School encyclopedia. A new image in an old way Everything was just quiet in her

In those days, when I flourished serenely in the gardens of the Lyceum, I read Apuleius willingly, But I did not read Cicero, In those days in the mysterious valleys, In the spring, at the cries of the swans, Near the waters shining in silence, The muse began to appear to me. My student cell Suddenly lit up: the muse in it Opened a feast of young ventures, Sang children's fun, And the glory of our antiquity, And quivering dreams of hearts.

And the light met her with a smile; Success was the first to inspire us; The old man Derzhavin noticed us And, descending into the coffin, blessed us. ......................... ......................... ......................... ......................... ......................... ......................... ......................... ......................... ......................... .........................

And I, imputing to myself the Passion a single arbitrariness, Sharing feelings with the crowd, I brought a frisky muse To the noise of feasts and violent disputes, Thunderstorms of midnight patrols: And to them on mad feasts She carried her gifts And as a bacchante frolicked, Sang over a bowl for guests, And the youth of bygone days For her violently dragged, And I was proud among friends My windy friend.

But I lagged behind their union And fled into the distance ... She followed me. How often did the affectionate muse delight me on the dumb path with the Magic of a secret story! How often on the rocks of the Caucasus She Lenora, in the moonlight, rode a horse with me! How often on the banks of Taurida She took me in the darkness of the night To listen to the noise of the sea, The silent whisper of Nereid, The deep, eternal chorus of the shafts, A hymn of praise to the father of the worlds.

And, forgetting the distant capital And the shine and noisy feasts, In the wilderness of sad Moldavia She visited the humble tents of the Wandering tribes, And between them she ran wild, And forgot the speech of the gods For the meager, strange languages, For the songs of the steppe, her dear ... Suddenly everything around changed : And here she is in my garden Was a district young lady, With a sad thought in her eyes, With a French book in her hands.

And now, for the first time, I bring a muse to the social event 44; At her steppe delights I look with jealous timidity. Through a close row of aristocrats, Military dandies, diplomats And proud ladies, she glides; Here she sat down quietly and looked, Admiring the noisy crowdedness, The flickering of dresses and speeches. The appearance of slow guests Before the young mistress, And the dark frame of men Around I will give as near pictures.

She likes the orderly order of Oligarchic conversations, And the coldness of calm pride, And this mixture of ranks and years. But who in the crowd of the elect Stands silent and foggy? He seems to be a stranger to everyone. Faces flicker in front of him, Like a row of annoying ghosts. What, spleen or suffering arrogance In his face? Why is he here? Who is he? Is it really Eugene? Is he really? .. So, as if he is. - How long has it been brought to us?

Is he still the same il pacified? Or is he portraying the same eccentric? Tell me, how did he come back? What will he present to us so far? What will appear now? Melmot, Cosmopolitan, patriot, Harold, Quaker, prude, Or flaunts a different mask, Or will it just be a good fellow, How are you and me, like the whole world? At least my advice: To lag behind the decrepit fashion. He has been fooling enough light ... - Is he familiar to you? - Yes and no.

Why do you speak so unfavorably about him? For the fact that we are restlessly Troubled, we judge everything, That imprudent souls are imprudent, Self-loving insignificance Or offends, il laughs, That the mind, loving space, oppresses, That too often conversations We are happy for things, That stupidity is windy and evil, That important people care about nonsense, And that mediocrity is one we can handle and not strange?

Blessed is he who was young from his youth, Blessed is he who matured in time, Who gradually knew how to endure the coldness of life With age; Who did not indulge in strange dreams, Who did not shy away from the mob of the world, Who at twenty was dandy or grip, And at thirty he is profitably married; Who, at fifty, freed himself from private and other debts, Who calmly achieved fame, money and ranks, About whom they kept repeating for a whole century: N. N. is a wonderful person.

But it’s sad to think that youth was given to us in vain, That they cheated on her every hour, That she deceived us; That our best desires, That our fresh dreams Decayed in quick succession, Like rotten leaves in autumn. It is unbearable to see a long row of dinners in front of you, Look at life as a ceremony And follow the decorous crowd To go, not sharing with it Neither common opinions nor passions.

