I.A. Bunin, story “Grammar of Love”: summary
The beginning of June. A certain Ivlev borrows a tarantass from his brother-in-law, hires three horses and sets off to the far reaches of his county. The weather is warm and fine. The fields are filled with an endless array of bright flowers and larks. However, soon heavy leaden clouds rolled in and light rain began to fall. We decided not to rush and wait out the bad weather in the count’s house. The latter was not at the estate, so Ivlev was met by a young countess, dressed in a wide pink bonnet, with open arms and powdered breasts.
While a boy of about eighteen, a cab driver, sat motionless in the pouring rain on the box of a tarantass, and the horses were resting in the middle of a dirty yard, Ivlev was in a cozy living room, darkened by the rain, having a measured conversation with the mistress of the house and waiting for tea. The Countess smoked, kept laughing and straightening her hair. Whatever the conversation was about, it certainly eventually came down to the topic of love. They also remembered a mutual friend, a close neighbor, the landowner Khvoshchinsky, who was known far beyond the boundaries of the district for his mad love for the maid Lushka.
Amazing love story
This story is old. The landowner Khvoshchinsky was passionately in love with his maid Lushka, who, soon after they met, in her early youth, unexpectedly died. Since then, “this eccentric” locked himself in his estate, did not go out anywhere and did not let anyone in, and for the rest of his life, more than twenty years, he was only in her room and sat right through the mattress on her bed, indulging in “crazy dreams about her.” " Whatever happened around, in the village or in the world, everything was attributed to Lushkin’s influence. For example, bad weather - it’s Lushka who sends thunder, a war in the country - it’s at her behest, a bad harvest - the men somehow didn’t please Lushka.
Ivlev knew this story since childhood, admired such a deep feeling and was even a little in love with this very Lushka. The news that Khvoshchinsky died this winter brought back old memories, old feelings and questions in Ivlev: was he crazy or a truly stunned, pure soul of rare quality? On the way home, he decided to definitely stop by the deserted estate of Khvoshchinsky and see with his own eyes the home of the mysterious Lushka, and maybe there he would feel and understand everything...
Amazing story
Ivlev is surprised by the story of a landowner, mad with love. He grew up in these places, even in his youth he heard that Lushka (that was the name of Khvoshchinsky’s beloved) was not at all good with you. Nevertheless, after her death, the landowner sat on her bed for twenty years. He did not leave the house and read a lot. Moreover, according to the stories of old landowners, he was once known in his district as an intelligent and businesslike man. Everything went to pieces after I fell in love.
Khvoshchinsky estate
I.A. Bunin and his story “The Grammar of Love,” a summary of which is now before you, is just a superficial summary of the plot of the great work. Therefore, in order to understand the full depth of the story described, you need to read the original.
A new landscape opened up in front of Ivlev: a shallow river, further on, on a small hill, rows of hay could be seen, and between them - old silvery poplars. Here is the famous house, quite large and, apparently, once whitewashed... A young man stood on the porch. He looked in surprise at the approaching carriage. It seems that this was the son of the famous Lushka. Ivlev hastened to explain his visit with a desire to buy books from the library of the deceased.
He was led through the house, cold and empty, and led to a low door. The young man took a large key from his pocket, inserted it into the rusty keyhole, and the door opened in front of them into a small closet with two windows. On one side there was a bare iron bed, and on the other there were two cabinets with books. This “book collection” was strange: “The Newest Dream Book”, “Reflections on the Mysteries of the Universe”, “The Morning Star and the Night Demons”... But Ivlev’s attention was attracted by something completely different - the middle shelf. On it stood a box and only a small book, more like a prayer book. “The Grammar of Love,” a summary (short story 14) of which introduces the reader to the amazing feeling of love, does not end there.
Lyubov Khvoshchinsky
The Countess speaks of Khvoshchinsky with some admiration. Ivlev is at first skeptical about love, which made an intelligent, energetic person a recluse. But when he sets off on the road again, he suddenly feels that he is irresistibly drawn to the estate, where the mysterious Lukerya once lived.
By the way, the cause of her death is unknown. In any case, Bunin says nothing about this. Only Ivleva’s cab driver suddenly, pointing to the pond, says that it was here that Lukerya once drowned herself. However, these are just speculations and rumors. And the cause of death does not matter. Ivlev is intrigued by the extraordinary power of love that a simple woman could evoke in a landowner.
