Read the Noble Nest online in full. Read online the book “The Noble Nest. I. S. TurgenevNoble Nest

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

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

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

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

The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovskoye. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone's face and, with the meager means, behaved as if thousands were following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in old age, small, pointed-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a thin and sonorous voice. 0, she always wore a white cap and a white jacket.

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

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

– So you feel sorry for them, or what? Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.

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

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

- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Noble Nest

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

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

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

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

The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovskoye. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone's face and, with the meager means, behaved as if thousands were following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in old age, small, pointed-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a thin and sonorous voice. 0, she always wore a white cap and a white jacket.

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

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

– So you feel sorry for them, or what? Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.

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

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

- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Is Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?

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

– And Elena Mikhailovna?

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

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

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

- No, sir, I saw them myself.

- Well, this is not proof yet.

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Noble Nest

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

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

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

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

The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years in Pokrovskoye. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, spoke the truth to everyone's face and, with the meager means, behaved as if thousands were following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him, she retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and quick-eyed even in old age, small, pointed-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, in a thin and sonorous voice. 0, she always wore a white cap and a white jacket.

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

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

– So you feel sorry for them, or what? Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.

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

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

- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Is Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?

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

– And Elena Mikhailovna?

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

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

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

- No, sir, I saw them myself.

- Well, this is not proof yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me be curious,” he asked after a short silence, “who is this cute scarf assigned to?” Marfa Timofeevna quickly glanced at him.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s more fun, sir,” Gedeonovsky objected in a whisper.

-Have you heard where his wife is now?

– Recently I was in Paris, sir; Now, it is heard, she has moved to the Italian state.

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

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

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

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

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

- It must be assumed, sir; but, by the way, you can hear them getting ready for their village. Marya Dmitrievna raised her eyes to the sky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- What is her name?

- Orlando... Yes, this name is stupid; I want to change... Eh bien, eh bien, mon garcon... What a restless one! The horse snorted, shifted his feet and waved his foamy muzzle.

- Helen, pet her, don’t be afraid...

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

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

The girl again reached out her hand and timidly touched the fluttering nostrils of Orland, who was constantly shuddering and gnawing at the bit.

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

The rider dashingly turned his horse, gave him spurs and, galloping down the street, rode into the yard. A minute later he ran, waving his whip, from the front door into the living room; at the same time, on the threshold of another door, a slender, tall, black-haired girl of about nineteen appeared - Marya Dmitrievna’s eldest daughter, Lisa.

The young man we just introduced our readers to was called Vladimir Nikolaich Panshin. He served in St. Petersburg as an official on special assignments in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He came to the city of O... to fulfill a temporary government assignment and was at the disposal of the governor, General Sonnenberg, to whom he was a distant relative. Panshin's father, a retired captain, a famous player, a man with sweet eyes, a rumpled face and a nervous twitch in his lips, spent his entire life rubbing shoulders between the nobility, visited English clubs in both capitals and was known as a clever, not very reliable, but sweet and sincere fellow . Despite all his dexterity, he was almost constantly on the verge of poverty and left his only son a small and upset fortune. But he, in his own way, took care of his upbringing: Vladimir Nikolaich spoke French perfectly, English well, German poorly. This is how it should be: decent people are ashamed to speak good German; but to use a Germanic word in some, mostly funny, cases is possible, c "est meme tres chic, as the St. Petersburg Parisians express it. From the age of fifteen, Vladimir Nikolaich already knew how to enter any living room without embarrassment, pleasantly twirl around in it and conveniently leave Panshin’s father brought many connections to his son; shuffling cards between two rubbers or after a successful “grand slam”, he did not miss the opportunity to spread the word about his “Volodka” to some important person who was a hunter of commercial games. During his stay at the university, from where he graduated with the rank of a full student, he met some noble young people and began to be accepted into the best houses. He was very good-looking, cheeky, funny, always healthy and ready for anything; necessary - respectful where possible - daring, an excellent comrade, un charmant garcon. The treasured region opened up before him. Panshin soon understood the secret of secular science; he knew how to truly respect its rules, knew how to engage in nonsense with half-mocking importance and show the appearance of reverence. everything important is nonsense; He danced well and dressed in English. In a short time he became known as one of the most amiable and clever young men in St. Petersburg. Panshin was indeed very dexterous, no worse than his father; but he was also very gifted. Everything was possible for him: he sang sweetly, drew smartly, wrote poetry, and played quite well on stage. He was only twenty-eight years old, and he was already a chamber cadet and had a very considerable rank. Panshin firmly believed in himself, in his mind, in his insight; he walked forward boldly and cheerfully, in full swing; his life flowed like clockwork. He was used to being liked by everyone, old and young, I imagined that he knew people, especially women: he knew their everyday weaknesses well. As a person not alien to art, he felt both heat and some passion and enthusiasm in himself, and as a result of this he allowed himself various deviations from the rules: he partied, became acquainted with people who did not belong to the world, and generally behaved freely and simply, but in his soul he was cold and cunning; , and during the most violent revelry, his smart brown eye kept watch and looked out for everything; this brave, this free young man could never forget himself and get carried away completely. To his credit, it must be said that he never boasted of his victories. immediately upon arriving in O... and soon became completely comfortable with him. Marya Dmitrievna doted on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moon floats high above the earth Between pale clouds; But a magic ray moves from above like a wave of the sea.

