Turgenev's noble nest heroes. Novel "The Noble Nest" by I.S.

Current page: 1 (book has 13 pages in total)

I. S. Turgenev
Noble Nest

* * *

Noble Nest

I

The spring, bright day was approaching evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float by, but went into the very depths of the azure.

In front of the open window beautiful home, in one of the extreme streets provincial town Oh... (this happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one about fifty years old, the other an old woman, seventy years old.

The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time - a lively and decisive man, bilious and stubborn - died ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born into a poor class, he early realized the need to make his own way and make money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, smart and, when he wanted, very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in her maiden name Pestova) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty miles from O..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovskoye, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to St. Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death She did not set a limit to his field. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live in it for long; in the second year after her wedding to Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time, Kalitin purchased a house in the city of O..., where he and his wife settled permanently. There was a large garden next to the house; on one side it went straight into the field, outside the city. “So,” decided Kalitin, a great reluctance to rural silence, “there is no need to wander into the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once regretted in her heart her pretty Pokrovsky with its cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his intelligence and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna had already become so accustomed to her home and to city life that she herself did not want to leave O...

Marya Dmitrievna in her youth enjoyed the reputation of a pretty blonde; and at fifty years old her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although they were a little swollen and blurred. She was more sensitive than kind, and retained her college habits until her mature years; she spoiled herself, became easily irritated and even cried when her habits were violated; but she was very affectionate and kind, when all her wishes were fulfilled and no one contradicted her. Her house was one of the most pleasant in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much hereditary as acquired by her husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best government institutions in St. Petersburg.

The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovskoye. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone's face and, with the meager means, behaved as if thousands were following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in old age, small, pointed-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a thin and sonorous voice. She always wore a white cap and a white jacket.

-What are you talking about? – she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. -What are you sighing about, my mother?

“Yes,” she said. – What wonderful clouds!

– So you feel sorry for them, or what?

Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.

- Why is Gedeonovsky missing? - Marfa Timofeevna said, deftly moving her knitting needles (she was knitting a large woolen scarf). “He would have sighed with you, or he would have lied something.”

– How you always speak strictly of him! Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.

- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.

- And how devoted he was to his late husband! - said Marya Dmitrievna, - she still cannot remember him indifferently.

- Still would! “He pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” Marfa Timofeevna grumbled, and the knitting needles moved even faster in her hands.

“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and when he opens his mouth, he lies or gossips.” And also a state councilor! Well, let’s just say: Popovich!

- Who is without sin, auntie? Of course, he has this weakness. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive any education; he does not speak French; but he is, as you please, a pleasant person.

- Yes, he keeps licking your hands. He doesn’t speak French, what a disaster! I myself am not strong in the French dialect. It would be better if he didn’t speak in any way: he wouldn’t lie. Yes, by the way, he’s easy to remember,” added Marfa Timofeevna, glancing at the street. “Here he comes, your nice man.” So long, like a stork!

Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofeevna looked at her with a grin.

- What is it that you have, by no means, gray hair, my mother? Scold your Broadsword. What is she looking at?

“You, auntie, always...,” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair.

– Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! - the red-cheeked Cossack squeaked, jumping out from behind the door.

II

A man came in tall, in a neat frock coat, short trousers, gray suede gloves and two ties - one black, on top, the other white, on the bottom. Everything about him exuded decency and decency, from his handsome face and smoothly combed temples to his boots without heels and without slipping. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofeevna and, slowly taking off his gloves, walked up to Marya Dmitrievna’s hand. Having kissed her respectfully and twice in a row, he slowly sat down in a chair and with a smile, rubbing the very tips of his fingers, said:

– Is Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?

“Yes,” answered Marya Dmitrievna, “she is in the garden.”

– And Elena Mikhailovna?

- Helen is in the garden too. Is there anything new?

“How not to be, sir, how not to be, sir,” the guest objected, blinking slowly and pursing his lips. - Hm!.. yes, please, there is news, and amazing: Fyodor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived.

- Fedya! - Marfa Timofeevna exclaimed. “Aren’t you just making things up, my father?”

- No, sir, I saw them myself.

- Well, this is not proof yet.

“They are much healthier,” Gedeonovsky continued, pretending that he had not heard Marfa Timofeevna’s remark, “his shoulders have become even wider, and his cheeks are flushed.”

“He’s gotten better,” said Marya Dmitrievna with emphasis, “it seems, why should he get better?”

“Yes, sir,” objected Gedeonovsky, “anyone else in his place would be ashamed to appear in the world.”

- Why is this? - interrupted Marya Timofeevna, - what kind of nonsense is this? A man has returned to his homeland - where do you tell him to go? And fortunately he was to blame!

