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If I ever get married, I will get married in this church,” Francine said.

We sat on the benches, knelt on the prayer mats, and stood reverently in front of the altar.

How beautiful,” said Francine.

Mr. Council reminded us that it was time to go, and we returned to the hotel. From there we went to the station where we caught the train to Preston Carstairs.

When we arrived, there was a carriage waiting for us, with an intricate coat of arms on it. Francine nudged me.

The Ewell coat of arms,” she whispered. - Our.

Mr. Council's ugly face showed obvious relief. He carried out the assignment flawlessly.

Francine was excited, but like me, she felt anxious. It was a lot of fun to joke about prison when you're a thousand miles away. But everything looks different when you are only one hour away from being locked up.

A stern coachman was waiting for us.

Mr. Council, sir,” he said, “are these the young ladies?”

Yes, confirmed Mr. Council.

The carriage has been delivered, sir.

He looked around us and his eyes fell on Francine. She was wearing a simple gray coat that her mother had worn, and on her head was a straw hat with a daisy in the center and a bow under the chin. She was dressed very simply, but she was as charming as always. His gaze shifted to me and then quickly returned to Francine.

“Come on in, young ladies,” he said. The horse's hooves clattered along the road, and we rode past iron fences and shady glades. Finally the carriage stopped in front of an iron gate. The gate was immediately opened by a boy who bowed to us, and we drove inside. The stroller stopped in front of the lawn and we got out.

We stood next to each other, my sister and I, holding hands tightly. I felt that Francine was afraid too. We saw it, this house, which our father hated so ardently and called a prison. It was huge and built of gray stone, living up to its name.

There were watchtowers on every corner. I noticed a battlemented wall with loopholes and a high arch through which I could see the backyard. It was very large, and I felt awe mixed with fear.

Francine squeezed my hand tightly, as if gathering courage. We walked together across the lawn to the large door, which was wide open. A woman in a starched cap stood next to her. The coachman had already left through the arch into the backyard, and the woman’s attention was occupied only with us.

The owner is ready to receive you immediately, Mr. Council,” she said.

“Come in,” Mr. Council smiled at us approvingly, and we went inside.

I will never forget the first time I crossed the threshold of this house. I was trembling all over with excitement mixed with fear and curiosity. Home of our ancestors! - I thought. And then - prison.

Oh, those thick stone walls, the coolness we felt when we entered, the grandeur of the huge hall with the vaulted ceiling, the stone floors and walls on which glittered the weapons of the long-dead Ewells - all this delighted me and frightened me at the same time. Our steps echoed loudly in the hall, and I tried to walk quietly. I noticed that Francine raised her head and took on a fighting look, which meant that she was worried, but did not want others to know about it.

The owner told you to go straight to him,” the woman repeated. She was quite plump, and her gray hair was combed back from her forehead and tucked under her cap. She had small eyes and tightly compressed lips. She fit very well into the atmosphere of the house.

This way, please, sir,” she told Mr. Council.

She turned and we followed her up the huge staircase. Francine was still holding my hand. We walked along the gallery and stopped at one of the doors. The woman knocked and a voice said:

Sign in.

We obeyed. What we saw will forever remain in my memory. I barely remember the dark room itself with heavy curtains and large dark furniture, because my grandfather reigned in it. He sat on a chair as if on a throne and looked like a biblical prophet. He was obviously a very large man, his arms folded across his chest. What struck me most was his long, luxurious beard, which ran down his chest and covered the lower part of his face. Next to him sat a middle-aged woman, unremarkable in any way. I guessed it was Aunt Grace. She was small, insignificant and modest, but perhaps it only seemed so in comparison with the majestic figure of her owner.

So, you brought my granddaughters, Mr. Council,” said the grandfather. - Come here.

The last one was directed at us, and Francine walked over, pulling me along with her.

Hmm,” Grandfather looked at us intently, which gave me the feeling that he was looking for some kind of flaw in us. And I was also amazed that he did not pay attention to Francine’s beauty.

I expected him to kiss us or at least shake hands. Instead, he looked at us with great hostility.

“I am your grandfather,” he said, “and this is your home.” I hope you will be worthy of it. Without a doubt, you will have a lot to learn. You have entered a civilized society. And you need to remember this well.

We have always lived in a civilized society,” Francine replied.

There was silence. I saw the woman sitting next to my grandfather shudder.

“I don’t agree with you here,” he said.

Then you are wrong,” Francine continued. I saw that she was very nervous, but my grandfather’s comments hurt my father, and my sister could not stand this. She immediately rebelled against the basic rule of the house - that grandfather is always right. He was so surprised that he didn’t immediately find what to answer.

Finally he said coldly,

You really have a lot to learn. I suspected we would encounter some roughness. Well, we're ready. Now, first of all, we will thank the Creator for your safe arrival and express the hope that those of us who need humility and a sense of gratitude will receive these virtues, and we will follow the righteous path that is the only acceptable one in this house.

We were completely confused. Francine was still indignant, and I became more and more depressed and afraid.

And so we, tired, hungry, embarrassed and scared, knelt on the cold floor in a dark room and thanked God for bringing us to this prison, and begged him for the humility and gratitude that grandfather demanded of us for the help he had given us. we get a cold shoulder.

Aunt Grace took us to our room. Poor Aunt Grace! We always called her poor Aunt Grace among ourselves. It seemed that life had worn her out. She was very thin, and her brown dress brought out the yellowness of her skin. Her hair, which might once have been beautiful, was combed up and pulled into a rather messy bun at the back of her head. She had beautiful eyes. They probably haven't changed. They were brown with fluffy long eyelashes - a little like Francine's eyes, only of a different color, but my sister's eyes were shining, and hers were dull and expressed complete hopelessness. Hopelessness! This word suited Aunt Grace very well.

We followed her up the stairs. She walked silently ahead of us. Francine made a face. It was a nervous grimace. I thought it would be difficult for Francine to charm the inhabitants of this house.

Aunt Grace opened the door and walked into the room, stopping at the door and letting us pass first. We entered. It was a rather nice room, although the dark curtains covering the windows gave it a gloomy look.

“You will be here together,” said Aunt Grace. - Your grandfather decided that there was no point in occupying two rooms.

I was happy. I didn’t want to sleep alone in this creepy house. I remembered Francine saying that everything is never all bad... or all good. There should always be at least a little bit different. And now this thought calmed me.

There were two beds in the room.

“You can choose for yourself who will sleep where,” Aunt Grace said, and Francine later noted that she said it as if she was offering us all the world’s blessings.

Complex sentence with attributive clause

(continued topic)

The purpose of the lesson: formation of skills: 1) find pronominal-definitive sentences, distinguish them from the actual attributive ones; make (where possible and appropriate) synonymous replacement of attributive clauses; 2) place punctuation marks in complex sentences with pronominal and attributive clauses; 3) draw up sentence diagrams with the specified subordinate clauses.

I.Checking homework.

II.Work at the board.

One student performs exercise. 39 (written), the other two work on a PC.

III.Lexico-spelling work.

Vacancy, careerist, sister-in-law.

IV.Reading theoretical material.

The teacher informs students that pronominal clauses are often used in aphorisms, which are characterized by reference to everyone, everyone.

V.Material for fastening.

1. 1) Happiness is given completely for nothing. Someone who sets a goal and achieves it after a lot of work. True happiness is achieved only by those who set the happiness of their neighbor as their goal. (M. Prishvin) 2) We are responsible for those we have tamed. (S.-Exupery.)

How do you understand the last aphorism?

Why do you think these clauses are called pronominal clauses? What part of speech of the main sentence do they belong to? (To the pronoun.)

Students' attention is drawn to the fact that in the latter case the subordinate clause is an incomplete sentence, which is very typical for complex sentences. In this case, the main parts are paramount both in structure and meaning; subordinate parts only complement already known information.

2. 1) Yes, he is pitiful... (whose conscience is unclean). (A. Pushkin) 2) Only he is worthy of life and freedom... (who goes to battle for them every day). (I. Goethe.)

VI.Editing work

1. Ex. 40 (oral) (Elimination of unreasonable repetition of a conjunction word which.)

2. 1) The trees that we planted near the school then have already grown. 2) The books he had in his house did not arouse my interest. 3) I solved all the problems that were asked to us. 4) We listened with attention to the old man’s advice that he gave us.

VII.Recording from dictation. Text analysis.

Finally, the carriage stopped at a high gate, decorated on both sides with the heads of lions, from whose mouths flowed streams of cold water. To the right and left of the gate stretched a wall painted pink, from behind which one could see the thick, dark greenery of the garden. It set off pink clay vases with cacti and marble busts, blackened by time, placed along the wall. This is the entrance to an old estate, which was now in charge of an old caretaker.

Questions for text analysis.

Prove that it is part of a larger text. (The presence in the first sentence of the word finally indicates that this passage was preceded by some information.)

Indicate the means of communication between sentences in the text. (the first and second sentences - the word gate is repeated; the second and third are connected using the pronoun: green - she; the first and last sentences are connected in meaning - stopped at the gate - it was an entrance, which creates a feeling of completeness of the text, its compositional frame. )

Determine the type of speech. (Description. Linguistic features of this type of speech: words of specific meaning: gate, water, vases, estate, etc.; words and phrases with spatial meaning: to the right, to the left, a wall stretched, arranged along the wall. The author lists objects, forcing the reader to move your gaze from one described object to another. In front of us is like a fragment (moment) of a picture).

The teacher draws students' attention to the fact that the description is also indicated by the richness of the text with words denoting the characteristics of objects (key, clay, blackened, etc.), complex sentences with subordinate attributives.

Is it possible to replace subordinate modifiers with separate definitions expressed by participial phrases? And is this replacement always advisable? What style of speech is indicated by the large number of participial phrases in the text?

Homework: 1) exercise 43; 2) (at the request of the students) write a miniature-description essay by analogy with the text analyzed in class (stylization).

Individual task: write out 3-4 aphorisms with a pronominal clause from Griboyedov’s comedy “Woe from Wit”.

Alexander Lyubinsky

In 182..., in Düsseldorf, several people gathered in the living room of Councilor von S. In addition to the owner and hostess, sitting by the fireplace were their old friend Count S., an elderly couple (neighbors on the estate of Councilor von S., who arrived in Dusseldorf on business and stayed in his house), as well as a young lawyer F. - all day he spent time with the adviser sorting through papers, and when evening came, Madam Adviser, known for her kind heart, invited him to dinner and while away the evening with friends at home.

The owner, in order to keep the guests occupied, offered to tell in a circle unusual stories that had happened to them. The proposal was received without much enthusiasm, and only lawyer F. supported the adviser. Everyone expressed a keen desire to listen to the lawyer, and he began:

“Several years ago, on the way to Graz, I was caught in bad weather on the road. By nightfall the wind rose, and when the carriage entered the inn, the storm was already raging with might and main. In the small hall with a low, smoky ceiling, where the owner led me, there were several people, like me, caught on the way by bad weather. I immediately noticed a young man sitting alone at the door: he had an expressive, moving face that betrayed an alien temperament. But I was especially struck by his long, nervous fingers, restlessly fiddling with the collar of his traveling cloak. He looked up at me. We looked at each other for a few moments.

I nodded my head - he raised his hand and motioned for me to sit next to him...

Do I need to explain to you how much is decided in such seconds: sometimes glances cross like flexible swords, or rush towards each other like doves. But here it was neither one nor the other. A strange state took possession of me... As if I had already known this traveler for many years... Or did I dream about his image? Maybe he felt something similar, because he looked at me with undisguised curiosity.

—Didn’t we meet in Göttingen? - he asked with a liveliness that revealed that he was still a very young man.

“No,” I answered. - I didn’t have to be there.

- Strange. Your face seems familiar to me... But I could be wrong. However, he said with a sad smile. - What does this mean now!

I invited him to share my meal, but he resolutely refused, saying that he was not hungry, and that he always carries all the necessary food with him, since he does not eat non-kosher food.

- Oh, that’s what it’s all about, sir! - I said with a laugh. - And I thought you were an Italian!

“You’re joking,” he said, frowning.

It was clear from everything that this topic was extremely unpleasant for him.

“Believe me,” I exclaimed, “I haven’t had the habit of looking into other people’s plates for a long time!” Come on, we are civilized people.

- Really? - he said, grinning.

His fingers intertwined for a moment...

- Do you want me to tell you a story that happened to me? I am sure that after you hear it, you will not so thoughtlessly put forward this banal thesis.

Of course, I agreed. He looked up at me with dark, cloudy eyes and spoke:

“I belong to an ancient and noble family. Among my ancestors are famous rabbis, bankers, doctors... My distant great-grandfather was forced to flee Spain, leaving all his fortune for the plunder of the Inquisition. He settled here on this land, and soon our family flourished again... My father sells textiles in Z., where, thanks to his wisdom and prudence, he became one of the respected people of the city. When I expressed a desire to go to Göttingen to study law, he did not resist, as many would have done in his place; did not try to persuade me to continue the family business. “Well,” he said, “times change and maybe you’re right.”

I passed the exams and entered the Faculty of Law. I lived, renting a room, in a neat little hotel, and the sums my father sent me monthly were quite enough for a modest existence. This went on for two years, and suddenly, in an instant, my life rolled like a stone down the mountain!