The subject of becoming noisy judgments, It is unbearable (agree that) Between prudent people To be branded as a feigned eccentric, Or a sad madcap, Or a satanic freak, Or even my Demon. Onegin (I'll do it again), Killing a friend in a duel, Having lived without a goal, without work Until twenty-six years, languishing in the idleness of leisure Without service, without a wife, without work, I could not do anything.

He was seized by anxiety, Wanderlust (A very painful property, Few voluntary cross). He left his village, Forests and fields of solitude, Where a bloody shadow appeared to Him every day, And began wandering without a goal, Accessible to the feeling alone; And he was tired of traveling, Like everything in the world; He returned and got, Like Chatsky, from the ship to the ball.

But then the crowd hesitated, A whisper ran through the hall ... A lady was approaching the hostess, Behind her was an important general. She was unhurried, Not cold, not talkative, Without an insolent gaze for everyone, Without claims to success, Without these little antics, Without imitative undertakings ... Everything was quiet, it was just in her, She seemed to be the right shot Du comme il faut ...(See translation) (Shishkov, I'm sorry: I don't know how to translate.)

The ladies moved closer to her; The old ladies smiled at her; The men bowed below, Catching the gaze of her eyes; The girls walked quieter in front of her in the hall, and above all, And the general who entered with her lifted his nose and shoulders. Nobody could call her beautiful; but from head to toe No one in her could find That which is an autocratic fashion In the high circle of London It is called vulgar(See translation). (I can not...

I love this word very much, But I cannot translate; It is still new with us, And it is unlikely to be in honor of him. It would be suitable in an epigram ...) But I turn to our lady. Sweet with careless charm, She sat at the table With the brilliant Nina Voronskaya, This Cleopatra of the Neva; And you would surely agree, That Nina could not outshine her neighbor with her marble beauty, Even though she was dazzling.

“Really,” thinks Eugene, “Really she? But for sure ... No ... How! from the wilderness of the steppe villages ... "And the obtrusive lorgnette He draws every minute To the one whose appearance reminded Him vaguely forgotten features. "Tell me, prince, do you not know Who is there in a crimson beret Speaks Spanish to the ambassador?" The prince looks at Onegin. - Aha! you haven't been in the world for a long time. Wait, I will introduce you. - "Who is she?" - My wife.-

“So you're married! I did not know the wound! How long has it been? " - About two years. - "On whom?" - On Larina. - "Tatiana!" - Do you know her? - "I'm their neighbor." - Oh, so let's go. - The prince approaches his wife and brings her relatives and his friend to her. The princess looks at him ... And whatever embarrassed her soul, No matter how much she was surprised, amazed, But nothing changed her: She retained the same tone, Her bow was just as quiet.

She-she! not that she shuddered, Ile suddenly became pale, red ... Her eyebrow did not even move; She did not even purse her lips. Although he could not look more diligently, But Onegin could not find traces of the former Tatyana either. With her, he wanted to make a speech, and - and could not. She asked, How long has he been here, where is he from And not from their sides? Then she turned her tired gaze to her husband, slid out ... And he remained motionless.

Really the same Tatiana, Whom he is alone, At the beginning of our novel, In the dull, distant side, In the good heat of moralizing, I once read instructions, The one from which he keeps the Letter, where the heart speaks, Where everything is outside, everything is free , That girl ... or is it a dream? .. That girl, whom he neglected in his humble lot, Was she with him now So indifferent, so brave?

He leaves the reception cramped, He goes home pensively: With a dream that is sad, now it is charming His late sleep is disturbed. He woke up; they bring him a Letter: Prince N humbly asks Him for the evening. "God! to her! .. Oh, I will, I will! " and rather Maraet he is a courteous answer. What about him? what a strange dream he is in! What stirred in the depths of the cold and lazy Soul? Annoyance? vanity? il again Care of youth - love?

