Miracle Center - Women's Portal

"NO ROAD - 01 Part"

PART ONE

Now it's three in the morning. Cheerful girlish voices, suppressed laughter, whispers still sound in my ears ... They left, the room is quiet, but the very air, it seems, still breathes this young, kindling fun, and an involuntary smile asks for a face. I stood at the window for a long time. It was beginning to dawn, in the dark, dewy thicket of the garden there was a deep silence; somewhere far away, near the barn, dogs were barking... The wind blew, a dry twig broke off on the top of the linden tree and, clinging to the branches, fell onto the path of the alley; a strong smell of wet hazel wafted from behind the barn. How good! I stand and can not see enough; the soul is overflowing with quiet, unaccountable happiness.

And the chest sighs more joyfully and wider, And again I want to hug someone ... *

* From a poem by A. A. Fet "It's still spring, - as if some unearthly spirit at night owns the garden ..." (1847).

Everything around is so familiar - the outlines of trees, and the thatched roof of the shed, and the unharnessed barrel of water under the lindens. Haven't I been here in three years? It's like I saw it all yesterday. And while the time went by...

Yes, there are few good things to remember in these past three years. Sitting in your shell, looking around with fear, seeing the danger and realizing that the only salvation for you is to be annihilated, annihilated in body, soul, everything, so that nothing is left of you ... Is it possible to live with this? It's sad to admit, but that's the mood I've been in for all these three years.

"Why should I depend on time? Let it better depend on me."* I often remember these proud words of Bazarov. Here were the people! How they believed in themselves! And I, it seems, really only believe in one thing - it is precisely in the irresistible force of time. "Why should I depend on time!" For what? It doesn't answer; it imperceptibly captures you and leads you wherever it wants; well, if your path lies there, but if not? Recognize then that you are not going by your own will, protest with all your being - it still does it in its own way. I was in such a position. Heavy, deaf and gloomy time enveloped me from all sides, and I saw with fear that it encroaches on what is most dear to me, encroaches on my worldview, on my whole spiritual life ... Hartmann ** says that our convictions are the fruit of "unconscious", and with the mind we only look for more or less suitable grounds for them; I felt that somewhere, in this elusive "unconscious", a secret, treacherous, unknown work was going on, and that one fine day I would suddenly find myself in the power of this "unconscious". This thought filled me with horror: I saw too clearly that truth, life, is everything in my world outlook, that if I lose it, I will lose everything.

* From the VII chapter of the novel by I. S. Turgenev "Fathers and Sons" (1860).

** Eduard Hartmann (1842-1906) - a German reactionary idealist philosopher, whom V. I. Lenin called "a true German Black Hundred" (V. I. Lenin, Soch., vol. 14, p. 273).

What was happening all around only strengthened me in the conviction that my fear was not in vain, that the power of time is a terrible force and beyond the strength of a person. How miraculously could it happen that in such a short time everything has changed so much? The brightest names suddenly faded, the greatest words became vulgar and ridiculous; yesterday's generation was replaced by a new one, and it was hard to believe: are these really only younger brothers, yesterday. In literature, the general winding up of the front was slowly but uninterrupted, and it was not at all in the name of any new beginnings - oh no! The matter was very clear: it was only renegacy - general renegade, mass and, most terrible of all, unconscious. Literature carefully spat on in the past everything bright and strong, but spat naively, without noticing it itself, imagining that it was supporting some kind of "precepts"; the former clean banner in her hands had long since turned into a dirty rag, and she proudly carried this shrine that she had disgraced and called the reader to her; with a dead heart, without fire and without faith, she said something that no one believed ... I followed all these changes with close attention; it was insulting for a man who so obediently and unconsciously goes where time drives him. But at the same time, I could not fail to see all the monstrous ugliness of my own situation: desperately trying to become above time (as if it were possible!), incredulously meeting every new trend, I doomed myself to dead immobility; I was in danger of turning into a completely "meaningless chip" of the once "victorious ship"*. Confused more and more in this hopeless contradiction, drowning out the bitter contempt for myself in my soul, I finally came to the result about which I spoke: to annihilate, to annihilate completely - the only salvation for me.

I do not scourge myself, because then you will certainly begin to lie and exaggerate; but this must be admitted - that such a mood does not contribute much to self-respect. You look into the soul - it's so cold and dark there, so disgustingly pitiful is this impotent fear of others! And it seems to you that no one has ever experienced anything like this, that you are some strange freak thrown into the world by the present strange, indefinite time ... It's hard to live like this. Only work saved me; and I, as a zemstvo doctor, had a lot of work, especially in the last year - hard and responsible work. This is what I needed; to surrender to the cause with all my being, to become anesthetized by it, to completely forget myself - that was my goal.

Now my service is over. It ended unexpectedly and quite characteristically. Almost against my will, I became a kind of enfant terrible in the Zemstvo;** the chairman of the council could not hear my name with indifference. Hungry typhus arrived; I worked on the epidemic for four months and at the end of April I collapsed on my own, and when I got better ... it turned out that I was no longer needed. Things turned out so that I had to leave if I didn't want to be spit in my face ... Eh, why remember! I resigned and came here. Forget all this!

* From the lyrical drama "Three Deaths" (1852) by A. N. Maikov "... And imperceptibly a strong wind will sink us among the swells, like senseless chips of victorious ships ..."

** Literally: terrible child; here - a person who allows himself what others do not dare (French).

A large hall of an old landowner's house, a samovar is boiling on the table; a hanging lamp brightly illuminates the laid supper, further, in the corners of the room, it is almost completely dark; flocks of flies hum and buzz sleepily under the ceiling. All the windows are wide open, and the warm night looks into them from the garden, flooded with moonlight; Feminine laughter and cries, the splash of water are faintly heard from the river.

We walk with my uncle around the hall. During these three years he has grown old and fat, grunting after every phrase, but hospitable and talkative as before; he tells me about the prospects for the harvest, about the mowing that has begun. A strong, ruddy girl, with a handkerchief on her head and barefoot, brought in an fried egg sizzling in a frying pan; on the way, she elbowed the half-closed door aside; flocks of flies under the ceiling stirred and buzzed louder.

But we have one thing that you don’t have,” my uncle said, smiling and looking at me with his bulging short-sighted eyes.

What is this? I asked, holding back a smile.

When I was still a student, I came here for the summer, my uncle made the same remark every time, word for word.

Aunt Sofya Alekseevna returned from her bath; two more rooms away, her loud voice can be heard giving orders.

Palashka! take a sheet, hang it on the bedroom door! Yes, call the boys to dinner, where are they? .. Serve cutlets, varenets, cream from the cellar ... Hurry! Where is Arinka? Ah, the eggs have already been served,” she says, hurrying in and sitting down at the samovar. “Well, gentlemen, what are you waiting for?” Do you want your eggs to cool down? Sit down!

Sofya Alekseevna is dressed in an old blue blouse, her face is very tanned, and yet, in her whole appearance, she very much resembles a French marquise of the last century; her graying hair, fluffy border surrounding round face, look like powdered.

But how? Is it possible without young ladies? - asked the uncle.

It's possible, it's possible! Don't be late!

No, it can't. How are you forcing us to break the chivalric code?

Yes, you will! After all, Mitya is hungry from the road. Also a knight! said Sofya Alekseevna with a barely perceptible smile.

Well, there is nothing to do: it is ordered, so you must obey. Well, let's sit down, Dmitry? Let's drink vodka - and we'll take the scrambled eggs.

He placed two glasses side by side and began pouring wormwood from the decanter into them.

And how will vodka be in Latin - aqua vitae? - he asked.

Hm! "Water of life" ... - Uncle looked at the filled glasses for some time in thought. - But it was cleverly invented! - he said, looking up at me with his eyes, and laughed with a rattling laugh. - Well, be healthy!

We clinked glasses, drank and began to eat.

Where, however, are our young ladies? - asked the uncle, chewing fried eggs with appetite. - I'm worried.

Eat your eggs and don't worry. Our young ladies have already bathed, - answered the aunt.

Well, here are our young ladies for you: thank God, you can hear it for half a verst.

They noisily entered the room. Their faces after bathing are fresh and lively, dark hair Natashas are wet, and she spread them over her back with a long veil. Uncle saw this and allegedly became indignant.

Natasha, what does it mean that your hair is loose?

I dived,” she answered quickly, sitting down at the table.

So what is it?

Sonya, pass the ham... Well, you need to let your hair dry.

Why is this needed? - Uncle asked in astonishment and humorously raised his eyebrows. he said, shaking his head.

But his teaching was in vain; everyone was busy eating and, restraining themselves from laughter, for some reason made fun of Lida. Lida blushed and frowned, but when Sonya, having said: "Save yourself, who can!", suddenly burst into laughter, then Lida also burst out laughing.

Why were you, Lida, in great danger? I asked in an undertone, involuntarily smiling myself.

Natasha glanced quickly at me and imperceptibly looked at her father; This means that there is a secret here, which will be explained to me later.

And why didn’t you take pasta for cutlets, Dmitry? - suddenly my uncle. - Let me put it to you.

He put pasta on my plate.

Italians have pasta - the most favorite food. - He told me.

A very hospitable host uncle, but - to be honest - it's boring to sit among the "big ones", and, really, I've known for a long time that Italians love pasta.

The boys also came. Misha - a fifteen-year-old strong fellow, with a gloomy, frowning face - silently sat down and immediately began to scrambled eggs. Petka is two years younger than him and a class older; this is a strong man of short stature, with a large head; he came with a book, sat down at the table, and propping his cheekbones on his fists, began to read.

Well, Mitya, tell me what you were doing all this time, ”said Sofya Alekseevna, putting her hand on my elbow.

Natasha raised her head and fixed her eyes on me expectantly. But I don't want to tell...

By God, aunt, there is nothing interesting; served, treated - that's all ... And tell me - I was driving through Shemetovo just now - who put a new mill behind the outskirts?

Yes, this is our Ustin, didn't you know? How, how! The mill has been working for the second year ...

And a long series of village news began. It is cozy in the hall, the old clock, infested with flies, ticks measuredly, the moon shines through the windows. Quiet and good at heart. All those teenage girls are grown-up girls now; what lovely faces they have! Something represents my former "girl team"? Sofya Alekseevna called them all when I, as a student, came here for the summer ...

A furious roar came from the end of the table, causing everyone to flinch.

What's happened? - Aunt shouted menacingly. - Who is it there?

It's me! Petka announced solemnly.

Well, of course it is: who else? I'm for you, little boy!

Uncle raised his head and, as if he had just woken up, looked around.

Uh... uh... What is this? he asked, grunting. “Petka must be emitting wild sounds again, huh?

Nobody answered him. He grunted and added sugar to his tea. Petka sat lounging on a chair and grinned broadly.

A mighty cry, a feathered cry... I felt in my heart... A terrible cry, a cry... indistinct... I let out of myself... Cough-cough-cough! How well it turned out!

And, completely satisfied, Petka pulled the plate closer to him and began to put cottage cheese on it. They laughed all around, and he diligently kneaded the cottage cheese with sugar with a spoon, as if the matter was not at all about him.

They drank tea.

And what, Vera Nikolaevna, will you delight our ears with your music today? - asked the uncle.

Vera, Sofya Alekseevna's niece, is a slender, thin blonde with a matte-pale face and kind eyes; she is going to go to the conservatory in the fall, and they say she really has a talent.

Yes, yes, Vera, - I said. - Play something after supper; I heard so much about your talent in Pozharsk.

Faith perked up.

Ah, Lord! Mitya, I tell you in advance: if you say such things, I won't play for anything!

Don't worry, please, I'll listen first. It may very well be that after that I will not speak, Uncle laughed and got up from the table. - Well, it seems that everything is already over. Prove to him, Vera Nikolaevna, that Pozharsk can give birth to its own Newtons!*

* Pozharsk can give birth to its own Newtons! - From "Ode on the day of accession to the All-Russian throne of Her Majesty the Empress Empress Elisavsta Petrovna, 1747" by M. V. Lomonosov. Newton - Isaac Newton (1643-1727), the great English physicist and mathematician.

Everyone moved into the living room. Vera sat down at the piano, quickly ran her hand over the keys, and with a sweep of her finger struck hard in the middle of the keyboard.

What do you want to play? she asked, turning her head towards me.

This is how famous musicians always start! - Petka said respectfully and jabbed his forefinger at Vera with the finger that was pressing the key.

Yes, Petya, it will! she laughed, shaking off his hand.