“The husband is always to blame, madam, I dare to tell you when his wife behaves badly.”

“That’s why you say it, father, because you yourself were never married.”

Gedeonovsky smiled forcedly.

“Let me be curious,” he asked after a short silence, “who is this cute scarf assigned to?”

Marfa Timofeevna quickly glanced at him.

“And it is assigned to him,” she objected, “who never gossips, does not cheat, and does not make up things, if only there is such a person in the world.” I know Fedya well; His only fault is that he spoiled his wife. Well, he married for love, and nothing good ever comes out of these love weddings,” added the old woman, looking indirectly at Marya Dmitrievna and standing up. “And now, my father, you can sharpen your teeth on anyone, even me; I'll leave, I won't interfere.

And Marfa Timofeevna left.

“She’s always like this,” said Marya Dmitrievna, following her aunt with her eyes, “always!”

- Their summer! What to do with! – Gedeonovsky noted. - So they deign to say: whoever is not cunning. Who doesn't cheat? This is the age. One of my friends, a respectable man and, let me tell you, a man of no small rank, used to say that every day a chicken approaches the grain with cunning - it always tries to approach it from the side. And when I look at you, my lady, your disposition is truly angelic; Please give me your snow-white hand.

Marya Dmitrievna smiled faintly and extended her plump hand to Gedeonovsky with the fifth finger separated. He pressed his lips to hers, and she pulled her chair towards him and, bending slightly, asked in a low voice:

- So you saw him? Is he really okay, healthy, cheerful?

“Merry, sir, nothing,” Gedeonovsky objected in a whisper.

-Have you heard where his wife is now?

- IN Lately I was in Paris, sir; Now, it is heard, she has moved to the Italian state.

“It’s terrible, really,” Fedino’s situation; I don't know how he bears it. Misfortunes certainly happen to everyone; but, one might say, it was published all over Europe.

Gedeonovsky sighed:

- Yes, sir, yes, sir. After all, they say, she was acquainted with artists and pianists, and, as they say, with lions and animals. I completely lost my shame...

“Very, very sorry,” said Marya Dmitrievna. - In a family way: after all, he, Sergei Petrovich, you know, is my great-nephew.

- How, sir, how, sir. How can I not know everything that concerns your family? Have mercy, sir.

– Will he come to us, what do you think?

- It must be assumed, sir; but, by the way, you can hear them getting ready for their village.

Marya Dmitrievna raised her eyes to the sky:

- Oh, Sergei Petrovich, Sergei Petrovich, how I think about how we women need to behave carefully!

– Woman to woman rose, Marya Dmitrievna. There are, unfortunately, those who have a fickle temperament... well, summer; again the rules were not instilled in them from childhood. (Sergei Petrovich took a checkered blue scarf from his pocket and began to unfold it.) Such women, of course, exist. (Sergei Petrovich brought the corner of the handkerchief one by one to his eyes.) But, generally speaking, if we think about it, that is... The dust in the city is extraordinary,” he concluded.

“Maman, maman,” cried a pretty girl of about eleven, running into the room, “Vladimir Nikolaich is coming to us on horseback!”

Marya Dmitrievna stood up; Sergei Petrovich also stood up and bowed. “To Elena Mikhailovna, our deepest regards,” he said and, retreating to a corner for the sake of appearances, began blowing his long and straight nose.

- What a wonderful horse he has! – the girl continued. “He was at the gate now and told Lisa and me that he would drive up to the porch.

The clatter of hooves was heard, and a slender rider on a beautiful bay horse appeared on the street and stopped in front of the open window.

III

– Hello, Marya Dmitrievna! – the rider exclaimed in a sonorous and pleasant voice. – How do you like my new purchase?

Marya Dmitrievna went to the window:

– Hello, Woldemar! Oh, what a nice horse! Who did you buy it from?

- From the repairman... He took it dearly, robber.

- What is her name?

- Orlando... Yes, this name is stupid; I want to change... Eh bien, eh bien, mon garcon... 1
Well, well, my boy... ( fr.)

How restless!

The horse snorted, shifted his feet and waved his foamy muzzle.

- Helen, pet her, don’t be afraid...

The girl extended her hand from the window, but Orland suddenly reared up and rushed to the side. The rider was not lost, he took the horse in his leg, pulled him along the neck with a whip and, despite his resistance, put him again in front of the window.

– Prenez garde, prenez garde 2
It's even very chic ( fr.).

, - Marya Dmitrievna repeated.

“Helen, caress him,” the rider objected, “I won’t let him take liberties.”

The girl again extended her hand and timidly touched the fluttering nostrils of Orland, who incessantly shuddered and gnawed at the bit.

- Bravo! - exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, - now get off and come to us.

