty two years ago, she saw that you couldn’t stop me, she called me in, and pinned my dress to hers - and so we’ve been sitting all day long since then; she knits a stocking, even though she is blind; and I sit next to her, read or read a book out loud to her - like this strange custom, which has been pinned for two years now...

- Oh, my God, what a misfortune! No, I don’t have such a grandmother.

- And if not, how can you sit at home?..

- Listen, do you want to know who I am?

- Well, yes, yes!

- In the strict sense of the word?

In the strictest sense of the word!

- Excuse me, I’m a type.

- Type, type! what type? - the girl shouted, laughing as if she had not been able to laugh for a whole year. - Yes, it’s great fun with you! Look: there is a bench here; let's sit down! No one walks here, no one will hear us, and - begin your story! because, you won’t convince me, you have a story, and you’re just hiding. Firstly, what is a type?

- Type? type - this is the original, this is the funny man! - I answered, bursting into laughter myself following her childish laughter. - This is such a character. Listen: do you know what a dreamer is?

- Dreamer? Excuse me, how can you not know? I'm a dreamer myself! Sometimes you sit next to your grandmother and something doesn’t come to mind. Well, you start dreaming, and then you change your mind - well, I’m just marrying a Chinese prince... But that’s good for another time - dreaming! No, but God knows! Especially if you already have something to think about,” the girl added this time quite seriously.

- Perfect! Since you married the Chinese Bogdykhan, then you will understand me completely. Well, listen... But excuse me: I don’t know your name yet?

- Finally! We remembered too early!

- Oh my god! Yes, it didn’t even occur to me, I was already feeling good...

- My name is Nastenka.

- Nastenka! but only?

- Only! Isn’t that enough for you, you insatiable one!

- Is it enough? A lot, a lot, on the contrary, a lot, Nastenka, you are a kind girl, since from the first time you became Nastenka for me!

- That's the same! Well!

- Well, Nastenka, listen to what’s going on here. funny story.

I sat down next to her, assumed a pedantically serious pose and began as if written:

– Yes, Nastenka, if you don’t know it, there are quite strange corners in St. Petersburg. It’s as if the same sun that shines for all the people of St. Petersburg does not look into these places, but some other, new one looks in, as if specially ordered for these corners, and shines on everything with a different, special light. In these corners, dear Nastenka, it is as if a completely different life survives, not like the one that boils near us, but one that may exist in the thirtieth unknown kingdom, and not here, in our serious, very serious time. This life is a mixture of something purely fantastic, ardently ideal and at the same time (alas, Nastenka!) dull and prosaic and ordinary, not to say incredibly vulgar.

- Ugh! Oh my God! what a preface! What am I going to hear?

– You will hear, Nastenka (I think I will never get tired of calling you Nastenka), you will hear that in these corners they live strange people- dreamers. A dreamer - if you need a detailed definition of it - is not a person, but, you know, some kind of creature of the neuter kind. He settles in for the most part somewhere in an inaccessible corner, as if it were hiding in it even from daylight, and if it crawls into itself, it will grow to its corner like a snail, or, at least, it is very similar in this respect to that entertaining an animal that is both animal and house together, which is called a turtle. Why do you think he loves his four walls so much, which are always painted green, smoky, dull and prohibitively smoked? Why does this funny gentleman, when one of his rare acquaintances comes to visit him (and he ends up with the fact that his acquaintances are all transferred), why does this funny man meet him, so embarrassed, so changed in face and in such confusion as as if he had just committed a crime within his own four walls, as if he had fabricated fake papers or some poems to send to a magazine with an anonymous letter, which indicated that the real poet had already died and that his friend considered it a sacred duty to publish his verses? Why, tell me, Nastenka, does the conversation not go well with these two interlocutors? Why does neither laughter, nor some kind of lively word escape the tongue of a suddenly puzzled friend who suddenly enters, who otherwise very much loves laughter, and lively words, and conversations about the fair sex, and other cheerful topics? Why, finally, is this friend, probably a recent acquaintance, and at the first visit - because in that case there will be no second and the friend will not come another time - why is the friend himself so embarrassed, so stiff, with all his wit (if only he has it), looking at the upturned face of the owner, who, in turn, had already become completely lost and out of his mind after gigantic, but futile efforts to smooth out and diversify the conversation, to show, on his part, knowledge of secularism, to also talk about the fair sex and at least such humility will please the poor, misplaced person who came to visit him by mistake? Why, finally, does the guest suddenly grab his hat and quickly leave, suddenly remembering a most necessary matter that never happened, and somehow frees his hand from the hot squeezes of the owner, who is trying in every possible way to show his repentance and correct what was lost? Why does the departing friend burst out laughing as he walks out the door, immediately vowing to himself never to come to this eccentric, although this eccentric is in essence a most excellent fellow, and at the same time he cannot deny his imagination a little whim: to compare, even remotely Thus, the physiognomy of his recent interlocutor throughout the meeting with the appearance of that unfortunate kitten, which was crushed, intimidated and offended in every possible way by children, who treacherously captured him, embarrassed him into dust, which finally hid away from them under a chair, in the darkness, and there for a whole hour at his leisure is forced to bristle, snort and wash his offended snout with both paws and for a long time after that look with hostility at nature and life and even at the handout from the master's dinner, reserved for him by the compassionate housekeeper?

“Listen,” interrupted Nastenka, who had been listening to me all the time in surprise, with her eyes and mouth open, “listen: I don’t know at all why all this happened and why exactly you are offering me such funny questions; but what I know for sure is that all these adventures certainly happened to you, from word to word.

Without a doubt,” I answered with the most serious face.

Well, if without a doubt, continue like this,” Nastenka answered, “because I really want to know how it will end.” “You want to know, Nastenka, what our hero, or, better said, I, was doing in his corner, because the hero of the whole matter is me, in my own humble person; do you want to know why I was so alarmed and lost for the whole day due to an unexpected visit from a friend? Do you want to know why I jumped up so much and blushed so much when the door to my room was opened, why I didn’t know how to receive a guest and died so shamefully under the weight of my own hospitality?

Well, yes, yes! - Nastenka answered, - that’s the point. Listen: you tell a wonderful story, but is it possible to tell it in a less beautiful way? Otherwise you sound like you’re reading a book.

Nastenka! - I answered in an important and stern voice, barely restraining myself from laughing, - dear Nastenka, I know that I am telling a beautiful story, but it’s my fault, otherwise I don’t know how to tell. Now, dear Nastenka, now I look like the spirit of King Solomon, who was in a bottle for a thousand years, under seven seals, and from whom all these seven seals were finally removed. Now, dear Nastenka, when we have come together again after such a long separation, - because I have known you for a long time, Nastenka, because I have been looking for someone for a long time, and this is a sign that I was looking for you and that we were destined now to see each other - now thousands of valves have opened in my head, and I must pour out a river of words, otherwise I will suffocate. So, I ask you not to interrupt me, Nastenka, but to listen submissively and obediently; otherwise, I'll shut up.