Aunt drove Petka away from the piano.

I asked Beethoven to play. Natasha opened the balcony doors wide. Dew and the smell of fragrant poplars wafted from the garden; a belated nightingale chirped in the acacia, and its song was covered in loud, wildly original Beethoven chords. In the hall, by the light of a small lamp, tea was removed. My uncle sniffled on the couch and listened with rolled eyes.

I don't know much about music; I could not even tell whether grief or joy is expressed in the sonata that Vera played; but something boils in the heart from these wonderful, incomprehensible sounds, and it becomes good. The past is remembered; much in him now seems alien and strange, as if it were someone else who lived for you. I was tormented by the fact that there was no living fire in me, I worked, laughing bitterly in my soul at myself ... Yes, that's enough, was I right? Everyone lived calmly and happily, but I went to where there is a lot of grief, a lot of need and so little support and help; do they know about the hardships, those moral torments that I had to endure there? And for this I deliberately refused a contented and prosperous life ... And I brought with me from there only one thing - an incurable disease that will drive me to the grave.

Faith played. Her pale face looked concentrated, only a sly smile quivered at the corners of her lips; thin fingers, beautiful hands quickly ran over the keys ... Oh yes! now I could confidently say: how much fervent, young happiness in these sounds! They do not want to know any grief: wonderfully good life, all of it breathes with beauty and joy; why invent some kind of torment for yourself? .. The tops of poplars, illuminated by the moon, each leaf loomed in the transparent air; Beyond the river, on the slope of the mountain, oak bushes darkened; further on stretched fields shrouded in a silvery twilight. Well there now. Uncle was still snoring, hanging his head. Is he slumbering or listening?

Natasha approached me inaudibly.

Mitya, shall we go for a walk today? she asked in a whisper, leaning close and her eyes twinkling.

Certainly! I answered quietly.

Natasha bowed her head with a smile, pointed at her father with a glance, and walked away.

Vera's fingers ran over the keys with impossible speed; furiously cheerful sounds swirled, captured and playfully carried away somewhere. I wanted to laugh, laugh endlessly, and fool around, and rejoice that you are young too ... Thunderous final chords rang out. Vera lowered the lid of the piano and quickly got up.

Glorious, Vera, by God, glorious! I exclaimed, shaking her hands firmly with both hands and admiring her happily smiling face.

My uncle got up from the couch and walked over to us.

Vera Nikolaevna with her music, like Orpheus in hell... tames stones... - he said kindly.

Precisely, precisely, stones tames! - I picked it up with a boyish feeling. - For your music, I will take you for a walk today, - I whispered to her playfully.

Thank you she replied smiling.

Uncle yawned and took out his watch.

Wow! it's almost eleven!.. It's time to go to the side. What do you think, Dimitri? In the countryside, you always have to go to bed early and get up early. Good night! How is it?.. uh... uh... Leben Sie wohl, essen Sie Kohl, trinken Sie Bier, lieben Sie mir!..* Hhe-he-he-he? - Uncle laughed and held out his hand to me. - The Germans will never do without a beer.

* Live well, eat cabbage, drink beer, love me! (German proverb.).

He said goodbye and left. I began leafing through the Niva lying on the table; The rest also pretended to be busy with something. My aunt looked at us all and laughed.

Well, Mitya, I see you are going for a walk! she said, wagging her finger slyly.

I burst out laughing and slammed the Niva.

Aunt, look what a night!

Yes, Mitechka, after all, you were on the road for more than a day! Well, where else do you want to go?

It's not about me, aunt...

You became a doctor, and, really, everything is the same as before ...

Well, then you are welcome! - I concluded. - Can you take the boys with you?

Hey, everybody go! - she waved her hand. - Only, gentlemen, be quiet so that the folder does not hear, otherwise there will be a storm ... I will order you to leave a glass of milk in the hall: maybe you will get hungry ... Farewell! Bon Voyage!

We went down to the garden.

Well, what, gentlemen, shall we go by boat? I asked in a whisper.

Of course, on a boat! .. In Grekovo, - Natasha said quickly. - Ah, Mitya, what a night! Shall we walk until morning?

Everyone was somehow especially lively - even the plump, sleepy Sonya, Natasha's older sister. We turned into a dark side alley; it smelled of dampness, and the light of the moon barely made its way through the dense foliage of acacias.

Here, Mitya, it was fun today! - laughing, Natasha spoke. - We bathed before dinner and moved in a boat to the other side; returned back - I threw the oars ashore, jumped out myself and accidentally pushed the boat away with my foot. Lida was sitting in the stern, and suddenly she jumped up: "Oh, Lord, fathers! Save yourself, who can!" - and how she was, dressed - in the water! - I was scared: how would we drive up to the shore without oars? - blushing, Lida, Vera's sister, began to make excuses.

This strange Lida, silent and shy, she blushes at the slightest word addressed to her.

And all, all soaked, above the waist! - Natasha laughed. - I had to run home, bring her a dry dress.

- "Save yourself, who can!" Ho-ho-ho! - Petka laughed in delight and tightly hugged Lida around the waist with both hands.

Come on, Petka, go away! - Lida said with annoyance. - He hangs himself with everyone.

Oh Linda, Linda! Why are you hardening me? - Petka said melancholy. - If you could know the feelings of a man's heart!

Well, Petka! Jester! Sonya laughed lazily.

The alley ended with a gate. Behind it, a narrow path descended along the slope to the river. Natasha unexpectedly put her hands on Vera's shoulders and together with her quickly ran downhill.

Ai!.. Nata-a-asha!!! Vera screamed, laughing in fright and trying to stop. Petka rushed after them.

When we went down to the river, Vera, exhausted from laughter and fatigue, sat on a bench under a bird cherry tree and, hanging her head, groaned loudly. Petka sat next to him and also groaned diligently.

Come on, Petya... For God's sake!... Oh! she groaned, clutching her chest. “It will! .. Oh, I can’t!

Oh-oh-oh! - Petka repeated.

Vera grimaced and waved her hands helplessly, and still laughed.

Well, Verka, softened completely! - Natasha said contemptuously, standing at the stern of the boat. - A real fish!

Lord! After all, they can hear us not only in the house, but also in Sanin, ”I protested.

Well, get in the boat soon, otherwise we'll leave alone! Natasha screamed.

Oh, Natasha, Natasha! - Vera sighed, getting up and barely wandering to the boat. - What are you doing to me!

Come on, sit down quickly! repeated Natasha, impatiently rocking the boat.

Misha and I sat down at the oars, Vera, Sonya, Lida and Petka were in the middle, Natasha at the helm. The boat, describing a semicircle, swam out into the middle of the motionless river; the pool slowly moved back and disappeared behind a ledge. On the mountain there was a dark garden, which now seemed even denser than during the day, and on the other side of the river, above the meadow, high in the sky stood a moon, surrounded by a delicate blue border.

The boat was going fast; water murmured under his nose; I did not feel like talking, surrendering to the healthy sensation of muscular work and the stillness of the night. A house with white columns of a balcony peeped out between the trees with its wide facade; the windows were dark everywhere: everyone was already asleep. To the left, lindens moved out and again hid the house. The garden disappeared behind; meadows stretched on both sides; the bank was reflected in the water with a black stripe, and further along the river the moon played.

Oh, what a wonderful moon! Vera sighed heavily. Sonya laughed.

Look, Mitya, she is always like this: she simply cannot see the moon with indifference. Once we were walking across the bridge in Pozharsk: the moon in the sky is dim, nothing good; and Vera looks: "Ah, the magnificent moon! .." So sentimental!

Sentimental! But Natasha just said that I am a fish. Are fish sentimental? Vera asked with her slow and kind smile.

Why not? The fish sticks its nose out of the water, looks at the moon: "Ah, ah! - a magnificent moon!"

Sonya quibbled unexpectedly for herself and burst into laughter. I folded the oars and took a breath.

The boat slowly sailed a few arshins, gradually turning sideways, and finally stopped. Everyone quieted down. Two waves hit the banks, and the surface of the river froze. The smell of damp hay wafted from the meadow, and dogs barked in Sanin. Somewhere in the distance, a horse neighed in the night. The moon trembled weakly in the blue water, circles spread across the surface of the river. The boat turned sideways and came close to the shore. The wind blew and faintly rustled in the sedge, somewhere in the grass a fly suddenly began to huddle.

I lit a cigarette and began to hold a burning match over the water. A fish quickly emerged from the black depths, stared dumbfounded at the fire with bulging, stupid eyes, and, wagging its tail, darted back. Everyone laughed.

Like faith in the moon! - said Lida, slyly twitching an eyebrow.

Everyone laughed harder, and Lida blushed.

Natasha moved from the stern to the middle of the boat.

Mitya, tell me why you were expelled from the service, ”she said, looking into my eyes with childlike affection.

What were you kicked out for? Oh dear, it's a long story...

Well, tell me anyway!

I began to speak. Everyone moved closer around. By the way, I also told about my first skirmish with the chairman, after which I turned from a "dedicated doctor" into an "impudent and uncouth frondeur"; Arriving in the village where my post was, the principal sent me the following handwritten note: "The chairman of the council wants to see the Zemstvo doctor Chekanov; he is dining with Prince Serpukhovskiy." Well, I'm on him reverse side his notes replied: "Zemsky doctor Chekanov does not want to see the chairman of the council and dine at home."

Everyone laughed.

What is he? Natasha asked quickly.

Never mind. He could not show my answer to anyone, because then they would have read his letter: well, you don’t write to a doctor like that.

I don't understand, Mitya, how could you answer like that, - said Vera. - After all, he is your boss?

Yes, Vera! always like this! - Natasha moved her shoulders impatiently. - So what is it?

How - what is it? Because of this, Mitya lost his place. It's good that he's not married.

Golubushka, Vera, and married people refused their seats, I said. “Have you read about the history of Saratov in the newspapers?” All doctors, as one person, refused. And you need to know what these bitter poor people were, many with families - it’s terrible to think!

We sailed in silence for some time.

Freedom of religion ... - Petka said thoughtfully.

Why did you say that? Sonya asked with a smile.

Petka was silent.

Why did I really say that? - he said with a puzzled smile. - Still, there is a point.

What is it?

Go-go! Which! Freedom of religion - because of it in the Middle Ages, how many wars happened.

Well, so what?

So.

I sat back down at the oars. The boat went faster. Natasha perked up feverishly; she suddenly embraced Vera with both arms and, laughing, began to choke her with kisses. Vera screamed, the boat tilted and almost scooped up water. Everyone angrily attacked Natasha; she, laughing, sat in the stern and took the wheel.

God, that's a crazy girl! I was so freaked out! - said Vera, straightening her hair.

Hurry, gentlemen, row quickly! - said Natasha, throwing her loose hair behind her back.

The boat suddenly crashed into the reeds with a rustling noise; we were doused with the sharp smell of calamus, its cobs swayed and were distributed to the sides.

Row harder, stronger! Natasha laughed, stamping her feet impatiently. The oars tangled in the elastic roots of the calamus, the boat slowly moved forward, surrounded by a solid wall of fleshy, needle-sharp stems. - Well, here we are! Get out!

It's hard to argue: they really arrived! I laughed.

Vera exchanged glances with Lida.

One-on-one! Pretty much Suvorov! she said, getting up.

Nothing! Suvorov was a smart man. Get out! I will feed you supper in the Greek grove.

Yes, if so, then .. Ay, Natasha, be careful! Don't rock the boat!

We went ashore. The descent is overgrown with vines and willows. I had to make a path through the thicket. Misha and Sonya grumbled with displeasure at Natasha; Vera walked obediently and only groaned when she stumbled on a stump or a branch stretching along the ground. Petka, on the other hand, was completely satisfied: he made his way through the bushes somewhere to the side, along the river, fell with the greatest pleasure, rose again and went farther and farther.

Don't moan, there should be a path right now, - said Natasha.

She stopped and, picking up her hair, pinned it in a wide knot at the back of her head.

Ah, Mitya, if you only knew how glad I am that you have come! she suddenly said in an undertone, and with a quick, joyful smile looked at me from under her raised hand.

Hey, you... akathists! - Petka's voice came from behind the bushes. - Come here: the path!

Well, thank God! - Sonya sighed with relief, and everyone turned to the voice.

We climbed up the path. Three young oak trees rose above the cliff, and further on, ripening rye stretched endlessly in all directions. It smelled warm and spacious in the face. Below, the still river smoked faintly.

