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Chapter 35 Tatyana Borisovna and her nephew (2)
Now she lives with her nephew, an artist from Petersburg, who has been living there for more than a year.Here's how it happened: About eight years ago, Tatiana Borisovna lived in the house of an orphan of about twelve years old, the son of her deceased brother, named Andryushya. .Andreusia has a pair of bright and watery eyes, a small cherry-like mouth, a straight nose and a beautiful high forehead.He spoke with a melodious voice, always neat, courteous manners, kind and attentive to his guests, and often kissed his aunt's hand with lonely affection.Often when you come, he will bring the chair to you.He is very obedient and sensible, and he doesn't make trouble at ordinary times.Sitting in the corner reading a book, so sincere, humble, gentle and well-behaved, not even leaning on the back of the chair.When a visitor came in, my Andryusia stood up, smiled politely, and blushed; when the visitor had gone out, he sat down again, took a comb with a mirror from his pocket, and combed his hair. .He has loved drawing and painting since he was a child.As soon as he got a small piece of paper, he asked the housekeeper Agfia for a pair of scissors, carefully cut the paper into a regular rectangle, drew a border around it, and started to work: draw a big eye, Or a tall nose, or a house with a chimney that emits spiral smoke, draw a dog with an "en face" like a bench, a small tree with two pigeons on it, and inscribe: "Painted by Andrei Belovzorov, on such and such a day, in the village of Malaya Breki." Before Tatyana Borisovna's name day, he worked with great enthusiasm for about two a week.He was the first to come to congratulate him and present a hand scroll tied with a pink ribbon.Tatiana Borisovna kissed her nephew on the forehead, untied the knot, opened the scroll, and a round, boldly shaded temple appeared to the expectant eyes of the spectators.The temple had a colonnade, and in the middle stood an altar; on the altar stood a fiery red heart and a crown of flowers; and above, on a zigzag band, was written in neat and beautiful letters: "Dedicated by my nephew. To my dear aunt and benefactor, Tatyana Borisovna Bogdanova, for gratitude and affection." Tatiana Borisovna kissed him again, and gave him a silver ruble.But she didn't feel much attachment to him, because she didn't like Andreusia's servile temperament very much.Then Andryusha came of age, and Tatyana Borisovna began to worry about his future.An unexpected chance brought her out of her present predicament... It happened as follows: about 8 years ago, a civil servant of the sixth rank and medalist Mr. Peter Mikhelich Benevolensky came to visit her.Mr. Benevolensky, who used to serve in a nearby county town and visited Tatiana Borisovna from time to time, moved to Petersburg and entered the cabinet, where he held important positions. status.He has been on business trips many times, and once he met his old friend by chance, he came to her home with the purpose of taking a two-day rest "in the arms of quiet country life" to relieve the burden of official duties.Tatiana Borisovna entertained him with all her customary attentions, so Mr. Benevolensky... But before proceeding, dear readers, allow me to introduce this new character to you.

