I don’t remember my father. He died when I was two years old. My mother got married another time. This second marriage brought her a lot of grief, although it was done for love. My stepfather was a musician. His fate is very remarkable: he was the strangest, most wonderful person I have ever known. It was too much reflected in the first impressions of my childhood, so much that these impressions had an impact on my whole life. First of all, to make my story clear, I will cite his biography here. Everything that I am now going to tell, I learned later from the famous violinist B., who was a comrade and short friend of my stepfather in his youth.
My stepfather's surname was Efimov. He was born in the village of a very rich landowner, from a poor musician who, after long wanderings, settled on the landowner's estate and was hired to join his orchestra. The landowner lived very luxuriously and most of all, to the point of passion, he loved music. It was said about him that he, who never left his village even for Moscow, once suddenly decided to go abroad for some kind of water, and went no more than a few weeks, solely in order to hear some famous violinist, who, according to the newspapers, was going to give three concerts on the waters. He had a decent orchestra of musicians, on which he spent almost all of his income. My stepfather entered this orchestra as a clarinetist. He was twenty-two years old when he met a strange man. In the same district, there lived a rich count, who went broke to maintain a home theater. This count refused the post of the conductor of his orchestra, a native of Italy, for bad behavior. The Kapellmeister was a really bad person. When he was kicked out, he completely humiliated himself, began to go to the village taverns, got drunk, sometimes begged for alms, and no one in the whole province wanted to give him a place. My stepfather made friends with this man. This connection was inexplicable and strange, because no one noticed that he had changed in any way in his behavior out of imitation of his comrade, and even the landowner himself, who at first forbade him to hang out with the Italian, then turned a blind eye to their friendship. Finally, the conductor died suddenly. In the morning the peasants found him in a ditch by the dam. They dressed up the investigation, and it turned out that he died of an apoplectic stroke. His property was kept by his stepfather, who immediately presented evidence that he had every right to inherit this property: the deceased left a handwritten note in which he made Efimov his heir in case of his death. The inheritance consisted of a black tailcoat, carefully preserved by the deceased, who still hoped to find a place for himself, and a violin, rather ordinary in appearance. Nobody disputed this inheritance. But only a few time later the first violinist of the count's orchestra appeared to the landowner with a letter from the count. In this letter, the count asked, persuaded Efimov to sell the violin left over from the Italian and which the count really wanted to acquire for his orchestra. He offered three thousand rubles and added that he had already sent for Yegor Efimov several times in order to end the bargaining personally, but that he stubbornly refused. The count concluded that the price of the violin was real, that he did not slow down anything, and in Efimov’s stubbornness he saw for himself an insulting suspicion of using his simplicity and ignorance in bargaining, and therefore asked to reason with him.
The landowner immediately sent for his stepfather.
- Why don't you want to give up the violin? - he asked him, - you do not need it. You are given three thousand rubles, this is a real price, and you are doing it unwisely if you think that they will give you more. The Count will not deceive you.
Efimov replied that he would not go to the count himself, but if he was sent, then it would be the will of the master; he will not sell the violin to the count, And if they want to take it from him by force, then it will again be the will of the master.
It is clear that with such an answer he touched the most sensitive string in the character of the landowner. The fact is that he always said with pride that he knows how to deal with his musicians, because they are all true artists to one person and that, thanks to them, his orchestra is not only better than the count's, but also no worse than the capital.
- Good! - answered the landowner. “I’ll notify the count that you don’t want to sell the violin because you don’t want to, because you have every right to sell or not sell, do you understand? But I myself ask you: why do you need a violin? Your instrument is clarinet, even though you are a poor clarinetist. Give her over to me. I'll give three thousand. (Who knew it was such a tool!)
Efimov chuckled.
- No, sir, I will not sell it to you, - he answered, - of course, your will ...
- Yes, do I oppress you, do I compel you! - shouted the landowner, pissed off, especially since the case was under the Count's musician, who could conclude from this scene very disadvantageously about the fate of all the musicians of the landowner's orchestra. - Go, ungrateful! So that I don't see you from now on! Where would you go without me with your clarinet that you don't even know how to play? But with me you are well fed, dressed, you receive a salary; you live on a noble foot, you are an artist, but you don’t want to understand and don’t feel it. Go out and don't annoy me with your presence!
The landowner drove away everyone he was angry with, because he was afraid for himself and for his fervor. And for anything he would not want to act too harshly with the "artist", as he called his musicians.
