Natalya, boyar's daughter

Natalya, boyar's daughter - Karamzin N.M.

Who among us does not love those times when Russians were Russians, when they dressed up in their own clothes, walked with their own gait, lived according to their own customs, spoke in their own language and according to their own hearts, that is, they spoke as they thought? At least I love these times; I love to fly on the swift wings of imagination into their distant gloom, under the canopy of long-decayed elms, to look for my long-bearded ancestors, to talk with them about the adventures of antiquity, about the character of the glorious Russian people, and to tenderly kiss the hands of my great-grandmothers, who cannot get enough of their respectful great-grandson , but they can talk to me and be amazed at my intelligence, because when I talk with them about old and new fashions, I always give preference to their undercuts,[1] and fur coats over the current bonnets[2] a la... and all the Gallo-Albion outfits [3] shining on Moscow beauties at the end of the eighth century. Thus (of course, understandable to all readers), old Rus' is known to me more than to many of my fellow citizens, and if the gloomy Parka does not cut the thread of my life for a few more years, then finally I will not find a place in my head for all the anecdotes and stories told to me by the inhabitants of past centuries. To lighten a little the burden of my memory, I intend to tell dear readers one true story or story that I heard in the region of shadows, in the realm of imagination, from my grandfather’s grandmother, who at one time was considered very eloquent and almost every evening she told fairy tales to Queen NN. I’m just afraid of disfiguring her story; I’m afraid that the old woman will come rushing on a cloud from the other world and punish me with her stick for bad rhetoric... Oh no! Forgive my recklessness, generous shadow - you are inconvenient for such a thing! In your very earthly life you were meek and gentle, like a young lamb; your hand did not kill here either a mosquito or a fly, and the butterfly always rested calmly on your nose: so, is it possible that now, when you are swimming in a sea of indescribable bliss and breathing the purest ether of the sky, is it possible that your hand will rise to your humble great-great-grandson? No! You will allow him to freely practice the commendable craft of staining paper, making tall tales about the living and the dead, testing the patience of his readers, and finally, like the ever-yawning god Morpheus, throwing them onto soft sofas and plunging them into deep sleep... Ah! At this very moment I see an extraordinary light in my dark corridor, I see fiery circles that are spinning with brilliance and a crackling sound and, finally - lo and behold! - show me your image, the image of indescribable beauty, indescribable majesty! Your eyes shine like the sun; your lips turn red like the morning dawn, like the tops of snowy mountains at the rising of the daylight - you smile, like a young creation smiled on the first day of its existence, and in delight I hear your sweetly thundering words: “Continue, my dear great-great-grandson!” So, I will continue, I will; and, armed with a pen, I will courageously write the story of Natalya, the boyar’s daughter. “But first I must rest; the delight into which the appearance of my great-great-grandmother brought me exhausted my spiritual strength. I put down my pen for a few minutes - and let these written lines be an introduction, or a preface!

In the capital city of the glorious Russian kingdom, in white-stone Moscow, lived the boyar Matvey Andreev, a rich, intelligent man, a faithful servant of the king and, according to Russian custom, a great hospitable man. He owned many estates and was not an offender, but a patron and protector of his poor neighbors - which in our enlightened times, perhaps, not everyone will believe, but which in the old days was not at all considered a rarity. The king called him his right eye, and the right eye never deceived the king. When he had to sort out an important litigation, he called on boyar Matvey to help him, and boyar Matvey, laying a clean hand on a clean heart, said: “This one is right (not according to such and such a decree that took place in such and such a year, but) according to my conscience; this one is guilty according to my conscience” - and his conscience was always in agreement with the truth and with the royal conscience. The matter was decided without delay: the right one raised his teary eye of gratitude to the sky, pointing his hand at the good sovereign and the good boyar, and the guilty one ran into the dense forests to hide his shame from people.

We still cannot remain silent about one commendable custom of the boyar Matvey, a custom that is worthy of imitation in every century and in every kingdom, namely, on every twelfth holiday [4] long tables were set up in his upper rooms, covered with clean tablecloths, and the boyar, sitting on a bench near his high gate, he invited all the passing poor [5] people to dine, as many of them could fit in the boyar’s dwelling; then, having collected the full number, he returned to the house and, indicating a place for each guest, sat down between them. Here, in one minute, bowls and dishes appeared on the tables, and the aromatic steam of the hot food, like a thin white cloud, hovered over the heads of the diners. Meanwhile, the owner talked kindly with the guests, learned their needs, gave them good advice, offered his services and finally had fun with them as with friends. So in ancient patriarchal times, when the human age was not so short, an old man adorned with venerable gray hairs was satisfied with earthly blessings with his numerous family - he looked around him and, seeing on every face, in every gaze, a living image of love and joy, he admired in his soul. - After dinner, all the poor brothers, having filled their glasses with wine, exclaimed in one voice: “Good, good boyar and our father! We drink to your health! How many drops are in our glasses, live happily for so many years!” They drank, and their grateful tears dripped onto the white tablecloth.

Such was the boyar Matvey, a faithful servant of the king, a faithful friend of humanity. He had already passed sixty years, the blood was already circulating more slowly in his veins, the quiet fluttering of his heart heralded the onset of the evening of life and the approach of night - but is it good to be afraid of this thick, impenetrable darkness in which human days are lost? Should he be afraid of his shady path when his good heart is with him, when his good deeds are with him? He walks forward fearlessly, enjoys the last rays of the setting sun, turns his calm gaze to the past and with a joyful - albeit dark, but no less joyful foreboding - sets his foot into the unknown. - People's love, royal mercy were the reward of the virtuous old boyar; but the crown of his happiness and joy was the dear Natalya, his only daughter. He had long mourned her mother, who fell asleep in eternal sleep in his arms, but the cypresses of conjugal love were covered with the flowers of parental love - in young Natalya he saw a new image of the deceased, and, instead of bitter tears of sadness, sweet tears of tenderness shone in his eyes. There are many flowers in the field, in the groves and in the green meadows, but there is nothing like the rose; the rose is the most beautiful of all; There were many beauties in white-stone Moscow, for the Russian kingdom has been revered from time immemorial as a home of beauty and pleasures, but no beauty could compare with Natalya - Natalya was the most beautiful of all. Let the reader imagine the whiteness of Italian marble and Caucasian snow: he still will not imagine the whiteness of her face - and, imagining the color of her marshmallow mistress, [6] he will still not have a perfect idea of the scarlet of Natalya’s cheeks. I am afraid to continue the comparison so as not to bore the reader with repetition of the familiar, for in our luxurious times the store of poetic likenings of beauty has become very depleted, and more than one writer bites his pen out of frustration, looking for and not finding new ones. It is enough to know that the most pious old men, seeing the boyar’s daughter at mass, forgot to bow to the ground, and the most partial mothers gave her priority over their daughters. Socrates said that physical beauty is always an image of spiritual beauty. We must believe Socrates, for he was, firstly, a skilled sculptor (hence, he knew the attributes of bodily beauty), and secondly, a sage or lover of wisdom (hence, he knew spiritual beauty well). At least our lovely Natalya had a lovely soul, was gentle as a turtle dove, innocent as a lamb, sweet as the month of May; in a word, she had all the qualities of a well-bred girl, although the Russians at that time did not read either Locke’s “On Education” or Russov’s “Emile” - firstly, because these authors were not yet in the world, and secondly, because they were poorly literate - they didn’t read and raised their children as nature raises grass and flowers, that is, they watered and fed them, leaving everything else to the mercy of fate, but this fate was merciful to them and for the power of attorney that they had to her omnipotence, she almost always rewarded them with kind children, consolation and support for their old days.

