Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
LIVING POWERS
The native land of long-suffering -
You are the edge of the Russian people!
F. Tyutchev
A French proverb says: “A dry fisherman and a wet hunter look sad.” Having never had a passion for fishing, I cannot judge what a fisherman experiences in good, clear weather and how much, in stormy times, the pleasure given to him by abundant catch outweighs the unpleasantness of being wet. But for a hunter, rain is a real disaster. It was precisely this kind of disaster that Ermolai and I suffered on one of our trips to buy black grouse in Belevsky district. The rain had not stopped since early morning. We really didn’t do anything to get rid of it! And they put rubber raincoats almost over their heads, and stood under trees so that it would drip less... Waterproof raincoats, not to mention the fact that they interfered with shooting, let water through in the most shameless way; and under the trees - as if, at first, it didn’t seem to be dripping, but then suddenly the moisture accumulated in the foliage broke through, each branch doused us as if from a rain pipe, a cold stream climbed under the tie and flowed along the spine... And this is the last matter, as Ermolai put it.
No, Pyotr Petrovich,” he finally exclaimed, “You can’t do that!.. You can’t hunt today.” The dogs are flooded with stuff; the guns misfire... Ugh! Task!
What to do? - I asked.
Here's what. Let's go to Alekseevka. You may not know - there is such a farm, it belongs to your mother; It's about eight versts from here. We'll spend the night there, and tomorrow...
Shall we come back here?
No, not here... I know places beyond Alekseevka... many better than here for black grouse!
I did not ask my faithful companion why he didn’t take me straight to those places, and on the same day we reached my mother’s farm, the existence of which I, frankly, did not even suspect until then. At this farm there was an outbuilding, very dilapidated, but uninhabited and therefore clean; I spent a fairly quiet night in it.
The next day I woke up early. The sun has just risen; there was not a single cloud in the sky; everything around shone with a strong double brilliance: the brilliance of the young morning rays and yesterday’s downpour. While they were laying out the tarataika for me, I went to wander around the small, once fruit-bearing, now wild garden, which surrounded the outbuilding on all sides with its fragrant, juicy wilderness. Oh, how good it was in the free air, under the clear sky, where the larks fluttered, from where the silver beads of their sonorous voices rained down! On their wings they probably carried drops of dew, and their songs seemed watered with dew. I even took off my hat from my head and breathed joyfully - with all my heart... On the slope of a shallow ravine, near the fence, an apiary was visible; a narrow path led to it, meandering like a snake between solid walls of weeds and nettles, above which rose, God knows from where, spiky stems of dark green hemp.
I set off along this path; reached the apiary. Next to it stood a wicker shed, the so-called amshanik, where hives are placed for the winter. I looked into the half-open door: dark, quiet, dry; Smells like mint and lemon balm. There was a stage in the corner, and on it, covered with a blanket, was some small figure... I started to walk away...
Master, oh master! Pyotr Petrovich! - I heard a voice, weak, slow and hoarse, like the rustle of swamp sedge.
I stopped.
Pyotr Petrovich! Come here please! - the voice repeated.
It came to me from the corner from the stage I noticed.
I approached and was dumbfounded with surprise. Before me lay a living human being, but what was it?
The head is completely dry, one-color, bronze - like an icon of an ancient letter; the nose is narrow, like a knife blade; lips are almost invisible - only the teeth and eyes turn white, and from under the scarf thin strands of yellow hair spill out onto the forehead. Near the chin, on the fold of the blanket, two tiny hands, also bronze-colored, move, slowly moving their fingers, like chopsticks. I look more closely: the face is not only not ugly, even beautiful, but terrible, extraordinary. And this face seems all the more terrible to me because I can see from it, from its metallic cheeks, that it is growing... it is straining and cannot break into a smile.
You don't recognize me, master? - the voice whispered again; it seemed to evaporate from barely moving lips. - Yes, and where to find out! I’m Lukerya... Do you remember that I led your mother’s round dances in Spassky... remember, I was also the lead singer?
Lukerya! - I exclaimed. - Is that you? Is it possible to?
Yes, master, I am. I am Lukerya.
I didn’t know what to say, and I looked stunned at this dark, motionless face with bright and deathly eyes fixed on me. Is it possible to? This mummy is Lukerya, the first beauty in our entire household, tall, plump, white, ruddy, laughing, dancing, singing! Lukerya, clever Lukerya, whom all our young boys courted, for whom I myself secretly sighed, I am a sixteen-year-old boy!
