Little hero Dostoevsky. Fyodor Dostoevsky "Little Hero"

On July 18, 1849, Dostoevsky wrote to his brother from the fortress, where he was imprisoned after his arrest in connection with the case. Petrashevtsy: “I didn’t waste my time: I came up with three stories and two novels; I’m writing one of them now...” But of all the planned works, only one was completed - “Children's Fairy Tale”. The letter where Dostoevsky announces the end of “A Children’s Fairy Tale” is imbued with that cheerful mood, that enthusiasm of youth that permeates the work itself: “Brother! I was not sad or discouraged. Life is life everywhere, life is in ourselves, and not in the external. There will be people next to me, and there will be person between people and to remain forever, in any misfortunes not to become discouraged and not to fall - that is what life is, what is its task. I realized this... Now about the material orders... several sheets of my manuscript, a draft plan for a drama and a novel (and the completed story “Children’s Fairy Tale”) were taken from me and will, in all likelihood, go to you.” “The Children's Fairy Tale” actually remained with M. M. Dostoevsky and appeared in print eight years later under the title “The Little Hero.” The news of the publication of “Children’s Race” upset the writer: “I have long been thinking about remaking it and remaking it well,” he confesses to his brother, “and, firstly, everything that was worthless began to be thrown out. But what to do? It’s printed, you can’t turn it back.” When preparing The Little Hero for publication in 1860, Dostoevsky made a number of changes. The preface was completely omitted - the narrator's sentimental appeal to his beloved girl Mashenka, for whom he prepared his story. Accordingly, all other appeals to Mashenka during the story were excluded from the text.

Fedor Dostoevsky. Little hero. Audiobook

“The Little Hero” is of undoubted interest for understanding the worldview of the young Dostoevsky, his faith in man, despite all the doubts and hesitations.

The image of a child occupies great place in the writer’s work throughout his life. Children depicted by Dostoevsky are most often little sufferers, completely deprived of childhood. The suffering of innocent children, according to the writer, always remains an irrefutable reproach to everyone who considers evil a normal state human society. Analysis of child psychology every time, right up to " Brothers Karamazov", forced Dostoevsky to doubt the validity of his skeptical view of human nature. The image of a child in “The Little Hero” is not entirely usual for Dostoevsky; it is an unusually bright and harmonious image. The hero of the story is depicted at that happy age when “all the impressions of life are new to him.” He knows how to appreciate the beauty of nature and beauty human face, illuminated by a great spiritual life (this is the hero’s attitude towards m-me M.). He himself already knows how to love, perhaps not yet fully realizing his first feeling. But in his love there is no egoism, there is only poetry, true chivalry and readiness for heroism. His love does not require reward, it is akin to the love of heroes Schiller– Delorge and Togenburg, well known to the Russian reader from Zhukovsky’s translations. Schiller's romanticism embodied heroism for Dostoevsky in the 1840s human feelings, the ideal of the “lofty and beautiful.”

“I memorized Schiller, spoke to them, raved about him,” he reported in a letter to his brother in 1840. Many years later, Dostoevsky, in one of his draft notes, noted the need for historians of Russian literature and social thought study the influence of Schiller, translated by Zhukovsky: “Zhukovsky and the influence of Schiller with him – isn’t that a force?”

Created in a chamber Peter and Paul Fortress in a difficult and alarming time for Dostoevsky, the story is imbued with extraordinary optimism. The writer put into the mouth of the little hero an accusation of a soulless and hypocritical secular society, which almost considers it its vocation to insult everything truly beautiful and “non-stop punish romanticism,” as Mr. M. does in relation to his unfortunate wife. "They called him smart person. This is how in some circles they call one special breed of humanity that has grown fat at the expense of others, who does absolutely nothing, who wants to do absolutely nothing, and who, due to eternal laziness and doing nothing, has a piece of fat instead of a heart... They, for example, are almost sure that Almost the whole world is on rent; that he is with them like an oyster, which they take in reserve; that everyone except them is fools; that everyone is like an orange or a sponge, which they will squeeze out until they need the juice.” And further Dostoevsky, a recent participant in Petrashevsky meetings, calls people of this type natural born Tartuffes, compares their individualistic idol to Moloch and Baal.