Nikolai Karamzin - Natalya, the boyar's daughter

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Nikolai Mikhailovich Karamzin

Natalya, boyar's daughter

Who among us does not love those times when Russians were Russians, when they dressed up in their own clothes, walked with their own gait, lived according to their own customs, spoke in their own language and according to their own hearts, that is, they spoke as they thought? At least I love these times; I love to fly on the swift wings of imagination into their distant gloom, under the canopy of long-decayed elms, to look for my long-bearded ancestors, to talk with them about the adventures of antiquity, about the character of the glorious Russian people, and to tenderly kiss the hands of my great-grandmothers, who cannot get enough of their respectful great-grandson , but they can talk to me and be amazed at my intelligence, because when I talk with them about old and new fashions, I always give preference to their undercuts,[1] and fur coats over the current bonnets[2] a la... and all the Gallo-Albion outfits [3] shining on Moscow beauties at the end of the eighth century. Thus (of course, understandable to all readers), old Rus' is known to me more than to many of my fellow citizens, and if the gloomy Parka does not cut the thread of my life for a few more years, then finally I will not find a place in my head for all the anecdotes and stories told to me by the inhabitants of past centuries. To lighten a little the burden of my memory, I intend to tell dear readers one true story or story that I heard in the region of shadows, in the realm of imagination, from my grandfather’s grandmother, who at one time was considered very eloquent and almost every evening she told fairy tales to Queen NN. I’m just afraid of disfiguring her story; I’m afraid that the old woman will come rushing on a cloud from the other world and punish me with her stick for bad rhetoric... Oh no! Forgive my recklessness, generous shadow - you are inconvenient for such a thing! In your very earthly life you were meek and gentle, like a young lamb; your hand did not kill here either a mosquito or a fly, and the butterfly always rested calmly on your nose: so, is it possible that now, when you are swimming in a sea of indescribable bliss and breathing the purest ether of the sky, is it possible that your hand will rise to your humble great-great-grandson? No! You will allow him to freely practice the commendable craft of staining paper, making tall tales about the living and the dead, testing the patience of his readers, and finally, like the ever-yawning god Morpheus, throwing them onto soft sofas and plunging them into deep sleep... Ah! At this very moment I see an extraordinary light in my dark corridor, I see fiery circles that are spinning with brilliance and a crackling sound and, finally - lo and behold! - show me your image, the image of indescribable beauty, indescribable majesty! Your eyes shine like the suns; your lips turn red like the morning dawn, like the tops of snowy mountains at the rising of the daylight - you smile, like a young creation smiled on the first day of its existence, and in delight I hear your sweetly thundering words: “Continue, my dear great-great-grandson!” So, I will continue, I will; and, armed with a pen, I will courageously write the story of Natalya, the boyar’s daughter. “But first I must rest; the delight into which the appearance of my great-great-grandmother brought me exhausted my spiritual strength. I put down my pen for a few minutes - and let these written lines be an introduction, or a preface!

One great psychologist, whose name I really don’t remember, said that the description of a person’s daily exercises is the truest image of his heart. At least I think so, and with the permission of my dear readers I will describe how Natalya, the boyar’s daughter, spent her time from sunrise to sunset of the red sun. As soon as the first rays of this magnificent luminary appeared from behind the morning cloud, pouring liquid, intangible gold onto the quiet earth, our beauty awakened, opened her black eyes and, having crossed herself with white satin, with her bare arm up to her tender elbow, stood up and put on a thin silk robe. dress, a damask padded jacket and with flowing dark brown hair, she approached the round window of her high mansion to look at the beautiful picture of animated nature - to look at the golden-domed Moscow, from which the radiant day was removing the foggy cover of the night and which, like some huge bird , awakened by the voice of the morning, shook off the shining dew in the breeze - look at the Moscow surroundings, at the gloomy, dense, boundless Maryina Grove, which, like gray, curly smoke, was lost from sight in an immeasurable distance and where all the wild animals lived then north, where their terrible roar drowned out the melodies of the singing birds. On the other hand, Natalya saw the sparkling bends of the Moscow River, flowering fields and smoking villages, from where hardworking villagers went to work with cheerful songs - villagers who to this day have not changed in anything, dress the same way, live the same way they work as they lived and worked before, and among all the changes and disguises they still present to us the true Russian physiognomy. Natalya looked, leaning on the window, and felt quiet joy in her heart; she did not know how to eloquently praise nature, but she knew how to enjoy it; She was silent and thought: “How beautiful is white-stone Moscow! How beautiful are her circles!” But Natalya did not think that she herself was most beautiful in her morning attire. Young blood, heated by nightly dreams, painted her tender cheeks with the scariest blush, the sun's rays played on her white face and, penetrating through black, fluffy eyelashes, shone in her eyes brighter than on gold. Her hair, like dark coffee velvet, lay on her shoulders and on her white, half-open chest, but soon a lovely modesty, ashamed of the very sun, the very breeze, the very silent walls, covered it with a thin linen. Then she woke up her nanny, the faithful servant of her late mother. “Get up, mom! - Natalya said. “They will announce mass soon.” Mom got up, got dressed, called her young lady an early bird, washed her with spring water, combed her long hair with a white bone comb, braided it into a braid and decorated the head of our charmer with a pearl bandage. Thus equipped, they waited for the good news and, having locked their little room with a lock (so that in their absence some unkind person would not creep into it), they went to mass. “Every day?” the reader will ask. Of course - such was the custom in the old days - and was it possible that in the winter one severe blizzard, and in the summer torrential rain and thunderstorms could then keep the red maiden from fulfilling this pious duty. Always standing in the corner of the meal,[7] Natalya prayed to God with zeal and meanwhile looked from under her brows to the right and to the left. In the old days there were no clubs, [8] or masquerades, where people now go to show off and watch others; So, where, if not in church, could a curious girl then look at people? After mass, Natalya always gave out a few kopecks to poor people and came to her parent to kiss his hand with tender love. The old man cried with joy, seeing that his daughter was becoming better and sweeter day by day, and did not know how to thank God for such an invaluable gift, for such a treasure. Natalya sat next to him, either sewing in a hoop, or weaving lace, or knotting silk, or threading a necklace. The tender parent wanted to look at her work, but instead looked at her and enjoyed silent tenderness. Reader! Do you know from your own experience the feelings of parenting? If not, then at least remember how your eyes admired the colorful carnation or the white yasmin you planted, with what pleasure you looked at their colors and shadows and how happy you were with the thought: “This is my flower; I planted it and raised it!”, remember and know that it is even more fun for a father to look at his sweet daughter and more fun to think: “She is mine!” – After a hearty Russian lunch, boyar Matvey went to rest, and let his daughter and her mother go for a walk either in the garden or in the large green meadow, where the Red Gate now stands with trumpeting Glory. Natalya picked flowers, admired the flying butterflies, ate the fragrance of herbs, returned home cheerful and calm, and began her needlework again. Evening came - a new party, a new pleasure; sometimes young friends came to share cool hours with her[9] and talk about all sorts of things. The good boyar Matvey himself was their interlocutor if state or necessary household affairs did not occupy his time. His gray beard did not frighten young beauties; he knew how to amuse them in a pleasant way and told them the adventures of the pious Prince Vladimir and the mighty Russian heroes.