Amazing items
Opening the last one, Ivlev saw a simple necklace. More than ever, he was overcome with trepidation and incomprehensible excitement. It is impossible to imagine this worn cord, these cheap blue balls on the neck of the one who was destined to be so desired and loved... Having seen enough, he carefully returned the box to its original place and took up the book. It was a small, one might say elegantly designed, old shabby book - “The Grammar of Love, or the Art of Loving and Being Loved”
It was divided into many chapters: about the mind, about beauty, about the heart, about quarrels and reconciliation... Each consisted of famous aphorisms, sayings and subtle observations of famous people about life and love. Some of them were marked in red ink, and at the end, on a blank page, there was a quatrain from Khvoshchinsky himself.
Half an hour later, Ivlev said goodbye to the young man. Of all the books, he chose only one - “The Grammar of Love”. The summary of the story ends with this episode.
Title of the story
Ivan Alekseevich describes in his story a love that can flare up instantly, like a flash. Having appeared from a small spark, it can flare up brightly, but not always hold on.
But it is worth examining in more detail the meaning of the title of the work. So what is this – the grammar of love? Bunin used incompatible things in his name, an oxymoron. It is known that grammar, literally translated from Greek, means “the ability to write and read letters.” This is where the somewhat ironic title of the work arises: teaching love. But is it possible to teach a person to love? Doesn't love manifest itself differently for each person? There are no textbooks that teach love, which is why the title of the work sounds a little strange.
In the story, the main character acquires a book that bears a name that is consonant with the story itself. It turns out that such a book actually existed in foreign literature. Its author was a certain Hippolyte Jules Demoliere. This is what Bunin refers to in his work.
Such different love
As you can see, the plot of the short story is quite simple, and perhaps under other circumstances or under the pen of another author it would have turned into an ordinary “district joke.” At I.A. Bunin, it takes on a different meaning - is such love possible, is it true, or is it just some kind of obsession, madness. The author does not give a definite answer, because it is impossible to penetrate inside a person, look into his soul and touch his feelings and experiences. There are as many opinions as there are characters in the story. You cannot accuse one of bias and praise another for objectivity. However, using the examples of the heroes - the late Khvoshchinsky, Ivlev, the young countess and even the driver - a young man of eighteen - one can observe a peculiar evolution of the human soul, and with it a different understanding of love, and the very possibility, the ability to truly love.
So, the driver, the son of a rich man, stupid but economical, rudely remarks that Lushka drowned herself, and the landowner went crazy “not because of her,” but because of poverty. He does not see any love in this story, as, indeed, in any other. The young countess, on the contrary, focused all conversations on love, laughing and straightening her hair all the time. She firmly believed in the sanity and health of the lover Khvoshchinsky - he just “was not like the current couple.”
The pendulum of love... It swings all the time, now to the right, now to the left. The lack of the gift of love in a young man is one side. However, the displacement of the pendulum from the equilibrium position to the other, opposite side does not indicate the depth and sincerity of feelings or the presence of high spirituality in a person. Yes, the young countess believes in love, but what kind? The love story of Khvoshchinsky and Lushka - for her it is, rather, a beautiful cover of another women's novel. You can admire, be touched, cry and complain that you can’t find such feelings these days, but soon forget and get carried away by something else, no less colorful.
Characters
The hero of the story, Ivlev, is, in fact, not like that. The main characters are Khvoshchinsky and his beloved Lushka, as can be seen even after reading “The Grammar of Love”.
In the area it was customary to call her Lushka. But perhaps for Khvoshchinsky himself she is Mrs. Lukerya. After all, the powerful feeling that she was able to instill in him has no social restrictions. It is born and strengthens, regardless of any conventions.
Ivlev is a simple man in the street who is characterized by certain social attitudes. And only his unexpected visit to the Khvoshchinsky estate reveals to him the great secret of existence. Only in this modest estate does the thought come to him that he sees a rare earthly love. After all, before this visit, he, like everyone else in the area, was sure of Khvoshchinsky’s madness.
Equilibrium
Before us is the story “The Grammar of Love”. Summary, analysis of the work by I.A. Bunin's story doesn't end there. Let's continue...