Onegin again counts the clock, Again he will not wait for the end of the day. But ten beats; He leaves, He flew, he is at the porch, He enters with trepidation for the princess; He finds Tatyana alone, And they sit together for several minutes. Words do not come From the lips of Onegin. Gloomy, awkward, he barely answers her. His head is full of stubborn thought. He stubbornly looks: she Sits calm and free.

The husband comes. He interrupts this unpleasant tête-à-tête (See translation); With Onegin, he recalls Leprosy, jokes of previous years. They are laughing. Guests enter. Here is the coarse salt of secular anger The conversation began to liven up; Before the hostess, light nonsense flashed without stupid pretense, And meanwhile, Reasonable sense interrupted him without vulgar topics, Without eternal truths, without pedantry, And did not frighten anyone's ears With his free liveliness.

There was, however, the color of the capital, And the nobility, and the fashion patterns, Everywhere we meet, The necessary fools; There were elderly ladies in caps and roses, looking angry; There were several girls, Not smiling faces; There was a messenger who spoke of state affairs; There was an old man in fragrant gray hair, joking in the old way: Superbly subtle and clever, Which is somewhat ridiculous today.

Here he was greedy for epigrams, For everything an angry gentleman: For the master's tea is too sweet, On the plane of the ladies, on the tone of men, On talk about a foggy novel, On a monogram given to two sisters, On the lies of magazines, on the war, On the snow and on his wife. ....................... ....................... ....................... ....................... ....................... .......................

There was Prolasov, who earned fame for the meanness of his soul, In all the albums he dulled, St.-Priest, your pencils; At the door another ballroom dictator stood with a magazine picture, Blush, like a verbum cherub, Tightened, dumb and immovable, And a stray traveler, Over-starched impudent, Away a smile excited his caring posture, And silently exchanged gaze He was a common sentence.

But my Onegin evening with the whole Tatiana was occupied by one, Not this timid girl, In love, poor and simple, But an indifferent princess, But the impregnable goddess of the Luxurious, regal Neva. Oh people! you are all like the progenitor Eva: What is given to you does not attract you, the serpent is constantly calling you To itself, to the mysterious tree: Give you the forbidden fruit, And without that paradise is not paradise for you.

How Tatiana has changed! How firmly she entered her role! How oppressive dignity She soon accepted! Who would dare to look for a gentle girl In this stately, in this careless Legislator hall? And he worried her heart! She is about him in the darkness of the night, Until Morpheus arrives, It used to be virginal sad, To the moon, the languid eyes rise, Dreaming with him someday To accomplish the humble path of life!

Love for all ages; But Her impulses are beneficial to young, virgin hearts, Like spring storms in the fields: In the rain of passions they freshen, And renew, and ripen - And a mighty life gives And lush color and sweet fruit. But at a late and barren age, At the turn of our years, A trail of dead passions is sad: So the storms of cold autumn In a swamp turn the meadow And lay bare the forest around.

There is no doubt: alas! Eugene In love with Tatiana as a child; In anguish of loving thoughts And he spends day and night. The mind does not heed the strict penalties, He drives up to her porch, glass entrance every day; He chases after her like a shadow; He is happy if he throws a fluffy Boa over her shoulder, Or touches her hand warmly, or spreads a motley regiment of liveries before her, Or he will raise a handkerchief for her.

She does not notice him, No matter how he fight, even die. He freely accepts at home, While visiting with him, he says three words, Sometimes he will meet with one bow, Sometimes he will not notice at all: There is not a drop of coquetry in her - the Upper Light does not tolerate Him. Onegin begins to turn pale: She either can't see it, or it's not a pity; Onegin dries up, and hardly suffers from consumption. Everyone sends Onegin to the doctors, They send him in chorus to waters.

And he does not go; he is ready to write to his great-grandfathers in advance About a quick meeting; and Tatiana And it does not matter (their gender is that); And he is stubborn, does not want to be left behind, He still hopes, he is busy; Brave the healthy, sick Princess with a weak hand He writes a passionate message. Although there was little sense in general, He did not see much in letters; But, know, heartache Already he could not bear it. Here is his letter to you exactly.

