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 a lot with me, marvel at my intelligence, because when I talk with them about old and new fashions, I always give preference to their undercuts and fur coats over the current bonnets a la... and all the Gallo-Albion outfits shining on Moscow beauties in the end eighth to tenth 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 I hear in delight 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 out history Natalia, 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 dispute, 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 fled to dense forests hide your 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, long tables were set up in his upper rooms, covered with clean tablecloths, and the boyar, sitting on a bench next to of his high gates, he invited all the passing poor 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, found out their needs, served 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 large 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.

Nikolai Mikhailovich Karamzin

"Natalia, boyar's daughter"

The narrator yearns for the times when “Russians were Russians,” and Moscow beauties wore sundresses, and did not flaunt in Gallo-Saxon outfits. To resurrect these glorious times, the narrator decided to retell the story he heard from his grandfather's grandmother.

A long time ago in white-stone Moscow there lived a rich boyar, Matvey Andreev, the right hand and conscience of the tsar, a hospitable and very generous man. The boyar was already sixty years old, his wife had died long ago, and Matvey’s only joy was his daughter Natalya. No one could compare with Natalya either in beauty or gentle disposition. Not knowing how to read and write, she grew up like a flower, “had a lovely soul, was gentle like a turtledove, innocent like a lamb, sweet as the month of May.” After going to mass, the girl worked on needlework all day, and in the evenings she met with her friends at bachelorette parties. Natalya's mother was replaced by an old nanny, a faithful servant of the late noblewoman.

Natalya led such a life until the “seventeenth spring of her life” arrived. One day a girl noticed that all creatures on earth have a mate, and the need to love awoke in her heart. Natalya became sad and thoughtful, because she could not understand the vague desires of her heart. One winter, when she came to mass, a girl noticed a handsome young man in a blue caftan with gold buttons in the church, and immediately realized that it was him. The young man did not appear in church for the next three days, and on the fourth day Natalya saw him again.

For several days in a row, he accompanied the girl to the gate of her mansion, not daring to speak, and then came to her home. The nanny allowed the lovers to meet. The young man, whose name was Alexey, confessed his love to Natalya and persuaded her to marry him secretly. Alexei was afraid that the boyar would not accept him as a son-in-law, and promised Natalya that they would throw themselves at Matvey’s feet after the wedding.

The nanny was bribed, and that same evening Alexey brought Natalya to a dilapidated church, where they were married by an old priest. Then, taking with them the old nanny, the newlyweds went into the thicket of a dense forest. There was a hut there, in which they settled. The nanny, trembling with fear, decided that she had given her dove to the robber. Then Alexei admitted that he was the son of the disgraced boyar Lyuboslavsky. About thirty years ago, several noble boyars “revolted against the legitimate authority of the young sovereign.” Alexei's father did not participate in the riot, but was arrested due to false libel. “A faithful friend opened the prison door for him,” the boyar fled, lived for many years among foreign tribes and died in the arms of his only son. All this time, the boyar received letters from a friend. Having buried his father, Alexey returned to Moscow to restore the honor of the family. A friend arranged a refuge for him in the wilds of the forest and died without waiting for the young man. Having settled in a forest house, Alexey began to often visit Moscow, where he saw Natalya and fell in love. He made acquaintance with the nanny, told her about his passion, and she allowed him to see the girl.

Meanwhile, boyar Matvey discovered the loss. He showed the farewell letter written by Alexei to the Tsar, and the Tsar ordered to find the daughter of his faithful servant. The search continued until the summer, but was unsuccessful. All this time, Natalya lived in the wilderness with her beloved husband and nanny.

Despite the cloudless happiness, the daughter did not forget about her father. A faithful man brought them news about the boyar. One day he brought another news - about the war with the Lithuanians. Alexey decided to go to war in order to restore the honor of his family through a feat. He decided to take Natalya to her father, but she refused to leave her husband and went to war with him, dressing in a man’s dress and introducing herself as Alexei’s younger brother.