One evening a carriage drove up to the hotel. I looked out the window and saw two figures heading towards the door. At that moment it opened, a man and a woman appeared in a ray of light: he was short, stocky, with a hat pulled down deeply on his forehead, and she was light, slender, with her face hidden under a hood... They entered the hotel, and through For a few seconds I heard their footsteps on the stairs.

I must tell you that the hotel was decent. Not the kind of place where random couples stay overnight. Therefore, I was not surprised when, slightly opening the door, I saw the owner on the stairs with a candle - he was respectfully showing the way to the new guests. In the wavering, uncertain light, a pearl-gray cloak flashed before me, a lock of blond hair escaping from under the hood... But I was able to see the face of her companion - for a moment it appeared in front of me: a fleshy nose, a protruding chin... That was enough so that I would hate him as much as I hated anyone else! His face was imprinted in my memory, and I knew that from now on it would haunt me...

The owner opened the room next to mine. They entered, the door slammed. I have never been particularly curious, but this time my imagination ran wild, because the lady clearly did not want to be recognized... I went out into the corridor, where, in addition to our two rooms, there was another one, which was empty that evening. I crept to the door and listened...

- What an abomination! - exclaimed the mistress of the house, and her beautiful features were distorted with anger. “He was listening at the door!”

“But my lady, he was still a very young man.” And he was intrigued by the mystery of the meeting,” the lawyer answered. “However, if it’s unpleasant for you, I don’t have to continue.”

- No, no, please! - exclaimed Councilor von S. - We must find out how the story ends!

Count S. was silent.

“From fragmentary remarks, I realized that the man did not keep his promise,” the wanderer continued. - But what promise were we talking about? Finally, I realized that it was about... a child! Yes, yes, she blamed him for the fact that she had been unable to get pregnant for six months now. And that her husband, despite the precautions taken, becomes suspicious of her too frequent trips to the city. Apparently, the man tried to take her by force... “You are forgetting yourself,” she shouted. - No no!" The sound of a struggle was heard. “You still can’t get away from me!” - an angry voice rang out. The door swung open. I barely had time to press myself against the wall. She rushed past me like an angry fury. She probably had eyes like a cat’s - she never stumbled in the dark...

- What about her companion? — I asked when the narrator fell silent, apparently reliving the events of that ill-fated night.

- Nothing! He didn't even try to stop her. About fifteen minutes later the owner brought a tray of food into his room, and an hour later he left the hotel.

I felt more and more clearly that the fate of these two was connected with mine by mysterious but inextricable threads... I moved after him. The full moon flooded the street with silver light. He walked leisurely, humming something and waving a long, narrow cane. To my surprise, he did not go to the city center, but to that vile area where poverty lives, and approaching a dilapidated shack, he knocked on the door three times with the head of his cane. The door immediately opened and he walked inside...

It was already about two o'clock in the morning. I was trembling with excitement and fatigue. But I didn't leave. Why? I hated this man, I envied him! He was one of those to whom all the blessings of life belong, for whom everything - position in society, women, money - is as natural as the air he breathes! And I will never, you hear, never be able to equal him! I am doomed to fight my way, as if climbing a mountain along a sheer wall, and my one wrong step will be my last...

I was waiting. Finally he came out. I saw him stop for a moment, looking around the deserted street. He no longer hummed. He walked quickly towards the city center, and I could barely keep up with him. Unfortunately for me, I tripped. He stopped abruptly and, turning around, shouted: “Who’s there?” I got up. At that moment, apparently mistaking me for a bandit, he, without thinking for a second, rushed at me, holding out his cane like a rapier. I managed to dodge. But he made a new attempt, and I saw a blade flashing in the moonlight at the end of the cane... Losing my memory, I grabbed the first stone that came to hand and threw it with all my might... The attacker was only half a meter away from me. A dull thud was heard. The stranger fell, and I... I started running! I don't remember how I got to the hotel. The alarmed maid let me into the house; I opened the door to my room and, without undressing, collapsed on the bed...

It was a terrible night. I was delirious, woke up, and again fell into a heavy sleep... A day later I read in the newspaper that Baron T. had been attacked. The bandits almost crushed his head, but nevertheless the baron’s life is not in danger. Jewels were found in his coat pocket, which the bandits did not take. And therefore the police believe that the motive of the crime is not a banal robbery... The situation became clearer, and I could soberly assess it. First of all, you had to think about your own safety. In the evening I left the hotel, telling the owners that I was leaving the city, and I moved to a dirty flophouse on the outskirts, where no one cared about anyone.

So, that's why the Baron was on his guard! He had jewelry in his pocket. But he behaved completely differently when leaving the hotel... Does this mean that the jewelry ended up in his pocket after visiting the shack? And I went there again.

In daylight the street was even more disgusting than in the moonlight. I was already approaching the shack when I saw a woman come out of the open door, and by her hasty, graceful gait, by this lock of hair escaping from under her hood, I realized that it was her! I stopped, confused. I didn't know what to do! Meanwhile, a carriage drove up, apparently waiting for her around the next corner, the woman jumped into it and disappeared from view.

I don’t know how long I stood there, looking after her... Finally, I remembered the purpose of my journey and, without thinking any more, headed towards the shack. Entering it, I saw an old Jewish man sitting at a peeling desk, with all the habits reminiscent of a moneylender. Silently I approached him, and placing three gold coins on the table in front of him - my allowance for a month and a half - asked him to name the name of the beautiful stranger. The old man's eyes flashed. “You are wasteful,” he said, and with a quick movement he grabbed one of the coins and brought it to his eyes. - And why do you need unnecessary trouble? The police were already here today.” I was silent. He looked me over again, more carefully, from head to toe.

“Listen, young man,” he said more gently. - Believe my experience - it’s not for you to chase such ladies, it’s not for you to visit this house...

- I'm paying you! - I cried. - What else do you need?

With a slight clink, he threw the coins into the desk drawer one after another.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll tell you... You won’t get to her anyway.”

And he said the name... Yes, of course, I knew him! Her husband, an elderly dignitary, occupied an important post, and their family mansion adorned one of the city squares.

- But what is she doing in this shop? - I exclaimed.

“The same as the others,” answered the moneylender.

— Does she need money?

“She needs her jewelry.”

“It appears they were planted without her knowledge.” Baron T. - player.

Without saying another word, the moneylender disappeared behind a heavy curtain that divided the room in two, and I returned to my room...

I understood that I needed to escape from the city as soon as possible. After all, if the police are watching the moneylender's house, they are about to come here! But I didn’t even think about leaving. An unusual feeling took possession of me... Everything I did from that moment on, I did as if mechanically; I seemed to be looking at myself from the outside, amazed, but not daring to contradict. Maybe it is this state that is called inspiration?

I took out a writing instrument and in one spirit wrote a letter to Madam Councilor N. I knew almost nothing. Or maybe I already knew too much... I wanted to let her know that I knew something. Moreover, I can help her get out of a very difficult situation... What? I didn't explain. I hinted that she was dealing with a man in love with her, and even described her graceful, swift gait... I asked for a meeting, begged for a meeting! The letter was enthusiastically chaotic and nevertheless concealed a hidden threat. “Every day during the week from ten to eleven o’clock in the morning I will wait for you in the coffee shop on the corner of the Market Square.” This is how my message ended.

I went out into the street, caught the boy, and, handing him a letter, asked him to quietly hand it over to the adviser. A few hours later, the boy returned, reporting that he was able to unnoticed put a letter in her reticule when she was leaving the church in the crowd. I handed him a coin, which he was incredibly happy about, and began to wait...

A week has passed. It was in vain that I showed up at the meeting place - she didn’t come... Meanwhile, the city suddenly lost its usual decorous appearance: the annual carnival of student fraternities began, the streets were filled with “vandals” and “Teutons” in helmets decorated with horns. They drank, rowded, broke windows in the houses of university teachers, bullied residents, and they preferred to stay at home.

I no longer hoped to receive an answer and in despair was ready to leave the city forever. Nevertheless, I decided to go to the coffee shop for the last time, and in order not to run the risk of being recognized and beaten for my too long nose, I put a tin helmet with horns on my head and put a black mask on my face.

...She was there. She was waiting for me! I recognized her immediately by the pearl-gray cloak she wore to the hotel that night. She stood at the counter, as if choosing a type of coffee. I approached her. She looked up at me with her beautiful eyes. She was so good that for a moment I was speechless... “Here, I’ve come...” was all I could say.

Not a single muscle moved in her face. She put her palm on the crook of my arm and nodded her head towards the door. We left the coffee shop. The street was empty. Only the “Vandals” and “Teutons” rushed past us with a cackle. Still, without saying a word, we turned the corner, passed one deserted lane, then another... Finally, she called a cab driver, and when we disappeared under the semi-darkness of the canopy, she gave the address... I didn’t know this street. I tried to speak, but she silently squeezed my hand again.

We drove for a long time. Finally, the stroller stopped... I helped my lady down onto the gravel path. We walked through the gate leading to the garden, in the depths of which stood a one-story house, or rather a country pavilion... She opened the side door with a key and led me along the corridor into a spacious room with tightly curtained windows. The door slammed shut. “Listen!” I exclaimed and took a step towards her. But she immediately went to the table and took the bronze bell in her hand. “One careless move of yours, and they will enter the room! “And then blame yourself,” she said. “Finally, remove this disgusting thing!” - she suddenly added with a laugh, pointing to the helmet that was still crowning my head. I pulled it off and threw it away.

This laugh struck me. I realized that I was mistaken this time too. I thought that I had almost climbed to the top of the mountain. But, it turns out, he was only at its foot. And still the abyss separated us... “Tell me! - Madam Advisor said imperiously. “How do you know about the meeting at the hotel and the moneylender?” And I began to speak as I had never spoken before and probably will not say again. I spoke with inspiration and despair of passion. I talked about what happened to me, what I experienced, what I changed my mind... Perhaps I did not tell the whole truth; but who knows where truth ends and fiction begins?

Half-light wandered around the room, and her eyes flashed and then went out... I fell silent. And somewhere in the vast world, it was as if distant thunder was rolling... She came up to me. “You seem to be the only one who loves me,” she said. “Even if you really only love your vanity.” And she ran her hand over my mask... “Stay in it,” she said. - That's better. I don't want to see your face. Give me your word that tomorrow you will leave the city forever, and no matter what happens, you will not return here!” And I swore to her this.

My interlocutor interrupted the story and lowered his head. “What happened next?” I asked. "Further? - he said, as if waking up and slowly looking around the hall. - Next - we loved each other, and nothing more beautiful has happened in my life since then! And when it began to get dark, I left, and the door slammed behind me... Well, I did my job, I had to leave. And I left.

And a year later, news reached me that Madam Advisor N. had finally given birth. To the delight of the elderly husband and Baron T.! I couldn’t restrain myself, I got into the first carriage and arrived in Göttingen...” - “So, were you really able to see the child?” - "Yes. Only God knows how much money and effort it cost. I saw her. This is my daughter...” - “What about Madam Advisor?” - “Oh, everything is fine with her... They say she adores her daughter, is affectionate with her husband... And Baron T. is still a friend of the house. True, his ill-fated passion has not diminished, and he is almost ruined. Yes, my face sometimes twitches, as if from a tic, after that ill-fated night... However, we chatted. Look, it’s already dawn!”

Half an hour later a mail coach arrived, bound for Bonn. While the horses were being re-harnessed, I saw the stranger off and bade him a warm farewell. The carriage door slammed shut, my interlocutor melted into the morning fog... Forever.”

The lawyer fell silent. You could only hear how comfortably the rural landowner snored, burying himself in his wife’s shoulder.

- However, you also came up with a fairy tale! - exclaimed Councilor von S., wiping sweat from his forehead. - I was thrown into the heat, then into the cold!

“And you are a wonderful storyteller,” the adviser rose from her chair. “You should write instead of poring over papers in court.” However, there are too many lawyers and hacks now.

- Alas! - answered the lawyer, standing up and bending in a half-bow.

-Are you leaving us already? - said Count S., with the ponderous grace of an old womanizer, approaching the adviser and kissing her hand.

— I want to say goodbye to Veronica for the night. If I don't do this, she doesn't sleep well. Yes, and I had a headache...

The adviser’s beautiful features were distorted for a moment, as if in pain.

“Didn’t these stories frighten you?” - the count cried.

Without answering, she headed towards the door; Already on the threshold, she turned around and looked at the lawyer.

He stood in the middle of the room, crossing his arms over his chest, closing his eyes tiredly...

“Listen,” she said, turning to him from the computer screen. - But you cut off mid-sentence!

- This story has no ending.

- Why?

He went to the window. Darkness rose from the valley, and only the peaks of the Judean mountains were still bright against the dark pink sky - where the sun had set.

“The nights are getting colder,” he said.

- It's time to get warm blankets.

- Do you think this will help?

Without answering, she stood up and looked into the next room.

- She is sleeping.

- It will be a pity if he wakes up...

“Listen, did all these stories really have that effect on you?!”

He was silent, closing his eyes tiredly.

Writer Alexander Lyubinsky(Israel, Jerusalem) is published in Russia and Israel. He is the author of prose and essays “Fabula”, the novels “The Protected Zone” and “Vineyards of Night”, and a collection of essays and cultural studies articles “At the Crossroads”. One of the laureates of the “Russian Prize - 2011” for the novel “Vineyards of the Night”

A list of all publications by A. Lyubinsky in our journal is on the “Our Authors” page).