Oh, tired! - Vera said, sinking onto the grass. - Gentlemen, I can't go any further, I need to rest ... Oh! Sit down!..

Fu you, disgrace! How the old woman groans! - said Natasha. - How many times did you gasp today?

Old age comes, oh-oh! .. - Vera sighed and laughed.

Leaning on her elbow, she threw her head up and began to look at the sky. We all sat down too. Natasha stood on the very edge of the cliff and looked at the river.

The wind blew weakly from the west; the rye was slowly stirring all around. Natasha turned and turned her face towards the wind.

Lord! .. Natasha, look where you are standing! Vera screamed in fright.

The edge of the cliff cracked, and Natasha stood on an earthen block hanging over the shore. Natasha slowly looked at her feet, then at Vera; a perky imp looked out of her eyes. She swayed, and the block beneath her trembled.

Natasha, come down this minute, - Vera was worried.

Well, Verka, don't be sentimental! - Natasha laughed, swinging on a swaying boulder.

Oh, Lord, a crazy girl! .. Natasha, well, for God's sake! ..

Natasha, you're really crazy! I exclaimed as I got up.

But at that moment the block broke off, and Natasha fell down with it. Vera and Sonya cried out hysterically. Bushes crackled below. I rushed there.

Natasha, adjusting her dress, quickly stepped out of the bushes onto the path. One of her cheeks flushed, her eyes shone brightly.

Well, is it possible, Natasha, right ?!. What, are you hurt?

Nothing, Mitya, what are you! she replied, flushing.

There can be nothing: from such a height!.. Oh, Natasha! If you're hurt, just say so.

Oh, Mitya, what an eccentric you are! she laughed. “Well, what is it to raise such an alarm over every trifle!

She quickly began to climb the path up.

God knows what it is! Sonya greeted her angrily. “Really, there is a measure for everything. Such stupidity! .. It was not enough for you to break your leg.

Natasha opened her eyes wide and asked slowly:

Who cares about this?

Ah, Lord! Vera threw up her hands! - Natasha always revolts me in such cases! .. "Who cares"! It’s up to your dad and mom, we all care! .. How is it always, constantly and constantly thinking about yourself alone!

Always, constantly and constantly ... - Petka repeated reverently and thought, as if trying to delve into the deep meaning of these words.

Oh well! simply - all the time! Vera smiled.

Petka giggled.

Always, constantly and constantly! How well it turns out: always, constantly ... and constantly!

Oh, Petya, Petya! You always offend me! Vera sighed, leaning on his shoulder and getting up.

We went through the rye along a wide border, overgrown with wormwood and field mountain ash.

Here it is at home too: when I get angry, I begin to speak very incorrectly, - Vera said. - And the boys are now using it.

Vera, do you really know how to get angry too? I asked in surprise.

Oh, and how! - She smiled. - Only the boys are not afraid at all. I'll start talking, I'll say something - they'll pick it up right now, and I'll laugh. Especially Sasha, he is so witty; And he has a very special sense of humor.

Vera began to talk about her brothers. She knew them amazingly: so much observation, so much love and subtle psychological intuition, were reflected in her stories, that I listened with real interest. The others were rather unambiguous in expressing their desire to change the conversation.

Well, well, I'll finish now! - Vera hastily objected and continued to talk endlessly.

Suddenly, in the darkness, there was a ringing slap on the back of the head, something gasped, and Petka rolled head over heels into the rye.

Fool! - was heard from the rye.

Misha shouted angrily:

I'm not going to slap you yet, you bastard!

Petka went out to the boundary and began to clean off the dust.

He thinks that he is stronger, big brother, so he can do whatever he wants to do! he got angry.

Yes, what's the matter? Misha, why are you him? Sonya asked.

The devil knows what it is! I'm walking, - suddenly he grabs my nose! .. Try again!

How did I know it was your nose? You would say. And then I see some kind of carrot sticking out - long, wet ... Of course, I'm interested.

It's stupid, Petenka! Misha remarked venomously.

Slippery, cold...

Laughed all around. Petka was avenged. Misha muttered contemptuously:

A fool!

Oh-oh-oh-ho-ho! Petka sighed deeply, pulled up his trousers and looked around. “Natasha has two female students in her eyes,” he announced. “There is a female student in each eye: one with glasses, the other without glasses,

Well, leave it, Petya! - Natasha stopped with displeasure.

Are you going to courses? I quickly asked.

N-no ... I don’t know, - she answered and looked ahead. - Here it is, the Greek grove!

Among the bright rye, gently stretching down, the Grekovsky hollow wound in a wide, irregular strip; on its slope, all flooded with moonlight, darkened a small aspen grove.

The hollow was already mowed. The brook, densely overgrown with reeds and reeds, murmured sleepily in the darkness; under the cliff near the pool something monotonous, barely audible squeaked in the water. From the depths of the hollow there was a damp, fragrant chill.

We crossed the stream and entered the grove. In the middle of it was a planter, all completely blooming. Natasha went down to its very shore and from the depths of a spreading linden bush took out a small canvas bag.

Gentlemen, the fire will need to be lit! Here's your dinner," she announced triumphantly.

The bag contained three dozen raw potatoes, four rye cakes, and salt. Everyone laughed.

Where did you get it from here?

G-ge-ge! you need to know this in advance, ”said Petka, scratching behind his ear.

Everyone scattered around the grove, breaking the bottom dry boughs of aspens for the fire. The grove resounded with crackling, talking and laughter. The branches were dragged to the shore of the planter, where Vera and Sonya made a fire. The fire jumped over the crackling boughs, illuminating the bushes and lower branches of the nearest aspens; between the peaks a dark starry sky shone blue; sparks flared from the fire along with the smoke and went out far above. Vera shoveled aside the hot coal and put the potatoes in it.

At first everyone was joking and laughing, then they fell silent. The fire burned down, everything was eaten. Petka, resting his swirling head on Vera's knees, dozed off; with motherly solicitude she wrapped her handkerchief around him and sat without moving. And again, as then at the piano, her face became beautiful and soulful. We sat around the fire for a long time; fiery snakes ran under the ashes, aspen leaves faintly rustled overhead. I talked about my service, about hunger and starvation typhus, about how pitiful the position of us doctors was at the same time: all that was required was to feed, better feed the healthy, in order to make them more resistant to infection; but the benefits were barely enough to keep them from dying of hunger. And then, one after another, a terrible illness fell, and we stood helplessly in front of it with our unnecessary medicines ... Vera sat, pensively looking at the face of the sleeping Petka; it seems that she did not listen much: her thoughts were far away, in Pozharsk, and she thought about her brothers.

Finally we got home. The moon has long since set, a bright streak has appeared in the east; the hollow was drowned in a white mist, and it became cold. It was late, I had to return home by the shortest road; Natasha undertook to go tomorrow morning for the boat and drive it home. We climbed the mountain, passed through the rye, then walked for a long time along the fallow and finally came out onto the beaten track; steeply rounding the peasant oats, she went down past the birch grove to the Big Meadow. The whole meadow was covered with thick fog, and in front of us, as if slowly, a huge lake was swaying. We descended into this foggy lake. The chest was oppressed with dampness, it was hard to breathe; There was white dew on the grass along the sides of the road. We walked through the fog.

Listen! Natasha suddenly said, grabbing my elbow.

We stopped. The silence around was dead; and suddenly, near the grove, in the oats, a lark rang timidly, uncertainly... Its trill broke off weakly in the damp air, and again everything was silent, and it became even quieter.

In the distance, dark silhouettes of trees and the roofs of huts began to emerge in the fog; a dog barked at the outskirts. We went up the village street and entered the courtyard. There was no more fog here; the roof of the barn sharply blackened against the brightening sky; warmth and the smell of dung wafted from the barnyard; The dogs slept around the porch.

Well, gentlemen, be quiet now, otherwise we'll wake everyone up! I warned.

My head was ringing, my nerves were tense; everyone's eyes shone strangely, and again it became cheerful.

Well, Mitya, shall we drink milk? - asked Natasha.

It's better not to: we'll wake everyone up.

And here's how we'll do it: we'll bring milk upstairs to you and drink it there.

Everyone approved this idea. We made our way upstairs. For milk seconded, of course, Natasha. She brought a huge glass of milk and whole sieve bread.

Gentlemen, please only drink all the milk! she announced.

Why is this?

Otherwise, mom will see that they haven’t drunk everything, and they will leave less ahead.

Hey! On this basis, it means that every time you have to drink everything!

However, after a quarter of an hour the jug was already empty. Now, when it was impossible to make noise, uncontrollable joy took possession of everyone; every remark, every word took on an extraordinarily funny meaning; everyone braced themselves, tried to convince each other not to laugh, bit their lips - and yet they laughed endlessly ... I hardly managed to get them out.

However, I stayed up! The sun has risen and is gliding in oblique rays over the brick wall of the barn, the dewy garden is full of chirping and chirping; old man Gavrila, with a gloomy, sleepy face, harnesses a horse to a barrel to go for water.

I woke up at the beginning of the twelfth and lay in bed for a long time. The room is dim, the bright midday sun creeping through the curtains and playing on the glass of the decanter; quiet; From below, the sounds of the piano are heard from afar ... You feel healthy and cheerful, your soul is so good, you want to smile at everything. Indeed, it is not at all difficult to be happy!

Misha and Petya came to call me for a swim. I got dressed and we raced down to the river. The sky is blue and hot, the sun burns; the shady garden on the mountain, as if exhausted from the heat, slumbers motionless. But the water is still fresh, it covers the body with a soft, gentle coolness; you swim, barely moving your arms and legs, in this transparent green, far into the depths of the sunlit water. We swam for about an hour until the bell rang for breakfast. Almost everyone was already assembled; grace on the table: pie, varenets, scars, radishes, ham, fresh cucumbers. I again sat next to my uncle, and he kindly told me some very new and interesting information: that buckwheat porridge is a national Russian dish, that there is even a proverb: "Kash is our mother", that Germans prefer beer, and Russians prefer vodka, etc. P.

Natasha entered and sat down at the table.

Why don't you greet Mitya, Natasha? - said Sofya Alekseevna. - After all, he is not familiar with your "principles" and may be offended.

A quick smile flickered across Natasha's lips; she held out her hand to me.

What are your "principles" about this? I asked.

Natasha laughed.

I don’t know what principles my mother is talking about,” she answered, sitting down next to me. “But only ... Look: we saw each other eight hours ago; if people don’t see each other for eight hours during the day, then nothing, but if they slept for these eight hours, then you need to kiss or shake hands. After all, is it really funny?

There is nothing funny,” Sofya Alekseevna objected instructively. “This is a well-known condition between people, which ...

Everything is funny to us, everything is decidedly funny to us! - Uncle suddenly boiled up, looking hostilely at Natasha. - Saying hello and goodbye is a prejudice; to behave like a decently grown-up girl is a prejudice... But to read different little books and act according to them without criticism, without reasoning, is not a prejudice! It is ideological and noble.

Natasha bent over her cup with a smile and was silent. Apparently, between her and her father lay something that had already caused them to clash more than once.

After breakfast I heard from Vera about the state of affairs. For the past two years, Natasha has been diligently preparing herself in ancient languages ​​for the school-leaving certificate, which, as the newspapers reported, would be required for admission to the projected women's medical institute *. Uncle was very dissatisfied with Natasha's activities; The twenty-three-year-old Sonya, apparently, had nothing to count on marriage; Natasha was livelier and more beautiful than her sister, and my uncle hoped at least to wait for grandchildren from her. Meanwhile, Natasha, with her head, went into her classics; she did not go anywhere in Pozharsk and did not even go out to the guests who were invited especially for her. In order to completely get rid of all these trips and guests, last autumn she decided to stay all winter in the village. There was a very difficult scene with the uncle; in the end, he announced to Natasha that let her live where she wants, but let her not expect concessions from him in anything. Natasha lived all winter in the country; in the mornings she called village children and girls into the hall, taught them to read and write, read to them; in the evenings she crammed Grigorevsky's Greek grammar and translated Homer and Horace. This spring the project for a women's medical institute was returned by the Council of State; The issue has been postponed indefinitely. Natasha decided to go at least to the Christmas courses for medical assistants. However, parental permission is required to enter. When Natasha spoke to her uncle about the courses, he laughed bitterly and said that Natasha's request surprised him very much: how is it that she, "so independent", condescends to requests! Natasha objected that she only asked him for permission, but she would support herself (she had saved up about three hundred rubles from her lessons). Uncle flatly refused. Doctor Likonsky, the father of Vera and Lida, stood up for Natasha, the only person who has influence on the stubborn and limited uncle; but his convictions could do nothing. Uncle decisively announced that he was afraid to let Natasha go with her character to Petersburg.