The bargaining did not take place, and it seemed that the matter ended, when suddenly, a month later, the count's violinist started a terrible business: under his own responsibility, he filed a denunciation against my stepfather, in which he proved that his stepfather was guilty of the death of the Italian and killed him with selfish goal: to take possession of a rich inheritance. He argued that the will was coerced by force, and promised to present witnesses to his prosecution. Neither the request nor the admonition of the count and the landowner who stood up for my stepfather - nothing could shake the informer in his intentions. He was imagined that the medical investigation over the body of the late Kapellmeister was done correctly, that the informer was going against the obvious, perhaps out of personal anger and annoyance, not having time to take possession of the precious instrument that was being bought for him. The musician stood his ground, swore that he was right, argued that the stroke came not from drunkenness, but from poison, and demanded an investigation another time. At first glance, the evidence seemed serious. Of course, the case was set in motion. Efimov was taken, sent to the city prison. A case began, which interested the entire province. It went very quickly and ended with the musician being caught in a false denunciation. He was sentenced to just punishment, but he stood his ground to the end and insisted that he was right. Finally, he confessed that he had no evidence that the evidence presented by him had been invented by himself, but that in inventing all this, he acted on assumption, on guess, because until now, when another investigation had already been made, when formally, Efimov's innocence was proved, he still remains fully convinced that the cause of death of the unfortunate bandmaster was Efimov, although, perhaps, he killed him not with poison, but in some other way. But they did not manage to carry out the sentence over him: he suddenly fell ill with inflammation in the brain, went mad and died in the prison infirmary.
Throughout this whole affair, the landowner behaved in the most noble manner. He tried about my stepfather as if he were his own son. Several times he came to his prison to console him, gave him money, brought him the best cigars, learning that Efimov loved to smoke, and when his stepfather justified himself, he gave a holiday to the whole orchestra. The landowner looked at the Efimov case as a matter concerning the entire orchestra, because he valued the good behavior of his musicians, if not more, then at least on a par with their talents. A whole year passed, when suddenly a rumor spread throughout the province that some famous violinist, a Frenchman, had arrived in the provincial town and was going to give several concerts by the way. The landowner immediately began to try in some way to get him to visit him. Things were going well; the Frenchman promised to come. Everything was already ready for his arrival, almost a whole district was called, but suddenly everything took a different turn.
Netochka Nezvanov is a novel by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
The history of the creation of the novel
In December 1846 FM Dostoevsky began working on the novel "Netochka Nezvanova". The novel was conceived as a large work in six parts.
However, out of these intended six parts, only three were written. The first part was called "Childhood", the second - "New Life" and the third part was called "The Secret".
These three parts were written by early 1849. In April 1849 Fyodor Mikhailovich was arrested and imprisoned in the Peter and Paul Fortress.
The difficult fate of Netochka Nezvanova
In St. Petersburg, in a large house, at its very top, in a small room in the attic lives a family. Netochka is a little girl, eight years old, her mother and mother's husband are Netochka's stepfather. Netochka's mother - a sick woman - nevertheless supports the whole family, earning a living by sheathe rich people and cook for them.
Netochkin's stepfather, Yegor Efimov, is a strange and dishonest person who is addicted to drunkenness. A talented violinist himself, he gave up music, indulging in addiction. And he constantly insisted that he stopped playing only because his villainous wife ruined his bright talent.
In love with himself, he rudely and mercilessly insults Netochkin's mother. He is not in the least embarrassed by the fact that he himself lives off this sick woman. As a freelance clarinetist in the orchestra of a wealthy landowner, Efimov became close to an Italian violinist, who bequeathed his violin to him and taught him to play it.
Efimov imagines himself a genius, deciding that everything is permissible for him in this life. Favorably accepting the help of the people who sent him to Petersburg to study, without feeling the slightest gratitude to these people, Efimov drank the money that was given to him for the trip. And only after seven long years he got to the capital.
While already in St. Petersburg, Efimov continued to drink, but did not forget to tell everyone about his genius. Once he met Netochka's mother and married her. Netochka's mother, a romantic dreamer, who immediately believed in his talent, was ready to give everything for her husband. Efimov's old friend, Russian German B., once helped him get a job in a theater orchestra. Efimov continued to drink, not giving his wife or stepdaughter a penny from his salary. Soon he was kicked out due to arrogance and quarrelsomeness with his comrades.
