Odessa care post. Volume two

I

The poisonous yellow, scorching sun falls over the horizon. In an hour or two it will be cooler here on the embankment, but now it’s frozen July heat.

Katya... Kitten!

Kitten, do you have money? Give me some change, I'll buy some lemonade.

Let's go to the apartment already. There we will drink water from the well. Should I drink this hot syrup?

Kitten, give me some change. Unbearable.

The woman reluctantly stops, lets go of the girl and begins to rustle absentmindedly in her purse. At this time, a sudden gust of wind that comes out of nowhere snatches the ball from the girl’s hands and carries it onto the road.

Masha! Masha! It is forbidden!!! – he screams heart-rendingly, but it’s too late. The girl runs out onto the roadway, Katya rushes headlong after her, catches the baby in the middle of the road, grabs her in her arms, and only manages to cover her eyes with her hands... As if in a slow motion movie, he sees Katya’s calm, mournful face and the face of the truck driver, full of silent horror. Hit!

…………………………………………..

Hit. Another blow. The man sitting in the chair shudders violently, wakes up and looks around in confusion. Again this dream, this terrible dream... The man wipes cold sweat from his forehead and listens. Hit. Finally, he realizes that they are knocking on the door, and in the night walls of the huge laboratory the sound becomes like small explosions.

I'm coming! I'm coming now!

Probably Nikitich. What time is it now? Oh, it's already half past ten. Exactly him. He's going to grumble now.

But unexpectedly it wasn’t Nikitich. A huge, somewhat unkempt man of about fifty stood in the doorway.

Andrey Lvovich - is that you? – he asked instead of greeting.

“I,” the opener confirmed in surprise. Where is Nikitich?

I don't know who it is.

How did he let you through?

The man who showed up at the Institute at this late hour looked, despite his impressive size, very drooping, tired and exhausted. It resembled a huge tree, the roots of which had been undermined to the ground and only a slight gust of wind was needed to bring down this entire mass.

“My name is Leonid Ivanovich,” the man introduced himself and entered without an invitation. After standing at the door and confusedly stomping his huge dirty boots on the threshold of the sterile laboratory, he asked:

You're at work a little late, Andrey Lvovich. Isn't it time to go home? Won't your wife scold you?

My wife died. For a long time. And no one is waiting for me at home. Who are you? What you want from me?

Dead? – The man wilted even more. – I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, Andrey Lvovich. It seems like my whole life. I read about you in the newspaper. About a year ago. And since then I kept trying to meet you. You are the scientist who picks your brain, right? – he added completely unexpectedly.

Poking around? – the gray-haired scientist smiled sadly. - Well, you could say that. I am conducting experiments with the goal, so to speak...

Is it true that you can change a person’s mind so that his past changes? – the man who came suddenly spoke with fervor, with some kind of desperate determination.

Well, what kind of nonsense are you talking about? How can you change the past... Unless you change the memories of the person himself, that’s all right... And then - no one in the world has ever pulled off such a trick, as far as I know...

At this time, the huge block suddenly shriveled, drooped, and from the height of its enormous height fell directly onto the knees of the scientist.

I ask you to! – the man whispered hotly, and moisture appeared in the corners of his eyes. - No, I beg you!..

What are you doing? Lord, what's wrong with you?

I conjure, professor! Help me! – the man’s lips trembled on his large, unshaven face. – Only you can help me!

What is it, really? Stand up and explain everything calmly.

The man slowly rose from his knees, wiped his tears with his dirty sleeve and said:

Twenty years ago I made a terrible mistake. The only thing that can justify me is that fate did not give me time to think about it. In a split second I had to choose - life or death. And I was wrong. I became faint-hearted.

The scientist moved carefully.

Apparently, you chose life then, twenty years ago? What's wrong with that?

Because this is not life, professor. This is worse than death. I walk the earth like a ghost. I find it unbearable to live and afraid to die. Help me, Andrey Lvovich! I beg you!

Twenty-five again. How can I help you?!! – the professor’s scream echoed deafeningly and terribly throughout the huge laboratory, hovered under the ceiling and, rushing about, jumped out of the barely open window.

Change my past, professor! - the strange guest said quietly but clearly in the silence of the night.

………………………………

Listen, it’s two o’clock in the morning, I’m tired, I want to go home. I can call the police, after all...

But what is it worth to you, professor! Hang your wires on my head, or whatever you do, turn on your machine - and fly to hell...

How can you even!.. What are you saying?.. This is bullshit, this is anti-scientific, no one in the world has ever done this! Even with rats! And you want me to do it like this – rrrrrrrrwith with a living person...

I am not alive! I am a corpse!! Only it’s worse for me... I’m a corpse with unbearable mental pain.

But I still won’t succeed!

Try it, professor. Just try, okay? – A huge man came up and almost affectionately took Andrei Lvovich by the shoulders, looking at him from top to bottom. “If things don’t work out, I’ll leave.” I promise. And then I will definitely commit suicide, because my last hope will perish...

The professor looked into the face of his unknown guest at night, and suddenly a chill of unknown fear ran through the scientist’s body. He had seen this face before. No, not this, something else, much younger, but I saw it. Just where? And under what circumstances? The stranger’s face suddenly trembled, blurred, became covered with cracks of long-forgotten memories... Really?..

Professor! It's soon morning. Anyway, this is my last morning... So turn on your equipment and let's get started! – The voice of the night guest sounded organ-like and solemn. I swear this will be your greatest experience!

…………………………………………..

It's late afternoon. The small resort town, sweltering from the heat, is almost motionless.

Katya... Kitten! Give me a couple of kopecks, honey, I’ll buy some water... Phew, I don’t have any more strength...

A pretty woman, holding the hand of a five-year-old girl with two huge bows on her head and a blood-red balloon in her hands, stops. He turns around tiredly.

Andryusha, wait until you get home, okay? Ten minutes left...

Kitten, give me, my heart stops...

Suddenly he sees a truck slowly turning a corner and reluctantly picking up speed. He doesn’t notice anything else around him - not a sudden gust of playful sea wind, not a red festive ball that escaped from the hand of his little daughter, not the heart-rending cry of his wife who entered into a battle with fate... He sees in front of him only the face of the truck driver behind the dirty, angular windshield glass. He had seen this face somewhere before. But where? Suddenly it seemed that the truck driver was smiling at him in a friendly way. A few meters before the collision, a heavy car suddenly turns onto the embankment, knocks down a concrete barrier with a powerful blow and crashes into the sea with a terrible grinding sound... Impact!