* Women's Medical Institute was opened in St. Petersburg in 1897.

Perhaps this is only a consequence of that rise in vitality, which is usually noticed after a successfully transferred typhus - what's up with that? I only know that I am deeply happy, so happy, for no reason ... Clear days, warm, fragrant nights, Vera's music - what more do I need? You don't notice if time is passing or not. No questions torment, my heart is quiet and clear. I don’t even read modern books now: my uncle’s grandfather was a very educated person and left behind a huge library; now it is dumped in the upper pantry and serves as food for mice. I spend whole hours there, dismantling and putting books and papers in order. I like to plunge headlong into this long-vanished life, where Voltaire coexisted with the lives of the saints, Rousseau with serfdom, "Les liaisons dangereuses"* with Thomas of Kempis**, a cruel, naive, voluptuous and sentimental life.

* "Dangerous Liaisons" - a novel in the letters of the French writer Choderlos de Laclos (1782), showing the decay of French secular society at the end of the 18th century.

** Thomas of Kempis (1379-1471) - medieval philosopher-mystic, author of the book "Imitation of Christ" (1427).

Natasha brought a lot of patients to me. Everyone in the village is familiar to her, and all her friends. She accompanies me on rounds, hangs up medicines. There is something strange in her attitude towards me: Natasha seems to be studying me all the time; she seems to be waiting for something from me, or looking for something, how to approach me herself. Maybe, however, I'm wrong. But what glorious eyes she has!

Her conversations smell of something old, old, but so good; she wants to know how I look at the commune, what importance I attach to sectarianism, whether I consider it possible and desirable to develop capitalism in Russia. And in her inquiries there is an assumption that I must certainly be interested in all this. What? I'm really interested; however, to tell the truth, these conversations are extremely unpleasant to me. I will read with the greatest pleasure a book where something new is given on a similar subject, and I am not averse to talking about it; but let for my interlocutor, as well as for me, this question be a cold theoretical question, like the question of the correctness of the theory of phagocytosis* or the probability of Altman's hypothesis**. Natasha brings too much passion into the matter, and I feel embarrassed. I reluctantly answer her and move the conversation to something else. And in yet another respect, I often feel awkward in conversation with her: Natasha knows that I could have stayed at the university, had the opportunity to get a good job, and instead went to the zemstvo doctors. She asks me about my activities, about my relationship with the peasants, seeing in all this a deep ideological lining, in her conversation the words slip through: "duty to the people", "deed", "idea". These words cut my ear like the squeal of glass under a sharp awl.

* The theory of phagocytosis - discovered in 1883 by I. I. Mechnikov, the ability of special cells of a living organism, phagocytes, to protect themselves from foreign particles, including microbes.

** Altman's hypothesis is a reactionary theory (1890) of the structure of living matter, invented by the German physician Altman and subsequently rejected by science.

Newspapers were brought from the station. Baku has cholera. It slowly but continuously rises up the Volga.

To write, so to write everything, even though it is disgusting and disgusting to remember. After breakfast Vera, Sonya and Natasha and I played croquet in the yard. The conversation accidentally turned to Turgenev's Elena; Sonya, who recently re-read "On the Eve", called Elena "the brightest and strongest image of a Russian woman." I attacked such an undeservedly high assessment of Elena. Elena is a variety of a very old type: indefinite rushing into the distance, ignoring the environment, looking for something spectacular, bright, unusual - this is what she is all about. She fell in love with Insarov not because he showed her the work, but simply because he is surrounded by a halo, that he is a "wonderful person": for her, Insarov completely obscures the work he serves. Of course, Elena's choice does her honor, but ... right, to fall in love, for example, with the hero Garibaldi is "a small thing," as Shubin puts it; small thing and die for Italy for the love of Garibaldi. When Insarov becomes dangerously ill, Elena can find solace in only one thought: "If he dies, I will also be gone." Outside of her love, nothing exists for her, and it is clear that after the death of Insarov she had to go to Bulgaria without fail ...

No, Elena is not at all "the brightest image of a Russian woman."

Is it really the whole business of a woman to find a man-doer worthy of her love? Where is the direct need of the present case? Let this matter be dark and invisible, let it bring with it only hardships without end, let youth, happiness, health go to serve it - what's up with that? After all, this is not fun and not a background for a poetic novel; this is hard work, red only by the consciousness that you do not live in vain. And we have had and still have many women for whom this consciousness is dearer than the most brilliant heroes...

Even as I was speaking, disgust stirred in me at my elevated tone; but I was subdued by the greedy attention with which Natasha listened. She did not take her eyes off me with a joyfully perplexed look, and there was so much fear in this look that I would cut myself off, as usual, I would hush up the conversation. Well, here - I did not stop, did not reduce the conversation to something else ... Oh, an abomination!

And in vain I try to convince myself that I spoke sincerely, that there is something painful in my fear of "lofty words": my heart is bad and ashamed, as if, out of a desire to splurge, I dressed up in someone else's rich dress.

11 o'clock evenings

All evening I sat upstairs in the pantry sorting through books. The sun sank into crimson clouds, and several times it began to drizzle. Uncle at supper was gloomy and silent: he was going to start hay hauling the next day, and the barometer suddenly dropped sharply; at Vykonka they did not have time to accumulate hay, and it remained overnight in circles. The windows were open, and the rain was softly rattling in the dark garden. Natasha was also silent. Several times I caught her attentive and indecisive, as if expectant, look on me. After supper, when I said goodbye to her, she, holding out her hand, suddenly looked at me and said softly:

Mitya, there is so much I want to ask you.

And I--I didn't ask what it was; I only nodded my head seriously and, without looking at Natasha, replied that I was always at her service. Like I don't really know what she wants to ask...

I spend all my time in the pantry for books. The sky is covered with clouds, the rain drizzles without end; black arable land stretches in the muddy damp distance, wet jackdaws scream on the roof ... I try in vain to suppress the causeless, dull irritation that does not leave me for a minute. Irritating and annoying sound of rain on the roof, and those dilapidated windows, from the cracks of which blows unbearably, and the nasty smell of mice and rotten paper rushing from books. When I remember my nasty wagging in front of Natasha, anger takes me: two days have already passed; like a boy whose prank is open, I am afraid of talking to her and try to avoid her. And Natasha noticed it right away. She keeps aloof, but her eyes look sad and bewildered. God knows how she explains my behavior. This morning I happened to meet her in the corridor; she looked at me timidly and walked past me in silence. The head is heavy, there is a dull, aching pain in the chest, and a cough has appeared again ...

I went to bed yesterday before dinner. Woke up early today. He drew back the curtains and opened the window. The sky is clear and blue, the sun pours hot light into the garden, still wet from the rain; the first flowers have blossomed on the lindens, and their scent is faintly felt in the fresh breeze; all around merrily sings and chirps... There is not a trace of yesterday in my soul. The chest breathes deeply, you want tension, muscular work, you feel vigorous and strong.

I went to the stable and saddled the Imp. It stagnated, I hardly managed to sit on it. The imp neighed angrily and, all trembling with impatience, rushed under me and forward and to the sides. On purpose, in order to wrestle with him, I drove with a quiet step through the village street and the whole Big Meadow. The saddle smelled of leather, and this smell mixed with the smell of damp meadow grass.

Having passed the dam, I turned onto the Opasovskaya road and let the Besenok gallop. He seemed to break loose and rushed forward like a madman. Crazy fun takes possession of such a ride; the grass along the edges of the road merged into single-color stripes, it was breathtaking, and I kept urging the Besenk, and he rushed, as if running away from death.

To the left, over the rye, the Saninsky forest darkened; I held the Besenka and soon stopped completely. The rye stretched endlessly in all directions, golden waves slowly ran along it. There was silence all around; only the larks chimed in the blue sky. The imp, raising its head and pricking up its ears, stood and peered attentively into the distance. The warm wind blew evenly in my face, I could not breathe it ...

Clear sky, health and will, -

Hello, expanse of a wide field! ..

The swallow quickly swept past the horse's legs and suddenly, as if remembering something, flapped its wings, made a melodic sound and swerved back in a steep semicircle. The imp lowered its head and impatiently stepped over its feet. I turned onto the road winding through the rye towards the Saninsky forest.

"Health" ... I was not healthy - I felt that my chest was sick, but I even enjoyed this completely painless feeling of illness nesting in me, and it was fun to look into her face: yes, my lungs are littered with thousands of those treacherous yellowish bumps, which I looked at so closely at the autopsies - but here I go and breathe deeply, and everything in my soul laughs, and I'm not afraid to think that I'm ill with consumption ...

I remembered Professor N., for whom I worked for two years, a gloomy old man with formidable eyebrows and a kind soul; I remembered his warnings when I told him that I was entering the Zemstvo*.

* Zemstvo - local (zemstvo) self-government. The zemstvo reform of 1864 is, according to V. I. Lenin, “just such a relatively very unimportant position that the autocracy gave way to growing democracy in order to ... divide and disunite those who demanded political transformations .. ." (Coll., vol. 5, p. 59). In 1890, a new zemstvo provision was introduced, depriving the zemstvos of even the appearance of an all-estate in the electoral system.

Yes, my friend, do you know what the Zemstvo service is? - he said, angrily flashing his eyes at me. - To go there, so first of all you need to stock up on bullish health: you got wet in the rain, got into a wormwood - get out and go further: nothing! The wind blows and dries, you drink vodka at the inn - and you are healthy again. And you look at yourself, what kind of chest you have: will you blow at least two thousand into a spirometer? Your business is a clinic, a laboratory. You will go - in the first year you will acquire consumption.

I knew that all this was true, and yet I went; I got wet in the rain, and fell into the polynyas, hurrying into the spring thaw to the woman in labor, writhing in eclamptic convulsions. When the night sweats and morning cough made me suspicious and I found Koch's sticks in my sputum, it was the realization that I voluntarily went for it that did not let me lose heart. And now I'm ashamed of... what? - I'm ashamed to say that you need to live not for yourself alone! Before me stood Natasha's pale face with large, sad eyes ... But do I really have no right to at least respect myself enough to not be afraid of talking to her, not to be afraid of the question she wants to ask me? And how I tortured her!

The rye ran out, the road wound among the walnut and oak bushes at the edge of the forest and was lost in the shady thicket of the forest. I was engulfed from everywhere by the fresh smell of oak and forest grass; the gray trunks of aspens ran high up all around, and through their liquid foliage the sky was tenderly blue. The road was abandoned and half overgrown, the branches of linden and maple bushes bent low over it; the orange caps of the boletus were visible in the grass, the bramble was bright green; there was a smell of fern... The Imp, calmed down, walked with a dapper step, bending his beautiful black neck; suddenly he raised his head and, looking ahead, neighed loudly. At a turn in the road, a few paces from me, Natasha appeared riding on her buckskin Boy.

Seeing me, she staggered back in her saddle and, frowning, tightened the reins; the horse flattened its ears and, settling on its hind legs, leaned back.

Natasha! how are you here? - I shouted joyfully and hurried to meet her. - Hello, my dear! I leaned over from the saddle and shook her hand firmly.

Natasha flushed weakly and looked at me with a quick, timid look.

It's good that we met! If I had known, I would have come here on purpose. Look, what a morning: you are going and you won’t breathe ... Are you really home already? Let's move on, do you want to?

I spoke, but I myself did not take my eyes off her sweet, joyfully embarrassed face. I saw how glad she was of the change that had taken place in me and did not even try to hide it, and I was embarrassed and ashamed in my soul, and I wanted to show her more clearly how dear she was to me.

Let's go, I don't care, - Natasha answered in confusion, turning the Boy around.

Well, thank you! .. And how did you and I come together here? How good is it? Darling, let's go somewhere... Do you want to go to the Cursed Hollow?

I could hardly hold the Besenk, he looked sideways and neighed menacingly at the Boy walking side by side. The road was narrow, wet aspen branches kept spraying us, and we rode very close to each other. “I was there just now,” Natasha said, “the stream has overflowed and turned into a quagmire; I tried to pass, - it is impossible.

