Poor Liza - Karamzin N.M.
Perhaps no one living in Moscow knows the surroundings of this city as well as I do, because no one is in the field more often than me, no one more than me wanders on foot, without a plan, without a goal - wherever the eyes look - through the meadows and groves , over hills and plains. Every summer I find new pleasant places or new beauty in old ones.
But the most pleasant place for me is the place where the gloomy, Gothic towers of the Si...nova Monastery rise. Standing on this mountain, you see on the right side almost the whole of Moscow, this terrible mass of houses and churches, which appears to the eye in the form of a majestic amphitheater: a magnificent picture, especially when the sun shines on it, when its evening rays glow on countless golden domes, on countless crosses ascending to the sky! Below are lush, densely green flowering meadows, and behind them, along the yellow sands, flows a bright river, agitated by the light oars of fishing boats or rustling under the helm of heavy plows that sail from the most fertile countries of the Russian Empire and supply greedy Moscow with bread. On the other side of the river one can see an oak grove, near which numerous herds graze; there young shepherds, sitting under the shade of trees, sing simple, sad songs and thereby shorten the summer days, so uniform for them. Further away, in the dense greenery of ancient elms, the golden-domed Danilov Monastery shines; even further, almost at the edge of the horizon, the Sparrow Hills are blue. On the left side you can see vast fields covered with grain, forests, three or four villages and in the distance the village of Kolomenskoye with its high palace.
I often come to this place and almost always see spring there; I come there and grieve with nature on the dark days of autumn. The winds howl terribly within the walls of the deserted monastery, between the coffins overgrown with tall grass, and in the dark passages of the cells. There, leaning on the ruins of tombstones, I listen to the dull groan of times, swallowed up by the abyss of the past - a groan from which my heart shudders and trembles. Sometimes I enter cells and imagine those who lived in them - sad pictures! Here I see a gray-haired old man, kneeling before the crucifix and praying for a quick release from his earthly shackles, for all the pleasures in life had disappeared for him, all his feelings had died, except for the feeling of illness and weakness. There a young monk - with a pale face, with a languid gaze - looks into the field through the lattice of the window, sees cheerful birds swimming freely in the sea of air, sees - and sheds bitter tears from his eyes. He languishes, withers, dries up - and the sad ringing of a bell announces to me his untimely death. Sometimes on the gates of the temple I look at the image of miracles that happened in this monastery, where fish fall from the sky to feed the inhabitants of the monastery, besieged by numerous enemies; here the image of the Mother of God puts the enemies to flight. All this renews in my memory the history of our fatherland - the sad history of those times when the ferocious Tatars and Lithuanians devastated the environs of the Russian capital with fire and sword and when unfortunate Moscow, like a defenseless widow, expected help from God alone in its cruel disasters.
But what most often attracts me to the walls of the Si...nova Monastery is the memory of the deplorable fate of Lisa, poor Lisa. Oh! I love those objects that touch my heart and make me shed tears of tender sorrow!
Seventy yards from the monastery wall, near a birch grove, in the middle of a green meadow, there stands an empty hut, without doors, without endings, without a floor; the roof had long since rotted and collapsed. In this hut, thirty years before, the beautiful, amiable Liza lived with her old woman, her mother.
Lizin's father was a fairly prosperous villager, because he loved work, plowed the land well and always led a sober life. But soon after his death, his wife and daughter became poor. The lazy hand of the mercenary poorly cultivated the field, and the grain ceased to be produced well. They were forced to rent out their land, and for very little money. Moreover, the poor widow, almost constantly shedding tears over the death of her husband - for even peasant women know how to love! — day by day she became weak and could not work at all. Only Lisa, who remained after her father for fifteen years, only Lisa, not sparing her tender youth, not sparing her rare beauty, worked day and night - weaving canvases, knitting stockings, picking flowers in the spring, and taking berries in the summer - and selling them in Moscow. The sensitive, kind old woman, seeing her daughter’s tirelessness, often pressed her to her weakly beating heart, called her divine mercy, nurse, the joy of her old age, and prayed to God to reward her for all that she does for her mother. “God gave me hands to work,” said Lisa, “you fed me with your breasts and followed me when I was a child; Now it’s my turn to walk on you. Just stop breaking down, stop crying: our tears will not revive the priests.” But often tender Liza could not hold back her own tears - ah! she remembered that she had a father and that he was gone, but to reassure her mother she tried to hide the sadness of her heart and seem calm and cheerful. “In the next world, dear Liza,” answered the sad old woman, “in the next world I will stop crying. There, they say, everyone will be happy; I will probably be happy when I see your father. Only now I don’t want to die - what will happen to you without me? To whom should I leave you? No, God grant that we get you into a place first! Maybe a kind person will soon be found. Then, having blessed you, my dear children, I will cross myself and calmly lie down in the damp earth.”