My soul has recognized you as its moon, and moves - both in joy and in sorrow - by you alone.

The soul is full of longing for love, longing for silent aspirations; It’s hard for me... But you are alien to turmoil, Like that moon.

The second verse was sung by Panshin with special expression and strength; in the stormy accompaniment the play of waves could be heard. After the words: “It’s hard for me...” - he sighed slightly, lowered his eyes and lowered his voice - morendo. When he finished, Liza praised the motive, Marya Dmitrievna said: “Lovely,” and Gedeonovsky even shouted: “Delightful! both poetry and harmony are equally delightful!..” Helen looked at the singer with childish awe. In a word, everyone present really liked the work of the young amateur; but behind the door of the living room in the hallway stood a newly arrived, already old man, to whom, judging by the expression of his downcast face and the movements of his shoulders, Panshin’s romance, although very nice, did not bring pleasure. After waiting a little and brushing the dust from his boots with a thick handkerchief, this man suddenly narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips gloomily, bent his already stooped back, and slowly entered the living room.

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

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

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

- No, not Lisafet Mikhailovna, but Elen Mikhailovna.

- A! Well, that's great. Helen, go upstairs with Mr. Lemm. The old man started to follow the girl, but Panshin stopped him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The spring, bright day was approaching evening; small pink clouds stood high in the clear sky and seemed to not float past, but went into the very

The depth of azure.
In front of the open window of a beautiful house, in one of the outer streets of the provincial town of O... (this happened in 1842), two women were sitting - one

About fifty years old, the other is already an old woman, seventy years old.
The first of them was called Marya Dmitrievna Kalitina. Her husband, a former provincial prosecutor, a well-known businessman in his time, is a lively and

Determined, bilious and stubborn, he died ten years ago. He received a fair upbringing, studied at the university, but, born into the class

Poor, I realized early on the need to pave the way for myself and earn money. Marya Dmitrievna married him for love: he was good-looking, smart and,

When he wanted, he was very kind. Marya Dmitrievna (in her maiden name Pestova) lost her parents as a child, spent several years in Moscow, at the institute,

And, having returned from there, she lived fifty miles from O..., in her ancestral village of Pokrovskoye, with her aunt and her older brother. This brother is coming soon

He moved to St. Petersburg to serve and kept both his sister and aunt in a black body until sudden death put an end to his career. Marya

Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but did not live in it for long; in the second year after her wedding to Kalitin, who in a few days managed

To win her heart, Pokrovskoye was exchanged for another estate, much more profitable, but ugly and without an estate; and at the same time Kalitin

He bought a house in the city of O..., where he and his wife settled permanently. There was a large garden next to the house; on one side it went straight into

Field, outside the city. “So,” decided Kalitin, a great reluctance to rural silence, “there is no need to wander into the village.” Marya Dmitrievna more than once

My soul regretted my pretty Pokrovsky with its cheerful river, wide meadows and green groves; but she did not contradict her husband in anything and

I was in awe of his intelligence and knowledge of the world. When, after a fifteen-year marriage, he died, leaving a son and two daughters, Marya Dmitrievna already

She got so used to her home and city life that she didn’t want to leave O...
Marya Dmitrievna in her youth enjoyed the reputation of a pretty blonde; and at five to ten years old her features were not devoid of pleasantness, although a little

They swollen and floated. She was more sensitive than kind, and retained her college habits until her mature years; she spoiled herself, easily

She became irritated and even cried when her habits were violated; but she was very affectionate and kind when all her wishes were fulfilled and no one

He contradicted me. Her house was one of the most pleasant in the city. Her condition was very good, not so much hereditary as

Bought by my husband. Both daughters lived with her; the son was brought up in one of the best government institutions in St. Petersburg.
The old woman sitting with Marya Dmitrievna under the window was the same aunt, her father’s sister, with whom she had once spent several solitary years

In Pokrovsky. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestova. She was known as an eccentric, had an independent disposition, told everyone the truth to their faces and in the most meager circumstances.

She behaved as if she had thousands following her. She could not stand the late Kalitin and, as soon as her niece married him

She got married and retired to her village, where she lived for ten whole years with a peasant in a smoking hut. Marya Dmitrievna was afraid of her. Black-haired and

Quick-eyed even in old age, small, sharp-nosed, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, stood straight and spoke quickly and clearly, thinly and sonorously.

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Noble Nest

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

Critical articles about the novel are included as appendices: D. I. Pisarev “The Noble Nest. Roman I. S. Turgenev" and A. Grigoriev "I. S. Turgenev and his activities. Regarding the novel “The Noble Nest”.

I. S. Turgenev

Noble Nest

© Children's Literature Publishing House. 2002

© V. P. Panov. Illustrations, 1988

Noble Nest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– So you feel sorry for them, or what?

Marya Dmitrievna did not answer.

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

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

- Honorable! – the old woman repeated reproachfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Is Elizaveta Mikhailovna healthy?

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

– And Elena Mikhailovna?

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

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

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

- No, sir, I saw them myself.

- Well, this is not proof yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gedeonovsky smiled forcedly.

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