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Natalya, boyar's daughter

The next, third day they went to mass again, saw who they wanted to see, returned home and at the gate said with a tender gaze: “Forgive me!” But the heart of a red girl is an amazing thing: the more content it is now, the more dissatisfied it will be tomorrow - more and more, and there is no end to desires. Thus, it seemed to Natalya that it was not enough to look at the beautiful stranger and see tenderness in his eyes; she wanted to hear his voice, take his hand, be closer to his heart, and so on. What to do? What should I do? It is difficult to eradicate such desires, and when they are not fulfilled, the beauty becomes sad. Natalya began to cry again. Fate, fate! Won't you take pity on her? Do you really want her bright eyes to fade from tears? Let's see what happens.

One day before the evening, when boyar Matvey was not at home, Natalya saw through the window that their gate had dissolved - a man in a blue caftan entered, and the work fell from the Natalyas’ hands, for this man was a wonderful stranger. "Nanny! - she said in a weak voice. - Who is this?" The nanny looked, smiled and went out.

"He is here! Nanny grinned and went to him, that’s right, to him - oh, my God! What will happen?" - Natalya thought, looked out the window and saw that the young man had already entered the entryway. Her heart flew to meet him, but timidity told her: “Stay!” The beauty obeyed this last voice, only with painful compulsion, with great anguish, for the most unbearable thing is to resist the desire of the heart. She got up, walked around, took on this and that, and a quarter of an hour seemed like a year to her. Finally the door opened, and its creak shook Natalya’s soul. The nanny came in, looked at the young lady, smiled and didn’t say a word. The beauty also did not begin to speak and only asked with one timid glance: “What, nanny? What?" The old woman seemed to be amused by her embarrassment, her impatience - she was silent for a long time and after a few minutes she said to her: “Do you know, young lady, that this young man is sick?” - "Is ill? How?" – Natalya asked, and the color in her face changed. “He is very sick,” the nanny continued, “his heart hurts so much that the poor man can neither drink nor eat, he is as pale as a sheet and walks with difficulty. They told him that I have a cure for this disease, and for this he came to me, crying bitter tears and asking me to help him. Would you believe, young lady, that tears welled up in my eyes? Such a pity! - “What, nanny? Did you give him medicine? - “No, I told you to wait.” - “Wait? Where?" - “In our entryway.” - “Is it possible? It's very cold there; It’s blowing from all sides, and he’s sick!” - “What should I do? Below we have such a child that he could burn to death; Where should I take him while I prepare the medicine? Is it here? Would you order him to enter the tower? It will be a good deed, young lady; he is an honest man - he will pray to God for you and will never forget your mercy. Now the priest is not at home - it’s twilight, it’s dark - no one will see, and there is no trouble: after all, only in fairy tales are men terrible for red-haired girls! What do you think, madam? Natalya (I don’t know why) trembled and answered her in an intermittent voice: “I think... whatever you want... you know better than me.” Then the nanny opened the door - and the young man threw himself at Natalya’s feet. The beauty gasped and her eyes closed for a minute; the white arms hung and the head bowed to the high chest. The stranger dared to kiss her hand, another, a third time - he dared to kiss the beauty on her pink lips, another, a third time, and with such fervor that the mother was frightened and shouted: “Master! Master! Remember the agreement! Natalya opened her black eyes, which first of all met the black eyes of the stranger, for at that moment they were closest to them; Both of them depicted fiery feelings, a boiling heart of love. Natalya could hardly raise her head to relieve her chest with a sigh. Then the young man began to speak - not in the language of novels, but in the language of true sensitivity; He said in simple, gentle, passionate words that he saw and fell in love with her, loved her so much that he could not be happy and did not want to live without her reciprocal love. The beauty was silent; only her heart and eyes spoke - but the incredulous stranger wanted more verbal confirmation and, on his knees, asked her: “Natalya, beautiful Natalya! Do you love me? Your answer will decide my fate: I can be the happiest person in the world, or the noisy Moscow River will be my coffin.” - “Oh, young lady! - said the compassionate nanny. - Answer quickly that you like him! Do you really want to destroy his soul? “You are dear to my heart,” Natalya said in a gentle voice, placing her hand on his shoulder. “God grant,” she said, raising her eyes to the sky and turning them back to the admiring stranger, “God grant that I be just as sweet to you!” They hugged each other; it seemed as if their breathing had stopped. Whoever has seen how chaste lovers embrace for the first time, how a virtuous girl kisses her dear friend for the first time, forgetting for the first time her girlish modesty, let him imagine this picture; I don’t dare describe her, but she was touching - the old nanny herself, witnessing such a phenomenon, shed two drops of tears and forgot to remind her lover about the agreement, but the goddess of purity was present invisibly in Natalya’s tower.

After the first minutes of silent delight, the young man, looking at the beauty, burst into tears. "You are crying?" - Natalya said in a gentle voice, bowing her head to his shoulder. "Oh! I must open my heart to you, lovely Natalya![4] - he answered. “It is not yet completely sure of its happiness.” - “What does he need?” – Natalya asked and eagerly awaited the answer. “Promise that you will fulfill my demand.” - “Tell me, tell me, what is it? I will fulfill, I will do everything that you tell me.” “Tonight, when the month has set,” while the first roosters crow, “I will arrive in a sleigh at your gate, you must come out to me and ride with me; This is what I demand from you!” - "Drive? Tonight? Where?" - “First to the church, where we will get married, and then to where I live.” - "How? Without my father's knowledge? Without his blessing? - “Without his knowledge, without his blessing, or I died!” - “Oh my God!.. My heart sank. Leave quietly from your parents' house? What will happen to the priest? He will die of grief, and a terrible sin will remain on my soul. Dear friend! Why don't we throw ourselves at his feet? He will love you, bless you and let us go to church himself.” “We will throw ourselves at his feet, but after a while. Now he cannot agree to our marriage. My very life will be in danger when they recognize me.” - “When will they recognize you? You, dear to my soul?.. My God! How angry people are if you tell the truth! I just can't believe it. Tell me what is your name? - “Alexey.” - “Alexey? I've always loved this name. What’s the harm if they recognize you?” “Everything will be known to you when you agree to make me happy. Adorable, dear Natalya! Time passes, I can’t be with you any longer. So that your parent, whom I myself love and honor for his good deeds, so that your parent does not grieve and consider his daughter dead, I will write a letter to him and notify him that you are alive and that he can see you soon. Tell me, tell me, what do you want: my life or death?” At these words, spoken in a firm voice, he stood up and looked at the beauty with fiery, fiery eyes. "Are you asking me? - she said with sensitivity. “Didn’t I promise to obey you?” From infancy I got used to loving my parent, because he loves me too, very, very much (here Natalya wiped away her tears, which one after another were dripping from her eyes with a handkerchief), “I’ve known you only recently, but I love you even more: how is that happened, I don’t know.” Alexei hugged her with new admiration, took the gold ring from his hand, put it on Natalya’s hand, and said: “You are mine!” – and disappeared like lightning. The old nanny escorted him out of the yard.

Together with the reader, we sincerely blame Natalya, we sincerely blame her for the fact that, having seen only three times a young man and heard a few pleasant words from him, she suddenly decided to run away with him from her parents’ house, not knowing where, - to entrust her fate to a stranger , who, according to his own speeches, could be considered suspicious, - and what’s most important is to leave his kind, sensitive, gentle father... But such is terrible love! It can turn the most virtuous person into a criminal! And whoever, having loved passionately in his life, has not acted in anything against strict morality, is happy! Happy that his passion was not in opposition to virtue, otherwise the latter would have admitted its weakness and tears of vain repentance would have flowed like a river. The annals of the human heart assure us of this sad truth.

