Dostoevsky f m white nights read. Fyodor 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, 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 goods 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!

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

-- 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?

-- No no! - Nastenka interrupted, laughing, - I need more than one

O

musical motive

At that moment a young man walked past us. He suddenly stopped, looked at us intently and then took a few steps again. My heart trembled... “Nastenka,” I said in a low voice, “who is this, Nastenka?”

became piebald... Or a ray of sun, suddenly peeking out from behind a cloud, again hid under a rain cloud, and everything again dimmed in my eyes; or maybe the whole prospect of my future flashed before me so unwelcomingly and sadly, and I saw myself as I am now, exactly fifteen years later, aged, in the same room, just as alone, with the same Matryona, who is not at all I haven't gotten any wiser in all these years.

But so that I remember my offense, Nastenka! So that I can catch up

dark cloud

for your clear, serene happiness, so that I, with a bitter reproach, bring melancholy to your heart, sting it with secret remorse and make it beat sadly in a moment of bliss, so that I crush at least one of these delicate flowers that you have woven into your black curls, when I went to the altar with him... Oh, never, never! May your sky be clear, may your sweet smile be bright and serene, may you be blessed for the moment of bliss and happiness that you gave to another, lonely, grateful heart!

My God! A whole minute of bliss! Is this really not enough for even a person’s entire life?..

White Nights

Iv. Turgenev

Sentimental novel

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 goods 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...

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 every happy person 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 advised me his look for artificial means. 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. Oh, 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 bit. 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? isn't it already?

“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 am 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 that I demand is only 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; I have never had such happy moments before. 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 go to the alley here; there are two steps... Goodbye, 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 wouldn’t even make an appointment if... But let it be my secret! Just forward the agreement...

- Agreement! speak, say, say everything in advance; “I agree to everything, 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 so kind as to 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 my mind to trust 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, we’ve made it! - she told me, laughing and shaking both hands.

- 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 in conclusion of everything, 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 my kind heart was to blame for everything, that is, I praised myself, as it always ends when we start sorting out our own things. And therefore, in order to correct the mistake, I decided to find out about you in the most detailed way. 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?

- 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? the guy is original, he’s such a funny person! - 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 could 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! It's too early to remember!

- 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 a funny story this is about.

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 strange people live in these corners - 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. For the most part, he settles somewhere in an inaccessible corner, as if he is hiding there even from daylight, and if he gets in, he will grow to his corner like a snail, or at least he is very similar in this respect to that interesting animal, which is both an animal and a 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 if he just committed a crime within his own four walls, as if he was fabricating fake pieces of paper or some poems to send to a magazine with an anonymous letter, which indicates that the real poet has already died and that his friend considers 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, for all his wit ( if only he has one), looking at the upturned face of the owner, who, in turn, had already become completely lost and out of his depth after gigantic, but futile efforts to smooth out and spice up the conversation, to show, for his part, knowledge of secularism, also talk about the beautiful field and at least with such humility 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 and immediately vows to himself never to come to this eccentric, although this eccentric is, in essence, a most excellent fellow, and at the same time cannot deny his imagination a little whim: to compare, at least in a remote way, the physiognomy of his recent interlocutor throughout the meeting with the appearance of that unfortunate kitten who 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, into the darkness, and there for a whole hour at his leisure he 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?

The main theme is love. The main genres are a sentimental story, a journey, in the lyrics - idyll, pastoral. Ideological basis- a protest against the depravity of aristocratic society. The main property is the desire to represent the human personality in the movements of the soul, thoughts, feelings, aspirations.

The very name “sentimentalism” (from the English sentimental - sensitive, French sentiment - feeling) indicates that feeling becomes the central aesthetic category of this direction. In this regard, the sentimentalists contrasted feeling with the reason of the classicists. The main idea is a peaceful, idyllic human life in the lap of nature. The village (the center of natural life, moral purity) city (symbol of evil, unnatural life, vanity). The author sympathizes with the heroes, his task is to make them empathize, evoke compassion, and tears of tenderness.