The rider dashingly turned his horse, gave it spurs and, galloping down the street, rode into the yard.

A minute later he ran, waving his whip, from the front door into the living room; at the same time, on the threshold of another door, a slender, tall, black-haired girl of about nineteen appeared - eldest daughter Marya Dmitrievna, Lisa.

IV

The young man we just introduced our readers to was called Vladimir Nikolaich Panshin. He served in St. Petersburg as an official special assignments at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He came to the city of O... to fulfill a temporary government assignment and was at the disposal of the governor, General Sonnenberg, to whom he was a distant relative. Panshin's father, a retired captain, a famous player, a man with sweet eyes, a rumpled face and a nervous twitch in his lips, spent his entire life rubbing shoulders between the nobility, visited English clubs in both capitals and was known as a clever, not very reliable, but sweet and sincere fellow . Despite all his dexterity, he was almost constantly on the verge of poverty and left his only son a small and upset fortune. But he, in his own way, took care of his upbringing: Vladimir Nikolaich spoke French perfectly, English well, German poorly. This is how it should be: decent people are ashamed to speak good German; but it’s possible to use a Germanic word in some, mostly funny, cases, c’est même très chic 3
Be careful, be careful ( fr.).

How do St. Petersburg Parisians express themselves? From the age of fifteen, Vladimir Nikolaich already knew how to enter any living room without embarrassment, pleasantly twirl around in it and conveniently leave. Panshin's father provided his son with many connections; shuffling cards between two rubbers or after a successful " grand slam“, he never missed an opportunity to spread the word about his “Volodka” to some important person who was a hunter of commercial games. For his part, Vladimir Nikolaich, during his stay at the university, from where he graduated with the rank of a full student, met some noble young people and became a member of best houses. He was readily accepted everywhere; he was very handsome, cheeky, funny, always healthy and ready for anything; where necessary - respectful, where possible - impudent, an excellent comrade, un charmant garcon 4
Adorable fellow ( fr.).

The treasured region opened up before him. Panshin soon understood the secret of secular science; he knew how to be imbued with real respect for its rules, he knew how to deal with nonsense with half-mocking importance and show the appearance that he regards everything important as nonsense; He danced well and dressed in English. IN a short time he became known as one of the most amiable and clever young men in St. Petersburg. Panshin was indeed very dexterous, no worse than his father; but he was also very gifted. Everything was given to him: he sang sweetly, drew smartly, wrote poetry, and played very well on stage. He was only twenty-eight years old, and he was already a chamber cadet and had a very considerable rank. Panshin firmly believed in himself, in his mind, in his insight; he walked forward boldly and cheerfully, in full swing; his life flowed like clockwork. He was used to being liked by everyone, old and young, and imagined that he knew people, especially women: he knew their everyday weaknesses well. As a person not alien to art, he felt in himself both heat, and some passion, and enthusiasm, and as a result of this, he allowed himself various deviations from the rules: he went on a drinking spree, became acquainted with people who did not belong to the world, and generally behaved freely and simply; but in his soul he was cold and cunning, and during the most violent revelry his smart brown eye kept watch and looked out for everything; this brave, this free young man could never forget himself and get carried away completely. To his credit, it must be said that he never boasted of his victories. He ended up in Marya Dmitrievna’s house immediately upon his arrival in O... and soon became completely at home in it. Marya Dmitrievna doted on him.

Panshin kindly bowed to everyone in the room, shook hands with Marya Dmitrievna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna, lightly patted Gedeonovsky on the shoulder and, turning on his heel, caught Lenochka by the head and kissed her forehead.

“And you’re not afraid to ride such an angry horse?” - Marya Dmitrievna asked him.

- For pity’s sake, she’s humble; but I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of: I’m afraid of playing preference with Sergei Petrovich; Yesterday at the Belenitsyns he beat me to pieces.

Gedeonovsky laughed a thin and obsequious laugh: he was ingratiating himself with the young brilliant official from St. Petersburg, the governor’s favorite. In his conversations with Marya Dmitrievna, he often mentioned Panshin’s remarkable abilities. After all, he reasoned, how could he not praise? And in the highest sphere of life, the young man succeeds, and serves exemplarily, without the slightest pride. However, Panshin was considered a efficient official even in St. Petersburg: the work was in full swing in his hands; he spoke about her jokingly, as befits a secular person who does not attach much importance to his works, but he was a “performer.” Bosses love such subordinates; he himself had no doubt that, if he wanted, he would eventually become a minister.

“You deign to say that I beat you,” said Gedeonovsky, “and last week who won twelve rubles from me?” yes still...