Two years have passed since the death of Lizin's father. The meadows were covered with flowers, and Lisa came to Moscow with lilies of the valley. A young, well-dressed, pleasant-looking man met her on the street. She showed him the flowers and blushed. “Are you selling them, girl?” - he asked with a smile. “I’m selling,” she answered. - “What do you need?” - “Five kopecks.” - “It's too cheap. Here's a ruble for you." - Lisa was surprised, she dared to look at the young man, she blushed even more and, looking down at the ground, told him that she would not take the ruble. - “For what?” - “I don’t need anything extra.” “I think that beautiful lilies of the valley, plucked by the hands of a beautiful girl, are worth a ruble. When you don’t take it, here’s your five kopecks. I would like to always buy flowers from you: I would like you to pick them just for me.” “Lisa gave the flowers, took five kopecks, bowed and wanted to go, but the stranger stopped her by the hand. - “Where are you going, girl?” - “Home.” - “Where is your house?” — Lisa said where she lives, she said it and went. The young man did not want to hold her, perhaps because those passing by began to stop and, looking at them, grinned insidiously.
Nikolai Karamzin - Poor Liza
Karamzin N M
Poor Lisa
Perhaps no one living in Moscow knows the surroundings of this city as well as I do, because no one is in the field more often than me, no one more than me wanders on foot, without a plan, without a goal - wherever the eyes look - through the meadows and groves , over hills and plains. Every summer I find new pleasant places or new beauty in old ones. But the most pleasant place for me is the place where the gloomy, Gothic towers of the Si...nova Monastery rise. Standing on this mountain, you see on the right side almost the whole of Moscow, this terrible mass of houses and churches, which appears to the eye in the form of a majestic amphitheater: a magnificent picture, especially when the sun shines on it, when its evening rays glow on countless golden domes, on countless crosses ascending to the sky! Below are lush, densely green flowering meadows, and behind them, along the yellow sands, flows a bright river, agitated by the light oars of fishing boats or rustling under the helm of heavy plows that sail from the most fertile countries of the Russian Empire and supply greedy Moscow with bread.
On the other side of the river one can see an oak grove, near which numerous herds graze; there young shepherds, sitting under the shade of trees, sing simple, sad songs and thereby shorten the summer days, so uniform for them. Further away, in the dense greenery of ancient elms, the golden-domed Danilov Monastery shines; even further, almost at the edge of the horizon, the Sparrow Hills are blue. On the left side you can see vast fields covered with grain, forests, three or four villages and in the distance the village of Kolomenskoye with its high palace.
I often come to this place and almost always see spring there; I come there and grieve with nature on the dark days of autumn. The winds howl terribly within the walls of the deserted monastery, between the coffins overgrown with tall grass, and in the dark passages of the cells. There, leaning on the ruins of tombstones, I listen to the dull groan of times, swallowed up by the abyss of the past - a groan from which my heart shudders and trembles. Sometimes I enter cells and imagine those who lived in them - sad pictures! Here I see a gray-haired old man, kneeling before the crucifix and praying for a quick release from his earthly shackles, for all the pleasures in life had disappeared for him, all his feelings had died, except for the feeling of illness and weakness. There a young monk - with a pale face, with a languid gaze - looks into the field through the lattice of the window, sees cheerful birds swimming freely in the sea of air, sees - and sheds bitter tears from his eyes. He languishes, withers, dries up - and the sad ringing of a bell announces to me his untimely death. Sometimes on the gates of the temple I look at the image of miracles that happened in this monastery, where fish fall from the sky to feed the inhabitants of the monastery, besieged by numerous enemies; here the image of the Mother of God puts the enemies to flight. All this renews in my memory the history of our fatherland - the sad history of those times when the ferocious Tatars and Lithuanians devastated the environs of the Russian capital with fire and sword and when unfortunate Moscow, like a defenseless widow, expected help from God alone in its cruel disasters.