A departure from the straightforwardness of classicism in the depiction of characters and their assessment; - emphasized subjectivity of approach to the world; - cult of feeling; - cult of nature; - the cult of innate moral purity, innocence; - says rich spiritual world representatives of the lower classes.

England: Laurence Stern - author " A sentimental journey"and the novel "Tristam Shandy", Richardson is the author of "Clarissa Garlow". France: Jean-Jacques Rousseau is the author of the novel in letters “Julia, or the New Heloise.” Russia: M.N. Muravyov, N.M. Karamzin, V.V. Kapnist, young V.A. Zhukovsky.

At the end of the 18th century, in connection with the largest historical events– With the peasant uprising led by Pugachev and the French bourgeois revolution, in the depths of the Russian enlightenment, a new philosophy was born, in which reason is the main engine of progress, but at the same time the human soul was forgotten. Karamzin and his supporters argued that the path to the happiness of people and the common good - in the education of feelings. Love and tenderness, as if flowing from person to person, turn into kindness and mercy. “The tears shed by readers,” wrote Karamzin, “always flow from love for good and nourish it.”

On this basis, the literature of sentimentalism arose, for which the main thing is the inner world of a person with its simple and simple joys. In this case, a very close connection is established between sensitivity and morality. The conflicts between ordinary people, “Sensitive” heroes and the prevailing morality in society are quite acute. They can end in the death or misfortune of the hero.

In 1810, signs of a crisis of sentimentalism were revealed. But the life of the genre did not end. As for the journey, which included a story, history, memoirs, a political essay, an everyday scene, it acquired other literary forms: an adventure novel, a travel novel, travel essay. The sentimental story contributed to the humanization of society; it aroused genuine interest in man. Love, faith in the salvation of one’s own feelings, the coldness and hostility of life, the condemnation of society - all this can be encountered if you leaf through the pages of works of Russian literature, and not only of the 19th century, but also of the 20th century.

In prose, the story and the journey became typical forms of sentimentalism. Both genres are associated with the name of Karamzin. An example of the genre of the story for the Russian reader was “ Poor Lisa”, and travel - his “Letters of a Russian Traveler”. Sad story Lisa is told through the mouth of the author-hero. Remembering Lisa’s family and patriarchal life, Karamzin introduces the famous formula “And peasant women know how to love!”, which sheds new light on the problem of social inequality. Rudeness and bad manners of souls are not always the lot of the poor. Karamzin describes with completeness and detail the change in Liza’s moods from the first signs of flaring love to deep despair and hopeless suffering that led to suicide. Lisa had not read any novels, and she had never experienced this feeling before, even in her imagination.

Therefore, it opened stronger and more joyfully in the girl’s heart when she met Erast. Lisa falls in love, but with love comes fear, she is afraid that thunder will kill her like a criminal, for “the fulfillment of all desires is the most dangerous temptation of love.” Karamzin's merit was that in his story there is no villain, but an ordinary “guy” belonging to a secular circle. Karamzin was the first to see this guy young nobleman, to some extent the predecessor of Eugene Onegin. Erast was a rather rich nobleman, with a fair intellect and kind hearted, kind by nature, but weak and flighty. Erast’s naturally kind heart is related to Lisa, but unlike her, he received a bookish, artificial upbringing, his dreams are lifeless, and his character is spoiled and unstable. Without removing the guilt from Erast, the writer sympathizes with him. Social and wealth inequality separates and destroys good people and becomes an obstacle to their happiness. Therefore, the story ends with a pacifying chord.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin His sense of beauty is developed to the highest degree, like no one else. The brighter the inspiration, the more painstaking work must be required to fulfill it. We read poems from Pushkin that are so smooth, so simple, and it seems to us that this is how he developed it into this form. But we can’t see how much work he put in to make it so simple and smooth... L. Tolstoy

Almost forty years later A.S. Pushkin wrote "Belkin's Tale". He was pleased to report that Baratynsky, who read them, “laughs and fights.” Pushkin rejoiced at Baratynsky’s laughter: this meant that the poet understood Pushkin’s plan. “Belkin’s Tales” is sentimentalism “on the contrary”; it is a hidden parody, stylization that destroys the aesthetics of sentimentalism.