“Villain, villain,” Panshin interrupted him with affectionate, but slightly contemptuous carelessness, and, no longer paying attention to him, walked up to Lisa.

“I couldn’t find the Oberon Overture here,” he began. - Belenitsyna only boasted that she had everything classical music, - in fact, she has nothing except polkas and waltzes; but I have already written to Moscow, and in a week you will have this overture. By the way,” he continued, “I wrote a new romance yesterday; the words are also mine. Do you want me to sing for you? I don't know what came of it; Belenitsyna found him very nice, but her words mean nothing - I want to know your opinion. However, I think it’s better after.

- Why after? - Marya Dmitrievna intervened, - why not now?

“I’m listening, sir,” said Panshin with a kind of bright and sweet smile that suddenly appeared and disappeared on him, “he pulled up a chair with his knee, sat down at the piano and, having struck a few chords, sang, clearly separating the words, the following romance:

The moon floats high above the earth
Between pale clouds;
But it moves from above like a wave of the sea
Magic ray.
The sea recognized you in my soul
With your moon
And it moves - both in joy and in sorrow -
You alone.
The longing of love, the longing of silent aspirations
The soul is full;
It’s hard for me... But you are alien to turmoil,
Like that moon.

The second verse was sung by Panshin with special expression and strength; in the stormy accompaniment the play of waves could be heard. After the words: “It’s hard for me...” - he sighed slightly, lowered his eyes and lowered his voice - morendo 5
Freezing ( it.).

When he finished, Liza praised the motive, Marya Dmitrievna said: “Lovely,” and Gedeonovsky even shouted: “Delightful!” both poetry and harmony are equally delightful!..” Helen looked at the singer with childish awe. In a word, everyone present really liked the work of the young amateur; but behind the door of the living room in the hall stood the man who had just arrived, already an old man, to whom, judging by the expression of his downcast face and the movements of his shoulders, Panshin’s romance, although very nice, did not bring pleasure. After waiting a little and brushing the dust off his boots with a thick handkerchief, this man suddenly narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips gloomily, bent his already stooped back and slowly entered the living room.

- A! Christopher Fedorych, hello! - Panshin exclaimed first of all and quickly jumped out of his chair.

“I didn’t even suspect that you were here; I would never have decided to sing my romance in front of you.” I know you are not a fan of light music.

“I wasn’t listening,” the man who entered said in bad Russian and, bowing to everyone, stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“You, Monsieur Lemm,” said Marya Dmitrievna, “have come to give Liza a music lesson?”

- No, not Lisafet Mikhailovna, but Elen Mikhailovna.

- A! Well, that’s great. Helen, go upstairs with Mr. Lemm.

The old man started to follow the girl, but Panshin stopped him.

“Don’t leave after the lesson, Khristofor Fedorych,” he said, “Lizaveta Mikhailovna and I will play the Beethoven Sonata for four hands.”

The old man grumbled something under his breath, and Panshin continued in German, pronouncing the words poorly:

– Lizaveta Mikhailovna showed me the spiritual cantata that you presented to her – a wonderful thing! Please don’t think that I don’t know how to appreciate serious music - on the contrary: it is sometimes boring, but it is very useful.

The old man blushed from ear to ear, cast an indirect glance at Lisa and hurriedly left the room.

Marya Dmitrievna asked Panshin to repeat the romance; but he announced that he did not want to offend the ears of the learned German, and invited Lisa to study the Beethoven sonata. Then Marya Dmitrievna sighed and, for her part, invited Gedeonovsky to walk with her in the garden. “I would like,” she said, “to talk and consult with you about our poor Fed.” Gedeonovsky grinned, bowed, took his hat with two fingers with his gloves neatly placed on one of its brims, and left with Marya Dmitrievna. Panshin and Lisa remained in the room; she took out and opened the sonata; both sat down at the piano in silence. From above came the faint sounds of scales played by Helen’s unsteady fingers.

