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Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov (November 28 (December 10) ( 18211210 ) , Nemirov - December 27, 1877 (January 8), St. Petersburg) - Russian poet, writer and publicist.

Birth

He belonged to a noble, once rich family of the Yaroslavl province (in our time - the Yaroslavl region); born in Vinnitsa district, Podolsk province, where at that time the regiment in which Nekrasov’s father served was stationed. This was a man who experienced a lot in his lifetime. He was not spared by the Nekrasov family weakness - the love of cards (Sergei Nekrasov, the poet’s grandfather, lost almost his entire fortune at cards). In the life of the poet, cards also played a big role, but he played happily and often said that fate only does what it should, returning to the family through the grandson what it took away through the grandfather. A keen and passionate man, women really liked Alexey Sergeevich Nekrasov. Elena Andreevna Zakrevskaya, a Warsaw native, the daughter of a wealthy possessor of the Kherson province, fell in love with him. The parents did not agree to marry their well-bred daughter to a poor, poorly educated army officer; the marriage took place without their consent. He wasn't happy. Turning to childhood memories, the poet always spoke of his mother as a sufferer, a victim of a rough and depraved environment. In a number of poems, especially in “The Last Songs,” in the poem “Mother” and in “A Knight for an Hour,” Nekrasov painted a bright image of the one who brightened up the unattractive environment of his childhood with her noble personality. The charm of memories of his mother was reflected in Nekrasov’s work through his extraordinary participation in women’s lot. None of the Russian poets did as much for the apotheosis of wives and mothers as the stern and “allegedly callous” representative of the “muse of revenge and sadness.”

early years

USSR stamp, 1971

Nekrasov's childhood passed on the Nekrasov family estate, the village of Greshnev, Yaroslavl province and district, where his father Alexey Sergeevich Nekrasov (1788-1862), having retired, moved. A huge family (Nekrasov had 13 brothers and sisters [only three survived - two brothers and a sister]), neglected affairs and a number of processes on the estate forced Nekrasov’s father to take the place of police officer. During his travels, he often took little Nikolai with him, and the arrival of a police officer in the village always marks something sad: a dead body, the collection of arrears, etc. - and thus many sad pictures of people’s grief were embedded in the boy’s sensitive soul .

Nekrasov’s funeral, which took place on its own without any organization, was the first time a nation paid its last respects to the writer. Already at the very funeral of Nekrasov, a fruitless dispute began, or rather continued, about the relationship between him and the two greatest representatives of Russian poetry - Pushkin and Lermontov. Dostoevsky, who said a few words at Nekrasov’s open grave, put (with certain reservations) these names side by side, but several young voices interrupted him with shouts: “Nekrasov is higher than Pushkin and Lermontov.” The dispute went into print: some supported the opinion of young enthusiasts, others pointed out that Pushkin and Lermontov were spokesmen for the entire Russian society, and Nekrasov - only one “circle”; finally, still others indignantly rejected the very idea of a parallel between the creativity that brought Russian verse to the pinnacle of artistic perfection, and the “clumsy” verse of Nekrasov, supposedly devoid of any artistic significance.

The Meaning of Creativity

All these points of view are not one-sided. Nekrasov's significance is the result of a number of conditions that created both his charm and the fierce attacks to which he was subjected both during his life and after death. From the point of view of the grace of verse, Nekrasov not only cannot be placed next to Pushkin and Lermontov, but is inferior even to some minor poets. None of our great Russian poets has so many poems that are downright bad from all points of view; He himself bequeathed many poems not to be included in the collected works.

Nekrasov is not consistent even in his masterpieces: and suddenly prosaic, sluggish and awkward verse hurts the ear. Among the poets of the “civil” movement there are poets who are much higher than Nekrasov in technique: Pleshcheev is elegant, Minaev is a downright virtuoso of verse.

But it is precisely the comparison with these poets, who were not inferior to Nekrasov in “liberalism,” that shows that the secret of the enormous, hitherto unprecedented influence that Nekrasov’s poetry had on a number of Russian generations is not in civic feelings alone. Its source is that, although not always achieving external manifestations of artistry, Nekrasov is not inferior in strength to any of the greatest artists of the Russian word. No matter which way you approach Nekrasov, he never leaves you indifferent and always excites.

And if we understand “art” as the sum of impressions leading to the final effect, then Nekrasov is a profound artist: he expressed the mood of one of the most remarkable moments of Russian historical life. The main source of strength achieved by Nekrasov lies precisely in the fact that his opponents, taking a narrow aesthetic point of view, especially reproached him for his “one-sidedness.” Only this one-sidedness was in complete harmony with the tune of the “unkind and sad” muse, to whose voice Nekrasov listened from the first moments of his conscious existence.

Nekrasov’s first major poem, “Sasha,” which opens with a magnificent lyrical introduction - a song of joy about returning to one’s homeland, belongs to the best images of the people of the 1840s, consumed by reflection, people who “scour the world, looking for gigantic deeds for themselves, a good legacy rich fathers were freed from small labors”, for whom “love worries their heads more - not blood”, for whom “whatever the last book says will lie on top of their souls.” Written earlier than Turgenevsky's "Rudin", Nekrasovskaya's "Sasha" (), in the person of the hero of the poem Agarin, was the first to note many of the most essential features of the Rudinsky type.

In the person of the heroine, Sasha, Nekrasov, also earlier than Turgenev, brought out a nature striving for light, the main outlines of its psychology reminiscent of Elena from “On the Eve”. The poem “The Unfortunate” () is scattered and motley, and therefore not clear enough in the first part; but in the second, where in the person of Mole, who was exiled for an unusual crime, Nekrasov, in part, brought out Dostoevsky, there are strong and expressive stanzas.