After some time, a messenger brought the news of the victory to the king. The military leaders described the battle in detail to the sovereign and told about the brave brothers who were the first to rush at the enemy and carried the rest with them. Having met the hero affectionately, the tsar learned that this was the son of the boyar Lyuboslavsky. The Emperor already knew about the unfair denunciation from the recently deceased rebel. Boyar Matvey happily recognized Natalya in the hero’s younger brother. Both the tsar and the old boyar forgave the young spouses for their arbitrariness. They moved to the city and got married again. Alexey became close to the Tsar, and Boyar Matvey lived to a ripe old age and died surrounded by his beloved grandchildren.

Centuries later, the narrator found a gravestone with the names of the Lyuboslavsky spouses, located on the site of a dilapidated church where the lovers got married for the first time.

Once upon a time, Matvey Andreev, a rich and noble boyar, the right hand of the Tsar himself, lived in Moscow. He was a widower and the father of a beautiful girl, Natalia. The beauty was not literate, but had a subtle and kind soul. Natalya did needlework and met with friends in the evening. Her mother was a sweet and faithful nanny - the maid of the deceased. At the age of seventeen, Natalya began to think about the great feeling of love. She could not understand what was happening to her; her heart was somehow sad and melancholy.

One winter in the temple, a girl met a young man and immediately realized that this was her betrothed. The young man began to accompany Natalya to the gate of the house, without uttering a word. And one day he came to her house. The nanny gave permission for the meeting. The guy's name was Alexey. He confessed his love for Natalya and began to persuade the girl to secretly marry him, because he was afraid that the father would not give his daughter in marriage to him. And after the wedding he promised to throw himself at the boyar’s feet and ask him to forgive the young people. The girl agreed and that same day the lovers went to the church to perform the ceremony. Then, together with the nanny, the young couple went into the thicket of the forest, where Alexei lived in a small hut.

The nanny was very scared, thinking that the guy turned out to be a robber. But Alexey told her that he was the son of the disgraced boyar Lyuboslavsky, who was illegally arrested many years ago because of the rebellious boyars, but escaped from captivity, and then died in the arms of his son. Alexey came to the city to restore his father’s honorable name and settled in the forest. And then I met Natalya and fell in love.

Father Matvey, having learned about the loss, complained to the king and he ordered a search for the girl to begin. Until the summer the girl could not be found, but she lived happily in the forest with her nanny and husband. But at times the daughter missed her native Matvey. She regularly received news about him from a faithful person. But one day news came about the war with the Lithuanians. Alexey decided to go to war and prove his good name. He wanted to send Natalya home, but she flatly refused to leave her sweetheart and went to war with him. She had to change into a man's outfit and call herself Alexei's younger brother.

After some time, the king's army gained victory. The Tsar proudly hosted the bravest heroes, including Alexei. It was already known about the unjust punishment of his father. The tsar and boyar forgave the young people. Soon they moved to the city and got married again. Alexey received high position at the tsar's court, and boyar Matvey lived until the end of his days, surrounded by his family and grandchildren.

Essays

“Who among us does not love those times when Russians were Russians, when they dressed up in their own clothes, walked in 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 my imagination into their distant gloom, under the canopy of long-decayed elms, to look for my proud 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 , they can’t talk enough with me, marvel at my intelligence, because when I talk with them about old and new fashions, I always give preference to their undercuts and fur coats over the current bonnets a la ... "

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The given introductory fragment of the book Natalya, boyar's daughter (N. M. Karamzin, 1792) provided by our book partner - the company liters.

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 my imagination into their distant gloom, under the canopy of long-decayed elms, to look for my proud 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 , they can’t talk enough with me, marvel at my intelligence, because when I talk with them about old and new fashions, I always give preference to their undercuts and fur coats over the current bonnets a la... and all the Gallo-Albion outfits that shine on Moscow beauties in the end eighth to tenth 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 I hear in delight sweet rattling words yours: “Continue, my dear great-great-grandson!” So, I will continue, I will; and, armed with a pen, I will courageously write out history Natalia, 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 dispute, 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.

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, long tables were set up in his upper rooms, covered with clean tablecloths, and the boyar, sitting on a bench next to of his high gates, he invited all the passing poor 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 large 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, the royal servant, true friend 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 - he saw in young Natalya new image 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 well spiritual beauty). 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 parenthood? 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 towers now rise. 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 scolding 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’s hands. 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.

End of introductory fragment.

Lecture, abstract. History in N. M. Karamzin’s story “Natalya, the Boyar’s Daughter” - concept and types. Classification, essence and features.

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