V

Christopher Theodor Gottlieb Lemm was born in 1786, in the Kingdom of Saxony, in the city of Chemnitz, from poor musicians. His father played the horn, his mother the harp; He himself had already been practicing on three different instruments for five years. At the age of eight he was orphaned, and at ten he began to earn a piece of bread for himself with his art. He drove for a long time wandering life, played everywhere - in taverns, and at fairs, and at peasant weddings, and at balls; Finally he got into the orchestra and, moving higher and higher, reached the conductor's seat. He was a pretty bad performer, but he knew music thoroughly. In his twenty-eighth year he moved to Russia. He was signed by a great gentleman who himself hated music, but ran the orchestra out of arrogance. Lemm lived with him for seven years as a bandmaster and left him empty-handed: the master went bankrupt, wanted to give him a bill of exchange for himself, but later refused him this too - in a word, he did not pay him a penny. He was advised to leave; but he did not want to return home as a beggar from Russia, from great Russia, this bonanza of artists; he decided to stay and try his luck. For twenty years, the poor German tried his luck: he visited various gentlemen, lived in Moscow and in provincial cities, endured and endured a lot, learned poverty, fought like a fish on ice; but the thought of returning to his homeland did not leave him amid all the disasters to which he was exposed; she was the only one who supported him. Fate, however, was not willing to please him with this last and first happiness: at fifty years old, sick, decrepit before his time, he was stuck in the city of O... and remained there forever, having completely lost all hope of leaving Russia, which he hated, and somehow supporting lessons from my meager existence. Lemm's appearance did not favor him. He was short, stooped, with crooked shoulder blades and a retracted stomach, with large flat feet, with pale blue nails on the hard, rigid fingers of his sinewy red hands; his face was wrinkled, sunken cheeks and compressed lips, which he constantly moved and chewed, which, given his usual silence, gave an almost sinister impression; his gray hair hung in tufts over his low forehead; His tiny, motionless eyes smoldered dully like freshly poured coals; He walked heavily, throwing his clumsy body over at every step. Some of his movements were reminiscent of the clumsy preening of an owl in a cage, when she feels that they are looking at her, but she herself can barely see with her huge, yellow, fearfully and drowsily blinking eyes. Old, inexorable grief put its indelible stamp on the poor musicus, distorted and disfigured his already inconspicuous figure; but for someone who knew how not to dwell on first impressions, something kind, honest, something extraordinary was visible in this dilapidated creature. An admirer of Bach and Handel, an expert in his field, gifted with a lively imagination and that courage of thought that is accessible to one Germanic tribe, Lemm over time - who knows? - would have become one of the great composers of his homeland, if life had led him differently; but he was not born under a lucky star! He wrote a lot in his lifetime - and he did not manage to see a single one of his works published; He didn’t know how to get down to business as he should, to bow at the right time, to bother on time. Once, a long time ago, one of his admirers and friends, also German and also poor, published two of his sonatas at his own expense - and even those remained entirely in the basements music stores; They sank silently and without a trace, as if someone had thrown them into the river at night. Lemm finally gave up on everything; Moreover, the years had taken their toll: he became callous, numb, like his fingers became numb. Alone, with an old cook he took from an almshouse (he was never married), he lived in O... in a small house, not far from the Kalitino house; I walked a lot, read the Bible, a collection of Protestant psalms, and Shakespeare in Schlegel’s translation. He hadn't composed anything for a long time; but, apparently, Liza, his best student, knew how to stir him up: he wrote for her the cantata that Panshin mentioned. The words of this cantata were borrowed by him from a collection of psalms; He composed some of the poems himself. It was sung by two choirs - the choir of the lucky and the choir of the unlucky; By the end, both of them were reconciled and sang together: “Merciful God, have mercy on us sinners, and drive away from us all evil thoughts and earthly hopes.” On the title page, very carefully written and even painted, it read: “Only the righteous are right. Spiritual cantata. Composed and dedicated to the girl Elizaveta Kalitina, my dear student, her teacher, H. T. G. Lemm.” The words: “Only the righteous are right” and “Elizabeth Kalitina” were surrounded by rays. At the bottom was written: “For you alone, fur Sie allein.” That’s why Lemm blushed and looked sideways at Lisa; he was very hurt when Panshin started talking about his cantata in front of him.

VI

Panshin loudly and decisively struck the first chords of the sonata (he played the second hand), but Liza did not begin her part. He stopped and looked at her. Lisa's eyes, fixed directly on him, expressed displeasure; her lips did not smile, her whole face was stern, almost sad.

- What's wrong with you? - he asked.

– Why didn’t you keep your word? - she said. “I showed you Christopher Fedoritch’s cantata on the condition that you not tell him about it.”

“I’m sorry, Lizaveta Mikhailovna,” I had to say by the way.

“You upset him—and me too.” Now he won't trust me either.

– What do you want me to do, Lizaveta Mikhailovna? From my young nails I can’t see the German indifferently: I’m tempted to tease him.

– What are you saying, Vladimir Nikolaich! This German is a poor, lonely, murdered man - and you don’t feel sorry for him? Do you feel like teasing him?

Panshin was embarrassed.

“You’re right, Lizaveta Mikhailovna,” he said. “It’s all my fault because of my eternal thoughtlessness.” No, don't contradict me; I know myself well. My thoughtlessness did me a lot of harm. By her grace, I became known as an egoist.

Panshin was silent. No matter where he started the conversation, he usually ended up talking about himself, and it came out somehow sweet and soft, sincere, as if involuntarily.