The page is designed using a painting by the German artist Caspar David Friedrich, “Wanderer Above the Sea of ​​Fog,” 1818.

Maria Olshanskaya

Sections: Russian language

Class: 9

Lesson objectives:

I. Report the topic of the lesson.

II. Goal setting.

III. Vocabulary work. (Children pronounce words orally, memorize them and write them from memory.)

Athletics, health, stadium, Universe, astronaut, continent, result, civilization, navigate, applaud.

Make up phrases with vocabulary words (in rows)

I row - communication coordination

II row-communication control

III row-connection adjacency

Using phrases with the connection agreement, compose verbally an IPP with attributive clauses.

IV. Work on the topic of the lesson.

1. Tell us what you know about relative clauses. (Repetition of theoretical material)

2. Editing text. Text on each table. (Work in pairs).

Assignment: Read. Are the sentences constructed correctly? Correct by replacing one of the clauses with a separate definition.

1. We drove into the village, which was located in a ravine that began immediately behind the forest. 2. The trees near which we were located stood alone in the middle of an open field, which was sown with rye and buckwheat. 3. There was a bouquet of roses on the table, the aroma of which filled the room, which had a festive look.

Define , what part of the sentence is the word which.

Is it possible to replace subordinate clauses with separate definitions? Is it always advisable? (Caused by the need to avoid monotony of construction in the text)

A.S. Pushkin wrote:<<Причастия обыкновенно избегаются в разговоре. Мы не говорим: карета, скачущая по мосту, слуга, метущий комнату, мы говорим: которая скачет по мосту, который метет и пр., - заменяя краткость причастия вялым оборотом>>

3. Text analysis (attached on the tables).

Finally, the carriage stopped at a high gate decorated on both sides with the heads of lions from whose mouths streams of cold water flowed. To the right and left of the gate stretched a wall painted pink, behind which one could see the dense greenery of the garden. It set off pink clay vases with cacti and marble busts, blackened by time, placed along the wall. This was the entrance to an ancient estate which was now in charge of an old caretaker. (According to Maykov.)

1) Read the text.
2) Place punctuation marks.
3) Prove that it is part of a larger text.
4) Indicate the means of communication of sentences in the text.
5) Determine the type of speech.
6) Which style is indicated by a large number of participial phrases?

4. Schematic dictation. (Two students at the blackboard. One draws diagrams, the other determines the type of sentence.)

1. The sun had long since set, and a solid gray shadow lay over the whole earth. 2. Morozka lowered the bag and, cowardly, burying his head in his shoulders, ran to the horse. 3. The birches that were planted near the fence when I was there have grown and are now tall. 4. The forest is being cut down - the chips are flying.

Conclusion: punctuation marks in a complex sentence.

5. Work in groups. (Tasks are attached.)

Group I. Tasks:

2) Indicate the IPP with attributive clauses.
3) How are subordinate clauses attached to main clauses?
4) State the main idea of ​​the passage.

Forests are gigantic laboratories that produce oxygen and trap toxic gases and dust. Anyone who has had to breathe the sun-warmed air of pine forests will certainly remember the amazing state of unaccountable joy and strength that engulfs us as soon as we enter the forests from stuffy city houses.

Places where the forest has been destroyed are subject to severe erosion from low waters and rains. A fairly thin layer of fertile soil is often washed away and rivers carry it out to sea. And what the rains spared is then blown away by the wind.

It is impossible to list all the disasters that the destruction of forests brings. In those places where forests have been destroyed, the land becomes sick with infertility and dry ulcers of ravines.

(According to K. Paustovsky.)

Group II. Tasks:

1) Place punctuation marks.
2) Perform a punctuation analysis of the IPP with a subordinate clause.
3) Determine the main idea of ​​the text.

Love for the Motherland is impossible without love for the native word. Only he who values ​​his native word can comprehend with his heart and mind the beauty and greatness of the Motherland.

A person who does not like the language of his mother, to whom his native word does not say anything, is a person without clan and tribe. (V. Sukhomlinsky.)

III group. Tasks: 1) Using subordinate modifiers or isolated participial phrases, give definitions of consonant sounds; endings; noun; name sentences.

IV group. Tasks: 1) Find punctuation errors and explain their reason.

I had sawing tools with which I made a beautiful frame. I did not learn the rule on the basis of which the problem was solved. We went on a tour during which I learned a lot.

2) Place punctuation marks in<< отрезках >> proposals.

... a vessel whose lid...
... a plastic shell whose purpose is ...
...a high fence along which...
... large houses in the lower floors of which...

V. Lesson summary.

Are you satisfied with your work in class?

What do I know well?

What could (could) have been done better?

What else remains unclear?