Netochka, an unintelligent child, cannot understand the bitter reality of the relationship between mother and stepfather. She, by virtue of her childish perception, is incomprehensibly attached to her stepfather. In her childhood dreams, she sees a happy future in her own way. From their window one can see a large, rich mansion, the windows of which were decorated with red curtains. It was in this mansion that Netochka dreamed of living with her "dad". Once, having learned that the famous violinist S-c, Efimov, under the pretext of buying tickets for a concert, is coming to the city, he makes Netochka deceive his mother, takes the last money she needed to buy food from her, and drinks it on drink.
Netochka's mother, having learned about this, dies of an attack that very evening. Efimov still manages to get to St. Tsa's concert. He returns home completely shocked and destroyed. He finally realizes all his squalor and worthlessness, comparing himself to the great violinist. The confused Netochka literally takes her stepfather out of the house by force. Her heart breaks with pain and longing for her dead mother, whom she left at home. Finding himself on the street, Efimov runs away from his stepdaughter, who unsuccessfully tried to catch up and stop him. Eventually, he himself loses consciousness and collapses. In the hospital where he was taken, he soon dies.
Out of compassion for the girl, she was taken to the house of her dreams - the mansion, which was visible from the windows of their apartment in the attic. Then Netochka was sheltered by Alexandra Mikhailovna, who devotes a lot of energy and attention to the upbringing of the girl. Netochka grows up, in her home library she finds novels that brighten up her rather boring life. And when she was sixteen years old, she began to study at the conservatory - the girl showed a wonderful voice.
By chance, Netochka becomes the owner of a secret that the owners carefully concealed - once she found an old letter from her admirer Alexandra Mikhailovna. She understands the persecution that her husband Alexander Mikhailovna constantly subjected to. During another attack of her husband's vicious attacks on Alexandra Mikhailovna, Netochka fearlessly stands up for her, expressing to her husband everything that has boiled over the years. After that she decides to leave home ...
Instead of an afterword
After his release, Dostoevsky decided not to continue working on the novel anymore. He reworked the beginning of the novel, removed some episodes from it, excluded some of the characters. Ultimately, the need for dividing the novel into parts disappeared, and the chapters in the novel were now numbered in a row from beginning to end. So the story of Netochka Nezvanova remained unfinished.
“I don’t remember my father. He died when I was two years old. My mother got married another time. This second marriage brought her a lot of grief, although it was done for love. My stepfather was a musician. His fate is very remarkable: he was the strangest, most wonderful person I have ever known. It was too much reflected in the first impressions of my childhood, so much that these impressions had an impact on my whole life. First of all, to make my story clear, I will cite his biography here. Everything that I am going to tell now, I learned later from the famous violinist B., who was a comrade and short friend of my stepfather in his youth. My stepfather's surname was Efimov. He was born in the village of a very rich landowner, from a poor musician who, after long wanderings, settled on the landowner's estate and was hired to join his orchestra. The landowner lived very luxuriously and most of all, to the point of passion, he loved music. It was said about him that he, who never left his village even for Moscow, once suddenly decided to go abroad for some kind of water, and went no more than a few weeks, solely in order to hear some famous violinist, who, according to the newspapers, was going to give three concerts on the waters. He had a decent orchestra of musicians, on which he spent almost all of his income. My stepfather entered this orchestra as a clarinetist. He was twenty-two years old when he met a strange man. In the same district, there lived a rich count, who went broke to maintain a home theater. This count refused the post of the conductor of his orchestra, a native of Italy, for bad behavior. The Kapellmeister was a really bad person. When he was kicked out, he completely humiliated himself, began to go to the village taverns, got drunk, sometimes begged for alms, and no one in the whole province wanted to give him a place. My stepfather made friends with this man. This connection was inexplicable and strange, because no one noticed that he had changed in any way in his behavior out of imitation of his comrade, and even the landowner himself, who at first forbade him to hang out with the Italian, then turned a blind eye to their friendship. Finally, the conductor died suddenly. In the morning the peasants found him in a ditch by the dam. They dressed up the investigation, and it turned out that he died of an apoplectic stroke. His property was kept by his stepfather, who immediately presented evidence that he had every right to inherit this property: the deceased left a handwritten note in which he made Efimov his heir in case of his death. The inheritance consisted of a black tailcoat, carefully preserved by the deceased, who still hoped to find a place for himself, and a violin, rather ordinary in appearance. Nobody disputed this inheritance. But only a few