Dostoevsky Fyodor Mikhailovich

Little hero

Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

LITTLE HERO

From unknown memoirs

I was almost eleven years old then. In July, they let me go to visit a village near Moscow, to my relative, T-vu, who at that time had about fifty, or maybe more, guests... I don’t remember, I didn’t count. It was noisy and fun. It seemed that it was a holiday that began with that, so as never to end. It seemed that our owner promised himself to squander all his enormous fortune as quickly as possible, and he recently managed to justify this guess, that is, to squander everything, completely, cleanly, to the last chip. New guests were constantly arriving, but Moscow was two steps away, in plain sight, so those leaving only gave way to others, and the holiday went on as usual. Amusements were replaced by one another, and there was no end in sight. Either horse riding around the surrounding area, in whole parties, or walking in the forest or along the river; picnics, lunches in the field; dinners on the large terrace of the house, furnished with three rows of precious flowers, filling the fresh night air with aromas, under brilliant lighting, from which our ladies, almost all of them pretty, seemed even more charming with their faces animated by the day's impressions, with their sparkling eyes, with their cross, frisky speech, shimmering with ringing, bell-like laughter; dancing, music, singing; if the sky frowned, lively pictures, charades, and proverbs were composed; settled down home theater . Eloquent speakers, storytellers, and bonmotists appeared. Several faces appeared sharply in the foreground. Of course, slander and gossip took their course, since without them the world would not stand, and millions of people would die of boredom like flies. But since I was eleven years old, I didn’t even notice these persons then, distracted by something completely different, and even if I noticed something, it wasn’t all of them. Afterwards I had to remember something. Only one brilliant side of the picture could catch my children's eyes, and this general animation, brilliance, noise - all this, hitherto unseen and unheard of by me, amazed me so much that in the first days I was completely confused and my little head was spinning. But I keep talking about my eleven years, and, of course, I was a child, nothing more than a child. Many of these beautiful women, while caressing me, had not yet thought of coping with my years. But - a strange thing! - some feeling, incomprehensible to me, has already taken possession of me; something was already rustling in my heart, still unfamiliar and unknown to him; but why did it sometimes burn and beat, as if frightened, and often my face would flush with an unexpected blush. Sometimes I was somehow ashamed and even offended for my various childhood privileges. Another time, it was as if surprise overcame me, and I went somewhere where they couldn’t see me, as if in order to take a breath and remember something, something that until now seemed to me to be I remembered very well and now I suddenly forgot about it, but without which, however, I can’t appear and can’t be without it. Then, finally, it seemed to me that I was hiding something from everyone, but I never told anyone about it, then, which shamed me, a little man, to the point of tears. Soon, amid the whirlwind that surrounded me, I felt some kind of loneliness. There were other children here, but all of them were either much younger or much older than me; yes, however, I had no time for them. Of course, nothing would have happened to me if I had not been in an exceptional situation. In the eyes of all these beautiful ladies, I was still the same small, indefinable creature, which they sometimes loved to caress and with whom they could play, like a little doll. Especially one of them, a charming blonde, with lush, thick hair, the likes of which I have never seen and will probably never see, seemed to have vowed to haunt me. I was embarrassed, but she was amused by the laughter that was heard around us, which she constantly caused with her sharp, eccentric antics with me, which, apparently, gave her great pleasure. In boarding schools, among her friends, she would probably be called a schoolgirl. She was wonderfully pretty, and there was something about her beauty that caught your eye at first sight. And, of course, she was unlike those little bashful blondes, as white as fluff and gentle as white mice or pastor’s daughters. She was short in stature and a little plump, but with delicate, fine lines of her face, charmingly drawn. There was something sparkling like lightning in that face, and all of her was like fire, alive, fast, light. It was as if sparks were falling from her large open eyes; they sparkled like diamonds, and I would never exchange such sparkling blue eyes for any black ones, even if they were blacker than the blackest Andalusian gaze, and my blonde, really, was worth that famous brunette, who was sung by one famous and wonderful poet and who in such excellent verses he swore by the whole of Castile that he was ready to break his bones if they only allowed him to touch his beauty’s mantilla with the tip of his finger. Add to the fact that my beauty was the most cheerful of all the beauties in the world, the most eccentric laugher, as playful as a child, despite the fact that she had already been married for five years. Laughter did not leave her lips, as fresh as a morning rose, which had just managed to open, with the first ray of sun, its scarlet, fragrant bud, on which the cold large drops of dew had not yet dried. I remember that on the second day of my arrival a home theater was set up. The hall was, as they say, packed; there was not a single seat free; and since for some reason I happened to be late, I was forced to enjoy the performance while standing. But fun game pulled me forward more and more, and I quietly made my way to the very first rows, where I finally stood, leaning on the back of the chairs in which one lady was sitting. It was my blonde; but we didn’t know each other yet. And so, somehow by chance, I stared at her wonderfully rounded, seductive shoulders, full, white, like boiling milk, although I absolutely still had to look: at the wonderful women's shoulders or on a cap with fiery ribbons that hid the gray hair of one respectable lady in the first row. Next to the blonde sat an overripe maiden, one of those who, as I later noticed, always huddle somewhere as close as possible to young and pretty women, choosing those who do not like to drive away young people. But that's not the point; Only this girl noticed my observations, leaned over to her neighbor and, giggling, whispered something in her ear. The neighbor suddenly turned around, and I remember that her fiery eyes sparkled at me so much in the semi-darkness that I, not prepared for the meeting, shuddered as if I had been burned. The beauty smiled. - Do you like what they're playing? - she asked, looking slyly and mockingly into my eyes. “Yes,” I answered, still looking at her in some kind of surprise, which she, in turn, apparently liked. - Why are you standing? So - you will get tired; Isn't there room for you? “That’s just it, no,” I answered, this time more preoccupied with concern than with the sparkling eyes of the beauty, and extremely glad that I had finally found kind heart , to whom you can reveal your grief. “I was already looking, but all the chairs are occupied,” I added, as if complaining to her that all the chairs were occupied. “Come here,” she spoke briskly, quick to respond to all decisions as well as to any extravagant idea that flashed through her eccentric head, “come here to me and sit on my lap.” “On your knees?..” I repeated, puzzled. I have already said that my privileges began to seriously offend and conscience me. This one, as if laughing, went far, unlike the others. In addition, I, already always a timid and bashful boy, now somehow began to be especially timid in front of women and therefore became terribly embarrassed. - Well, yes, on your knees! Why don't you want to sit on my lap? she insisted, starting to laugh harder and harder, so that finally she just started laughing at God knows what, maybe her own invention or being glad that I was so embarrassed. But that's what she needed. I blushed and looked around in embarrassment, looking for somewhere to go; but she had already warned me, somehow managing to catch my hand, precisely so that I would not leave, and, pulling her towards her, suddenly, quite unexpectedly, to my greatest surprise, she squeezed it painfully in her playful, hot fingers and began to break my fingers, but it hurt so much that I strained all my efforts not to scream, and at the same time made funny grimaces. In addition, I was in the most terrible surprise, bewilderment, and horror even when I learned that there are such funny and evil ladies who talk to boys about such trifles and even pinch themselves so painfully, God knows why, and in front of everyone. Probably my unhappy face reflected all my bewilderment, because the minx laughed in my eyes like crazy, and meanwhile pinched and broke my poor fingers more and more. She was beside herself with delight that she had managed to play tricks, confuse the poor boy and mystify him into dust. My situation was desperate. Firstly, I was burning with shame, because almost everyone around us turned to us, some in bewilderment, others laughing, immediately realizing that the beauty had done something wrong. Besides, I was so afraid I wanted to scream, because she was breaking my fingers with some kind of ferocity, precisely because I didn’t scream: and I, like a Spartan, decided to withstand the pain, afraid of causing a turmoil by screaming, after which I don’t know. what would happen to me. In a fit of complete despair, I finally began to struggle and began to pull my own hand toward me with all my might, but my tyrant was much stronger than me. Finally, I couldn’t stand it and screamed - that’s just what I was waiting for! Instantly she abandoned me and turned away, as if nothing had happened, as if it wasn’t she who had done the mischief, but someone else, just like some schoolboy who, when the teacher turned away a little, had already managed to play a mischief somewhere in the neighborhood , pinch some tiny, weak boy, give him a snap, a kick, push his elbow and instantly turn around again, straighten up, burying his face in a book, begin to hammer out his lesson and, thus, leave the angry Mr. teacher, rushing like a hawk to noise - with a very long and unexpected nose. But, fortunately for me, everyone’s attention at that moment was captivated by the masterful performance of our host, who was playing the main role in the play that was being played, some kind of Scribe comedy. Everyone applauded; I, under the noise, slipped out of the row and ran to the very end of the hall, to the opposite corner, from where, hiding behind a column, I looked in horror at where the treacherous beauty was sitting. She was still laughing, covering her lips with a handkerchief. And for a long time she turned back, looking at me from all corners, probably very much regretting that our crazy fight ended so soon, and thinking about how to do something else to prank me. This began our acquaintance, and from that evening she did not lag behind me a single step. She persecuted me without measure and conscience, she became my persecutor, my tyrant. The whole comedy of her pranks with me lay in the fact that she said she was head over heels in love with me and cut me in front of everyone. Of course, for me, a downright savage, all this was painful and annoying to the point of tears, so that several times I was already in such a serious and critical situation that I was ready to fight with my insidious admirer. My naive confusion, my desperate melancholy seemed to inspire her to pursue me to the end. She didn’t know pity, and I didn’t know where to go from her. The laughter that was heard all around us and which she knew how to evoke, only set her on fire for new pranks. But they finally began to find her jokes a little too far. And indeed, as I now had to remember, she already allowed herself too much with a child like me. But that was her character: she was, by all appearances, a spoiled person. I heard later that I spoiled her more than anything else. own husband, a very plump, very short and very red man, very rich and very businesslike, at least in appearance: fidgety, busy, he could not live in one place for two hours. Every day he traveled from us to Moscow, sometimes twice, and all, as he himself assured, on business. It would be difficult to find a more cheerful and good-natured face than this comic and yet always decent physiognomy. Not only did he love his wife to the point of weakness, to the point of pity, he simply worshiped her like an idol. He didn't embarrass her in any way. She had many friends and girlfriends. Firstly, few people disliked her, and secondly, she was an anemone and she herself was not too picky in choosing her friends, although the basis of her character was much more serious than one might assume, judging by what I have now told . But of all her friends, she loved and distinguished one young lady most, her distant relative, who was now also in our company. There was some kind of tender, refined connection between them, one of those connections that sometimes arise when two characters meet, often completely opposite friends friend, but one of whom is stricter, deeper, and purer than the other, while the other, with high humility and a noble sense of self-esteem, lovingly submits to him, feeling all his superiority over himself, and, like happiness, encloses him in his heart friendship. Then this tender and noble refinement begins in the relationships of such characters: love and condescension to the end, on the one hand, love and respect on the other, respect that reaches the point of some kind of fear, to fear for oneself in the eyes of the one who is so You value him highly, and to the point of a jealous, greedy desire to come closer and closer to his heart with every step in life. Both friends were the same age, but there was an immeasurable difference between them in everything, starting with beauty. M-me M* was also very pretty, but there was something special about her beauty that sharply separated her from the crowd of pretty women; there was something in her face that immediately irresistibly attracted all sympathies, or, better to say, that awakened noble, sublime sympathy in those who met her. There are such happy faces. Around her, everyone felt somehow better, somehow freer, somehow warmer, and yet, her sad big eyes, full of fire and strength, looked timidly and restlessly, as if under the every minute fear of something hostile and menacing, and this strange timidity sometimes covered her quiet, meek features, reminiscent of the bright faces of Italian Madonnas, with such despondency that, looking at her, he himself soon felt the same way sad, as if for your own, as for your native sadness. This pale, thinner face, in which, through the immaculate beauty of clean, regular lines and the dull severity of dull, hidden melancholy, the original, childish, clear appearance still so often shone through - the image of still recent trusting years and, perhaps, naive happiness; this quiet, but timid, hesitant smile - all this struck with such unconscious sympathy for this woman that a sweet, warm concern involuntarily arose in everyone’s heart, which spoke loudly for her from afar and made her closer to her even in a stranger. But the beauty seemed somehow silent, secretive, although, of course, there was no more attentive and loving creature when someone needed sympathy. There are women who are definitely sisters of mercy in life. You don’t have to hide anything in front of them, at least nothing that is sick and wounded in your soul. Whoever is suffering, go to them boldly and with hope and do not be afraid to be a burden, because few of us know how infinitely patient