Have mercy, Lukerya,” I finally said, “what happened to you?”
And such a misfortune happened! Yes, don’t disdain, barias, don’t disdain my misfortune - sit down on the little chair over there, closer, otherwise you won’t hear me... look how loud I’ve become!.. Well, I’m really glad that I saw you! How did you end up in Alekseevka?
Lukerya spoke very quietly and weakly, but without stopping.
Yermolai the Hunter brought me here. But tell me...
Should I tell you about my misfortune? If you please, master. This happened to me a long time ago, about six or seven years. I had just been engaged to Vasily Polyakov then - remember, he was so handsome, curly-haired, he also served as your mother’s bartender? Yes, you weren’t even in the village then; went to Moscow to study. Vasily and I fell in love very much; I couldn’t get it out of my head; and it was spring. One night... it’s not far to dawn... but I can’t sleep: the nightingale in the garden sings so amazingly sweetly!.. I couldn’t stand it, I got up and went out onto the porch to listen to him. It poured and poured... and suddenly it seemed to me: someone was calling me in Vasya’s voice, quietly: “Lusha! clap! And, it seems, I wasn’t hurt too badly, so I soon got up and returned to my room. It’s just as if something inside me - in my womb - has torn... Let me catch my breath... just a minute... master.
Lukerya fell silent, and I looked at her in amazement. What amazed me was that she told her story almost cheerfully, without groans or sighs, without complaining at all or asking for participation.
“From that very incident,” Lukerya continued, “I began to wither and wither away; blackness came over me; It became difficult for me to walk, and then it became difficult to control my legs; I can neither stand nor sit; everything would lie down. And I don’t want to drink or eat: it’s getting worse and worse. Your mother, out of her kindness, showed me to doctors and sent me to the hospital. However, I didn’t get any relief. And not a single doctor could even say what kind of illness I had. They didn’t do anything to me: they burned my back with a hot iron, they put me in crushed ice - and nothing happened. I was completely numb in the end... So the gentlemen decided that there was no more treatment for me, and that it was impossible to keep cripples in a manor house... so they sent me here - because I have relatives here. This is where I live, as you can see.
Turgenev's story "Living Relics" is included in the collection "Notes of a Hunter." The famous writer spent the summer and half of the autumn of 1846 hunting on the family estate of Spasskoye Lutovino. In October, having arrived in St. Petersburg, he learned that N. Nekrasov and I. Panaev had become the head of the literary magazine “Sovremennik”, who offered him their cooperation.
It was at this very time that Turgenev created his stunning story “Living Relics”. An analysis of the work suggests that in it the writer embodied the most beautiful image of a kind, long-suffering and at the same time humble Russian soul, completely submissive to the will of God.
Petr Petrovich
Master Pyotr Petrovich, who came to hunt black grouse in Belevsky district, and the huntsman Ermolai find themselves in a heavy downpour. This is how Turgenev begins his story (“Living Relics”). The summary continues with the fact that even though they were wearing waterproof raincoats, the hunt didn’t go well right away: it was uncomfortable, the branches were doused with water, it even started to flow into their bosoms, and the dogs’ sense of smell was lost due to the water. And then Ermolai suggested going to the Alekseevka farmstead, which belonged to Pyotr Petrovich’s mother.
Having reached the place, they found an uninhabited, clean outbuilding, where they spent the night. The next day the weather was sunny and cloudless.
Barn
It should be noted that Turgenev was a great master at describing landscapes. “Living Relics” is a story that incomparably describes the fragrant rural nature, fresh air and the chirping of larks.
In general, Pyotr Petrovich wanted to take a walk, along the path he reached the apiary and there he suddenly saw a wicker shed where hives are usually put away for the winter. He opened the door and looked in, and was greeted by the smell of fragrant dried herbs - mint and lemon balm. In the corner there was a stage where a small figure could be seen covered with a blanket.
He wanted to close the door, but suddenly he heard someone calling him. He was stunned by surprise and by the fact that he saw an almost shriveled bronze female head with a narrow nose, thin lips, white teeth and colorless eyes, and strands of red hair were sticking out of the scarf.
Lukerya
Pyotr Petrovich began to peer into the face. It was unusual, like an image from an ancient icon. The woman introduced herself as Lukerya and reminded him that she led round dances with his mother in Spassky and was the lead singer. He recognized her and immediately remembered how beautiful she was in the master's household. She was rosy-cheeked, a full-on singer, a laugher and a dancer. All the local guys looked after her. And Pyotr Petrovich was then still a 16-year-old boy, who also really liked her.