As for the nanny, the young man (after he saw Natalya in the church) found a way to talk to her and won her over to his side with various magnificent promises and gifts. Alas! People, especially in old age, are greedy for silver and gold. The old woman forgot that she served blamelessly and faithfully in the house of the boyar Matvey for more than forty years - she forgot and sold herself to a stranger. However, out of some remaining honesty, she made him promise to marry the beautiful Natalya and until that time not to use her love and innocence for evil.

Natalya, after her lover left, stood motionless for several minutes; on her face there were visible signs of strong emotional movements, but no doubt, no hesitation - for she had already made up her mind! And although a quiet voice from the depths of her heart, as if from a distant cave, asked her: “What are you doing, reckless?”, another voice, much stronger, in the same heart answered for her: “I love you!”

The nanny returned and tried to calm Natalya down, telling her that she would be the wife of a handsome young man and that, according to the law itself, a wife must leave everything and forget everything for her husband. "Forget? – Natalya interrupted, listening to the last words. - No! I will remember my parent, I will pray for him every day. Besides, he said that we would soon throw ourselves at the father’s feet, isn’t that right, nanny?” - “Of course, young lady! - answered the old woman. “And what he said will happen.” - “That’s right, it will be!” – Natalya said, and her face became more cheerful.

Boyar Matvey returned home late and, thinking that his daughter was already sleeping, did not go to her mansion. Midnight was approaching - Natalya was not thinking about sleep, but about her dear friend, to whom she had given her heart forever and whom she was looking forward to coming to her. Another month shone in the sky - the month, which had always amused her eyes, now became unpleasant to her; Now the beauty was thinking: “How slowly do you roll across the round sky? Come quickly, it’s a bright month! He, he will come for me when you hide! The moon sank - part of it had already gone beyond the circle of the earth - the darkness in the air thickened - the roosters crowed - the month disappeared, and a silver ring was rattled at the boyar gates. Natalya shuddered. “Oh, nanny! Run, run quickly; he has arrived! A minute later a young man appeared, and Natalya threw herself into his arms. “Here is a letter to your parent,” he said, showing the paper. “A letter to my parent? Oh! Read it! I want to hear what you wrote." The young man unfolded the paper and read the following lines: “I love your dear daughter more than anything in the world - you would not agree to give her up for me - she is coming with me - forgive us! “Love is stronger than anything—perhaps in time I will be worthy to be called your son-in-law.” Natalya took the letter and, although she did not know how to read, she nevertheless looked at it, and tears flowed from her eyes. “Write,” she said, “write also that I ask him not to cry, not to break down, and that this paper is wet from my tears; write that I am not free in myself and so that he either forgets or forgives me.”

The young man took a pen and inkwell from his pocket, wrote what Natalya said, and left the letter on the table. Then the beauty, putting on her fox fur coat, praying to God, taking with her the image with which her late mother blessed her, and giving her hand to her happy lover, left the mansion, descended from the high porch, from the yard, looked at her parents’ house, wiped away her last tears , sat down in the sleigh, snuggled up to my sweetheart and said: “Take me wherever you want!” The coachman hit the horses, and the horses rushed off, but suddenly a plaintive voice was heard: “They abandoned me, me, poor, unfortunate!” The young man looked around and saw a running nanny, who had remained in the room for a minute to tidy up some of Natalya’s precious things, and whom our lovers had completely forgotten. The horses were held back, the old woman was seated, they galloped off again, and a quarter of an hour later they left Moscow. On the right side of the road, in the distance, a light shone; They turned there, and Natalya saw a low wooden church covered with snow. Alexey (the reader has not forgotten the name of the young man) - Alexey led his mistress into the interior of this dilapidated temple, illuminated by one small, weakly burning lamp. There they were met by an old priest, bent by the burden of years, and in a trembling voice told them: “I have been waiting for you for a long time, dear children! my grandson has already fallen asleep.” He woke up the boy who was sleeping in the corner of the church, placed the lovers in front of the table and began to marry them. The boy read, sang as needed, looked with surprise at the bride and groom and trembled at every gust of wind that rustled through the thin window of the church. Alexey and Natalya prayed earnestly and, pronouncing their vow, looked at each other with tenderness and sweet tears. After the ceremony was completed, the elderly priest said to the newlyweds: “I don’t know and don’t ask who you are, but in the name of the great God, whom the darkness of the night and the sound of the storm preaches to us (at that moment the wind began to rustle terribly), - in the name of the incomprehensible, terrible for the wicked, for the kind and merciful, I promise you prosperity in life if you always love each other, for conjugal love is holy love, pleasing to God, and whoever observes it in a pure heart - it cannot live in an unclean one - is pleasing to the Almighty. Come in peace and remember my words!” The newlyweds accepted the blessing from the elder, kissed his hand, kissed each other, left the church and drove off.

Read online “Natalia, the Boyar’s Daughter”

Nikolay Karamzin

Natalya, boyar's daughter

In the capital city of the glorious Russian kingdom, in white-stone Moscow, lived the boyar Matvey Andreev, a rich, intelligent man, a faithful servant of the king and, according to Russian custom, a great hospitable man. He owned many estates and was not an offender, but a patron and protector of his poor neighbors, which in our enlightened times, perhaps, not everyone would believe, but which in the old days was not at all considered a rarity. The king called him his right eye, and the right eye never deceived the king. When he had to sort out an important litigation, he called on boyar Matvey to help him, and boyar Matvey, laying a clean hand on a clean heart, said: “This one is right (not according to such and such a decree that took place in such and such a year, but) according to my conscience; this one is guilty according to my conscience” - and his conscience was always in agreement with the truth and with the royal conscience. The matter was resolved without delay: the right one raised his teary eye of gratitude to the sky, pointing his hand at the good sovereign and the good boyar, and the guilty one ran into the dense forests to hide his shame from people.

Such was the boyar Matvey, a faithful servant of the king, a faithful friend of humanity. He had already passed sixty years, the blood was already circulating more slowly in his veins, the quiet fluttering of his heart heralded the onset of the evening of life and the approach of night - but is it good to be afraid of this thick, impenetrable darkness in which human days are lost? Should he be afraid of his shady path when his good heart is with him, when his good deeds are with him? He walks forward fearlessly, enjoys the last rays of the setting sun, turns his calm gaze to the past and with a joyful - albeit dark, but no less joyful foreboding - sets his foot into the unknown. People's love and royal mercy were the reward of the old boyar's virtues; but the crown of his happiness and joy was the dear Natalya, his only daughter. He had long mourned her mother, who fell asleep in eternal sleep in his arms, but the cypresses of conjugal love were covered with the flowers of parental love - in young Natalya he saw a new image of the deceased, and instead of bitter tears of sadness, sweet tears of tenderness shone in his eyes. There are many flowers in the field, in the groves and in the green meadows, but there is nothing like the rose; the rose is the most beautiful of all; There were many beauties in white-stone Moscow, for the Russian kingdom has been revered from time immemorial as a home of beauty and pleasures, but no beauty could compare with Natalya - Natalya was the most beautiful of all. Let the reader imagine the whiteness of Italian marble and Caucasian snow: he still will not imagine the whiteness of her face - and, imagining the color of her marshmallow mistress, he will still not have a perfect idea of the scarlet of Natalya’s cheeks. I am afraid to continue the comparison, so as not to bore the reader with repetition of the familiar, for in our luxurious times the store of poetic likenings of beauty has become very depleted, and more than one writer bites his pen out of frustration, looking for and not finding new ones. It is enough to know that the most pious old men, seeing the boyar’s daughter at mass, forgot to bow to the ground, and the most partial mothers gave her priority over their daughters. Socrates said that physical beauty is always an image of spiritual beauty. We must believe Socrates, for he was, firstly, a skilled sculptor (hence, he knew the attributes of bodily beauty), and secondly, a sage or lover of wisdom (hence, he knew spiritual beauty well). At least our lovely Natalya had a lovely soul, was gentle as a turtledove, innocent as a lamb, sweet as the month of May: in a word, she had all the qualities of a well-bred girl, although the Russians at that time had not read either Locke’s On Education or Rousseau “Emil” - firstly, because these authors were not yet in the world, and secondly, because they did not know how to read and write, they did not read and raised their children, as nature raises herbs and flowers, then they were fed and watered, leaving everything else to the mercy of fate, but this fate was merciful to them and for the trust that they had in its omnipotence, it almost always rewarded them with kind children, consolation and support for their old days.