I looked at Natasha: she was there! .. The Accursed Hollow is a remote slum, which, they say, is teeming with wolves; and during the day they try to bypass it. And this girl goes there alone in the early morning, so-so, for a walk! .. I don’t know if the mood was like that, but at that moment everything attracted me to Natasha: her free, beautiful posture on a horse, and her embarrassed face shining with happiness , and all, all of it, so glorious and simple.

Well, as you wish, but today I will not let you go home soon, - I laughed. - Gotcha, so such is your fate! Let's go somewhere.

We turned onto a wide road that crossed the forest. Straight as an arrow, she ran in a green, sun-drenched clearing.

Here is the road, just right for the races, - I said and looked at Natasha with a smile.

Natasha met with foam.

Well, let's race again! she suggested, straightening herself in the saddle. “Now our horses are equally tired.

We somehow overtook Natasha and she overtook; but before that I had ridden ten versts on the Besenka.

Well, well, let's see!

We let the horses run. But as soon as they broke up and my Imp began to push, more and more ahead of the Boy, a rather unexpected obstacle appeared. On the edge of the road, two large piglets wandered in the bushes, serenely exploding the earth with their snouts. Seeing us, they frightened shied away from the bushes, grunted and started to flee along the road. We expected, of course, that they would now turn sideways, and galloped as before; but the piglets clumsily rushed ahead of us, grunting and desperately waving their short, thin tails.

Now they will run like this all the time, they will never turn off! cried Natasha, laughing.

We began to delay the overclocked horses. The piglets ran more slowly, grunting excitedly and shaking their sides against each other.

We tried to avoid them carefully; the piglets squealed and again rushed forward like mad. We looked at each other and laughed.

That's the task! - I said.

Natasha held back, laughing, the Boy rushing forward. Now the last awkwardness between us disappeared, Natasha perked up, and it was uncontrollably fun.

No matter what, let's go! - said Natasha. - This is Denis of the pig, the forester; they should have been driven home without that: where they wandered, the wolves will eat them! Let's go to Denis, he will give us milk to drink. His lodge is now there, in the clearing.

We rode at a pace, preceded by the piglets.

You haven't seen this Denis yet, he's been a forester here for only two years. Such a funny old choke - small, thin ... Somehow, when he had just entered, my mother accidentally drove here; she saw him: "My dear, what kind of watchman are you? After all, everyone will offend you!" And he replies: "Nothing, mistress, they won't find me" ...

Never before have I seen Natasha like this; her face so breathed childish, selfless joy ... I could not take my eyes off her.

The forest gatehouse stood in the depths of a wide, recently mowed clearing. Denis, in a white linen shirt and bast shoes, came out to meet us.

Denis, my dear, hello! We are to you! - said Natasha, jumping off the horse.

Ah, young lady Kasatkinskaya, - exclaimed Denis, squinting. - We beg your pardon, please. - Putting his hat under his arm, he took our horses by the reins.

My dear, put on your hat! .. And we will tie it ourselves ... And if you want to be a friend, give us milk to drink ... We are going here, - so he says: Denis will not give us milk! Who, I say, Denis will not give?

God! Are we really something? Thank God, there is milk, be calm. Welcome to the upper room. My girl ran to the village, so I will serve you myself.

There was something extremely comical in Denis: every now and then he stroked his thin beard in the most sedate manner, seriously knitted his eyebrows, and yet there was not a trace of sedateness in his face, wrinkled into a fist, and in his entire miniature figure; got the impression that Small child tries to portray himself as a respectable, sensible old man.

We entered the hut. Denis put two cups and a glass of fresh milk in front of us, cut the rush. Natasha followed him with joyfully laughing eyes and chatted incessantly.

Why have I never seen this gentleman before? - said Denis. - I look, I look, - no, it’s like something ...

He just arrived...

Denis looked at Natasha.

What are they, young lady, - do not blame me on the question, - do you have to marry?

Well, yes, of course, the groom!

That's what I'm watching ... Something, I think - why such joy?

But how, Denis, not rejoice? After all, you yourself know that in these times it is not easy to find a groom. You will not find them anywhere, as if they all died out.

Denis spread his hands.

Why ... That's the point, young lady! Where did they all go? - unknown!

Exactly. Well, I found myself.

Well, God bless you!.. Do they serve in the excise department?

Natasha laughed.

Darling Denis, why do you think it's the excise duty?!

Well, well, God be with you, mother ... He-he-he! Denis laughed too, looking at her.

When he learned that I was a doctor, he gave his face a pained expression and began to tell me about his many illnesses.

We sat with him for half an hour. I tried to pay him for milk, but Denis was offended and flatly refused.

From it we went to the Rattlesnakes, from there to the Bogucharovskaya grove. In Bogucharovo, at the zemstvo doctor Troitsky, they drank tea ... We returned home only for dinner.

* The excise part - the management that was in charge of the excise - a type of indirect tax on manufacturers or sellers of consumer goods (tobacco, tea, sugar, matches, etc.)

Vikenty Veresaev - NO ROAD - Part 01, read text

See also Veresaev Vikenty - Prose (stories, poems, novels ...):

NO ROAD - 02 Part
July 2, 10 a.m. morning I re-read what was written yesterday ... I was intoxicated brightly ...

NO ROAD - 03 Part
July 23 My outpatient clinic is full of patients. Cherkasov's recovery, according to ...

"No Road" can rightfully be called a verdict on Russian populism, which, as he wrote, was at one time a progressive phenomenon, then became "a reactionary and harmful theory, confusing social thought, playing into the hands of stagnation ...".

The story is told on behalf of Dmitry Chekanov- a young doctor who once shared populist illusions, then became disillusioned, but, unlike the heroes of "Comrades", did not abandon the idea of ​​​​serving the people. The usefulness of the work in the Zemstvo, which he was busy, soon had to lose faith. A man of great inner honesty, Chekanov cannot sit idly by and, having received news of the cholera epidemic, goes to fight it. He no longer harbors illusions about the social scale of his actions, which are, in essence, a tribute to the same theory of "small deeds." And, having come across hostility and distrust on the part of the peasants towards him, the "master", he perceives this as something inevitable.

Another social type is another hero of the story - Gavrilov, who enthusiastically preaches the need to resettle the "poor" in "rich families" in the name of the coming "brotherhood of people". In the 1980s and 1990s, such an image was perceived as a “naked” image of populist utopias, thereby revealing all their absurdity. The image of the doctor Likonsky is a type of conscious traitor to the interests of the people, hiding behind the fine appearance of a "cultural missionary" complete inner emptiness and absolute indifference to people's sorrows. Finally, the excise official Gostev, who cynically declares that instead of a doctor, a “regiment of soldiers” should be sent to the peasants, “and handed out live ammunition into their hands,” is already a completely reborn yesterday’s champion of “small deeds.”

In the story shows a striking contrast between the living conditions of the people and those who imagined themselves to be its defenders. “The people feed on clay and straw, hundreds are dying from scurvy and starvation typhus,” the author writes. “The society that lives by the labor of this people ... danced for the benefit of the dying and ate for the benefit of the hungry, donated some half a percent from the salary.”

One way or another, these people are opposed by Chekanov, who, however, turned out to be "without a road." But I also saw those who do not put up with such impassability, do not refuse to search for a path that must be somewhere. Among them is Dmitry Chekanov's cousin Natasha - a straight, honest, selfless nature, somewhat reminiscent of her favorite Turgenev heroines. But, unlike them, she is not content with the role of a man's companion in life, but seeks to devote herself entirely to social activities. It is no coincidence that the image of Natasha, according to the author's original intention, was to be further developed in the story - up to her coming to Marxism. Subsequently, on this topic, Veresaev will write the story "Fad".

"No Road"- a work that is valuable for us also because its author opposed the populist idealization of the “muzhik”. Darkness, prejudice, eternal bitterness - all these qualities are generated in the Russian peasant by centuries of servitude, inhuman conditions of life. “These Zarechians are rude and wild, like animals,” Natasha says, in clear agreement with the author, “but are they to blame for this?” With the story “Without a Road”, Veresaev established himself in Russian literature as a writer of a large social topic, a socially significant issue.

Artwork built in the form of diary entries, which allows us not to limit ourselves to depicting the external manifestations of the hero’s life, but to recreate the most complex process of his spiritual life, the finest shades and nuances in the evolution of his character, his worldview.

Part one

Now it's three in the morning. Cheerful girlish voices still sound in my ears, suppressed laughter, whispers ... They left, the room is quiet, but the very air, it seems, still breathes this young, kindling fun, and an involuntary smile asks for a face. I stood at the window for a long time. It was beginning to dawn, in the dark, dewy thicket of the garden there was a deep silence; somewhere far away, near the barn, dogs were barking... The wind blew, a dry twig broke off on the top of the linden tree and, clinging to the branches, fell onto the path of the alley; a strong smell of wet hazel wafted from behind the barn. How good! I stand and can not see enough; the soul is overflowing with quiet, unaccountable happiness.

And the chest sighs more joyfully and wider,
And again someone wants to hug ...

Everything around is so familiar - the outlines of trees, and the thatched roof of the shed, and the unharnessed barrel of water under the lindens. Haven't I been here in three years? It's like I saw it all yesterday. And while the time went by...

Yes, there are few good things to remember in these past three years. Sitting in your shell, looking around with fear, seeing the danger and realizing that the only salvation for you is to be destroyed, destroyed in body, soul, everything, so that nothing is left of you ... Is it possible to live with this? It's sad to admit, but that's the mood I've been in for all these three years.

“Why should I depend on time? Let it better depend on me.” I often remember these proud words of Bazarov. Here were the people! How they believed in themselves! And I, it seems, in a real way in one thing and I believe it is precisely in the irresistible power of time. “Why should I depend on time!” For what? It doesn't answer; it imperceptibly captures you and leads you wherever it wants; well, if your path lies there, but if not? Recognize then that you are not going by your own will, protest with all your being - it still does it in its own way. I was in that position. Heavy, deaf and gloomy time enveloped me from all sides, and I saw with fear that it encroaches on what is most dear to me, encroaches on my worldview, on my whole spiritual life ... Hartmann says that our convictions are the fruit of the “unconscious”, and with our minds we only look for more or less suitable grounds for them; I felt that somewhere, in this elusive "unconscious", a secret, treacherous, unknown work was going on, and that one fine day I would suddenly find myself in the power of this "unconscious". This thought filled me with horror: I saw too clearly that it is true, life is all in mine worldview that if I lose him, I lose everything.

What was happening all around only strengthened me in the conviction that my fear was not in vain, that the power of time is a terrible force and beyond the power of a person. How miraculously could it happen that in such a short time everything has changed so much? The brightest names suddenly faded, the greatest words became vulgar and ridiculous; yesterday's generation was replaced by a new one, and it was hard to believe: really these- only younger brothers, yesterday. In literature, the general winding up of the front was slowly but uninterrupted, and it was not at all in the name of any new beginnings—oh no! The matter was very clear: it was only renegade—general renegade, mass renegade, and, most terrible of all, unconscious. Literature carefully spit on everything bright and strong in the past, but spit on it naively, without noticing it itself, imagining that it was supporting some kind of “precepts”; the former clean banner in her hands had long ago turned into a dirty rag, and she proudly carried this shrine that she had disgraced and called the reader to her; with a dead heart, without fire and without faith, she said something that no one believed ...

I followed all these changes with close attention; it was insulting for a man who so obediently and unconsciously goes where time drives him. But at the same time, I could not help but see all the monstrous ugliness of my own situation: desperately trying to become above time(as if it were possible!), incredulously meeting every new trend, I doomed myself to dead immobility; I was in danger of turning into a completely "meaningless chip" of the once "victorious ship". Confused more and more in this hopeless contradiction, drowning out in my soul the bitter contempt for myself, I finally came to the result of which I spoke: to annihilate, to annihilate my only salvation.

I do not scourge myself, because then you will certainly begin to lie and exaggerate; but it must be confessed that such a mood does little to promote self-respect. You look into the soul - it is so cold and dark there, so disgustingly pitiful is this impotent fear of others! And it seems to you that no one has ever experienced anything like this, that you are some kind of strange freak thrown into the world by the current strange, indefinite time ... It's hard to live like this. Only work saved me; and I, as a zemstvo doctor, had a lot of work, especially in the last year - hard and responsible work. This is what I needed; dedicate yourself to the cause with all your being, become anesthetized them, completely forget myself - that was my goal.