No, no, no! no way! speak! Now I won't say a word.

I continue: there is, my friend Nastenka, one hour in my day that I love extremely. This is the very hour when almost all sorts of affairs, positions and obligations come to an end and everyone rushes home to have dinner, lie down to rest, and right there, on the road, invent other fun topics relating to the evening, night and all the remaining free time. At this hour, and our hero - because let me, Nastenka, tell it in the third person, because it’s terribly embarrassing to tell all this in the first person - so, at this hour, our hero, who was also not idle, walks for others. But a strange feeling of pleasure plays on his pale, seemingly somewhat wrinkled face. He looks with concern at the evening dawn, which is slowly fading in the cold St. Petersburg sky. When I say he’s looking, I’m lying: he’s not looking, but he’s contemplating somehow unconsciously, as if he’s tired or busy at the same time with some other, more interesting subject, so that he can only glance, almost involuntarily, at time for everything around you. He is happy because he has finished with things that are annoying to him before tomorrow, and he is happy, like a schoolboy who has been released from the classroom to his favorite games and pranks. Look at him from the side, Nastenka: you will immediately see that the joyful feeling has already happily affected his weak nerves and painfully irritated imagination. So he was thinking about something... Are you thinking about lunch? about tonight? What is he looking at like that? Is this the gentleman of respectable appearance who bowed so picturesquely to the lady who rode past him on speedy horses in a shiny carriage? No, Nastenka, what does he care about all this trifle now! He is now rich in his own special life; somehow he suddenly became rich, and it was not in vain that the farewell ray of the fading sun sparkled so cheerfully before him and evoked a whole swarm of impressions from his warmed heart. Now he barely notices the road on which before the smallest detail could strike him. Now the “goddess of fantasy” (if you read Zhukovsky, dear Nastenka) has already woven her golden base with her whimsical hand and went to develop before him the patterns of an unprecedented, bizarre life - and, who knows, maybe she transferred him with her whimsical hand to the seventh crystal heaven from the excellent granite the sidewalk along which he walks on his way home. Try to stop him now, ask him suddenly: where is he standing now, what streets did he walk along? - He probably would not have remembered anything, neither where he walked, nor where he was standing now, and, blushing with annoyance, he would certainly have lied something to save appearances. That is why he shuddered so much, almost screamed and looked around in fear when one very respectable old woman politely stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk and began to ask him about the road that she had lost. Frowning with annoyance, he walks on, barely noticing that more than one passer-by smiled, looking at him, and turned after him, and that some little girl, timidly giving way to him, laughed loudly, looking with all her eyes at his wide, contemplative smile. and hand gestures. But the same fantasy, in its playful flight, picked up the old woman, and the curious passers-by, and the laughing girl, and the peasants who were immediately having dinner on their barges that dammed the Fontanka (let’s say our hero was passing through it at that time), and made everyone playfully and everything fell into its own pattern, like flies into a cobweb, and with a new acquisition the eccentric had already entered his gratifying hole, had already sat down to dinner, had already dined a long time ago and woke up only when the pensive and eternally sad Matryona, who was serving him, was already done. I cleared the table and handed him the pipe, woke up and remembered with surprise that he had already had lunch, decisively overlooking how this happened. The room went dark; his soul is empty and sad; a whole kingdom of dreams was collapsing around him, collapsing without a trace, without noise or crackling, rushing by like a dream, and he himself doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about. But some dark sensation, from which his chest ached and trembled slightly, some new desire seductively tickled and irritated his fantasy and imperceptibly summoned a whole swarm of new ghosts. Silence reigns in the small room; solitude and laziness pamper the imagination; it ignites slightly, boils slightly, like water in the coffee pot of old Matryona, who is serenely fiddling around in the kitchen nearby, preparing her cook’s coffee. Now it is already bursting with light flashes, now the book, taken without purpose and at random, falls out of the hands of my dreamer, who has not even reached the third page. His imagination is again tuned, excited, and suddenly again new world, a new, charming life flashed before him in its brilliant perspective. New dream- new happiness! New trick refined, voluptuous poison! Oh, what does he need in our real life! In his bribed view, you and I, Nastenka, live so lazily, slowly, sluggishly; in his opinion, we are all so dissatisfied with our fate, we are so languid with our lives! And indeed, look, in fact, how at first glance everything between us is cold, gloomy, as if angry... “Poor things!” - my dreamer thinks. And it’s no wonder what he thinks! Look at these magical ghosts, which are so charmingly, so whimsically, so boundlessly and broadly composed before him in such a magical, animated picture, where in the foreground, the first person, of course, is himself, our dreamer, with his dear person. Look, what a variety of adventures, what an endless swarm of enthusiastic dreams. You might ask, what does he dream about? Why ask this! yes about everything... about the role of the poet, first not recognized, and then crowned; about friendship with Hoffmann; St. Bartholomew's Night, Diana Vernon, heroic role in the capture of Kazan by Ivan Vasilyevich, Clara Movbray, Eufia Dens, the council of prelates and Hus before them, the rise of the dead in Robert (remember the music? It smells like a cemetery!), Minna and Brenda, the battle of Berezina, reading a poem Countess V-y-D-y, Danton, Cleopatra e i suoi amanti, a house in Kolomna, has her own corner, and next to her is a sweet creature who listens to you in winter evening, with your mouth and eyes open, how you listen to me now, my little angel... No, Nastenka, what does he, what does he, a voluptuous sloth, have in the life that we so want with you? he thinks that this is a poor, pitiful life, not foreseeing that for him, perhaps, someday the sad hour will strike when he will give all his fantastic years , and will not give for joy, not for happiness, and will not want to choose at that hour of sadness, repentance and unrestrained grief. But while it has not yet arrived, this terrible time, he does not desire anything, because he is above desires, because everything is with him, because he is satiated, because he himself is the artist of his life and creates it for himself every hour according to new arbitrariness . And this fabulous, fantastic world is created so easily, so naturally! As if all this really wasn’t a ghost! Really, I’m ready to believe at another moment that this whole life is not an excitation of feelings, not a mirage, not a deception of the imagination, but that it is really real, real, existing! Why, tell me, Nastenka, why is the spirit embarrassed at such moments? Why, by some magic, by some unknown arbitrariness, does the pulse accelerate, tears flow from the dreamer’s eyes, his pale, moistened cheeks glow, and his whole existence is filled with such irresistible joy? Why do whole sleepless nights pass in one moment, in inexhaustible joy and happiness, and when the dawn flashes a pink ray through the windows and the dawn illuminates the gloomy room with its dubious fantastic light, as here in St. Petersburg, our dreamer, tired, exhausted, rushes to bed and falls asleep, transfixed by the delight of his painfully shocked spirit and with such a painfully sweet pain in his heart? Yes, Nastenka, you will be deceived and involuntarily believe in someone else that real, true passion excites his soul, you involuntarily believe that there is something alive, tangible in his ethereal dreams! And what a deception - for example, love descended into his chest with all the inexhaustible joy, with all the languid torment... Just look at him and see for yourself! Do you believe, looking at him, dear Nastenka, that he really never knew the one he loved so much in his ecstatic dreams? Did he really only see her in seductive ghosts and did he only dream about this passion? Didn’t they really go through so many years of their lives hand in hand - alone, together, throwing away the whole world and connecting each of their worlds, their lives with the life of a friend? Wasn’t it she, at the late hour, when separation came, not she who lay, sobbing and yearning, on his chest, not hearing the storm that broke out under the harsh sky, not hearing the wind that tore and carried away the tears from her black eyelashes? Was it really all a dream - and this garden, sad, abandoned and wild, with paths overgrown with moss, secluded, gloomy, where they so often walked together, hoped, yearned, loved, loved each other for so long, “so long and tenderly "! And this strange, great-grandfather’s house, in which she lived for so long, alone and sadly, with her old, gloomy husband, always silent and bilious, who frightened them, timid as children, sadly and fearfully hiding their love from each other? How they suffered, how afraid they were, how innocent and pure their love was and how (certainly, Nastenka) evil people were! And, my God, was it really not her that he met later, far from the shores of his homeland, under a foreign sky, midday, hot, in a marvelous eternal city, in the splendor of a ball, with the thunder of music, in a palazzo (certainly a palazzo) drowned in the sea lights, on this balcony, entwined with myrtle and roses, where she, recognizing him, so hastily took off her mask and, whispering: “I am free,” trembling, threw herself into his arms, and screaming with delight, clinging to each other, they in one moment they forgot the grief, and the separation, and all the torment, and the gloomy house, and the old man, and the gloomy garden in their distant homeland, and the bench on which, with the last passionate kiss, she broke free from his arms, numb in desperate agony... Oh, you must agree, Nastenka, that you will flutter up, become embarrassed and blush, like a schoolboy who has just stuffed an apple stolen from a neighboring garden into his pocket, when some long, healthy guy, a merry fellow and joker, your uninvited friend, will open your door and shout as if nothing had happened: “And I, brother, am from Pavlovsk this minute!” My God! the old count died, indescribable happiness comes - here people come from Pavlovsk!