The main pretext of the story is obvious: this is Karamzin’s “Poor Liza.” The connection between the texts is established not only at the level of the names of the main characters, but also at the level of the plots, which are in relation to partial parallelism: “Poor Liza” tells about a peasant girl who fell in love with a nobleman and, after his betrayal, committed suicide, and in “The Peasant Young Lady” " - about a noble girl who partially imitated the Karamzin conflict and, as a result, married a nobleman.

Pushkin needed a sentimentalist plot in order to assign a new hero to his poetics (namely as a hero, and not minor character) - a simple person. Sentimentalism (represented by Richardson, Lessing, Karamzin, and partly Rousseau) created a certain canon of the love plot. According to this canon, to an idyllic life " ordinary people", existing in accordance with the natural law of human existence, is invaded by the figure of a nobleman lover, who destroys this life, since his (her) nature is distorted by an unnatural upbringing and way of life.

So, in 1830, Pushkin creates Russian realistic prose. In his Stationmaster“he wins back from sentimentalism the figure of the “common man,” turning him into a “small” man, but no less “complex” than other “magnitudes.” Ten years later, this type will become the basis of Gogol’s “Overcoat,” and then many other works. For now, Pushkin completes his cycle (he completes it not chronologically, but compositionally, which is for understanding author's position much more important)" A peasant young lady“, in which he consistently demythologizes the figure of “a peasant woman who also knows how to love.”

First of all, main character The story, like other district young ladies dear to the author’s heart, was brought up on novels: “Raised in the clean air, in the shade of their gardens, they draw knowledge of the world and life from books” (As we see, Karamzin’s propaganda work was a success). At the same time, Pushkin, as befits an “episentimentalist,” does not forget to contrast them with more educated city women: “In the capitals, women get, perhaps, better education; but the skill of light soon softens the character and makes souls as monotonous as hats.”

The development of intrigue is also based on the sentimentalist standard: Liza-Akulina shows enviable caution, and Alexey, having given his word, keeps it to the end. At the same time, Alexei, as befits a sentimentalist hero, is struck by “thoughts and feelings unusual in a simple girl,” while Liza is led, in addition to sincere feeling, a proud desire “to finally see the Tugilov landowner at the feet of the daughter of the Priluchinsky blacksmith.”

The episode with correspondence is especially curious (how can one imagine a sentimental story without correspondence! After all, the novel in letters, along with “Travels,” is an invention and a favorite genre of sentimentalism). Akulina again demonstrates an understanding that is completely unusual for a peasant girl, learning to read and write in three lessons, which allows lovers to communicate through letters. Pushkin says with remarkable seriousness that “Akulina, apparently, got used to the best way of speaking, and her mind noticeably developed and formed” (Karamzin, of course, would have been glad to see such a wonderful example of the success of his pedagogical program).

KARAMZINPUSHKIN Even before the sun rose, Liza got up, went down to the bank of the Moscow River, sat down on the grass and, saddened, looked at the white mists that waved in the air and, rising up, left shiny drops on the green cover of nature. Silence reigned everywhere. But soon the rising luminary of the day awakened all creation; The groves and bushes came to life, the birds fluttered and sang, the flowers raised their heads to drink in the life-giving rays of light. But Lisa still sat sadly. The dawn was shining in the east, and the golden rows of clouds seemed to be waiting for the sun, like courtiers waiting for the sovereign; the clear sky, morning freshness, dew, breeze and birdsong filled Lisa's heart with infantile gaiety; afraid of some familiar meeting, she seemed not to walk, but to fly. Approaching the grove standing on the border of her father's property, Lisa walked more quietly.

