Alexandre Dumas father and son. Dumas father and son

Bludova Antonina Dmitrievna- (1812 91), countess, friend of L., memoirist. Great-niece G. R. Derzhavina, daughter of D. N. Bludov, state. activist, member of "Arzamas". She wrote stories for children. In her father's house she was the mistress of the house. salon, which was visited by N. M. Karamzin, A. S. Pushkin, ... ... Lermontov Encyclopedia

Bludova Antonina Dmitrievna- Bludova, Antonina Dmitrievna (1812 1891), countess, daughter of gr. D.N. Bludova. Having received an excellent upbringing, she was close to her father’s literary circle. Her Notes were published in Zara (1871 and 1872) and the Russian Archive (1872-1875 and department M., 1889) ... Biographical Dictionary

Bludova Antonina Dmitrievna- (count.) daughter of D.N. Bludov (see), b. in Stockholm in 1812. She received an excellent upbringing and was in close contact with her father’s literary circle, as well as with many famous foreigners. That is why her Notes, placed in Zara... ... encyclopedic Dictionary F. Brockhaus and I.A. Ephron

Bludova Antonina Dmitrievna- Countess. Born in 1812 in Stockholm. Under the guidance of her father, she received an excellent, versatile and serious education in a patriotic and religious spirit. The countess turned her activities to church education. She chose the arena... Complete Orthodox Theological Encyclopedic Dictionary

Bludova, Countess Antonina Dmitrievna- daughter of D.N. Bludov (see), b. in Stockholm in 1812. She received an excellent upbringing and was in close contact with her father’s literary circle, as well as with many famous foreigners. That is why her “Notes”, placed in... ... Large biographical encyclopedia

Bludova- surname. Famous bearers: Bludova, Antonina Dmitrievna (April 25, 1813, Stockholm April 9, 1891, Moscow) countess, writer, philanthropist, maid of honor since 1863. Bludova, Olga Evgenievna (November 5, 1991) Kazakhstani... ... Wikipedia

BLUDOVA- A.D. and L.D. Bludov. Watercolor. Artist P. P. Sokolova. 1843 (GMP) A. D. and L. D. Bludov. Watercolor. Artist P. P. Sokolova. 1843 (GMP) Antonina Dmitrievna (04/25/1813, Stockholm 04/9/1891, Moscow), countess, maid of honor (1863),… … Orthodox Encyclopedia

List of ladies-in-waiting of the Russian Imperial Court- Sofia Vasilievna Orlova Denisova in a maid of honor dress and with a bantu code List of maids of honor of the Russian imperial court Annual list ... Wikipedia

List of ladies-in-waiting of Russian empresses- Sofia Vasilievna Orlova Denisova in a maid of honor dress and with a bantu code List of maids of honor of Russian empresses Every year the list of maids of honor was published in the address of the calendar Russian Empire. The list was based on length of service as a maid of honor... Wikipedia

Bludov, Dmitry Nikolaevich- Wikipedia has articles about other people with the same surname, see Bludov. Dmitry Nikolaevich Bludov ... Wikipedia

A. D. Bludova

I take up the pen, and a doubt stops me: is it worth writing notes or memories when one’s own personality has no interest for the reader, when there is nothing interesting in one’s life?

My life was the happiest, therefore, the most monotonous, without any drama. Circumstances were so favorable to me that I had neither the need, nor the desire, nor the opportunity to leave the family circle of responsibilities, and in the family everything was peace and quiet, and God's grace. Life is good this way, but there is nothing to tell. All my life I was only a spectator, of course, sometimes looking behind the scenes, but not playing any role in the theater of society or history. Over the course of half a century, I have seen and heard a lot, and one thing could possibly be of interest to my notes: this is - echo of the past, although of a recent time, his views, judgments and feelings, which have already changed or are changing so much that perhaps it is worth preserving their image until it is completely forgotten. One thing I know: love and respect for the truth were so deeply rooted in our family that everything I heard from my parents is beyond doubt, and I myself am unable (at least consciously) to change it. More than once in my life I have paid heavily for the truth: perhaps it has become all the more dear and dear to me. I hear a lot these days legends or historical novels , perhaps not intentionally composed; But wouldn’t a word of truth from a contemporary be useful to a future chronicler? So, I will try to convey what I remember - about the general mood and customs of that time, and what I remember about the individuals with whom my parents and I myself had relations.

Like the life of peoples, so is the life individual person has its own prehistoric a time of unclear memories of the incidents themselves, but true impressions of their effect on the minds and feelings of that time. We can say: the color is preserved, although the features of the picture become cloudy or even distorted by the awkward, artless painting of this zealous artist - imagination, personal imagination or popular imagination.

I will begin with this prehistoric era of childhood.

