- So you say that a person cannot understand on his own what is good and what is bad, that it’s all about the environment, that the environment is corroding. And I think it's all a matter of chance. I'll tell you about myself. This is how the respected Ivan Vasilyevich spoke after a conversation between us, about the fact that for personal improvement it is necessary to first change the conditions among which people live. Nobody, in fact, said that you cannot understand for yourself what is good and what is bad, but Ivan Vasilyevich had such a manner of responding to his own thoughts that arose as a result of the conversation and, on the occasion of these thoughts, telling episodes from his life. Often he completely forgot the reason for which he was telling, getting carried away by the story, especially since he told it very sincerely and truthfully. So he did now. - I’ll tell you about myself. My whole life turned out this way and not otherwise, not from the environment, but from something completely different. - From what? - we asked. - Yes, it’s a long story. To understand, you need to tell a lot. - So tell me. Ivan Vasilyevich thought for a moment and shook his head. “Yes,” he said. “My whole life changed from one night, or rather morning.” - What happened? - What happened was that I was very much in love. I fell in love many times, but this was my strongest love. It's a thing of the past; her daughters are already married. It was B..., yes, Varenka B...,” Ivan Vasilyevich said the last name. “She was a wonderful beauty even at fifty years old.” But in her youth, eighteen years old, she was lovely: tall, slender, graceful and majestic, just majestic. She always held herself unusually straight, as if she could not do otherwise, throwing her head back a little, and this gave her, with her beauty and tall stature, despite her thinness, even bonyness, a kind of regal appearance that would frighten away from her if would it not be for the affectionate, always cheerful smile of her mouth, and her lovely, sparkling eyes, and her entire sweet, young being. - What is it like for Ivan Vasilyevich to paint? “No matter how you describe it, it’s impossible to describe it in such a way that you understand what she was like.” But that’s not the point: what I want to tell you happened in the forties. At that time I was a student at a provincial university. I don’t know whether this is good or bad, but at that time at our university we didn’t have any circles, no theories, but we were just young and lived as is typical for youth: we studied and had fun. I was a very cheerful and lively fellow, and also rich. I had a dashing pacer, rode down the mountains with young ladies (skates were not yet in fashion), partied with friends (at that time we drank nothing but champagne; there was no money - we didn’t drink anything, but we didn’t drink like we do now , vodka). My main pleasure was evenings and balls. I danced well and was not ugly. “Well, there’s no need to be modest,” one of the interlocutors interrupted him. - We know your daguerreotype portrait. It’s not that you weren’t ugly, but you were handsome. - The handsome man is so handsome, but that’s not the point. But the fact is that during this, my strongest love for her, I was on the last day of Maslenitsa at a ball hosted by the provincial leader, a good-natured old man, a rich hospitable man and a chamberlain. He was received by his wife, who was as good-natured as he was, in a velvet puce dress, with a diamond feronniere on her head and with open old, plump, white shoulders and breasts, like portraits of Elizaveta Petrovna. The ball was wonderful: a beautiful hall, with choirs, musicians - famous at that time serfs of the amateur landowner, a magnificent buffet and a spilled sea of ​​champagne. Although I was fond of champagne, I didn’t drink, because without wine I was drunk with love, but I danced until I dropped - I danced quadrilles, waltzes, and polkas, of course, as far as possible, all with Varenka. She was wearing a white dress with a pink belt and white kid gloves that did not reach her thin, sharp elbows, and white satin shoes. The Mazurka was taken away from me: the disgusting engineer Anisimov - I still can’t forgive him for this - invited her, she just came in, and I stopped by the hairdresser and for gloves and was late. So I danced the mazurka not with her, but with a German girl whom I had courted a little before. But, I’m afraid, that evening I was very discourteous with her, did not look at her, but saw only a tall, slender figure in a white dress with a pink belt, her radiant, flushed face with dimples and gentle, sweet eyes. I wasn’t the only one, everyone looked at her and admired her, both men and women admired her, despite the fact that she eclipsed them all. It was impossible not to admire. According to the law, so to speak, I did not dance the mazurka with her, but in reality I danced almost all the time with her. She, without embarrassment, walked straight across the hall to me, and I jumped up without waiting for an invitation, and she thanked me with a smile for my insight. When we were brought to her and she did not guess my quality, she, giving her hand not to me, shrugged her thin shoulders and, as a sign of regret and consolation, smiled at me. When they did the mazurka waltz figures, I waltzed with her for a long time, and she, breathing quickly, smiled and said to me: “Encore.” And I waltzed again and again and did not feel my body. “Well, why didn’t you feel, I think, you really felt when you hugged her waist, not only your own, but also her body,” said one of the guests. Ivan Vasilyevich suddenly blushed and almost shouted angrily: - Yes, that’s you, today’s youth. You see nothing except the body. It wasn't like that in our time. The more in love I was, the more incorporeal she became for me. Now you see legs, ankles and something else, you undress the women you are in love with, but for me, as Alphonse Karr said, he was a good writer, the object of my love was always wearing bronze clothes. We didn’t just undress, but tried to cover our nakedness, like the good son of Noah. Well, you won't understand... - Don't listen to him. What's next? - said one of us. - Yes. So I danced with her again and didn’t see how time passed. The musicians, with a kind of desperation of weariness, you know, as happens at the end of the ball, picked up the same mazurka motif, father and mother rose from the living room from the card tables, waiting for dinner, footmen ran in more often, carrying something. It was three o'clock. We had to take advantage of the last minutes. I chose her again, and we walked along the hall for the hundredth time. - So, after dinner, the square dance is mine? - I told her, leading her to the place. “Of course, if they don’t take me away,” she said, smiling. “I won’t,” I said. “Give me the fan,” she said. “It’s a pity to give it away,” I said, handing her a cheap white fan. “So here’s to you, so you don’t regret it,” she said, tore a feather from the fan and gave it to me. I took the feather and could only express all my delight and gratitude with a glance. I was not only cheerful and contented, I was happy, blissful, I was kind, I was not me, but some unearthly creature, knowing no evil and capable of only good. I hid the feather in my glove and stood there, unable to move away from her. “Look, daddy is being asked to dance,” she told me, pointing to the tall, stately figure of her father, a colonel with silver epaulettes, standing in the doorway with the hostess and other ladies. “Varenka, come here,” we heard the loud voice of the hostess in a diamond feronniere and with Elizabethan shoulders. Varenka went to the door, and I followed her. - Persuade, ma chère, your father to walk with you. Well, please, Pyotr Vladislavich,” the hostess turned to the colonel. Varenka's father was a very handsome, stately, tall and fresh old man. His face was very ruddy, with a white curled mustache à la Nicolas I, white sideburns drawn up to the mustache and combed forward temples, and the same affectionate, joyful smile, like his daughter’s, was in his shining eyes and lips. He was beautifully built, with a wide chest, sparsely decorated with orders, protruding in a military manner, with strong shoulders and long slender legs. He was a military commander, like an old campaigner of Nikolaev bearing. When we approached the doors, the colonel refused, saying that he had forgotten how to dance, but still, smiling, throwing his arm over his left side, he took the sword out of his belt, gave it to the helpful young man and, pulling a suede glove on his right hand, “ “Everything must be done according to the law,” he said, smiling, took his daughter’s hand and made a quarter turn, waiting for the beat. Having waited for the start of the mazurka motif, he smartly stamped one foot, kicked out the other, and his tall, heavy figure, sometimes quietly and smoothly, sometimes noisily and violently, with the clatter of soles and feet against feet, moved around the hall. The graceful figure of Varenka floated next to him, imperceptibly, shortening or lengthening the steps of her small white satin legs in time. The entire hall watched the couple's every move. I not only admired them, but looked at them with rapturous emotion. I was especially touched by his boots, covered with strips - good calf boots, but not fashionable ones, with sharp ones, but ancient ones, with square toes and without heels. Obviously, the boots were built by a battalion shoemaker. “To take out and dress his beloved daughter, he does not buy fashionable boots, but wears homemade ones,” I thought, and these quadrangular toes of the boots especially touched me. It was clear that he had once danced beautifully, but now he was overweight, and his legs were no longer elastic enough for all those beautiful and fast steps that he tried to perform. But he still deftly completed two laps. When he, quickly spreading his legs, brought them together again and, although somewhat heavily, fell to one knee, and she, smiling and straightening her skirt, which he had caught, smoothly walked around him, everyone applauded loudly. Rising with some effort, he