. Thus equipped, they waited for the good news and, having locked the room with a lock (so that in their absence some unkind person would not creep in), they went to mass. "Every day?" – the reader will ask. Of course - such was the custom in the old days - and was it possible that in the winter one severe blizzard, and in the summer torrential rain and thunderstorms could then keep the red maiden from fulfilling this pious duty. Always standing in the corner of the meal, Natalya prayed to God with zeal and meanwhile looked from under her brows to the right and to the left. In the old days there were no clubs or masquerades, where people now go to show off and watch others; So, where, if not in church, could a curious girl then look at people? After mass, Natalya always gave out a few kopecks to poor people and came to her parent to kiss his hand with tender love. The elder cried with joy, seeing that his daughter was becoming better and sweeter day by day, and did not know how to thank God for such an invaluable gift, for such a treasure. Natalya sat next to him, either sewing in a hoop, or weaving lace, or knotting silk, or threading a necklace. The tender parent wanted to look at her work, but instead looked at her and enjoyed silent tenderness. Reader! Do you know from your own experience the feelings of parenting? If not, then at least remember how your eyes admired the colorful carnation or the white yasmin you planted, with what pleasure you looked at their colors and shadows and how happy you were with the thought: “This is my flower; I planted it and raised it!”, remember and know that it is even more fun for a father to look at his sweet daughter and more fun to think: “She is mine!” After a hearty Russian dinner, boyar Matvey went to rest, and let his daughter and her mother go for a walk either in the garden or in the large green meadow, where the Red Gate now stands with trumpeting Glory. Natalya picked flowers, admired the flying butterflies, ate the fragrance of herbs, returned home cheerful and calm, and began her needlework again. Evening came - a new party, a new pleasure; sometimes young friends came to share cool hours with her and talk about all sorts of things. The good boyar Matvey himself was their interlocutor if state or necessary household affairs did not occupy his time. His gray beard did not frighten young beauties; he knew how to amuse them in a pleasant way and told them the adventures of the pious Prince Vladimir and the mighty Russian heroes. In winter, when it was impossible to walk either in the garden or in the field, Natalya rode in a sleigh around the city and went to parties where only girls gathered to amuse themselves and have fun and innocently shorten the time. There, mothers and nannies invented various amusements for their young ladies, played blind man's buff, hid, buried gold, sang songs, frolicked without violating decency, and laughed without ridicule, so that the modest and chaste dryad could always be present at these parties. Deep midnight separated the girls, and lovely Natalya, in the arms of darkness, enjoyed the peaceful sleep that young innocence always enjoys.

Natalya, boyar's daughter - Karamzin Nikolai Mikhailovich

Nikolai Mikhailovich Karamzin

Natalya, boyar's daughter

Who among us does not love those times when Russians were Russians, when they dressed up in their own clothes, walked with their own gait, lived according to their own customs, spoke in their own language and according to their own hearts, that is, they spoke as they thought? At least I love these times; I love to fly on the swift wings of imagination into their distant gloom, under the canopy of long-decayed elms, to look for my long-bearded ancestors, to talk with them about the adventures of antiquity, about the character of the glorious Russian people, and to tenderly kiss the hands of my great-grandmothers, who cannot get enough of their respectful great-grandson , but they can talk to me and be amazed at my intelligence, because when I talk with them about old and new fashions, I always give preference to their undercuts, [1] and fur coats over the current bonnets [2] a la... and all the Gallo-Albion outfits [3] shining on Moscow beauties at the end of the eighth century. Thus (of course, understandable to all readers), old Rus' is known to me more than to many of my fellow citizens, and if the gloomy Parka does not cut the thread of my life for a few more years, then finally I will not find a place in my head for all the anecdotes and stories told to me by the inhabitants of past centuries. To lighten a little the burden of my memory, I intend to tell dear readers one true story or story that I heard in the region of shadows, in the realm of imagination, from my grandfather’s grandmother, who at one time was considered very eloquent and almost every evening she told fairy tales to Queen NN. I’m just afraid of disfiguring her story; I’m afraid that the old woman will come rushing on a cloud from the other world and punish me with her stick for bad rhetoric... Oh no! Forgive my recklessness, generous shadow - you are inconvenient for such a thing! In your very earthly life you were meek and gentle, like a young lamb; your hand did not kill here either a mosquito or a fly, and the butterfly always rested calmly on your nose: so, is it possible that now, when you are swimming in a sea of indescribable bliss and breathing the purest ether of the sky, is it possible that your hand will rise to your humble great-great-grandson? No! You will allow him to freely practice the commendable craft of staining paper, making tall tales about the living and the dead, testing the patience of his readers, and finally, like the ever-yawning god Morpheus, throwing them onto soft sofas and plunging them into deep sleep... Ah! At this very moment I see an extraordinary light in my dark corridor, I see fiery circles that are spinning with brilliance and a crackling sound and, finally - lo and behold! - show me your image, the image of indescribable beauty, indescribable majesty! Your eyes shine like the suns; your lips turn red like the morning dawn, like the tops of snowy mountains at the rising of the daylight - you smile, like the young creation smiled on the first day of its existence, and in delight I hear the sweet thundering

your words: “Continue, my dear great-great-grandson!”
So, I will continue, I will; and, armed with a pen, I will courageously write the story of Natalya, the boyar’s daughter.
“But first I must rest; the delight into which the appearance of my great-great-grandmother brought me exhausted my spiritual strength. I put down my pen for a few minutes - and let these written lines be an introduction, or a preface!