VI. Homework. Select 10 SPPs with subordinate modifiers from literary texts or exercise No. 473 from the textbook.

A. N. Maikov

Picnic in Florence

Prose of Russian poets of the 19th century. Comp., preparation of text and notes. A. L. Ospovata. M., "Soviet Russia", 1982 A carriage with two travelers drove out of one of the gates of the city of Florence. One was Mr. Sinichkin, about thirty years old, who was on some errand in Belgium and, on the way back, stopped in Italy on the way. The other was Gorunin, who came to Italy on purpose, out of his own need, a gentleman with a gloomy appearance, dull eyes, a pale face, and light brown hair. In appearance, he was older than Sinichkin, but it only seemed that way given the contrast of his physiognomy with Sinichkin’s ruddy, somewhat plump, somewhat happy face, bordered by a crown of sideburns that met under the chin. “Please tell me, Monsieur Gorunin,” asked the first, “we are going on a picnic, but I don’t know what kind of picnic it is and who will be there?” - I don’t really know myself. Peruzzi arranged everything... there will be, - he said, - some Italians and ladies, also Italians... he guaranteed that it would be fun. - And of ours, do you know who it will be? - Well, here you are, me, Tarneev... - Do you know Tarneev? “I became friends with him here, abroad; however, we knew each other before. - I once heard this name on the occasion of a story in Munich. However, it was perhaps another Tarneev. This gentleman and some other artists of this kind were sitting in the tavern, drinking and so, in joy, they broke the glass in the windows. The owner appeared and an argument ensued. Tarneev took out a pistol and fairly intimidated the venerable innkeeper. The German complained and they paid... However, the gun was not loaded. “I think this is that Tarneev,” said Gorunin with a sigh. “I love him very much: there is a lot of beauty in him... but this does not oblige me to be blind to his bad qualities.” However, he always said that it was simply the right to do whatever you could pay for. He did such things at home, and everything went well for him. Sometimes, out of the blue, he would break the windows of the dachas at night... You could always see him on the railway in a cheerful company. - But all this is terribly wild! - Yes, everything comes out somehow wild for him, even his most beautiful impulses. For example, something will interest him, and he will suddenly feel the urge to learn; he will buy books and bury himself in them. Once he disappeared for a whole six months - well? Studied chemistry. There he disappeared again, and it turned out that he went wandering with some kind of gypsy camp: he lived in the fields, in the forests, went to fairs, and returned as a real gypsy; even his face then became gypsy; learned to shoe horses and sing songs. .. even to cast a spell... - And tea, and steal, - thought Sinichkin. - Good job: well, how can such a gypsy jump abroad?.. - he asked out loud. - Yes, he showed up here too. This is what happened in Bologna. We arrived with him and sat in the hotel. Suddenly we hear noise on the street. The hostess runs to us in despair. Behind her is her husband, small, fat, wearing an apron. He shouts, calls the garçons, orders his wife to lock the hotel, the garçons to arm themselves and follow them. There are shots on the street. We ask the owner - what is it? Italians, of course, never take a step without pathos - he proudly answers: la patria mi chiama! - “the fatherland is calling!” I swear to you, despite his square figure, his huge belly covered with an apron, he was great at that moment: you know, how much energy!.. - I really believe: Italians are as excellent actors in life as they are bad in the theater; It’s very clear, there is improvisation, here there is deliberation... What about Tarneev? - The owner ran out, I began to lock the windows and doors, Tarneev put on his coat, tied a scarf around his head, grabbed the pistols and disappeared. I was terribly afraid for him; I know that the man is crazy; and judge for yourself, why interfere in other people's affairs? What does this matter to us?.. I spent two painful hours, worried about him, wanted to go find him, bring him to reason; but, you know, in an unfamiliar city, where do you go? I just see the owner with the garçons and a whole crowd carrying my Tarneev in their arms, shouting viva to him! Tarneev was bleeding; bandaged his hand; slight wound... I don’t know what they poked him with. Only the owner called him the savior of his life and in his honor gave such a feast that only an innkeeper could give for joy. -What kind of fight was that? - Some kind of nonsense: the municipalities were playing mora, or something, with the Swiss and quarreled... A fight broke out: there were defenders on both sides... That's all. Nonsense!.. In Romagna these cases happen constantly. For Tarneev, of course, everything ended well: the owner’s wife came to bandage his hand... and cried a lot when we left. - Please tell me how strange this is! Such tomboys are lucky. - Amazing happiness! In the game, for example. On the waters, in one evening he flushed everything he had. The next day he came with one piece of gold - he borrowed it from me - and returned it all, and more than that. “With such happiness, he doesn’t even have time, I suppose, to come to his senses.” - No, don't say that! After that fight in Bologna, you know how taken aback he was: he completely lost heart. He feels that he lacks much, lacks education, that his head is empty; It’s late to study, but I want to. So now he reads newspapers, got involved in politics, all this occupies him terribly; he wrote a letter to O'Connell - and, of course, did not send it, he writes various protests against Guizot, against ... well, there on Spanish affairs; he does not recognize various acts, different parliaments, and he writes all this ... he and not stupidly written, there is a lot of heart and nobility, a lot of lines, you know, a la Heine (like Heine (French). ), but you will agree, what is this for? Who cares about him? - Why not use these abilities for the benefit of the house? This disorderliness is ruining everything for him, but he would have gone far. -- No never! Not that kind of nature. Wouldn’t it have been possible to lead him completely differently from an early age, otherwise he grew up in the village until he was sixteen years old. He is more than a man of the minute; He suddenly has an idea, but he has no patience or perseverance. He needs a word, he shines, he will amaze, he will strike like lightning, he will cover the subject correctly and accurately, he will point out - but that’s not his business. At least that’s how I understand Tarneev, but by the way... Little by little, the travelers’ conversation began to move on to other subjects; they touched them lightly, amusing themselves by looking at what they encountered along the way: then they were occupied by a cart, loaded with rural products, harnessed by two horned Etruscan oxen, which with all the strength of their necks restrained the pressure of gravity and carefully carried it down the mountain, and the driver walked to the side and shouts. At the same time, Gorunin recalls the ancient Etruscans and the granary of Rome, ancient Etruria. Then a carriage with Englishmen will rush past them, and the coachman of our travelers will certainly turn to them and say: “These are also English gentlemen; English gentlemen are good gentlemen,” to which Mr. Sinichkin explains to Veturin that he has the good fortune to carry not Englishmen, and that they are Russian. Behind the English gentlemen, at an easy trot, in a convertible on a small horse, some Florentine lawyer or judge will ride into his vigna, that is, into his vineyard, who smiles at those he meets, as if saying that he has no reason not to love them, and who With a respectful bow, he takes off his straw hat in front of another, black, wide-brimmed hat covering his bald head. The road goes along the mountain: there are vineyards on both sides; little white houses flash on both sides, entwined with grape leaves, forming shady canopies in front of them; juicy bunches of ripening grapes hang from wooden poles, like candelabra in a whimsically decorated hall of skillfully carved candelabra. Behind these houses, near which the hardworking Tuscan farmer either worked or children played, are the gardens of rich villas, cypress trees, laurels and holm oak with greenery impenetrable to the sun; high fences dotted with small roses or laden with wide garlands of ivy, sometimes black in the shade, sometimes green-golden in the sun. There are the country palaces of the Florentine, once famous, merchant-feudal lords, with columns, galleries and terraces set with Etruscan clay vases, in which the leaves of cacti and aloe grow, rising upward in stripes, like a flame on an altar. “My God, how good all this is!” said Gorunin. He wanted to say more, but could not and silently pictured before him the happiness of the people who lived in the midst of this rich nature, which pays so gratefully for the slightest work... He thought and about the happiness of this woman, who carried on her shoulders a bunch of dry grape branches for heating the stove and behind whom, little by little, about five of her black-eyed children were running, also with a small burden; he thought about the carefree life of this mule driver, tramping along with packs on their backs; and with special love about the happiness of this girl, who in the distance, from the terrace of a villa, looked into the telescope, perhaps expecting someone from a distant city, which lay down in a slender, light bulk, shrouded in the blue vapors of midday, in a ravine, along the banks of a muddy Arno... He thought how happy the one for whom she was waiting should be, and how this city of flowers, the wide arches of its bridges, its majestic cathedral dome, its palaces, markets, gardens, gates and distant, bluish mountains seemed to be asking about him ... “It hurts me to look at this nature!” he finally exclaimed. “It has a somehow painful effect on me!” You feel the presence of life - and at the same time you feel that in yourself it has long frozen!.. Look, what rubbish you are in front of these names Dante, Michel Angelo, Savanorolla, these blacksmiths, shoemakers, tailors who command their architect Arnoldo di Lapo erected a temple the like of which a person could not imagine: what a scope of will! What a flight of imagination!.. All this, everything, both nature and history, are thousands of reproaches to which you just answer that I don’t have these impulses, this moral greatness! You don’t know why you’re so offended, why and why this lot fell!.. Sad, sad and sad!.. Gorunin hung his head and began to look to the side: he was ready to cry. Sinichkin, who was more concerned with the kind of society he would end up in, did not immediately understand Gorunin and, looking at his pale face, to which sad thoughts gave an senile expression, wanted to ask how old he was, but he hesitated. “Tell me, please,” continued Gorunin, “don’t these pictures make a particular impression on you?” - I see that it’s good. But I looked - and that’s enough. You can’t take it with you... - And it’s good that you at least feel it; but that’s how you stop feeling, you become completely flabby under the yoke of reality, you even lose the ability to suffer and recognize your insignificance! “Your truth,” answered Sinichkin, pulling up his gloves, “a person comes to terms with the most terrible need.” .. But I don’t believe that you put yourself under this category. “It’s not a need, you know, it’s not a need, because I don’t need it,” said Gorunin with annoyance, thinking to himself, how can we have young people who studied at universities, live in the world - and not only alien to the general concepts of the century, as Gorunin called his weaknesses, but even alien to the language and terminology by which they are expressed... But this indignation did not last; he again turned to himself, like a sick person to his illness, not at all caring whether they understood him or not: “Well, what am I in comparison with the people here? Some kind of gnome, slug, polyp; and if something is born in my head -an ideal, then not Apollo Belvedere, not Hercules, not Laocoön, but also some kind of slug, like all the heroes of our stories and poems... And what’s worse is that if you felt where evil was, you found it outside himself or in himself, then I’m glad to dissect it, cut it, delve into this little world, look through a microscope at the poisonous wound in the soul, and not rise above it, like Dante, like Alfieri, like Byron.” Although Mr. Sinichkin still did not understand Gorunin, as the latter would have liked, this recognition, this “unearthing of a small world, this examination of a poisonous wound in the soul” had a beneficial effect on Gorunin’s gloomy disposition; he became cheerful and felt a strange sense of self-satisfaction. Here the carriage, having climbed the mountain, turned to the right along the fence, and our travelers were amazed by the exclamations, applause and laughter that were heard a little to the side of the road near the osteria, in the crowd of people. Whether it was workers who had gone out on Sunday for a walk outside the city and to see their families, or villagers who were resting from their week-long labors over a glass of wine, some stood in a gray, some in a green jacket, in blue trousers, stockings and shoes, all with cheerful faces , to whom round hats with wide brims gave a masculine expression; they crowded around what must have been the improviser; others, with a small pipe in their teeth, lay on their bellies on the grass and, resting their heads on their elbows, looked in the same direction; little village girls, intertwined with their arms, with their sharp eyes and a flower wreath on their heads, also made up a small audience, and at some distance from her two, probably, the master's daughters or maids, who brought on their heads baskets with golden oranges, plucked from a branch and leaves While ascending the stairs, they stopped, without removing the reed baskets from their heads, looked where everyone was looking, smiled and looked at each other. - This is life! “Here she is!” said Gorunin. “Look how she turned around.” We tell you to stop: let's look at the people's scene. “Perhaps,” Sinichkin objected, “just don’t go to the people; We’ll still get dirty, but we have to be nice to the ladies... that is, no matter what they are, they’re still ladies. After all, we don’t know who this little black Peruzzi invited. Therefore, my rule is: just in case, be decent. If you allow yourself to be careless... But sudden laughter in the crowd and Gorunin’s exclamation interrupted Sinichkin’s presentation of the rules. -- My God! Tarneev! - exclaimed Gorunin, seeing a young man in the middle of the crowd. - Oh, crazy! That’s why he left in the morning and said, “I’ll go on foot and admire the views!” Here they are, his views! -- Indeed! And this is where he strives for the ladies! Come down, Gorunin, call him, and I’ll wait for you here in the carriage. Gorunin, with the air of a man who had just been struck by a great misfortune, hurried to Tarneev, and Sinichkin straightened the almaviva thrown over his shoulder, pulled on his gloves and muttered to himself: “It will be good!” Meanwhile Tarneev, without a frock coat, without an overcoat, without a tie, in a paper cap in the form of a three-cornered hat, stood on the table and broke down like a clown in front of an audience. He gesticulated strongly, supplementing with signs and gestures what he could not fully express in a language not entirely familiar to him, breaking down and composing various proverbs in Italian, causing the crowd to die with laughter. Then suddenly he will throw off his paper cap and grab the pumpkin in which he has made a hole to put it on his head, take a stick and stand up straight like a soldier, and make a pitiful, whiny, meaningless face; the public could not be surprised that this was the same person. “Bravo” and “viva” were heard with every movement, with every joke. “He should become a clown!” - thought Sinichkin, sitting in the carriage and watching how Tarneev parodied various jokes known to him, translating them into Italian morals; in this arrangement, everyone got it: the police of the city of Florence, and its respectable merchants, and the Tedesci, hated in Italy, and the Dominicans, and the Franciscans. Gorunin approached the crowd as Tarneev was lifted into his arms and began to be rocked. Seeing him, Tarneev shouted to him: “Ah, Gorunin!” I'm so glad you came! It's a lot of fun here! These Italians are an incomparable people. - How long have you been here? Gorunin was thinking about how to get down to business in order to persuade Tarneev to go with them as soon as possible. “He’s stubborn,” thought Gorunin, “when something gets into his head...” “But it’s time for us, I think?” he asked. - We'll make it. - Would you like us to take you? - If you don’t want to stay here, then go... For now, I’m having fun here too! If I get bored, I'll come back. - Eh, Tarneev, you know that it will be boring without you. -- Here you go! - Right, let's go. - I’ll be there after... - Tarneev!.. But Tarneev turned to his interlocutors, sitting down at the table in the middle of them. “Go your way,” he said in Italian to Gorunin, “you don’t know who you’re talking to.” Now I am the Bey of Algeria and I want to celebrate my thousand and first wedding. Guilt! - shouted Tarneev. - Where is my treasury? Some vignerole handed him his wallet; others held his coat, his hat, his watch, his diamond pin. Garunin was horrified by such childish gullibility of his comrade, approached Sinichkin and asked him to get down and persuade Tarneev to go together. “They’ll strip him dry,” he said. - What should we do with him? - It needs to be taken away. - Where did he get so smart in Italian? - Here in Italy... in just three or four months... Amazing abilities! Encyclopedic nature! Sinichkin decided to get out of the crew. Tarneev, meanwhile, had already sat down between the artisans and villagers in a close circle at the table, ordered everyone to serve wine, placed in front of him a fogliette that could hold about two bottles, and began to challenge the hunters to compete with him. He was very angry that he could not translate the question in Italian: who will outdrink whom? It seemed to him that the meaning of this word was not well conveyed by all forms of the Tuscan dialect known to him. “What kind of language do they have,” he said to his friends, “ who will beat whom-- chi vincera -- not that; who will drink more- without any expression; no, in our opinion, who will outdrink whom - this is an untranslatable word. “But you know what,” Gorunin remarked to him, “that the concept meant by this word resonates with something special... Give it up, let’s come with us.” After all, the ladies will be waiting for us. “Please don’t interfere, Gorunin,” he answered, “you see how fun it is here... You go, and in two hours I’ll show up.” I need to freshen up and rest. “He’ll be a good one, especially when he’s already drunk everyone,” Sinichkin said to Gorunin, who looked in horror at the glasses being emptied by Tarneev and his interlocutors. - Well, if you don’t go, then we’ll go without you. - And go. “But you must agree, how can we go without you?” How can we leave you here, and with such people; and all your things, money - they have it all; and you are alone... yes, they will kill you. - They don’t dare! - How dare they not! Right, let's go. - What do you care about me? Well, I’ll come, I’ll come; no, that's not it. I have more fun here. There will still be ladies there... Here I will sit with good people. After all, you are good people, and you are a good person, even if you are a rogue, but what can we do with you? - Tarneev continued in Italian, turning to his interlocutors in general, and in particular to some blacksmith sitting next to him, and began to hug and kiss him. “Well, it’s come to the point of heartfelt outpourings,” Sinichkin said quietly, shrugging his shoulders. “Really, Gorunin, all we have to do is leave.” Let him do what he wants. Our job is to warn him. Moreover, how can we bring it in this form? - Listen, Tarneev, for me... well, I ask you, let's go with us. It will be a lot of fun. Well, I ask you, listen at least once... out of friendship... - Oh, my God! I said that I would... -You won't go? -- Now there is no. “Well, we have nothing to do, Semyon Vasilich; Let's go. - Of course, let's go. Then we’ll send him a carriage and someone he’ll listen to. They got into the carriage and drove off; but for a long time Gorunin’s sad gaze could not tear himself away from the white osteria, with its tiled roof, with its smoky chimney, and from the tall three or four cypress trees, which with their shadow protected Tarneev from the sun in the circle of his interlocutors, closely seated near the table with wine and snacks. Gorunin looked gloomily at this house, at this greenery, at these people; and they, too, it seemed to him, looked