…………………………………………………..
Hit. Another blow. A man sitting in a chair twitches, wakes up nervously and looks around in confusion. Hit. Finally, he realizes that they are knocking on the door, and in the huge laboratory the sound becomes like small explosions.

I'm coming! I'm coming now!

What time is it now? Oh, it's already half past ten.

Andrey Lvovich, you look so small. Don't you know any rules?

Okay, okay, Nikitich, I’m leaving already...

I’m leaving... They’re sleeping here, and then I’ll answer for them...

Okay, Nikitich, don't whine. That's it, I'm leaving...

And call your wife, Katerina Pavlovna! The second hour is on my phone. Why don't you pick up the phone?

The devil knows... I probably fell asleep... And I had such a terrible dream... It's a strange thing - the human brain, eh, Nikitich?

I don’t know, Andrei Lvovich, my brain doesn’t press me... I’m twisting my legs in response to the weather - I have no strength... Maybe you can advise something, huh?

But Andrei Lvovich no longer heard anything. He went out into the chilly autumn night on the street away from the Institute and exposed his hot face to the cold slanting rain... It is unknown why, Andrei Lvovich’s soul felt better than ever. This is despite the fact that his experiments in studying the human brain have clearly reached a dead end.

“To hell with this brain,” the scientist said cheerfully and walked briskly towards the nearest tram stop. He was driving home.

Reviews

Victor, this is for you:
(sorry for the long quote)

Many years ago in the shadow of alien pavements
I saw you and thought: How rarely do you meet your own people.
As it was then - So it is.

I learn from the moon; I am my own master.
No matter who is with me, I am still initially alone.
I came out of the flames, hence all my arrogance.

If a storm washes away the city - Well, sorry!
I was offended by you, My heart was in the shadows.
It's not so easy to climb over the walls of this pride -
But if I say goodbye, The day after tomorrow I will be here again.

I have a bad memory and a disgusting disposition.
I can't take sides, I don't know anyone who's wrong.
But there is something in the world that you can’t drink or eat.
And if something is wrong, then the day after tomorrow I will be here again.

No one below and no one above.
I'd be lying if I said I was aware -
But God is not an angel; He is simply who he is;
And if I say goodbye, The day after tomorrow I will be here again;
Today I say goodbye, The day after tomorrow I will be here again.
Boris Grebenshchikov

You write beautifully.
Literature is stronger than politics over a long period of time. And the truth is more in love than in justice.
“To hell with this brain”...
Thanks for the story.

My best child in the world loves fairy tales and all kinds of wheeled vehicles, but does not really like notation. Therefore, my wife and I decided to use fairy tales about wheeled vehicles in order to reinforce various rules of behavior that were not very well reinforced with the help of notations.

I am posting it on the blog as an exchange of wisdom. Don't look for artistic value (:

Tale about a bus

In one big city there lived Papa-bus, Mama-bus and their little son Busik. Mom and Dad went to work. Their work was very important: they helped adults and children get where they needed to go. All day long they drove people around the city: to work, to kindergarten, to school, to the store, and to visit grandparents. And Busik was still small, so he didn’t go to work, but he went to kindergarten, read books, played with toys and walked on the street.

And then one day Busik went for a walk and met a little white Kitten.

Who are you? - Kitten asked him.

“I’m a little bus,” said Busik. - I will grow up and become a big real bus.

That's great! - said the Kitten. - If you are a bus, please take me home. Because I walked a lot, ran, jumped and my legs were tired.

The bus guy thought:

Actually, my mother says that I’m still too small to carry passengers - they won’t fit in me,” he said.

“So what,” answered the Kitten, “I’m still small too.” Let's try.

Let’s try,” Busik agreed and opened the door. The kitten went inside, sat on the seat and fit perfectly.

Okay,” said Busik, “now tell me how to get to your house?”

Then the Kitten became sad and said:

But I don’t know how to get to my house, I’m lost... You see, I was running, jumping, chasing butterflies, catching bugs, and then I wandered into some completely unfamiliar area and I don’t know how to get home.

Don’t be upset,” said Busik, “we will definitely find your home.” What does he look like?

It is so tall, white and with a red roof.

And they went to look for a tall white house with a red roof. They drove around the city for a long, long time, along different streets and alleys, squares and boulevards, but they could not find the Kitten’s house - after all, the city was very large, and the Bus was very small. So they wandered until they met the Puppy. He looked at them and said:

I think you are looking for something. And if you can’t find something, you need to ask the dog for help. Dogs are the best at finding everything!

“We are looking for the Kitten’s house,” Busik answered, “it is tall, white and with a red roof.”

Just?! - the Puppy laughed. - I know this house - it stands on the bank of the river.

Exactly, exactly! - the Kitten shouted. - From the window of my house you can see the river.

“I can accompany you,” said the Puppy. - Let me run ahead, and you follow me.

Wait,” said Busik, “please, when you run, be very careful, run only on the sidewalk and under no circumstances run out onto the road - you know that cars drive there and it’s very dangerous!”

“Okay,” said the Puppy and ran forward. He ran very carefully, only along the sidewalk and did not run out onto the road where cars were driving. And when he once ran too far and the Bus and the Kitten fell behind, he stopped and waited until they caught up with him. And so, quite quickly, they found the Kitten’s house - a tall white house with a red roof, which stood on the bank of the river.

Hooray! - the Kitten shouted. - Here it is, my home! Thank you very much, I’ll run home quickly, otherwise mom and dad are waiting for me there.

And the Kitten said goodbye to the Bus and the Puppy and ran home. There he had dinner and went to bed in his bed.

The bus also went home. At home, he told his mom and dad what had happened to him, and they praised him very much:

Well done, Busik, for helping the Kitten. We're sure you'll be a very good bus when you grow up.

Then Busik had dinner, washed himself and went to bed in his crib. And I saw very good dreams.