Sooner or later the pendulum slows down and stops. It rests in a position of equilibrium. This is true love. It was to her, after long searches, doubts and unexpected insights, that Ivlev and the late Khvoshchinsky approached: “There is being, but by what name should we call it? It is neither a dream nor a vigil, it is between them, and in a person, understanding borders on madness...”
In the image of the maid Lushka in the story “The Grammar of Love” (for a summary of the chapters, see above), the author wanted to show that very true love that entered the lives of Khvoshchinsky and Ivlev forever. What was she like? They said that “she was not even good at all,” but suddenly she unexpectedly fell on the landowner’s head, then she also unexpectedly and suddenly died, being young, in the prime of her life, and everything went to dust... But was it all to dust? No and no again. This love, albeit completely incomprehensible, strange, “mysterious in its charm,” turned the life of one person, which should have been the most ordinary, into a real “life.”
The little book “Grammar of Love”, similar to a prayer book, the contents of which delight and surprise; a simple necklace by Lushka, evoking a feeling akin to what a person experiences when looking at the relics of saints... For those who do not resist love, who let it into their lives, everything ordinary turns into sacred, and the tragic is seen not as some kind of doom, but as the highest spiritual meaning of life. Khvoshchinsky, making his own notes and entries in the book, wrote his “grammar of love.” Ivlev, having bought only this tattered “prayer book” at a high price, accepted this priceless gift in order to eventually derive his “laws”, write his own rules, and “they will show this Grammar of Love to their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”
Grammar of love
A certain Ivlev was traveling one day in early June to the far edge of his district. A tarantas with a crooked, dusty top was given to him by his brother-in-law, on whose estate he spent the summer. He hired three horses, small but capable, with thick, matted manes, in the village from a rich man. They were ruled by this man's son, a young man of eighteen, stupid, economical. He kept thinking displeasedly about something, seemed offended by something, and didn’t understand jokes. And, making sure that you wouldn’t talk to him, Ivlev surrendered to that calm and aimless observation that goes so well with the harmony of hooves and the rattling of bells. At first it was pleasant to drive: a warm, dim day, a well-trodden road, there were many flowers and larks in the fields; a sweet breeze blew from the grain, from the low bluish rye, stretching as far as the eye could see, carrying flower dust along their shoals, in places it smoked, and in the distance it was even foggy. The fellow, in a new cap and an awkward lustrine jacket, sat upright; the fact that the horses were entirely entrusted to him and that he was dressed up made him especially serious. And the horses coughed and ran slowly, the shaft of the left tie sometimes scraped the wheel, sometimes it pulled, and all the time a worn-out horseshoe flashed under it like white steel. — Shall we call on the count? - asked the guy, without turning around, when a village appeared ahead, closing the horizon with its vineyards and garden. - What for? - said Ivlev. The little one paused and, having knocked down a large gadfly stuck to the horse with a whip, answered gloomily: “Yes, drink tea...” “It’s not tea in your head,” said Ivlev, “You feel sorry for all the horses.” “A horse is not afraid of riding, it’s afraid of the stern,” the little one answered instructively. Ivlev looked around: the weather had become dull, moulting clouds had gathered from all sides and it was already drizzling - these modest days always end in heavy rains... An old man plowing near the village said that there was only a young countess at home, but we stopped by anyway. The guy pulled his overcoat over his shoulders and, pleased that the horses were resting, calmly got wet in the rain on the goats of a tarantass, which stopped in the middle of a dirty yard, near a stone trough, rooted in the ground, riddled with cattle hooves. He looked at his boots, straightened the harness on the root with his whip; and Ivlev sat in the living room, darkened by the rain, chatting with the countess and waiting for tea; there was already the smell of a burning splinter, the green smoke of a samovar floated thickly past the open windows, which a barefoot girl was filling on the porch with bunches of brightly burning wood chips, dousing them with kerosene. The Countess was wearing a wide pink bonnet, with her powdered breasts exposed; she smoked, inhaling deeply, often straightening her hair, exposing her tight and round arms up to her shoulders; dragging on and laughing, she kept talking about love and among other things talked about her close neighbor, the landowner Khvoshchinsky, who, as Ivlev knew from childhood, all his life was obsessed with love for his maid Lushka, who died in early youth. “Oh, this legendary Lushka! - Ivlev remarked