Onegin's letter
to Tatiana

I foresee everything: the explanation of the sad secret will offend you. What bitter contempt your proud glance will portray! What I want? For what purpose will I open my soul to you? What wicked fun, Perhaps I am giving a reason! Accidentally meeting you once, Noticing a spark of tenderness in you, I did not dare to believe her: I didn’t give way to a cute habit; I didn't want to lose my hateful freedom. One more thing separated us ... Lensky fell as an unhappy victim ... From everything that is sweet to my heart, Then I tore my heart; Alien to everyone, not connected by anything, I thought: freedom and peace Replacement of happiness. My God! How wrong I was, how punished! No, to see you every minute, Everywhere to follow you, The smile of the lips, the movement of the eyes To catch with loving eyes, To listen to you for a long time, to understand with your Soul all your perfection, To fade in agony before you, Turn pale and fade away ... here is bliss! And I am deprived of that: for you I trudge everywhere at random; The day is dear to me, the hour is dear to me: And in vain boredom I spend the days counted by Fate. And they are so painful. I know: my century has already been measured; But in order to prolong my life, I must be sure in the morning that I will see you in the afternoon ... I am afraid: in my humble plea He will see your stern gaze of Contemptible cunning design - And I hear your wrathful reproach. If only you knew how awful To languish with a thirst for love, To blaze - and with your mind all the hour To subdue the excitement in blood; To wish to hug your knees, And, crying, at your feet To pour out entreaties, confessions, penalties, Everything, everything that I could express, And meanwhile, with feigned coldness Arming both speech and gaze, Lead a calm conversation, Look at you with a cheerful gaze! .. But so be it: I cannot resist myself anymore; Everything is decided: I am in your will, And I surrender to my destiny.

No answer. He sent again: There is no answer to the second, third letter. He goes to one assembly; just entered ... She met him. How harsh! They don't see him, not a word with him; Uh! how now she is surrounded by the Epiphany cold! How to restrain indignation Stubborn lips want! Onegin fixed his keen gaze: Where, where is confusion, compassion? Where are the stains of tears? .. They are not, they are not! There is only a trace of anger on this face ...

Yes, maybe a secret fear, So that my husband or the world does not guess Leprosy, an accidental weakness ... All that my Onegin knew ... There is no hope! He leaves, He curses His madness - And, deeply immersed in him, He again denied the light. And in the silent office He remembered the time, When the cruel blues chased him in the noisy light, Caught him, took him by the gate And locked him into a dark corner.

He began to read again indiscriminately. He read Gibbon, Rousseau, Manzoni, Herder, Chamfort, Madame de Staël, Bichat, Tissot, Read the skeptical Bel, Read the works of Fontenelle, Read some of ours, Without rejecting anything: And almanacs and magazines, Where teachings are told to us, Where now they scold me like that, And where such madrigals I met myself sometimes: E semper bene(See translation), gentlemen.

So what then? His eyes read, But his thoughts were far away; Dreams, desires, sorrows Squeezed into the soul deeply. He, between the printed lines, Read other lines with spiritual eyes. In them, he was completely deepened. Those were the secret legends of the Heart, dark antiquity, Dreams unrelated to anything, Threats, talk, predictions, Or a long fairy tale, living nonsense, Or letters from a young maiden.

And gradually he falls into sleep And feelings and thoughts, And before him the imagination His motley pharaoh rushes. Then he sees: on the melted snow, As if sleeping at an overnight stay, Immobile young man lies, And hears a voice: what then? killed. Now he sees the enemies of the forgotten, Slanderers, and evil cowards, And a swarm of young traitors, And a circle of despicable comrades, Then a country house - and Sits at the window she... and that's it! ..

He was so used to being lost in this, That he almost turned his mind or did not become a poet. To admit: I would borrow it! And exactly: by the power of magnetism The poems of the Russian mechanism Barely at that time did not comprehend My stupid student. How he looked like a poet, When he sat alone in the corner, And a fireplace was burning in front of him, And he purred: Benedetta(See translation) Il Idol mio(See translation) and dropped into the fire either a shoe or a magazine.