Mr. Benevolensky was a fat man of medium height, with a calm manner, short legs, and round hands.He wore a large and very neat tail-coat, a high tie, a snow-white shirt, a gold chain on a silk waistcoat, a jeweled ring on his forefinger, and pale Yellow wig.He spoke calmly, walked quietly, smiled happily, rolled his eyes happily, and buried his chin in his tie happily.All in all, a very pleasant-looking man.He was born with a kind heart.He was prone to tears, to ecstasy, and to art was burning with a simple passion--a real simple passion, for Mr. Benevolensky, if the truth is true, knew nothing about art.What makes people wonder is, where did his enthusiasm come from, and what mysterious reasons did he get it?It seems that he is an ordinary, even ordinary person... But in our Russia, such people are everywhere... The taste for art and artists gives these people an indescribably disgusting smell.It is a painful thing to associate with them, to talk to them, they are like wooden men with honey on their lips.For instance, they never called Raphael Raphael, they never called Correzzo Correzzo, but always "the holy Sanzio, the excellent de Allegles", and Speaking of it, I will definitely pronounce all 6 sounds.And for the humble, the proud, the cunning and the untalented, the plenum venerates geniuses, "the blue skies of Italy," "the lemon trees of the South," "the fragrant air of the Brenta," What they say most often. "O Vania, Vania," or "O Sacha, Sacha," they said, looking at each other affectionately, "we should go to the South, to the South... Our hearts belong to the Greeks , of the ancient Greeks!" In front of some of the works of certain Russian artists in the exhibition, one can observe their expressions (it must be noted: most of these gentlemen were ardent patriots).Occasionally they took two steps back, raised their heads, or came closer to the painting, their eyes glowed with a kind of light... "Oh, my God," they said passionately at last, "there is a soul, there is Soul! Oh, soul, soul! Oh, the spirit, the spirit! . . . How well conceived! How ingenious!" And what about the pictures in their own parlors?What kind of artist is it that comes to their house every night to drink tea and chat with them?What kind of scene did they present to these artists in their own room?On the right there was a floor brush, a heap of rubbish accumulated on the polished floor, a yellow samovar set on a table by the window, and the master in his dressing-gown and cap, with cheeks shining brightly.What a long-haired muse who comes to visit them, smiling warmly and disdainfully!How livid-faced ladies shriek hysterically at their pianos!And because we already have such a habit in Russia: one cannot only love one kind of art, but all arts must be involved.So don't be surprised, this group of gentlemen who love beauty also have a lot of experience in Russian literature—especially drama literature..."Jacob Sanasser" was written for them, it was described exactly the same, and it has not been read by the world. The recognized genius's struggle against humanity and the world moved them to the depths of their hearts.

The day after Mr. Benevolensky's arrival Tatiana Borisovna told her nephew at tea-time to show the visitor his album.

"He can paint?" said Mr. Benevolensky in great astonishment, and turned to Andryushya with pity.

"Isn't he? He can draw," replied Tatiana Borisovna. "He likes to draw very much! He taught himself, without a teacher."

"Oh, show me, show me," continued Mr. Benevolensky.Andreusia was shy, and smiled and handed her picture album to the guest.Mr. Benevolensky pretended to know very well and opened the picture album. "Well done, boy," he said at last, "well done, well done." Then he stroked Andryusia's head.Andreusia kissed his hand casually. "Look, what a clever boy! . . . Congratulations, Tatiana Borisovna, congratulations."

"But, Pyotr Mikhailitch, it's too difficult to get a teacher for him here. It's too expensive to get him from the city. There's a painter at the Artamonov's nearby who is said to be very good, but The mistress forbade him to give lessons. She said he would spoil his interest." "Yes," replied Mr. Benevolensky, began to think, and frowned at Andryushya. "Okay, let's make a decision on this matter." He said suddenly, rubbing his hands.

Then one day he asked Tatyana Borisovna to speak to him alone.The two of them locked themselves in the room and talked for a while.Half an hour later they called Andryusia in.Andryusia came in.Mr. Benevolensky was standing by the window, his face flushed slightly, his eyes shining.Tatyana Borisovna was sitting in a corner weeping softly. "Oh, Andryusya," and she said, "thank you, Peter Mihalich, who brought you up and took you to Petersburg." Andryusya stood there like a fool.

"Tell me directly," began Mr. Benevolensky in a menacing and generous voice, "do you want to be an artist, my boy, do you feel a sacred vocation to art?"

"I wish to be an artist, Pyotr Michelitch," answered Andryusia tremblingly.

"If so, I am glad. Of course," continued Mr. Benevolensky, "it was a painful thing for you to leave your dear aunt, and you must have felt a great gratitude to her."

"I admire my aunt," Andreusia interrupted, blinking her eyes. "Of course, of course, it's obvious, and it's admirable, but imagine how happy it will be... your success... embrace me, Andryusia," said the kind landlady. unspecified.