Fabulous times and the golden age of childhood

The most distant memory of my childhood is an illness, a cold like scarlet fever, which turned into water fever. I remember the unbearable pain when they tried to put big stockings on my legs (the legs of a four-year-old child) adult woman, my mother, - such a terrible tumor was... I remember then the vague, as if through a fog, appearance of a large icon shining with gold and stones and a rich priest’s robe, gray-haired, long hair him and, through the same fog, or smoke, two concerned, sad faces- my father and mother. This fog and smoke were nothing more than inflammation in the brain, a rush of water to the head of a child in this same disease, when the doctors had already lost hope; and the icon - Mother of God, All the Sorrowful Joy, which they lifted and brought to my crib so that I could venerate it.

What happened to me before and after, but I remember; but they say that from that day on I began to recover, and I only remember the ordinary, daily life, or not even life, but its ordinary surroundings. I see a long hall in which I played and ran, and a statue in a niche at its end - something like a Vestal or Muse with a torch in her hand for a lamp; our children's room and grandfather's english watch with music to which we danced and acted out pantomimes, small children's chairs and a small low sofa on which I often sat my beloved old man Gavrila. I see him so vividly before me even now! Tall, very tall, thin, with regular features, short haircut gray hair, with a thoughtful face that brightened up inexpressibly with a kind and cheerful smile when we, children, treated him in our own way. His visits were one of the best joys of my childhood. He was sent by his grandmother to be a servant (and really like an uncle) to the priest when she sent him to serve in St. Petersburg. He faithfully and lovingly cared for his young master, and although he was a servant, he was so respected by him that we children were taught to stand in front of Gavrila when he came to our nursery, and my grandmother wrote to him: “Gavrila Nikitich.” , by name and patronymic. And what a respectable and kind old man he was! When the priest lived single in St. Petersburg, he received a very meager allowance (and his nature was Russian, greedy), and in the first two months he got out almost the entire third. He saved just enough money (a ruble per evening) to go to the theater every day, which he passionately loved; instead of lunch, breakfast and dinner, he and his beloved friends, Zhukovsky and A.I. Turgenev, were content with ice cream and biscuits from the confectioner of Lareda, where he had an open loan. (I still remember this pastry shop, at the end of Nevsky Prospekt, somewhere behind the Police Bridge). But the 19-year-old's appetite couldn't get enough of ice cream. “And it often happened,” Gavrila said, “they, my darlings, come home when I’m cooking dinner for myself; they pass by and say: Oh, Gavrilo, how nice it smells! Must be good cabbage soup. And I already know; I have enough cabbage soup, and there is enough welding for everyone; and they used to clean it up like that! It’s obvious that they’re hungry!”

Right there, in our nursery, next to Gavrila, who is talking about the Pugachev era and all the horrors of that time, I see my nurse (and then nanny), a Swede, who stayed with us all her life and died in our house, having no other name or nickname as soon as “Dada”: this is the name I called her as a child. Kindest heart Open to everything and to all the poor and suffering, from an old beggar or a sick child to a hungry dog, she was quick-tempered to the point of nervous attacks and superstitious to the extreme. I remember - and this is the second strong impression my childhood - I remember how once, having put me to bed and drawing the curtain near the crib, after being silent for a while and thinking that I had fallen asleep, she began to quietly tell one of the maids different adventures with devils. I listened, holding my breath and making a small crack in the curtain, through which I now see Dada, how she sits on a small chair and with deep conviction talks about a girl who was somewhere in the service, and a young, beautiful man began to come to her for marriage. , a seemingly kind and wealthy man, about whom, however, no one had correct information. However, she fell in love with him and gave him her word to marry him. I don’t know, or I didn’t understand why the wedding was postponed; I only remember that the girl had little free time, and they saw each other only in the evening, after finishing work, at the edge of a neighboring grove. I also don’t remember why doubt about the groom arose in her thoughts; but she began to notice oddities in him; and then one day she sees that his boots are worn out, and - oh horror! - a hoof peeks out of the boot instead of a leg! Even now, as then, I get goosebumps when I remember the fear that overcame me at this point in the story, and how tightly I closed my eyes and covered my face with the sheet, so as not to even see Dada on her low chair; but I still listened. Dada continued the story. The girl was smart, didn’t say anything, didn’t show any fear; her heart beat hard and sank, but she did not lose her presence of mind; she noticed that the groom quietly grabbed her apron with his hand, and she, continuing to talk, quietly untied the ribbon of her apron, and had just done so when suddenly the groom flew into the air with all his might, taking with him only her apron instead of the bride, and she saw how, in confusion and anger, he rushed like a whirlwind on two black wings and with long tail. So presence of mind saved the poor beauty from the devil.