Now my service is over. It ended unexpectedly and quite characteristically. Almost against my will, I became some kind of enfant terrible in the Zemstvo, the chairman of the council could not indifferently hear my name. Hungry typhus arrived; I worked on the epidemic for four months and at the end of April I collapsed on my own, and when I got better ... it turned out that I was no longer needed. It so happened that I had to leave if I didn’t want to be spit in my face ... Eh, what to remember! I resigned and came here. Forget all this!

A large hall of an old landowner's house, a samovar is boiling on the table; a hanging lamp brightly illuminates the laid supper, further, in the corners of the room, it is almost completely dark; flocks of flies hum and buzz sleepily under the ceiling. All the windows are wide open, and the warm night peers through them from the moonlit garden; Feminine laughter and cries, the splash of water are faintly heard from the river.

We walk with my uncle around the hall. During these three years he has grown old and fat, grunting after every phrase, but hospitable and talkative as before; he tells me about the prospects for the harvest, about the mowing that has begun. A strong, ruddy girl, with a handkerchief on her head and barefoot, brought in an fried egg sizzling in a frying pan; on the way, she elbowed the half-closed door aside; flocks of flies under the ceiling stirred and buzzed louder.

“But we have one thing that you don’t have,” my uncle said, smiling and looking at me with his bulging short-sighted eyes.

- What is this? I asked, suppressing a smile.

When I was still a student, I came here for the summer, my uncle made the same remark every time, word for word.

Aunt Sofya Alekseevna returned from her bath; two more rooms away, her loud voice can be heard giving orders.

- Stick! take a sheet, hang it on the bedroom door! Yes, call the boys to dinner, where are they? ... Serve cutlets, varenets, cream from the cellar ... Hurry! Where is Arinka? Ah, the scrambled eggs have already been served,” she says, hurriedly going in and sitting down by the samovar. “Well, gentlemen, what are you waiting for?” Do you want your eggs to cool down? Sit down!

Sofya Alekseevna is dressed in an old blue blouse, her face is very tanned, and yet, in her whole appearance, she very much resembles a French marquise of the last century; her graying hair, which surrounds her round face in a fluffy border, looks like powdered.

– But how? Is it possible without young ladies? Uncle asked.

- You can, you can! Don't be late!

– No, it is impossible. How are you forcing us to break the chivalric code?

- Yes, well, you will! After all, Mitya is hungry from the road. Also a knight! said Sofya Alekseevna with a barely perceptible smile.

- Well, there is nothing to do: it is ordered, so you must obey. Well, let's sit down, Dmitry? Here we drink vodka - and we will take up the scrambled eggs.

He placed two glasses side by side and began pouring wormwood from the decanter into them.

- And how will vodka be in Latin - aqua vitae? - he asked.

- Hm! "Water of Life"... - Uncle looked at the filled glasses for some time in thought. - It's a clever idea! he said, looking up at me, and laughed a rattling laugh. - Well, be healthy!

We clinked glasses, drank and began to eat.

- Where, however, are our young ladies? asked my uncle, chewing fried eggs with gusto. - I'm worry.

“Eat your fried eggs and don’t worry. Our young ladies have already bathed, - answered the aunt.

- Well, here you have our young ladies: thank God, you can hear it for half a verst.

They noisily entered the room. Their faces after bathing are fresh and lively, Natasha's dark hair is damp, and she spread them over her back with a long veil. Uncle saw this and allegedly became indignant.

- Natasha, what does it mean that your hair is loose?

“I dived,” she answered quickly, sitting down at the table.

- So what is it?

- Sonya, pass the ham ... Well, you need to let your hair dry.

– Why is it necessary? Uncle asked in amazement and humorously raised his eyebrows. - No, it is not at all appropriate for adult girls to walk with their hair loose! he said, shaking his head.

But his teaching was in vain; everyone was busy eating and, restraining themselves from laughter, for some reason made fun of Lida. Lida blushed and frowned, but when Sonya, having said: "Save yourself, who can!", suddenly burst into laughter, then Lida laughed too.

- What is it you, Lida, were in great danger? I asked in an undertone, involuntarily smiling myself.

Natasha glanced quickly at me and imperceptibly looked at her father; This means that there is a secret here, which will be explained to me later.

- And why didn’t you take pasta for cutlets, Dmitry? Uncle chimed in. - Let me put it to you.

He put pasta on my plate.

“Italians have pasta as their favorite food,” he told me.

A very hospitable host uncle, but - to be honest - it's boring to sit among the "big ones", and, really, I've known for a long time that Italians love pasta.

The boys also came. Misha, a fifteen-year-old strong fellow with a gloomy, frowning face, silently sat down and immediately began to scrambled eggs. Petka is two years younger than him and a class older; this is a strong man of short stature, with a large head; he came with a book, sat down at the table, and propping his cheekbones on his fists, began to read.

“Well, Mitya, tell me what you have been doing all this time,” said Sofya Alekseevna, putting her hand on my elbow.

Natasha raised her head and fixed her eyes on me expectantly. But I don't want to tell...

- By God, aunt, there is nothing interesting; served, treated - that's all ... And tell me - I was driving through Shemetovo just now - who put a new mill behind the outskirts?

- Yes, this is our Ustin, didn’t you know? How, how! The mill has been operating for the second year...

And a long series of village news began. It is cozy in the hall, the old clock, infested with flies, ticks measuredly, the moon shines through the windows ... Quiet and good at heart. All those teenage girls are grown-up girls now; what lovely faces they have! Something represents my former "girls team"? Sofya Alekseevna called them all when I, as a student, came here for the summer ...

A furious roar came from the end of the table, causing everyone to flinch.

- What's happened? my aunt shouted ominously. – Who is it there?

- It's me! Petka announced solemnly.

- Well, of course it is: who else? I'm for you, little boy!

Uncle raised his head and, as if he had just woken up, looked around.

– Eh... eh... What is it? he asked, grunting. - Petka must be emitting wild sounds again, huh?

Nobody answered him. He grunted and added sugar to his tea. Petka sat lounging on a chair and grinned broadly.

- A mighty cry, a feathered cry ... I felt in my heart ... A terrible cry, a cry ... indistinct ... I emitted from myself ... Cough-cough-cough! How well it turned out!

And, completely satisfied, Petka pulled the plate closer to him and began to put cottage cheese on it. They laughed all around, and he diligently kneaded the cottage cheese with sugar with a spoon, as if the matter was not at all about him.

They drank tea.

- And what, Vera Nikolaevna, will you delight our ears with your music today? asked the uncle.

Vera, Sofya Alekseevna's niece, is a slender, thin blonde with a matte-pale face and kind eyes; she is going to go to the conservatory in the fall, and they say she really has a talent.

“Yes, yes, Vera,” I said. – Play something after supper; I heard so much about your talent in Pozharsk.

Faith perked up.

- Oh, Lord! Mitya, I tell you in advance: if you say such things, I won't play for anything!

- Don't worry, please, I'll listen first. It may very well be that after this I will not speak.

Uncle laughed and got up from the table.

Well, it looks like it's all over. Prove to him, Vera Nikolaevna, that Pozharsk can give birth to its own Newtons!

Everyone moved into the living room. Vera sat down at the piano, quickly ran her hand over the keys, and with a sweep of her finger struck hard in the middle of the keyboard.

- What do you want to play? she asked, turning her head towards me.

This is how famous musicians always start! - Petka said respectfully and jabbed his index finger at Verin's finger, which was pressing the key.

- Yes, well, Petya, it will be! she laughed, shaking off his hand.

Aunt drove Petka away from the piano.

I asked Beethoven to play. Natasha opened the balcony doors wide. Dew and the smell of fragrant poplars wafted from the garden; a belated nightingale chirped in the acacia, and its song was covered in loud, wildly original Beethoven chords. In the hall, by the light of a small lamp, the tea was put away. My uncle sniffled on the couch and listened with rolled eyes.

I don't know much about music; I could not even tell whether grief or joy is expressed in the sonata that Vera played; but something boils in the heart from these wonderful, incomprehensible sounds, and it becomes good. The past is remembered; much in him now seems alien and strange, as if it were someone else who lived for you. I was tormented by the fact that there was no living fire in me, I worked, laughing bitterly in my soul at myself ... Yes, that's enough, was I right? Everyone lived calmly and happily, but I went to where there is a lot of grief, a lot of need and so little support and help; do they know about the hardships, those moral torments that I had to endure there? And for this I deliberately refused a contented and prosperous life ... And I brought with me from there only one thing - an incurable disease that will drive me to the grave.

Faith played. Her pale face looked concentrated, only a sly smile quivered at the corners of her lips; fingers of thin, beautiful hands quickly ran over the keys ... Oh, yes! now I could confidently say: how much fervent, young happiness in these sounds! They do not want to know any grief: wonderfully good life, all of it breathes with beauty and joy; why invent some kind of torment for yourself? ... The tops of poplars, illuminated by the moon, each leaf loomed in the transparent air; Beyond the river, on the slope of the mountain, oak bushes darkened; further on stretched fields shrouded in a silvery twilight. Well there now. My uncle was still snoring, hanging his head. Is he napping or listening?

Natasha approached me inaudibly.

- Mitya, shall we go for a walk today? she asked in a whisper, leaning close and gleaming in her eyes.

- Certainly! I answered quietly. - And what, you are still not allowed to walk in the evenings?

Natasha bowed her head with a smile, pointed at her father with a glance, and walked away.

Vera's fingers ran over the keys with impossible speed; furiously cheerful sounds swirled, captured and playfully carried away somewhere. I wanted to laugh, laugh endlessly, and fool around, and be glad that you are young too ... Thunderous final chords rang out. Vera lowered the lid of the piano and quickly got up.

- Nice, Vera, by God, nice! I exclaimed, shaking her hands firmly with both hands and admiring her happily smiling face.

My uncle got up from the couch and walked over to us.

“Vera Nikolaevna, with her music, like Orpheus in hell ... tames stones ...” he said kindly.

- Precisely, precisely, it tames stones! – I picked it up with a boyish feeling. “I’ll take you for a walk today for your music,” I whispered playfully to her.

- Thank you! she replied smiling.

Uncle yawned and took out his watch.

- Wow! it's almost eleven!.. It's time to go to the side. What do you think, Dimitri? In the countryside, you always have to go to bed early and get up early. Good night! How is it?… er… er… Leben Sie wohl, essen Sie Kohl, trinken Sie Bier, lieben Sie mir!.. Hhe-he-he-he? My uncle laughed and held out his hand to me. Germans without bira will never get by.

He said goodbye and left. I began leafing through the Niva lying on the table; The rest also pretended to be busy with something. My aunt looked at us all and laughed.

- Well, Mitya, I see you are going for a walk! she said, wagging her finger slyly.

I burst out laughing and slammed the Niva shut.

- Aunt, look what a night!

- Yes, Mitya, after all, you were on the road for more than a day! Well, where else do you want to go?

“It’s not about me, auntie…

- You became a doctor, but, really, everything is the same as before ...

- Well, then, allow! I concluded. “Can you take the boys with you?”

- Hey, everyone, go! she waved her hand. - Only, gentlemen, be quiet so that the folder does not hear, otherwise there will be a storm ... I will order you to leave a glass of milk in the hall: maybe you will get hungry ... Farewell! Bon Voyage!

We went down to the garden.

“Well, gentlemen, shall we go by boat?” I asked in a whisper.

“Of course, on a boat! .. In Grekovo,” Natasha said quickly. - Oh, Mitya, what a night! Shall we walk until morning?…

Everyone was somehow especially lively, even the plump, sleepy Sonya, Natasha's older sister. We turned into a dark side alley; it smelled of dampness, and the light of the moon barely made its way through the dense foliage of acacias.

- Here, Mitya, it was fun today! Natasha spoke up laughing. - We bathed before dinner and moved in a boat to the other side; returned back, - I threw the oars ashore, jumped out myself and accidentally pushed the boat away with my foot. Lida was sitting in the stern, and suddenly she jumped up: “Oh, Lord, fathers! Save yourself who can!” - and how she was, dressed - in the water!

- I was scared: how could we drive up to the shore without oars? - blushing, Lida, Vera's sister, began to make excuses.

This Lida is strange: silent and shy, she blushes at herself. little word addressed to her.

- And all, all soaked, above the waist! Natasha laughed. - I had to run home, bring her a dry dress.

- "Save yourself, who can!" Ho-ho-ho! - Petka laughed in delight and tightly hugged Lida around the waist with both hands.

- Yah; Petka, go away! – with annoyance said Linda. - Hangs on everyone.