Text of the book "Natalia, the Boyar's Daughter"

Nikolai Karamzin Natalya, boyar's daughter

[Close] and all the Gallo-Albionian outfits that shone on Moscow beauties at the end of the eighth century. Thus (of course, understandable to all readers), old Rus' is known to me more than to many of my fellow citizens, and if the gloomy Parka does not cut the thread of my life for a few more years, then finally I will not find a place in my head for all the anecdotes and stories told to me by the inhabitants of past centuries. To lighten a little the burden of my memory, I intend to tell dear readers one true story or story that I heard in the region of shadows, in the realm of imagination, from my grandfather’s grandmother, who at one time was considered very eloquent and almost every evening she told fairy tales to Queen NN. I’m just afraid of disfiguring her story; I’m afraid that the old woman will come rushing on a cloud from the other world and punish me with her stick for bad rhetoric... Oh no! Forgive my recklessness, generous shadow - you are inconvenient for such a thing! In your very earthly life you were meek and gentle, like a young lamb; your hand did not kill here either a mosquito or a fly, and the butterfly always rested calmly on your nose: so, is it possible that now, when you are swimming in a sea of indescribable bliss and breathing the purest ether of the sky, is it possible that your hand will rise to your humble great-great-grandson? No! You will allow him to freely practice the commendable craft of staining paper, making tall tales about the living and the dead, testing the patience of his readers and, finally, like the ever-yawning god Morpheus, throwing them onto soft sofas and plunging them into deep sleep... Ah! At this very moment I see an extraordinary light in my dark corridor, I see fiery circles that are spinning with brilliance and a crackling sound and, finally - lo and behold! - show me your image, the image of indescribable beauty, indescribable majesty! Your eyes shine like the suns; your lips turn red like the morning dawn, like the tops of snowy mountains at the rising of the daylight - you smile, like the young creation smiled on the first day of its existence, and in delight I hear the sweet thundering words

yours: “Continue, my dear great-great-grandson!”
So, I will continue, I will; and, armed with a pen, I will courageously write the story of Natalya, the boyar’s daughter
. But first I must rest; the delight into which the appearance of my great-great-grandmother brought me exhausted my spiritual strength. I put my pen down for a few minutes and let these written lines become an introduction or preface.

In the capital city of the glorious Russian kingdom, in white-stone Moscow, lived the boyar Matvey Andreev, a rich, intelligent man, a faithful servant of the king and, according to Russian custom, a great hospitable man. He owned many estates and was not an offender, but a patron and protector of his poor neighbors, which in our enlightened times, perhaps, not everyone would believe, but which in the old days was not at all considered a rarity. The king called him his right eye, and the right eye never deceived the king. When he had to sort out an important litigation, he called on boyar Matvey to help him, and boyar Matvey, laying a clean hand on a clean heart, said: “This one is right (not according to such and such a decree that took place in such and such a year, but) according to my conscience; this one is guilty according to my conscience” - and his conscience was always in agreement with the truth and with the royal conscience. The matter was resolved without delay: the right one raised his teary eye of gratitude to the sky, pointing his hand at the good sovereign and the good boyar, and the guilty one ran into the dense forests to hide his shame from people.

More than one old person assured me of the truth of this.
( Author's note.
)

[Close] people, how many of them could fit in the boyar’s dwelling; then, having collected the full number, he returned to the house and, indicating a place for each guest, sat down between them. Here, in one minute, bowls and dishes appeared on the tables, and the aromatic steam of the hot food, like a thin white cloud, hovered over the heads of the diners. Meanwhile, the owner talked kindly with the guests, learned their needs, gave them good advice, offered his services and finally had fun with them as with friends. So in ancient patriarchal times, when the human age was not so short, an old man adorned with venerable gray hairs was satisfied with earthly blessings with his numerous family - he looked around him and, seeing on every face, in every gaze, a living image of love and joy, he admired in his soul. After dinner, all the poor brothers, having filled their glasses with wine, exclaimed in one voice: “Good, good boyar and our father! We drink to your health! How many drops are in our glasses, live happily for so many years!” They drank, and their grateful tears dripped onto the white tablecloth.

Such was the boyar Matvey, a faithful servant of the king, a faithful friend of humanity. He had already passed sixty years, the blood was already circulating more slowly in his veins, the quiet fluttering of his heart heralded the onset of the evening of life and the approach of night - but is it good to be afraid of this thick, impenetrable darkness in which human days are lost? Should he be afraid of his shady path when his good heart is with him, when his good deeds are with him? He walks forward fearlessly, enjoys the last rays of the setting sun, turns his calm gaze to the past and with a joyful - albeit dark, but no less joyful foreboding - sets his foot into the unknown. People's love and royal mercy were the reward of the old boyar's virtues; but the crown of his happiness and joy was the dear Natalya, his only daughter. He had long mourned her mother, who fell asleep in eternal sleep in his arms, but the cypresses of conjugal love were covered with the flowers of parental love - in young Natalya he saw a new image of the deceased, and instead of bitter tears of sadness, sweet tears of tenderness shone in his eyes. There are many flowers in the field, in the groves and in the green meadows, but there is nothing like the rose; the rose is the most beautiful of all; There were many beauties in white-stone Moscow, for the Russian kingdom has been revered from time immemorial as a home of beauty and pleasures, but no beauty could compare with Natalya - Natalya was the most beautiful of all. Let the reader imagine the whiteness of Italian marble and Caucasian snow: he still will not imagine the whiteness of her face - and, imagining the color of her marshmallow mistress, he will still not have a perfect idea of the scarlet of Natalya’s cheeks. I am afraid to continue the comparison, so as not to bore the reader with repetition of the familiar, for in our luxurious times the store of poetic likenings of beauty has become very depleted, and more than one writer bites his pen out of frustration, looking for and not finding new ones. It is enough to know that the most pious old men, seeing the boyar’s daughter at mass, forgot to bow to the ground, and the most partial mothers gave her priority over their daughters. Socrates said that physical beauty is always an image of spiritual beauty. We must believe Socrates, for he was, firstly, a skilled sculptor (hence, he knew the attributes of bodily beauty), and secondly, a sage or lover of wisdom (hence, he knew spiritual beauty well). At least our lovely Natalya had a lovely soul, was gentle as a turtledove, innocent as a lamb, sweet as the month of May: in a word, she had all the qualities of a well-bred girl, although the Russians at that time had not read either Locke’s On Education or Rousseau “Emil” - firstly, because these authors were not yet in the world, and secondly, because they did not know how to read and write, they did not read and raised their children, as nature raises herbs and flowers, then they were fed and watered, leaving everything else to the mercy of fate, but this fate was merciful to them and for the trust that they had in its omnipotence, it almost always rewarded them with kind children, consolation and support for their old days.