after him just as gloomily and with some kind of ominous look. To complete the unpleasantness of his sensation, the owner’s donkey ran out of the stable onto the road in front of the osteria and growled obscenities throughout the entire neighborhood, as if he had to announce some deplorable news to the world for all to hear. So they drove on for a few more miles; Finally, the carriage stopped at a high gate in Rococo style, decorated on both sides with the heads of lions, from whose mouths flowed a stream of cold spring water. To the right and to the left of the gate stretched a wall painted pink, from behind which the thick dark greenery of the garden could be seen and shaded pink clay vases with cacti and marble busts, blackened by time, placed along the wall. This was the entrance to the Villa Antolini, which had long been abandoned by its impoverished owners and which Peruzzi, the manager of the picnic, hired for that day from the one-eyed old caretaker, who still wore the worn-out livery of the previous owners. Sinichkin entered the gate behind Gorunin with the intention of only looking at the garden and palazzo and then returning to the city. At the sound of the approaching carriage, a gentleman ran out of the castle, seeming to still be a very young man, and only with a careful examination of his face one could read in him his thirty-five years of age. He was dressed as if for a ball, curled and perfumed, with a small black mustache, wide sideburns and a huge crimson camellia with white streaks in the buttonhole of his tailcoat. It was Peruzzi. It’s hard to say where he comes from; what kind of life he had led until now is also impossible to guess: he seemed at least extremely comme il faut (Here: decent, literally: as he should (French).). He came across everywhere in Italy: he was also seen in Venice, accompanying an English family and admiring the semi-Byzantine architecture of St. Mark; and in Naples he sat with German musicians in the café d'Europe; and in Rome he inspected the Colosseum; and with French ladies he rode donkeys for a walk in Gensano - he met everywhere. But everywhere the Italian youth shunned him; but in all cities there were brilliant women, actresses, or singers, or simply young women abandoned by their husbands, smiled warmly at him, like to your person. He was not a cicerone - how could that be! He has studied quite well, knows archeology well, has compiled a book entitled “Archaeological and Pictorial (pittoresque) Italy for Foreigners” and speaks French, German and English quite decently. He very much regrets that he does not know Russian; often asks Russian travelers what different things are called in Russian and writes them down, and Russian travelers, who generally read little in Russian, praise him for the richness of the Russian language and Russian literature and promise to send him a Russian grammar in French. But no one has sent her away yet. Having met Gorunin and Tarneev, he introduced them to Sinichkin and other Russians who were in Florence, and undertook to arrange a picnic outside the city, promising to invite the ladies too. He led the visitors through a dark myrtle alley into a pavilion built in the shape of a Greek temple with porticoes and terraces, all decorated with greenery, flowers and garlands and furnished with statues. There was Bacchus, and Alfieri, and Venus, and a bust of Maria Theresa, and Cupid, and some, I don’t remember which, Pius. Already two of those participating in the picnic were sitting in the pavilion on antique velvet and gilded sofas and armchairs. One was not difficult to recognize. He was wearing an abbot's dress: from his pale, somewhat effeminate and extremely tender face, which, however, bore traces of strong passions, because his eyes sparkled like coals, one could see his aristocratic origin from some once noble, but now fallen family , in which, however, the ancient custom was preserved to appoint one of the younger sons to the ecclesiastical rank, promising him the cardinal's hat in the future. The other was a gentleman in a long top, his hair was streaked with gray, which was noticeable, despite the fact that they were dyed; respectable physiognomy. Those who entered ceremoniously bowed to these persons, who responded in kind and continued the interrupted conversation for a minute. “So you see,” said the gentleman in the bekesh, “until all this is put in order, that is, measures are taken so that they don’t cheat in the cities, don’t rob on the roads, and until your youth are put to work, until From then on, believe me, you will have nothing in Italy. Vanity, idleness and emptiness are the true scourges of peoples and states. And strict measures are needed against them. Napoleon knew how to hold you in his hands; with him you had a script, and that’s all... No, no matter what you say, Napoleon was a great man. One of his mistakes, why did he come to Russia... “Napoleon knew how to awaken enthusiasm in the Italians,” answered the abbot, “but then the Italian is a different person.” .. Gorunin asked something in Sinichkin’s ear, who answered him in a whisper: - Dean, Andrei Ivanovich... - Dean! - Gorunin repeated with surprise, as if he knew this name before, and, probably, he remembered something unpleasant, because his face changed and looked at him as if he was thinking to himself: is this really the Dean? Little by little, it wasn’t that the conversation became general, but everyone said something, as if just for the sake of talking. Everything somehow didn’t fit. Peruzzi constantly ran out to give orders and to see if anyone had arrived; everyone looked at their watches, talked about politics and food; The gentleman in the bekesh told the abbot that he was in Rome, that in Rome there are many wonderful things in different kinds... in addition, he said that in the summer in Russia they eat botvinya, taught him how it is prepared, adding that it " better than your ice cream... Gorunin didn’t say anything, but Sinichkin, seeing Andrei Ivanovich, decided to stay and not go to the city, calmed down and cheerful because there was at least one decent person. “But the ladies aren’t coming,” the Dean concluded drawlingly. “Monsieur Peruzzi, let’s give it to you, we’ve been here for two hours,” Sinichkin picked up. “They will, they will,” answered Peruzzi and looked out the window, as if the ladies were waiting for his sign. A little silence. “And yet they are not there,” said the abbot, glancing at his watch. - What about you? Why do you need ladies; After all, you... should be like a red girl,” Andrei Ivanovich jokingly remarked to him and laughed. The abbot blushed. “Well, don’t be afraid,” continued the Dean, “I won’t tell you!” “It’s obvious that the abbot keeps his vow, because, as you say,” Sinichkin noted, respectfully addressing Andrei Ivanovich, “he blushes like a red girl.” The flat pun had an effect: Andrei Ivanovich laughed and shook the abbot’s hand in a friendly and patronizing manner. Soon the ladies began to arrive. First two appeared: Signora Carolina, a tall, blond Florentine who was friends with some famous Italian poet and journalist who emigrated to France; the other is Clara, short, somewhat plump, but despite that, an extremely graceful brunette; Her black eyes did not stop for a minute on one object, but at once seemed to run around the whole room, and everyone she looked at felt something strange, felt that they were looking at him, and turned around and caught her gaze, which, fast as lightning, playful as cupid in the imagination of the Greek poets, has already transferred itself to another. .. The only time you could look into her face and not feel the electricity of her eyes was when she folded her arms on her chest, leaned back on the back of the chair or sofa on which she was sitting, lowered her black eyelashes, plunging into that amazing calmness, grace and charm, which only the ancients knew about and which belong only to Italian women: then he would have rushed to her and began to passionately kiss her half-open lips, and would not have given her time to open her eyes, half-closed under the charm of some sweet sleep ... After them, a slender, tall woman entered, carrying a straw hat in her hands, accompanied by the small, fractional laughter of a small, gray-haired, ruddy and cheerful old man; this old man was almost covered by her burnous and umbrella, which he held with some kind of obsequiousness. -- La nostra bella Maria Grazia (Our beautiful Maria Grazia! (it.).)! - Peruzzi proclaimed, introducing each of those present to her. Sinichkin bowed with exquisite grace, trying to make notice of his good upbringing and pleasant manners, acquired, in his opinion, only in high society; Gorunin bowed silently, but the unpleasant mood with which he arrived at the villa simply turned into melancholy at the sight of Maria Grazia. The abbot became extremely cheerful and improvised four verses, two of which rhymed for the billionth time on cuore and amore (heart and love (it.).), and the other two are inseparable - sorte and morte (fate and death (it.).), inevitable rhymes, like other Russian poets - blood And love, Phoebe And sky, eyes And nights. Gorunin took advantage of the moment when Peruzzi ran out of the pavilion to give the order for the food to be served, and asked who the lady was that came in with the old man. “Oh, c"est une belle persone!” he answered. “Remplie de talents (Oh, this beautiful woman!<...>She is very talented! (French).) She will soon make her debut here in Alfieri's tragedies. She has already played in Verona and Ancona and made a splash. Her story is very interesting. She is the daughter of a poor chorister, and she has a voice, but most importantly, she has tragic talent. In the society of artists, it received its first development, naturally. Then a Sicilian count fell in love with her. and she married him. The husband, the famous Count Rocca Aspra, thought he would rather benefit the poor girl by marrying her, even sacrificing his family connections, and, of course, did not want to hear her play on stage. But the passion for noble art overcame everything; she left her husband, abandoned his title, his name, took her father’s old surname, Giuseppe Grazia, and fled with a Frenchman; I studied with the famous B-ni for two years and last year I made my debut in Verona, and then in Ancona. From Florence she will go to Rome, and then to Milan... Oh, she has enormous talent! - And this Frenchman is still here? - The Frenchman left a long time ago. - And this little old man, father, or, or... - Oh, you don’t know our customs. This old man is a local lawyer; he is constantly with her; passionately, hopelessly in love with her. However, this does not interfere with his natural cheerfulness, and he does not embarrass her in any way... If you manage to attract her attention... But excuse me, by God, they are waiting for me... You understand that by inviting her , I could not help but invite a lawyer; she loves the company of smart people, and a lawyer should accompany her... Peruzzi made a graceful sign with his hand to Gorunin, bowed his head with a smile and ran with small steps to give orders, but again returned for a minute to say to Gorunin with a mysterious look: - It seems , the abbot is not indifferent to her, because he was trying to find out from me whether she would... With these words he disappeared. Gorunin, filled with respect for this, in his opinion, extraordinary personality, fixed his thoughtful gaze on the pavilion, onto the balcony of which the beautiful Maria Grazia stepped out. Straightening her thick black-gray hair, combed Yu l "antique (in the antique style (French). ) she was talking to Sinichkin, who, it was clear from his face, showered her with compliments and was very pleased with them, tugging at his vest from time to time and exposing his fawn gloves to the sun. - Yes, this is life! - Gorunin spoke to himself. - She left her husband, gave herself up to art... what strength! , otherwise, perhaps, I would not have allowed this young fellow to triumph over the heart of beautiful Grace. For himself, from the habit of destroying himself in front of individuals whom he considered superior to his own, he did not allow himself to even think about entering into competition, although he had the same white gloves and felt that he was smarter than Sinichkin. Remembering, however, that one must “live and have fun” and, most importantly, “catch the present,” he realized that the other lady, Clara, did not inspire such timidity and that she had an amazing expression of kindness in her face. It was decided not to wait for Tarneev, especially since two more ladies had arrived, and so they sat down at the table. Sinichkin sat down next to Maria Grazia. The conversation at the table was at first general; they spoke pleasantries to the ladies using French, which Maria Grazia knew well; Sinichkin and Gorunin explained themselves in Italian quite decently. It was quite lively: Sinichkin said several successful phrases; the lawyer used several anecdotes, the abbot sometimes reached the point of pathos. The ladies laughed... But little by little the conversation remained with them, with the Italians and with Sinichkin; and Gorunin fell into melancholy, talking about life, about Sinichkin’s successes, about Tarneev’s absence, finally about his inability to have fun, especially since his lady’s attention was captured by a lawyer who was telling her some story that was then in vogue in the city of Florence, about one Englishwoman who kidnapped some young man, So, by force of circumstances, a confrontation between Gorunin and Andrei Ivanovich had to begin. - How long have you been in Italy? - asked the Dean. - About six months. - Don’t you serve? -- No. - It’s in vain... at your age you would have had a career... Gorunin used the pasta that was served to him to move on to another subject, and from pasta to the nationality of Italians in general is one step. At the same time, he noticed that Andrei Ivanovich, in his opinion, was mistaken in his judgment about the Italians - that, in addition to enthusiasm, they have a lot of energy - that, finally, in his opinion, no one is so patient in achieving what they once conceived goals. He cited the example of great artists who endured all hardships while striving for the goal of their art. “This element, this energy,” he concluded, “is not in us—this element that was in Michel Angelo, in Sixtus the Fifth... This greatly offended the Dean, and rightly so. —Do our people have no energy? - he said. - Yes, such, father, energy that God forbid to someone else. Why do you take some upstarts - Sixtus the Fifth or the Sixth... - And Galileo... you can’t count these upstarts... - What Galileo! I will show you such Galileos in our peasants. Yes, that's how it is. Explain to me what this is if not strength, even fabulous strength. Noticing that Sinichkin was beginning to listen to their conversation, the Dean raised his voice and began to tell... - It happened to a neighbor in the village. Small village: fifty souls; the forest side, in the Kostroma province, you know, closer to Vyatka. There were three men, three brothers. They hunted, like everyone else, you know, on animals; went bear hunting; They walked with a gun and a spear. Once the middle brother went alone, and he also took the younger one, who, you know, had not yet gone bear hunting. He took a gun and an ax in his belt - a Russian man does not leave the house without an ax. Went. Well, they attacked the beast: the beast terrified- stood on his hind legs and right on them. The man, the middle brother, fired - missed! Bear on him. There’s no point in thinking about charging again; As luck would have it, he also dropped the axe, you know. The bear is at him: he doesn’t take a step back, he put his fist forward and waits, and like a little darling he came up, he put his whole hand in his neck: “Here, Mikhailo Ivanovich, choke,” he says. The younger brother was completely taken aback; he did not have a gun; The hands and the ax fell together. His brother shouts to him: “Why are you standing there! Hit him on the head, and hit him with a butt, yes,” he says, “hit him on the head, otherwise you’ll rip his skin.” But the bear knows himself, he crumples his hand. He came to his senses and went to beat him up: well, he killed him. So this is where you look for energy. And let your Galileo out... “You seem to be telling something very interesting that we don’t understand,” said Maria Grazia. “Beautiful signora,” answered the narrator with a smile, “where are you, there is only one thing that can be interesting: it’s you... And I told you how one of our peasants killed a bear.” “This should be very interesting... We don’t know your fatherland at all...” Grazia continued. - Fi, what terrible things! - exclaimed the other ladies. - I'm afraid to scare you, otherwise I would repeat my story. - No, no, I'm afraid of horrors! - Clara exclaimed. - No, tell me. The ladies were divided into two parties: some demanded a repetition of the story, others did not. “I won’t give in,” said one side. “And I won’t give in,” insisted the other. - Well, how can we please everyone? - said the Dean, chuckling self-satisfiedly, flattered by the fact that he had become the subject of argument between pretty women. - How can this be?.. Well, in which hand is the ball? - On the right. - Well, tell me! He-he-he!.. You see, my neighbor had a little man... “I don’t want to listen, I forbid you to talk,” Klara shouted, “my nerves are weak.” - No, talk, talk... We will be angry if you don’t tell... - There was one peasant... - continued the Dean. “Well, I’ll get up, I’ll leave,” said capricious Clara, overturning her chair, “and you tell as much as you want about bears... e di tanti brutti diavoli (about all this devilry (it.).)... She got up from the table, and everyone behind her, because dinner was over, a carpet was spread out in the meadow under the shade of trees: there fruits in baskets entwined with garlands of flowers and bottles of champagne frozen in silver vases awaited company. “There was one little man,” the Dean repeated, offering his hand to Maria Grazia to lead her into the garden. At this time, the door opened with a noise and, covered in dust, with a whip in his hands and without any proper preparations to enter the society, Tarneev appeared. - Oh, you weren’t waiting for me?.. And you did a great job not waiting. Please excuse me,” he said to the ladies, “I am unforgivably guilty of you... but what can I do? Got carried away. To improve matters, I galloped all the time in a march-march and, I think, sacrificed my poor Rossinante to you, mesdames... Jokes aside, I think the nag could not stand the Russian ride. The attendant announced that the horse was not breathing. Tarneev left the company and, cursing the weak creature, went out to look at the unfortunate horse. Seeing how the poor animal stretched out its legs, threw back its head and shuddered convulsively from time to time, he rubbed its nose; I cut off the girths, but, seeing that nothing was helping, I waved my hand. The news of the tortured horse had an unpleasant effect on the whole society: Sinichkin made an ironic outburst against the mistreatment of animals, hinting that this shows a bad heart and, God knows why, an inability to harbor a high sense of true affection for women. Gorunin took Tarneev away, wanting to let him feel the inhumanity of his act, and said: “How are you, father? How can it really behave like a decent barbarian?..” But Tarneev did not listen; he quickly became acquainted with all the ladies and even knew how to turn everyone’s unpleasant disposition toward him on the occasion of a driven horse to his advantage. He poured champagne for everyone and proposed a toast to the repose of the soul of his Rossinante, saying that he should honor his memory with a small touching speech. “You have fallen,” he said, “oh most beautiful and slowest of horses!” You fell under the blows of a barbarian, a descendant of those barbarians who with sound and fury rushed to the Western Roman Empire! And your good master, who gave you to serve an unknown stranger, will pay for you and demand money for you, and will no longer send you to the city for some good friend, who, in gratitude for that, would build chickens for his wife.. And his Anunziata is very good, and her cousin, for whom Rossinante was sent this morning, is very good and a great rogue... But should I count your merits, describe the sorrow of your master and his joy of getting three times more for your skin than you yourself? was it worth during your lifetime?! Should I, I say, describe this in the presence of a person (pointing to the abbot), who, perhaps, with her eloquence, portrayed creatures less worthy of you as almost great people... The toast was drunk with loud laughter and applause. Having drained his glass, Tarneev said that although he was joking, he still felt sorry for the poor beast. This toast was followed by others. Then the sounds of an orchestra were heard; despite the fact that, by order of Peruzzi, immediately after dinner the orchestra was to play various passages from the operas, Tarneev demanded saltarella. Instantly his quattrocenta turned into a jacket; he tilted his wide hat to one side... as if by some magical call, Maria Grazia appeared before him, full of brilliance, full of life, graceful both in the speed of her dance and in her calm steps. Looking at this clever couple, at this fire in Tarneev’s eyes, like that of an Italian court campagnole, the lawyer, who was thinking of sitting quietly after dinner, danced, sitting in place, tapping his feet to the beat and twitching his shoulders. “Well done, well done!” he exclaimed. “Oh, corpo di Vasso (Oh, damn it! (it.) .)