time later the first violinist of the count's orchestra appeared to the landowner with a letter from the count. In this letter, the count asked, persuaded Efimov to sell the violin left over from the Italian and which the count really wanted to acquire for his orchestra. He offered three thousand rubles and added that he had already sent for Yegor Efimov several times in order to end the bargaining personally, but that he stubbornly refused. The count concluded that the price of the violin was real, that he did not slow down anything, and in Efimov’s stubbornness he saw for himself an insulting suspicion of using his simplicity and ignorance in bargaining, and therefore asked to reason with him. The landowner immediately sent for his stepfather. - Why don't you want to give up the violin? - he asked him, - you do not need it. You are given three thousand rubles, this is a real price, and you are doing it unwisely if you think that they will give you more. The Count will not deceive you. Efimov replied that he would not go to the count himself, but if he was sent, then it would be the will of the master; he will not sell the violin to the count, and if they want to take it from him by force, then it will again be the will of the master. It is clear that with such an answer he touched the most sensitive string in the character of the landowner. The fact is that he always said with pride that he knows how to deal with his musicians, because they are all true artists to one person and that, thanks to them, his orchestra is not only better than the count's, but also no worse than the capital. - Good! - answered the landowner. “I’ll notify the count that you don’t want to sell the violin because you don’t want to, because you have every right to sell or not sell, do you understand? But I myself ask you: why do you need a violin? Your instrument is clarinet, even though you are a poor clarinetist. Give her over to me. I'll give three thousand. (Who knew it was such a tool!) Efimov chuckled. - No, sir, I won't sell it to you, - he answered, - of course, your will ... - Yes, do I oppress you, do I compel you! - shouted the landowner, pissed off, especially since the case was under the Count's musician, who could conclude from this scene very disadvantageously about the fate of all the musicians of the landowner's orchestra. - Go, ungrateful! So that I don't see you since then. Where would you go without me with your clarinet that you don't even know how to play? But with me you are well fed, dressed, you receive a salary; you live on a noble foot, you are an artist, but you don’t want to understand and don’t feel it. Go out and don't annoy me with your presence! The landowner drove away everyone he was angry with, because he was afraid for himself and for his fervor. And for anything he would not want to act too harshly with the "artist", as he called his musicians. The bargaining did not take place, and it seemed that that was the end of the matter, when suddenly, a month later, the count's violinist started a terrible business: under his own responsibility, he filed a denunciation against my stepfather, in which he proved that his stepfather was guilty of the death of the Italian and killed him with mercenary the goal of taking possession of a rich inheritance. He argued that the will was coerced by force, and promised to present witnesses to his prosecution. Neither the request nor the admonition of the count and the landowner who stood up for my stepfather - nothing could shake the informer in his intentions. He was imagined that the medical investigation over the body of the late Kapellmeister was done correctly, that the informer was going against the obvious, perhaps out of personal anger and annoyance, not having time to take possession of the precious instrument that was being bought for him. The musician one hundred on his own, swore that he was right, argued that the stroke came not from drunkenness, but from poison, and demanded an investigation another time. At first glance, the evidence seemed serious. Of course, the case was set in motion. Efimov was taken, sent to the city prison. A case began, which interested the entire province. It went very quickly and ended with the musician being caught in a false denunciation. He was sentenced to just punishment, but he stood his ground to the end and insisted that he was right. Finally, he confessed that he did not have any evidence that the evidence presented by him had been invented by him, but that in inventing all this, he acted on assumption, on guess, because until now, when another investigation had already been made, when already formally, Efimov's innocence was proved, he still remains fully convinced that the cause of death of the unfortunate bandmaster was Efimov, although, perhaps, he killed him not with poison, but in some other way. But they did not manage to carry out the sentence over him: he suddenly fell ill with inflammation in the brain, went mad and died in the prison infirmary. Throughout this whole affair, the landowner behaved in the most noble manner. He tried about my stepfather as if he were his own son. Several times he came to his prison to console him, gave him money, brought him the best cigars, learning that Efimov loved to smoke, and when his stepfather justified himself, he gave a holiday to the whole orchestra. The landowner looked at the Efimov case as a matter concerning the entire orchestra, because he valued the good behavior of his musicians, if not more, then at least on a par with their talents. A whole year