The fierce singer of grief and suffering was completely transformed, becoming surprisingly gentle, soft, and kind, as soon as it came to women and children. Nekrasov’s latest folk epic - the huge poem “Who Lives Well in Rus'” (-) written in an extremely original size (-) by its size alone (about 5000 verses) could not have been completely successful for the author.

There is a lot of buffoonery in it, a lot of anti-artistic exaggeration and thickening of colors, but there are also many places of amazing power and precision of expression. The best thing about the poem is the individual, occasionally inserted songs and ballads. The best, last part of the poem is especially rich in them - “A Feast for the Whole World”, ending with the famous words: “you and the poor, you and the abundant, you and the mighty, you and the powerless, Mother Rus'” and a cheerful exclamation: “in slavery the saved heart is free , gold, gold, people's heart." Another poem by Nekrasov, “Russian Women” (-), is also not fully consistent, but its end - Volkonskaya’s meeting with her husband in the mine - belongs to the most touching scenes of all Russian literature.

Nekrasov's lyricism arose on the fertile soil of the burning and strong passions that possessed him, and a sincere awareness of his moral imperfection. To a certain extent, it was his “guilts” that saved the living soul in Nekrasov, which he often spoke about, turning to portraits of friends who “reproachfully looked from the walls” at him. His moral shortcomings gave him a living and immediate source of impetuous love and thirst for purification.

The power of Nekrasov’s calls is psychologically explained by the fact that he created in moments of sincere repentance. For none of our writers has repentance played such a prominent role as in Nekrasov. He is the only Russian poet who has developed this purely Russian trait. Who forced this “practitioner” to speak with such force about his moral failures, why was it necessary to expose himself from such an unfavorable side and indirectly confirm gossip and tales? But obviously it was stronger than him. The poet defeated the practical man; he felt that repentance brought forth the best pearls from the bottom of his soul and gave himself entirely to the impulse of his soul. But Nekrasov owes his best work to repentance - “A Knight for an Hour,” which alone would be enough to create a first-class poetic reputation. And the famous “Vlas” also came out of a mood that deeply felt the cleansing power of repentance. This also includes the magnificent poem “When out of the darkness of delusion I called out to a fallen soul,” about which even such critics, who had little sympathy for Nekrasov, such as Almazov and Apollo Grigoriev, spoke with delight 1878