Turgenev, “Notes of a Hunter”: “Living Relics”
He said her name and asked what happened to her.
The writer famously twists the plot, and it becomes incredibly interesting who this woman is and what misfortune befell her.
She began to tell him that about seven years ago she was engaged to Vasily Polyakov, the lady’s prominent and curly-haired barman. One night she couldn’t sleep, she went out onto the porch, and she heard the voice of her beloved. Out of surprise, she stumbled and fell heavily. Returning to her room, she realized that it was as if something had snapped in her, she felt heavy, and fell ill. The lady, out of her kindness, showed it to the doctors, but they could not even diagnose it.
It was not customary to keep disabled people in manor houses, and the sick girl was sent here to stay with relatives. Her fiancé grieved and married someone else.
Half-dead creature
Lukerya continued her story by saying that she had been lying there for many years, in the summer here, in the wicker, and in the winter - in the dressing room. Good people do not forget her. Lukerya said that at first she felt languid, but then she got used to it and thought that she was not so bad, compared to deaf and blind disabled people and homeless people.
She even noted that it is very easy for a healthy person to sin, and even the sin itself left her. Then she began to tell that priest Alexey, when he began to give her communion, said that she had nothing to confess, but she reminded him of the mental sin, then the priest noted that this sin was not so great. Lukerya added that she tries to even drive away bad thoughts. Turgenev's "Living Relics" literally decorates Lukerya's dreams.
Christ
She told her guest that sometimes she sings quietly to herself, and sometimes she reads prayers, which she also knows a little: Our Father, Mother of God, Akathist to All Who Sorrow.
The master wanted to offer treatment, but she flatly refused and asked not to feel sorry for her. And then she began to talk about her unusual dreams.
One day she sees a field and golden rye, in her hands she has a sickle that looks like a moon, and next to her there is a red dog that keeps trying to bite her. And she wanted to weave herself a wreath from cornflowers, but it still didn’t work out, and then someone called her by name. She put her sickle on her head like a kokoshnik and everything around began to shine. And suddenly Lusha saw that it was not her fiancé Vasily who was rolling towards her through the ears of corn, but Christ Himself in a white robe with a golden belt. He extended his hand to her and told her not to be afraid of Him, for she was His bride, and she would lead round dances and sing heavenly songs with Him in the Kingdom of Heaven. Then he took her hand, His wings opened, and they flew. But the dog remained, since it was her illness, and there will be no place for her in the Kingdom of Heaven.
Deceased parents
And then Turgenev’s “Living Relics” fills him with even more interesting details. Lukerya also told another dream of hers. Her deceased parents came to her and bowed low to her. She immediately asked why they were doing this. They began to talk to her about how she had not only lightened her soul, but was also saving them. Allegedly, Lukerya has already dealt with her sins, but now she is conquering her parents’ sins. Then they disappeared, bowing again.
Death Woman
And then the sick girl told her third dream. It’s as if she sees herself on the high road in a scarf with a stick and a knapsack. It seems she needs to go somewhere on a pilgrimage. And people pass by her like strangers. And between them she saw a woman a head taller than them. She curled around them, her dress was not Russian, her face was lean and stern. Everyone avoids her, but she goes straight to Lukerya. Lusha asked her who she was, and she replied that she was her death. The girl was not afraid for a moment and began to beg her to take her as soon as possible. Death turned around and said that, supposedly, after “Petrovka”... And then the girl woke up.
Lusha told the master many more interesting things, and in parting she asked her mother to reduce his rent a little from the local peasants. They have little land, but they would pray for it.
A few weeks later, Lukerya died, just after Petrovka.
Conclusion
This is how Turgenev ended his amazing story. “Living Relics” (the summary reveals only a small part of the story) tells about a real event. It is known that this story really happened to Turgenev and even the name of his heroine is genuine.
Lukerya evokes almost no pity; even in such a martyr’s state she glorifies God and prays to him. She knows why all this was sent to her, and patiently bears her cross.
Turgenev made the work “Living Relics” completely difficult. Analyzing it, after reading it, every reader will definitely think about the eternal and very deep questions of faith and repentance. The spiritual component in it is very strong. After all, while a person is healthy, he rarely remembers the Savior. As people say: “Until thunder strikes, a man will not cross himself.” But sooner or later everyone will come to God and ask for forgiveness of their sins.