Tale about a truck

Once upon a time there was a Truck. He loved cleanliness very much and was very handsome. It had big black wheels with rubber tires, and a blue cab, and a big red body. One day he was asked to bring umbrellas, rubber boots, new boots, warm jackets and pants to the children in the village - after all, autumn had already arrived, it became cold and it started to rain.

The truck got up early in the morning, washed up, had breakfast, got ready and drove off. At first he drove along a wide asphalt road and his rubber tires rustled merrily, and then the road turned into the forest, the asphalt ended, and the Truck drove further along the dirt road. He drove until he saw a puddle on the road. The puddle was very large and terribly dirty. The truck thought:

What should I do? If I drive through a puddle, I will get all dirty, I will have dirty wheels, and a dirty cab and a dirty body. And then everyone will say: “Ah-ah-ah, what a dirty truck! Why did it drive so carelessly? How did it get so dirty?” And if I don’t go and return home, then who will bring the kids umbrellas, rubber boots, new shoes, warm jackets and pants? After all, it’s already autumn, without these necessary things the guys will freeze and get wet!

And then Truck remembered what his mother told him when he was little: “Truck, don’t get into the puddle. You can go around or around the puddle. Look carefully, is there a dry path nearby?”

And the Truck looked carefully and saw that next to the puddle there was a narrow, but clean and dry path. And he carefully drove around the puddle, didn’t get dirty at all, and quickly moved on.

When the Truck arrived, all the adults and children ran out to meet him. Everyone was very happy and praised the Truck:

Look how great this Truck is, how many necessary and important things he brought us! And look how beautiful and clean it is, what neat wheels, and a cabin, and a body! This is just a wonderful Truck!

The truck unloaded everything it had brought and drove back. On the way, he again saw a puddle - and again he carefully drove around it and did not get dirty. But when he got home, he went and washed himself just in case - after all, on the street you can accidentally get so dirty that you won’t even notice at first. And then Truck had dinner and went to bed in his crib. And he fell asleep very quickly.

John Shemyakin wrote quite well (in a humorous form, but the texture is true) about the history of the song and its author:
The minor Elizaveta Genrikhovna learned this hymn, enchanting with its unimaginable charm, for her extravagant grandfather. Everything Genrikhovna does for me is aimed at extracting all possible benefits and forgiveness for everything from my crying. I'm sentimental. And in this state he is defenseless, sweet and unexpectedly generous to everyone.
I sincerely cried during the performance. First of all, because I will never tell my granddaughter that this romance was written by Maria Yakovlevna Poiret, a vaudeville actress with unimaginable power of enterprise.
There were two such masters of the trade of first and true love in the capital in those years: Masha Poiret and Motya Kshesinskaya. Masha Poiret wrote about “I was going home...”, based on Matilda Kshesinskaya’s story about a successful first rendezvous with a certain young man named Nikolai Aleksandrovich Romanov. After the rendezvous in Peterhof, it follows that Kshesinskaya goes home in the morning and is full of the brightest hopes for both. All sorts of late chamberlains look at her with affection and sympathy. Indescribable delight in the empyrean. Under the benevolent gaze of the sovereign, the ballerina falls asleep from tenderness right in the carriage. The hopes of the brilliant ballerina were fully justified. Everything is so incredibly successful! And Marie Poiret created a report-hymn to romance on this occasion. Listen to the romance again. Do you see how he sparkled with new colors of life and selfless girlish love?
Looking at her friend, Masha Poiret, who had to perform under the creative pseudonym Marusina (who in the capital at that time would go to the performances of a man named Poiret?), also somehow got together and married Count Alexei Anatolyevich Orlov-Davydov. In 1914. The count had some property, modestly valued at 17 million rubles, plus a house on the Promenade des Anglais. Plus the salary of the imperial master of ceremonies. Plus the count was trusting. He was interested in secret teachings and considered himself an initiated sage.
Masha Marusina married Orlov-Davydov in a deeply “interesting position.” She gave birth to a baby. The boy, the little Count Orlov-Davydov, the heir to the dynasty.
A year later, it turned out that Maria Poiret could not get pregnant due to some circumstances of her artistic youth, and she bought the child “according to some advertisement from midwife N.” For three hundred and fifty rubles. Well, the actress is fifty years old. What are the questions here?
Scandal, trial, divorce, then revolution. The Count will finally go into occultism. Maria received a pension from the Soviet government. Food was provided: jam, cereals, animal fats.
Lisa, sing a song to grandpa. Grandpa is as cynical as a ferret, but he adores you.

"War and Peace. 10 - Volume 2"

* PART ONE. *

At the beginning of 1806, Nikolai Rostov returned on vacation. Denisov was also going home to Voronezh, and Rostov persuaded him to go with him to Moscow and stay in their house. At the penultimate station, having met a comrade, Denisov drank three bottles of wine with him and, approaching Moscow, despite the potholes of the road, he did not wake up, lying at the bottom of the relay sleigh, near Rostov, which, as it approached Moscow, came more and more to impatience.

“Soon? Soon? Oh, these unbearable streets, shops, rolls, lanterns, cabs!” thought Rostov, when they had already signed up for their holidays at the outpost and entered Moscow.

Denisov, we've arrived! Sleeping! - he said, leaning forward with his whole body, as if by this position he hoped to speed up the movement of the sleigh.

Denisov did not respond.

Here is the corner-crossroads where Zakhar the cabman stands; Here he is Zakhar, and still the same horse. Here is the shop where they bought gingerbread. Soon? Well!

To which house? - asked the coachman.

Yes, at the end, to a large extent, as you can’t see! This is our house, -

Rostov said, “this is our home!” Denisov! Denisov! We'll come now.

Denisov raised his head, cleared his throat and did not answer.

Dmitry,” Rostov turned to the footman at the irradiation room. - After all, this is our fire?

That’s right, sir, and daddy’s office is lit up too.

Haven't gone to bed yet? A? How do you think? “Don’t forget to get me a new Hungarian at once,” Rostov added, feeling the new mustache. “Come on, let’s go,” he shouted to the coachman. “Wake up, Vasya,” he turned to Denisov, who lowered his head again. - Come on, let's go, three rubles for vodka, let's go! - Rostov shouted when the sleigh was already three houses away from the entrance. It seemed to him that the horses were not moving. Finally the sleigh took to the right towards the entrance; Above his head, Rostov saw a familiar cornice with chipped plaster, a porch, a sidewalk pillar. He jumped out of the sleigh as he walked and ran into the hallway. The house also stood motionless, unwelcoming, as if it did not care about who came to it. There was no one in the hallway. "Oh my God! is everything all right?" thought Rostov, stopping for a minute with a sinking heart and immediately starting to run further along the entryway and familiar, crooked steps. The same door handle of the castle, for the uncleanness of which the countess was angry, also opened weakly. One tallow candle was burning in the hallway.