Dead Lake

Thank you for downloading the book from the free electronic library http://nekrasovnikolai.ru/ Happy reading! Dead Lake. Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov, Avdotya Yakovlevna Panaeva Part one Chapter I Summer evening Four o'clock in the afternoon; The day is hot, but the air is clean and fragrant. The sun diligently heats the dark gray walls of a large, awkward house, standing far from other village huts. One thing can be said about its architecture: it was probably unfinished when it was covered with a roof. The windows, small and sparse, are tightly locked. The house also has a garden; but it does not protect him at all from the sun; Apart from lilac bushes and acacias, no trees are visible in it. However, it contains everything necessary for a village garden: a covered alley made of acacias, with a gazebo, several decrepit benches placed on poorly swept paths; to the side there are ridges with strawberries, and currant and raspberry bushes stretch along the fence. A half-rotten terrace with columns and wooden railings painted white opens onto the garden, and a path stretches from it; it goes down to a small river, which is all covered with marsh lilies and other herbs. There is a narrow bridge across the river in Chinese style. The one crossing it needs to have a sufficient supply of courage, because in some places the boards rotted, and the rest jumped at the touch. But for his courage he was generously rewarded, suddenly finding himself in a beautiful forest instead of a dull, naked garden. Huge trees replaced a gazebo and a covered alley here, green soft grass with flowers replaced rotten wooden benches. Everything here breathed so cheerfully and luxuriously, as if not a small river, but a whole sea separated the two gardens. Entering the house, we will see one of the main rooms, unusually wide and low, with a floor painted thick brown, with a smoked ceiling, with furniture in which every thing shows the age of years and the deprivation of amenities. High chairs, painted white, with a bouquet of roses on the back, with straw cushions tied to the seat, were huddled tightly next to each other, bordering the walls. In the middle of the room there was a round dining table with countless thin legs, reminiscent of a huge fossilized spider. In the corner opposite the windows is a massive outbuilding in a clumsy cover made of thick gray cloth. On the yellow, smoky wall is a barometer mounted in ebony. In one corner there was a wall clock with pound weights, which, due to their enormity, were more suitable for decorating the tower of a knight's castle than the dining room of a peaceful peasant. An elderly woman with a pale and stern face walked around the room to the monotonous sound of a pendulum. There was a complete absence of the slightest tenderness in her large and irregular features. Throwing her arms back, she walked with a heavy step, immersed in thought. Her semi-mourning dress was in harmony with the gloom of the room: it consisted of a dark chintz hood and a fringed velvet cape; a huge bunch of keys jingled in his belt; a tulle cap with dark ribbons covered the woman’s hair, black and gray. A girl and an old man were sitting at the window, covered with serpyanka, facing each other. The contrast of years sharply showed youth, full of life, and gentle old age. Despite the girl's completely childish dress, she could easily be given the age of sixteen. A faded light-colored chintz dress with short sleeves that showed off her plump and beautiful arms, and a little white baby cape could not hide her plump shoulders. The girl had her hair done a la chinoise. (Chinese style (French)) Her slightly wavy hair was raised up, revealing a beautiful forehead and temples. Her braid, very thick, descended low to the back of her head, on which naturally small curls curled. The head was placed so gracefully on her beautiful shoulders that it involuntarily attracted attention. The facial features were small, except for the eyes - clear and bold; and in the outline of the beautiful lips, despite the still childish expression of the whole face, so much energy was already expressed that you involuntarily guessed about the strength of character. Harmony dominated the girl’s entire figure, from her fiery eyes to the beautiful fingers with which she worked with beads on paper, an activity invented for the loss of vision. The old man was very short: he could have sat almost entirely in Voltaire’s faded chairs. His face was meek, his features were small, but, despite his decrepitude, they still retained their shape. From under the white knitted cap that covered his head, sparse long gray hair fell and lay on the collar of his chintz robe. Huge glasses almost covered his entire small face. He had a book on his lap, and on the window next to him was a snuff-box and a pink checkered handkerchief. The silence was oppressive all around the house; Only one rhythmically heavy step, now muffled by the beat of the pendulum, now echoing it, was heard monotonously throughout the hall. An attentive eye, however, would have noticed the little comedy that was silently playing out amid the general silence. As soon as the tall woman turned her back to the windows, the girl took her head away from her work and looked behind the screens that stood at the window. The old man did the same. They smiled, looking out the window; at times the girl could hardly contain her laughter. But as soon as the tall woman reached the door opposite the windows and turned around, the girl and the old man timidly turned to their studies; their faces quickly took on a serious expression. The attention of the old man and the girl was attracted by a tall boy standing at the windows in the garden... however, he could only be called a boy by his suit, and even by the grimaces and jumps that he was now making. His broad shoulders were encased in a narrow blue cloth jacket, the sleeves of which barely reached his muscular arms. Long light blond hair fell onto the folded collar of his shirt. He was quite tall in stature and generally had the appearance of a runt. His cheeks burned with a bright blush, sweat rolled like hail from his open forehead; but he did not notice anything and earnestly grimaced and broke down. However, his pranks, which so occupied the old man and the girl, were destined to end soon. The tall woman accidentally turned her head before reaching the door and took the old man and the girl by surprise. As if sensing watchful eyes fixed on them, they both shuddered and bowed their heads, one to the book, the other to work. Smiling sarcastically, the tall woman silently left the hall through the side door. The girl exchanged expressive glances with the old man and timidly listened to the knock of the door in the next room, which opened onto the terrace. A minute later the tall woman returned to the hall; out of breath, she dragged behind her the prankster, caught by surprise in the garden - he reluctantly followed her, resting his whole body. With all the strength of her tall stature and powerful shoulders, she sat the boy on a chair near the outbuilding and said menacingly: “I’m waiting, waiting for him, I think - still in class, and he deigns to grimace like some buffoon.” And, with contempt, Turning casually to the old man, who, like a schoolboy, was buried in a book, she added: “Aren’t you ashamed?” Then, quickly turning her head away, she approached the girl, who had bowed her head low over her work, ready to accept the thunderstorm that was already looming over her. - And you, madam! - exclaimed the tall woman, poorly hiding her anger and, however, trying to give her voice more evenness. “You should remember that you are eating someone else’s bread, wearing someone else’s dress!” at least out of delicacy, if you have no gratitude, listen to your benefactors. They wouldn't yawn at the windows, but would work. Thus pouring out her anger, the tall woman came closer and closer to the girl. Holding back her rapid breathing, the poor girl pursed her lips, on which a smile seemed to be wandering; Her cheeks were burning, and with a trembling hand she caught the bead, which stubbornly dodged her. The tall woman's voice rose higher and higher, her face glowing with anger. She continued: “I’ll teach you a lesson, madam, I’ll make you cry, not smile, when they tell you something.” Taken from mercy... But then she was interrupted by a strong knock on the outhouse lid and a wild cry: it was a young man screaming, biting his hand and jumping up. The tall woman rushed towards him; in a minute the anger disappeared from her face, replaced by fear. She looked at the boy with concern, repeating: - All your pranks! And she wanted to touch his hand; but he screamed wildly: “Oh, it hurts!” - and dodged. - - Cold water and vinegar, quickly, quickly! - the tall woman said abruptly, handing a bunch of keys to the girl who ran up to her. Water and vinegar were brought, and the young man's bruised hand was bandaged. Five minutes later he was sitting at the round table reading a book, and a tall woman was opposite him with yard-long knitting needles with which she was knitting a woolen scarf. Silence reigned in the room, broken, however, very soon by a strong blow, which the boy gave himself on the forehead while chasing an annoying fly. His unexpected trick made the girl laugh; but her laughter was stopped by the tall woman’s menacing gaze and the commanding exclamation: “Read aloud!” The young man obeyed. But he read either in a deep voice and unusually quickly, or squeaked, distorting German words (he read in German) so hilariously that, except for the tall woman, everyone could hardly restrain themselves from laughing. Having lost patience, she snatched the book from him and, throwing it away, said menacingly: “Wait, darling, stop entertaining the sloth with me, let him come!” It seemed that this threat had an effect on the naughty man: he leaned on the table with his hands, pulled into the narrow and short sleeves of his jacket, put his head on them and began to humbly watch the flies running around the table. Everyone went deep into their studies; the girl accidentally raised her head and met the eyes of the young man: laughter flashed on both their faces like lightning; She choked him out with a cough, and he burst into a hysterical burst of laughter. The tall woman and the old man shuddered; Throwing away her knitting and folding her hands, the first looked with bewilderment at the laughing young man, who was covering his mouth with his sore hand. - Why are you laughing? - she asked passionately. He jumped up and drummed on the table with his bandaged hand. - - Ah-ah! It seems like all your pain went away from laughing? - said the tall woman sarcastically and, having examined his hand, heartily pushed the naughty man towards the outbuilding, growling: - Dare to deceive! But he did not let up: sitting behind the outbuilding, he constantly blew his nose and coughed forcefully, glancing sideways at the girl. - - It seems you decided to piss me off today; but you won't succeed - get out of here!! - said the commandingly tall woman. There was so much strength and firmness in her voice that the young man lowered his eyes, but, however, did not move from his place. - - I'm telling you! - she added impatiently. – - It’s my fault, I won’t do it again! - he answered in a submissive voice and struck a chord. – - I don’t want to listen to your apologies! - the tall woman said in a more meek voice and, turning her back to the outbuilding, began to knit. The young man played with great animation; in his playing one could also see a lot of mechanical labor. He was playing one of Beethoven's sonatas. It was hard to believe that it was the same naughty man who in a minute