Days rushed by; in the heated air Winter was already resolving; And he did not become a poet, He did not die, did not lose his mind. Spring lives on him: for the first time His chambers are locked, Where he wintered like a marmot, Double windows, fires He leaves on a clear morning, Rushes along the Neva in a sleigh. The sun plays on the blue, cut ice; melts dirty On the streets poured snow. Where is your fast run along it

Onegin is striving? You guessed right in advance; exactly like this: My uncorrected eccentric rushed to her, to his Tatyana. Goes, looking like a dead man. There is not a single soul in the hallway. He is in the hall; further: nobody. He opened the door. What amazes him with such power? The princess in front of him, alone, Sits, not cleaned, is pale, She reads some letter And quietly pours tears in a river, Leaning on her hand with her cheek.

Oh, who would not read her mute sufferings In this quick moment! Who would not recognize the old Tanya, poor Tanya Now in the princess! In anguish of insane regrets Eugene fell at her feet; She shuddered and was silent, And she looked at Onegin Without surprise, without anger ... His sick, faded gaze, A pleading look, a mute reproach, She understands everything. A simple virgin, With dreams, the heart of former days, Now she has resurrected again in her.

She does not raise him And, not taking her eyes off him, She does not take her insensible hand from her greedy lips ... What is her dream about now? A long silence passes, And finally she is quiet: “Enough; stand up. I have to explain to you frankly. Onegin, do you remember that hour, When in the garden, in the alley, Fate brought us together, and so humbly I listened to your lesson? Today is my turn.

“Onegin, I was younger then, I think I was better, And I loved you; and what? What have I found in your heart? What answer? one severity. Isn't that so? Was it nothing new to you Humble girl love? And now - God! - the blood freezes, As soon as I remember the cold look And this sermon ... But I do not blame you: in that terrible hour you acted nobly. You were right before me: I am grateful with all my soul ...

“Then - isn't it? - in the desert, Far from vain rumor, you did not like me ... Why are you persecuting Me now? Why do you have me in mind? Is it not because I must now appear in the upper world; That I am rich and noble, That my husband is mutilated in battles, Why does the court caress us for that? Is it not because my shame Now would be noticed by everyone And could bring you a seductive honor in society?

“I am crying ... if you have not forgotten your Tanya so far, Then you should know: the sharpness of your abuse, Cold, strict conversation, If only I had power, I would prefer offensive passion And these letters and tears. To my infant dreams Then you had at least pity, At least respect for years ... But now! - what brought you to my feet? what a little! How with your heart and mind Be the feelings of a petty slave?

“And to me, Onegin, this splendor, Tinsel of hateful life, My successes in a whirlwind of light, My fashionable house and evenings, What's in them? Now I am glad to give All this rags of masquerade, All this shine, and noise, and fumes For a shelf of books, for a wild garden, For our poor dwelling, For those places where for the first time, Onegin, I saw you, Yes, for a humble cemetery Where today is the cross and the shadow of the branches Above my poor nanny ...

“And happiness was so possible, So close! .. But my fate is already decided. Inadvertently, Perhaps I did: My mother prayed with tears of spells; for poor Tanya All the lots were equal ... I got married. You must, I beg you, leave me; I know: in your heart there is Both pride and direct honor. I love you (why dissemble?), But I am given to another; I will be faithful to him forever. "

She left. Eugene is standing, As if struck by thunder. What a storm of sensations Now he is immersed in his heart! But an unexpected ringing of spurs rang out, And Tatyanin's husband showed up, And here my hero, In a minute, evil for him, Reader, we will now leave, For a long time ... forever ... Let's congratulate each other on the shore. Hooray! It's a long time ago (isn't it?) Time!