“And in your house,” he continued, “your mother, of course, favors me - she is so kind; you... however, I don’t know your opinion about me; but your aunt just can’t stand me. I, too, must have offended her in some thoughtless way, stupid word. She doesn't love me, does she?

“Yes,” said Lisa with a slight hesitation, “she doesn’t like you.”

Panshin quickly ran his fingers over the keys; a barely noticeable smile crossed his lips.

- Well, what about you? - he said, - do I also seem selfish to you?

“I don’t know you well yet,” Liza objected, “but I don’t consider you an egoist; On the contrary, I should be grateful to you...

“I know, I know what you want to say,” Panshin interrupted her and again ran his fingers over the keys, “for the notes, for the books that I bring you, for bad drawings, with which I decorate your album, and so on, and so on. I can do all this and still be selfish. I dare to think that you don’t get bored with me and that you don’t consider me a bad person, but still you think that I—what do you mean, that’s said? - I won’t spare either my father or my friend for the sake of saying it.

“You are absent-minded and forgetful, like all secular people,” said Lisa, “that’s all.”

Panshin frowned a little.

“Listen,” he said, “let’s not talk about me anymore; Let's play our sonata. I only ask you one thing,” he added, smoothing the sheets of the notebook lying on the music stand with his hand, “think about me what you want, even call me an egoist - so be it!” but don’t call me a secular person: this nickname is intolerable to me... Anch’io sono pittore 6
I'm an artist too ( it.).

I am also an artist, although a bad one, and this, namely that I am a bad artist, I will prove to you right now in practice. Let's get started.

“Let’s get started,” said Lisa.

The first adagio went quite well, although Panshin made mistakes several times. He played his own and what he had learned very nicely, but he understood it poorly. But the second part of the sonata - a rather fast allegro - did not go well at all: on the twentieth bar, Panshin, who was two bars behind, could not stand it and pushed his chair away with a laugh.

- No! - he exclaimed, - I can’t play today; it’s good that Lemm didn’t hear us; he would have fainted.

Lisa stood up, closed the piano and turned to Panshin.

- What are we going to do? – she asked.

- I recognize you in this question! There is no way you can sit idly by. Well, if you want, let's draw before it gets completely dark. Perhaps another muse - the muse of drawing - what was her name? I forgot... he will be more kind to me. Where is your album? I remember that my landscape is not finished there.

Liza went into another room to get the album, and Panshin, left alone, took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, rubbed his nails and looked, somehow askance, at his hands. He had them very beautiful and white; on thumb on his left hand he wore a screw-shaped Golden ring. Lisa is back; Panshin sat down by the window and unfolded the album.

- Yeah! - he exclaimed, - I see that you have begun to sketch my landscape - and it’s wonderful. Very good! Just here - give me a pencil - the shadows are not very strong. Look.

And Panshin laid out several long strokes in a sweeping manner. He constantly painted the same landscape: large, disheveled trees in the foreground, a clearing in the distance and jagged mountains in the sky. Lisa looked over his shoulder at his work.

A bright spring day was approaching evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and seemed not to float by, but to go into the very depths of the azure.

In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O... (this happened in 1842), two women were sitting: one about fifty years old, the other an old woman, seventy years old.

The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time - a lively and decisive man, bilious and stubborn - died ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born into a poor class, he early realized the need to make his own way and make money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, smart and, when he wanted, very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in her maiden name Pestova) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty miles from O..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovskoye, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to St. Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live in it for long; in the second year after her wedding with Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate, and at the same time Kalitin acquired a house in the city of O..., where and settled with his wife permanently. There was a large garden next to the house; on one side it went straight into the field, outside the city. “So,” decided Kalitin, a great reluctance to rural silence, “there is no need to wander into the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once regretted in her heart her pretty Pokrovsky with its cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his intelligence and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna had already become so accustomed to her home and to city life that she herself did not want to leave O...

The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovskoye. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone's face and, with the meager means, behaved as if thousands were following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin, and as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in old age, small, pointed-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a thin and sonorous voice. She always wore a white cap and a white jacket.

-What are you talking about? – she suddenly asked Marya Dmitrievna. -What are you sighing about, my mother?

“Yes,” she said. – What wonderful clouds!

– So you feel sorry for them, or what?

Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.

– How you always speak strictly of him! Sergei Petrovich is a respectable man.

- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.

- And how devoted he was to his late husband! - said Marya Dmitrievna, - she still cannot remember him indifferently.

- Still would! “He pulled him out of the mud by the ears,” Marfa Timofeevna grumbled, and the knitting needles moved even faster in her hands.

“He looks so humble,” she began again, “his head is all gray, and when he opens his mouth, he lies or gossips.” And also a state councilor! Well, let’s just say: Popovich!