gently and sweetly grabbed his daughter by the ears and, kissing her forehead, brought her to me, thinking that I was dancing with her. I said that I am not her boyfriend. “Well, it doesn’t matter, now go for a walk with her,” he said, smiling affectionately and threading his sword into his sword belt. Just as it happens that after one drop spills from a bottle, its contents pour out in large streams, so in my soul, love for Varenka freed all the ability of love hidden in my soul. At that time I embraced the whole world with my love. I loved the hostess in the feronniere, with her Elizabethan bust, and her husband, and her guests, and her lackeys, and even the engineer Anisimov, who was sulking at me. At that time, I felt a kind of enthusiastically tender feeling towards her father, with his house boots and a gentle smile similar to hers. The Mazurka ended, the hosts asked for guests for dinner, but Colonel B. refused, saying that he had to get up early tomorrow, and said goodbye to the hosts. I was afraid that they would take her away too, but she stayed with her mother. After dinner, I danced the promised quadrille with her, and, despite the fact that I seemed to be infinitely happy, my happiness grew and grew. We didn't say anything about love. I didn’t even ask her or myself whether she loved me. It was enough for me that I loved her. And I was afraid of only one thing, that something might spoil my happiness. When I arrived home, undressed and thought about sleep, I saw that this was completely impossible. I had in my hand a feather from her fan and her whole glove, which she gave me when she left, when she got into the carriage and I picked up her mother and then her. I looked at these things and, without closing my eyes, I saw her in front of me at that moment when, choosing from two gentlemen, she guessed my quality, and I heard her sweet voice when she said: "Pride? Yes?" - and joyfully gives me his hand, or when at dinner he sips a glass of champagne and looks at me from under his brows with caressing eyes. But most of all I see her paired with her father, when she smoothly moves around him and looks at the admiring spectators with pride and joy, both for herself and for him. And I involuntarily unite him and her in one tender, touching feeling. At that time we lived alone with our late brother. My brother didn’t like the world at all and didn’t go to balls, but now he was preparing for the candidate’s exam and leading the most correct life. He slept. I looked at his head buried in the pillow and half covered by the flannel blanket, and I felt lovingly sorry for him, sorry for the fact that he did not know and did not share the happiness that I was experiencing. Our serf footman Petrusha met me with a candle and wanted to help me undress, but I let him go. The sight of his sleepy face with tangled hair seemed touchingly touching to me. Trying not to make any noise, I tiptoed into my room and sat down on the bed. No, I was too happy, I couldn't sleep. Moreover, I was hot in the heated rooms, and without taking off my uniform, I slowly went out into the hallway, put on my overcoat, opened the outer door and went out into the street. I left the ball at five o’clock, by the time I got home, sat at home, another two hours passed, so when I left, it was already light. It was the most Pancake week weather, there was fog, the snow saturated with water was melting on the roads, and it was dripping from all the roofs. B. lived then at the end of the city, near a large field, at one end of which there was a festivities, and at the other - a girls' institute. I walked through our deserted lane and went out onto a large street, where pedestrians and draymen with firewood on sleighs that reached the pavement with runners began to meet. And the horses, their wet heads swaying evenly under the glossy arches, and the cabbies covered with matting, splashing in huge boots next to the carts, and the houses of the street, which seemed very high in the fog - everything was especially sweet and significant to me. When I went out onto the field where their house was, I saw at the end of it, in the direction of the walk, something large, black, and I heard the sounds of a flute and drum coming from there. I was singing all the time in my soul and occasionally heard the motif of a mazurka. But it was some other, hard, bad music. "What it is?" — I thought and walked along the slippery road in the middle of the field in the direction of the sounds. After walking about a hundred paces, because of the fog, I began to distinguish many black people. Obviously soldiers. “That’s right, training,” I thought, and together with the blacksmith in a greasy sheepskin coat and apron, who was carrying something and walking in front of me, I came closer. The soldiers in black uniforms stood in two rows facing each other, holding their guns to their feet, and did not move. Behind them stood a drummer and a flute player, constantly repeating the same unpleasant, shrill melody. -What are they doing? - I asked the blacksmith who stopped next to me. “The Tatar is being persecuted for escaping,” the blacksmith said angrily, looking at the far end of the rows. I began to look in the same direction and saw something terrible in the middle of the rows, approaching me. Approaching me was a bare-chested man, tied to the guns of the two soldiers who were leading him. Next to him walked a tall military man in an overcoat and cap, whose figure seemed familiar to me. Twitching with his whole body, splashing his feet on the melted snow, the punished, under the blows raining down on him from both sides, moved towards me, then tipping back - and then the non-commissioned officers, leading him by the guns, pushed him forward, then falling forward - and then The non-commissioned officers, holding him from falling, pulled him back. And keeping pace with him, the tall military man walked with a firm, trembling gait. It was her father, with his ruddy face and white mustache and sideburns. With each blow, the person being punished, as if in surprise, turned his face, wrinkled with suffering, in the direction from which the blow fell, and, baring his white teeth, repeated some of the same words. Only when he was very close did I hear these words. He did not speak, but sobbed: “Brothers, have mercy. Brothers, have mercy." But the brothers were not merciful, and when the procession was completely level with me, I saw how the soldier standing opposite me resolutely stepped forward and, whistling, swinging his stick, slapped it hard on the Tatar’s back. The Tatar jerked forward, but the non-commissioned officers held him back, and the same blow fell on him from the other side, and again from this, and again from that. The colonel walked alongside, and, looking first at his feet, then at the man being punished, he drew in air, puffing out his cheeks, and slowly released it through his protruding lip. When the procession passed the place where I was standing, I caught a glimpse of the back of the man being punished between the rows. It was something so motley, wet, red, unnatural that I did not believe that it was a human body. “Oh God,” said the blacksmith next to me. The procession began to move away, blows still fell from both sides on the stumbling, writhing man, and the drums still beat and the flute whistled, and the tall, stately figure of the colonel next to the punished man still moved with a firm step. Suddenly the colonel stopped and quickly approached one of the soldiers. “I’ll anoint you,” I heard his angry voice. -Are you going to smear it? Will you? And I saw how he, with his strong hand in a suede glove, hit a frightened, short, weak soldier in the face because he did not bring his stick down hard enough on the red back of the Tatar. — Serve some fresh spitzrutens! - he shouted, looking around and saw me. Pretending that he did not know me, he quickly turned away, frowning menacingly and viciously. I was so ashamed that, not knowing where to look, as if I had been caught in the most shameful act, I lowered my eyes and hurried to go home. All the way in my ears I heard drums beating and a flute whistling, or the words: “Brothers, have mercy,” or I heard the self-confident, angry voice of the colonel shouting: “Are you going to smear? Will you? Meanwhile, there was an almost physical melancholy in my heart, almost to the point of nausea, such that I stopped several times, and it seemed to me that I was about to vomit with all the horror that entered me from this sight. I don’t remember how I got home and went to bed. But as soon as he began to fall asleep, he heard and saw everything again and jumped up. “Obviously, he knows something that I don’t know,” I thought about the colonel. “If I knew what he knows, I would understand what I saw, and it would not torment me.” But no matter how much I thought, I could not understand what the colonel knew, and I fell asleep only in the evening, and then after I went to a friend and got completely drunk with him. Well, do you think that I then decided that what I saw was a bad thing? Not at all. “If this was done with such confidence and was recognized by everyone as necessary, then it follows that they knew something that I did not know,” I thought and tried to find out. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find out. And without finding out, he could not enter military service, as he had wanted before, and not only did he not serve in the military, but he did not serve anywhere and, as you see, was no good for anything. “Well, we know how good you are,” said one of us. — Tell me better: no matter how many people would be worthless if you were not there. “Well, this is absolutely nonsense,” said Ivan Vasilyevich with sincere annoyance. - Well, what about love? - we asked. - Love? Love began to wane from that day on. When she, as often happened with her, with a smile on her face, thought, I immediately remembered the colonel in the square, and I felt somehow awkward and unpleasant, and I began to see her less often. And the love just faded away. So this is what things happen and what changes and directs a person’s whole life. And you say...” he finished.