The author and Ermolai go hunting. Because of the rain, they are forced to spend the night in a nearby village. There the heroes meet a sick woman. She suffers a lot, but only thinks about those around her. Lukerya sees God in her dreams and is glad of her torment. This is how she atones for the sins of all her neighbors. This woman does not want help from doctors or any people. She believes that the Lord rewarded her with a cross and joyfully bears this cross. Dreams about God and saints help her cope with difficulties.
the main idea
A true person should always think about the well-being of others. Your own torment and suffering seem trivial when in your soul you worry only about your loved ones and forget your own good.
The narrator and the hero, named Ermolai, go hunting for black grouse together. It starts to rain heavily. Continuing to be without cover in such weather could cause serious harm to the health of the heroes. They are trying to find a way out of a difficult situation. The narrator remembers that not far from the area where they hunt, there is the village of Alekseevka. The narrator's mother has a small farm in this village.
The hero has never been there. He was glad to find some shelter, since the terrible rainy weather left him no other choice. Two hunters headed to Alekseevka. The heroes spent the night in a farmstead. In the morning, the author decided to walk around the house and see the surroundings. There was a garden next to the farm. He had a very poor and deplorable appearance. It was clear that the garden had been abandoned for a long time. No one has looked after him for a long time. The garden had a small wicker shed.
Next to this barn, the hero noticed a figure. She resembled a mummy. As he approached, the main character noticed that the mummy was actually a woman. Her name was Lukeria. She was ill. Lukerya’s facial features showed what a beauty she used to be. Now nothing remains of her beauty. The poor thing had become so thin and withered that she really was no different from a mummy. The poor thing told her guests that it all started seven years ago. She fell off the porch. This caused endless illnesses. Now she couldn't even move. In the village Lukerya is called “Living Relics”. This poor thing didn’t blame fate at all for taking this into account. She said that she was completely satisfied with her life.
With their suffering they atoned for the sins of all their neighbors. She refused the help of doctors. Her only request was to reduce the rent of the peasants. Lukerya was worried and thought only about the people around her.
Picture or drawing Living relics
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One of the French proverbs says that the sight of a wet hunter is as pathetic and miserable as that of a dry fisherman. Yermolai and master Pyotr Petrovich experienced this themselves. They went out to shoot black grouse, but already in the forest they were overtaken by heavy rain.
Ermolai suggested waiting out the bad weather in Alekseevka, which belongs to Pyotr Petrovich’s mother, but the master didn’t even know about it. The hunter spent the night in the old outbuilding. On a fresh sunny morning, Pyotr Petrovich went out into the garden and then looked into the apiary. There he discovered a wicker shed. Out of curiosity, the master looked into the slightly open door and noticed a human figure in the depths. The hunter was about to leave, when suddenly someone spoke to him in a muffled voice. This made Pyotr Petrovich wary. The figure spoke slowly, called the master by name and patronymic, and asked him to come up.
Pyotr Petrovich entered the barn and froze. An amazing creature appeared before his eyes. The body was covered with a blanket, and two small, withered hands stuck out on top of it. The head was also dry, as if cast from bronze. Yellow hair was dimly visible from under the tied scarf. However, the face did not seem ugly. It even looked beautiful, but it was frightening in its strangeness.
Few people would be able to recognize Lukerya, the first beauty of this village, in the pitiful creature. Pyotr Petrovich, while still a teenager, was secretly in love with a peasant woman. At the request of the master, the unfortunate woman told about her misfortune.
At that time, Lukerya was going to marry Vasily Polyakov. One night she went out into the yard to listen to the nightingale, but stumbled, fell from the porch and was badly hurt. Since then, the woman lost her appetite and began to waste away. Doctors came, but they could not help. Gradually, Lukerya completely withered and could no longer move. She was brought to Alekseevka and placed in this shed. Polyakov was sad at first, but then found another woman and happily married.
It turned out that the sufferer eats almost nothing and sleeps very little. She learned to lie down and hardly think - it was easier to while away the hours of loneliness. I only read prayers occasionally. When Lukerya fell asleep, strange visions came to her.
One day I dreamed that she was sitting on the road, dressed in the clothes of a praying pilgrim, and many people were passing by her. One woman stood out among them with a stern expression on her face. Lukerya asked a passerby: who is she? The woman replied that she was death itself. The patient began to ask her to take her with her, but death explained that she had no time now. But when the Peter the Great holidays pass, she will return and take Lukerya.
It happened that the unfortunate woman lay awake for whole weeks. Once a kind woman left a medicine for insomnia for a patient. But this remedy has long been drunk. Pyotr Petrovich guessed that it was opium and promised to get Lukerya such a drug. He was shocked by the peasant woman’s courage and patience. But Lukerya did not consider her fate special. She knew that people had experienced not such suffering.