Chapter I
Summer evening

Four o'clock in the afternoon; The day is hot, but the air is clean and fragrant. The sun diligently heats the dark gray walls of a large, awkward house, standing far from other village huts. One thing can be said about its architecture: it was probably unfinished when it was covered with a roof. The windows, small and sparse, are tightly locked. The house also has a garden; but it does not protect him at all from the sun; Apart from lilac bushes and acacias, no trees are visible in it. However, it contains everything necessary for a village garden: a covered alley made of acacias, with a gazebo, several decrepit benches placed on poorly swept paths; to the side there are ridges with strawberries, and currant and raspberry bushes stretch along the fence. A half-rotten terrace with columns and wooden railings painted white opens onto the garden, and a path stretches from it; it goes down to a small river, which is all covered with marsh lilies and other herbs. There is a narrow bridge across the river in Chinese style. The one crossing it needs to have a sufficient supply of courage, because in some places the boards rotted, and the rest jumped at the touch. But for his courage he was generously rewarded, suddenly finding himself in a beautiful forest instead of a dull, naked garden. Huge trees replaced a gazebo and a covered alley here, green soft grass with flowers replaced rotten wooden benches. Everything here breathed so cheerfully and luxuriously, as if not a small river, but a whole sea separated the two gardens.

Entering the house, we will see one of the main rooms, unusually wide and low, with a floor painted thick brown, with a smoked ceiling, with furniture in which every thing shows the age of years and the deprivation of amenities. High chairs, painted white, with a bouquet of roses on the back, with straw cushions tied to the seat, were huddled tightly next to each other, bordering the walls. In the middle of the room was a round dining table with countless thin legs, reminiscent of a huge fossilized spider. In the corner opposite the windows is a massive outbuilding in a clumsy cover made of thick gray cloth. On the yellow, smoky wall is a barometer mounted in ebony. In one corner there was a wall clock with pound weights, which, due to their enormity, were more suitable for decorating the tower of a knight's castle than the dining room of a peaceful peasant.

An elderly woman with a pale and stern face walked around the room to the monotonous sound of a pendulum. There was a complete absence of the slightest tenderness in her large and irregular features. Throwing her arms back, she walked with a heavy step, immersed in thought. Her semi-mourning dress was in harmony with the gloom of the room: it consisted of a dark chintz hood and a fringed velvet cape; a huge bunch of keys jingled in his belt; a tulle cap with dark ribbons covered the woman’s hair, black and gray.

A girl and an old man were sitting at the window, covered with serpyanka, facing each other. The contrast of years sharply showed youth, full of life, and gentle old age.

Despite the girl's completely childish dress, she could easily be given the age of sixteen. A faded light-colored chintz dress with short sleeves that showed off her plump and beautiful arms, and a little white baby cape could not hide her plump shoulders. The girl had her hair done a la chinoise. 1
in Chinese style (French)

Her slightly wavy hair was raised upward, revealing her beautiful forehead and temples. Her braid, very thick, descended low to the back of her head, on which naturally small curls curled. The head was placed so gracefully on her beautiful shoulders that it involuntarily attracted attention. The facial features were small, except for the eyes - clear and bold; and in the outline of the beautiful lips, despite the still childish expression of the whole face, so much energy was already expressed that you involuntarily guessed about the strength of character. Harmony dominated the girl's entire figure, from her fiery eyes to the beautiful fingers with which she worked with beads on paper - an activity invented for the loss of vision.

The old man was very short: he could have sat almost entirely in Voltaire’s faded chairs. His face was meek, his features were small, but, despite his decrepitude, they still retained their shape. From under the white knitted cap that covered his head, sparse long gray hair fell and lay on the collar of his chintz robe. Huge glasses almost covered his entire small face. He had a book on his lap, and on the window next to him was a snuff-box and a pink checkered handkerchief.

The silence was oppressive all around the house; Only one rhythmically heavy step, now muffled by the beat of the pendulum, now echoing it, was heard monotonously throughout the hall. An attentive eye, however, would have noticed the little comedy that was silently playing out amid the general silence. As soon as the tall woman turned her back to the windows, the girl took her head away from her work and looked behind the screens that stood at the window. The old man did the same. They smiled, looking out the window; at times the girl could hardly contain her laughter. But as soon as the tall woman reached the door opposite the windows and turned around, the girl and the old man timidly turned to their studies; their faces quickly took on a serious expression.