But most often what attracts me to the walls of the Si...nova Monastery is the memory of the deplorable fate of Lisa, poor Lisa. Oh! I love those objects that touch my heart and make me shed tears of tender sorrow!
Seventy yards from the monastery wall, near a birch grove, in the middle of a green meadow, there stands an empty hut, without doors, without endings, without a floor; the roof had long since rotted and collapsed. In this hut, thirty years before, the beautiful, amiable Liza lived with her old woman, her mother.
Lizin's father was a fairly prosperous villager, because he loved work, plowed the land well and always led a sober life. But soon after his death, his wife and daughter became poor. The lazy hand of the mercenary poorly cultivated the field, and the grain ceased to be produced well. They were forced to rent out their land, and for very little money. Moreover, the poor widow, almost constantly shedding tears over the death of her husband - for even peasant women know how to love! — day by day she became weaker and could not work at all. Only Lisa, who remained after her father for fifteen years, - only Lisa, not sparing her tender youth, not sparing her rare beauty, worked day and night - weaved canvas, knitted stockings, picked flowers in the spring, and took berries in the summer - and sold them in Moscow. The sensitive, kind old woman, seeing her daughter’s tirelessness, often pressed her to her weakly beating heart, called her divine mercy, nurse, the joy of her old age, and prayed to God to reward her for all that she does for her mother.
“God gave me hands to work,” said Lisa, “you fed me with your breasts and followed me when I was a child; Now it’s my turn to follow you. Just stop breaking down, stop crying; Our tears will not revive the priests.”
But often tender Liza could not hold back her own tears - ah! she remembered that she had a father and that he was gone, but to reassure her mother she tried to hide the sadness of her heart and seem calm and cheerful. “In the next world, dear Liza,” answered the sad old woman, “in the next world I will stop crying. There, they say, everyone will be happy; I’ll probably be happy when I see your father, but now I don’t want to die - what will happen to you without me? To whom should I leave you? No, God grant that we get you a place first! Maybe a kind person will soon be found. Then, having blessed you, my dear children, I will cross myself and calmly lie down in the damp earth.”
Two years have passed since the death of Lizin's father. The meadows were covered with flowers, and Lisa came to Moscow with lilies of the valley. A young, well-dressed, pleasant-looking man met her on the street. She showed him the flowers and blushed. “Are you selling them, girl?” - he asked with a smile. “I’m selling,” she answered. “What do you need?” - “Five kopecks?” - “It's too cheap. Here's a ruble for you." Lisa was surprised, dared to look at the young man, blushed even more and, looking down at the ground, told him that she would not take the ruble. “For what?” - “I don’t need anything extra.” “I think that beautiful lilies of the valley, plucked by the hands of a beautiful girl, are worth a ruble. When you don’t take it, here’s your five kopecks. I would like to always buy flowers from you; I would like you to pick them just for me,” Lisa gave the flowers, took five kopecks, bowed and wanted to go, but the stranger stopped her by the hand; “Where are you going, girl?” - “Home” - “Where is your home?” Lisa said where she lived, said and went. The young man did not want to hold her, perhaps so that those passing by began to stop and, looking at them, grinned insidiously.
When Liza came home, she told her mother what had happened to her: “You did well not to take the ruble. Maybe it was some bad person..." - Oh no, mother! I don’t think so.” He has such a kind face; such a voice...” - “However, Liza, it’s better to feed yourself by your labors and not take anything for nothing. You still don’t know, my friend, how evil people can offend a poor girl! My heart is always in the wrong place when you go to town; I always put a candle in front of the image and pray to the Lord God that he will protect you from all trouble and adversity.” Tears welled up in Lisa's eyes; she kissed her mother.
The next day Lisa picked the best lilies of the valley and again went into town with them. Her eyes were quietly searching for something.
Many wanted to buy flowers from her, but she replied that they were not for sale, and looked first in one direction or the other. Evening came, it was time to return home, and the flowers were thrown into the Moscow River. “No one owns you!” - said Lisa, feeling some sadness in her heart.
The next day in the evening she was sitting under the window, spinning and singing plaintive songs in a quiet voice, but suddenly she jumped up and shouted: “Ah!..” A young stranger stood under the window.
“What happened to you? “asked the frightened mother, who was sitting next to her. “Nothing,” mother, answered Lisa in a timid voice, “I just saw him.” - "Whom?" - “The gentleman who bought flowers from me.” The old woman looked out the window.