love, compassion and forgiveness can be in another woman’s heart. Whole treasures of sympathy, consolation, hope are stored in these pure hearts , so often also wounded, because a heart that loves a lot saddens a lot, but where the wound is carefully closed from a curious glance, because deep grief is most often silent and hidden. Neither the depth of the wound, nor its pus, nor its stench will frighten them: whoever approaches them is worthy of them; Yes, however, they seem to be born for heroic deeds... M-me M* was tall, flexible and slender, but somewhat thin. All her movements were somehow uneven, sometimes slow, smooth and even somehow important, sometimes childishly quick, and at the same time some kind of timid humility was visible in her gesture, something as if trembling and unprotected, but no one not asking or begging for protection. I have already said that the disgraceful claims of the insidious blonde shamed me, cut me, stung me until I bled. But there was also a secret, strange, stupid reason for this, which I hid, for which I trembled like kashchei, and even at the mere thought of it, alone with my head thrown back, somewhere in a mysterious, dark corner where I did not trespass the inquisitorial, mocking look of no blue-eyed rogue, at the mere thought of this subject I almost choked with embarrassment, shame and fear - in a word, I was in love, that is, let’s assume that I said nonsense: this could not be; but why was it that out of all the faces surrounding me, only one face caught my attention? Why did I love to follow her with my eyes, although I was decidedly not in the mood then to look out for ladies and get to know them? This happened most often in the evenings, when bad weather locked everyone in their rooms and when I, hiding alone somewhere in the corner of the hall, looked aimlessly around, absolutely not finding any other thing to do, because rarely did anyone talk to me, except for my persecutors. , and on such evenings I was unbearably bored. Then I peered into the faces around me, listened to the conversation, in which I often did not understand a word, and at that time the quiet glances, the gentle smile and the beautiful face of m-me M* (because it was she), God knows why, they were caught by my enchanted attention, and this strange, vague, but incomprehensibly sweet impression of mine was not erased. Often for whole hours I seemed unable to tear myself away from her; I memorized every gesture, every movement of her, listened to every vibration of her thick, silvery, but somewhat muffled voice and a strange thing! - from all my observations I brought out, along with a timid and sweet impression, some kind of incomprehensible curiosity. It looked as if I was trying to find out some secret. .. The most painful thing for me was the ridicule in the presence of m-me M*. These ridicule and comic persecution, in my opinion, even humiliated me. And when it happened that there was general laughter at my expense, in which even m-me M* sometimes unwittingly took part, then I, in despair, beside myself with grief, broke away from my tyrants and ran upstairs, where I ran wild for the rest of the day , not daring to show his face in the hall. However, I myself still did not understand either my shame or excitement; the whole process was experienced in me unconsciously. With m-me M* I hardly said two more words, and, of course, I would not have dared to do so. But then one evening, after a most unbearable day for me, I fell behind the others on a walk, was terribly tired and made my way home through the garden. On one bench, in a secluded alley, I saw m-me M*. She sat alone, as if she had deliberately chosen such a secluded place, bowing her head on her chest and mechanically fingering a handkerchief in her hands. She was so deep in thought that she didn’t even hear me come up to her. Noticing me, she quickly rose from the bench, turned away and, I saw, hastily wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. She cried. Drying her eyes, she smiled at me and went home with me. I don’t remember what we talked about; but she constantly sent me away under various pretexts: either she asked me to pick a flower for her, or to see who was riding on horseback in the neighboring alley. And when I left her, she immediately again raised the handkerchief to her eyes and wiped away the disobedient tears that did not want to leave her, which kept boiling up in her heart again and again and kept pouring out of her poor eyes. I understood that, apparently, I was a great burden to her when she sent me away so often, and she herself already saw that I noticed everything, but she just couldn’t help herself, and this tormented me even more for her. I was angry with myself at that moment almost to the point of despair, I cursed myself for my awkwardness and lack of resourcefulness, and yet I didn’t know how to deftly leave her behind without showing that I had noticed her grief, but I walked next to her, in sad amazement, even in frightened, completely confused and absolutely unable to find a single word to support our impoverished conversation. This meeting struck me so much that all evening I quietly followed m-me M* with greedy curiosity and did not take my eyes off her. But it so happened that she took me by surprise twice in the midst of my observations, and the second time, noticing me, she smiled. It was her only smile all evening. The sadness had not yet left her face, which was now very pale. All the time she spoke quietly with one elderly lady, an angry and grumpy old woman, whom no one liked for spying and gossip, but whom everyone was afraid of, and therefore were forced to please her in every possible way, willy-nilly. .. At about ten o'clock m-me M*'s husband arrived. Until now I had been watching her very closely, without taking my eyes off her sad face; now, at the unexpected entrance of her husband, I saw how she shuddered all over and her face, already pale, suddenly became whiter than a handkerchief. It was so noticeable that others also noticed: I heard a fragmentary conversation to the side, from which I somehow guessed that poor m-me M* was not entirely well. They said that her husband was jealous like a blackamoor, not out of love, but out of pride. First of all, he was a European, a modern man, with examples of new ideas and vain about his ideas. In appearance, he was a black-haired, tall and especially heavy-set gentleman, with European sideburns, a smug, ruddy face, teeth as white as sugar and an impeccable gentleman's bearing. They called him a smart man. This is how in some circles they call one special breed of humanity that has grown fat at someone else’s expense, who does absolutely nothing, who wants to do absolutely nothing, and who, due to eternal laziness and doing nothing, has a piece of fat instead of a heart. You constantly hear from them that they have nothing to do due to some very complicated, hostile circumstances that “tire their genius,” and that, therefore, they are “sad to look at.” This is such an accepted pompous phrase for them, their mot d'ordre, their password and slogan, a phrase that my well-fed fat men lavish everywhere every minute, which has long been starting to get boring, like outright Tartuffe and an empty word. However, some of these funny people, those who cannot find what to do - which, however, they have never looked for - are aiming precisely at this, so that everyone thinks that what they have instead of a heart is not fat, but, on the contrary, generally speaking, something very deep , but what exactly - the very first surgeon would not say anything about this, of course, out of politeness. These gentlemen make their way in the world by directing all their instincts towards rude mockery, the most short-sighted condemnation and immense pride. Since they have nothing else to do how to notice and confirm other people's mistakes and weaknesses, and since they have as much good feeling as an oyster is given, it is not difficult for them, with such precautions, to live with people quite carefully. They, for example, are almost sure that they have almost the whole world on rent; that he is like an oyster for them, which they take in reserve; that everyone except them is fools; that everyone is like an orange or a sponge, which they will squeeze out until they need the juice; that they are the masters of everything and that this whole commendable order of things occurs precisely because they are such intelligent and characterful people. In their immense pride, they do not allow shortcomings in themselves. They are similar to that breed of everyday cheats, born Tartuffes and Falstaffs, who became so lost that they finally became convinced that this was how it should be, that is, in order to live and cheat; They so often assured everyone that they were honest people that they finally became convinced that they were really honest people and that their cheating was an honest matter. They will never be enough for a conscientious inner judgment, for a noble self-esteem: for other things they are too thick. In the foreground they always and in everything have their own golden person, their Moloch and Baal, their magnificent self. All nature, the whole world for them is nothing more than one magnificent mirror, which was created so that my little god would constantly admire himself in it and not see anyone or anything because of himself; After this, it’s no wonder that he sees everything in the world in such an ugly form. He has a ready-made phrase for everything, and - which, however, is the height of dexterity on their part - the most fashionable phrase. Even they contribute to this fashion, unfoundedly spreading to all crossroads the idea that they sense success. It is they who have the instinct to sniff out such a fashionable phrase and adopt it before others, so that it seems as if it came from them. They are especially stocked up with their phrases to express their deepest sympathy for humanity, to define what the most correct and rationally justified philanthropy is, and, finally, to endlessly punish romanticism, that is, often everything beautiful and true, each atom of which is more expensive than the whole of their slug breeds But they rudely do not recognize the truth in an evasive, transitional and unready form and push away everything that has not yet matured, is not settled and is wandering. A well-fed man has lived his whole life intoxicated, with everything ready, he has done nothing himself and does not know how difficult any task is to do, and therefore it is a disaster if some roughness hurts his fat feelings: for this he will never forgive, he will always remember and take revenge with pleasure . The bottom line is that my hero is nothing less than a gigantic, extremely bloated bag, full of maxims, fashionable phrases and labels of all kinds and varieties. But, however, Mr. M* also had a peculiarity, he was a remarkable person: he was a wit, a talker and a storyteller, and a circle always gathered around him in the living rooms. That evening he especially managed to make an impression. He mastered the conversation; he was in a good mood, cheerful, happy about something and made everyone look at him. But m-me M* was like sick all the time; Her face was so sad that it seemed to me every minute that the tears of the past would tremble on her long eyelashes. All this, as I said, amazed and surprised me extremely. I left with a feeling of some strange curiosity, and all night I dreamed of Mr. M*, whereas before then I had rarely seen ugly dreams. The next day, early in the morning, they called me to a rehearsal of live pictures, in which I also had a role. Live paintings, theater and then a ball - all in one evening, were scheduled no more than five days later, on the occasion of a home holiday - the birthday of our host's youngest daughter. About a hundred more guests were invited to this almost improvised holiday from Moscow and the surrounding dachas, so there was a lot of fuss, trouble, and turmoil. Rehearsals, or, better to say, costume review, were scheduled at the wrong time, in the morning, because our director, the famous artist R*, was a friend and guest of our host, who, out of friendship for him, agreed to take on the writing and staging of the pictures, and at the same time our Having completed his training, he was now in a hurry to the city to purchase props and make final preparations for the holiday, so there was no time to waste. I participated in one film, together with m-me M*. The painting expressed a scene from medieval life and was called “The Lady of the Castle and Her Page.” I felt an inexplicable embarrassment when I met m-me M* at the rehearsal. It seemed to me that she immediately read from my eyes all the thoughts, doubts, guesses that had arisen in my head since yesterday. In addition, it seemed to me that I was somehow guilty before her, having caught her tears yesterday and interfered with her grief, so that she would inevitably have to look askance at me, as if I were an unpleasant witness and an uninvited participant in her secret. But, thank God, it went off without much trouble: they simply didn’t notice me. She, it seems, had no time for me or the rehearsal: she was absent-minded, sad and gloomily thoughtful; it was clear that she was tormented by some great concern. Having finished my role, I ran to change clothes and ten minutes later went out onto the terrace into the garden. Almost at the same time, m-me M* also came out of other doors, and just opposite us appeared her smug husband, who was returning from the garden, having just escorted a whole group of ladies there and there having managed to hand them over to some idle cavalier servant. The meeting of husband and wife was obviously unexpected. M-me M*, for some unknown reason, suddenly became embarrassed, and slight annoyance flashed through her impatient movement. The husband, who had been carelessly whistling an aria and thoughtfully groomed his sideburns all the way, now, upon meeting his wife, frowned and looked at her, as I now remember, with a decidedly inquisitorial gaze. -Are you going to the garden? - he asked, noticing the ombre and the book in his wife’s hands. “No, to the grove,” she answered, blushing slightly. - Alone? “With him...” m-me M* said, pointing at me. “I’m walking alone in the morning,” she added in an uneven, vague voice, exactly the kind when someone is lying for the first time in their life. - Hm... And I just took a whole company there. There everyone gathers at the flower gazebo to see off N-go. He’s traveling, you know... some kind of trouble happened to him there, in Odessa... Your cousin (he was talking about the blonde) is laughing and almost crying, all at once, you can’t make her out. She told me, however, that you were angry with N-th for something and that’s why you didn’t go to see him off. Of course it's nonsense? “She’s laughing,” m-me M* answered, coming down from the steps of the terrace. - So this is your everyday cavalier servant? - added Mr. M*, twisting his mouth and pointing his lorgnette at me. - Page! - I shouted, angry for the lorgnette and ridicule, and, laughing right in his face, jumped over three steps of the terrace at once... - Happy journey! - Mr. M* muttered and went his way. Of course, I immediately went up to m-me M* as soon as she pointed me out to her husband, and looked as if she had already invited me an hour ago and as if I had been going for walks with her in the morning for a whole month. But I just couldn’t make out: why was she so embarrassed, embarrassed, and what was on her mind when she decided to resort to her little lie? Why didn't she just say she was going alone? Now I didn’t know how to look at her; but, struck by surprise, I, however, very naively began to little by little look into her face; but, just like an hour ago, at the rehearsal, she did not notice any peeps or my silent questions. The same painful concern, but even more clearly, even deeper than then, was reflected in her face, in her excitement, in her gait. She was in a hurry somewhere, quickening