The attention of the old man and the girl was attracted by a tall boy standing at the windows in the garden... however, he could only be called a boy by his suit, and even by the grimaces and jumps that he was now making. His broad shoulders were encased in a narrow blue cloth jacket, the sleeves of which barely reached his muscular arms. Long light blond hair fell onto the folded collar of his shirt. He was quite tall in stature and generally had the appearance of a runt. His cheeks burned with a bright blush, sweat rolled like hail from his open forehead; but he did not notice anything and earnestly grimaced and broke down. However, his pranks, which so occupied the old man and the girl, were destined to end soon.

The tall woman accidentally turned her head before reaching the door and took the old man and the girl by surprise. As if sensing watchful eyes fixed on them, they both shuddered and bowed their heads, one to the book, the other to work. Smiling sarcastically, the tall woman silently left the hall through the side door. The girl exchanged expressive glances with the old man and timidly listened to the knock of the door in the next room, which opened onto the terrace. A minute later the tall woman returned to the hall; out of breath, she dragged behind her the prankster, caught by surprise in the garden - he reluctantly followed her, resting his whole body. With all the strength of her tall stature and powerful shoulders, she sat the boy on a chair near the outbuilding and said menacingly:

“I’m waiting, waiting for him, I think, still in class, and he deigns to grimace like some kind of buffoon.” “And, turning with a contemptuous expression to the old man, who, like a schoolboy, had his head buried in a book, she added: “Aren’t you ashamed?”

Then, quickly turning her head away, she approached the girl, who had bowed her head low over her work, ready to accept the thunderstorm that was already looming over her.

- And you, madam! - exclaimed the tall woman, poorly hiding her anger and, however, trying to make her voice more even. “You should remember that you are eating someone else’s bread, wearing someone else’s clothes!” at least out of delicacy, if you have no gratitude, listen to your benefactors. They wouldn't yawn at the windows, but would work.

Thus pouring out her anger, the tall woman came closer and closer to the girl. Holding back her rapid breathing, the poor girl pursed her lips, on which a smile seemed to be wandering; Her cheeks were burning, and with a trembling hand she caught the bead, which stubbornly dodged her.

“I’ll teach you a lesson, madam, I’ll make you cry, not smile, when they tell you something.” Taken from mercy...

But then she was interrupted by a strong knock on the outhouse lid and a wild cry: it was a young man screaming, biting his hand and jumping up.

The tall woman rushed towards him; in a minute the anger disappeared from her face, replaced by fear. She looked at the boy with concern, repeating:

- All your pranks!

And she wanted to touch his hand; but he screamed wildly: “Oh, it hurts!” – and dodged.

- Cold water and vinegar, quickly, quickly! – the tall woman said abruptly, handing a bunch of keys to the girl who ran up to her.

Water and vinegar were brought, and the young man's bruised hand was bandaged. Five minutes later he was sitting at the round table reading a book, and a tall woman was opposite him with yard-long knitting needles with which she was knitting a woolen scarf. Silence reigned in the room, broken, however, very soon by a strong blow, which the boy gave himself on the forehead while chasing an annoying fly. His unexpected trick made the girl laugh; but her laughter was stopped by the menacing look of the tall woman and the commanding exclamation:

- Read it out loud!

The young man obeyed. But he read either in a deep voice and unusually quickly, or squeaked, distorting German words (he read in German) so hilariously that, except for the tall woman, everyone could hardly restrain themselves from laughing. Losing patience, she snatched the book from him and, throwing it away, said menacingly:

“Wait, darling, stop entertaining my sloth, let him come!”

It seemed that this threat had an effect on the naughty man: he leaned on the table with his hands, pulled into the narrow and short sleeves of his jacket, put his head on them and began to humbly watch the flies running around the table. Everyone went deep into their studies; the girl accidentally raised her head and met the eyes of the young man: laughter flashed on both their faces like lightning; She choked him out with a cough, and he burst into a hysterical burst of laughter.

The tall woman and the old man shuddered; Throwing away her knitting and folding her hands, the first looked with bewilderment at the laughing young man, who was covering his mouth with his sore hand.

- Why are you laughing? – she asked passionately.

He jumped up and drummed on the table with his bandaged hand.

- A-ah-ah! It seems like all your pain went away from laughing? - said the tall woman sarcastically and, having examined his hand, heartily pushed the naughty man towards the outbuilding, growling: - Dare to deceive!

But he did not let up: sitting behind the outbuilding, he constantly blew his nose and coughed forcefully, glancing sideways at the girl.

“It seems you decided to piss me off today; but you won’t succeed - get out of here!! - said the commandingly tall woman.

- I'm telling you! – she added impatiently.

– I don’t want to listen to your apologies! - the tall woman said in a more meek voice and, turning her back to the outbuilding, began to knit.

The young man played with great animation; in his playing one could also see a lot of mechanical labor. He was playing one of Beethoven's sonatas. It was hard to believe that this was the same naughty boy who had behaved so childishly in just a minute. The gentle features of his face took on a thoughtful and sad expression. Blue eyes quickly moved from notes to keys. His eyebrows knitted slightly, and his whole figure matured and breathed with energy. For two hours he played incessantly. The tall woman, leaving her knitting, listened to him motionless. The girl looked from time to time at the player and at those listening to him, and a smile wandered across her cheerful face. The old man slept soundly in his chairs. Noticing that the player was hot, the tall woman ordered the girl with her eyes to open the window where she was sitting.

Seven o'clock struck with thunder. The tall woman counted them and said tenderly:

- Enough, Petrusha!

But the player did not pay attention to her words: he continued to play; but the old man fearfully woke up at the tall woman’s voice and looked at her questioningly. She said commandingly, turning to the girl:

- Order tea!