One great psychologist, whose name I really don’t remember, said that the description of a person’s daily exercises is the truest image of his heart. At least I think so, and with the permission of my dear readers I will describe how Natalya, the boyar’s daughter, spent her time from sunrise to sunset of the red sun. As soon as the first rays of this magnificent luminary appeared from behind the morning cloud, pouring liquid, intangible gold onto the quiet earth, our beauty awakened, opened her black eyes and, having crossed herself with white satin, with her bare arm up to her tender elbow, stood up and put on a thin silk robe. dress, a damask padded jacket and with flowing dark brown hair, she approached the round window of her high mansion to look at the beautiful picture of animated nature - to look at the golden-domed Moscow, from which the radiant day was removing the foggy cover of the night and which, like some huge bird , awakened by the voice of the morning, shook off the shining dew in the breeze - look at the Moscow surroundings, at the gloomy, dense, boundless Maryina Grove, which, like gray, curly smoke, was lost from sight in an immeasurable distance and where all the wild animals lived then north, where their terrible roar drowned out the melodies of the singing birds. On the other hand, Natalya saw the sparkling bends of the Moscow River, flowering fields and smoking villages, from where hardworking villagers went to work with cheerful songs - villagers who to this day have not changed in anything, dress the same way, live the same way they work as they lived and worked before, and among all the changes and disguises they still present to us the true Russian physiognomy. Natalya looked, leaning on the window, and felt quiet joy in her heart; she did not know how to eloquently praise nature, but she knew how to enjoy it; She was silent and thought: “How beautiful is white-stone Moscow! How beautiful are her circles!” But Natalya did not think that she herself was most beautiful in her morning attire. Young blood, heated by nightly dreams, painted her tender cheeks with the scariest blush, the sun's rays played on her white face and, penetrating through black, fluffy eyelashes, shone in her eyes brighter than on gold. Her hair, like dark coffee velvet, lay on her shoulders and on her white, half-open chest, but soon her lovely modesty, ashamed of the very sun, the very breeze, the very silent walls, covered it with a thin linen. Then she woke up her nanny, the faithful servant of her late mother. “Get up, mom! - Natalya said. “They will announce mass soon.” Mom got up, got dressed, called her young lady an early bird, washed her with spring water, combed her long hair with a white bone comb, braided it into a braid and decorated our charming head with a pearl bandage. Thus equipped, they waited for the good news and, having locked the room with a lock (so that in their absence some unkind person would not creep in), they went to mass. "Every day?" – the reader will ask. Of course - such was the custom in the old days - and was it possible that in the winter one severe blizzard, and in the summer torrential rain and thunderstorms could then keep the red maiden from fulfilling this pious duty. Always standing in the corner of the meal, Natalya prayed to God with zeal and meanwhile looked from under her brows to the right and to the left. In the old days there were no clubs or masquerades, where people now go to show off and watch others; So, where, if not in church, could a curious girl then look at people? After mass, Natalya always gave out a few kopecks to poor people and came to her parent to kiss his hand with tender love. The elder cried with joy, seeing that his daughter was becoming better and sweeter day by day, and did not know how to thank God for such an invaluable gift, for such a treasure. Natalya sat next to him, either sewing in a hoop, or weaving lace, or knotting silk, or threading a necklace. The tender parent wanted to look at her work, but instead looked at her and enjoyed silent tenderness. Reader! Do you know from your own experience the feelings of parenting? If not, then at least remember how your eyes admired the colorful carnation or the white yasmin you planted, with what pleasure you looked at their colors and shadows and how happy you were with the thought: “This is my flower; I planted it and raised it!”, remember and know that it is even more fun for a father to look at his sweet daughter and more fun to think: “She is mine!” After a hearty Russian lunch, boyar Matvey went to rest, and let his daughter and her mother go for a walk either in the garden or in the large green meadow, where the Red Gate

with trumpeting Glory. Natalya picked flowers, admired the flying butterflies, ate the fragrance of herbs, returned home cheerful and calm, and began her needlework again. Evening came - a new party, a new pleasure; sometimes young friends came to share cool hours with her and talk about all sorts of things. The good boyar Matvey himself was their interlocutor if state or necessary household affairs did not occupy his time. His gray beard did not frighten young beauties; he knew how to amuse them in a pleasant way and told them the adventures of the pious Prince Vladimir and the mighty Russian heroes. In winter, when it was impossible to walk either in the garden or in the field, Natalya rode in a sleigh around the city and went to parties where only girls gathered to amuse themselves and have fun and innocently shorten the time. There, mothers and nannies invented various amusements for their young ladies, played blind man's buff, hid, buried gold, sang songs, frolicked without violating decency, and laughed without ridicule, so that the modest and chaste dryad could always be present at these parties. Deep midnight separated the girls, and lovely Natalya, in the arms of darkness, enjoyed the peaceful sleep that young innocence always enjoys.

This is how the boyar’s daughter lived, and the seventeenth spring of her life came; the grass turned green, the flowers bloomed in the field, the larks sang - and Natalya, sitting in her little room under the window in the morning, looked into the garden, where the birds fluttered from bush to bush and, tenderly kissing their little noses, hid in the density of the leaves. The beauty noticed for the first time that they flew in pairs - sat in pairs and hid in pairs. Her heart seemed to tremble - as if some sorcerer had touched him with his magic wand! She sighed - sighed a second time and a third time - looked around her - saw that there was no one with her, no one except the old nanny (who was dozing in the corner of the room in the red spring sun) - sighed again, and suddenly a diamond tear sparkled in her right eye - then in her left - and both rolled out - one dripped onto her chest, and the other stopped on her rosy cheek, in a small tender hole, which in cute girls is a sign that Cupid kissed them at birth. Natalya became sad - she felt some sadness, some languor in her soul; everything seemed wrong to her, everything was awkward; she stood up and sat down again; Finally, waking up her mother, she told her that her heart was sad. The old lady began to baptize her dear young lady and with some pious reservations

[3]
3
For example, “God forgive me” and so on, which you can also hear from today’s nannies.
( Author's note.
)

[Close] to scold the person who looked at the beautiful Natalya with an unclean eye or praised her charms with an unclean tongue, not from a pure heart, not in a good hour, for the old woman was sure that she had been jinxed and that her inner melancholy came from nothing else. Ah, good old lady! Although you lived in the world for a long time, you did not know much; I didn’t know what and how some years began with the gentle daughters of the boyars; I didn’t know... But maybe the readers (if up to this minute they are still holding the book in their hands and don’t fall asleep) - maybe the readers don’t know what kind of trouble suddenly happened to our heroine, what she was looking for with her eyes the upper room, which made her sigh, cry, and be sad. It is known that until now she had fun like a free bird, that her life flowed like a transparent stream flowing along the white pebbles between the green flowering banks; what happened to her? Modest Muse, tell me!.. - From the azure vault of heaven, and maybe from somewhere higher, she flew down like a small hummingbird, fluttered, fluttered through the clean spring air and flew into Natalya’s tender heart - the need to love, love, love !!!

That's the whole mystery; this is the reason for the beautiful sadness - and if it seems not entirely clear to any of the readers, then let him demand the most detailed explanation from his kindest eighteen-year-old girl.

Since that time, Natalya has changed in many ways - she was not so lively, not so playful - sometimes she thought - and although she still walked in the garden and in the field, although she still spent evenings with her friends, she did not find the same pleasure in anything . So a person who has left the years of childhood sees the toys that were the fun of his infancy - he takes them up, wants to play, but, feeling that they no longer amuse him, he leaves them with a sigh. Our beauty did not know how to give herself an account of her new, mixed, dark feelings. Her imagination imagined miracles. For example, it often seemed to her (not only in dreams, but even in reality) that in front of her, in the flickering of a distant dawn, some kind of image was hovering, a charming, sweet ghost that beckoned her to him with an angelic smile and then disappeared into the air. "Oh!" - Natalya exclaimed, and her outstretched hands slowly sank to the ground. Sometimes her inflamed thoughts imagined a huge temple, into which thousands of people, men and women, hurried with joyful faces, holding each other by the hand. Natalya also wanted to enter it, but an invisible hand held her by the clothes, and an unknown voice told her: “Stay in the vestibule of the temple; no one without a dear friend enters its interior.” She did not understand the movements of her heart, did not know how to interpret her dreams, did not understand what she wanted, but she vividly felt some kind of lack in her soul and languished. Yes, beauties! From some years on, your life cannot be happy if it flows like a solitary river in the desert, and without a dear shepherd, the whole world is a desert for you, and the cheerful voices of your friends, the cheerful voices of the birds seem to you as sad responses to solitary boredom. In vain, deceiving yourself, do you want to fill the emptiness of your soul with feelings of girlish friendship, in vain do you choose the best of your friends as the object of the tender impulses of your heart! No, beauties, no! Your heart desires something else: it wants a heart that would not approach it without strong trembling, which together with it would form one feeling, tender, passionate, fiery - but where to find it, where? Of course, not in Daphne, of course, not in Chloe, who together with you can only grieve, secretly or openly - grieve and crumble, wanting and not finding what you yourself are looking for and do not find in cold friendship, but what you will find - or otherwise your whole life will be a restless, heavy sleep - you will find in the shade of a myrtle arbor, where a dear young man with light blue or black eyes is now sitting in despondency, in melancholy and in sad songs he complains about your outward cruelty. Dear reader! Forgive me for this digression! Stern was not the only one who was a slave to his pen. Let's turn again to our story.