her pace more and more, and anxiously looked into every alley, into every clearing of the grove, turning to the side of the garden. And I also expected something. Suddenly, a horse's clatter was heard behind us. It was a whole cavalcade of riders and riders, seeing off that N-go, who so suddenly left our society. Among the ladies was my blonde, about whom Mr. M* spoke, talking about her tears. But, as usual, she laughed like a child and galloped briskly on a beautiful bay horse. Having caught up with us, N. took off his hat, but did not stop and did not say a word to m-me M*. Soon the whole gang disappeared from sight. I looked at m-me M* and almost screamed in amazement: she stood as pale as a handkerchief and large tears were coming out of her eyes. By chance our glances met: m-me M* suddenly blushed, turned away for a moment, and anxiety and annoyance clearly flashed across her face. I was superfluous, worse than yesterday - this clearer than day, but where should I go? Suddenly m-me M*, as if she had guessed it, unfolded the book she had in her hands, and, blushing, obviously trying not to look at me, she said, as if she had just come to her senses: “Ah!” this is the second part, I was wrong; please bring me the first one. How can you not understand! my role was over, and it was impossible to drive me along a more direct path. I ran away with her book and never came back. The first part lay calmly on the table that morning... But I wasn’t myself; my heart was beating as if in constant fear. I tried with all my might not to somehow meet m-me M*. But I looked with some wild curiosity at the smug person m-r M*, as if there must now certainly be something special about him. I absolutely don’t understand what was in this comic curiosity of mine; I only remember that I was in some strange surprise at everything that I happened to see that morning. But my day was just beginning, and for me it was full of incidents. We had lunch very early this time. In the evening a general pleasure trip was scheduled to a neighboring village for a village festival that had taken place there, and therefore time was needed to prepare. I had already been dreaming about this trip for three days, expecting an abyss of fun. Almost everyone gathered on the terrace to drink coffee. I carefully made my way behind the others and hid behind the triple row of chairs. I was attracted by curiosity, and yet I never wanted to show myself to m-me M*. But chance chose to place me not far from my blonde persecutor. This time a miracle happened to her, an impossible thing: she became twice as beautiful. I don’t know how and why this is done, but such miracles even often happen to women. Between us at that moment there was a new guest, a tall, pale-faced young man, a registered admirer of our blonde, who had just arrived to us from Moscow, as if on purpose to replace the departed N-go, about whom it was rumored that he was desperately in love into our beauty. As for the newcomer, he had long been with her in exactly the same relationship as Benedick to Beatrice in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Trifles. In short, our beauty was extremely successful that day. Her jokes and chatter were so graceful, so trustingly naive, so forgivably careless; With such graceful self-confidence she was confident in everyone’s delight that she really was in some kind of special worship all the time. There was a tight circle of surprised listeners around her, admiring her, and she had never been so seductive. Every word she said was a temptation and a wonder, it was caught and passed around, and not a single joke of hers, not a single trick was in vain. It seems that no one expected so much taste, brilliance, and intelligence from her. All her best qualities were daily buried in the most willful extravagance, in the most stubborn schoolboyism, reaching almost to buffoonery; Rarely did anyone notice them; and if she noticed, she didn’t believe them, so now her extraordinary success was met with a universal passionate whisper of amazement. However, this success was facilitated by one special, rather delicate circumstance, at least judging by the role that m-me M*’s husband played at the same time. The prankster decided - and it must be added: almost to everyone's pleasure, or at least to the pleasure of all the youth, to fiercely attack him for many reasons, probably very important in her eyes. She started with him a whole skirmish of witticisms, ridicule, sarcasm, the most irresistible and slippery, the most insidious, closed and smooth from all sides, the kind that hit right on target, but which cannot be attached to on either side to fight back and which only exhaust in fruitless efforts the victim, driving him to rage and to the most comic despair. I probably don’t know, but it seems that this whole prank was deliberate, and not improvised. Even at lunch this desperate duel began. I say “desperate” because Mr. M* did not put down his weapon soon. He needed to muster all his presence of mind, all his wit, all his rare resourcefulness, so as not to be crushed into dust, completely, and not to be covered with decisive disgrace. The case went on with continuous and uncontrollable laughter from all witnesses and participants in the battle. At least today was different for him from yesterday. It was noticeable that m-me M* tried several times to stop her careless friend, who, in turn, certainly wanted to dress up jealous husband in the most clownish and funny costume, and I must assume, in the costume of “Bluebeard”, judging by all the probabilities, judging by what remains in my memory, and, finally, by the role that I myself happened to play in this clash . It happened suddenly, in the most ridiculous way, completely unexpectedly, and, as if on purpose, at that moment I stood in plain sight, not suspecting evil and even forgetting about my recent precautions. Suddenly I was brought to the fore as a sworn enemy and natural rival m-r M*, how desperately, to the last degree, in love with his wife, which my tyrant immediately swore, gave her word, said that she had evidence and that just like, for example, today she saw in the forest... But she Before she had time to finish, I interrupted her at my most desperate moment. This minute was so shamelessly calculated, so treacherously prepared for the very end, for the clownish denouement, and so hilariously funny, that a whole explosion of uncontrollable, universal laughter saluted this last trick. And although I realized then that the most annoying role did not fall to my lot, I was so embarrassed, irritated and frightened that, full of tears, melancholy and despair, choking with shame, I broke through the two rows of chairs and stepped forward. and, turning to my tyrant, he shouted in a voice broken from tears and indignation: “And aren’t you ashamed... out loud... in front of all the ladies... to say such a bad... lie?!.. to you, as if you were little... .. in front of all the men... What will they say?.. you are so big... married!.. But I didn’t finish, there was deafening applause. My trick created a real furore. My naive gesture, my tears, and most importantly, the fact that I seemed to come out to defend Mr. M*, all this produced such hellish laughter that even now, with just the memory, I myself feel terribly funny... I was dumbfounded, almost went mad with horror and, burning like gunpowder, covering his face with his hands, rushed out, knocked the tray out of the hands of an entering footman at the door and flew upstairs to his room. I tore out the key that was sticking out from the door and locked myself from the inside. I did well, because they were chasing me. Not a minute had passed before my door was besieged by a whole gang of the prettiest of all our ladies. I heard their ringing laughter, their frequent conversation, their roaring voices; they all chirped at once, like swallows. All of them, every single one, asked, begged me to open the door for at least one minute; They swore that they would not harm me in the slightest, but that they would only kiss the dust of me. But... what could be more terrible than this new threat? I just burned with shame behind my door, hiding my face in the pillows, and didn’t open it, didn’t even respond. They knocked and begged me for a long time, but I was insensitive and deaf, like an eleven-year-old. Well, what should we do now? everything is open, everything has been revealed, everything that I so jealously guarded and concealed... Eternal shame and disgrace will fall on me!.. In truth, I myself did not know how to name what I was so afraid of and what I would like to hide; but, nevertheless, I was afraid of something, for the discovery of this something I still trembled like a leaf. The only thing I didn’t know until that moment was what it was: is it good or bad, glorious or shameful, commendable or not commendable? Now, in torment and violent anguish, I learned that it was funny and shameful! I felt instinctively at the same time that such a sentence was false, inhumane, and rude; but I was defeated, destroyed; the process of consciousness seemed to stop and become entangled in me; I could neither resist this sentence nor even discuss it thoroughly: I was foggy; I only heard that my heart was inhuman, shamelessly wounded, and burst into powerless tears. I was annoyed; indignation and hatred seethed within me, which I had never known before, because only for the first time in my life did I experience serious grief, insult, and resentment; and all this was really so, without any exaggeration. In me, as a child, the first, inexperienced, uneducated feeling was rudely touched, the first fragrant virginal shame was so early exposed and desecrated, and the first and, perhaps, very serious aesthetic impression was ridiculed. Of course, my mockers did not know much and did not foresee much in my torment. Half of this included one hidden circumstance, which I myself did not have time to understand and was somehow still afraid of. In anguish and despair, I continued to lie on my bed, covering my face in the pillows; and heat and trembling washed over me alternately. I was tormented by two questions: what did I see and what exactly could the worthless blonde see today in the grove between me and m-me M*? And finally, the second question: how, with what eyes, with what means can I now look into the face of m-me M* and not die at that very moment, in the same place, from shame and despair. An extraordinary noise in the yard finally awakened me from the semi-consciousness in which I was. I got up and went to the window. The entire courtyard was cluttered with carriages, riding horses and bustling servants. Everyone seemed to be leaving; several horsemen were already mounted; other guests were accommodated in carriages... Then I remembered the upcoming trip, and little by little, anxiety began to penetrate my heart; I began to look intently at the yard of my cleaver; but there was no cloper, so they forgot about me. I couldn’t stand it and ran headlong downstairs, not thinking about the unpleasant encounters or my recent shame... Terrible news awaited me. This time there was neither a riding horse nor a place in the carriage for me: everything was dismantled, occupied, and I was forced to give way to others. Struck by new grief, I stopped on the porch and sadly looked at the long row of carriages, convertibles, carriages, in which there was not even the smallest corner for me, and at the elegant riders, under which impatient horses pranced. For some reason one of the riders hesitated. We were just waiting for him to go. His horse stood at the entrance, gnawing at the bit, digging the ground with its hooves, constantly shuddering and rearing with fear. Two grooms carefully held him by the bridle, and everyone cautiously stood at a respectful distance from him. In fact, an unfortunate circumstance happened that made it impossible for me to go. In addition to the fact that new guests arrived and dismantled all the places and all the horses, two riding horses fell ill, one of which was my clapper. But I was not the only one who had to suffer from this circumstance: it was discovered that for our new guest, that pale-faced young man , which I already mentioned, also does not have a riding horse. In order to avert trouble, our owner was forced to resort to extremes: recommending his wild, unridden stallion, adding, to clear his conscience, that he could not be ridden at all and that he had long been planned to be sold for his wild character, if, however, there was a buyer for him . But the forewarned guest announced that he drives well, and in any case is ready to ride anything, just to get going. The owner was silent then, but now it seemed to me that some kind of ambiguous and sly smile was wandering on his lips. While waiting for the rider to boast of his skill, he himself had not yet mounted his horse, but impatiently rubbed his hands and kept glancing at the door. Even something similar was said to the two grooms who were holding the stallion and were almost out of breath with pride, seeing themselves in front of the entire public with such a horse, which, no, no, and would kill a man for no reason at all. Something similar to the sly smile of their master shone in their eyes, bulging with anticipation and also directed at the door from which the visiting daredevil was supposed to appear. Finally, the horse himself behaved as if he, too, had come to an agreement with the owner and counselors: he behaved proudly and arrogantly, as if feeling that he was being watched by several dozen curious eyes, and as if proud of his shameful reputation in front of everyone, exactly like some other incorrigible rake he is proud of his gallows tricks. It seemed that he was calling for a daredevil who would dare to encroach on his independence. This daredevil finally showed up. Ashamed that he had kept himself waiting, and hastily pulling on his gloves, he walked forward without looking, went down the steps of the porch and raised his eyes only when he reached out his hand to grab the waiting horse by the withers, but was suddenly puzzled by its mad rearing and a warning cry from the entire frightened public. The young man stepped back and looked in bewilderment at the wild horse, which was trembling all over like a leaf, snoring with anger and wildly moving its bloodshot eyes, constantly sitting on its hind legs and raising its front legs, as if about to rush into the air and take both of its leaders with it. For a minute he stood completely puzzled; then, slightly blushing from slight embarrassment, he raised his eyes, looked around them and looked at the frightened ladies. - The horse is very good! - he said as if to himself. - and from the looks of it, it must be a lot of fun to drive, but guess what? After all, I’m not going,” he concluded, turning to our host with his wide, simple-minded smile, which suited his kind and intelligent face so well. “And yet I consider you an excellent rider, I swear to you,” answered the delighted owner of the inaccessible horse, warmly and even gratefully shaking his guest’s hand, “precisely because you guessed from the first time what kind of beast you were dealing with,” he added with dignity. Believe me, I, who served in the hussars for twenty-three years, have already had the pleasure of lying on the ground three times by his grace, that is, exactly as many times as I sat on this... parasite. Tancred, my friend, the people here are not for you; apparently, your rider is some Ilya Muromets and is now sitting in the village of Karacharovo and waiting for your teeth to fall out. Well, take him away! He's done scaring people! It was in vain that they were taken out,” he concluded, rubbing his hands smugly. It should be noted that Tancred did not bring him the slightest benefit, he only ate bread for nothing; in addition, the old hussar ruined all his seasoned reputation as a repairman on him, having paid a fabulous price for a worthless parasite who rode only on his beauty... Still, now he was delighted that his Tancred had not lost