Oh, Linda, Linda! Why are you hardening me? Petka said melancholy. - If you could know the feelings of a man's heart!

- Well, Petka! Jester! Sonya laughed lazily.

The alley ended with a gate. Behind it, a narrow path descended along the slope to the river. Natasha unexpectedly put her hands on Vera's shoulders and together with her quickly ran downhill.

- Ai! .. Nata-a-asha !!! Vera screamed, laughing in fright and trying to stop. Petka rushed after them.

When we went down to the river, Vera, exhausted from laughter and fatigue, sat on a bench under a bird cherry tree and, hanging her head, groaned loudly. Petka sat next to him and also groaned diligently.

- Yes, Petya. For God's sake!.. Oh! she moaned, clutching her chest. – It will!.. Oh, I can't! Oh-oh-oh!

- Oh-oh-oh! Petka repeated.

Vera grimaced and waved her hands helplessly, but still laughed.

- Well, Verka, she’s completely softened! Natasha said contemptuously, standing at the stern of the boat. - Real fish!

- Lord! After all, they can hear us not only in the house, but also in Sanin, ”I protested.

- Well, get in the boat soon, otherwise we will leave alone! Natasha screamed.

- Oh, Natasha, Natasha! Vera sighed, getting up and barely wandering towards the boat. - What are you doing to me!

- Come on, sit down quickly! repeated Natasha, impatiently rocking the boat.

Misha and I sat down at the oars; Vera, Sonya, Lida and Petka are in the middle, Natasha is at the helm. The boat, describing a semicircle, swam out into the middle of the motionless river; the pool slowly drew back and disappeared behind a ledge. On the mountain there was a dark garden, which now seemed even denser than during the day, and on the other side of the river, above the meadow, high in the sky stood a moon, surrounded by a delicate blue border.

The boat was going fast; water murmured under his nose; I did not feel like talking, surrendering to the healthy sensation of muscular work and the stillness of the night. A house with white columns of a balcony peeped out between the trees with its wide facade; the windows were dark everywhere: everyone was already asleep. To the left, lindens moved out and again hid the house. The garden disappeared behind; meadows stretched on both sides; the bank was reflected in the water with a black stripe, and further along the river the moon played.

- Oh, what a wonderful moon! Vera sighed heavily. Sonya laughed.

- Look, Mitya, she is always like this: she simply cannot see the moon with indifference. Once we were walking in Pozharsk across the bridge; in the sky the moon is dim, nothing good; and Vera looks: “Ah, the magnificent moon! ..” So sentimental!

- Sentimental! But Natasha just said that I am a fish. Are fish sentimental? Vera asked with her slow and kind smile.

- Why not? The fish sticks its nose out of the water, looks at the moon: “Ah, ah! - beautiful moon!

Sonya quibbled unexpectedly for herself and burst into laughter. I folded the oars and took a breath.

The boat slowly sailed a few arshins, gradually turning sideways, and finally stopped. Everyone quieted down. Two waves hit the banks, and the surface of the river froze. The smell of damp hay wafted from the meadow, and dogs barked in Sanin. Somewhere in the distance, a horse neighed in the night. The moon trembled weakly in the blue water, circles spread across the surface of the river. The boat turned sideways and came close to the shore. The wind blew and faintly rustled in the sedge, somewhere in the grass a fly suddenly began to huddle.

I lit a cigarette and began to hold a burning match over the water. A fish quickly emerged from the black depths, stared dumbfounded at the fire with bulging, stupid eyes, and, wagging its tail, darted back. Everyone laughed.

- Like Faith in the moon! – said Lida, slyly twitching an eyebrow.

Everyone laughed harder, and Lida blushed.

Natasha moved from the stern to the middle of the boat.

“Mitya, tell me why you were expelled from the service,” she said, looking into my eyes with childish caress.

- Why were you kicked out? Oh dear, it's a long story...

- Well, tell me anyway!

I began to speak. Everyone moved closer around. By the way, I also told about my first skirmish with the chairman, after which I turned from a "dedicated doctor" into an "impudent and uncouth frondeur"; having arrived in the village where my point was, the principal sent me the following handwritten a note: “The chairman of the council wants to see the zemstvo doctor Chekanov; dines with Prince Serpukhov. Well, I answered him on the back of his note: "Zemsky doctor Chekanov does not want to see the chairman of the council and is having dinner at his house."

Everyone laughed.

– What is he? Natasha asked quickly.

- Never mind. He could not show my answer to anyone, because then they would have read his letter; Well, they don't write to the doctor.

“I don’t understand, Mitya, how you could answer like that,” Vera said. "He's your boss, isn't he?"

- Yes, Vera! always like this! Natasha shrugged her shoulders impatiently. - So what is it?

- How - what is it? Because of this, Mitya lost his place. It's good that he's not married.

“Darling, Vera, and married people refused seats,” I said. – Have you read about the history of Saratov in the newspapers? All doctors, as one person, refused. And you need to know what these bitter poor were, many with families - it's terrible to think!

We sailed in silence for some time.

“Freedom of religion…” Petka said thoughtfully.

- Why did you say that? Sonya asked with a smile.

Petka was silent.

“Why did I really say that? he said with a puzzled smile. “Still, it makes sense.

- What is it?

- Go-go! .. What! Freedom of religion - because of it in the Middle Ages, how many wars took place.

- Well, so what?

- So.

I sat back down at the oars. The boat went faster. Natasha perked up feverishly; she suddenly embraced Vera with both arms and, laughing, began to strangle her with kisses. Vera screamed, the boat tilted and almost scooped up water. Everyone angrily attacked Natasha; she, laughing, sat in the stern and took the wheel.

“God, that crazy girl!” I was so freaked out! - said Vera, straightening her hair.

“Hurry, gentlemen, row quickly!” - said Natasha, throwing her loose hair behind her back.

The boat suddenly crashed into the reeds with a rustling noise; we were doused with the sharp smell of calamus, its cobs swayed and were distributed to the sides.

- Row harder, stronger! Natasha laughed, stamping her feet impatiently. The oars tangled in the elastic roots of the calamus, the boat slowly moved forward, surrounded by a solid wall of fleshy, sharp, like needles stems - Well, here we are! Get out!

- It's hard to argue: they really came! I laughed.

Vera exchanged glances with Lida.

- One-on-one! Pretty much Suvorov! she said, getting up.

- Nothing! Suvorov was a smart man. Get out! I will feed you supper in the Greek grove.

- Yes, if so, then ... Ay, Natasha, be careful! Don't rock the boat!

We went ashore. The descent is overgrown with vines and willows. I had to make a path through the thicket. Misha and Sonya grumbled with displeasure at Natasha; Vera walked obediently and only groaned when she stumbled on a stump or a branch stretching along the ground. Petka, on the other hand, was completely satisfied: he made his way through the bushes somewhere to the side, along the river, fell with the greatest pleasure, rose again and went farther and farther.

“Don’t moan, there should be a path right now,” Natasha said.

She stopped and, picking up her hair, pinned it in a wide knot at the back of her head.

“Ah, Mitya, if you only knew how glad I am that you have come! she suddenly said in an undertone, and with a quick, joyful smile looked at me from under her. raised hand.

- Hey, you ... akathists! Petka's voice came from behind the bushes. - Come here: the path!

- Well, thank God! - Sonia sighed with relief, and everyone turned to the voice.

We climbed up the path. Three young oak trees rose above the cliff, and further on, ripening rye stretched endlessly in all directions. It smelled warm and spacious in the face. Below, the still river smoked faintly.

- Oh, I'm tired! Vera said, sinking down onto the grass. “Gentlemen, I can’t go any further, I need to rest… Oh! Sit down!..

- Fu you, disgrace! Like an old woman, groan! Natasha said. How many times have you gasped today?

- Old age comes, oh-oh! .. - Vera sighed and laughed.

Leaning on her elbow, she threw her head up and began to look at the sky. We all sat down too. Natasha stood on the very edge of the cliff and looked at the river.

The wind blew weakly from the west; the rye was slowly stirring all around. Natasha turned and turned her face towards the wind.

- Lord! .. Natasha, look where you are standing! Vera screamed in fright.

The edge of the cliff cracked, and Natasha stood on an earthen block hanging over the shore. Natasha slowly looked at her feet, then at Vera; a perky imp looked out of her eyes. She swayed, and the block beneath her trembled.

“Natasha, come down this minute,” Vera was worried.

- Well, Verka, don't be sentimental! Natasha laughed, swaying on the swaying boulder.

- Oh, Lord, a crazy girl! .. Natasha, well, for God's sake!

"Natasha, you're really out of your mind!" I exclaimed as I got up.

But at that moment the block broke off, and Natasha fell down with it. Vera and Sonya cried out hysterically. Bushes crackled below. I rushed there.

Natasha, adjusting her dress, quickly stepped out of the bushes onto the path. One of her cheeks flushed, her eyes shone brightly.

- Well, is it possible, Natasha, right ?!. What, are you hurt?

- Nothing, Mitya, what are you! she replied, flushing.

- There can be nothing: from such a height! .. Eh, Natasha! If you're hurt, just say so.

- Oh, Mitya, what an eccentric you are! she laughed. - Well, what is it - because of every trifle to raise such an alarm.

She quickly began to climb the path up.

- God knows what it is! Sonya greeted her angrily. - Right, because everything has a measure. Such stupidity! .. It was not enough for you to break your leg.

Natasha opened her eyes wide and asked slowly:

- Who cares about this?

- Oh, Lord! Vera threw up her hands. - Here Natasha always revolts me in such cases! .. "Who cares"! It’s up to your dad and mom, we all care! .. How is it always, constantly and constantly thinking about yourself alone!

“Always, constantly and constantly ...” Petka repeated reverently and thought, as if trying to delve into the deep meaning of these words.

Black Sea. Crimea. White-maned waves roll under the very terrace of a cozy house with a tiled roof and green shutters. Here, in the dacha village of Armatluk, near Koktebel, the old zemstvo doctor Ivan Ilyich Sarganov lives with his wife and daughter. Tall, thin, gray-haired, he had recently been a regular participant in the "Pirogov" congresses, he came into conflict first with the tsarist authorities (either calling for the abolition of the death penalty, then declaring the world war a massacre), then with the Bolsheviks, opposing mass executions. Arrested by the "emergency", was sent under escort to Moscow, but remembered his youth, two escapes from Siberian exile, and jumped off the train at night. Friends helped him hide in the Crimea under the protection of the White Guard army, surrounded by the same neighbors, longingly waiting for the revolutionary storm.

The Sartanovs live very poorly - lean borscht, boiled potatoes without oil, rosehip tea without sugar ... On a frosty February evening, Academician Dmitrevsky comes with his wife, Natalya Sergeevna. She is concerned about the loss of her beloved diamond ring, which only Princess Andozhskaya could take. What need can bring people to if this beauty, the widow of a naval officer, who was burned alive by sailors in the furnace of a steamship boiler, decided to steal! Natalya Sergeevna says that the windows of the Agapovs were broken at night, and the priest's kitchen was set on fire. The peasant senses that the Bolsheviks are close, they are approaching Perekop and will be here in two weeks. The Dmitrevskys are worried about their son Dmitry, an officer in the Volunteer Army. Suddenly he appears on the threshold with the words: "Peace be with you!" Love is born between Mitya and Ivan Ilyich's daughter Katya. But is it up to her now? In the morning the officer should return to the unit, he became ruder, sharper, told how he shot at people, how he discovered the true face of the people - stupid, greedy, cruel: “What hopeless spiritual cynicism, what unrestraint! In the most precious, in the most cherished for him, they spat in the face - in his God! And he broke his visor, whistles and peels the seeds. What will Rublev, Vasnetsov, Nesterov say to his soul now?

Katya is a different person, striving to get away from extremes. She is busy with daily cares about piglets, chickens, she knows how to extract interest from cooking, washing. She becomes uncomfortable with the well-fed, carefree atmosphere of the Agapovs' house, where, together with Dmitry, she takes the things of their murdered son Mark. How strange this festive table and elegant sisters Asya and Maya look with diamond earrings in their ears, music, poems ... And in the village disputes do not subside: will the Reds be allowed into the Crimea or not? Will there be order? Will it get worse?