Essay by Tolstoy L.N. - After the ball

Topic: - A person’s moral responsibility for his own and others’ lives

(based on the story by L. N. Tolstoy “After the Ball”)"

Every person, no matter how withdrawn or lonely he may be, influences the lives of those around him in a certain way, just as the actions of others influence his destiny.

The fate of the main character of L.N. Tolstoy's story - Ivan Vasilyevich - changed dramatically after the events of just one morning. After graduating from university, he did not choose, as he had planned, a military career, he simply became a “respected” person.

In his youth, during his years at the university, Ivan Vasilyevich was “a very cheerful and lively fellow, and also rich.” His life was devoid of any serious problems. He seemed to enjoy his reckless youth: he rode his pacer, caroused with his comrades, danced at balls.

The student especially liked and remembered one of the balls because his favorite girl, Varenka, was present at it. Ivan Vasilyevich’s memories of this night are full of delight, admiration, joy, and happiness. Varenka’s favor and disposition, waltzes and mazurkas, laughter and smiles made this ball unforgettable for the student: “I was not only cheerful and content, I was happy, blissful, I was kind, I was not me, but some unearthly creature, knowing no evil and capable of only good.”

Returning home, the excited young man could not sleep and went outside to greet the morning. Everything seemed “especially sweet and significant” to him. However, the young man’s serene happiness was suddenly dispelled by the terrible picture of the Tatar’s punishment, passing through an endless line of soldiers armed with sticks. Not a person, but the likeness of a person moved under the blows of the spitzrutens. This brutal beating was commanded by none other than Varenka’s father - a handsome, tall colonel, strictly watching to ensure that each of the soldiers left his mark on the unfortunate man’s back. The picture he saw not only struck Ivan Vasilyevich - “there was an almost physical melancholy in his heart, almost to the point of nausea.” He did not understand how what he saw could actually happen, how the colonel could play such a terrible role: “Obviously, he knows something that I don’t know... If I knew what he knows, I would understand and what I saw, and it would not torment me.”

Ivan Vasilyevich remembered the terrible picture for the rest of his life. He looked at the people around him with different eyes - and at himself too. Unable to change or stop the evil, the young man refused his participation in it.

Preface to the main art of Count A.K. Tolstoy, let us explain that even the author himself wrote its title differently and the most common one sounds like this:

HISTORY OF THE RUSSIAN STATE FROM GOSTOMYSL TO TIMASHEV

Gostomysl is a legendary Russian prince, who, according to the legend of the 6th century, founded Veliky Novgorod and ruled there until the “calling of the Varangians.” Timashev A.K. - Chief of Staff of the Corps of Gendarmes and the third department of His Majesty's own Chancellery, and from 1868-1877. - Minister of Internal Affairs.

The word “outfit” in the epigraph means that “Our whole land is great and abundant, but there is no order in it.”

Our whole land is great and abundant,
but she has no outfit.

Nestor, Chronicle, p. 8.

Listen guys
What will grandfather tell you?
Our land is rich
There is just no order in it.