his dignity, sp` He ate another rider and thus gained new, stupid laurels for himself. - What, you’re not going? - shouted the blonde, who absolutely needed her cavalier servant to be with her this time. -Are you really a coward? - By God, it’s like that! - answered the young man. - And you're serious? - Listen, do you really want me to break my neck? - So quickly mount my horse: don’t be afraid, she’s humble. We will not delay; they'll re-saddle in no time! I'll try to take yours; It cannot be that Tancred has always been so discourteous. No sooner said than done! The minx jumped out of the saddle and finished the last phrase, already stopping in front of us. “You don’t know Tancred well if you think that he will allow himself to be saddled with your worthless saddle!” And I won’t let you break your neck; That would really be a pity! - said our host, affecting, at this moment of inner contentment, according to his usual habit, the already affected and studied harshness and even rudeness of his speech, which, in his opinion, recommended a good man, an old servant and should especially appeal to the ladies. This was one of his fantasies, his favorite hobby, familiar to all of us. - Well, you crybaby, don’t you want to try? “You really wanted to go,” said the brave rider, noticing me, and, teasingly, nodded at Tancred - in fact, so as not to leave with nothing, since I had to get off my horse for nothing, and not to leave me without a barbed word, if I made a mistake myself, it turned out to be a blind eye. - You’re probably not like... well, what can I say, famous hero and you will be ashamed to be afraid; especially when they look at you, wonderful page,” she added, glancing briefly at Mme M*, whose carriage was closest to the porch. Hatred and a feeling of vengeance filled my heart when the beautiful Amazon approached us with the intention of mounting Tancred... But I cannot tell you how I felt at this unexpected challenge from the schoolgirl. It was as if I had not seen the light when I caught her glance at m-me M*. Instantly an idea lit up in my head... yes, however, it was only a moment, less than a moment, like a flash of gunpowder, or the measure had already overflowed, and I suddenly now became indignant with all my resurrected spirit, so much so that I suddenly wanted to cut off strike down all my enemies and take revenge on them for everything and in front of everyone, showing now what kind of person I am; or, finally, someone taught me some marvel at this moment of middle history, of which I still did not know a single basic thing, and tournaments, paladins, heroes, beautiful ladies, glory and winners flashed in my dizzy head, the trumpets of heralds, the sounds of swords, the screams and splashes of the crowd were heard, and between all these screams one timid cry of one frightened heart, which touches a proud soul sweeter than victory and glory - I don’t know whether then all this nonsense happened in my head or, more accurately, , a premonition of this still to come and inevitable nonsense, but only I heard that my hour was striking. My heart jumped, trembled, and I don’t even remember how in one leap I jumped off the porch and found myself next to Tancred. - Do you think I’ll be scared? - I cried out boldly and proudly, unable to see the light from my fever, choking with excitement and blushing so that tears burned my cheeks. - But you'll see! - And, grabbing Tancred’s withers, I put my foot in the stirrup before they had time to make the slightest movement to hold me back; but at that moment Tancred reared up, threw up his head, with one mighty leap escaped from the hands of the dumbfounded grooms and flew like a whirlwind, only everyone gasped and screamed. God knows how I managed to lift my other leg all the way; I also don’t understand how it happened that I didn’t lose my reasons. Tancred carried me beyond the lattice gate, turned sharply to the right and set off past the lattice in vain, without making out the road. Only at that moment did I hear the cry of fifty voices behind me, and this cry resonated in my sinking heart with such a feeling of contentment and pride that I will never forget this crazy moment of my childhood life. All the blood rushed into my head, stunned me and flooded me, crushing my fear. I didn't remember myself. Indeed, as I now had to remember, there was indeed something chivalrous in all this. However, my entire knighthood began and ended in less than an instant, otherwise it would have been bad for the knight. And even here I don’t know how I escaped. I knew how to ride a horse: I was taught. But my cloper looked more like a sheep than a riding horse. Of course, I would fly off Tancred if he only had time to throw me off; but, having galloped about fifty steps, he suddenly became frightened by a huge stone that lay by the road and shied away back. He turned on the fly, but so abruptly, as they say, headlong, that even now I have a problem: how did I not jump out of the saddle like a ball, three fathoms, and not break into pieces, and Tancred from such sharp turn I didn’t brace my legs. He rushed back to the gate, shaking his head furiously, spinning from side to side, as if drunk with rage, throwing his legs haphazardly into the air and with each jump shaking me off his back, as if a tiger had jumped on him and bit into his meat with its teeth and claws. Another moment - and I would have flown off; I was already falling; but several horsemen were already flying to save me. Two of them intercepted the road into the field; the other two galloped so close that they almost crushed my legs, squeezing Tancred on both sides with the sides of their horses, and both were already holding his reins. A few seconds later we were at the porch. I was taken off the horse, pale and barely breathing. I was trembling all over, like a blade of grass in the wind, just like Tancred, who stood, leaning his whole body back, motionless, as if he had dug his hooves into the ground, heavily releasing fiery breath from his red, smoking nostrils, trembling all over like a leaf, with small tremors and seemed dumbfounded from insult and anger at the child’s unpunished insolence. All around me there were cries of confusion, surprise, and fear. At that moment, my wandering gaze met the gaze of m-me M*, alarmed, pale, and - I cannot forget this moment - instantly my whole face turned red, blushed, lit up like fire; I don’t know what happened to me, but, embarrassed and frightened by my own feeling, I timidly lowered my eyes to the ground. But my gaze was noticed, caught, stolen from me. All eyes turned to m-me M*, and, taken by surprise by everyone’s attention, she suddenly, like a child, blushed from some kind of unwilling and naive feeling and through force, although very unsuccessfully, tried to suppress her blush with laughter... All this, if you look from the outside, was, of course, very funny; but at that moment one naive and unexpected trick saved me from everyone’s laughter, giving a special flavor to the whole adventure. The culprit of all the turmoil, she who until now had been my implacable enemy, my beautiful tyrant, suddenly rushed to hug and kiss me. She looked in disbelief when I dared to accept her challenge and pick up the glove that she threw to me, looking at m-me M*. She almost died for me from fear and remorse when I flew on Tancred; now, when it was all over and especially when she caught, along with others, my glance thrown at m-me M*, my embarrassment, my sudden blush, when she finally managed to give this moment, in the romantic mood of her light-minded head, some new, hidden, unspoken thought, now, after all this, she was so delighted with my “knighthood” that she rushed to me and pressed me to her chest, touched, proud of me, joyful. A minute later, she raised her most naive, most stern face, on which two small crystal tears were trembling and shining, at everyone crowding around us both, and in a serious, important voice that had never been heard from her, she said, pointing at me: “Mais c.” est tres serieux, messieurs, ne riez ras!" - without noticing that everyone is standing in front of her as if spellbound, admiring her bright delight. All this unexpected, quick movement of her, this serious face, this simple-minded naivety, these unsuspecting Until then, the heartfelt tears that boiled in her ever-laughing eyes were such an unexpected wonder in her that everyone stood in front of her as if electrified by her gaze, quick, fiery word and gesture. It seemed that no one could take their eyes off her, afraid to lower this a rare moment in her inspired face. Even our host himself blushed like a tulip, and they claim that they heard him later admit that, “to his shame,” he was in love with his beautiful guest for almost a whole minute. Well, of course, after all this I was a knight, a hero. - Delorge! Togenburg! - was heard all around. Applause was heard. - Oh yes, the coming generation! - added the owner. - But he will go, he will certainly come with us! - the beauty screamed. - We will find and must find a place for him. He will sit next to me, on my lap... or no, no! I was mistaken!.. - she corrected herself, laughing and being unable to contain her laughter at the memory of our first acquaintance. But, laughing, she gently stroked my hand, trying with all her might to caress me so that I would not be offended. - Definitely! certainly! - several voices echoed. - He must go, he has won his place. And the matter was resolved instantly. The same old maid who introduced me to the blonde was immediately bombarded with requests from all the young people to stay at home and give me their place, to which she was forced to agree, to her great chagrin, smiling and quietly hissing with anger. Her protector, around which she hovered, my former enemy and a recent friend, shouted to her, already galloping on her frisky horse and laughing like a child, that she envied her and would be glad to stay with her, because now it will rain and will wet us all. And she definitely predicted rain. An hour later there was a whole downpour, and our walk was lost. I had to wait for several hours in a row village huts and return home already at ten o’clock, in the damp, post-rain time. I started to have a slight fever. At that very moment when I had to sit down and go, m-me M* came up to me and was surprised that I was wearing only a jacket and with an open neck. I replied that I did not have time to take my cloak with me. She took a pin and, pinning the ruffled collar of my shirt higher, took the gauze scarlet scarf from her neck and tied it around my neck so that I wouldn’t catch a cold in my throat. She was in such a hurry that I didn’t even have time to thank her. But when we arrived home, I found her in the small living room, along with the blonde and the pale-faced young man who today gained fame as a rider by being afraid to mount Tancred. I came up to thank him and give him the handkerchief. But now, after all my adventures, I seemed ashamed of something; I rather wanted to go upstairs and there, at my leisure, think and judge something. I was overwhelmed with impressions. Handing over the handkerchief, as usual, I blushed from ear to ear. “I bet he wanted to keep the handkerchief for himself,” said the young man laughing, “you can see in his eyes that he is sorry to part with your handkerchief.” - Exactly, exactly like that! - the blonde picked up. - Hey! ah!.. - she said, with noticeable annoyance and shaking her head, but stopped in time before the serious look of m-me M*, who did not want to take the joke too far. I quickly walked away. - Well, what are you like! - the schoolgirl spoke, catching up with me in another room and taking both hands in a friendly manner. - Yes, you just wouldn’t give away the scarf if you wanted to have it so much. I would say that I put it somewhere, and that would be the end of it. What are you like? I couldn't do that! How funny! And then she lightly hit me on the chin with her finger, laughing at the fact that I turned red as a poppy: “After all, I’m your friend now, aren’t I?” Is our feud over, huh? Yes or no? I laughed and silently shook her fingers. - Well, that’s it!.. Why are you so pale and trembling now? Do you have chills? - Yes, I'm unwell. - Oh, poor thing! it's from him strong impressions! You know? Better go to bed without waiting for dinner, and for the night will pass. Let's go to. She took me upstairs, and it seemed like there would be no end to my care. Leaving me to undress, she ran downstairs, got me some tea and brought it herself when I had already gone to bed. She also brought me a warm blanket. I was very amazed and touched by all these cares and concerns about me, or I was so determined by the whole day, the trip, the fever; but, saying goodbye to her, I hugged her tightly and warmly, like the most tender, like the closest friend, and then all the impressions rushed to my weakened heart at once; I almost cried, clinging to her chest. She noticed my impressionability, and it seems that my minx herself was a little touched... “You are a kind boy,” she whispered, looking at me with quiet eyes, please don’t be angry with me, huh? you will not? In a word, we have become the most tender, the most true friends. It was quite early when I woke up, but the sun was already flooding the whole room with bright light. I jumped out of bed, completely healthy and cheerful, as if yesterday’s fever had never happened, instead of which I now felt an inexplicable joy within me. I remembered yesterday and felt that I would give a whole lot of happiness if I could hug at that moment, like yesterday, with my new friend, with our fair-haired beauty; but it was still very early and everyone was asleep. Having quickly dressed, I went into the garden, and from there into the grove. I made my way to where the greenery was thicker, where the resinous smell of the trees was, and where the sun’s rays peeked in more cheerfully, rejoicing that I managed to pierce here and there the hazy density of the leaves. It was a beautiful morning. Imperceptibly making my way further and further, I finally came out to the other edge of the grove, to the Moscow River. It flowed two hundred paces ahead, under the mountain. On the opposite bank they were cutting hay. I looked at how whole rows of sharp braids, with each swing of the mower, were bathed in light and then suddenly disappeared again, like fiery snakes, as if they were hiding somewhere; how the grass, cut from the roots, flew to the sides in thick, fat breasts and was laid in straight, long furrows. I don’t remember how much time I spent in contemplation, when I suddenly woke up, hearing in a grove, about twenty steps from me, in a clearing that ran from the main road to master's house, snoring and the impatient tramp of a horse digging its hoof into the ground. I don’t know whether I heard this horse immediately when the rider rode up and stopped, or whether I had been hearing the noise for a long time, but it only tickled my ear in vain, powerless to tear me away from my dreams. With curiosity, I entered the grove and, having walked a few steps, I heard voices speaking quickly, but quietly. I came even closer, carefully parted the last branches of the last bushes bordering the clearing, and immediately jumped back in amazement: a white, familiar dress flashed in my eyes and a quiet female voice echoed in my heart like music. It was m-me M*. She stood next to the rider, who hurriedly spoke to her from the horse, and, to my surprise, I recognized him as N-go, the young man who left us yesterday morning and about whom Mr. M* was so fussed. But then they said that he was leaving somewhere very far, to the south of Russia, and therefore I was very surprised to see him again with us so early and alone with m-me M*. She was animated and excited as I had never seen her before, and tears were shining on her cheeks. The young man held her hand, which he kissed, bending down from the saddle. I've already seen the moment of farewell. They seemed to be in a hurry. Finally, he took a sealed package out of his