- Who is without sin, auntie? Of course, he has this weakness. Sergei Petrovich, of course, did not receive any education; he does not speak French; but he is, as you please, a pleasant person.

Marya Dmitrievna straightened her curls. Marfa Timofeevna looked at her with a grin.

- What is it that you have, no gray hair, my mother? Scold your Broadsword. What is she looking at?

“You, auntie, always...,” Marya Dmitrievna muttered with annoyance and tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair.

– Sergei Petrovich Gedeonovsky! - the red-cheeked Cossack squeaked, jumping out from behind the door.

A tall man entered, wearing a neat frock coat, short trousers, gray suede gloves and two ties - one black on top, the other white on the bottom. Everything about him exuded decency and decency, from his handsome face and smoothly combed temples to his boots without heels and without squeaking. He bowed first to the mistress of the house, then to Marfa Timofeevna and, slowly taking off his gloves, walked up to Marya Dmitrievna’s hand. Having kissed her respectfully and twice in a row, he slowly sat down in a chair and with a smile, rubbing the very tips of his fingers, said:

– Is Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?

“Yes,” answered Marya Dmitrievna, “she is in the garden.”

– And Elena Mikhailovna?

- Helen is in the garden too. Is there anything new?

“How not to be, sir, how not to be, sir,” the guest objected, blinking slowly and pursing his lips. - Hm!.. yes, please, there is news, and amazing: Fyodor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived.

- Fedya! - Marfa Timofeevna exclaimed. “Aren’t you just making things up, my father?”

- No, sir, I saw them myself.

- Well, this is not proof yet.

“They are much healthier,” Gedeonovsky continued, pretending that he had not heard Marfa Timofeevna’s remark, “his shoulders have become even broader, and there is a blush on his cheek.”

“He’s gotten better,” said Marya Dmitrievna with emphasis, “it seems, why should he get better?”

“Yes, sir,” objected Gedeonovsky, “anyone else in his place would be ashamed to appear in the world.”

- Why is this? - Marfa Timofeevna interrupted, - what kind of nonsense is this? A man has returned to his homeland - where do you tell him to go? And fortunately he was to blame!

“The husband is always to blame, madam, I dare to tell you when his wife behaves badly.”

“That’s why you say it, father, because you yourself were never married.”

Gedeonovsky smiled forcedly.

“Let me be curious,” he asked after a short silence, “who is this cute scarf assigned to?”

Marfa Timofeevna quickly glanced at him.

« Noble Nest" - "story" by I.S. Turgenev. This work had, according to the author, “the most big success that ever fell to his lot."

History of creation

The idea for “The Noble Nest” arose at the beginning of 1856, but real work on the work began in mid-June 1858 in Spassky, family estate writer, and continued until the end of October of the same year. In mid-December Turgenev made latest amendments in the text of the “story” before its publication. “The Noble Nest” was first published in the Sovremennik magazine in 1859 (No. 1). The last lifetime (authorized) edition, considered as a canonical text, was carried out in 1880 in St. Petersburg by the heirs of the Salaev brothers.

The creation of the “Noble Nest” was preceded by a difficult stage in personal life Turgenev, and in the public sphere - the period of preparation for deep social changes in Russia. In August 1856, the writer left his homeland and lived abroad for almost two years. Then there was an actual break in his long-term relationship with Pauline Viardot. The writer tragically experienced loneliness and restlessness; acutely felt his inability to start a family and gain a strong foothold in life. To this painful state were added physical ailments, and then a feeling of creative impotence, debilitating spiritual emptiness. Turgenev experienced a sharp age-related change in his life, which he experienced as the onset of old age; such a dear past was crumbling, and there seemed to be no hope ahead.

The Russian Federation was also in a crisis stage. public life. Death of Nicholas I, defeat in Crimean War shocked Russia. It became clear that it was no longer possible to live as before. The government of Alexander II faced the need to reform many aspects of life and, first of all, the need to abolish serfdom. The question of the role of the noble intelligentsia in the life of the country inevitably came to the fore. This and others actual problems were discussed by Turgenev during his stay abroad in conversations with V. Botkin, P. Annenkov, A.I. Herzen - contemporaries who personified the thought and spirit of the century. A double crisis: personal and public - was expressed in the problems and collisions of “The Noble Nest”, although formally the action of the work is assigned to another era - the spring and summer of 1842, and the background of the main character Fyodor Lavretsky - even to the 1830s. For Turgenev, working on the work was a process of getting over his personal drama, saying goodbye to the past and acquiring new values.