The young man bowed to her so courteously, with such a pleasant air, that she could not think anything but good things about him. “Hello, kind old lady! - he said. - I am very tired; Do you have any fresh milk? The helpful Liza, without waiting for an answer from her mother - perhaps because she knew it in advance - ran to the cellar - brought a clean jar covered with a clean wooden mug - grabbed a glass, washed it, wiped it with a white towel, poured it and served it out the window, but she was looking at the ground. The stranger drank, and the nectar from Hebe’s hands could not have seemed tastier to him. Everyone will guess that after that he thanked Lisa, and thanked her not so much with words as with his eyes.
Meanwhile, the good-natured old woman managed to tell him about her grief and consolation - about the death of her husband and about the sweet qualities of her daughter, about her hard work and tenderness, and so on. and so on. He listened to her with attention, but his eyes were and should I say where? And Liza, timid Liza, glanced occasionally at the young man; but not so quickly the lightning flashes and disappears in the cloud, as quickly her blue eyes turn to the ground, meeting his gaze. “I would like,” he told his mother, “that your daughter would not sell her work to Nikon, except me. Thus, she will have no need to go to the city often, and you will not be forced to part with her. I can come and see you from time to time.” Here a joy flashed in Liza’s eyes, which she tried in vain to hide; her cheeks glowed like the dawn on a clear summer evening; she looked at her left sleeve and pinched it with her right hand. The old woman willingly accepted this offer, not suspecting any bad intention in it, and assured the stranger that the linen woven by Lisa, and the stockings knitted by Lisa, were excellent and last longer than any others.
“Poor Lisa” read online
Karamzin N M
Poor Lisa
Perhaps no one living in Moscow knows the surroundings of this city as well as I do, because no one is in the field more often than me, no one more than me wanders on foot, without a plan, without a goal - wherever the eyes look - through the meadows and groves , over hills and plains. Every summer I find new pleasant places or new beauty in old ones. But the most pleasant place for me is the place where the gloomy, Gothic towers of the Si...nova Monastery rise. Standing on this mountain, you see on the right side almost the whole of Moscow, this terrible mass of houses and churches, which appears to the eye in the form of a majestic amphitheater: a magnificent picture, especially when the sun shines on it, when its evening rays glow on countless golden domes, on countless crosses ascending to the sky! Below are lush, densely green flowering meadows, and behind them, along the yellow sands, flows a bright river, agitated by the light oars of fishing boats or rustling under the helm of heavy plows that sail from the most fertile countries of the Russian Empire and supply greedy Moscow with bread.
On the other side of the river one can see an oak grove, near which numerous herds graze; there young shepherds, sitting under the shade of trees, sing simple, sad songs and thereby shorten the summer days, so uniform for them. Further away, in the dense greenery of ancient elms, the golden-domed Danilov Monastery shines; even further, almost at the edge of the horizon, the Sparrow Hills are blue. On the left side you can see vast fields covered with grain, forests, three or four villages and in the distance the village of Kolomenskoye with its high palace.
I often come to this place and almost always see spring there;
I come there and grieve with nature on the dark days of autumn. The winds howl terribly within the walls of the deserted monastery, between the coffins overgrown with tall grass, and in the dark passages of the cells. There, leaning on the ruins of tombstones, I listen to the dull groan of times, swallowed up by the abyss of the past - a groan from which my heart shudders and trembles. Sometimes I enter cells and imagine those who lived in them - sad pictures! Here I see a gray-haired old man, kneeling before the crucifix and praying for a quick release from his earthly shackles, for all the pleasures in life had disappeared for him, all his feelings had died, except for the feeling of illness and weakness. There a young monk - with a pale face, with a languid gaze - looks into the field through the lattice of the window, sees cheerful birds swimming freely in the sea of air, sees - and sheds bitter tears from his eyes. He languishes, withers, dries up - and the sad ringing of a bell announces to me his untimely death. Sometimes on the gates of the temple I look at the image of miracles that happened in this monastery, where fish fall from the sky to feed the inhabitants of the monastery, besieged by numerous enemies; here the image of the Mother of God puts the enemies to flight. All this renews in my memory the history of our fatherland - the sad history of those times when the ferocious Tatars and Lithuanians devastated the environs of the Russian capital with fire and sword and when unfortunate Moscow, like a defenseless widow, expected help from God alone in its cruel disasters.