pocket, gave it to Mme M*, hugged her with one arm, as before, without leaving the horse, and kissed her deeply and long. A moment later he struck his horse and rushed past me like an arrow. M-me M* followed him with her eyes for a few seconds, then thoughtfully and sadly headed towards the house. But, having taken a few steps along the clearing, she suddenly seemed to come to her senses, hastily parted the bushes and walked through the grove. I followed her, confused and surprised by everything I saw. My heart was beating hard, as if from fear. I was as if numb, as if in a fog; my thoughts were broken and scattered; but I remember that for some reason I was terribly sad. From time to time I flashed before me through its greenery White dress. I followed her mechanically, not letting her out of sight, but trembling so that she would not notice me. Finally, she came out onto the path that led to the garden. After waiting for half a minute, I also went out; but imagine my amazement when I suddenly noticed on the red sand of the path a sealed package that I recognized at first glance - the same one that was handed to m-me M* ten minutes ago. I picked it up: from all sides White paper , no signature; it looked small, but tight and heavy, as if it contained three or more sheets of notepaper. What does this package mean? Without a doubt, this whole mystery would be explained to them. Perhaps it conveyed something that N did not hope to express during the shortness of the hasty meeting. He didn’t even get off the horse... Was he in a hurry, or maybe he was afraid to betray himself at the hour of farewell - God knows... I stopped without going out onto the path, threw the bag on it in the most visible place and didn’t let it go out of his sight, believing that m-me M* will notice the loss, come back and look. But, after waiting about four minutes, I couldn’t stand it, I picked up my find again, put it in my pocket and set off to catch up with m-me M*. I overtook her already in the garden, in a large alley; she walked straight home, with a quick and hasty gait, but lost in thought and with her eyes cast down to the ground. I didn't know what to do. Come and give it? This meant to say that I know everything, I have seen everything. I would have betrayed myself from the first word. And how will I look at her? How will she look at me?.. I kept expecting her to come to her senses, to grasp what she had lost, to retrace her steps. Then I could, unnoticed, throw the package on the road, and she would find it. But no! We were already approaching the house; she had already been noticed... That morning, as if on purpose, almost everyone got up very early, because only yesterday, as a result of a failed trip, they had planned a new one, which I didn’t even know about. Everyone was preparing to leave and had breakfast on the terrace. I waited about ten minutes so that they wouldn’t see me with m-me M*, and, going around the garden, I came out to the house on the other side, much after her. She walked back and forth on the terrace, pale and alarmed, crossing her arms on her chest and, from everything it was clear, strengthening herself and trying to suppress the painful, desperate melancholy that could be read in her eyes, in her walking, in her every movement. . Sometimes she would leave the steps and walk a few steps between the flower beds towards the garden; her eyes impatiently, greedily, even carelessly searched for something on the sand of the paths and on the floor of the terrace. There was no doubt: she missed the loss and seemed to think that she had dropped the package somewhere here, near the house - yes, this is so, and she is sure of it! Someone, and then others, noticed that she was pale and anxious. Questions about health and annoying complaints began to pour in; she had to laugh it off, laugh, seem cheerful. From time to time she glanced at her husband, who stood at the end of the terrace, talking with two ladies, and the same trembling, the same embarrassment as then, on the first evening of his arrival, seized the poor woman. With my hand in my pocket and tightly holding the package in it, I stood at a distance from everyone, praying to fate that m-me M* would notice me. I wanted to encourage her, to calm her down, even if only with a glance; tell her something briefly, furtively. But when she chanced to look at me, I shuddered and lowered my eyes. I saw her suffering and I was not mistaken. I still don’t know this secret, I don’t know anything except what I saw myself and what I just told. This connection may not be what one might assume at first glance. Maybe this kiss was a farewell kiss, maybe it was the last, weak reward for the sacrifice that was made for her peace and honor. N-th was leaving; he left her, perhaps forever. Finally, even this letter that I held in my hands - who knows what it contained? How to judge and who to condemn? Meanwhile, there is no doubt about it, the sudden discovery of a secret would be horror, a thunderclap in her life. I still remember her face at that moment: it was impossible to suffer any longer. To feel, to know, to be confident, to wait, like an execution, that in a quarter of an hour, in a minute, everything could be discovered; the package was found by someone and picked up; it has no inscription, it can be opened, and then... what then? What execution is more terrible than the one that awaits her? She walked among her future judges. In a minute, their smiling, flattering faces will be menacing and inexorable. She will read mockery, anger and icy contempt on these faces, and then an eternal, dawnless night will come in her life... Yes, I didn’t understand all this then as I think about it now. I could only suspect and have a presentiment and ache in my heart for its danger, which I was not even entirely aware of. But, no matter what her secret was, by those sorrowful moments that I witnessed and which I will never forget, much was redeemed, if anything had to be redeemed. But then there came a cheerful call for departure; everyone bustled joyfully; Frisky talk and laughter were heard from all sides. Two minutes later the terrace was empty. M-me M* refused the trip, finally admitting that she was unwell. But, thank God, everyone set off, everyone was in a hurry, and there was no time to bother with complaints, questions and advice. Few stayed at home. The husband said a few words to her; she answered that she would be healthy today, so that he would not worry, that there was no reason for her to go to bed, that she would go to the garden, alone... with me... Then she looked at me. Nothing could be happier! I blushed with joy; in a minute we were on the road. She walked along the same alleys, paths and paths along which she had recently returned from the grove, instinctively remembering her previous path, motionless looking in front of her, without taking her eyes off the ground, searching on it, not answering me, perhaps forgetting that I was walking along with her. But when we reached almost the place where I picked up the letter and where the path ended, m-me M* suddenly stopped and in a weak voice, fading with melancholy, said that she was worse, that she would go home. But, having reached the garden lattice, she stopped again and thought for a minute; a smile of despair appeared on her lips, and, all exhausted, exhausted, having decided on everything, submitting to everything, she silently returned to the first path, this time forgetting even to warn me... I was torn with melancholy and did not know what to do. We went, or rather, I led her to the place from which I heard, an hour ago, the tramp of a horse and their conversation. Here, near a thick elm tree, there was a bench carved into a huge solid stone, around which ivy curled and field jasmine and rose hips grew. (This whole grove was dotted with bridges, gazebos, grottoes and similar surprises.) M-me M* sat down on a bench, unconsciously looking at the marvelous landscape spread out in front of us. A minute later she unfolded the book and remained motionless, not turning the pages, not reading, almost unaware of what she was doing. It was already half past ten. The sun rose high and floated magnificently above us across the deep blue sky, seeming to melt in its own fire. The mowers had already gone far: they were barely visible from our shore. Behind them endless furrows of mown grass crawled unobtrusively, and from time to time a slightly stirring breeze blew its fragrant perspiration on us. All around there was an incessant concert of those who “neither reap nor sow,” but are self-willed, like the air cut by their swift wings. It seemed that at that moment every flower, the last blade of grass, smoking with a sacrificial aroma, said to its creator: “Father! I am blessed and happy!” I looked at the poor woman, who was alone, like a dead person, in the midst of all this joyful life: two large tears, erased by acute pain from her heart, stood motionless on her eyelashes. It was in my power to revive and make happy this poor, fading heart, and I just didn’t know how to proceed, how to take the first step. I suffered. A hundred times I tried to approach her, and each time some unrestrained feeling chained me in place, and each time my face burned like fire. Suddenly a bright thought dawned on me. The remedy was found; I am resurrected. - If you want, I’ll pick you a bouquet! - I said in such a joyful voice that m-me M* suddenly raised her head and looked at me intently. “Bring it,” she finally said. in a weak voice, smiling slightly and immediately lowering his eyes to the book again. - Otherwise, even here, perhaps, the grass will be cut and there will be no flowers! - I shouted, happily setting off on a hike. Soon I picked my bouquet, simple, poor. It would be a shame to bring him into the room; but how joyfully my heart beat when I collected and knitted it! I took the rose hips and field jasmine on the spot. I knew that there was a field with ripened rye nearby. I ran there for cornflowers. I mixed them with long ears of rye, choosing the most golden and fat ones. Right there, not far away, I came across a whole nest of forget-me-nots, and my bouquet was already beginning to fill up. Further, in the field, I found blue bells and wild carnations, and for yellow water lilies I ran to the very river bank. Finally, already returning to the place and going into the grove for a moment to hunt for a few bright green palmate maple leaves and wrap them in a bouquet, I accidentally came across a whole family of pansies, near which, fortunately, the fragrant violet smell revealed a juicy, hidden in the thick grass is a flower, still sprinkled with shiny drops of dew. The bouquet was ready. I tied it long fine grass , which he twisted into a string, and carefully put the letter inside, covering it with flowers, but in such a way that it could be very noticeable if they gave my bouquet even a little attention. I carried him to m-me M*. On the way, it seemed to me that the letter was lying too visible: I covered it up more. Approaching even closer, I pushed it even more tightly into the flowers and, finally, almost reaching the spot, I suddenly shoved it so deep inside the bouquet that nothing was noticeable from the outside. A whole flame burned on my cheeks. I wanted to cover my face with my hands and immediately run, but she looked at my flowers as if she had completely forgotten that I had gone to pick them. Mechanically, almost without looking, she extended her hand and took my gift, but immediately put it on the bench, as if I was then handing it to her, and again lowered her eyes to the book, as if she were in oblivion. I was ready to cry from failure. “But if only my bouquet was near her,” I thought, “if only she wouldn’t forget about it!” I lay down on the grass nearby, put my right hand under my head and closed my eyes, as if I was overcome by sleep. But I didn’t take my eyes off her and waited... Ten minutes passed; it seemed to me that she was becoming paler and paler... Suddenly, a blessed chance came to my aid. It was a large golden bee, which a kind breeze brought to me for good luck. She buzzed first above my head and then flew up to m-me M*. She waved her hand once and twice, but the bee, as if on purpose, became more and more unobtrusive. Finally m-me M* grabbed my bouquet and waved it in front of her. At that moment, the package broke out from under the flowers and fell straight into the open book. I shuddered. For some time m-me M* looked, dumb with amazement, first at the bag, then at the flowers she was holding in her hands, and seemed not to believe her eyes... Suddenly she blushed, flushed and looked at me. But I had already caught her gaze and closed my eyes tightly, pretending to be asleep; For nothing in the world would I look her straight in the face now. My heart sank and beat like a bird caught in the clutches of a curly-haired village boy. I don’t remember how long I lay there with my eyes closed: two or three minutes. Finally I dared to open them. M-me M* eagerly read the letter, and from her flushed cheeks, from her sparkling, teary gaze, from her bright face, in which every feature was trembling with a joyful feeling, I guessed that there was happiness in this letter and that everything had been dispelled like smoke. her melancholy. A painfully sweet feeling latched onto my heart, it was hard for me to pretend... I will never forget this moment! Suddenly, still far from us, voices were heard: - Madame M*! Natalie! Natalie! M-me M* did not answer, but quickly got up from the bench, came up to me and bent over me. I felt like she was looking me straight in the face. My eyelashes trembled, but I resisted and did not open my eyes. I tried to breathe more evenly and calmly, but my heart suffocated me with its confused beats. Her hot breath burned my cheeks; she bent close to my face, as if testing it. Finally, a kiss and tears fell on my hand, on the one that lay on my chest. And she kissed her twice. - Natalie! Natalie! where are you? - it was heard again, already very close to us. - Now! - m-me M* said in her thick, silvery voice, but muffled and trembling with tears, and so quietly that only I could hear her, - now! But at that moment my heart finally betrayed me and seemed to send all its blood into my face. At the same moment, a quick, hot kiss burned my lips. I cried out weakly, opened my eyes, but immediately her gauze handkerchief from yesterday fell on them, as if she wanted to shield me from the sun with it. A moment later she was gone. I only heard the rustle of hastily retreating steps. I was alone. I tore off her scarf and kissed her, losing my mind with delight; for several minutes I was like crazy!.. Barely catching my breath, leaning on the grass, I looked, unconsciously and motionless, in front of me, at the surrounding hills, full of cornfields, at the river, winding around them and winding as far as the eye could follow between the new hills and villages, flashing like dots throughout the entire distance, flooded with light, into the blue, barely visible forests, as if smoking at the edge of the hot sky, and some kind of sweet calm, as if inspired by the solemn silence of the picture, little by little humbled my indignant heart. I felt better, I breathed more freely... But my whole soul somehow languished dully and sweetly, as if with an insight into something, as if with some kind of premonition. Something timidly and joyfully was guessed by my frightened heart, slightly trembling with anticipation... And suddenly my chest shook, ached, as if from something piercing it, and tears, sweet tears flowed from my eyes. I covered my face with my hands and, trembling like a blade of grass, I unrestrainedly surrendered to the first consciousness and revelation of my heart, the first, still unclear insight into my nature... My first childhood ended with that moment. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . When, two hours later, I returned home, I no longer found m-me M*: she had left with her husband for Moscow, for some sudden occasion. I never met her again.

Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

Little hero

From unknown memoirs

I was almost eleven years old then. In July, they let me go to visit a village near Moscow, to my relative, T-vu, who at that time had about fifty, and maybe more, guests... I don’t remember, I didn’t count. It was noisy and fun. It seemed that it was a holiday that began with that, so as never to end. It seemed that our owner promised himself to squander all his enormous fortune as quickly as possible, and he recently managed to justify this guess, that is, to squander everything, completely, completely, to the last chip. New guests were constantly arriving, but Moscow was two steps away, in plain sight, so those leaving only gave way to others, and the holiday went on as usual. Amusements were replaced by one another, and there was no end in sight. Either horse riding around the surrounding area, in whole parties, or walking in the forest or along the river; picnics, lunches in the field; dinners on the large terrace of the house, furnished with three rows of precious flowers, filling the fresh night air with aromas, under brilliant lighting, from which our ladies, almost all of them pretty, seemed even more charming with their faces animated by the day's impressions, with their sparkling eyes, with their cross, frisky speech, shimmering with ringing, bell-like laughter; dancing, music, singing; if the sky frowned, lively pictures, charades, and proverbs were composed; a home theater was set up. Eloquent speakers, storytellers, and bonmotists appeared.

Several faces appeared sharply in the foreground. Of course, slander and gossip took their course, since without them the world would not stand, and millions of people would die of boredom like flies. But since I was eleven years old, I didn’t even notice these persons then, distracted by something completely different, and even if I noticed something, it wasn’t all of them. Afterwards I had to remember something. Only one brilliant side of the picture could catch my children’s eyes, and this general animation, brilliance, noise - all this, hitherto unseen and unheard of by me, amazed me so much that in the first days I was completely confused and my little head was spinning.

But I keep talking about my eleven years, and, of course, I was a child, nothing more than a child. Many of these beautiful women, while caressing me, had not yet thought of coping with my years. But - strange thing! - some feeling, incomprehensible to me, has already taken possession of me; something was already rustling in my heart, still unfamiliar and unknown to him; but why did it sometimes burn and beat, as if frightened, and often my face would flush with an unexpected blush. Sometimes I was somehow ashamed and even offended for my various childhood privileges. Another time, it was as if surprise overcame me, and I went somewhere where they couldn’t see me, as if in order to take a breath and remember something, something that until now seemed to me to be I remembered very well and now I suddenly forgot about it, but without which, however, I can’t appear and can’t be without it.

Then, finally, it seemed to me that I was hiding something from everyone, but I never told anyone about it, then, which shamed me, a little man, to the point of tears. Soon, amid the whirlwind that surrounded me, I felt some kind of loneliness. There were other children here, but all of them were either much younger or much older than me; yes, however, I had no time for them. Of course, nothing would have happened to me if I had not been in an exceptional situation. In the eyes of all these beautiful ladies, I was still the same small, indefinable creature, which they sometimes loved to caress and with whom they could play, like a little doll. Especially one of them, a charming blonde, with lush, thick hair, the likes of which I have never seen and will probably never see, seemed to have vowed to haunt me. I was embarrassed, but she was amused by the laughter that was heard around us, which she constantly caused with her sharp, eccentric antics with me, which, apparently, gave her great pleasure. In boarding schools, among her friends, she would probably be called a schoolgirl. She was wonderfully pretty, and there was something about her beauty that caught your eye at first sight. And, of course, she was unlike those little bashful blondes, as white as fluff and gentle as white mice or pastor’s daughters. She was short in stature and a little plump, but with delicate, fine lines of her face, charmingly drawn. There was something sparkling like lightning in that face, and the whole thing was like fire, alive, fast, light. It was as if sparks were falling from her large open eyes; they sparkled like diamonds, and I would never exchange such sparkling blue eyes for any black ones, even if they were blacker than the blackest Andalusian gaze, and my blonde, really, was worth that famous brunette, who was sung by one famous and wonderful poet and who in such excellent verses he swore by the whole of Castile that he was ready to break his bones if they only allowed him to touch his beauty’s mantilla with the tip of his finger. Add to that my the beauty was the most cheerful of all the beauties in the world, the most eccentric laugher, as playful as a child, despite the fact that she had already been married for five years. Laughter did not leave her lips, as fresh as a morning rose, which had just managed to open, with the first ray of sun, its scarlet, fragrant bud, on which the cold large drops of dew had not yet dried.

I remember that on the second day of my arrival a home theater was set up. The hall was, as they say, packed; there was not a single seat free; and since for some reason I happened to be late, I was forced to enjoy the performance while standing. But the cheerful game pulled me forward more and more, and I quietly made my way to the very first rows, where I finally stood, leaning on the back of the chairs in which one lady was sitting. It was my blonde; but we didn’t know each other yet. And so, somehow by chance, I stared at her wonderfully rounded, seductive shoulders, full, white, like boiling milk, although I decidedly didn’t care to look: at the wonderful female shoulders or at the cap with fiery ribbons that hid the gray hair of one venerable ladies in the front row. Next to the blonde sat an overripe maiden, one of those who, as I later noticed, always huddle somewhere as close as possible to young and pretty women, choosing those who do not like to drive away young people. But that's not the point; Only this girl noticed my observations, leaned over to her neighbor and, giggling, whispered something in her ear. The neighbor suddenly turned around, and I remember that her fiery eyes sparkled at me so much in the semi-darkness that I, not prepared for the meeting, shuddered as if I had been burned. The beauty smiled.

– Do you like what they’re playing? – she asked, looking slyly and mockingly into my eyes.

“Yes,” I answered, still looking at her in some kind of surprise, which she, in turn, apparently liked.

- Why are you standing? So - you will get tired; Isn't there room for you?

“That’s just it, no,” I answered, this time more preoccupied with worries than with the sparkling eyes of the beauty, and overjoyed that I had finally found a kind heart to whom I could reveal my grief. “I was already looking, but all the chairs are occupied,” I added, as if complaining to her that all the chairs were occupied.

“Come here,” she spoke briskly, quick to respond to all decisions as well as to any extravagant idea that flashed through her eccentric head, “come here to me and sit on my lap.”

“On your knees?..” I repeated, puzzled.

I have already said that my privileges began to seriously offend and conscience me. This one, as if laughing, went far, unlike the others. In addition, I, already always a timid and bashful boy, now somehow began to be especially timid in front of women and therefore became terribly embarrassed.

- Well, yes, on your knees! Why don't you want to sit on my lap? - she insisted, starting to laugh harder and harder, so that finally she just started laughing at God knows what, maybe her own invention or being glad that I was so embarrassed. But that's what she needed.

I blushed and looked around in embarrassment, looking for somewhere to go; but she had already warned me, somehow managing to catch my hand, precisely so that I would not leave, and, pulling her towards her, suddenly, quite unexpectedly, to my greatest surprise, she squeezed it painfully in her playful, hot fingers and began to break my fingers, but it hurt so much that I strained all my efforts not to scream, and at the same time made funny grimaces. In addition, I was in the most terrible surprise, bewilderment, and horror even when I learned that there are such funny and evil ladies who talk to boys about such trifles and even pinch themselves so painfully, God knows why, and in front of everyone. Probably my unhappy face reflected all my bewilderment, because the minx laughed in my eyes like crazy, and meanwhile pinched and broke my poor fingers more and more. She was beside herself with delight that she had managed to play tricks, confuse the poor boy and mystify him into dust. My situation was desperate. Firstly, I was burning with shame, because almost everyone around us turned to us, some in bewilderment, others laughing, immediately realizing that the beauty had done something wrong. Besides, I was so afraid I wanted to scream, because she was breaking my fingers with some kind of ferocity, precisely because I didn’t scream: and I, like a Spartan, decided to withstand the pain, afraid of causing a turmoil by screaming, after which I don’t know. what would happen to me. In a fit of complete despair, I finally began to struggle and began to pull my own hand toward me with all my might, but my tyrant was much stronger than me. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore and screamed—that’s just what I was waiting for! Instantly she abandoned me and turned away, as if nothing had happened, as if it wasn’t she who had done the mischief, but someone else, just like some schoolboy who, when the teacher turned away a little, had already managed to play a mischief somewhere in the neighborhood , pinch some tiny, weak boy, give him a snap, a kick, push his elbow and instantly turn around again, straighten up, burying his face in a book, begin to hammer out his lesson and, thus, leave the angry Mr. teacher, rushing like a hawk to noise - with a very long and unexpected nose.