Whoever you are, oh my reader, Friend, foe, I want to part with you today as a friend. Sorry. Whatever you are after me Here you are looking for in careless stanzas, Rebellious memories, Either rest from work, Living pictures, or sharp words, Or grammatical errors, God grant that in this book you are For entertainment, for a dream, For the heart, for magazine errors Although I could find a grain. For this we will part, forgive!

Forgive me too, you, my strange companion, And you, my faithful ideal, And you, living and constant, At least a little work. I knew everything that is enviable for a poet: Oblivion of life in storms of light, Sweet conversation of friends. Many, many days have passed since young Tatiana And with her Onegin in a vague dream Appeared to me for the first time - And the distance of a free romance I did not clearly distinguish through a magic crystal.

But those to whom I first read the stanzas in a friendly meeting ... There are no others, and those are far away, As Sadi once said. Without them, Onegin is completed. And the one with whom Tatyana was educated, a sweet ideal ... Oh, a lot, a lot of rock has taken away! Blessed is the one who left the holiday of life early, without having finished drinking Glass full of wine, Who did not finish her novel And suddenly knew how to part with him, As I am with mine Onegin.

Chapter 18 Impeccable Manners

"Somme il faut" oh? "Je ne sais quoi"

"Right" or "I don't know what" (French)

“... She was unhurried,

Not cold, not talkative,

Without an insolent gaze for all,

No claim to success

Without these little antics

Without imitative undertakings ...

Everything is quiet, it was just in her,

She seemed a sure shot

Du comme il faut ... (Shishkov, forgive me:

I don't know how to translate.) "

A.S. Pushkin. "Eugene Onegin"

Pushkin's playful appeal to Shishkov, who fought against the use of foreign words and expressions, emphasizes the specific meaning of the expression comme il faut. Its literal translation: "as it should", but it does not convey the content of the concept that was designated by this idiom. "Faithful shot du comme il faut" is an example of excellent upbringing, impeccable manners, impeccable taste. It is possible to single out the necessary signs, individual signs of these qualities, but it is impossible to determine the general impression that people who fully possess them made on those around them.

Instead of comme il faut, Chesterfield often used the expression je ne sais quoi (I don't know what), admitting that "everyone feels, although no one can describe." Indeed, Pushkin, describing Tatyana, lists mainly those qualities that were not in her (not cold, not talkative, etc.). Lev Tolstoy describes mm Berg in the same way: “She entered neither late nor early, neither soon, nor quietly (...) Her every movement was light and graceful and free (...) She went forward, not looking down and not looking in the crowd in confusion, but calmly, firmly and easily ... "(From the drafts of the novel" War and peace").

And here is the description of Lady Roseville from the Bulwer-Lytton novel: “But most of all, Lady Roseville was captivated by her manner of behaving in light, completely different from how all other women behaved, and, however, you could not, even in the smallest trifles , to determine what exactly the difference is, and this, in my opinion, is the surest sign of refined upbringing. She admires you, but it should appear so unobtrusive and inconspicuous that you can in no way establish the direct cause of your admiration. "

Chesterfield thinks in the same spirit: “I knew many women, well-built and beautiful, with regular features, which, however, no one liked, while others, not so well-built and not so beautiful, fascinated everyone who I saw them. Why? Because Venus, when there are no graces next to her, is not able to seduce a man in the same way that they seduce in her absence. " (The word "graces" is commonly used by Chesterfield as a synonym for je ne sais quoi). Apparently, Pushkin means the same:

“... But I am addressing our lady.

Sweetness with a carefree charm,

She sat at the table

With the brilliant Nina Voronskaya,

This one to Cleopatra of the Neva;

And surely you would agree,

That Nina's marble beauty

I could not outshine my neighbor,

Though she was dazzling. "

("Eugene Onegin")

Chesterfield remarked: "Perhaps nothing is acquired with such difficulty and nothing is as important as good manners ..." Pelam exclaimed in his tone: "What a rare gift - the ability to keep oneself! How difficult it is to define it, how much more difficult it is to join it! " To develop such a gift in a child, of course, was sought by all those who expected to introduce their pupil into a good society.