I fell pathetically silent, ending my pathetic exclamations. I remember that I terribly wanted to somehow force myself to laugh, because I already felt that some hostile imp was stirring inside me, that my throat was already starting to seize, my chin was twitching, and that my eyes were becoming more and more moist... I expected that Nastenka, who was listening to me, having opened her smart eyes, would laugh with all her childish, uncontrollably cheerful laughter, and I already regretted that I had gone too far, that it was in vain to tell what had long been boiling in my heart, about which I could talk as if it were written, because I had long ago prepared a verdict on myself, and now I could not resist reading it, confessing, not expecting that they would understand me; but, to my surprise, she remained silent, after a while she lightly shook my hand and with some timid sympathy asked:

Have you really lived your whole life like this?

“All my life, Nastenka,” I answered, “all my life, and, it seems, I’ll end up like this!”

No, this can’t be done,” she said restlessly, “this won’t happen; That way, perhaps, I’ll live my whole life next to my grandmother. Listen, do you know that it’s not at all good to live like this?

I know, Nastenka, I know! - I cried, no longer holding back my feelings. - And now I know more than ever that I lost all my best years! Now I know this, and I feel more painful from such a consciousness, because God himself sent me you, my good angel, to tell me this and prove it. Now, when I sit next to you and talk to you, I’m already scared to think about the future, because in the future there will be loneliness again, again this musty, unnecessary life; and what will I dream about when in reality I was so happy next to you! Oh, be blessed, you, dear girl, for not rejecting me the first time, for the fact that I can already say that I lived at least two evenings in my life!

Oh, no, no! - Nastenka screamed, and tears sparkled in her eyes, “no, it won’t happen like this anymore; We won’t part like that! What are two evenings!

Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka! Do you know how long it took you to reconcile me with yourself? Do you know that now I won’t think as badly about myself as I thought at other moments? Do you know that perhaps I will no longer grieve over the fact that I committed a crime and sin in my life, because such a life is a crime and a sin? And don’t think that I’m exaggerating anything for you, for God’s sake, don’t think so, Nastenka, because sometimes moments of such melancholy, such melancholy come over me... Because at these moments it’s already beginning to seem to me that I’ll never able to begin to live a real life; because it already seemed to me that I had lost all tact, all sense of the present, the real; because, finally, I cursed myself; because after my fantastic nights, moments of sobering up are already upon me, which are terrible! Meanwhile, you hear how the crowd of people thunders around you and swirls in the whirlwind of life, you hear, you see how people live - they live in reality, you see that life is not ordered for them, that their life will not scatter, like a dream, like a vision, that their life is eternally renewed, eternally young and not a single hour of it is like another, while the fearful fantasy, the slave of the shadow, the idea, the slave of the first cloud, which suddenly covers the sun and squeezes with melancholy the real Petersburg heart, which so values ​​its the sun - and what a fantasy in melancholy! You feel that it is finally getting tired, exhausted in eternal tension, this inexhaustible fantasy, because you grow up, you survive from your previous ideals: they break into dust, into fragments; if there is no other life, then you have to build it from the same rubble. Meanwhile, the soul asks and wants something else! And in vain the dreamer rummages through his old dreams, as if in ashes, looking for in this ashes at least some spark to fan it, to warm the cold heart with a renewed fire and resurrect in it again everything that was previously so sweet that touched the soul, what boiled the blood, what pulled tears from the eyes and so luxuriously deceived! Do you know, Nastenka, what I have come to? Do you know that I am already forced to celebrate the anniversary of my feelings, the anniversary of what was so sweet before, which in essence never happened - because this anniversary is still celebrated according to the same stupid, ethereal dreams - and to do this because And these stupid dreams don’t exist, because there’s nothing to survive them with: after all, even dreams survive! Do you know that I now love to remember and visit at a certain time those places where I was once happy in my own way, I love to build my present in harmony with the irrevocably past and I often wander like a shadow, without need and without purpose, sad and sad through St. Petersburg's back streets and streets. What memories! I remember, for example, that here exactly a year ago, exactly at this same time, at this same hour, along this same sidewalk, I was wandering just as lonely, just as sadly as now! And you remember that even then the dreams were sad, and although it was no better before, you still somehow feel that it was as if it was easier and more peaceful to live, that there was no this black thought that is now attached to me; that there were no such remorse of conscience, the gloomy, gloomy remorse that now gives no rest day or night. And you ask yourself: where are your dreams? and you shake your head and say: how quickly the years fly by! And again you ask yourself: what have you done with your years? where did you bury yours best time? Did you live or not? Look, you tell yourself, look how cold the world is getting. Years will pass, and after them will come gloomy loneliness, shaking old age will come with a stick, and after them melancholy and despondency. Your fantasy world will turn pale, your dreams will freeze, drown and fall off like yellow leaves from the trees... Oh, Nastenka! After all, it will be sad to remain alone, completely alone, and not even have anything to regret - nothing, absolutely nothing... because everything that I lost, all this, all was nothing, a stupid, round zero, it was just a dream!