Old man Mikhail was sleeping on the chest. Prokofy, the traveling footman, the one who was so strong that he could lift the carriage by the back, sat and knitted bast shoes from the edges. He looked at the opened door, and his indifferent, sleepy expression suddenly transformed into an enthusiastic and frightened one.

Fathers, lights! Young Count! - he cried out, recognizing the young master. - What is this? My darling! - And Prokofy, shaking with excitement, rushed to the door to the living room, probably to make an announcement, but apparently changed his mind again, returned back and fell on the young master’s shoulder.

Are you healthy? - Rostov asked, pulling his hand away from him.

God bless! All glory to God! We just ate it now! Let me look at you, Your Excellency!

Is everything completely fine?

Thank God, thank God!

Rostov, completely forgetting about Denisov, not wanting to let anyone warn him, took off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe into the dark, large hall. Everything is the same, the same card tables, the same chandelier in a case; but someone had already seen the young master, and before he had time to reach the living room, something quickly, like a storm, flew out of the side door and hugged and began to kiss him. Another, third, same creature jumped out of another, third door; more hugs, more kisses, more screams, tears of joy. He couldn’t make out where and who dad was, who was Natasha, who was Petya. Everyone was screaming, talking and kissing him at the same time. Only his mother was not among them - he remembered that.

But I didn’t know... Nikolushka... my friend!

Here he is... ours... My friend, Kolya... He has changed! No candles! Tea!

Yes, kiss me!

Darling... and me.

Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mikhailovna, Vera, the old count, hugged him;

and people and maids, filling the rooms, muttered and gasped.

Petya hung on his legs. - And me! - he shouted. Natasha, after she had bent him to her and kissed his whole face, jumped away from him and holding onto the hem of his Hungarian jacket, jumped like a goat all in one place and squealed shrilly.

On all sides there were eyes shining with tears of joy, loving eyes, on all sides there were lips seeking a kiss.

Sonya, red as red, also held his hand and was all beaming in the blissful gaze fixed on his eyes, which she was waiting for. Sonya was already 16 years old, and she was very beautiful, especially at this moment of happy, enthusiastic animation. She looked at him without taking her eyes off, smiling and holding her breath. He looked at her gratefully; but still waited and looked for someone. The old countess had not come out yet. And then steps were heard at the door.

The steps are so fast that they couldn't be his mother's.

But it was she in a new dress, still unfamiliar to him, sewn without him.

Everyone left him and he ran to her. When they came together, she fell on his chest, sobbing. She could not raise her face and only pressed it to the cold strings of his Hungarian. Denisov, unnoticed by anyone, entered the room, stood right there and, looking at them, rubbed his eyes.

Vasily Denisov, a friend of your son,” he said, introducing himself to the count, who was looking at him questioningly.

Welcome. “I know, I know,” said the count, kissing and hugging

Denisova. - Nikolushka wrote... Natasha, Vera, here he is Denisov.

The same happy, enthusiastic faces turned to the shaggy figure

Denisov and surrounded him.

Darling, Denisov! - Natasha squealed, not remembering herself with delight, jumped up to him, hugged and kissed him. Everyone was embarrassed by Natasha's action. Denisov also blushed, but smiled and took Natasha’s hand and kissed it.

Denisov was taken to the room prepared for him, and the Rostovs all gathered in the sofa near Nikolushka.

The old countess, without letting go of his hand, which she kissed every minute, sat next to him; the others, crowding around them, caught his every move, word, glance, and did not take their rapturous, loving eyes off of him. The brother and sisters argued and grabbed each other's places closer to him, and fought over who should bring him tea, a scarf, a pipe.

Rostov was very happy with the love that was shown to him; but the first minute of his meeting was so blissful that his present happiness seemed not enough to him, and he kept waiting for something else, and more, and more.

The next morning, the visitors slept from the road until 10 o'clock.

In the previous room there were scattered sabers, bags, tanks, open suitcases, and dirty boots. The cleaned two pairs with spurs had just been placed against the wall. Servants brought washbasins, hot water for shaving, and cleaned dresses. It smelled of tobacco and men.

Hey, G"ishka, t"ubku! - shouted the hoarse voice of Vaska Denisov. -

Rostov, get up!

Rostov, rubbing his drooping eyes, raised his confused head from the hot pillow.

What's too late? “It’s late, 10 o’clock,” Natasha’s voice answered, and in the next room the rustling of starched dresses, the whispering and laughter of girls’ voices was heard, and something blue, ribbons, black hair and cheerful faces flashed through the slightly open door. It was Natasha with Sonya and Petya, who came to see if he was up.

Nikolenka, get up! - Natasha’s voice was heard again at the door.

At this time, Petya, in the first room, saw and grabbed the sabers, and experiencing the delight that boys experience at the sight of a warlike older brother, and forgetting that it was indecent for sisters to see undressed men, opened the door.

Is this your saber? - he shouted. The girls jumped back. Denisov, with frightened eyes, hid his furry legs in a blanket, looking back at his comrade for help. The door let Petya through and closed again. Laughter was heard from behind the door.

Nikolenka, come out in your dressing gown,” said Natasha’s voice.

Is this your saber? - asked Petya, - or is it yours? - He addressed the mustachioed, black Denisov with obsequious respect.

Rostov hastily put on his shoes, put on his robe and went out. Natasha put on one boot with a spur and climbed into the other. Sonya was spinning and was just about to puff up her dress and sit down when he came out. Both were wearing the same brand new blue dresses - fresh, rosy, cheerful. Sonya ran away, and Natasha, taking her brother by the arm, led him to the sofa, and they began to talk. They did not have time to ask each other and answer questions about thousands of little things that could only interest them alone. Natasha laughed at every word that he said and that she said, not because what they said was funny, but because she was having fun and was unable to contain her joy, which was expressed by laughter.