Pyotr Petrovich asked the peasant woman what he could do to ease her suffering? The woman replied that she personally did not need anything. If the master’s mother had reduced the rent for the local peasants, Lukerya would have been happy.
It turned out that the woman was still young, no more than thirty years old. On the same day, Pyotr Petrovich learned from the farm guard that the unfortunate woman was nicknamed “Living Relics” in the village. There was no concern from her. Sometimes a girl would visit the sick girl and bring food and water.
A few weeks later, Lukerya’s prophetic dream came true. Before her death, she heard bells ringing from heaven all day.
- “Living Relics”, analysis of Turgenev’s story
- “Fathers and Sons”, a summary of the chapters of Turgenev’s novel
- “Fathers and Sons”, analysis of the novel by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
- “First Love”, a summary of the chapters of Turgenev’s story
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
LIVING POWERS
The native land of long-suffering -
You are the edge of the Russian people!
F. Tyutchev
A French proverb says: “A dry fisherman and a wet hunter look sad.” Having never had a passion for fishing, I cannot judge what a fisherman experiences in good, clear weather and how much, in stormy times, the pleasure given to him by abundant catch outweighs the unpleasantness of being wet. But for a hunter, rain is a real disaster. It was precisely this kind of disaster that Ermolai and I suffered on one of our trips to buy black grouse in Belevsky district. The rain had not stopped since early morning. We really didn’t do anything to get rid of it! And they put rubber raincoats almost over their heads, and stood under trees so that it would drip less... Waterproof raincoats, not to mention the fact that they interfered with shooting, let water through in the most shameless way; and under the trees - as if, at first, it didn’t seem to be dripping, but then suddenly the moisture accumulated in the foliage broke through, each branch doused us as if from a rain pipe, a cold stream climbed under the tie and flowed along the spine... And this is the last matter, as Ermolai put it.
No, Pyotr Petrovich,” he finally exclaimed, “You can’t do that!.. You can’t hunt today.” The dogs are flooded with stuff; the guns misfire... Ugh! Task!
What to do? - I asked.
Here's what. Let's go to Alekseevka. You may not know - there is such a farm, it belongs to your mother; It's about eight versts from here. We'll spend the night there, and tomorrow...
Shall we come back here?
No, not here... I know places beyond Alekseevka... many better than here for black grouse!
I did not ask my faithful companion why he didn’t take me straight to those places, and on the same day we reached my mother’s farm, the existence of which I, frankly, did not even suspect until then. At this farm there was an outbuilding, very dilapidated, but uninhabited and therefore clean; I spent a fairly quiet night in it.
The next day I woke up early. The sun has just risen; there was not a single cloud in the sky; everything around shone with a strong double brilliance: the brilliance of the young morning rays and yesterday’s downpour. While they were laying out the tarataika for me, I went to wander around the small, once fruit-bearing, now wild garden, which surrounded the outbuilding on all sides with its fragrant, juicy wilderness. Oh, how good it was in the free air, under the clear sky, where the larks fluttered, from where the silver beads of their sonorous voices rained down! On their wings they probably carried drops of dew, and their songs seemed watered with dew. I even took off my hat from my head and breathed joyfully - with all my heart... On the slope of a shallow ravine, near the fence, an apiary was visible; a narrow path led to it, meandering like a snake between solid walls of weeds and nettles, above which rose, God knows from where, spiky stems of dark green hemp.
I set off along this path; reached the apiary. Next to it stood a wicker shed, the so-called amshanik, where hives are placed for the winter. I looked into the half-open door: dark, quiet, dry; Smells like mint and lemon balm. There was a stage in the corner, and on it, covered with a blanket, was some small figure... I started to walk away...
Master, oh master! Pyotr Petrovich! - I heard a voice, weak, slow and hoarse, like the rustle of swamp sedge.
I stopped.
Pyotr Petrovich! Come here please! - the voice repeated.
It came to me from the corner from the stage I noticed.
I approached and was dumbfounded with surprise. Before me lay a living human being, but what was it?
The head is completely dry, one-color, bronze - like an icon of an ancient letter; the nose is narrow, like a knife blade; lips are almost invisible - only the teeth and eyes turn white, and from under the scarf thin strands of yellow hair spill out onto the forehead. Near the chin, on the fold of the blanket, two tiny hands, also bronze-colored, move, slowly moving their fingers, like chopsticks. I look more closely: the face is not only not ugly, even beautiful, but terrible, extraordinary. And this face seems all the more terrible to me because I can see from it, from its metallic cheeks, that it is growing... it is straining and cannot break into a smile.