Well, don't make me feel sorry for you anymore! - Nastenka said, wiping away a tear that rolled out of her eyes. - Now it's over! Now we will be alone; Now, no matter what happens to me, we will never part. Listen. I ordinary girl, I studied little, although my grandmother hired a teacher for me; but, really, I understand you, because everything that you told me now, I myself lived when my grandmother pinned me to the dress. Of course, I wouldn’t have told it as well as you did, I didn’t study,” she added timidly, because she still felt some respect for my pathetic speech and my high style, “but I’m very glad that you are completely opened up to me. Now I know you, completely, completely. And guess what? I want to tell you my story, all without hiding, and then you will give me advice for that. you are very clever man; do you promise that you will give me this advice?

“Oh, Nastenka,” I answered, “although I have never been an adviser, much less a smart adviser, but now I see that if we always live like this, it will be somehow very smart, and everyone gives a lot to each other.” smart advice! Well, my pretty Nastenka, what advice do you have? Tell me straight; I am now so cheerful, happy, brave and smart that I can’t reach into my pocket for a word.

No no! - Nastenka interrupted, laughing, - I need more than one smart advice, I need heartfelt, brotherly advice, just as you would have loved me for a century!

He's coming, Nastenka, he's coming! - I shouted in delight, “and if I had loved you for twenty years, I still wouldn’t love you more than now!”

Your hand! - said Nastenka.

Here she is! - I answered, giving her my hand.

So let's begin my story!

HISTORY OF NASTENKA

You already know half the story, that is, you know what I have old grandmother...

If the other half is as short-lived as this one... - I interrupted, laughing.

Be quiet and listen. First of all, an agreement: don’t interrupt me, otherwise I’ll probably get confused. Well, listen attentively.

I have an old grandmother. I came to her when I was a very little girl, because both my mother and father died. One must think that grandmother was richer before, because now she remembers better days. She taught me French and then hired me a teacher. When I was fifteen years old (and now I’m seventeen), we finished studying. It was at this time that I got naughty; I won’t tell you what I did; It is enough that the offense was minor. Only my grandmother called me to her one morning and said that since she was blind, she would not look after me, she took a pin and pinned my dress to hers, and then she said that we would sit like this all our lives, if, of course, I won't get better. In a word, at first there was no way to leave: work, read, and study - all next to your grandmother. I tried to cheat once and persuaded Thekla to sit in my place. Fekla is our worker, she is deaf. Thekla sat down instead of me; At that time, my grandmother fell asleep in her chair, and I went nearby to see my friend. Well, the worst has come to an end. Grandma woke up without me and asked about something, thinking that I was still sitting quietly in place. Fekla saw that her grandmother was asking, but she didn’t hear what she was talking about, she thought and thought about what she should do, unfastened the pin and started to run...

Here Nastenka stopped and began to laugh. I laughed with her. She stopped immediately.

Listen, don't laugh at grandma. It’s me who laughs because it’s funny... What can I do when my grandmother is really like that, but I still love her a little. Well, that’s when it happened to me: they immediately put me in my place again and no, no, it was impossible to move.

Well, I also forgot to tell you that we, that is, grandmother’s, have our own house, that is, a small house, only three windows, completely wooden and as old as grandmother; and at the top there is a mezzanine; So a new tenant has moved into our mezzanine...

So there was an old tenant too? - I noticed in passing.

Of course, there was,” Nastenka answered, “and who knew how to remain silent better than you.” True, he could barely move his tongue. He was an old man, dry, dumb, blind, lame, so that finally it became impossible for him to live in the world, and he died; and then we needed a new tenant, because we can’t live without a tenant: with my grandmother’s pension, that’s almost all of our income. The new tenant, as if on purpose, was a young man, not from here, a stranger. Since he didn’t bargain, the grandmother let him in, and then asked, “What, Nastenka, is our tenant young or not?” I didn’t want to lie: “So, I say, grandma, it’s not that he’s very young, but he’s not an old man.” “Well, and good-looking?” - asks the grandmother

I don't want to lie again. “Yes, I say, a pleasant-looking grandmother!” And grandma says: “Oh! punishment, punishment! I’m this granddaughter, I’m telling you so that you don’t stare at him. What a century! Look, he’s such a small dweller, but he’s also pleasant-looking: it’s not like in the old days!”

And grandma would do everything in the old days! And in the old days she was younger, and in the old days the sun was warmer, and in the old days the cream did not sour so quickly - everything is in the old days! So I sit and remain silent, but I think to myself: why is it that grandmother herself is trying to persuade me, asking if the tenant is good, if he is young? Yes, just like that, I just thought, and then I started counting stitches again, knitting a stocking, and then I completely forgot.

So one morning a tenant comes to us to ask about the fact that they promised to wallpaper his room. Word for word, the grandmother is chatty, and says: “Go, Nastenka, to my bedroom, bring the bills.” I immediately jumped up, all over, I don’t know why, I blushed, and I forgot that I was sitting pinned; no, to quietly spank so that the tenant wouldn’t see, she jerked so hard that grandma’s chair moved. When I saw that the tenant now knew everything about me, I blushed, stood rooted to the spot, and suddenly began to cry, I felt so ashamed and bitter at that moment that At least don’t look at the light! Grandmother shouts: “Why are you standing there?” - and I’m even worse... The tenant, when he saw him, saw that I was ashamed of him, took his leave and immediately left!

Since then, when I make a little noise in the hallway, I feel like I’m dead. Here, I think, the tenant is coming, and slowly, just in case, I’ll remove the pin. Only it wasn’t him, he didn’t come. Two weeks passed; lodger and sends to tell Thekla that he has a lot of French books and that everything good books, so you can read; So doesn’t grandma want me to read them to her so that she won’t get bored? Grandmother agreed with gratitude, but kept asking whether the books were moral or not, because if the books are immoral, then, Nastenka says, you can’t read, you’ll learn bad things.

What will I learn, grandma? What is written there?

A! He says they describe how young people seduce well-behaved girls, how they, under the pretext of wanting to take them for themselves, take them away from their parents’ house, how they then leave these unfortunate girls to the will of fate and they die in the most deplorable way. “I,” says the grandmother, “read a lot of such books, and everything, she says, is described so beautifully that you sit all night, quietly reading. So, Nastenka says, make sure you don’t read them. What kind of books does he say he sent?

And all Walter Scott's novels, grandma.