And this truth, children,
For a thousand years
Our ancestors realized:
There is no order, you see.

And everyone became under the banner,
And they say: “What should we do?
Let's send to the Varangians:
Let them come to reign.

After all, the Germans are overpriced,
They know darkness and light,
Our land is rich,
There’s just no order in it.”

Envoys at a quick pace
Let's go there
And they say to the Varangians:
“Come, gentlemen!

We will give you some gold,
What Kyiv sweets;
Our land is rich
There’s just no order in it.”

The Varangians felt terrified
But they think: “What’s going on here?
Trying is no joke -
Let’s go if they call!”

And then three brothers came,
Middle-aged Varangians
They look - the land is rich,
There is no order at all.

“Well,” they think, “a team!
Here the devil will break his leg,
Es ist ja eine Schande,
Wir mussen wieder fort *» .

But older brother Rurik
“Wait,” he said to others, “
Fort, gehen ungebiirlich,
Vielleicht ist"s nicht so schlimm **.

* It’s a shame that we have to leave again
** To leave undignified, maybe it’s not so bad.

Even though it's a lousy team,
Almost nothing but trash;
Wir bringen "s schon zu Stande,
Versuchen wir einmal *»

And he began to reign strongly,
Reigned for seventeen years
The land was abundant
There is no order!

* We'll manage somehow, let's try

Prince Igor reigned behind him,
And Oleg ruled them,
Das war ein grosser Krieger *
And a smart person.

Then Olga reigned
And after Svyatoslav;
So ging die Reihenfolge**
Pagan powers.

* He was a great warrior
** This was the sequence

When did Vladimir join
To your father's throne,
Da endigte fur immer
Die alte Religion*.

*Then came the end of the old religion

He suddenly said to the people:
“After all, our gods are rubbish,
Let’s go and be baptized in the water!”
And he made Jordan for us.

“Perun is very disgusting!
When we push him off,
You'll see, order
What kind of life are we going to have!”

He sent for priests
To Athens and Constantinople
The priests came in droves
They cross themselves and burn incense,

They sing to themselves touchingly
And they fill their pouch;
The earth, as it is, is abundant,
There's just no order.

Vladimir will die of grief
Without creating order.
He soon began to reign after him
Great Yaroslav.

It's probably with this
There would be order;
But out of love he has for children
He divided the whole land.

The service was bad
And the children, seeing that,
Let's tease each other:
Who how and what into what!

The Tatars found out:
“Well,” they think, “don’t be a coward!”
We put on bloomers,
We arrived in Rus'.

“From your supposed dispute
The earth has gone upside down
Wait, we'll see you soon
We’ll establish order.”

They shout: “Let’s pay tribute!”
(At least bring the saints.)
There's a lot of crap here
It has arrived in Rus'.

Whatever the day, brother against brother
He brings news to the horde;
The earth seems to be rich
There is no order at all.

Ivan the Third appeared;
He says: “You’re being naughty!
We are no longer children!”
I sent shish to the Tatars.

And now the land is free
From all evils and troubles
And very bready,
But there is still no order.

Ivan the Fourth has arrived,
He was the Third's grandson;
Shredded kalach on the kingdom
And many wives' spouses.

Ivan Vasilich the Terrible
He had a name
For being serious
Solid man.

The receptions are not sweet,
But the mind is not lame;
This one put things in order,
At least roll the ball!

I could live carefree
Under such a king;
But ah! nothing is eternal -
And Tsar Ivan died!

Fedor began to reign after him,
A living contrast to my father;
Was not a vigorous mind,
It’s just too much to call.

Boris, the Tsar's brother-in-law,
He was seriously smart
Brunette, good-looking,
And he sat on the royal throne.

Everything went smoothly with him,
The old evils are gone,
It was a little bit in order
It didn't start in the ground.

Unfortunately, the impostor
Out of nowhere
This one gave us a dance,
That Tsar Boris died.

And, Boris has a place
Having climbed up, this impudent
For joy with the bride
He started swinging his legs.

Although he was a brave guy
And not even a fool
But under his power
The Pole began to rebel.

Otherwise we don’t like it;
And then one night
We gave them pepper
And everyone was driven away.

Vasily ascended the throne,
But soon the whole earth
We asked him
So that he goes away.

The Poles have returned
The Cossacks were brought in;
There was confusion and fights:
Poles and Cossacks,

Cossacks and Poles
They beat us again and again;
We are like crayfish without a king
We're broke.

The passions were direct -
Not worth a penny.
It is known that without power
You won't get far.

To straighten the royal throne
And elect a king again,
Minin and Pozharsky are here
They quickly gathered the army.

And the force drove them out
Polyakov is out again,
The land of Michael
She ascended to the Russian throne.

It happened in the summer;
But was there an agreement -
The story about this
He remains silent until now.

Warsaw us and Vilna
Sent your greetings;
The land was abundant -
There is no order at all.

Alexey sat down as king,
Then give birth to Peter.
Came for the state
It's a new time.

Tsar Peter loved order,
Almost like Tsar Ivan,
And it was also not sweet,
Sometimes he was drunk.

He said: “I feel sorry for you,
You will perish completely;
But I have a stick
And I am the father of you all!..

Having returned from there,
He shaved us smooth
And for Christmas time, so it’s a miracle,
Dressed up as Dutchmen.

But this is, however, a joke,
I don't blame Peter:
Give the patient a stomach
Useful for rhubarb.

Although he is very strong
There might have been a reception;
But still quite durable
There was order with him.

But sleep overtook the grave
Petra in her prime,
Look, the earth is abundant,
There is no order again.

Is it meek or strict here?
Many faces reigned
There are not too many kings
And more queens.

Biron reigned under Anna;
He was a real gendarme.
We sat as if in a bath
With him, dass Gott erbarm! *

*God have mercy on us

Merry Queen
There was Elizabeth:
Sings and has fun
There's just no order.

What's the reason for this?
And where is the root of evil,
Catherine herself
I couldn’t comprehend it.

“Madame, it’s amazing in your presence
Order will blossom, -
They wrote to her politely
Voltaire and Dideroth, -

Just what the people need
Whose mother you are
Rather give freedom
Give us freedom as soon as possible.”

“Messieurs,” she objected to them
She, - vous me comblez *”, -
And immediately attached
Ukrainians to the ground.

Paul began to reign after her,
Maltese Cavalier,
But he didn’t quite rule
In a knightly manner.

* Gentlemen, you flatter me

Tsar Alexander the First
Came to him in return,
His nerves were weak,
But he was a gentleman.