jokingly, slightly embarrassed by his confession. “Because this eccentric idolized her, devoted his whole life to crazy dreams about her, in my youth I was almost in love with her, imagining, thinking about her, God knows what, although she, they say, was not at all good-looking.” - "Yes? - said the countess, without listening. — He died this winter. And Pisarev, the only one whom he sometimes allowed to see him out of old friendship, claims that in everything else he was not at all crazy, and I fully believe this - he was just not the current couple...” Finally, the barefoot girl, with extraordinary caution, served in the old on a silver tray, a glass of strong blue tea from a pond and a basket of biscuits infested with flies. When we drove on, the rain started to really stop. I had to lift my top, cover myself with a shriveled heated apron, and sit bent over. Horses thundered like wood grouse, streams ran along their dark and shiny thighs, grass rustled under the wheels of some line among the grain, where the little one rode in the hope of shortening the path, a warm rye spirit gathered under the horse, mixed with the smell of an old tarantass... “So that’s it.” “Khvoshchinsky is dead,” thought Ivlev. “You should definitely stop by, at least take a look at this empty sanctuary of the mysterious Lushka... But what kind of person was this Khvoshchinsky? Crazy or just some dazed, focused soul?” According to the stories of old landowners, Khvoshchinsky’s peers, he was once known in the district as a rare clever man. And suddenly this love, this Lushka, fell upon him, then her unexpected death - and everything went to dust: he shut himself up in the house, in the room where Lushka lived and died, and sat on her bed for more than twenty years - not only did he go nowhere went out, but didn’t even show himself to anyone at his estate, sat through the mattress on Lushka’s bed and attributed literally everything that happened in the world to Lushka’s influence: a thunderstorm sets in - it’s Lushka who sends a thunderstorm, war is declared - that means Lushka decided so, a crop failure happened - The men didn’t please Lushka... -Are you going to Khvoshchinskoye or something? - Ivlev shouted, leaning out into the rain. “To Khvoshchinskoye,” the little guy, with water flowing from his sagging cap, answered indistinctly through the noise of the rain. - Up to Pisarev... Ivlev did not know such a path. The places became poorer and more desolate. The line ended, the horses walked at a walk and lowered the rickety tarantass downhill in a washed-out pothole; into some still unmown meadows, the green slopes of which stood out sadly against the low clouds. Then the road, now disappearing, now renewing, began to pass from one side to the other along the bottoms of ravines, along gullies in alder bushes and willows... There was someone’s small apiary, several logs standing on a slope in tall grass, reddened with strawberries... We drove around some -an old dam, drowned in nettles, and a long-dried pond - a deep ravine, overgrown with weeds taller than a man... A pair of black sandpipers, crying, darted out of them into the rainy sky... and on the dam, among the nettles, a large old one bloomed with small pale pink flowers bush, that cute tree that is called “God’s tree” - and suddenly Ivlev remembered the place, remembered that he had ridden here more than once in his youth... “They say she drowned herself here,” the guy suddenly said. - Are you talking about Khvoshchinsky’s mistress, or what? - asked Ivlev. “That’s not true, she didn’t even think about drowning herself.” “No, she drowned herself,” said the boy. - Well, I just think that he most likely went crazy from his poverty, and not from her... And, after a pause, he added rudely: - And we need to go again... to this, to Khvoshchino... Look, how tired the horses are ! “Do me a favor,” said Ivlev. On a hill where a road tinted with rainwater led, in the place of a cleared forest, among wet, rotting chips and leaves, among stumps and young aspen growth, smelling bitterly and freshly, a lonely hut stood. There was not a soul around - only buntings, sitting in the rain on tall flowers, rang throughout the sparse forest that rose behind the hut, but when the troika, splashing through the mud, reached its threshold, a whole horde of huge dogs burst out from somewhere, black, chocolate, smoky, and with a furious bark it began to boil around the horses, soaring up to their very faces, turning over in flight and spinning even under the top of the tarantass. At the same time, and just as unexpectedly, the sky above the carriage split open from a deafening thunderclap, the fellow frantically rushed to beat the dogs with a whip, and the horses galloped off among the aspen trunks flashing before his eyes... Khvoshchinskoye was already visible behind the forest. The dogs fell behind and immediately fell silent, ran busily back, the forest parted, and fields opened up ahead again. It was getting dark, and the clouds were either parting or setting in from three sides: on the left - almost black, with blue gaps, on the right - gray, rumbling