Oh, how good, great! - she condemned everything. Rostov felt how, under the influence of the hot rays of love, for the first time in a year and a half, that childish smile blossomed on his soul and face, which he had never smiled since he left home.

No, listen,” she said, “are you completely a man now?” I

I'm terribly glad that you are my brother. - She touched his mustache. - I want to know what kind of men you are? Are they like us? No?

Why did Sonya run away? - asked Rostov.

Yes. That's another whole story! How will you talk to Sonya? You or you?

“How will it happen,” said Rostov.

Please tell her, I’ll tell you later.

So what?

Well, I'll tell you now. You know that Sonya is my friend, such a friend that I would burn my hand for her. Look at this. - She rolled up her muslin sleeve and showed a red mark on her long, thin and delicate arm under the shoulder, much above the elbow (in a place that is sometimes covered by ball gowns).

I burned this to prove my love to her. I just lit the ruler on fire and pressed it down.

Sitting in his former classroom, on the sofa with pillows on his arms, and looking into those desperately animated eyes of Natasha, Rostov again entered that family, children's world, which had no meaning for anyone except for him, but which gave him some of the best pleasures in life; and burning his hand with a ruler to show love did not seem useless to him: he understood and was not surprised by it.

So what? only? - he asked.

Well, so friendly, so friendly! Is this nonsense - with a ruler; but we are forever friends. She will love anyone, forever; but I don’t understand this, I’ll forget now.

So what?

Yes, that's how she loves me and you. - Natasha suddenly blushed, - well, you remember, before leaving... So she says that you forget all this... She said: I will always love him, and let him be free. It’s true that this is excellent, noble! - Yes Yes? very noble? Yes? - asked

Natasha was so serious and excited that it was clear that what she was saying now, she had previously said with tears.

Rostov thought about it.

“I don’t take back my word on anything,” he said. - And than,

Sonya is such a charm that what fool would refuse his happiness?

“No, no,” Natasha screamed. - We already talked about this with her. We knew you would say this. But this is impossible, because, you know, if you say that - you consider yourself bound by the word, then it turns out that she seemed to say it on purpose. It turns out that you are still forcibly marrying her, and it turns out completely different.

Rostov saw that all this was well thought out by them. Sonya amazed him with her beauty yesterday too. Today, having caught a glimpse of her, she seemed even better to him. She was a lovely 16-year-old girl, obviously loving him passionately (he did not doubt this for a minute). Why shouldn’t he love her now, and not even marry her, Rostov thought, but now there are so many other joys and activities! “Yes, they came up with this perfectly,” he thought,

"We must remain free."

“Well, great,” he said, “we’ll talk later.” Oh, how glad I am for you! - he added.

Well, why didn’t you cheat on Boris? - asked the brother.

This is nonsense! - Natasha shouted laughing. “I don’t think about him or anyone else and I don’t want to know.”

That's how! So what are you doing?

I? - Natasha asked again, and a happy smile lit up her face. -

Have you seen Duport?

Have you seen the famous Duport the dancer? Well, you won't understand. I

that's what it is. - Natasha took her skirt, rounding her arms, as they dance, ran a few steps, turned over, made an entreche, beat her foot against the foot and, standing on the very tips of her socks, walked a few steps.

Am I standing? after all, - she said; but she couldn’t help herself on her tiptoes.

So that's what I am! I will never marry anyone, but will become a dancer. But do not tell anyone.

Rostov laughed so loudly and cheerfully that Denisov from his room became envious, and Natasha could not resist laughing with him. -

No, isn't it good? - she kept saying.

Okay, don’t you want to marry Boris anymore?

Natasha flushed. - I don’t want to marry anyone. I'll tell him the same thing when I see him.

That's how! - said Rostov.

Well, yes, it’s all nothing,” Natasha continued to chatter. - And what

Is Denisov good? - she asked.

Good.

Well, goodbye, get dressed. Is he scary, Denisov?

Why is it scary? - asked Nicholas. - No. Vaska is nice.

You call him Vaska - strange. And that he is very good?

Very good.

Well, come quickly and drink tea. Together.

And Natasha stood on tiptoe and walked out of the room the way dancers do, but smiling the way only happy 15-year-old girls smile. Having met Sonya in the living room, Rostov blushed. He didn't know how to deal with her. Yesterday they kissed in the first minute of the joy of their date, but today they felt that it was impossible to do this; he felt that everyone, his mother and sisters, looked at him questioningly and expected from him how he would behave with her. He kissed her hand and called her you - Sonya. But their eyes, having met, said “you” to each other and kissed tenderly. With her gaze she asked him for forgiveness for the fact that at Natasha’s embassy she dared to remind him of his promise and thanked him for his love. With his gaze he thanked her for the offer of freedom and said that one way or another, he would never stop loving her, because it was impossible not to love her.

How strange, however,” said Vera, choosing a general moment of silence,

That Sonya and Nikolenka now met as strangers. -

Vera's remark was fair, like all her remarks; but like most of her remarks, everyone felt awkward, and not only Sonya,

Nikolai and Natasha, but also the old countess, who was afraid of this son’s love for

Sonya, who could deprive him of a brilliant match, also blushed like a girl.

Denisov, to Rostov’s surprise, in a new uniform, pomaded and perfumed, appeared in the living room as dandy as he was in battle, and as amiable with ladies and gentlemen as Rostov had never expected to see him.

Returning to Moscow from the army, Nikolai Rostov was accepted by his family as the best son, hero and beloved Nikolushka; relatives - as a sweet, pleasant and respectful young man; acquaintances - like a handsome hussar lieutenant, a deft dancer and one of the best suitors in Moscow.

The Rostovs knew all of Moscow; The old count had enough money this year because all his estates were remortgaged, and therefore

Nikolushka, having got his own trotter and the most fashionable leggings, special ones that no one else in Moscow had, and boots, the most fashionable, with the sharpest toes and small silver spurs, had a lot of fun. Rostov, returning home, experienced a pleasant feeling after some period of time trying on himself to the old living conditions.