Fedor Dostoevsky

Little hero

(From unknown memoirs)

I was almost eleven years old then. In July, they let me go to visit a village near Moscow, to my relative, T - vu, who at that time had about fifty, and maybe more, guests... I don’t remember, I didn’t count. It was noisy and fun. It seemed that it was a holiday that began with that, so as never to end. It seemed that our owner promised himself to squander all his enormous fortune as quickly as possible, and he recently managed to justify this guess, that is, to squander everything, completely, completely, to the last chip. New guests were constantly arriving, but Moscow was two steps away, in plain sight, so those leaving only gave way to others, and the holiday went on as usual. Amusements were replaced by one another, and there was no end in sight. Either horse riding around the surrounding area, in whole parties, or walking in the forest or along the river; picnics, lunches in the field; dinners on the large terrace of the house, furnished with three rows of precious flowers, filling the fresh night air with aromas, under brilliant lighting, from which our ladies, almost all of them pretty, seemed even more charming with their faces animated by the day's impressions, with their sparkling eyes, with their cross, frisky speech, shimmering with a ringing laugh like a bell; dancing, music, singing; if the sky frowned, lively pictures, charades, and proverbs were composed; a home theater was set up. Eloquent speakers, storytellers, and bonmotists appeared.

Several faces appeared sharply in the foreground. Of course, slander and gossip took their course, since without them the world would not stand, and millions of people would die of boredom like flies. But since I was eleven years old, I didn’t even notice these persons then, distracted by something completely different, and even if I noticed something, that’s not all. Afterwards I had to remember something. Only one brilliant side of the picture could catch my children’s eyes, and this general animation, brilliance, noise - all this, hitherto unseen and unheard of by me, amazed me so much that in the first days I was completely confused and my little head was spinning.

But I keep talking about my eleven years, and, of course, I was a child, nothing more than a child. Many of these beautiful women, while caressing me, had not yet thought of coping with my years. But - strange thing! - some feeling, incomprehensible to me, has already taken possession of me; something was already rustling through my heart, still unfamiliar; and unknown to him; but why did it sometimes burn and beat, as if frightened, and often my face would flush with an unexpected blush. Sometimes I was somehow ashamed and even offended for my various childhood privileges. Another time, it was as if surprise overcame me, and I went somewhere where they couldn’t see me, as if in order to take a breath and remember something, something that until now seemed to me to be I remembered very well and now I suddenly forgot about it, but without which, however, I can’t appear and can’t be without it.

Then, finally, it seemed to me that I was hiding something from everyone, but I never told anyone about it, because I, a little man, was ashamed to the point of tears. Soon, amid the whirlwind that surrounded me, I felt some kind of loneliness. There were other children here, but all of them were either much younger or much older than me; yes, however, I had no time for them. Of course, nothing would have happened to me if I had not been in an exceptional situation. In the eyes of all these beautiful ladies, I was still the same small, indefinable creature that they sometimes loved to caress and with whom they could play like a little doll. Especially one of them, a charming blonde, with lush, thick hair, the likes of which I have never seen and will probably never see, seemed to have vowed not to give it to me. peace. I was embarrassed, but she was amused by the laughter that was heard around us, which she constantly caused with her sharp, eccentric antics with me, which, apparently, gave her great pleasure. In boarding schools, among her friends, she would probably be called a schoolgirl. She was wonderfully pretty, and there was something about her beauty that caught your eye at first sight. And, of course, she was unlike those little bashful blondes, as white as fluff and gentle as white mice or pastor’s daughters. She was short in stature and a little plump, but with delicate, fine lines of her face, charmingly drawn. There was something sparkling like lightning in that face, and the whole thing was like fire, alive, fast, light. It was as if sparks were falling from her large open eyes; they sparkled like diamonds, and I would never exchange such sparkling blue eyes for any black ones, even if they were blacker than the blackest Andalusian gaze, and my blonde, really, was worth that famous brunette, who was sung by one famous and wonderful poet and who in such excellent verses he swore by the whole of Castile that he was ready to break his bones if they only allowed him to touch his beauty’s mantilla with the tip of his finger. Add to that my the beauty was the most cheerful of all the beauties in the world, the most eccentric laugher, as playful as a child, despite the fact that she had already been married for five years. Laughter never left her lips, as fresh as a morning rose that had just opened. with the first ray of sun, its scarlet, fragrant bud, on which the cold large drops of dew have not yet dried.

I remember that on the second day of my arrival a home theater was set up. The hall was, as they say, packed; there was not a single seat free; and since for some reason I happened to be late, I was forced to enjoy the performance while standing. But the cheerful game pulled me forward more and more, and I quietly made my way to the very first rows, where I finally stood, leaning on the back of the chairs in which one lady was sitting. It was my blonde; but we didn’t know each other yet. And so, somehow by chance, I stared at her wonderfully rounded, seductive shoulders, full, white, like boiling milk, although I decidedly still wanted to look: at the wonderful female shoulders or at the cap with fiery ribbons that hid the gray hair of one venerable ladies in the front row. Next to the blonde sat an overripe maiden, one of those who, as I later noticed, always huddle somewhere as close as possible to young and pretty women, choosing those who do not like to drive away young people. But that's not the point; Only this girl noticed my observations, leaned over to her neighbor and, giggling, whispered something in her ear. The neighbor suddenly turned around, and I remember that her fiery eyes sparkled at me so much in the semi-darkness that I, not prepared for the meeting, shuddered as if I had been burned. The beauty smiled.

– Do you like what they’re playing? – she asked, looking slyly and mockingly into my eyes.

“Yes,” I answered, still looking at her in some kind of surprise, which she, in turn, apparently liked.

- Why are you standing? So - you will get tired; Isn't there room for you?

“That’s just it, no,” I answered, this time more preoccupied with worries than with the sparkling eyes of the beauty, and overjoyed that I had finally found a kind heart to whom I could reveal my grief. “I was already looking, but all the chairs are occupied,” I added, as if complaining to her that all the chairs were occupied.

“Come here,” she spoke briskly, quick to respond to all decisions as well as to any extravagant idea that flashed through her eccentric head, “come here to me and sit on my lap.”

“On your knees?...” I repeated, puzzled.

I have already said that my privileges began to seriously offend and conscience me. This one, as if laughing, went far, unlike the others. In addition, I, already always a timid and bashful boy, now somehow began to be especially timid in front of women and therefore became terribly embarrassed.

The circumstances described in this story require preliminary clarification. On April 23, 1849, a study circle headed by a minor official of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs M.V. Petrashevsky socialist ideas was dissolved, being recognized as a gathering of subversive elements, and thirty-four of its members were arrested and imprisoned in the Peter and Paul Fortress on the outskirts of what was then St. Petersburg. Dostoevsky was on the police's radar; they believed that he was “one of the most important” members of this circle, secretly opposing serfdom and for freedom of the press. Naturally, he was also arrested.

I had to wait eight months for the verdict. At first, Dostoevsky, who was in solitary confinement, suffered from hemorrhoids and a nervous disorder. In letters to his older brother Mikhail, written from his prison cell in the summer, Dostoevsky complained of an almost complete lack of appetite, bad dream, nightmares that “from time to time began to seize my throat,” it seemed to him that “the floor was shaking beneath me,” from which he concluded that “my nerves were upset.”

But from some point on psychological condition seems to have improved. He asked for paper and a pen and began writing “The Little Hero.” This eleven-year-old “little hero” is passionately in love with a beautiful married woman. She seems quite respectable, but it turns out that she actually has a secret lover. Through a gap in the fence, a teenager watches the intricacies adult life, he experiences despair and surprise, grows up.

Here's a simple plot. This direct story is not typical for Dostoevsky, who previously described the life of the St. Petersburg lower classes, broken and painful, feverish emotions. Behind this story about a boy in love, the action of which unfolds against the backdrop of a quiet garden near Moscow, it is difficult to guess the suffering and nervous Dostoevsky, imprisoned.

The characters in the story are the boy himself, on whose behalf the story is told, the aristocrat's wife, who arouses vague love dreams in him, and her lover. But the best exponent of Dostoevsky’s philosophy is M., the husband of an aristocrat.

“They called him a smart man. This is how in some circles they call one special breed of humanity that has grown fat at someone else’s expense.” He clearly shows the type of landowner or publisher who buys manuscripts of unknown writers for next to nothing and who enjoys a well-fed life.

At the end of the story there is a scene telling about a strange spiritual experience boy, a scene that can be called “steamy” in relation to the “vision on the Neva” from “A Weak Heart”. The boy stands on the high bank of the Moscow River and looks at the hills, villages, and forests stretching before his eyes. And this endless panorama, spread out under the “hot sky,” approaches the hero and affects him in some hypnotic way.

We can say that the boy experiences an intoxicating joy from the feeling of merging with beautiful nature. These sensations are exactly the same, both in form and in content, that Arkady experiences from “A Weak Heart” when he looks from the bank of the Neva at the sky and the city stretching on the other bank: he trembles, his heart breaks from a powerful current hot blood, he experiences feelings that he has not experienced before. But the result turns out to be completely different. If Arkady becomes boring and gloomy and loses “all his gaiety,” then the “little hero” is filled with a feeling of joy from unity with nature.
The change in Arkady's character was a reflection of Dostoevsky's own new experience. The same can be said about the changes that occurred with the “little hero”. Modern psychiatry believes that in a comatose state a person sometimes sees a bright light. Dostoevsky, who experienced “temporary death” from childhood, was in solitary confinement in the Peter and Paul Fortress and probably felt the approach of death more than once. And it would not be strange if Dostoevsky, while in prison, saw the same light that his “little hero” saw.

The stay in solitary confinement lasted eight months. On December 22, 1849, twenty-one members of Petrashevsky’s circle, including Dostoevsky himself, were unexpectedly escorted to the place of execution, where a line of soldiers with guns awaited them. All these prisoners were sentenced to death. In fact, Nicholas I ordered that they be put to civilian death and given up as soldiers, but the decree of pardon was not announced to the Petrashevites. They stood at the execution site and were sure that they would die in a few minutes. On the threshold of death, Dostoevsky was surprisingly calm.

In the depths of Dostoevsky’s being there were two opposing and replacing principles: despair in front of the dark and cold death that separates from the source of life or “nature,” and a joyful feeling leading to merging with the warm and bright “nature.” This confrontation finds its expression in Arkady from “Weak Heart” and the boy from “Little Hero”.

With the help of “good dreams,” Dostoevsky was able to cope with the crisis that overtook him in solitary confinement, but it would be a mistake to say that he was able to forever get rid of the failures in total darkness. As is clear from his own records and from the diary of his wife, every time he had an epileptic fit, terrible visions of death overtook him again and again. Two principles struggled in Dostoevsky throughout his life and were embodied in his literature.