Walter Scott novels! Anyway, are there any tricks here? Look, did he put some kind of love note in them?

No, I say, grandma, there is no note.

Look under the binding; Sometimes they stuff it into a binder, robbers!..

No, grandmother, there is nothing under the binding.

Well, that's it!

So we started reading Walter Scott and in one month we read almost half of it. Then he sent more and more, Pushkin sent, so that finally I could not be without books and stopped thinking about how to marry a Chinese prince.

This was the case when one day I happened to meet our tenant on the stairs. Grandma sent me for something. He stopped, I blushed, and he blushed; however, he laughed, said hello, asked about grandmother’s health and said: “What, have you read the books?” I answered: “I read it.” “What did he say you liked better?” I say: “I liked Ivangoy and Pushkin the most.” This time it ended that way.

A week later I came across him again on the stairs. This time my grandmother didn’t send me, but I needed something myself. It was three o'clock, and the tenant was coming home at that time.

"Hello!" - speaks. I told him: “Hello!”

What, he says, aren’t you bored sitting with your grandmother all day?

When he asked me this, I, I don’t know why, blushed, felt ashamed, and again I felt offended, apparently because others began asking about this matter. I really wanted to not answer and leave, but I didn’t have the strength.

Listen, he says kind girl! Sorry for talking to you like this, but I assure you that I wish you well better than your grandmother. Don't you have any friends to visit?

I say that there were none, that Mashenka was alone, and even she left for Pskov.

Listen, he says, do you want to go to the theater with me?

To the theatre? what about grandma?

Yes, you, he says, quietly from your grandmother...

No, I say, I don’t want to deceive my grandmother. Farewell!

Well, goodbye, he said, but he didn’t say anything.

Only after lunch does he come to us; he sat down, talked to his grandmother for a long time, asked how she was, whether she was going anywhere, if she had any acquaintances, and suddenly she said: “And today I took a box to the opera; „ Barber of Seville“They give it, my friends wanted to go, but then they refused, and I still have a ticket in my hands.”

- “The Barber of Seville”! - the grandmother shouted, “is this the same “Barber” that was given in the old days?

Yes, he says, this is the same “Barber,” and he looked at me. And I already understood everything, blushed, and my heart jumped with anticipation!

Why, says the grandmother, how could one not know. In the old days, I myself played Rosina at the home theater!

So would you like to go today? - said the tenant. - My ticket is wasted.

Yes, perhaps we’ll go, says grandma, why not go? But Nastenka has never been to the theater.

My God, what joy! We immediately got ready, got ready and set off. Even though grandma is blind, she still wanted to listen to music, and besides, she is a kind old lady: she wanted to amuse me more, we would never have gotten together on our own. I won’t tell you what impression I had from “The Barber of Seville,” but all that evening our tenant looked at me so well and spoke so well that I immediately saw that he wanted to test me in the morning, suggesting that I be alone with I went with him. Well, what a joy! I went to bed so proud, so cheerful, my heart was beating so much that I developed a slight fever and spent the whole night raving about The Barber of Seville.

I thought that after that he would come more and more often, but that was not the case. He almost completely stopped. So, once a month, he would come in, and then only to invite me to the theater. We went again a couple of times afterwards. Only I was completely unhappy with this. I saw that he simply felt sorry for me because I was with my grandmother in such a pen, but nothing more. On and on, and it came over me: I don’t sit, and I don’t read, and I don’t work, sometimes I laugh and do something to spite my grandmother, other times I just cry. Finally, I lost weight and almost became sick. The opera season passed, and the lodger stopped coming to us altogether; when we met - all on the same staircase, of course - he would bow so silently, so seriously, as if he didn’t even want to talk, and he’d just go down to the porch, and I was still standing on half the stairs, red as a cherry, because that all the blood started rushing to my head when I met him.

Now now is the end. Exactly a year ago, in the month of May, the tenant came to us and told my grandmother that he had completely worked out his business here and that he should again go to Moscow for a year. When I heard it, I turned pale and fell on a chair as if dead. Grandmother did not notice anything, and he, announcing that he was leaving us, bowed to us and left.

What should I do? I thought and thought, grieved and grieved, and finally decided. Tomorrow he had to leave, and I decided that I would finish everything in the evening, when my grandmother went to bed. And so it happened. I tied all the dresses I had into a bundle, as much linen as I needed, and with the bundle in my hands, neither alive nor dead, I went to the mezzanine to see our tenant. I think I walked up the stairs for an hour. When the door opened to him, he screamed, looking at me. He thought I was a ghost and rushed to give me some water because I could barely stand on my feet. My heart was beating so hard that my head hurt, and my mind was clouded. When I woke up, I started right away by putting my bundle on his bed, sat down next to him, covered myself with my hands and began to cry like crazy. He seemed to understand everything instantly and stood in front of me, pale and looking at me so sadly that my heart broke.

Listen,” he began, “listen, Nastenka, I can’t do anything; I am a poor man; I don’t have anything yet, not even a decent place; How would we live if I married you?

We talked for a long time, but I finally went into a frenzy, said that I couldn’t live with my grandmother, that I would run away from her, that I didn’t want to be pinned, and that, as he wanted, I would go with him to Moscow, because I can't live without him. And shame, and love, and pride - everything spoke inside me at once, and I almost fell on the bed in convulsions. I was so afraid of rejection!

He sat silently for several minutes, then stood up, came up to me and took my hand.

Listen, my kind, my dear Nastenka! - he also began through tears, - listen. I swear to you that if I am ever able to get married, then you will certainly make up my happiness; I assure you, now only you can make up my happiness. Listen: I’m going to Moscow and will stay there for exactly a year. I hope to arrange my affairs. When I toss and turn, and if you don’t stop loving me, I swear to you, we will be happy. Now it’s impossible, I can’t, I have no right to promise anything. But, I repeat, if this is not done in a year, then at least someday it will certainly happen; of course - in the event that you do not prefer someone else to me, because I cannot and do not dare bind you with any word.

That's what he told me and left the next day. Grandma was supposed not to say a word about it. That's what he wanted. Well, now my whole story is almost over. Exactly a year has passed. He arrived, he's been here for three whole days and, and...

And what? - I shouted, impatient to hear the end.

And he still hasn’t shown up! - Nastenka answered, as if gathering strength, - not a word, not a breath...

Then she stopped, was silent for a while, lowered her head and suddenly, covering herself with her hands, began to sob so much that my heart turned over from these sobs.

I never expected such a denouement.

Nastenka! - I began in a timid and insinuating voice, - Nastenka! For God's sake, don't cry! Why do you know? maybe it's not there yet...

Here, here! - Nastenka picked up. - He's here, I know it. We had a condition, back then, That evening, on the eve of departure: when we had already said everything that I told you, and agreed, we went out here for a walk, precisely on this embankment. It was ten o'clock; we sat on this bench; I no longer cried, it was sweet for me to listen to what he said... He said that he would come to us immediately upon arrival and if I did not refuse him, then we would tell my grandmother everything. Now he has arrived, I know it, and he is gone, no!