You don't recognize me, master? - the voice whispered again; it seemed to evaporate from barely moving lips. - Yes, and where to find out! I’m Lukerya... Do you remember that I led your mother’s round dances in Spassky... remember, I was also the lead singer?
Lukerya! - I exclaimed. - Is that you? Is it possible to?
Yes, master, I am. I am Lukerya.
I didn’t know what to say, and I looked stunned at this dark, motionless face with bright and deathly eyes fixed on me. Is it possible to? This mummy is Lukerya, the first beauty in our entire household, tall, plump, white, ruddy, laughing, dancing, singing! Lukerya, clever Lukerya, whom all our young boys courted, for whom I myself secretly sighed, I am a sixteen-year-old boy!
Have mercy, Lukerya,” I finally said, “what happened to you?”
And such a misfortune happened! Yes, don’t disdain, barias, don’t disdain my misfortune - sit down on the little chair over there, closer, otherwise you won’t hear me... look how loud I’ve become!.. Well, I’m really glad that I saw you! How did you end up in Alekseevka?
Lukerya spoke very quietly and weakly, but without stopping.
Yermolai the Hunter brought me here. But tell me...
Should I tell you about my misfortune? If you please, master. This happened to me a long time ago, about six or seven years. I had just been engaged to Vasily Polyakov then - remember, he was so handsome, curly-haired, he also served as your mother’s bartender? Yes, you weren’t even in the village then; went to Moscow to study. Vasily and I fell in love very much; I couldn’t get it out of my head; and it was spring. One night... it’s not far to dawn... but I can’t sleep: the nightingale in the garden sings so amazingly sweetly!.. I couldn’t stand it, I got up and went out onto the porch to listen to him. It poured and poured... and suddenly it seemed to me: someone was calling me in Vasya’s voice, quietly: “Lusha! clap! And, it seems, I wasn’t hurt too badly, so I soon got up and returned to my room. It’s just as if something inside me - in my womb - has torn... Let me catch my breath... just a minute... master.
Lukerya fell silent, and I looked at her in amazement. What amazed me was that she told her story almost cheerfully, without groans or sighs, without complaining at all or asking for participation.
“From that very incident,” Lukerya continued, “I began to wither and wither away; blackness came over me; It became difficult for me to walk, and then it became difficult to control my legs; I can neither stand nor sit; everything would lie down. And I don’t want to drink or eat: it’s getting worse and worse. Your mother, out of her kindness, showed me to doctors and sent me to the hospital. However, I didn’t get any relief. And not a single doctor could even say what kind of illness I had. They didn’t do anything to me: they burned my back with a hot iron, they put me in crushed ice - and nothing happened. I was completely numb in the end... So the gentlemen decided that there was no more treatment for me, and that it was impossible to keep cripples in a manor house... so they sent me here - because I have relatives here. This is where I live, as you can see.
Lukerya fell silent again and began to smile again.
This, however, is terrible, your situation! - I exclaimed... and, not knowing what to add, asked: - What about Vasily Polyakov? - This question was very stupid.
Lukerya averted her eyes a little to the side.
What about Polyakov? He pushed, he pushed, and he married someone else, a girl from Glinnoye. Do you know Glinnoe? Not far from us. Her name was Agrafena. He loved me very much, but he was a young man - he couldn’t remain single. And what kind of friend could I be to him? But he found himself a good, kind wife, and they have children. He lives here as a clerk with a neighbor: your mother let him go through the patchport, and, thank God, he is doing very well.
And so you just lie there and lie there? - I asked again.
This is how I lie, master, seventh year old. In the summer I lie here, in this wicker, and when it gets cold, they take me to the dressing room. I'm lying there.
Who is following you? Who's looking after?
And there are good people here too. They don't leave me. Yes, and there’s a little walking behind me. It’s almost like I don’t eat anything, but water—it’s in a mug: there’s always stored, clean, spring water. I can reach the mug myself: I can still use one hand. Well, there is a girl here, an orphan; no, no - yes, she will visit, thanks to her. Now she was here... Haven't you met her? So pretty, so white. She brings me flowers; I’m a big hunter of them, of flowers. We don’t have gardeners; we had them, but they disappeared. But wildflowers are also good, they smell even better than garden flowers. If only there was a lily of the valley... what could be more pleasant!