When we're excited
Army of a hundred thousand
Pushed Bonaparte,
He began to retreat.

It seemed, well, lower
You can't sit in a hole
And lo and behold: we’re already in Paris,
With Louis le Desire.

At that time it was very
The color of Russia has blossomed,
The land was abundant
There is no order at all.

The last legend
I would write mine
But I'm drinking punishment
I'm afraid of Monsieur Veillot.

Walking can be slippery
By other stones,
So, about what is close,
We'd better keep silent.

Let's better leave our thrones,
Let's move on to the ministers.
But what do I hear? moans,
And screams and sodomy!

What do I see! Only in fairy tales
We see such an outfit;
On a small sled
The ministers are all rolling along.

From the mountain with a loud scream
In corpore *, in full,
Sliding, yours to descendants
They take away the names.

*In full force

Behold Norov, behold Putyatin,
Behold Panin, behold Metlin,
This is Brok, and this is Zamyatnin,
Se Korf, se, Golovnin.

There are many, many of them,
It's impossible to remember everyone
And down one road
They fly, gliding.

I am a sinner: chronicle
I forgot my style;
A picturesque picture
I couldn't resist.

Lyricism, capable of anything,
To know, it's in my blood;
O Rev. Nestor,
You inspire me.

Ease my conscience
My efforts are in vain
And give me my story
Finish without being smart.

So, starting again,
I'm finishing my column
From the birth of Christ
In the year sixty-eight.

Seeing that everything is getting worse
Things are going well for us
Quite a lot of husband
The Lord sent it down to us.

For our consolation
To us, like the light of dawn,
Reveal your face Timashev -
The order of the courtyard.

What a great sinner I am
On these mortal leaves
Didn’t add hastily
Or censuses,

That, front and back
Reading all the days
Correct the truth for the sake of
Don't curse the scriptures.

Compiled from blades of grass
This unwise story
Thin humble monk,
Servant of God Alexey.

Count A.K. Tolstoy
1868

Published for the first time in "Russian Antiquity" in 1883 under the title "Russian History from Gostomysl 862-1868", before that it was widely distributed in lists.
Illustrations by V. Porfiryev based on publication in the magazine “Dragonfly”, 1906.

The most interesting thing is that this History had several sequels - and one was published in 1917, immediately after the February Revolution. True, its author was not A.K. Tolstoy.

AFTER THE BALL

– So you say that a person cannot understand on his own what is good and what is bad, that it’s all about the environment, that the environment is corroding. And I think it's all a matter of chance. I'll tell you about myself.

This is how the respected Ivan Vasilyevich spoke after a conversation between us, about the fact that for personal improvement it is necessary to first change the conditions among which people live. Nobody, in fact, said that you cannot understand for yourself what is good and what is bad, but Ivan Vasilyevich had such a manner of responding to his own thoughts that arose as a result of the conversation and, on the occasion of these thoughts, telling episodes from his life. Often he completely forgot the reason for which he was telling, getting carried away by the story, especially since he told it very sincerely and truthfully.

So he did now.

– I’ll tell you about myself. My whole life turned out this way and not otherwise, not from the environment, but from something completely different.

- From what? – we asked.

– Yes, it’s a long story. To understand, you need to tell a lot.

- So tell me.

Ivan Vasilyevich thought for a moment and shook his head. “Yes,” he said. “My whole life changed from one night, or rather morning.”

- What happened?

- What happened was that I was very much in love. I fell in love many times, but this was my strongest love. It's a thing of the past; her daughters are already married. It was B..., yes, Varenka B...,” Ivan Vasilyevich said the last name. “She was a wonderful beauty even at fifty years old.” But in her youth, eighteen years old, she was lovely: tall, slender, graceful, and majestic, just majestic. She always held herself unusually straight, as if she could not do otherwise, throwing her head back a little, and this gave her, with her beauty and tall stature, despite her thinness, even bonyness, a kind of regal appearance that would frighten away from her if would it not be for the affectionate, always cheerful smile of her mouth, and her lovely sparkling eyes, and her entire sweet, young being.

- What is it like for Ivan Vasilyevich to paint?

- No matter how you describe it, it’s impossible to describe it in such a way that you understand what she was like. But that’s not the point: what I want to tell you happened in the forties. At that time I was a student at a provincial university. I don’t know whether this is good or bad, but at that time we didn’t have any clubs or theories at our university, but we were just young and lived as is typical for youth: we studied and had fun. I was a very cheerful and lively fellow, and also rich. I had a dashing pacer, rode down the mountains with young ladies (skates were not yet in fashion), partied with friends (at that time we drank nothing but champagne; there was no money - we didn’t drink anything, but we didn’t drink like we do now , vodka). My main pleasure was evenings and balls. I danced well and was not ugly.

“Well, there’s no need to be modest,” one of the interlocutors interrupted him. “We know your daguerreotype portrait.” It’s not that you weren’t ugly, but you were handsome.

- The handsome man is so handsome, but that’s not the point. But the fact is that during this, my strongest love for her, I was on the last day of Maslenitsa at a ball hosted by the provincial leader, a good-natured old man, a rich hospitable man and a chamberlain. He was received by his wife, who was as good-natured as he, in a velvet puce dress, with a diamond feronniere on her head and with open old, plump, white shoulders and breasts, like portraits of Elizaveta Petrovna. The ball was wonderful: a beautiful hall, with choirs, musicians - famous serfs of the amateur landowner at that time, a magnificent buffet and a sea of ​​champagne poured out. Although I was a lover of champagne, I didn’t drink, because without wine I was drunk with love, but I danced until I dropped, danced quadrilles, waltzes, and polkas, of course, as far as possible, all with Varenka. She was wearing a white dress with a pink belt and white kid gloves that did not reach her thin, sharp elbows, and white satin shoes. The Mazurka was taken from me; the disgusting engineer Anisimov - I still can’t forgive him for this - invited her, she just came in, and I stopped by the hairdresser and for gloves and was late. So I danced the mazurka not with her, but with a German girl whom I had courted a little before. But I'm afraid I was very discourteous to her that evening. , did not speak to her, did not look at her, but saw only a tall, slender figure in a white dress with a pink belt, her radiant, flushed face with dimples and gentle, sweet eyes. I wasn’t the only one, everyone looked at her and admired her, both men and women admired her, despite the fact that she outshone them all. It was impossible not to admire.