And she burst into tears again.

My God! Is there really no way to help the grief? - I shouted, jumping up from the bench in complete despair. - Tell me, Nastenka, is it possible for me to at least go to him?..

Is it possible? - she said, suddenly raising her head.

No, of course not! - I noticed, catching myself. - Here's what: write a letter.

No, this is impossible, this is impossible! - she answered decisively, but with her head down and not looking at me.

How can you not? why can't it? - I continued, seizing on my idea. - But, you know, Nastenka, what a letter! Letter to letter is different and...Oh, Nastenka, it’s so! Trust me, trust me! I won't give you bad advice. All this can be arranged! You started the first step - why now...

You can't, you can't! Then I seem to be imposing...

Oh, my dear Nastenka! - I interrupted, not hiding my smile, - no, no; you finally have the right, because he promised you. And from everything I see that he is a delicate man, that he did well,” I continued, more and more delighted with the logic of my own arguments and beliefs, “what did he do?” He bound himself with a promise. He said that he would not marry anyone but you, if only he would marry; he left you complete freedom to refuse him even now... In this case, you can take the first step, you have the right, you have an advantage over him, at least, for example, if you wanted to untie him from of this word...

Listen, how would you write?

Yes, this is a letter.

This is how I would write: “Dear Sir...”

Is this absolutely necessary, my dear sir?

Definitely! However, why? I think...

- "Your Majesty!

Sorry that I..." However, no, no apologies are needed! Here the very fact justifies everything, write simply:

“I am writing to you. Forgive me for my impatience; but I have been happy with hope for a whole year; is it my fault that now I cannot endure even a day of doubt? Now that you have already arrived, perhaps you have already changed your intentions. Then this the letter will tell you that I do not complain and do not blame you. I do not blame you for not having power over your heart; such is my fate!

You noble man. You will not smile and become annoyed by my impatient lines. Remember that they are written by a poor girl, that she is alone, that there is no one to teach her or advise her, and that she has never been able to control her own heart. But forgive me that doubt crept into my soul even for one moment. You are incapable of even mentally offending the one who loved and loves you so much.”

Yes Yes! this is exactly what I thought! - Nastenka shouted, and joy shone in her eyes. - ABOUT! you resolved my doubts, God himself sent you to me! Thank you, thank you!

For what? because God sent me? - I answered, looking in delight at her joyful face.

Yes, at least for that.

Ah, Nastenka! After all, we thank other people for at least the fact that they live with us. I thank you for meeting me, for the fact that I will remember you for my whole century!

Well, enough, enough! And now here’s what, listen: then there was a condition that as soon as he arrived, he would immediately make himself known by leaving me a letter in one place, with some of my acquaintances, kind and ordinary people who know nothing about it; or if it is impossible to write letters to me, because you can’t always tell everything in a letter, then on the same day he arrives, he will be here exactly at ten o’clock, where we planned to meet him. I already know about his arrival; but for the third day now there has been no letter or him. There is no way for me to leave my grandmother in the morning. Give my letter tomorrow to those good people I told you about: they will already forward it; and if there is an answer, then you yourself will bring it in the evening at ten o’clock.

But a letter, a letter! After all, first you need to write a letter! So will all this happen the day after tomorrow?

A letter... - Nastenka answered, a little confused, - a letter... but...

But she didn’t finish. She first turned her face away from me, blushed like a rose, and suddenly I felt a letter in my hand, apparently written a long time ago, completely prepared and sealed. Some familiar, sweet, graceful memory flashed through my head!

R, o - Ro, s, i - si, n, a - na,” I began.

Rosina! - we both sang, I, almost hugging her with delight, she, blushing as only she could blush, and laughing through the tears that, like pearls, trembled on her black eyelashes.

Well, enough, enough! Farewell now! - she said quickly. - Here is a letter for you, here is the address to take it to. Farewell! Goodbye! till tomorrow!

She squeezed both my hands tightly, nodded her head and flashed like an arrow into her alley. I stood still for a long time, following her with my eyes.

"Till tomorrow! till tomorrow!" - flashed through my head when she disappeared from my eyes.

Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

White Nights

Sentimental novel

(From the memories of a dreamer)

Or was he created for
To be there for just a moment.
In the neighborhood of your heart?..
Iv. Turgenev

Night one

Night two

HISTORY OF NASTENKA

Night three

Night four

Morning

Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

White Nights

...Or was he created for this purpose?

To stay for just a moment

In the neighborhood of your heart?...

Iv. Turgenev

NIGHT ONE

It was a wonderful night, the kind of night that can only happen when we are young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, such a bright sky that, looking at it, you involuntarily had to ask yourself: can all sorts of angry and capricious people really live under such a sky? This is also a young question, dear reader, very young, but God send it to your soul more often!.. Speaking about capricious and various angry gentlemen, I could not help but remember my well-behaved behavior all that day. From the very morning I began to be tormented by some amazing melancholy. It suddenly seemed to me that everyone was abandoning me, alone, and that everyone was abandoning me. Of course, everyone has the right to ask: who are all these people? because I’ve been living in St. Petersburg for eight years now, and I haven’t been able to make almost a single acquaintance. But why do I need acquaintances? I already know the whole of St. Petersburg; That’s why it seemed to me that everyone was leaving me when the whole of St. Petersburg rose up and suddenly left for the dacha. I became afraid to be alone, and for three whole days I wandered around the city in deep melancholy, absolutely not understanding what was happening to me. Whether I go to Nevsky, whether I go to the garden, whether I wander along the embankment - not a single face from those whom I am accustomed to meeting in the same place, at a certain hour, for a whole year. They, of course, don’t know me, but I know them. I know them briefly; I have almost studied their faces - and I admire them when they are cheerful, and I mope when they become misty. I almost became friends with one old man whom I meet every single day, at a certain hour, on the Fontanka. The face is so important, thoughtful; He keeps whispering under his breath and waving his left hand, and in his right he has a long, knotty cane with a gold knob. Even he noticed me and takes emotional part in me. If it happened that I would not be at the same place on the Fontanka at a certain hour, I am sure that the blues would attack him. This is why we sometimes almost bow to each other, especially when we are both in a good mood. The other day, when we had not seen each other for two whole days and on the third day we met, we were already grabbing our hats, but fortunately we came to our senses in time, lowered our hands and walked next to each other with sympathy. I am also familiar with the houses. When I walk, everyone seems to run ahead of me into the street, look at me through all the windows and almost say: “Hello; How is your health? and I, thank God, am healthy, and a floor will be added to me in the month of May.” Or: “How is your health? and I’ll be repaired tomorrow.” Or: “I almost burned out, and at the same time I was scared,” etc. Of these, I have favorites, there are short friends; one of them intends to undergo treatment this summer with an architect. I’ll come in every day on purpose so that they don’t cover it up somehow, God forbid!.. But I’ll never forget the story of one very pretty light pink house. It was such a nice little stone house, it looked at me so welcomingly, it looked so proudly at its clumsy neighbors that my heart rejoiced when I happened to pass by. Suddenly, last week, I was walking down the street and, as I looked at a friend, I heard a plaintive cry: “And they are painting me yellow!” Villains! barbarians! they spared nothing: neither columns, nor cornices, and my friend turned yellow as a canary. I was almost filled with bile on this occasion, and I still was not able to see my disfigured poor man, who was painted to match the color of the celestial empire.