! a real transteverin, as I saw them in Gensala, on my trip to Rome... twelve years ago." One lady, Lorenzina, carried away by her native dance, grabbed the lawyer, and he began to work with his eyes, shoulders and legs, like a young man. Behind them, in some kind of mad enthusiasm, all the others followed; even Gorunin could not get rid of Donna Clara. Only the abbot, Sinichkin and Andrei Ivanovich did not dance: the abbot - because he is an abbot; Sinichkin could not be persuaded because the appearance of Tarneev made an unpleasant impression on him. Tarneev - he said with sincere regret - will end up turning a truly Boccacci society into an ugly orgy of Lucrezia Borgia; even the ladies dropped very much in his opinion because they laughed at Tarneev's witticisms; he especially infuriated with his exclamations, according to in his opinion, stupid and inappropriate, the kind lawyer who said about Tarneev that he had a genius head, that he himself, Signor Gianni, for several years could not explain his sincere feelings for Maria Grazia, and he declared his love to almost everyone. To complete his final victory over the lawyer, Tarneev showed him a trick - to tie a knot in two loops from a scarf at once, which he could not understand. Andrei Ivanovich, of course, did not dance... He calmly and in a pleasant mood walked up to the edge of the terrace and, admiring the views, imagined what effect his anecdote about the peasant, which he intended to tell if he had a moment, would have, and about , that today, for the first time in Italy, he managed to have a good dinner, because the hotels serve terrible rubbish, “But for that,” he continued, rubbing his hands, “now it wouldn’t hurt to rest.” In this very happy mood, he looked back and began to examine the ladies. His gaze settled on Maria Grazia, who, plucking rose leaves, was busy resolving some issue with Tarneev, probably about love. “Okay, okay, lie for now!” thought Andrei Ivanovich, looking at Tarneev. “They won’t like you, brother, they’ll like you... Tea, that’s where the fistulas are!” The dean raised his hand, I don’t know whether it was to his heart or to his side pocket, in which lay a tightly stuffed wallet. “Love... with all your heart... with all your soul... so... a little... not at all... - said Maria Grazia, - you see, the flower speaks the truth.” “Maybe he hasn’t had time to find out the truth yet, because... you see, I don’t know why everything that happens in my life is not like one another, not like what happens to others.” .. Meeting you, yesterday I didn’t know you; Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll forget, but today I’m only with you for about three hours and, I swear, I love you with all the fervor of first love. - As if it were first love?! - At least for you, I am ready for all sorts of feats, for all sorts of nonsense. “And you just plainly call exploits in the name of love nonsense?” - That’s what they usually call them, especially when talking about first love. Take a young man who loves for the first time, and consider what he feels, how he feels: you will find that he will never, perhaps, be as noble, as great as then... Of course, when we become older, it’s funny for us to see first love in others, but that’s why it’s both funny and stupid, it seems to us that we ourselves felt the same and we know that everything that seems like an eternity to lovers will pass and nothing will come of the plans on which a lot has been spent nobility and heart... But I don’t know why I’m never ashamed of my past feelings and my first love, when I was only sixteen years old. - Yes, first love! First love! A lot in life depends on her! - repeated Maria Grazia, as if recalling her first love. - Can you tell me your first love? - There is nothing to tell here; there are no facts here - just a feeling; with this feeling I can only compare the feeling that happens after, for example now. - However, what kind, what kind of character was this first love?.. I think there was a lot of poetry in your first love... - Why is this? - So I think. - On the contrary, bare prose. I guess I’ll tell you, even though there’s nothing interesting here. This was back in the village. My father did not leave his estate, and until I was sixteen I lived with him. At that time I only knew how to read, and that was taught by the parish sexton. But this didn’t bother me, because all I had on my mind was how to go into the forest to catch birds or pick mushrooms; in winter it’s like skiing through the snowdrifts to set traps for foxes and hares, and in the summer it’s like going to the river and fishing... We have amazing rivers, and our estate is extremely picturesque: it stands on a steep bank, and on the other side there is shallow water; in the spring, half a mile of fields and entire villages will be flooded... what an expanse! My father had a serf, and he had a daughter, two years younger than me. Although she was like all peasant girls, she differed from them in that she was a little spoiled in our house and had already grown up in some luxury. We often played with her, went for mushrooms; I made toys for her, we talked all evenings... But what’s strange is that in the forest or when we were alone in the rooms, I never dared to kiss her... - Is this what you now call the stupidity of first love? - Of course, and in this respect, first love is indeed stupid... This love had been going on for so long, it was in a dark corridor that I met her alone... I don’t remember how it happened, I hugged her, as if I was digging into kiss her. I had a fever. I couldn't say anything. Suddenly the father comes. We stood there petrified, she began to cry. My father strictly watched that I did not fool around with girls... I announced that I wanted to marry this girl. This was my first outing; I was terribly afraid of my father. He got mad. Now he called the old servant and sent him to our distant forest as a forester. This is where, in fact, love began. I also used to leave home before daylight in this forest, about ten miles from the estate, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, in the rain, in the mud, hurrying to the designated place to return home by lunchtime. I still remember this place, at the very edge of the pine forest. Oh, signora, you can’t imagine what our forests are, and specifically the pine forest! You will enter it as if you were entering a special kingdom; it’s dark, and the noise of the forest is far, far away; if there is no wind, it doesn’t matter: it’s like there’s some kind of music in it... You stand for hours and listen... and suddenly it’s as if you’ll become scared, some kind of horror will find you, and you’ll run without looking back, without memory, until you won’t be exhausted and won’t stop: your heart is beating, as if you were running away from danger... and as soon as you come to your senses, it will become funny and easy, and you’ll come back again... amazing forests! There is nothing like it in the world!.. - How vividly you feel! How you love nature! - said Maria Grazia, looking with increasing attention at Tarneev. - And to say that we, Italians, only attribute to ourselves the possibility of poetic feeling! “Yes,” answered Tarneev thoughtfully, “I will never forget these forests!” - What about your love? - Love?.. But what? Nothing else. We had dates in this forest. I brought her gifts; she picked strawberries for me... We walked, walked, sat, talked... there were kisses... but only kisses... She was a petite girl, a slightly pale brunette, with black eyes... How often have I become leaving home, my father remembered that it was time to teach me, and sent me to St. Petersburg... That’s where our love ended. - How long did you remember her later? - No, I soon forgot; and then I never remembered. “Unfortunately, not all loves end like this...” answered Maria Grazia with a sigh. “Other loves, that is, not the first love, often turn into hatred.” I would tell you one case, which, I know, ended in hatred, and perhaps mutual. I even want to tell this... I can’t even help but talk about it, because it oppresses me, torments me... Rarely do those who loved each other part as friends, but this should be so... You see, this is one of the faces who are here... - And who did you love? -- Yes. -Who is this? - So, one person... however, why not say... look - the one who is watching me so much, who is furious with jealousy that I am talking to you. Tarneev looked around the whole company. - Is it really the Dean? - he asked, seeing Andrei Ivanovich, who, in his afternoon mood, could not tear himself away from contemplating the beauties of Maria Grazia. - No!.. Another... look here... he sits next to your comrade, Gorunin, and does not listen to what he tells him... - Abbot!!.. - Yes, give me your hand, let’s get off to the garden; I will tell you one episode from his life... and mine... They were about to leave the stairs to the lower terrace, when suddenly there was a loud, cheerful laugh from Donna Clara, who called Maria Grazia, Tarneev and everyone to her. - Ay, ay! - she shouted. - Dead people, dead people! Ghost! Here, here! Abbot! With the appearance of Tarneyev, the abbot somehow lost his former cheerfulness: he sat down on a turf bench at a distance and watched with indignation as Maria Grazia paid so much attention to this stranger. Gorunin, sympathizing with the abbot's thoughtfulness, approached him, started his favorite conversation and embarked on an analysis of spiritual sensations. “In our age,” he said, “analysis has brought us to the complete destruction of the possibility of living and enjoying: it has killed in us flesh, that is, the liveliness of feeling, which synthesis could not kill. In fact, I was watching my eyelids! I can call myself the son of the century... but what am I? Skeleton! I understand well that I have outlived my life without living; the development of the mind has outstripped the development of feeling; I am a dead man before a young man full of life; I am a dead man in front of an old man who sees a past life behind him... I am a dead man in relation to everything that he feels, enjoys... Donna Clara constantly ran up to the abbot, then to Gorunin, challenging them to various undertakings; at last, seeing the futility of her efforts, she stood behind their bench and listened to their conversation. From it she understood only that Gorunin called himself a dead man; This seemed terribly funny to her, and she raised a terrible alarm. Everyone surrounded her and Gorunin and the abbot. “Imagine,” said Clara, “imagine, he says that he already lived once, that he is a dead man, that he... came out of the coffin... that at twelve o’clock, when the roosters crow, Flames and sulfur smoke will rise from the ground, and it will crumble like sand! What? Yes, this is just terrible! Gorunin wanted to protest that he did not say exactly that, but the women besieged him from all sides. “I had no doubt about it,” said one. “Me too,” said another, “but I didn’t think the dead were so scary!” -Are you from hell or purgatory? What are our friends doing there?.. - What is my husband? - What about my uncle, who bequeathed me only a fig tree? - My Gennaro? - And my Lord Humberstone? Ha! Ha! ha!.. - Turn around and tell me, inhabitant of darkness! Or would you like some wine? Oh, we’ll stir up the dead too!.. “They are becoming real maenads,” noted Sinichkin, “perhaps they will tear Gorunin to pieces like Orpheus...” “Eh, sir,” answered the lawyer, waving his hand, Our women are like this: they either sleep like marmots or drive around like devils! Peruzzi, seeing that Gorunin was stunned and puzzled, proposed a toast in honor of the winged god, but they did not listen to him. Tarneev could not bear Gorunin’s serious expression and shouted to him with his heart: “You’re joking, laugh!” “No, Tarneev,” answered Gorunin, touched by his participation, “I cannot leave!” - Well, at least scare them like a dead man! Gorunin was about to scream in a deathly voice, imitating the dead he saw in operas, but one of the women, Caroline, had a new idea. “Do you know what,” she exclaimed, “in the old days, they say, the dead were decorated with flowers and placed at the table when they wanted to have fun... Clara!” Give me the garlands!.. Peruzzi, you are an antique: how is this done? “Give it to me, I’ll crown our thoughtful inhabitant of the graves,” interrupted Clara, who felt sorry for the embarrassed Gorunin. “Why are you so boring,” she said, crowning him with garlands, “wait, I’ll take on you!” Laugh, be a smart dead man... “How kind you are,” said the touched Gorunin. - That's the same! Listen to me, I will cheer you up, cold shadow! I will stir you up, dear dust! I'll take you away as if you were alive! You will be the most living death!.. Gorunin smiled and even felt some pleasure when the playful Klara put him on his knees and with her white marble hands removed his head and touched his forehead; and he heard her hot breath, and touched her dress, even heard the beating of her heart: so close to his ear was the corset of the beautiful Clara, outlining her luxurious figure and warmly heaving chest. He admitted to himself that he was really stupid with his melancholy, that he did not know how to immediately understand his situation, while this skill consists of the ability to live. “We must enjoy actively,” he said, “and not passively!” - But this passive enjoyment of life was already too much for him: he seemed to come to life, as if emerging from fainting and sleep, under the touch of white hands, hearing the fluttering of his heart and feeling the hot breath of the beauty on his face. Suppressed by this impression, he really looked like the skeleton of the ancient Epicureans, motionless in the middle of a circle of frantically and madly dancing bacchantes: Caroline, Lorenzina carried away the other ladies, and Peruzzi, and even Andrei Ivanovich, and at the sound of music, with loud exclamations, this whole crowd was spinning near the pale Gorunin, who did not understand what was happening to him, but repeating to himself: “This is life!” Maria Grazia and Tarneev looked at this scene. It seemed to Tarneev that Gorunin was suffering deeply. Maria Grazia also looked at him with some sympathy. “It seems your friend is not at all in the mood for this joke,” she said, “free him: he’s really pathetic.” Tarneev rushed to the crowd. - No, gentlemen! - he exclaimed. - No, our death is not good! Give me garlands, Gorunin: I will be death! And he took off the garlands from Gorunin and covered himself with the tablecloth as a shroud. Gorunin was still so strongly under the spell of his irritated sensuality that he gave the flowers to Tarneev almost with regret, thinking to himself: “Well, things just went wrong... he ruined everything.” “I am your death,” Tarneev said in a dull voice, “and you are all in my power!.. If anyone wants to get rid of me, let him kiss my cold lips!” And he went to kiss women who told him that he was “sweet death,” others that he was “ugly death.” Seeing that “inexorable” death was approaching Maria Grazia, the abbot jumped up from his seat, as if expecting a thunderclap. His eyes sparkled, his lips trembled. - The abbot wants to improvise! - proclaimed the lawyer, who passionately loved poetry. - From his eyes, from his rising nostrils, like those of Apollo Belvedere, - I have a presentiment that inspiration is upon him... This was a signal of new pleasure: the women rushed to a new victim. They surrounded the abbot, demanding improvisation; everyone proposed their own topics; it was impossible to refuse; Despite all efforts to get rid of improvisation, the abbot had to take up the guitar. The lawyer hid his handkerchief, from which he was trying to tie the knot that Tarneev had shown him, and sat everyone down, saying in a whisper: “Listen, listen... this is just the son of Apollo.” The Abbot made a prelude and began: The Isidian priest lived in Egypt, A saint among the people he became famous. Because He killed the sinful nature within himself as best he could, ate acorns, drank water, and dried up all over like a mummy. “Learn,” he told the people, “I lived among you; I visited Dens of vicious luxury, I tempted myself with the smell of food and drink on purpose. , I walked through the markets of the rich, - But no, I did not give either blood or eyes My soul as a temptation: And wives and wines I knew in vain And I threw gold to the poor dogs And, pure as spirit, I walk now, So that talk to God in the desert." And he went; and the entire city of the holy hermit forgot; He lived in the desert for two years and did not see a living face. In the third year he remembered what wines and dishes he had tasted, how he was once brought to the satrap to a terrible test: They burned incense; the palace shone; The satrap reclined on pillows; The lesbian danced in front of him, Throwing the veil into the air, Then she rushed to the satrap And brought a goblet of wine; Having embraced her, drinking from the cup, he gave her drink and kissed her on the lips, and like a dove her beauty caressed him... The priest was embarrassed, he doubled his vigil and the exhaustion of his fast. But what? In his imagination, It’s as if a clear face has been burned out, - Everywhere there is a young Greek woman... And the bone in him is drying, languishing, His eyes are bloody, his tongue is burning, Shaggy, he prowls in the desert Like a plague beast, screaming, roaring, rolling in the sand, the world curses and threatens the goddess in rage... Once he was sitting by a stream between the rocks on a dewy evening. The steppe turned blue... from the blue steppe As if music was rushing, And with the quiet freshness of the desert Joy flowed into his chest. In this distant hum, for two years now, He had hitherto heard words and seen the image of a deity. "Goddess of life, Mother Nature! - Now he groans... - Have mercy! Because I, by force of sophistry, With you, the connecting veins I wanted to break in my chest - The brain is burning in me, arrogant with Its deceitful logic.. Is there really no easier execution for me than to melt in a slow fire, to be captivated by a brilliant ghost, to see a miracle of beauty in it, to be tormented by a fiery desire, to look at lovely features and study their perfection, to know where and what my bliss is - and just think about himself: “No, no, it’s not for you!” The last verses greatly shocked the improviser; he threw down the guitar and with quick, uneven steps walked to the terrace: there, leaning his head on both hands, he remained for several minutes almost insensible. His sickly appearance withheld the applause with which everyone was ready to shower him... Only Gorunin approached him and silently, with great feeling, shook his hand. “I understand you,” he said, “in your improvisation I was able to discern your own groans.” “How quickly he finished,” said Clara. “What happened to that priest then?” “I’ll tell you this,” Tarneev answered, “the priest returned to the city... no, let me try.” in poetry... Years have passed. As before, pilgrims flowed into the Izidin temple, Heed the words of the oracle And buy wrists, rings, Spells against evil demons. He was known as the wisest among the priests. There was only one priest: there were rumors that he lay dead on the ground, and good spirits carried him dead to the city, there he came to life and became famous. No one has struck down vice with such extraordinary courage - No one has devoured such juicy dishes at a secret meal. No one in the age-old city knew how he, in the darkness of the night, The path to the black-browed Jewess Or to the young bayadère. And so, laughing at the satrap, He lived, grew fat, slept with ringing snores, And before the end, He equaled the sacrifice of the sacrificial calf. - Bravo! Bravo Tarneev! He defeated his opponent! - the guests proclaimed. “Very good,” Andrei Ivanovich told him when Sinichkin translated the meaning of the improvisation to him. “And even this could not be otherwise in the pagan world,” he noted very thoroughly, “because paganism is in itself the greatest debauchery... I read a lot about this... and I definitely read this story from one ancient writer, I just don’t remember who. - Hugo Grotius, perhaps? - asked Tarneev, mentioning this name only because he immediately read it under the bust of Hugo, who, by the way, stood on the terrace. “Perhaps,” answered the Dean seriously. The evening air seemed to calm the abbot somewhat; he returned to the circle of interlocutors as a completely different person; the face, which had been burning with a wondrous