The player stopped, stood up from behind the outbuilding, walked up to the tall woman and kissed her on the shoulder. All severity and coldness disappeared from her face. She lovingly straightened her wet hair, which was clinging to Petrusha's burning forehead.

“Auntie,” he said, “shall we drink tea on the terrace?” It's so stuffy here!

- Yes, you're covered in sweat.

And the aunt wiped his forehead with her handkerchief.

Nothing! look how quiet it is in the garden! - Petrusha said, approaching the open window, and suddenly his face took on its former childish expression; he ran out of the hall, saying: “I, auntie, will order tea to be prepared on the terrace!”

Before the aunt had time to nod her head in agreement, Petrusha was already in the garden and, with incredible leaps, began to run along the alley leading to the bridge. A few steps away, he was stopped by a cry of “Stop!”, and the girl, laughing, jumped out from behind a bush.

They grabbed hands, stood exactly in a line and, looking at each other, struck their hands three times, protractedly pronouncing: “One... two... three!” Then, with a cheerful cry, they began to run across the bridge into that part of the garden that would be more correctly called the forest. They ran without taking a breath, teasing each other; Finally, the girl, hugging a small thin birch tree with her hands, shouted joyfully:

- I'm first, I'm first!

- I'm second, I'm second! – Petrusha shouted, hugging the tree, laughing and imitating the girl’s voice.

- Ah! be quiet, Petrusha! – the girl said and began to straighten her slightly wrinkled cape.

Petrusha looked at her mockingly.

“Yes, you seem to like it,” she continued, “when your auntie scolds me that I soon soil my capes!”

- Did I fool her well? - Petrusha asked proudly, and, jumping from foot to foot, he squeaked pitifully: - Oh! it hurts, it hurts!

And they both burst out laughing.

“But let’s go home: maybe they’re looking for us!” – the girl said timidly.

And, having crossed the bridge, they went to the house along different paths.

On the terrace, at the table, at the samovar, a tall woman was already sitting when the girl approached the house. Petrusha was the first to approach the table and sat down next to a dry figure with a long, motionless face, yellow thin hair and gray evil eyes that moved quickly. This man was so skinny, as if he was being prepared for a herbarium. His long neck, like a bundle of wire, was tied into a yellowed white scarf, matching the color of his face. The antique blue tailcoat with copper buttons was apparently too wide for him; but narrow lilac nankeen trousers outlined not only his withered legs, but also the tops of his clumsy boots. A canary-colored vest completed his outfit. It was Petrusha's teacher. A consumptive, small, grayish woman sat next to him, timidly looking at everyone. There was something pitiful and suffering in her figure. It was his lifelong friend.

During tea, except for Petrusha and his auntie, no one spoke. At the end of the tea, the teacher bowed and left; his wife followed him, making an awkward curtsy to the hostess. The old man slowly walked around the garden with Petrusha and the girl, and the tall woman, sitting on the terrace, reasoned with the housekeeper.

Chapter II
Teacher

The tall woman was the complete mistress of the house of her only brother, who was absent at that moment. He was not a homebody at all; but in her entire life, my sister left the village for the nearest city no more than twice, and then only for a short time. Raised by a strict stepmother, who was famous throughout the province for her skill in managing and exemplary economy, Nastasya Andreevna (that was the name of the tall woman) completed her education at the age of fourteen. She did not know how to read or write correctly, but she had extensive knowledge of housekeeping. She knew all the secrets and tricks of cowgirls and cooks, various pickles, jams, making candied fruits and vinegar... however, it is difficult to count what she knew about the economic side... she counted perfectly, even on abacus. At her best, she would have been pretty; but the lack of exercise quickly developed plumpness in her, which did not suit either the girl’s years or her build, which was already dense, and her character was rather heavy. For her, the pleasures of a young girl did not exist. She didn’t even like to be with people of equal age and was very bored by her rare trips. She was proud and offended by her unenviable position in society. Not knowing how to carry on a conversation with men who occasionally came to them, dancing badly, not having, due to the stinginess of her stepmother, an elegant toilet, she became indifferent to the pleasures of her years before she experienced them, and not only fell in love with her unenviable life, but did not even comprehended another life outside the storerooms and household work that occupied her from morning to night.

Placing economy and housekeeping skills above all else, the stepmother was completely satisfied with Nastasya Andreevna’s apathetic character, but still considered it worthwhile to read her daily instructions regarding frugality, etc. The old woman saw in her stepdaughter the guarantees of a good housewife and was internally happy about them, but grumbled because habit, “that she would make her poor with her generosity.”

Nastasya Andreevna’s mother died at the very birth of her daughter. The father married a second time and a year later also died, leaving his second wife as full administrator of the estate until the children came of age. Everything in the house changed, and the stingy character of the stepmother was not slow to appear.

Left as a widow and guardian of two young children, she, with the help of frugality, brought their disorganized estate into a flourishing state, but at the same time she became terribly dry in soul. No feelings outside of economic interest existed for her, and she was jealous of her stepdaughter, like a passionately loving woman, of everything except housekeeping. The girl was strictly forbidden to read and music, for which she had a great affinity - the only inclination that was noticed in her. But the old woman saw in music a clear undermining of her well-being, and only in rare free hours was Nastasya Andreevna allowed to sit down at the beaten five-octave clavichord. Nastasya Andreevna’s lifeless, cold face became animated, her small eyes burned brightly if she happened to play out some waltz or romance by ear.