It seemed to him that he had matured and grown very much. Despair for failing to pass an exam according to the law of God, borrowing money from Gavrila for a cab driver, secret kisses with Sonya, he remembered all this as childishness, from which he was now immeasurably far away. Now he is a hussar lieutenant in a silver mentic, with a soldier's George, preparing his trotter to run, together with famous hunters, elderly, respectable. He knows a lady on the boulevard whom he goes to see in the evening. He conducted a mazurka at a ball

Arkharov, talked about the war with Field Marshal Kamensky, visited an English club, and was on friendly terms with a forty-year-old colonel whom Denisov introduced him to.

His passion for the sovereign weakened somewhat in Moscow, since during this time he did not see him. But he often talked about the sovereign, about his love for him, making it felt that he was not telling everything yet, that there was something else in his feelings for the sovereign that could not be understood by everyone; and with all my heart shared the general feeling of adoration for the emperor at that time in Moscow

Alexander Pavlovich, who was given the title of angel in the flesh in Moscow at that time.

During this short stay of Rostov in Moscow, before leaving for the army, he did not become close, but on the contrary, broke up with Sonya. She was very pretty, sweet, and obviously passionately in love with him; but he was at that time of his youth when there seems to be so much to do that there is no time to do it, and the young man is afraid to get involved - he values ​​​​his freedom, which he needs for many other things. When he thought about Sonya during this new stay in Moscow, he said to himself: Eh! there will be many more, many more of these, somewhere, still unknown to me. I’ll still have time to make love when I want, but now there’s no time.

In addition, it seemed to him that there was something humiliating for his courage in female society. He went to balls and sororities, pretending that he was doing it against his will. Running, an English club, carousing with Denisov, a trip there - that was another matter: it was befitting of a young hussar.

At the beginning of March, the old Count Ilya Andreich Rostov was preoccupied with arranging a dinner at an English club to receive Prince Bagration.

The Count in a dressing gown walked around the hall, giving orders to the club housekeeper and the famous Theoktistus, the senior cook of the English club, about asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal and fish for Prince Bagration's dinner. The Count, from the day the club was founded, was its member and foreman. He was entrusted by the club with arranging a celebration for Bagration, because rarely did anyone know how to organize a feast in such a grand manner, hospitably, especially because rarely did anyone know how and want to contribute their money if they were needed to organize the feast.

The cook and housekeeper of the club listened to the count's orders with cheerful faces, because they knew that under no one else could they profit better from a dinner that cost several thousand.

So look, put scallops, scallops in the cake, you know! -

So there are three cold ones?... - asked the cook. The Count thought about it. “No less, three... mayonnaise times,” he said, bending his finger...

So, would you like to take large sterlets? - asked the housekeeper. - What can we do, take it if they don’t give in. Yes, my father, I forgot. After all, we need another entrée for the table. Ah, my fathers! - He grabbed his head. -

Who will bring me flowers?

Mitinka! And Mitinka! Ride off, Mitinka, to the Moscow region, -

He turned to the manager who came in at his call, “Ride off to the Moscow region and tell Maksimka the gardener to dress up the corvée now.” Tell them to drag all the greenhouses here and wrap them in felt. Yes, so that I have two hundred pots here by Friday.

Having given more and more different orders, he went out to rest with the countess, but remembered something else he needed, returned himself, brought back the cook and the housekeeper, and again began to give orders. A light, masculine gait and the clanking of spurs were heard at the door, and a handsome, ruddy, with a black mustache, apparently rested and well-groomed from his quiet life in Moscow, entered the young count.

Ah, my brother! My head is spinning,” said the old man, as if ashamed, smiling in front of his son. - At least you could help! We need more songwriters. I have music, but should I invite the gypsies? Your military brethren love it.

Really, daddy, I think Prince Bagration, when he was preparing for

The battle of Shengraben, I bothered less than you do now,” said the son, smiling.

The old count pretended to be angry. - Yes, you interpret it, you try it!

And the count turned to the cook, who, with an intelligent and respectable face, looked observantly and affectionately at father and son.

What are young people like, eh, Feoktist? - he said, - he laughs at our old brother.

Well, Your Excellency, they would only like to eat well, but how is everything

to assemble and serve, it’s not their business.

“Well, well,” the count shouted, and cheerfully grabbing his son by both hands, he shouted: “So that’s it, I got you!” Now take the pair of sleighs and go to Bezukhov, and say that the count, they say, Ilya Andreich sent to ask you for fresh strawberries and pineapples. You won't get it from anyone else. He himself is not there, so you go in, tell the princesses, and from there, that’s what, go to Razgulay

Ipatka the coachman knows - if you find Ilyushka the gypsy there, that's what the count has

Orlova was dancing then, remember, in a white Cossack, and drag him here to me.

And bring him here with the gypsies? - Nikolai asked laughing. - Oh well!...

At this time, with silent steps, with a businesslike, preoccupied and at the same time Christian-meek look that never left her, Anna entered the room

Mikhailovna. Despite the fact that every day Anna Mikhailovna found the count in a dressing gown, every time he was embarrassed in front of her and asked to apologize for his suit.

“Nothing, Count, my dear,” she said, meekly closing her eyes. - A

“I’ll go to Bezukhoy,” she said. - Pierre has arrived, and now we are all

Let's get it, Count, from his greenhouses. I needed to see him. He sent me a letter from Boris. Thank God, Borya is now at headquarters.

The Count was delighted that Anna Mikhailovna was taking on one part of his instructions, and ordered her to pawn a small carriage.

You tell Bezukhov to come. I'll write it down. How is he and his wife? - he asked.

Anna Mikhailovna rolled her eyes, and deep sorrow was expressed on her face...

“Oh, my friend, he is very unhappy,” she said. - If it’s true what we heard, it’s terrible. And did we think when we rejoiced so much at his happiness! And such a lofty, heavenly soul, this young Bezukhov! Yes, I feel sorry for him from the bottom of my heart and will try to give him the consolation that will depend on me.

So what is it? - asked both Rostov, the elder and the younger.

Anna Mikhailovna took a deep breath: “Dolokhov, Marya Ivanovna’s son,”

she said in a mysterious whisper, “they say he completely compromised her.” He took him out, invited him to his house in St. Petersburg, and so... She came here, and this crazy guy is after her,” said Anna Mikhailovna, wanting to express her sympathy for Pierre, but in involuntary intonations and a half-smile, showing sympathy for the crazy guy. head, as she called Dolokhov. - They say that Pierre himself is completely overwhelmed by his grief.