According to the law, so to speak, mazurka I didn't dance with her, but in reality I danced with her almost all the time. She, without embarrassment, walked straight across the hall to me, and I jumped up without waiting for an invitation, and she thanked me with a smile for my insight. When we were brought to her and she did not guess my quality, she, giving her hand not to me, shrugged her thin shoulders and, as a sign of regret and consolation, smiled at me. When they did the mazurka waltz figures, I waltzed with her for a long time, and she, breathing quickly, smiled and said to me: “Encore.” And I waltzed again and again and did not feel my body.

“Well, why didn’t you feel, I think, you really felt when you hugged her waist, not only your own, but also her body,” said one of the guests.

Ivan Vasilyevich suddenly blushed and almost shouted angrily:

– Yes, that’s you, today’s youth. You see nothing except the body. It wasn't like that in our time. The more in love I was, the more incorporeal she became for me. You now see legs, ankles and something else, you undress the women you are in love with , for me, as Alphonse Karr said, he was a good writer, the object of my love was always wearing bronze clothes. We didn’t just undress, but tried to cover our nakedness, like the good son of Noah. Well, you won’t understand...

- Yes. So I danced with her again and didn’t see how time passed. The musicians, with a kind of desperation of weariness, you know, as happens at the end of the ball, picked up the same mazurka motif, father and mother rose from the living room from the card tables, waiting for dinner, footmen ran in more often, carrying something. It was three o'clock. We had to take advantage of the last minutes. I chose her again, and we walked along the hall for the hundredth time.

- So, after dinner, the square dance is mine? I told her, leading her to her seat.

“Of course, if they don’t take me away,” she said, smiling.

“I won’t give it,” I said.

“Give me the fan,” she said.

“It’s a pity to give it away,” I said, handing her a cheap white fan.

“So here’s to you, so you don’t regret it,” she said, tore a feather from the fan and gave it to me.

I took the feather and could only express all my delight and gratitude with a glance. I was not only cheerful and contented, I was happy, blissful, I was kind, I was not me, but some unearthly creature, knowing no evil and capable of only good. I hid the feather in my glove and stood there, unable to move away from her.