Nastasya Andreevna's brother was only a year older than his sister; but his silent, serious character made him old beyond his years. He was also completely devoted to economic affairs - he went to the threshing house, to the mill, to the stables and could replace a skilled manager with his management and rigor. There was no friendship between brother and sister, not even a semblance of this feeling. However, their upbringing contributed a lot to this. As soon as Nastasya Andreevna began to remember herself, she was ordered to her brother to say “you” and obey him in everything. They were not allowed to play either together or separately. Their whole entertainment consisted in competition - who could calculate or add this or that arithmetic problem faster and more accurately. In addition, envy, so characteristic of children for the praise of their relatives, cooled them a lot. And it must be admitted that the old woman with extraordinary skill knew how to ignite their zeal for housekeeping. With subtle calculation, she praised first one or the other of her guests, calculating their economic exploits.

However, no matter how much the raising of her son was delayed, the stepmother finally saw that it was necessary. She began to look for a tutor. Fate seemed to take care of the stingy old woman. For the smallest amount of money, a young and very educated foreigner undertook to prepare the boy. That's how it was. A rich neighbor, returning from abroad, brought with him a young man originally from Germany. The landowner liked the enthusiasm of his character, his enormous hopes for the future, which he lived without worrying about the present. Having met him abroad, a rich gentleman brought him to the village more for company than to conduct his orchestra. But, an idealist by nature, the German saw nothing: he thought that a passion for music cemented their bonds, and only the deep sleep into which his patron sometimes fell during a concert confused the dreamer. Conducting a village orchestra, he imagined that he occupied as important a position as the head of some European orchestra, and, sitting down at the piano to play in front of his dozing patron, he trembled and changed his face, as if thousands of amateurs had gathered to listen to him. The German had the unfortunate weakness, common to many, of attaching excessive importance to what he was doing. Self-love was the reason for this, and perhaps also a passion for art. Some oddities and irregularities in the character of the philanthropist were more than compensated for by a free life. The German lived like this for six months, when suddenly, quite unexpectedly, his patron fell from his chair and ended his days. The blow was double. The German found himself penniless and in a foreign land. Having divided the instruments in equal parts, the heirs did not pay attention to their unfortunate manager, who was forced to take shelter from the old manager out of mercy. Someone else's bread was bitter, and as soon as the first place opened, the German gladly took it. Need forced him to choose a different path: instead of a composer and conductor, he became a tutor to a stingy and grumpy old woman. But, having entered her as a teacher, he could not give up his dreams. Noticing a disposition towards music in Nastasya Andreevna, the teacher began to study with her. Calculation overcame the old woman’s dislike for music, and she was very glad that her stepdaughter’s musical education would be for nothing. Where another would have seen only a talent for music, the enthusiastic German foresaw something extraordinary. He imagined that fate had called him to the enviable feat of creating a future celebrity. His gloomy life with the old woman took on a character full of interest, and when the thought of changing his place came to him, his conscience stopped him: he was afraid of ruining the talent that really was in Nastasya Andreevna.