fire for a minute, became haggard; but the indifferent expression that he maintained throughout the whole day and which gave way only before a flash of inspiration could not return: anyone could read in that face deep, long-suppressed suffering. The weakness, the nervous femininity of his organization did not give him enough power of pretense; he seemed to have aged five years. His anxiety had a strange effect on Maria Grazia. As he frowned, her gaiety increased, just as when in the blue southern sky a brown thunderous cloud floats out from behind the mountains and covers half of the valley with its shadow, it seems that the other half of it is illuminated brighter by the sun, the green bushes are golden, the ruins are red the hills seem drenched in cinnabar, and the white fences and white houses of the town standing on the mountain look like patches of snow, illuminated by midday. Seeing how the abbot lost his temper, Maria Grazia felt a special disposition to joke, laugh and be kind to Tarneev, and they said everything that came to mind, they said the most terrible nonsense, but neither he nor she would exchange these nonsense for a better speech in parliament... Having seized a moment, the abbot shook hands with Maria Grazia and invited her to go into the garden. Maria reluctantly followed him. “Listen,” he said, “I see everything.” She was silent. “I see everything,” repeated the abbot. “It’s too late...” she whispered, but as if not to the abbot, because she was not looking at him, but to the myrtle leaves and branches, which she, carried away by the abbot, plucked and touched as she walked, in order to occupy her attention with them. And if these leaves, crushed in her hand, could interpret by touching a person what feelings fill him, they would read in Maria Grace two different feelings - both shame and the desire to confess something in order to free and himself from the torment of pretense and from certain moral obligations in relation to the abbot and to bring him out of the unpleasant uncertainty. - So it's over? - asked the abbot, squeezing Mary’s hand. “You’re breaking my arm, abbot.” “Answer me,” he exclaimed, stopping, “is it all over between us?” She was silent. “The most despicable of women!” the abbot said solemnly, pushing her hand away from him. “Don’t insult me, abbot,” Maria exclaimed indignantly, “it’s all over between us a long time ago, as you say.” But,” she continued more calmly, “I don’t want to part with the people I once loved as enemies.” Therefore, listen to what I want to tell you - not an excuse, not a lesson, but just a friendly repetition of everything that I told you before. Do you remember, I had no difficulty telling you that I love you that evening when you improvised, when I saw you almost for the first time, because I had not noticed you before. Your improvisation really touched me. I immediately guessed what was great in your nature, and I fell in love with this beauty. I want now to be just as sincere with you and to admit to you in the same way that the first passion in me has passed. You are smart, Abbot, you understand that it is a hundred times easier for a girl who is in love for the first time to say "I love", than to say “I don’t love” people of the same age as you and me... At the beginning of my love, I loved you - as always happens - as something new; but this news soon passed. You cannot help but repeat yourself, Abbot. Having understood you once, I could already predict your every movement, every word of yours... But in your poetic nature - don’t be angry, abbot - there is nothing that would constitute a mystery, that would make you expect the manifestation of new and new strength. .. Apart from these moments of inspiration, you are an ordinary person like all of us mortals... You are great as a poet, even when you are a poet; but as a person - you are a child, you are a woman... I am also a woman, Lorenzo, and I can only submit to courage... You understand yourself... in your organization lies the secret why you cannot bind a woman to you forever.. - Thank you for the lesson, signora. “I beg you, Lorenzo, don’t look at my words like that; and if you definitely have friendship for me, as you have assured more than once, then from friendship now understand my position... - Oh, I understand, I understand!.. When we already become criminal, even in our own eyes, we will find reasons to to justify ourselves, and, of course, we will shift the blame onto others... I am not holding you back, go your own way, wherever it will lead you. But you are mistaken, madam, if you have hitherto seen me as a child, as you say; so know that my love for you made me a child. When you appeared today, I became as cheerful as a baby; you tormented me again, and I suffered all the torments of hell. But I'm telling you, you're wrong. I will prove to you that I am a husband. If I knew how to love you, if I dreamed of making your life rich, I will be able to poison it. You will be afraid of my name. You will be unhappy - in yourself, in everyone you love, in your children, in your lovers. From the stage you will see me; I will poison your success. I won’t say another word to you... but... - I told you, Abbot, that you are charming when you improvise... - No, signora, I don’t improvise now, but predict. “If you don’t improvise, then you look an awful lot like a child who wants to appear big.” The abbot's lips turned white with rage. Seeing the Dean at the end of the alley, he directed his steps towards him. “I must hand over my lady to you,” he said, “because my duties call me to the city.” He seated Maria Grazia on the steps of a dark arbor, from the darkness of which a marble satyr, surrounded by flowers, looked out, having caught the nymph; the abbot bowed and disappeared; Maria was excited. The strength of indignation that had supported her in the presence of the abbot seemed to leave her, her eyes filled with tears. .. but the Dean did not notice her embarrassment. “Apparently, lovely Maria,” he said, “the abbot is afraid... walking with you... I understand him...” Andrei Ivanovich devoured with his eyes the charms of the “seductive siren.” “Listen, Maria Grazia, - he continued, suddenly abandoning this polite tone and sitting down next to her with the air of a man speaking a matter, - and loving you, I must warn you... You, perhaps, think that these gentlemen, these young people, what kind of Some traveling lords and rich people... I know them - it's all a waste. I’m telling you as a sensible woman... If a person with weight, with fortune, would throw down in front of you... all his fortune, his heart, of course, only such, one might say, victory could flatter you, and that’s not it. .. that some boy... “It’s my fault, I didn’t listen,” answered Maria, who could barely come to her senses from the scene with the abbot. - Cheat! “- the Dean said with tenderness, interpreting the beauty’s silence in his favor. “He’s still pretending that he doesn’t understand...” “You don’t seem to be having much fun,” Peruzzi said to Gorunin, who was sitting thoughtfully on the balustrade of the terrace and looking at to the parties. “You’re wrong to think so,” he answered. “I just don’t make noise when I’m having fun.” Twilight, or already night, has long come. A lot of people gathered near the gates of the villa to the sounds of music. Tarneev ordered the gates to be opened, spectators allowed into the garden and the village ball opened. The terrace was illuminated with colorful lanterns; the dancing began. Country girls, in their short skirts, with flowers on their heads, danced gracefully with their little legs, beautifully shod in blue high woolen stockings and red shoes. The old men, abandoning the dignity appropriate to their years, which the Romans called Etruscan sluggishness, also started dancing along with the young men or sat near small tables, drinking wine and smoking from clay pipes. Tarneev - either he was tired of his pranks throughout the whole day, or some other matter came to his mind - no longer took such an active part in the ball. He became silent and moved away from the noise; then suddenly he rushed again into the crowd screaming and whooping, then he circled the fresh village girl and, taking advantage of the speed of the dance, snatched a kiss from her lips, then he danced with the city ladies, improvising for himself a new costume, new roles: now a Sorrentine fisherman, now a French marquis, now imitating one of those present. But after such a trick he went into hiding again. Gorunin, on the contrary, was amused and, engaging the ladies, said with enthusiasm: “One must live! "Sinichkin was the only one who was indignant that they let people in, sat on the terrace and agreed only to waltz with Signora Carolina. He pulled up his gloves, walked out onto the platform with effect and waved a white handkerchief to the musicians so that they would stop the tarantella and play Aurora Walzer. But Peruzzi and the lawyer did not lag behind from the general movement, especially the lawyer, who, however, resting between dances, kept returning to the mysterious knot and said that “essentially he forgot it... in sostanza dunque... lo perdei...” Gorunin, in a fit of unusual gaiety, more than once sought out Tarneev, shamed him that he was not having fun. But Tarneev remained unresponsive to his appeals. He was glad that he was near Maria Grazia, he seemed immersed in an unusual thought, and the former light chatter no longer came to his mind. He saw how Maria Grazia left the terrace with the abbot, how she returned alone and seemed alarmed. Guided by several hints from Maria Grazia, he had no doubt that the abbot was to blame for her being upset. He formed an idea for himself of this man, and in this portrait they participated , which he did not notice, both hatred and jealousy. He felt heavy and stuffy. But Maria Grazia understood his thoughtfulness differently - differently because she herself was thinking about Tariev and tried, against her will, to study this man, who seemed new and interesting to her. - Aren’t you tired of being angry? - she asked when Tarneev, carried away by the frisky Clara in the whirlwind of the waltz, returned again to Maria Grazia. “If you only knew how tired I am of everything,” he answered. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me... why such melancholy has come over me... He took Maria’s hand, kissed it with deep feeling and bowed his head to her. His chest was breathing heavily, his heart was beating hotly. -- What's wrong with you? - she asked quietly. “Nothing!.. But, for God’s sake, tell me, tell me!..” “Tell me,” Maria Grazia continued, looking at him with tenderness, “are you not doing anything special?” Are you not an artist? Tarneev looked at her in amazement. “No, not an artist,” he answered. - And not a musician? - Not a musician, not an artist, not a scientist, nothing! Absolutely nothing! Even though I draw and write a little, play... dance, fool around... - Why aren’t you an artist? This is strange! -- From what? I myself don’t understand this... or, perhaps, I was not born an artist... - No, therefore, in childhood you were not developed an aesthetic sense... therefore, you did not grow up under the influence of the fine arts, did not listen to good music, did not visit galleries of painting and sculpture. .. you have not heard disputes about art, the aesthetic delight of others was not communicated to you and did not awaken delight in you... Otherwise you would have been an artist... Tarneev listened to Maria Grazia with increasing surprise. For the first time he heard such a judgment about himself and accepted these words as the words of the Pythia, which opened up a completely new world for him, gave a new meaning to himself in his own eyes. Never had any other woman awakened in him such a bright outlook on the future, on his activities; all the other women he loved confined his activity, his thought, into a narrow sphere in which they themselves revolved and, having escaped from which, he felt lighter and freer. Now it’s not the same: his horizon has expanded. It was as if he began to see around him more clearly; It was as if his thought had previously wandered around objects, but now began to dwell on them and discover new sides and views in them, which he had not previously suspected. He came to a state that artists call inspiration, when all impressions become clearer, intensified, and you look at them boldly and in detail, and you want to depict them and give them material form. Tarneev recognized the presence of great power in himself, and there was a strange desire in him to manifest this power. His entire past life appeared to him in a different light: it seemed to him that this force was throwing him to different extremes, pushing him to do different stupid things, and was expressed in ugly facts. He looked at Maria Grazia, at the antique calm of the features of her classically correct face, felt this complacency shining in her eyes, and it seemed to him that she was the only one who could tell him how to direct this force and what this force, this strange thirst is extraordinary, this anxiety that threw him from side to side in life. “Yes,” he said, “maybe I’m an artist... maybe you’re not mistaken... tomorrow I’ll get some paints and go as an apprentice to some good master.” - And you will write to me your wild forests... and the dates of your first love. - Oh, Maria Grazia! What an extraordinary woman you are! And Tarneev was delighted, he felt completely different; Mary's affectionate speech, her friendly sympathy completely erased both the image of the abbot and those movements of jealousy and indignation that darkened his clear, carefree view of the world and things. He highly valued the attention of a woman who so elevated his moral sense, who showed a new field to the active power of his spirit, who forced him to be reborn to a completely new life... For how long? And was she wrong? These questions never occurred to him. The great images of Greek art, the great faces of Michel Angelo, Raphael, Veronese, Rubens, rose up before him, as if in a fog, and this fog beckoned him, illuminated more and more by the rays of the rising day, as he looked at it; he wanted to completely dispel it, and he longed to quickly call on science to help his immediate feeling, which pointed to the beautiful, but awaited the verdict of reason and experience. It was as if nature itself began to speak to him differently, as if everything that surrounded him in this nature was trying to tell him its secret, the secret of the beauty of its lines, the diversity and harmony of colors and tones, the secret of life that animated the insensitive world. He saw a living picture on one side - a dark palazzo, on which the flickering lights illuminated the rosettes, caryatids and acanthus leaves of the capitals; groups flashing in front of him, sometimes illuminated by fire, sometimes like dark silhouettes against a bright background... He thought about another picture, where there was a dark garden with its fountains, the eternal noise of which, tuned to one thick bass note, was somehow especially solemn , rising at intervals when the music stopped; there is a valley, blue mountains and in the sky - night, whose shadow seemed to be something material, as if it was moving in the air and walked in a mysterious horde and gradually occupied places on the earth and in the sky, and on the earth, and in the sky it lit sentry lights . The ball ended when it was already well after midnight. The crowds had long since thinned out. The dean and Sinichkin left long ago. Lawyer Gianni threw a burnous on Maria Grazia, wrapped her in a shawl, which he grabbed without her knowledge, out of his courtesy, and at parting asked Tarneev to show him the tying of the mysterious knot for the hundredth time. Maria Grazia shook hands with Tarneev in a friendly manner and called him to her, ordering the lawyer to give him her address. - And you, caro divoletto (dear little devil) (it.).), I was completely abandoned,” Clara told him, whose gaiety had developed in full brilliance, because among the villagers who were at the ball, some traveling German landscape painters got mixed up, who made him forget the lack of gentlemen at the picnic. “Wait, I’ll tell you I will also conquer from Maria Grace; I will still find you, I will find you, I will be cruel and unforgiving with you... The garden is empty; only Tarneev, Gorunin and Peruzzi remained, who watched the servants clearing away cutlery, glasses and empty fiascoes in the garden and dragging chairs, tables, carpets and benches into place. “Well, Tarneev,” said Gorunin, “today we had a lot of fun... Why did you disappear at the end of the evening; It’s so strange that you were taken aback before everyone else. “I’m tired, I’ve been furious all day.” - Let's end the night well... I'm having a lot of fun! This happens so rarely... let's drink another bottle... and then we'll go. “Perhaps... but I’d really like to go home soon.” I’m tired... - It’s not that, Tarneev, you’re not tired... - I think it’s possible to get tired, who was so angry. - No, you’re not tired... but should I say that in you... I know... New love. - But I didn’t guess. I have a special idea. I want to take up painting, and take it seriously. - Do you... want to be an artist? - Why not? - Nothing, study, study, it’s good. Take up painting. There was incredulity and irony in Gorunin’s words, which angered Tarneev. Peruzzi was quite sympathetic to Gorunin’s proposal, took out wine, became very polite, and told many light stories of the city of Florence. They drove home when the sun was already shining on the horizon. The last binge had no effect on Tarneev. Gorunin cheered up and became more sociable. Peruzzi fell asleep as soon as he sat down in the carriage. “How nice, Tarneev,” Gorunin said quietly and deliberately, “how nice we spent the day... This is life... How You was good today! How I love you when you come face to face with life... Ah, Tarneev! Tarneev! You don't understand yourself! You want to study painting, to be an artist, but you don’t understand that you are already the greatest artist... You have fallen into the hands of the most diverse art, which contains all the others, and you are a master in that art, and this is the art of life! You found it among the gypsies, and in the forests of your village, and in Italy... Ah, Tarneev, teach yourself painting: this is the beneficial influence of your new love... - Yes, not love at all, but I definitely feel that “I was born an artist,” Tarneev answered with annoyance. - Eh, Tarneev, what made you feel this? or better yet, what gave you this idea? This is because you are so nice, and Italy has a special, wonderful, graceful effect on you!.. After all, Sinichkin won’t have such an idea?.. Learn,” continued Gorunin, more and more yielding to the influence of wine and not caring that Tarneev is not listening to him. - Now you are in a new world! Live in it! Live!.. Good!.. My God! I'm such a piece of trash in front of you! But they taught me, educated me! But you’re not a scientist... but you understand everything... you don’t chase the century... and then all of us, thinkers! ! Political Economy! Our literature, which explains what is bad in me... and does not indicate what is good... humiliates me with the consciousness of shortcomings, and does not elevate me with the consciousness of valor... Oh, if only all these great ideas, all these loud phrases that corrupt young nature - all this would go away!.. So we would live our whole lives the way we lived today! Gorunin spoke for a long time on this topic; the carriage drove closer to the city; the morning was brilliant; they drove through Ponte vecchio, came out onto Piazza Ducale... - Well, there you go - God knows what to pore over from now on! - continued Gorunin, pointing to the Loggia dei Lanzi, a building overlooking the square with a portico, under which stood statues - Judith by Donatello, bronze Perseus by Benvenuto Cellini, The Rape of Sabina by John of Bologna... In front of these statues there was already sitting one gray-haired old man, in a poor a canvas frock coat, stained in different places with paints, and piece by piece he drew legs, arms, and heads; then a young man, casually dressed, also putting down his folder, raised his head, looked at the group and drew it... - It’s worth killing your life for trifles, - said Gorunin, - if they lived like we do today... here this is life!.. “Ah, Signor Giacopo is already at work,” said the awakened Peruzzi, yawning. - Look at this man: he was rich, he spent his entire fortune on traveling to see works of art from all schools, and on buying expensive paintings. He was deceived, he went bankrupt, almost fell into poverty. All his life he has been struggling to produce something beautiful, and although he enjoys some reputation as a painter, he is always dissatisfied... For some time now he has fallen into complete despair and, I think, will go crazy. He will never fulfill what he strives for, and in the way, according to his concepts, he should fulfill it. Tarneev exchanged glances with Gorunin. “I’m drunk today,” said Gorunin.