So, you understand, reader, how familiar I am with all of St. Petersburg.

I have already said that I was tormented by anxiety for three whole days, until I guessed the reason for it. And I felt bad on the street (this one wasn’t there, that one wasn’t there, where did so-and-so go?) - and at home I wasn’t myself. For two evenings I sought: what am I missing in my corner? Why was it so awkward to stay there? - and with bewilderment I examined my green, smoky walls, the ceiling hung with cobwebs, which Matryona had planted with great success, I looked through all my furniture, examined every chair, thinking, is this where the trouble lies? (because if I have even one chair that’s not standing the way it was yesterday, then I’m not myself) I looked out the window, and it was all in vain... it didn’t feel any easier! I even decided to call Matryona and immediately gave her a fatherly reprimand for the cobwebs and general sloppiness; but she just looked at me in surprise and walked away without answering a word, so that the web is still happily hanging in place. Finally, only this morning I figured out what was the matter. Eh! Why, they’re running away from me to the dacha! Forgive me for the trivial word, but I had no time for high-flown language... because everything that was in St. Petersburg either moved or moved to the dacha; because every respectable gentleman of respectable appearance who hired a cab, in my eyes immediately turned into a respectable father of the family, who, after ordinary official duties, goes lightly to the depths of his family, to the dacha; because every passer-by now had a completely special appearance, which almost said to everyone he met: “We, gentlemen, are here only in passing, but in two hours we will leave for the dacha.” If the window opened, on which thin fingers, white as sugar, first drummed, and the head of a pretty girl poked out, beckoning to a peddler with pots of flowers, I immediately, immediately imagined that these flowers were only bought that way, that is, not at all for to enjoy spring and flowers in a stuffy city apartment, but that very soon everyone will move to the dacha and take the flowers with them. Moreover, I had already made such progress in my new, special kind of discoveries that I could already unmistakably, by one look, indicate which dacha someone lived in. The inhabitants of the Kamenny and Aptekarsky Islands or the Peterhof Road were distinguished by their studied elegance of techniques, smart summer suits and the beautiful carriages in which they arrived in the city. Residents of Pargolovo, even further away, at first glance “inspired” with their prudence and solidity; the visitor to Krestovsky Island had a calm and cheerful appearance. Did I manage to meet a long procession of dray drivers, lazily walking with reins in their hands next to carts loaded with whole mountains of all kinds of furniture, tables, chairs, Turkish and non-Turkish sofas and other household belongings, on which, on top of all this, she often sat, at the very top Voza, a frail cook who cherishes her master's property like the apple of her eye; whether I looked at the boats, heavily loaded with household utensils, gliding along the Neva or Fontanka, to the Black River or the islands - the carts and boats multiplied tenfold, became lost in my eyes; it seemed that everything was up and moving, everything was moving in whole caravans to the dacha; it seemed that all of Petersburg was threatening to turn into a desert, so that finally I felt ashamed, offended and sad: I had absolutely nowhere to go and there was no need to go to the dacha. I was ready to leave with every cart, to leave with every gentleman of respectable appearance who hired a cab; but no one, absolutely no one, invited me; as if they had forgotten me, as if I were truly a stranger to them!

I walked a lot and for a long time, so that I had already completely forgotten, as usual, where I was, when suddenly I found myself at the outpost. Instantly I felt cheerful, and I stepped beyond the barrier, walked between the sown fields and meadows, did not hear fatigue, but only felt with all my strength that some burden was falling from my soul. All the passers-by looked at me so welcomingly that they almost bowed resolutely; everyone was so happy about something, every single one of them was smoking cigars. And I was glad as never happened to me before. It was as if I suddenly found myself in Italy - nature struck me so strongly, a half-sick city dweller who almost suffocated within the city walls.

There is something inexplicably touching in our St. Petersburg nature, when, with the onset of spring, it suddenly displays all its power, all the powers given to it by heaven, becomes pubescent, discharged, adorned with flowers... Somehow, involuntarily, it reminds me of that wasted girl and the ailment, which you sometimes look at with regret, sometimes with some kind of compassionate love, sometimes you simply don’t notice it, but which suddenly, for one moment, somehow unexpectedly becomes inexplicably, wonderfully beautiful, and you, amazed, intoxicated , you involuntarily ask yourself: what force made these sad, thoughtful eyes shine with such fire? what brought the blood to those pale, thinner cheeks? What has filled these tender features with passion? Why is this chest heaving so much? What so suddenly brought strength, life and beauty to the face of the poor girl, made it sparkle with such a smile, come alive with such a sparkling, sparkling laugh? You look around, you are looking for someone, you guess... But the moment passes, and perhaps tomorrow you will again meet the same thoughtful and absent-minded look as before, the same pale face, the same humility and timidity in your face. movements and even repentance, even traces of some kind of deadening melancholy and annoyance for a momentary infatuation... And it’s a pity for you that instant beauty withered so quickly, so irrevocably, that it flashed before you so deceptively and in vain - it’s a pity because even you didn't have time to love her...

White Nights

Sentimental novel

From the memories of a dreamer

...Or was he created for this purpose?

To stay for just a moment

In the neighborhood of your heart?..