A week passed, and Konovalov and I were friends. - You are a simple guy! It's good! - he told me, smiling widely and clapping me on the shoulder with his hand. He worked artistically. You had to see how he handled a seven-pound piece of dough, rolling it out, or how, bending over the chest, he kneaded, plunging his powerful hands elbow-deep into the elastic mass that squealed in his steel fingers. At first, seeing how he quickly threw raw bread into the oven, which I barely had time to throw from the cups onto his shovel, I was afraid that he would push them on top of each other; but when he baked three ovens and not one of the one hundred and twenty loaves - lush, ruddy and tall - had a “press,” I realized that I was dealing with an artist of his own kind. He loved to work, was passionate about his work, was depressed when the oven baked poorly or the dough rose slowly, got angry and scolded the owner if he bought raw flour, and was childishly cheerful and happy if the bread came out of the oven correctly round, tall, “lofty” , moderately browned, with a thin crispy crust. It happened that he would take the most successful loaf from a shovel into his hands and, throwing it from palm to palm, getting burned, he would laugh merrily, telling me: - Eh, what a handsome man we worked together... And I was pleased to look at (this gigantic) a child who put his whole soul into his work - as every person should do in any work... One day I asked him: - Sasha, they say you sing well? - I sing... Only this sometimes happens to me... in streaks. If I start to feel sad, then I sing... And if I start to sing, I feel sad. Just keep quiet about it, don't tease me. Don't you eat yourself? Oh, what a thing! You’d better wait until I get there... Then we’ll both go on a drinking binge, together. Is it coming? Of course, I agreed and whistled when I wanted to sing. But sometimes he broke through and began to purr under his breath, kneading the dough and rolling the bread. Konovalov listened to me, moved his lips and after a while reminded me of my promise. And sometimes he rudely shouted at me: - Stop it! Don't moan! One day I took a book out of my chest and, sitting next to the window, began to read. Konovalov was dozing, stretched out on a chest of dough, but the rustling of the pages I was turning over his ear made him open his eyes. - What is the book about? These were the Podlipovtsy. “Read it out loud, will you?” he asked. And so I began to read, sitting on the windowsill, and he sat down on the chest and, leaning his head against my knees, listened... Sometimes I looked into his face through the book and met his eyes - I still have them in memories - wide open, intense, full of deep attention. .. And his mouth was also half open, revealing two rows of even white teeth. Raised eyebrows, curved wrinkles on his high forehead, the hands with which he clasped his knees - his whole motionless, attentive posture warmed me up, and I tried to tell him the sad story of Sysoika and Pila as clearly and graphically as possible. Finally I got tired and closed the book. - Is that all? - Konovalov asked me in a whisper. - Less than half... - Will you read it all out loud? - If you please. - Eh! - He grabbed his head and swayed, sitting on the chest. He wanted to say something, he opened and closed his mouth, sighing like bellows, and for some reason he squinted his eyes. I did not expect such an effect and did not understand its significance. - How do you read this! - he spoke in a whisper. - In different voices... As if they were all alive... Aproska! Saw... what fools! It was funny for me to listen... And then what? Where will they go? Lord God! After all, this is all true. After all, it’s like there are real people, real men... And just like living voices and faces... Listen, Maxim! Let's plant a stove - read on! We turned on the stove, prepared another one, and again I read the book for an hour and forty minutes. Then there was another pause - the oven baked, they took out the loaves, planted others, kneaded more dough, put in more dough... All this was done with feverish speed and almost silently. Konovalov, with furrowed brows, occasionally briefly gave me monosyllabic orders and hurried, hurried... By the morning we finished the book, I felt that my tongue was stiff. Sitting astride a sack of flour, Konovalov looked into my face with strange eyes and was silent, resting his hands on his knees... - Okay? - I asked. He shook his head, squinting his eyes, and again for some reason spoke in a whisper: “Who composed this?” - An indescribable amazement shone in his eyes, and his face suddenly flared up with a hot feeling. I told who wrote the book. - Well, he’s a man! That's enough! A? Even terrible. It touches the heart - that's how alive it is. What was he, a writer, what was he worth for this? - So how? - Well, for example, did they give him a reward or something? - Why should he be given a reward? - I asked. - How for what? The book... seems like a police act. Now they are reading it... judging it: Saw, Sysoika... what kind of people are these? Everyone will feel sorry for them... They are dark people. What is their life like? Well, and... - And - what? Konovalov looked at me embarrassedly and timidly declared: “Some order must be issued.” People, we need to support them. In response to this, I gave him a whole lecture... But - alas! - She didn’t make the impression I expected. Konovalov became thoughtful, hung his head, swayed his whole body and began to sigh, without a word preventing me from speaking. I finally got tired and fell silent. Konovalov raised his head and looked at me sadly. - So they didn’t give him anything? - he asked. - To whom? - I inquired, forgetting about Reshetnikov. - The writer? I did not answer him, feeling irritated against the listener, who obviously did not consider himself capable of solving world issues. Konovalov, without waiting for my answer, took the book in his hands, carefully turned it over, opened it, closed it, and, putting it back, took a deep breath. - How wise all this is, Lord! - he spoke in a low voice. - A man wrote a book... paper and different dots on it - that’s all. He wrote and... he died? “He died,” I said. - He died, but the book remained, and they read it. A person looks into it with his eyes and says different words. And you listen and understand: there were people in the world - Pila, Sysoika, Aproska... And you feel sorry for the people, even though you have never seen them and they are nothing to you at all! There are dozens of them walking down the street, maybe alive, you see them, but you don’t know anything about them... and you don’t care about them... they go and go... And in the book you feel so sorry for them that even the heart aches... How to understand this?.. And the writer died without a reward? Didn't he have anything? I got angry and told him about the awards for writers... Konovalov listened to me, widening his eyes in fear, and smacking his lips in sympathy. “It’s okay,” he sighed with all his heart and, biting his left mustache, sadly hung his head. Then I began to talk about the fatal role of the tavern in the life of the Russian writer, about those great and sincere talents who died from vodka - the only joy of their difficult life. - Do people like that drink? - Konovalov asked me in a whisper. His wide-open eyes sparkled with distrust of me, fear and pity for those people. - They're drinking! What do they do... after they write books, do they drink? This, in my opinion, was an inappropriate question, and I did not answer it. “Of course, later,” Konovalov decided. - People live and look at life, and absorb other people's grief in life. Their eyes must be special... And their hearts too... They will look at life and become sad... And they will pour the melancholy into books... This doesn’t help, because the heart is touched, you can’t burn the melancholy out of it with fire. .. All that remains is to fill it with vodka. Well, they drink... Is that what I say? I agreed with him, and this seemed to give him courage. “Well, in all truth,” he continued to develop the psychology of the writers, “they should be distinguished for this.” Isn't that right? Because they understand more than others and point out various problems to others. Now I, for example, - what is it? A tramp, a galah, a drunkard and a touched person. I have a life without any excuse. Why do I live on earth and who needs me on it, if you look at it? Neither his corner, nor his wife, nor children, and he doesn’t even want to do anything like that. I live, I miss... Why? Unknown. I don’t have an internal path, you understand? How can I say this? There is no such spark in the soul... strength, or what? Well, I don’t have one thing - and that’s it! Understood? So I live and I am looking for this thing and yearning for it, but what it is is unknown to me... He, holding his head with his hand, looked at me, and his face reflected the work of thought, looking for a form for itself. - Well, what next? - I asked. - Next?.. I can’t tell you... But I think that if some writer took a closer look at me, he could explain my life to me, huh? What do you think? I thought that I myself was able to explain his life to him, and I immediately set about this, in my opinion, an easy and clear task. I began to talk about conditions and environment, about inequality, about people - the victims of life and about people - the rulers of it. Konovalov listened attentively. He sat opposite me, resting his cheek on his hand, and his large blue eyes, wide open, thoughtful and intelligent, gradually became clouded as if with a light fog, the folds on his forehead became more and more sharp, he seemed to be holding his breath, completely absorbed in the desire to understand my speeches. I was flattered by all this. I passionately described his life to him and proved that it was not his fault that he was like this. He is a sad victim of conditions, a being, by nature, equal to everyone and a long series of historical injustices reduced to the level of social zero. I concluded my speech by saying: “You have nothing to blame yourself for... You were offended...” He was silent, not taking his eyes off me; I saw how a good, bright smile was emerging in them, and I looked forward to how he would respond to my words. He laughed affectionately and, with a soft, feminine movement, reached out to me and put his hand on my shoulder. - How easy it is for you, brother! How do you know all these things? All from books? You've read them a lot. Eh, if only I could read for a while!.. But the main reason is that you speak very pitifully... This is the