Boyar Matvey soon noticed that Natalya had become gloomier: his parental heart was worried. He asked her with tender concern about the reason for such a change and, finally, concluding that his daughter was unable to cope, he sent a messenger to his hundred-year-old aunt, who lived in the darkness of the Murom forests, collected herbs and roots, dealt more with wolves and bears than with by Russian people, and was known, if not as a sorceress, then at least as a wise old woman, skilled in treating all human ailments. Boyar Matvey described to her all the signs of Natalya’s illness and asked her, through her art, to return health to her granddaughter, and to him, the old man, joy and tranquility. The success of this embassy remains unknown; however, there is no great need to know him. We must now begin to describe the most important adventures.

Time flew by just as quickly in the old days as it does now, and while our beauty sighed and languished, the year turned over on its axis: the green carpets of spring and summer were covered with fluffy snow, the formidable queen of the cold sat on her icy throne and breathed blizzards on the Russian kingdom, that is, winter had come, and Natalya, as was her custom, one day went to mass. Having prayed with zeal, she did not deliberately turn her eyes to the left wing - and what did she see? A handsome young man, in a blue caftan with gold buttons, stood there like a king among all other people, and his brilliant, penetrating gaze met hers. Natalya immediately blushed all over, and her heart, trembling violently, told her: “Here he is!” She lowered her eyes, but not for long; she looked at the handsome man again, her face glowed again, and her heart trembled again. It seemed to her that the amiable ghost, who seduced her imagination night and day, was nothing other than the image of this young man - and therefore she looked at him as her dear acquaintance. A new light shone in her soul, as if awakened by the appearance of the sun, but had not yet come to its senses after many incoherent and confused dreams that worried her during the long night. “So,” thought Natalya, “so, really, there is such a sweet handsome man in the world, such a person - such a charming young man?.. How tall! What posture! What a white, ruddy face! And his eyes, his eyes are like lightning; I, timid, am afraid to look at them. He looks at me, looks very intently - even when he prays. Of course, I am also familiar to him; Perhaps he, like me, was sad, sighed, thought, thought and saw me - even though it was dark, he nevertheless saw me as I saw him in my soul.”

The reader should know that the thoughts of red girls can be very fast when something begins to stir in their hearts that they have not named for a long time and that Natalya felt at that moment. Mass seemed very short to her. The nanny tugged at her damask padded jacket ten times and said to her ten times: “Come on, young lady; it's all over." But the young lady still did not move from her place, so that the handsome stranger stood rooted to the spot near the left wing; they looked at each other and sighed quietly. The old mother, due to her weak eyesight, did not see anything and thought that Natalya was reading prayers to herself and that was why she was staying away from church. Finally, the sexton rattled the keys: then the beauty came to her senses and, seeing that they wanted to lock the church, she went to the door, followed by a young man - she to the left, he to the right. Natalya stepped around twice, dropped her handkerchief twice and had to turn back; the stranger straightened his sash, stood in one place, looked at the beauty and still did not put on his beaver hat, although it was cold outside.

Natalya came home and thought about nothing more than a young man in a blue caftan with gold buttons. She was not sad, but not very cheerful either, like a person who has finally learned what his bliss consists of, but still has little hope of enjoying it. She did not eat at dinner, as is the custom of all lovers, because why not tell us directly and simply that Natalya fell in love with a stranger? “In one minute? - the reader will say. “Seeing him for the first time and not hearing a word from him?” Dear sirs! I’m telling you how the whole thing happened, don’t doubt the truth; Do not doubt the power of that mutual attraction that two hearts created for each other feel! And whoever does not believe in sympathy, get away from us and do not read our history, which is reported only for sensitive souls who have this sweet faith!

When boyar Matvey fell asleep after dinner (not in Voltaire’s chairs, the way boyars sleep now, but on a wide oak bench), Natalya went with her nanny to her little room, sat down under her favorite window, took a white handkerchief out of her pocket, wanted something say, but changed her mind - she looked at the ends painted with frost, straightened the pearl bandage on her head and then, looking at her knees, in a quiet and slightly trembling voice asked the nanny, what did the young man who was at mass seem like to her? The old woman did not understand who she was talking about. I had to explain myself, but is it easy for a shy girl? “I’m talking about the one,” continued Natalya, “the one who was the best of all.” The nanny still did not understand, and the beauty was forced to say that he stood near the left wing and followed them out of the church. “I didn’t notice him,” the old woman answered coldly, and Natalya quietly shrugged her beautiful shoulders, wondering how it was possible not to notice him.

The next day, Natalya came earlier than everyone else to mass and left the church later than everyone else, but the handsome man in the blue caftan was not there - on the third day he was also not there, and the sensitive boyar daughter did not want to drink or eat, she stopped sleeping and could hardly walk , however, she tried to hide her inner torment from both her parent and her nanny. Only at night did her tears flow onto the soft headboard. “Cruel,” she thought, “cruel!” Why are you hiding from my eyes, which are constantly looking for you? Do you want my untimely death? I will die, I will die - and you will not shed a single tear on the unfortunate coffin! Oh! Why is the most tender, the most ardent of passions always born with sorrow, for what lover does not sigh, what lover does not yearn in the first days of his passion, thinking that he is not loved in return?

On the fourth day, Natalya went to mass again, despite her weakness, the severe frost, and the fact that boyar Matvey, having noticed the unusual pallor of her face the day before, asked her to take care of herself and not leave the yard in the cold. There was no one in the church yet. The beauty, standing in her place, looked at the doors. The first person to enter was not him! Someone else came in - not him! The third, the fourth – it’s not him! The fifth man entered, and all the veins trembled in Natalya - it was he, that handsome man whose image was forever impressed in her soul! From strong inner excitement she almost fell and had to lean on her nanny’s shoulder. The stranger bowed to all four sides, and especially to her, and, moreover, much lower and more respectfully than to the others. A languid pallor was depicted on his face, but his eyes shone even brighter than before; he looked almost incessantly at the lovely Natalya (who had become even more charming from her tender feelings) and sighed so carelessly that she noticed the movement of his chest and, despite her modesty, guessed the reason. Love, enlivened by hope, was red at that moment on the cheeks of our dear beauty, love shone in her eyes, love beat in her heart, love raised her hand when she was baptized. The hour of mass was one blissful second for her. Everyone began to leave the church; She came out after everyone else, and with her the young man. Instead of going in the other direction again, he followed Natalya, who was looking at him both over her right and over her left shoulder. Wonderful thing! Lovers can never get enough of each other, just as a greedy covetous man can never get enough of gold. At the gates of the boyar’s house, Natalya looked at the handsome man for the last time and said to him with a tender gaze: “Forgive me, dear stranger!” The gate slammed, and Natalya heard the young man sigh; at least she sighed herself. The old nanny was more perceptive this time and, without waiting for a word from Natalya, she began to talk about the handsome stranger who accompanied them from the church. She praised him with great fervor, proved that he was like her late son, did not doubt his noble family and wished such a husband for her young lady. Natalya was happy, blushed, thought, and answered: “Yes!”, “No!” – and she didn’t know what she was answering.