Genre "Nobles' Nest"

On title page In the autograph of the work, Turgenev designated the genre of the work: story. In fact, “The Noble Nest” is one of the first socio-philosophical novels in the writer’s work, in which the fate of an individual is closely intertwined with the national and social life. However, the formation of a large epic form took place in artistic system Turgenev precisely through the story. “The Noble Nest” is surrounded by such stories as “Correspondence” (1854), “Faust” (1856), “Trains to Polesie” (1857), “Asya” (1858), in which determined the type of hero characteristic of the writer: a nobleman-intellectual who values the rights of his personality and, at the same time, is not alien to the consciousness of duty to society. These kind of heroes, writes V.A. Niedzwiecki, are obsessed with longing for absolute values, a thirst for life in unity with the universal. They are not so much in a relationship with real contemporaries as they are face to face with such eternal and endless elements of existence, such as nature, beauty, art, youth, death and most of all - love. They strive to find in their concrete life the fullness of endless love, which predetermines their tragic fate. Going through the test of life and love, the hero of the stories comprehends the law of the tragic consequences of high human aspirations and is convinced that for a person there is only one way out - sacrificial renunciation of his best hopes.

This philosophical and psychological level of conflict, developed in the genre of the story, is included essential component into the structure of Turgenev’s novel, complemented by a conflict of a socio-historical nature. In the novel genre, the writer eliminates the direct lyrical method of narration (most of his stories are written in the first person), sets the task of creating a generalized picture of objective existence in its many components, and places the hero with a traditional set of individual and personal problems in the wide world of social and national life.

The meaning of the name “Noble Nest”

The title of the novel uses one of the symbolic leitmotifs of Turgenev’s work. The image of the nest is deeply connected with the problems of the work, main character which is focused on personal happiness, love, family. The “instinct of happiness” is so strong in Lavretsky that even after experiencing the first blow of fate, he finds the strength for a second attempt. But happiness is not given to the hero, the prophetic words of his aunt come true: “...You won’t build a nest anywhere, you’ll wander forever.” Liza Kalitina seems to know in advance that happiness is impossible. Her decision to leave the world is intricately intertwined with a “secret sacrifice for everyone,” love for God, repentance for her “illegal” heart desires and a peculiar search for a “nest” in which she will not be a toy. dark forces being. The “nest” motif, being the starting point in the development of the plot, expands its content to a universal generalization of noble culture as a whole, merging in its better opportunities with the whole people. For Turgenev, a person’s personality is as artistically comprehended as it can be inscribed in the image of a particular culture (this is the basis for the distribution of the novel’s heroes according to different groups and clans). The work contains the living world of a noble estate with its characteristic everyday and natural way of life, habitual activities and established traditions. However, Turgenev is sensitive to the discontinuity of Russian history, the absence in it of an organic “connection of times” as a feature of the national spirit. The meaning, once acquired, is not retained and is not passed on from generation to generation. At each stage you need to look for your goal again, as if for the first time. The energy of this eternal spiritual anxiety is realized primarily in the musicality of the novel’s language. The elegy novel, “The Noble Nest” is perceived as Turgenev’s farewell to his old noble Russia in anticipation of the impending new historical stage- 60s

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Noble Nest

Noble Nest
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

School library (Children's literature)
The book includes the novel by the remarkable Russian writer I. S. Turgenev, “The Nest of the Nobles.” This work is one of the best examples of Russian literature of the 19th century century, “the beginning of love and light, flowing in every line with a living spring” (M. E. Saltykov-Shchedrin).

Placed as attachments critical articles about the novel: D.I. Pisarev “The Noble Nest. Roman I. S. Turgenev" and A. Grigoriev "I. S. Turgenev and his activities. Regarding the novel "The Noble Nest".

I. S. Turgenev

Noble Nest

The spring, bright day was approaching evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and, it seemed, did not float by, but went into the very depths of the azure.

In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O... (this happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one about fifty years old, the other an old woman, seventy years old.

The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time - a lively and decisive man, bilious and stubborn - died ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born into a poor class, he early realized the need to make his own way and make money. Marya Dmitrievna married him out of love: he was good-looking, smart and, when he wanted, very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in her maiden name Pestova) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute, and, returning from there, lived fifty miles from O..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovskoye, with her aunt and older brother. This brother soon moved to St. Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live in it for long; in the second year after her wedding to Kalitin, who managed to win her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time, Kalitin purchased a house in the city of O..., where he and his wife settled permanently. There was a large garden next to the house; on one side it went straight into the field, outside the city. “So,” decided Kalitin, a great reluctance to rural silence, “there is no need to wander into the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once regretted in her heart her pretty Pokrovsky with its cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and was in awe of his intelligence and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna had already become so accustomed to her home and to city life that she herself did not want to leave O...