with continuous thunder, and from the west, from behind the Khvoshchina estate, from behind the slopes above the river valley , - dull blue, in dusty streaks of rain, through which the mountains of distant clouds glowed pink. But above the carriage the rain was thinning, and, rising, Ivlev, covered in mud, gladly threw back his heavy top and breathed freely the odorous dampness of the field. He looked at the approaching estate, finally saw what he had heard so much about, but it still seemed that Lushka lived and died not twenty years ago, but almost in time immemorial. The trace of a small river was lost in the valley along the valley, and a white fish was flying above it. Further on, on the half-mountain, lay rows of hay, darkened by the rain; among them, far from each other, scattered old silvery poplars. The house, quite large, once whitewashed, with a shiny wet roof, stood in a completely bare place. There was no garden or buildings around, only two brick pillars in place of the gate and burdocks in the ditches. When the horses forded the river and climbed the mountain, some woman in a man’s summer coat, with sagging pockets, was driving turkeys through the burdocks. The facade of the house was unusually boring: there were few windows in it, and they were all small, set in thick walls. But the gloomy porches were huge. From one of them, a young man in a gray school blouse, belted with a wide belt, looked in surprise at the approaching people, black, with beautiful eyes and very pretty, although his face was pale and mottled with freckles, like a bird’s egg. I needed something to explain my arrival. Having gone up to the porch and identified himself, Ivlev said that he wanted to look and maybe buy the library, which, as the countess said, remained from the deceased, and the young man, blushing deeply, immediately led him into the house. “So this is the son of the famous Lushka!” - thought Ivlev, looking around at everything that was on the way, and often looking around and saying anything, just to look once again at the owner, who seemed too young for his age. He answered hastily, but in monosyllables, confused, apparently both from shyness and greed; that he was terribly delighted at the opportunity to sell the books and imagined that he would not sell them cheap was evident in his very first words, in the awkward haste with which he declared that books like his could not be obtained at any price. Through the semi-dark entryway, where straw was laid red from dampness, he led Ivlev into the large hallway. - Is this where your father lived? - Ivlev asked, entering and taking off his hat. “Yes, yes, here,” the young man hastened to answer. “That is, of course, not here... they mostly sat in the bedroom... but, of course, they were here too...” “Yes, I know, he was sick,” said Ivlev. The young man flushed. - So what are you sick with? - he said, and more masculine notes were heard in his voice. - This is all gossip, they weren’t mentally ill at all... They just read everything and didn’t go out anywhere, that’s all... No, please don’t take off your cap, it’s cold here, we don’t live in this half... True, in the house was much colder than outside. In the inhospitable hallway, covered with newspapers, on the windowsill of a window sad from the clouds, there stood a bast quail cage. A gray bag was jumping on the floor by itself. Bending down, the young man caught it and put it on the bench, and Ivlev realized that there was a quail in the bag; then they entered the hall. This room, with windows to the west and north, occupied almost half of the entire house. Through one window, against the golden dawn clearing behind the clouds, a hundred-year-old, all black weeping birch tree was visible. The front corner was entirely occupied by a shrine without glass, arranged and hung with images; Among them, an image in a silver robe stood out both in size and antiquity, and on it, yellowing with wax, like a dead body, lay wedding candles in pale green bows. “Please forgive me,” Ivlev began, overcoming shame, “isn’t your father...” “No, that’s true,” muttered the young man, instantly understanding him. - After her death, they bought these candles... and even always wore a wedding ring... The furniture in the hall was clumsy. But in the walls there were beautiful slides full of tea utensils and narrow, tall glasses with gold rims. And the floor was all covered with dry bees, which clicked underfoot. The living room was also strewn with bees, completely empty. Having passed through it and another gloomy room with a couch, the young man stopped near a low door and took a large key from his trouser pocket. Having difficulty turning it in the rusty keyhole, he opened the door, muttered something, and Ivlev saw a closet with two windows; against one wall stood an iron bare cot, at the other there were two bookcases made of Karelian birch. — Is this the library? - Ivlev asked, approaching one of them. And the young man, hastening to answer in the affirmative, helped him open the cupboard and eagerly began to watch his hands. Strange books made up this library! Ivlev opened the thick