Iv. Turgenev

Night one

It was a wonderful night, the kind of night that can only happen when we are young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, such a bright sky that, looking at it, you involuntarily had to ask yourself: can all sorts of angry and capricious people really live under such a sky? This is also a young question, dear reader, very young, but God send it to your soul more often!.. Speaking about capricious and various angry gentlemen, I could not help but remember my well-behaved behavior all that day. From the very morning I began to be tormented by some amazing melancholy. It suddenly seemed to me that everyone was abandoning me, alone, and that everyone was abandoning me. Of course, everyone has the right to ask: who are all these people? because I’ve been living in St. Petersburg for eight years now and I haven’t been able to make almost a single acquaintance. But why do I need acquaintances? I already know the whole of St. Petersburg; That’s why it seemed to me that everyone was leaving me when the whole of St. Petersburg rose up and suddenly left for the dacha. I became afraid to be alone, and for three whole days I wandered around the city in deep melancholy, absolutely not understanding what2 was happening to me. Whether I go to Nevsky, whether I go to the garden, whether I wander along the embankment - not a single face from those whom I am accustomed to meeting in the same place at a certain hour, for a whole year. They, of course, don’t know me, but I know them. I know them briefly; I have almost studied their faces - and I admire them when they are cheerful, and I mope when they become misty. I almost became friends with one old man whom I meet every single day, at a certain hour, on the Fontanka. The face is so important, thoughtful; He keeps whispering under his breath and waving his left hand, and in his right he has a long, knotty cane with a gold knob. Even he noticed me and takes emotional part in me. If it happened that I would not be at the same place on the Fontanka at a certain hour, I am sure that the blues would attack him. This is why we sometimes almost bow to each other, especially when we are both in a good mood. The other day, when we had not seen each other for two whole days and on the third day we met, we were already grabbing our hats, but fortunately we came to our senses in time, lowered our hands and walked next to each other with sympathy. I am also familiar with the houses. When I walk, everyone seems to run ahead of me into the street, look at me through all the windows and almost say: “Hello; How is your health? and I, thank God, am healthy, and a floor will be added to me in the month of May.” Or: “How is your health? and I’ll be repaired tomorrow.” Or: “I almost burned out, and at the same time I was scared,” etc. Of these, I have favorites, there are short friends; one of them intends to undergo treatment this summer with an architect. I’ll come in every day on purpose so that it doesn’t get healed somehow, God forbid!.. But I’ll never forget the story of one very pretty light pink house. It was such a nice little stone house, it looked at me so welcomingly, it looked so proudly at its clumsy neighbors that my heart rejoiced when I happened to pass by. Suddenly last week I was walking down the street, and as I looked at a friend, I heard a plaintive cry: “And they’re painting me yellow!” Villains! barbarians! they spared nothing: neither columns, nor cornices, and my friend turned yellow as a canary. I was almost filled with bile on this occasion, and I still was not able to see my disfigured poor man, who was painted to match the color of the celestial empire.

So, you understand, reader, how familiar I am with all of St. Petersburg.

I have already said that I was tormented by anxiety for three whole days, until I guessed the reason for it. And I felt bad on the street (this one wasn’t there, that one wasn’t there, where did so-and-so go?) - and at home I wasn’t myself. For two evenings I sought: what am I missing in my corner? Why was it so awkward to stay there? - and with bewilderment I looked around my green, smoky walls, the ceiling hung with cobwebs, which Matryona had planted with great success, looked through all my furniture, examined every chair, thinking, is there trouble here? (because if I have even one chair that’s not standing the way it was yesterday, then I’m not myself) I looked at the window, and it was all in vain... it didn’t feel any easier! I even decided to call Matryona and immediately gave her a fatherly reprimand for the cobwebs and general sloppiness; but she just looked at me in surprise and walked away without answering a word, so that the web is still happily hanging in place. Finally, only this morning I figured out what was the matter. Eh! Why, they’re running away from me to the dacha! Forgive me for the trivial word, but I had no time for high-flown language... because everything that was in St. Petersburg either moved or moved to the dacha; because every respectable gentleman of respectable appearance who hired a cab driver, before my eyes, immediately turned into a respectable father of a family, who, after ordinary official duties, goes lightly to the depths of his family, to the dacha; because every passer-by now had a completely special appearance, which almost said to everyone he met: “We, gentlemen, are here only in passing, but in two hours we will leave for the dacha.” If the window opened, on which thin fingers, white as sugar, first drummed, and the head of a pretty girl poked out, beckoning to a peddler with pots of flowers, I immediately, immediately imagined that these flowers were only bought that way, that is, not at all for to enjoy spring and flowers in a stuffy city apartment, but that very soon everyone will move to the dacha and take the flowers with them. Moreover, I had already made such progress in my new, special kind of discoveries that I could already unmistakably, by one look, indicate which dacha someone lived in. The inhabitants of the Kamenny and Aptekarsky Islands or the Peterhof Road were distinguished by their studied elegance of techniques, smart summer suits and the beautiful carriages in which they arrived in the city. Residents of Pargolovo, even further away, at first glance “inspired” with their prudence and solidity; the visitor to Krestovsky Island had a calm and cheerful appearance. Did I manage to meet a long procession of dray drivers, lazily walking with reins in their hands next to carts loaded with whole mountains of all kinds of furniture, tables, chairs, Turkish and non-Turkish sofas and other household belongings, on which, on top of all this, she often sat, at the very top Voza, a frail cook who cherishes her master's property like the apple of her eye; I looked at the boats, heavily loaded with household utensils, gliding along the Neva or Fontanka, to the Black River or the islands - the carts and boats multiplied tenfold, became lost in my eyes; it seemed that everything was up and moving, everything was moving in whole caravans to the dacha; it seemed that all of Petersburg was threatening to turn into a desert, so that finally I felt ashamed, offended and sad; I absolutely had nowhere to go and there was no need to go to the dacha. I was ready to leave with every cart, to leave with every gentleman of respectable appearance who hired a cab; but no one, absolutely no one, invited me; as if they had forgotten me, as if I were truly a stranger to them!

I walked a lot and for a long time, so that I had already completely forgotten, as usual, where I was, when suddenly I found myself at the outpost. Instantly I felt cheerful, and I stepped beyond the barrier, walked between the sown fields and meadows, did not hear fatigue, but only felt with all my strength that some burden was falling from my soul. All the passers-by looked at me so welcomingly that they almost bowed resolutely; everyone was so happy about something, every single one of them was smoking cigars. And I was glad as never happened to me before. It was as if I suddenly found myself in Italy - nature struck me so strongly, a half-sick city dweller who almost suffocated within the city walls.

There is something inexplicably touching in our St. Petersburg nature, when, with the onset of spring, it suddenly displays all its power, all the powers given to it by heaven, becomes pubescent, discharged, adorned with flowers... Somehow, it involuntarily reminds me of that girl, stunted and sickness, which you sometimes look at with regret, sometimes with some kind of compassionate love, sometimes you simply don’t notice it, but which suddenly, for one moment, somehow unexpectedly becomes inexplicably, wonderfully beautiful, and you, amazed, intoxicated, you involuntarily ask yourself: what force made these sad, thoughtful eyes shine with such fire? what brought the blood to those pale, thinner cheeks? What has filled these tender features with passion? Why is this chest heaving so much? What so suddenly brought strength, life and beauty to the face of the poor girl, made it sparkle with such a smile, come alive with such a sparkling, sparkling laugh? You look around, you are looking for someone, you guess... But the moment passes, and perhaps tomorrow you will again meet the same thoughtful and absent-minded look as before, the same pale face, the same humility and timidity in movements and even repentance, even traces of some kind of deadening melancholy and annoyance for a momentary infatuation... And it’s a pity for you that the momentary beauty withered so quickly, so irrevocably, that it flashed before you so deceptively and in vain - it’s a pity because you can’t even love her there was time...