Andreusia ran forward and hugged her neck. "Okay, now go thank your benefactor..." Andryushya hugged Mr. Benevolensky's stomach, stood on tiptoe, and managed to reach his hand, although the benefactor wanted to withdraw his hand. , but he didn't shrink back immediately... He had to make the kid happy and satisfied, and at the same time he could relax a little.Two days later, Mr. Benevolensky left with his new disciple.

In the first three years after her departure, Andreusia often wrote letters, and occasionally included some pictures in the letters.Mr. Benevolensky sometimes added a few words to his letters, which were generally praiseworthy.Later, the number of letters gradually decreased, and in the end there was not even a single one.Tatyana Borisovna began to worry about her nephew for a year without news, when suddenly she received a text message with the following content:

dear aunt:
Three days ago my dear Pyotr Mikhailovich died.A brutal stroke robbed me of my last support.Of course, I'm 20 now.

I have come a long way in 7 years.I believe in my talent and I can live off it.I am not upset, but if it is convenient, please send me 250 rubles immediately.Kiss your hand without saying a word.

Tatyana Borisovna remitted 250 rubles to her nephew.Two months later, he came to ask for money again, and she made up the last amount of money and sent it again.Less than six weeks after the second remittance, he made a third request. His reason was to buy paints for a portrait that Princess Terteresheneva had ordered from him.Tatyana Borisovlina did not agree to his request again. "Then," he wrote to her, "I would like to return to your village to recover from my illness." In the following May Andryusia did return to the village of Petit Brecki.

Tatyana Borisovna did not recognize him at first.She guessed from his letters that he was a sickly and thin man, but instead saw a broad-shouldered, stout, rosy-complexioned, curly-haired, stocky young man.The slender and pale Andryushya turned into a robust Andrei Ivanov Belovzorov.He didn't just change in appearance.What used to be meek, careful and tidy had become rough and dirty.He swayed from side to side as he walked, stretched out in an easy chair, lay on his back on a table, stretched his limbs lazily, and yawned with his mouth wide open.Barbarous towards aunt and servants.He said, I am an artist, a free Cossack!Should know us!Often he would not write for days; and when the so-called inspiration struck, he would gloomily, clumsily, and babble, as if drunk.His face is flushed, his eyes are blurred; he talks about his genius, his achievements, how he has improved, how he has improved... When in fact, he has barely mastered the skill of easy portrait painting.He is completely ignorant and never reads books. Why should an artist read books?Nature, freedom, poetry—this is what he likes.He often strokes his curly hair, sings like a nightingale, and smokes a "Zakov" cigarette in a loud voice!The bold and unrestrained character of the Russians is very good, but not everyone is worthy of it.And the inferior Polechayev, who has no talent, is very uncomfortable.Our Andrey Ivanitch lived so long at his aunt's house that free bread was obviously to his liking.He made his guests miserable.He always sat in front of the piano (Tatiana Borisovna also had a piano at home), played "Brave Troika" with one finger, and played the keyboard for hours without a moment. Painfully wailing Varlamov's "Lonely Pine" or "No, Doctor, Don't Come", with oily eyes and shiny cheeks... or suddenly screaming "Calm down , passionate waves"... Tatyana Borisovna trembled.

"It's strange," she said to me once, "that the songs we write now are all so low. We didn't do that back then. There were sad songs, but they still sound good... For example: Please come Go to the grassland, where I wait empty; please come to the grassland, where I often cry... Alas, when you come to the grassland, it will be too late, 'dear friend'."

Tatyana Borisovna smiled playfully. "I'm so bored, I'm so bored." The nephew roared in the next room.

"Sing no more, Andreusia." "My heart is troubled at parting," went on the restless singer.

Tatyana Borisovna shook her head helplessly. "Alas, what are these artists! . . . " It's been a year since then.Belovzorov was still staying with his aunt and was always preparing to go to Petersburg.He was fatter in the country.His aunt—who would have guessed it—doted on him, the girls of the neighborhood were infatuated with him... Many former friends did not want to go to Tatyana Borisovna's house anymore.

(End of this chapter)