NOTES

For the first time: "Contemporary", 1848, vol. XII, No. 11, dep. 1, p. 149--192. Signature: A. Maikov. During the author's lifetime it was reprinted in Sat. “For easy reading” (vol. 9, St. Petersburg, 1859). Printed according to the text of the first publication. It was not reprinted during Soviet times. This story, like the story “A Walk Through Rome with My Friends” (Contemporary, 1848, No. 10), published a month earlier, has the subtitle “Meetings and Stories” and is inspired by impressions from the poet’s trip to Italy (1842-1844). Maikov intended to write “a whole series of such stories”, united by one character - the Russian traveler Gorunin: “he, it seemed to me, was a very special type that occupied me at that time...” (Maykov A. N. Complete collection. op. , 9th edition, vol. IV. St. Petersburg, 1914, p. 282). However, only towards the end of his life he published two more stories: “Mark Petrovich Petrov” (1889) and “From the Adventures of Gorunin in Italy” (1891); in the above-quoted note to this story it was reported that its title was supposed to be the title of the entire cycle). Maykov's prose is collected in the book: Maykov A. N. Complete, collected. op. Ed. 9th, vol. IV. St. Petersburg, 1914. p. 175. ...the municipalities were playing mora, and there was some quarrel with the Swiss?Andlis...-- Mora (Italian morra) - playing on the fingers; municipalities - persons in the city service; The Swiss are papal soldiers. ...he wrote a letter to O"Connel...- O'Connell Daniel (1775-1847) - Irish politician who in the early 1840s actively advocated the abolition of the union of Ireland with England. Guizot François Pierre Guillaume (1787-1874) - French politician and historian, Minister of Foreign Affairs in the 1840s. ...well, about Spanish affairs...-- Reminiscence from "Notes of a Madman"; it is possible, however, that this expression, denoting absurd political ambitions, in this case also implies Tarneev’s specific interest in events in Spain (1834-1843). With. 176. Veturin- coachman. With. 177. ...who command their architect Arnoldo di Lapo tohmove the temple...-- This refers to the temple of Santa Maria del Fiore, the construction of which began in 1294 according to the design of Arnoldo de Cambio di Lapo (c. 1232 - between 1300-1310). The dome of the temple was erected in the 15th century. F. Brunellesco. With. 178. Osteria- zucchini. With. 180. ...and the Tedescas, hated in Italy...-- Tedesco (Italian: tedesco) - German; here we mean the Austrians (in the 1840s, Italy was part of Austria-Hungary). Vignerol- hired worker in the vineyards. With. 181. Foglietta-- Roman measure of capacity and its corresponding vessel. With. 183. Cicerone-- guide. With. 184. Maria Theresa-- Empress of Austria from 1740 to 1780. Pius- a name that many popes took. Conception-- compulsory military service introduced in Italy under Napoleon. With. 187. She will soon make her debut here in Alfieri's tragedies.-- Alfieri Vittorio (1743-1803) - Italian playwright, founder of the national tragedy of classicism. A native of Florence, whose dialect he considered the literary norm. With. 189. Sixtus the Fifth-- pope (from 1585 to 1590); came from a shepherd's family and was distinguished by his unyielding firmness. With. 191. ...With sound and fury...- "Macbeth", act. V, yavl. 5 (in the original: full of sound and fury). With. 192. Saltarella- a fast dance common in Central Italy. Instantly his quattrocento turned into a jacket...- As Maikov explained in the story “Mark Petrovich Petrov”, quattrocenta was called “a type of coat that artists now wear in Italy, resurrecting the fashion of the 14th century” (Maykov A.N. Complete collected works, vol. IV, p. 258). Quattrocento - literally: XIV century. ...like a court Italian campagnole...- Campagnol - here: dance partner. Transteverinets- a resident of a Roman region inhabited by common people. With. 193. ...will turn a truly Boccaccian society into an ugly orgy of Lucrezia Borgia...— Here the contrast between the culture of love captured in the Decameron by G. Boccaccio (published in 1471) is ironically played out; written in 1350-1353), debauchery and cruelty, which are strongly associated with the name of Duchess Lucrezia Borgia (1478-1519), daughter of Pope Alexander VI (Borgia). With. 198.-- They become real maenads<...>perhaps they will tear GOrunina like Orpheus...- Orpheus died at the hands of Dionysus's companions - maenads (bacchantes), who were angry with him because he refused to participate in the orgy (Greek myth.). With. 202.-- Hugo Grotius, maybe?..-- Grotius Hugo de Groot (1583-1645) - Dutch thinker, politician, philosopher, historian and lawyer. With. 206. Aurora-- walzer- waltz by J. Strauss (father), popular in the mid-19th century. See in the poem by N. P. Ogarev “Aurora-walzer” (1843): “A familiar tune haunts me all day…” p. 209. Socket-- a stylized motif of a blossoming flower in ornamentation. ...acanthus leaves of capitals...-- Acanthus is a Mediterranean plant, the pattern of which has traditionally been used in ornamentation; capital - the top of a column. With. 211. Ponte-vecchio- three-arch bridge over the Arno River. Loggia dei Lanzi-- a famous art gallery built in 1376-1382; located in the Palazzo della Signoria.