It would be appropriate to make a small digression about the limits of the possibilities of any educational system. Our heroes - people of the XVIII-XIX centuries - were inclined to enlightenment exaggeration of the role of education and upbringing, placing too high hopes on them.

It is not surprising that Chesterfield, who put so much effort into raising his son, dreamed that the young man would be close to perfection ... Alas! Philip Stanhope did not inherit the intelligence and charm of his father and, according to the testimony of people who knew him as adults, he was a well-mannered man, but completely ordinary.

This is an eloquent example of the fact that neither aristocratic origin, nor the best upbringing can replace natural gifts.

But, on the other hand, there is also an encouraging moment: it is not at all necessary to belong to a noble family in order to make good use of the wise advice of the Earl of Chesterfield.)

Trying to define what is true upbringing, Chesterfield compared it with some invisible line, crossing which a person becomes unbearably ceremonial, and not reaching it - cheeky or awkward.

The subtlety lies in the fact that a well-mannered person knows when to and disregard the rules of etiquette in order to maintain good form.

Leo Tolstoy liked to remind children of the famous historical anecdote about Louis XIV. The king, wishing to test a nobleman famous for his courtesy, invited him to enter the carriage first. Etiquette strictly obliged the king to pass ahead, but that man did not hesitate to get into the carriage first. "Here is a truly well-bred person!" said the king. The point of this story is that good parenting is meant to simplify, not complicate, relationships between people.

It was, of course, impossible to teach the elusive comme il faut with the help of some concrete practiced methods guaranteeing the desired result. Chesterfield wrote to his son: "If you ask me how you can acquire what you and I are unable to establish or determine, then I can only answer - by observing."

Obviously, the ability to keep oneself is one of those skills that is passed only from hand to hand, through observation and involuntary imitation, absorbing the atmosphere of the environment where this skill was developed to the level of art.

Chesterfield advised his son in a businesslike manner: “In the evenings I advise you to be in the company of ladies of the world, they deserve your attention, and you must give it to them. In their company, you will polish your manners and get used to being considerate and courteous ... "V. A. Sollogub reasoned in exactly the same spirit:" If these lines catch the eye of a young man entering the world of life, may he not disdain my advice always beware of society without ladies, I mean - decent ones. With them, you involuntarily need to be careful, polite, look for grace and acquire the right habits. Self-respect is also strengthened by respect for a woman. "

Young people "entering the field of life" in Russia in the 1830s-1840s had ample opportunity to follow such advice, visiting the brilliant salons for which both capitals were famous. Remembering these salons, KD Kavelin wrote that, among other things, they were very important “precisely as a school for young beginners: here they were brought up and prepared for subsequent literary and scientific activities. Introduced into remarkably educated families by the kindness and hospitality of their owners, young men who had just stepped off the student bench were given access to a better society, where they felt good and free, thanks to the amazing simplicity and ease that reigned in the house and at parties. " Kavelin wrote these lines in 1887 and sadly added: "Now we no longer hear about such salons, and therefore now it is much more difficult for young people to educate themselves for an intelligent life ..."

This is not the place to go into an analysis of the reasons why such circles and salons hardly took root in Russian life. But it is obvious that Kavelin's reflections cannot be attributed only to the usual elegiac longing for the days of his youth. The next hundred plus years have convincingly demonstrated that it became more and more difficult to "educate for an intelligent life" in Russia.

That elusive "je ne sais quoi", the special charm of people from the "good society", in many respects consisted precisely in the simplicity and ease of their behavior, which we have already discussed. Pushkin loved the word "careless", using it in the meaning of "at ease", "gracefully":

(“When the hoop is diligently

You sit, bending over carelessly,

Eyes and curls ... ")

But it was not for nothing that this simplicity and ease turned out to be so inaccessible for imitation, so painfully inaccessible for people of another circle, who in secular salons became either constrained or cheeky. Many of them theoretically knew perfectly well the rules of conduct, but, as Chesterfield rightly noted, "You must not only be able to be polite, (...) the highest rules of good manners also require that your politeness be casual." Easy to say! ..