Well, tell him to come to the club anyway, that’s all.

will dissipate. The feast will be a mountain.

The English club and 50 guests were expecting their dear guest and hero of the Austrian campaign, Prince Bagration, for dinner. At first, upon receiving news of the Battle of Austerlitz, Moscow was perplexed. At that time, the Russians were so accustomed to victories that, upon receiving the news of defeat, some simply did not believe it, others sought explanations for such a strange event in some unusual reasons. In the English Club, where everything that was noble, with correct information and weight gathered, in December, when news began to arrive, nothing was said about the war and about the last battle, as if everyone had agreed to remain silent about it. People who gave direction to conversations, such as: Count Rostopchin, Prince Yuri Vladimirovich

Dolgoruky, Valuev, gr. Markov, book. Vyazemsky, did not show up at the club, but gathered at home, in their intimate circles, and Muscovites, speaking from other people’s voices (to which Ilya Andreich Rostov belonged), were left for a short time without a definite judgment about the cause of war and without leaders.

Muscovites felt that something was wrong and that it was difficult to discuss this bad news, and therefore it was better to remain silent. But after a while, as the jury left the deliberation room, the aces who gave their opinions in the club appeared, and everything began to speak clearly and definitely. The reasons were found for the incredible, unheard of and impossible event that the Russians were beaten, and everything became clear, and in all corners of Moscow the same thing was said. These reasons were: treason of the Austrians, bad food for the troops, treason of the Pole

Pshebyshevsky and the Frenchman Langeron, the inability of Kutuzov, and (they said on the sly) the youth and inexperience of the sovereign, who trusted himself to bad and insignificant people. But the troops, Russian troops, everyone said, were extraordinary and performed miracles of courage. Soldiers, officers, generals - there were heroes. But the hero of heroes was Prince Bagration, famous for his Shengraben affair and his retreat from Austerlitz, where he alone led his column undisturbed and spent the whole day repelling an enemy twice as strong. The fact that Bagration was chosen as a hero in Moscow was also facilitated by the fact that he had no connections in

Moscow, and was a stranger. In his person due honor was given to a fighting, simple, without connections and intrigues, Russian soldier, still bound by memories

Italian campaign in the name of Suvorov. In addition, in bestowing such honors on him, the displeasure and disapproval of Kutuzov was best shown.

If there were no Bagration, il faudrait l "inventer, 1 - said the joker Shinshin, parodying the words of Voltaire. No one spoke about Kutuzov, and some scolded him in a whisper, calling him a court turntable and an old satyr. The words of Prince Dolgorukov were repeated throughout Moscow: " sculpting, sculpting and sticking together,” consoled in our defeat by the memory of previous victories, and Rostopchin’s words were repeated about the fact that the French soldiers must be excited to fight with pompous phrases, that the Germans must be reasoned with logically, convincing them that it is more dangerous to run than to go forward; but that the Russian soldiers just need to be restrained and asked: be quiet! From all sides new and new stories were heard about individual examples of courage shown by our soldiers and officers at Austerlitz. He saved the banner, he killed 5 French, he alone charged 5-. There were many guns. They also said about Berg, who did not know him, that he, wounded in his right hand, took his sword in his left and went forward. They did not say anything about Bolkonsky, and only those who knew him closely regretted that he died early, leaving his pregnant wife. and an eccentric father.

On March 3, in all the rooms of the English Club there was a groan of talking voices and, like bees on spring migration, scurried back and forth, sat, stood, converged and dispersed, in uniforms, tailcoats and some others in powder and caftans, members and club guests. Powdered, stockinged and booted footmen in livery stood at every door and strained to catch every movement of the guests and members of the club in order to offer their services. Most of those present were old, respectable people with wide, self-confident faces, thick fingers, firm movements and voices. This kind of guests and members sat in well-known, familiar places and met in well-known, familiar circles. A small part of those present consisted of random guests - mainly young people, among whom were Denisov, Rostov and Dolokhov, who was again a Semyonov officer. On the faces of the youth, especially the military, there was an expression of that feeling of contemptuous respect for the elderly, which seems to say to the old generation:

Nesvitsky was right there, like an old member of the club. Pierre, who, at the orders of his wife, had let his hair grow, had taken off his glasses and was dressed fashionably, but with a sad and despondent look, walked through the halls. He, as everywhere else, was surrounded by an atmosphere of people who worshiped his wealth, and he treated them with the habit of kingship and absent-minded contempt.

According to his years, he should have been with the young; according to his wealth and connections, he was a member of the circles of old, respectable guests, and therefore he moved from one circle to another.

The most important old men formed the center of the circles, to which even strangers respectfully approached to listen to famous people.

Large circles were formed around Count Rostopchin, Valuev and Naryshkin.

Rostopchin talked about how the Russians were crushed by the fleeing Austrians and had to make their way through the fugitives with a bayonet.

Valuev confidentially said that Uvarov was sent from

Petersburg, in order to find out the opinion of Muscovites about Austerlitz.

In the third circle, Naryshkin spoke about a meeting of the Austrian military council, in which Suvorov crowed the rooster in response to the stupidity of the Austrian generals. Shinshin, who was standing right there, wanted to joke, saying that Kutuzov, apparently, could not learn even this simple art of cockcrow from Suvorov; but the old men looked sternly at the joker, letting him feel that here and today it was so indecent to talk about Kutuzov.

Count Ilya Andreich Rostov, anxiously, hurriedly walked in his soft boots from the dining room to the living room, hastily and completely equally greeting important and unimportant persons whom he knew all, and occasionally looking for his slender young son with his eyes, joyfully stopping his gaze on him. glance and wink at him. Young Rostov stood at the window with Dolokhov, whom he had recently met and whose acquaintance he valued.

The old count approached them and shook Dolokhov's hand.

You are welcome to me, you know my fellow... together there, together they were heroes... A! Vasily Ignatyich... is very old,” he turned to a passing old man, but before he could finish his greetings, everything

stirred, and a footman came running, with a frightened face, and reported: here you go!

The bells rang out; the sergeants rushed forward; The guests scattered in different rooms, like shaken rye on a shovel, crowded into one heap and stopped in the large living room at the door of the hall.