bindings, turned away the rough gray page and read: “The sworn tract”... “The morning star and the night demons”... “Reflections on the mysteries of the universe”... “A wonderful journey to a magical land”... “The newest dream book”... But hands still trembled slightly. So this is what that lonely soul fed on, that had shut itself up forever from the world in that little closet and had just recently left it... But maybe she, this soul, really wasn’t completely mad? “There is being,” Ivlev recalled Baratynsky’s poems, “there is being, but by what name should we call it? It is neither a dream, nor a vigil - between them it is, and in a person, understanding borders on madness...” It cleared in the west, gold looked out from there from behind beautiful lilac clouds and strangely illuminated this poor shelter of love, incomprehensible love, in some way an ecstatic life that transformed an entire human life, which, perhaps, should have been the most ordinary life, if some mysterious Lushka had not happened... Taking a small stool from under the bed, Ivlev sat down in front of the wardrobe and took out cigarettes, quietly looking around and taking note of the room. - Do you smoke? - he asked the young man standing over him. He blushed again. “I smoke,” he muttered and tried to smile. “That is, it’s not that I’m smoking, it’s more like I’m indulging... But, by the way, excuse me, I’m very grateful to you...” And, awkwardly taking a cigarette, he lit a cigarette with trembling hands, went to the windowsill and sat down on it, blocking the yellow light of dawn. - And what's that? - Ivlev asked, leaning towards the middle shelf, on which lay only one very small book, similar to a prayer book, and there stood a box, the corners of which were trimmed in silver, darkened with time. “That’s so... In this box is the necklace of the late mother,” the young man answered, stuttering, but trying to speak casually. -Can I take a look? - Please... although it’s very simple... you can’t be interested... And, opening the box, Ivlev saw a worn-out cord, underneath cheap blue balls that looked like stone ones. And such an excitement took possession of him when he looked at these balls, which once lay on the neck of the one who was destined to be so loved and whose vague image could no longer help but be beautiful, which made his eyes ripple from his heartbeat. Having seen enough, Ivlev carefully put the box in place; then I picked up the book. It was a tiny, charmingly published almost a hundred years ago, “The Grammar of Love, or the Art of Loving and Being Mutually Loved.” “Unfortunately, I cannot sell this book,” the young man said with difficulty. - It’s very expensive... they even put it under their pillow... - But maybe you’ll at least allow me to look at it? - said Ivlev. “Please,” the young man whispered. And, overcoming awkwardness, vaguely yearning for his gaze, Ivlev began to slowly leaf through “The Grammar of Love.” It was all divided into small chapters: “About beauty, about the heart, about the mind, about the signs of love, about attack and defense, about quarrels and reconciliation, about platonic love”... Each chapter consisted of short, elegant, sometimes very subtle maxims, and some of them were delicately marked with a pen and red ink. “Love is not a simple episode in our life,” Ivlev read. “Our mind contradicts our heart and does not convince it. “Women are never as strong as when they arm themselves with weakness.” - We adore a woman because she rules over our ideal dream. - Vanity chooses, true love does not choose. - A beautiful woman should occupy the second level; The first one belongs to a nice woman. This one becomes the mistress of our heart: before we give an account of her to ourselves, our heart becomes a slave of love forever...” Then came “an explanation of the language of flowers,” and again there was something about... And on a blank page at the very end there was The quatrain is written in small, beaded patterns in the same red ink. The young man craned his neck, looking into the “Grammar of Love,” and said with a feigned grin: “They composed this themselves...” Half an hour later, Ivlev said goodbye to him with relief. Of all the books, he bought only this little book at an expensive price. The dull golden dawn faded in the clouds behind the fields, shone in the puddles, it was wet and green in the fields. Maly was in no hurry, but Ivlev did not urge him. Maly said that the woman who was chasing turkeys through the burdocks earlier was the deacon’s wife, and that young Khvoshchinsky lived with her. Ivlev did not listen. He kept thinking about Lushka, about her necklace, which left him with a complex feeling, similar to what he had once experienced in an Italian town when looking at the relics of a saint. “She entered my life forever!” - he thought. And, taking the “Grammar of Love” out of his pocket, he slowly re-read in the dawn light the poems written on its last page. The hearts of those who love will tell you: “Live in sweet traditions!” And their grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be shown this Grammar of Love. Moscow. February. 1915