KARAMZIN PUSHKIN Karamzin’s landscape is static, clearly drawn in detail. Thus, in the portraits of classic artists, even the background is clearly drawn; in portraits of artists of the romantic movement, details of the landscape create the mood, as in the paintings of L.V. Borovikovsky. The narrator is in one place and from there he observes the hasty changes in the picture of the morning. High style vocabulary: “sun rising”, “silence reigned”, rising luminary” - creates an elevated mood B Pushkin's painting It is not silence that reigns, but the sun. Movement is felt in every combination of words. Objects are devoid of heavy definitions that constrain impulse. Everything is subordinated to the movements of Lisa, who “didn’t walk, but flew.” Nature seems to follow the dynamics of the narrative, we see only the most essential, as in the paintings of O.A. Kiprensky.

“POOR LISA” “PEASANT GIRL” “Beautiful, dear Lisa”, “ gentle Lisa", "timid Lisa" "She was seventeen years old. Her dark eyes enlivened her dark and very pleasant face. She was the only and therefore spoiled child. Her agility and minute-by-minute pranks delighted her father and drove her Madame Miss Jackson, a forty-year-old prim girl, into despair, who bleached her hair and raised her eyebrows, re-read Pamela twice a year, received two thousand rubles for it, and died of boredom in this barbaric Russia. »

Let us note that the heroes of the story constantly fluctuate between the sociocultural stereotypes instilled in them by literature and genuine feelings; Moreover, sometimes the very adherence to the automatism of the stereotype spurs the feeling (a collision unthinkable for sentimentalism): “He spoke in the language of true passion and at that moment he was definitely in love.” However, the heroes' orientation to book models is not a reason for censure: “romantic” thoughts are just their natural habitat. At the same time, a happy ending occurs not because the heroes follow the “dictation of their hearts” or “do what they should,” but because it is unlikely that the story could have turned out differently: “the time has come - they got married.” So Pushkin says goodbye to Russian sentimentalism of the Karamzinist kind, erecting a kind of monument to it, in which familiar features are combined into a rather unexpected structure.

The main character of the story, Alexey Berestov, became above prejudices, or - to be more precise - he was ready to become, he was ready to step over the conventions that his noble status imposed on him and which did not reconcile with his inner world, his morality and consciousness. Denial of these prejudices, exposing them, a kind look at life and man - this, it seems to me, is the main idea of ​​the story The Young Lady-Peasant.

ERAST ALEXEY BERESTOV Erast was a rather rich nobleman, with a fair mind and a kind heart, kind by nature, but weak and flighty. He led an absent-minded life, thought only about his own pleasure, looked for it in secular amusements, but often did not find it: he was bored and complained about his fate. Alexey was, in fact, a great guy. It would really be a pity if his slender figure was never pulled together by a military uniform, and if, instead of showing off on a horse, he spent his youth bent over office papers. Seeing how he always galloped first when hunting, without making out the way, the neighbors agreed that he would never make a good chief executive. The young ladies glanced at him, and others looked at him; but Alexey did little with them, and they believed that the reason for his insensitivity was a love affair. Sentimentalism is the most sensual and emotional trend in literature, I believe that the main goal of sentimentalism is to show the beauty and purity of love, to exalt it. To be a sentimental person means to be kind, sympathetic, to respond with your soul to everything that surrounds you. Sensitive was a person who could admire the beauty of nature and works of art; love between a man and a woman was perceived by him as virtuous. Sentimental works are very deep and romantic, I believe that they are accessible to any reader, because the feeling of love is familiar to everyone from childhood. Another goal of sentimentalism is to erase the boundaries of social inequality: a gentleman is in love with a peasant woman, and a young lady is in love with a peasant. Sentimental works are relevant in our time, because sometimes we get lost in everyday life and forget about feelings, but this is the most important thing in life.

Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

became piebald... Or a ray of sun, suddenly peeking out from behind a cloud, again hid under a rain cloud, and everything again dimmed in my eyes; or maybe the whole prospect of my future flashed before me so unwelcomingly and sadly, and I saw myself as I am now, exactly fifteen years later, aged, in the same room, just as alone, with the same Matryona, who is not at all I haven't gotten any wiser in all these years.

...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 goods 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, it involuntarily reminds me of that girl, stunted 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...