Bagration appeared at the front door, without his hat and sword, which, according to club custom, he left with the doorman. He was not in a smushkov cap with a whip over his shoulder, as Rostov saw him on the night before the Battle of Austerlitz, but in a new narrow uniform with Russian and foreign orders and with the Star of St. George on the left side of his chest. Apparently, before lunch, he had cut his hair and sideburns, which changed his face unfavorably. There was something naively festive on his face, which, in combination with his firm, courageous features, even gave a somewhat comic expression to his face. Bekleshov and Fyodor Petrovich Uvarov, who had arrived with him, stopped at the door, wanting him, as the main guest, to go ahead of them. Bagration was confused, not wanting to take advantage of their politeness;

There was a stop at the door, and finally Bagration nevertheless walked forward.

He walked, not knowing where to put his hands, shyly and awkwardly, along the parquet floor of the reception room: it was more familiar and easier for him to walk under bullets across a plowed field, as he walked in front of the Kursk regiment in Shengraben. The elders met him at the first door, telling him a few words about the joy of seeing such a dear guest, and without waiting for his answer, as if taking possession of him, they surrounded him and led him into the living room. In the doorway of the living room there was no way to pass from the crowded members and guests, crushing each other and trying over each other’s shoulders, like a rare animal, to look at Bagration. Count Ilya Andreich, the most energetic of all, laughing and saying: “Let me in, mon cher, let me in, let me in,” pushed through the crowd, led the guests into the living room and seated them on the middle sofa. The aces, the most honorable members of the club, surrounded the new arrivals. Count Ilya Andreich, again pushing through the crowd, left the living room and a minute later appeared with another foreman, carrying a large silver dish, which he presented to the prince

Bagration. On the platter lay poems composed and printed in honor of the hero.

Bagration, seeing the dish, looked around in fear, as if looking for help. But in all eyes there was a demand that he submit. Feeling himself in their power, Bagration resolutely, with both hands, took the dish and angrily, reproachfully looked at the count who was presenting it. Someone helpfully took the dish out of Bagration’s hands (otherwise he seemed to intend to keep it like that until the evening and go to the table like that) and drew his attention to the poems. “Well, I’ll read it,” Bagration seemed to say and, fixing his tired eyes on the paper, he began to read with a concentrated and serious look. The writer himself took the poems and began to read. Prince Bagration bowed his head and listened.

"Glory to Alexander age

And protect us Titus on the throne,

Be a terrible leader and a kind person,

Ripheus is in his fatherland and Caesar is on the battlefield.

Yes, happy Napoleon,

Having learned through experience what Bagration is like,

Alkidov does not dare to bother the Russians anymore..."

But he had not yet finished the verses when the loud butler declared:

"The food is ready!" The door opened, a Polish voice thundered from the dining room: “Roll out the thunder of victory, rejoice, brave Russian,” and Count Ilya Andreich, looking angrily at the author, who continued to read poetry, bowed to

Bagration. Everyone stood up, feeling that dinner was more important than poetry, and again

Bagration went to the table ahead of everyone. In first place, between two

Alexandrov - Bekleshova and Naryshkina, which also had significance in relation to the name of the sovereign, imprisoned Bagration: 300 people were placed in the dining room according to rank and importance, who was more important, closer to the guest being honored: just as naturally as water spills there deeper, where the terrain is lower .

Just before dinner, Count Ilya Andreich introduced his son to the prince.

Bagration, recognizing him, said several awkward, awkward words, like all the words he spoke that day. Count Ilya Andreich joyfully and proudly looked around at everyone while Bagration spoke with his son.

Nikolai Rostov, Denisov and his new acquaintance Dolokhov sat down together almost in the middle of the table. Pierre sat opposite them next to Prince Nesvitsky.

Count Ilya Andreich sat opposite Bagration with other elders and treated the prince, personifying Moscow hospitality.

His labors were not in vain. His dinners, fast and fast, were magnificent, but he still could not be completely calm until the end of dinner.

He winked at the barman, whispered orders to the footmen, and, not without excitement, awaited each dish he knew. Everything was amazing. On the second course, along with the gigantic sterlet (when Ilya Andreich saw it, he blushed with joy and shyness), the footmen began popping the corks and pouring champagne. After the fish, which made some impression, Count Ilya

Andreich exchanged glances with the other foremen. - “There will be a lot of toasts, it’s time to start!” - he whispered and took the glass in his hands and stood up. Everyone fell silent and waited for him to speak.

Health of the Emperor! - he shouted, and at that very moment his kind eyes were moistened with tears of joy and delight. At that very moment they started playing: “Roll the thunder of victory.” Everyone stood up from their seats and shouted hurray!

Hooray! - Having drunk his glass in one gulp, he threw it on the floor. Many followed his example. And the loud screams continued for a long time. When the voices fell silent, the footmen picked up the broken dishes, and everyone began to sit down, smiling at their shouts and talking to each other. Count Ilya Andreich stood up again, looked at the note lying next to his plate and proposed a toast to the health of the hero of our last campaign, Prince Pyotr Ivanovich Bagration, and again the count’s blue eyes were moistened with tears. Hooray! the voices shouted again

300 guests, and instead of music, choristers were heard singing a cantata of compositions

Pavel Ivanovich Kutuzov.

"All obstacles for the Russians are in vain,

Bravery is the key to victory,

We have Bagrations,

All enemies will be at your feet,” etc.

The singers had just finished when more and more toasts followed, during which Count Ilya Andreich became more and more emotional, and even more dishes were broken, and even more shouting. They drank to the health of Bekleshov, Naryshkin, Uvarov, Dolgorukov, Apraksin, Valuev, to the health of the foremen, to the health of the manager, to the health of all members of the club, to the health of all guests of the club, and finally, separately to the health of the founder of the dinner, Count Ilya

Andreich. At this toast, the count took out a handkerchief and, covering his face with it, completely burst into tears.

Leo Tolstoy - War and Peace. 10 - Volume 2, read the text

See also Tolstoy Lev - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

War and Peace. 11 - Volume 2
IV. Pierre sat opposite Dolokhov and Nikolai Rostov. He ate a lot and greedily...

War and Peace. 12 - Volume 2
IX. The little princess was lying on pillows, wearing a white cap. (Suffering...