first time I’ve heard such a speech. Marvelous! All people blame each other for their misfortunes, and you blame your whole life, all the rules. It turns out, in your opinion, that a person himself is not guilty of anything, but it is written in his nature to be a tramp - that’s why he is a tramp. And it’s very strange about the prisoners: they steal because there is no work, but they need to eat. .. How pitiful all this is with you! You are obviously weak in heart!.. “Wait,” I said, “do you agree with me?” Am I right? - It’s better for you to know whether it’s true or not - you’re literate... It’s probably true, if you take others, - so true... But if I... - So what? - Well, I am a special case... Who is to blame for the fact that I drink? Pavelka, my brother, doesn’t drink - he has his own bakery in Perm. But I work better than him - but I’m a tramp and a drunkard, and I no longer have either a title or a share... But we are the children of the same mother! He's even younger than me. It turns out that something is wrong with me... It means that I was not born the way a person should. You yourself say that all people are the same. And I’m on a special path... And I’m not alone - there are many of us like that. We will be special people... we will not fit into any order. We need a special account... and special laws... very strict laws - to eradicate us from life! Therefore, there is no benefit from us, but we take up space in it and stand on the path of others... Who is to blame for us? We ourselves are to blame... That's why we have no desire for life and we have no feelings for ourselves... He - this big man with the clear eyes of a child - with such a light spirit he distinguished himself from life into the category of people, for her unnecessary and therefore subject to eradication, with such a laughing sadness that I was positively stunned by this self-abasement, which until then had not yet been seen by me in a tramp, the bulk of his being cut off from everything, hostile to everything and ready to test the power of his embittered skepticism over everything. I have only met people who always blamed everything, complained about everything, stubbornly pushing themselves aside from a series of evidence that refuted their persistent proof of personal infallibility - they always blamed their failures on silent fate, on evil people... Konovalov’s fate was not vinyl, didn’t talk about people. For all the troubles in his personal life, only he himself was to blame, and the harder I tried to prove to him that he was a “victim of environment and conditions,” the more persistently he convinced me of his guilt before himself for his sad lot... It was original, but it pissed me off. And he took pleasure in beating himself; it was with pleasure that his eyes sparkled when he shouted to me in a sonorous baritone: “Every man is his own master, and no one is to blame for that if I’m a scoundrel!” Coming from the mouth of a cultured person, such speeches would not surprise me, for there is still no soreness that cannot be found in the complex and confused mental organism called an “intellectual.” But from the mouth of a tramp - although he, too, is an intellectual among those offended by fate, naked, hungry and evil half-people, half-animals, filling the dirty slums of cities - it was strange to hear these speeches from the mouth of a tramp. I had to conclude that Konovalov really was a special case, but I didn’t want that. From the outside, Konovalov was, down to the smallest detail, a typical goldminer; but the more I looked at it, the more I became convinced that I was dealing with a species that violated my idea of ​​people who should long ago be considered a class and who are quite worthy of attention, as very hungry and thirsty, very angry and far from stupid... We argued more and more heatedly. “Wait a minute,” I shouted, “how can a person stand on his feet if various dark forces are rushing at him from all sides?” - Pull yourself tighter! - my opponent exclaimed, excited and sparkling with his eyes. - What should I run into? - Find your point and stick to it! - Why didn’t you resist? - So I’m telling you, eccentric man, that I myself am to blame for my share!.. I didn’t find my point! I search, I yearn, but I don’t find it! However, it was necessary to take care of bread, and we set to work, continuing to prove to each other the correctness of our views. Of course, they proved nothing and, both excited, having finished their work, went to bed. Konovalov stretched out on the floor of the bakery and soon fell asleep. I lay on the sacks of flour and looked down at his mighty bearded figure, heroically stretched out on the matting thrown near the stall. It smelled of hot bread, sour dough, carbon dioxide... It was dawn, and the gray sky looked into the glass windows, covered with a film of flour dust. The cart rumbled, the shepherd played, gathering his flock. Konovalov was snoring. I watched his broad chest heave and thought about various ways of converting him to my faith as quickly as possible, but I came up with nothing and fell asleep. In the morning, he and I got up, put on the dough, washed ourselves and sat down on the chest to drink tea. - What, do you have a book? - asked Konovalov. - There are... - Will you read to me? - Okay... - That's good! You know? I’ll live for a month, take the owner’s money and half for you! - For what? - Buy books... Buy for yourself the ones you like, and buy me at least two. To me - those about men. Like Saw and Sysoika... And so that, you know, it was written with pity, and not for the sake of laughter... There are others - complete nonsense! Panfilka and Filatka - even with the picture in the first place - are stupid. Poshekhontsy, different fairy tales. I don't like it. I didn’t know there were those like yours. - Do you want to talk about Stenka Razin? - About Stenka? Fine? - Very good... - Get it! And soon I was reading to him by Kostomarov: “The Rebellion of Stenka Razin.” At first, my bearded listener did not like the talented monograph, almost an epic poem. - Why are there no conversations here? - he asked, looking into the book. And when I explained why, he even yawned and wanted to hide the yawn, but he failed, and he embarrassedly and guiltily told me: “Read - nothing!” That’s just me... But as the historian painted the figure of Stepan Timofeevich with an artist’s brush and the “prince of the Volga freemen” grew out of the pages of the book, Konovalov was reborn. Previously boring and indifferent, with eyes clouded by lazy drowsiness, he, gradually and imperceptibly for me, appeared before me in a strikingly new form. Sitting on the chest opposite me and hugging his knees with his hands, he put his chin on them so that his beard covered his legs, and looked at me with greedy, strangely burning eyes from under sternly frowned eyebrows. There was not a single trace of that childish naivety with which he surprised me, and everything simple, femininely soft that suited his blue, kind eyes - now darkened and narrowed - disappeared somewhere. There was something lion-like and fiery in his figure, compressed into a ball of muscles. I fell silent. “Read,” he said quietly but impressively. - What are you doing? - Read! - he repeated, and irritation sounded in his tone along with the request. I continued, occasionally glancing at him, and saw that he was getting more and more excited. It emanated something that excited and intoxicated me - some kind of hot fog. And so I got to the point where Stenka was caught. - Caught! - Konovalov shouted. Pain, resentment, anger sounded in this exclamation. Sweat appeared on his forehead and his eyes widened strangely. He jumped off the chest, tall and excited, stopped in front of me, put his hand on my shoulder and spoke loudly and hastily: “Wait!” Don't read... Tell me, what will happen now? No, stop, don't talk! Will he be executed? A? Read quickly, Maxim! One might think that it was Konovalov, and not Frolka, who was Razin’s brother. It seemed that some kind of ties of blood, inextricable, not cooled for three centuries, still connect this tramp with Stenka, and the tramp with all the strength of a living, strong body, with all the passion of a yearning spirit without a “point” feels the pain and anger of the captured three hundred years ago a free falcon. - Read it, for Christ's sake! I read, excited and excited, feeling my heart beating, and together with Konovalov experiencing Stenka’s melancholy. And now we come to torture. Konovalov ground his teeth and his blue eyes sparkled like coals. He leaned on me from behind and also did not take his eyes off the book. His breath rustled past my ear and blew the hair from my head into my eyes. I shook my head to throw them away. Konovalov saw this and put his heavy palm on my head. “Here Razin gritted his teeth so hard that he spat them out on the floor along with the blood...” - It will!.. To hell! - Konovalov shouted and, tearing the book out of my hands, slammed it on the floor with all his might and went down after it. He cried, and since he was ashamed of tears, he somehow growled so as not to cry. He buried his head in his knees and cried, wiping his eyes on his dirty teak pants. I sat in front of him on the chest and did not know what to say to him to console him. - Maksim! - Konovalov said, sitting on the floor. - Scary! Saw... Sysoika. And then Stenka... huh? What fate!.. How he spat out his teeth!.. huh? And he shuddered all over. He was especially struck by the teeth spat out by Stenka; every now and then, he painfully shrugged his shoulders and talked about them. Both of us were drunk under the influence of the painful and cruel picture of torture that stood before us. - Read it to me again, do you hear? - Konovalov persuaded me, picking up a book from the floor and handing it to me. - Come on, show me where it says about teeth? I showed it to him, and he stared at these lines. - Is that what it says: “he spat out his teeth with blood”? And the letters are the same as all the others... Lord! How painful it was for him, huh? Even teeth... and at the end what else will there be? Execution? Yeah! Thank God, they are executing a man after all! He expressed this joy with such passion, with such satisfaction in his eyes that I shuddered from this compassion, which so strongly wanted the death of the tormented Stenka. This whole day passed for us in a strange fog: we all talked about Stenka, remembering his life, the songs written about him, his torture. Once or twice Konovalov began to sing songs in a sonorous baritone and cut them off. He and I became even closer to each other from that day on.