The description of the lake in the novel corresponds to its sinister purpose. Deadly calm and gloomy solemnity are present in it: “Around the lake, on three sides, as if serving as a fence, there were mountains; covered with sparse spruce bushes and trees, they gave this place the appearance of a fortress, which contained an eternally smooth, mirror-like surface of the water. Huge trees, leaning towards the water, cast terrible shadows on it, and the arms of the lake, twisting endlessly, shone in the distance here and there between the dense forest. A kind of despondency spread around the lake, which was calm even in a storm. The wind raging on the mountains, howling, as if afraid to disturb the calm of the lake; only the tops of the trees slowly swayed and filled the air with a strange roar. The gloomy and spreading spruce forest stood motionless, extending its long branches towards the lake, as if trying to protect it from the sun. Sedges and reeds of terrible height bordered the lake, and emerald moss in the form of grass treacherously hid between the spruce bushes.” Of course, it would be useless for researchers of Nekrasov’s work to look for a similar lake in the Yaroslavl province. The artistic description is of a generalized nature. However, we would venture to suggest that in the poet’s life the “dead lake” still existed. It is still located five kilometers from the former Nekrasov estate Greshnevo and is called Ivanov or Ivanovsky. THIS happened on July 23, 1834. From the meager testimony recorded in the Yaroslavl district court, it was possible to find out that on this day, at six o’clock in the evening, the poet’s father Alexey Sergeevich went with his sons, a student of the Yaroslavl gymnasium Fyodor Alekseevich Uspensky, taken on vacation as a tutor for Nikolai and Andrei Nekrasov , and two servants for hunting. Having reached the lake and taking one of the two guns, Fyodor Uspensky fell behind Nekrasov fathoms by a hundred (about 213 meters). Soon a shot was heard, and, looking back, the poet’s father saw that Uspensky was “walking along a shallow part of the lake.” As if sensing something was wrong, the Nekrasovs turned back and “soon heard a scream and, running there, saw Uspensky, completely dying in the water.” Having quickly undressed, Alexey Sergeevich, not knowing how to swim himself, rushed into the water to help the young man and had almost reached him when he himself began to drown. With great difficulty, the Greshnevsky landowner made it to the shore. All this happened in front of the Nekrasov brothers and one of the servants. Having called the peasants and brought in a raft, the Nekrasovs searched for Uspensky’s body until late at night. The village councilors of Timokhin and Diyevo-Gorodishche reported the incident. On the fourth day, the young man’s body floated to the surface of the lake and was probably buried in the village of Nikolo-Ramenye, Poshekhonsky district, where the high school student was from. Since the perpetrators of the tragedy were not found, it was decided “to submit this case to God for judgment, and, having considered the case resolved, to put it in the archives.” In the novel “Dead Lake” there is an episode when the landowner Kuratov and his servants are looking for the body of a gypsy woman who committed suicide in the lake: “It was already getting dark, and Kuratov, in some kind of insane despair, swam around the lake, sometimes with rewards, sometimes with threats, encouraging people to throw themselves into the lake and look for a gypsy. There were tears in his voice. He called the gypsy woman by name, as if thinking to call her from the bottom of the lake, which was lit by thousands of torches and bonfires located on the shore for those who threw themselves into the lake to warm themselves. The whispers of people who seemed to be afraid to drown out Kuratov’s voice, the majestic calm of nature - everything was full of despondency and horror...” It is quite possible that this episode was based on Nekrasov’s memories of that July night. By the way, the image of the landowner Kuratov partly reminds us of the poet’s father. Having become the culprit in the death of a gypsy woman, this hero, haunted by pangs of conscience, soon dies in the lake. And yet, there is a lot that is unclear in the materials of the case about the death of Fyodor Uspensky. For example, they say that a young man, having decided to get a shot duck, “due to his carelessness, swam into a deep place in the lake and, having exhausted his strength, could not save himself from drowning.” However, for some reason, witnesses do not report the things left by the high school student on the shore. It turns out that Uspensky swam after the game with a gun, a bag containing charges, and clothes, but this is unlikely. A clue about the circumstances of the young man’s death, in our opinion, can be found in the dialogue between the heroes of the novel “Dead Lake”: “When they came ashore, the dapper gentleman, shaking the water from himself, said: “Oooh!” what cold water! And for sure: I noticed that there were pools in the lake, and they were pulling downwards. - And how many of them there are, and even near the very shores! And whoever doesn’t know this lake swims to the shore and thinks that the land will rise and fall. “Here and near the house you can only get close to the lake, otherwise it’s all a swamp,” the gypsy woman spoke while the bathing man was wringing out his coat.” Apparently, the high school student Uspensky did not swim after the duck, but fell into one of the so-called pools. This probably happened so unexpectedly for him that he lost his composure and died. N. A. Nekrasov never remembered the death of Fyodor Uspensky. But his death, of course, could not help but affect the consciousness of the poet, who, as you know, grew up as a very vulnerable and impressionable boy. It is quite possible that he felt guilty towards the young man. In any case, the water element attracted the poet to itself like a magnet. Sometimes he even tested his fate. So one day, according to the testimony of E. Ya. Kolbasin, he, not knowing how to swim, in order to prove his love to a woman, threw himself from a boat in the middle of the Volga and was only saved by luck by his companions. The novel “Dead Lake” has a completely happy ending. The young generation of nobles showed their economic abilities in full brilliance: they drained the swamps near the lake, skillfully turned the inaccessible forest into a beautiful park. “The lake lost its frightening mystery and only according to legend retained its gloomy name,” such was the utopia of Nikolai Nekrasov. The real Ivanovo Lake still has winding and marshy shores. And only fishermen sometimes visit him, unaware of the tragedy that happened here many years ago. Grigory KRASILNIKOV, head of the Abbakumtsevo branch of the N. A. Nekrasov Karabikha Museum-Reserve.

Summer evening

Entering the house, we will see one of the main rooms, unusually wide and low, with a floor painted thick brown, with a smoked ceiling, with furniture in which every thing shows the age of years and the deprivation of amenities. High chairs, painted white, with a bouquet of roses on the back, with straw cushions tied to the seat, were huddled tightly next to each other, bordering the walls. In the middle of the room was a round dining table with countless thin legs, reminiscent of a huge fossilized spider. In the corner opposite the windows is a massive outbuilding in a clumsy cover made of thick gray cloth. On the yellow, smoky wall is a barometer framed in ebony. In one corner there was a wall clock with pound weights, which, due to their enormity, were more suitable for decorating the tower a knight's castle than a peaceful peasant's dining room.

A girl and an old man were sitting at the window, covered with serpyanka, facing each other. The contrast of years sharply showed youth, full of life, and gentle old age. Despite the girl's completely childish dress, she could easily be given the age of sixteen. A faded light-colored chintz dress with short sleeves that showed off her plump and beautiful arms, and a little white baby cape could not hide her plump shoulders. The girl had her hair done a la chinoise. (Chinese style (French)) Her slightly wavy hair was raised upward, revealing a beautiful forehead and temples. Her braid, very thick, descended low to the back of her head, on which naturally small curls curled. The head was placed so gracefully on her beautiful shoulders that it involuntarily attracted attention. The facial features were small, except for the eyes - clear and bold; and in the outline of the beautiful lips, despite the still childish expression of the whole face, so much energy was already expressed that you involuntarily guessed about the strength of character. Harmony dominated the girl's entire figure, from her fiery eyes to the beautiful fingers with which she worked with beads on paper - an activity invented for the loss of vision.

- - I’m waiting, waiting for him, I think - still in class, and he deigns to grimace like some buffoon. - And, turning with a contemptuous expression to the old man, who, like a schoolboy, had his head buried in a book, she added: - - Aren’t you ashamed?

Then, quickly turning her head away, she approached the girl, who had bowed her head low over her work, ready to accept the thunderstorm that was already looming over her.

- And you, madam! - exclaimed the tall woman, poorly hiding her anger and, however, trying to give her voice more evenness. “You should remember that you are eating someone else’s bread, wearing someone else’s dress!” at least out of delicacy, if you have no gratitude, listen to your benefactors. They wouldn't yawn at the windows, but would work.

- - I’ll teach you a lesson, madam, I’ll make you cry, not smile, when they tell you something. Taken from mercy...