But some under any power well. The former soloist of the imperial theaters, Belozerov, once bought up candles for 25 kopecks per pound, and in difficult times he sold to friends for 2 rubles. Now he is the chairman of the board, a member of some commissions, committees, he is looking for popularity, he agrees with the peasants. And he has everything: flour, sugar, and kerosene. And Katya, with great difficulty, received a sack of flour from the cooperative. But you can’t take him home alone, and the villagers don’t want to help, they swagger: “Drag on your ridge. Nona does not rely on other people's ridges. However, there is also a kind person, helps to put the bag, saying: “Yes, the people have become rabid ...” The dear one tells how the Cossacks came to their village to wait: “Feed them, give them water. Everyone takes whatever they look at - a short fur coat, felt boots. How many wild boars were cut, geese, chickens, that they drank wine. They began to take away my son-in-law's horse, he does not give it. Then him from livarvera in the forehead. They threw them into a ditch and drove off.”

It's been a passionate week. Somewhere there are muffled cracks. Some say that the Bolsheviks are shelling the city, others - the Whites are blowing up artillery depots. The gardeners are confused. The poor are rumored to organize a revolutionary committee. Bolshevik agitators and red scouts are driving everywhere. Under the guise of a search, some dubious individuals take away money and valuables.

The day came when the whites fled from the Crimea. Soviet power began with the total mobilization of all male residents to dig trenches. Is it old, is it sick - go. One priest died on the way. Ivan Ilyich was also driven, although he could barely walk. Only the intervention of the nephew of Leonid Sartanov-Sedogo, one of the leaders of the Revolutionary Committee, saved the old man from overwork. Leonid holds a show trial of the young Red Army soldiers who robbed the Agapov family, and Katya rejoices at the many-voiced will of the crowd.

The relations of dacha owners with the new authorities are developing differently. Belozerov offers his services in organizing a sub-department of theater and art, occupies luxurious rooms, assuring that "I have always been a communist to my heart." Academician Dmitrevsky is assigned to head the department of public education, and he attracts Katya as a secretary. Things turned out to be unrelenting. Katya treated the common people kindly, she knew how to listen, ask questions, and advise. However, relations with the new bosses are not getting better, because, being a direct and frank nature, she said what she thought. A serious conflict arises between Katya and the head of the housing department, Seidberg. The girl, who was evicted from the apartment, to the paramedic Sorokina, offers shelter in her room, but the housing department does not allow: whoever we give out a warrant, we will hook up. The whole day, passing through the authorities, the women turn to Seidberg and stumble upon a blank wall. As if something hit Katya, and in a fit of despair she shouts: “When will this boorish kingdom end?” Immediately she is taken to a special department and put in cell "B" - a basement with two narrow vents, without light. But the girl does not give up and declares during interrogation: “I was in the royal prisons, I was interrogated by the royal gendarmes. And I have never seen such brutal treatment of prisoners.” What helped Katya - a family relationship with Leonid Sedym or just a lack of guilt - is unknown, but she is soon released ...

The first of May is approaching. Domkom announces: whoever does not decorate his house with red flags will be put on trial by the Revolutionary Tribunal. They also threaten those who do not go to the demonstration. Total participation!

The Makhnovists appeared in the Crimea. All on horseback or carts, hung with weapons, drunk, impudent. They ran into the cart in which Katya and Leonid were returning home, began to demand a horse. Leonid fires a revolver and rushes to the mountains with Katya. There is a strong shooting, one of the bullets injures the girl's hand. The fugitives manage to escape, and Leonid thanks his sister for her courage: “It is a pity that you are not with us. We need these,"

Unexpectedly, an order came from Moscow to arrest Ivan Ilyich. His acquaintances are busy about release, but the situation is complicated, and the Crimea again passes into the hands of the Whites. Before leaving, the Reds shoot the prisoners, but Leonid again saves Sartanov. His wife dies from an accidental bullet, and his second daughter, Vera, a staunch communist, who recently returned home, was shot by the Cossacks. The commandant's offices, counterintelligence again appear, arrests are underway ... The ruined summer residents are asking for the return of what was taken away by the commissars. Katya tries to protect Academician Dmitrevsky, who was captured for cooperation, but to no avail. Alienation lies between her and Dmitry. Ivan Ilyich gradually weakens and dies of scurvy. Left alone, Katya sells things and, without saying goodbye to anyone, leaves the village for no one knows where.

retold

THE MEANING OF THE TITLE
"NO ROAD" V, VERESAEVA

Completed by: Duskalieva T.N.

Plan.

1. Place the role of the story in the creative biography of the writer.
2. The meaning of the title is the author's position:

A) ways to create the main character;

C) the character system.

3. The originality of the story.

4. Literature.

1. Veresaev's talent was extremely versatile. There is not a single area of ​​literary creativity in which he did not work. The whole life and literary path of V. Veresaev is the search for an answer to the question of how to make a society of brothers a reality. The dream of a society of human brothers was born in childhood, and the first answer to the question of how to achieve it was given by the family.

Vikenty Vikentyevich Smidovich (Veresaev is the pseudonym of the writer) was born on January 4, 1867 in the family of a Tula doctor. His father, Vikenty Ignatievich, a versatile educated man, sought to instill in his children a love of literature; taught to read and reread Pushkin and Gogol, Koltsov and Nikitin, Lermontov.

While studying at the Tula gymnasium, Veresaev intensively studied history, philosophy, physiology, studied Christianity and Buddhism.

In 1884 he went to study at St. Petersburg University, entered the Faculty of History and Philology. Here he expects to find answers, without which life is meaningless.

The young Veresaev was influenced by the ideas of revolutionary populism. Faith in the people, the consciousness of one's guilt before him became the dominant feelings. During this period, he shared populist convictions about the peculiar path of development of Russia, which supposedly should bypass capitalist forms of life.

But under the impression of the fading of the populist movement, Veresaev begins to feel that there is no hope for social change, and he, who until recently rejoiced at the newfound meaning of life, is disappointed in any political struggle.

In 1888, Veresaev entered the University of Derpt, the Faculty of Medicine, in order to better understand human psychology and physiology, deciding to become a professional writer.

In 1892, he practiced as a doctor at the Yuzovsky mine, where there was an epidemic of cholera. In 1894 he graduated from the university and moved to St. Petersburg.

The feeling of ideological "off-road", the impasse into which the intelligentsia had entered, largely determined the problems of Veresaev's work in the late 80s and the first half of the 90s. This stage of the writer's ideological and creative searches ended with the story "Without a Road", written in 1894. In 1895, the story was published in the journal "Russian Wealth". It depicts the ideological impasse into which populism has entered; the experienced or deep crisis is personified by the author in the image of the zemstvo doctor Chekanov. A man of principle and honest, he experiences acute dissatisfaction from his unbelief, pessimism. He was deeply disappointed in the sermons of the populists, striving for activities useful to the people. At the news of the outbreak of the cholera epidemic, he, sick with tuberculosis, travels to a remote province.

The writer himself in 1892, while still a student, went to cholera, where he was in charge of a barrack at one of the mines.

The pages devoted to the description of cholera disorders are valuable in the story not only for their artistry, but also as an eyewitness testimony of a doctor.

1. The moment when, with such tragic evidence, it was revealed that the dark people did not understand where their friends were and where their enemies were; when the romanticism of populism received a new heavy blow, the writer was aptly designated by the two words "Without a road." The writer himself experienced this off-road when he visited St. Petersburg University in the second half of the 80s. Speaking from that time, Veresaev writes: “Personally, such populism did not arouse sympathy in me. There was only a consciousness of great guilt before him and shame for his privileged position. But I didn't see the way.

The heroes of this story do not see the ways either.

A) The hero of the story, Dmitry Chekanov, a doctor by education and a populist by outlook, having voluntarily abandoned his career as a scientist, went to the countryside to treat and educate the peasants.

In the provinces, failures and disappointments lay in wait for him from the very beginning. He was disliked by the Zemstvo authorities, before whom they did not want to please and curry favor. Unexpectedly, I came across hostility and distrust on the part of the peasants, the downtrodden and dark people. Those whom he treated and was going to enlighten, saw in him not a friend, but a gentleman and, therefore, their enemy, who cannot be trusted and who should be hated. He comes to a simple conclusion: the people need not medicines and not treatment, but salvation from hunger. If masses of people die from malnutrition and suffer from the cruelty and violence of those in power, then what is the meaning of the high words "duty to the people", "idea", "happiness"?

Having lost faith in the sanctity of ideas, Dr. Chekanov does not want to live without work. An active nature, he still longs to be useful to people. That is why, as soon as he heard about the appearance of the cholar epidemic, he immediately goes to fight it.

In his soul - hopelessness, emptiness. He went, knowing that he was risking his life. Chekanov treats the sick, trying in every possible way to make them believe him as an enemy. But here, too, he failed. Chekanov was brutally beaten on a dark night. Death was inevitable. But even now, having experienced the tragedy of disappointment for the second time and realizing the senselessness of the victims endured by the intelligentsia up to now, Chekanov did not betray the people, did not turn away from them.

B) Natasha is Chekanov's cousin. This is “a girl with a crazy head, with vague broad requests wandering in her soul, everything is an impulse, everything is a restless search.”

In the story, Natasha is opposed to Dr. Chekanov. She, unlike him, believes and expects, passionately seeks her "path", but has not yet found it. She does not know what practically she needs to do, but does not for a moment leave her high dream of being necessary and useful to her people in some way. Natasha is looking for answers from Chekanov. But he does not know how to answer her: “I don’t know! “That’s all the pain.”

A trip to cholera becomes for him a saving escape from both his conscience and Natasha's questions. Before his death, Chekanov finds words for Natasha. He says that she should love people, love the people, and that "there is no need to despair, you need to work hard and hard, and you need to look for a way, because there is an awful lot of work."

Even in the story, Veresaev told us about the village boy Stepan Bondarev. He was Chekanov's first assistant during the cholera epidemic. Stepan is half peasant, half worker, yearning for knowledge. Selflessly sharing with Chekanov all the labors and dangers and embodying the best human qualities inherent in the people.

In the finale, it is Stepan and Natasha who stand at the bedside of the dying Chekanov. The author shows that the future belongs to the people and advanced intelligentsia.

When Veresaev was in charge of the barracks in 1892, his best assistant was the miner Stepan Baranenko, who became the prototype of Stepan Bondarenko.

1. The story "Without a Road" is the first major work with which Veresaev enters "great" literature. The story sounded like a cruel and boldly told truth about the populist intelligentsia, which is experiencing the tragedy of the collapse of those ideals that only yesterday seemed to them impeccably correct, infallibly holy.

The story is written in the form of a diary - the confession of a zemstvo doctor Dmitry Chekanov. It reveals the deep tragedy of a man who has failed in his desire to honestly serve the people. However, his self-sacrifice is in vain. The tragedy of Chekanov is that the search for an idea that would fill his life turns out to be futile. Through the mouth of Dr. Chekanov, the author himself speaks of the "terrifyingly deep abyss" that existed between the people and the intelligentsia.

The story “Without a Road” brought Veresaev his first literary success and, together with the stories that followed it, created his reputation as an artistic chronicler of the democratic intelligentsia. Veresaev's artistic style is already fully defined in the story; external restraint, which emphasizes tension, hot emotionality of the subtext, and publicism. The story attracted the close attention of critics and the reading public and was widely circulated.

Conclusion: The meaning of the title of the story determines its main idea: the Russian intelligentsia, after the collapse of populist ideals, found itself on the road. The main idea resonates with Veresaev's words: "The former paths have become obsolete and turned out to be not leading to the goal, there were no new paths."

In the story main character does not find the way, does not know it, but before death gives the order to seek and find it. In the notes of the dying Chekanov, Veresaev put his thoughts about life, about the future, about the people.

Literature.

1. Veresaev, V. Without a road//V. Veresaev. Collected works in 4 volumes. Volume 1.-M.: Pravda, 1990
2. Russian writers: Bibliographic dictionary / ed. Nikolaeva P. A.: M.: Enlightenment, 1990
3. Russian writers: Bibliographic dictionary / edited by Skatov N. N. - M .: Education, 1998
4. Vengerov S. A. Russian literature of the xx century.-M.: Consent, 2000
5. Volkov A. A. Russian literature of the XX century. - M.: Enlightenment, 1970
6. Kuleshov F. I. Lectures on the history of Russian literature of the late 19th century. early 20th century Minsk, 1976
7. Sokolov A. G. Lectures on the history of Russian literature of the late 19th century. beginning of the 20th century - M .: Higher school, 1999
8. Fokht-Babushkin Yu. V. Veresaev – legend and reality. Volume 1. M.: Pravda, 1990