passed, when suddenly a rumor spread throughout the province that some famous violinist, a Frenchman, had arrived in the provincial town and was going to give several concerts by the way. The landowner immediately began to try in some way to get him to visit him. Things were going well; the Frenchman promised to come. Everything was already ready for his arrival, almost a whole district was called, but suddenly everything took a different turn. One morning it was reported that Efimov had disappeared to no one knows where. The search began, but the trail was gone. The orchestra was in a state of emergency: there was a lack of clarinet, when suddenly, three days after Yefimov disappeared, the landowner received a letter from the Frenchman, in which he arrogantly refused the invitation, adding, of course, in obscure words, that henceforth he would be extremely careful in relations with those gentlemen who keep their own orchestra of musicians, that it is unaesthetic to see true talent under the control of a person who does not know his worth, and that, finally, the example of Efimov, a true artist and the best violinist he has ever met in Russia, serves as sufficient proof of the truth of his words. After reading this letter, the landowner was in deep amazement. He was grieved to the core. How? Efimov, the same Efimov, about whom he cared so much, whom he benefited so much, this Efimov so mercilessly, shamelessly slandered him in the eyes of a European artist, such a person whose opinion he highly valued! And finally, the letter was inexplicable in another respect: they informed that Efimov was an artist with true talent, that he was a violinist, but that they did not know how to guess his talent and forced him to study another instrument. All this so amazed the landowner that he immediately was going to go to the city to meet with the Frenchman, when suddenly he received a note from the count, in which he invited him immediately to his place and informed him that he knew the whole thing, that the visiting virtuoso was now with him, together with Efimov, that he, amazed at the insolence and slander of the latter, ordered to detain him and that, finally, the presence of the landowner is necessary also because the accusation of Efimov concerns even the count himself; this is a very important matter and must be clarified as soon as possible. The landowner, immediately going to the count, immediately met the Frenchman and explained the whole story of my stepfather, adding that he did not suspect such a great talent in Efimov that Efimov, on the contrary, was a very poor clarinetist with him and that he only heard for the first time as if the musician who left him is a violinist. He added that Efimov was a free man, enjoyed complete freedom and could always, at any time, leave him if he were really oppressed. The Frenchman was surprised. They called Efimov, and it was hardly possible to recognize him: he behaved arrogantly, answered with a sneer and insisted on the justice of what he had managed to tell the Frenchman. All this irritated the count to the extreme, who told my stepfather directly that he was a scoundrel, a slanderer and worthy of the most shameful punishment. - Do not worry, your Excellency, I already know you quite well and know you well, - answered my stepfather, - by your grace, I barely escaped criminal punishment. I know why Alexey Nikiforitch, your former musician, informed me about it. The count was beside himself with anger at such a terrible accusation. He could hardly control himself; but the official who happened in the hall, who had stopped by the count on the case, announced that he could not leave all this without consequences, that the offensive rudeness of Efimov contained an evil, unjust accusation, slander, and he humbly asks to be allowed to be arrested immediately, in the count’s home. The Frenchman expressed complete indignation and said that he did not understand such black ingratitude. Then my stepfather responded with impatience that punishment, a court, and at least again a criminal investigation are better than the life that he had experienced until now, being a member of the landlord's orchestra and not having the means to leave it earlier, for his extreme poverty, and with these words left the hall together with those who had arrested him. They locked him in a remote room of the house and threatened that they would send him to the city tomorrow. At about midnight the door to the prisoner's room opened. The landowner entered. He was in a dressing gown, in shoes and was holding a lighted lantern in his hands. It seemed that he could not sleep and painful care made him leave the bed at such an hour. Efimov did not sleep and looked in amazement at the newcomer. He put down the lantern and in deep excitement sat down on a chair opposite him. “Yegor,” he said to him, “why did you offend me so? Efimov did not answer. The landowner repeated his question, and some deep feeling, some strange longing sounded in his words. - And God knows why I offended you so, sir! - answered my stepfather at last, waving his hand, - to know, the devil has beguiled me! And I myself do not know who is pushing me into all this! Well, I’m not living with you, not living ... The devil himself has become attached to me! - Yegor! - the landowner began again, - come back to me; I will forget everything, I will forgive you everything. Listen: you will be the first of my musicians; I will give you a salary unlike others ... - No, sir, no, and do not say: I am not your tenant! I tell you that the devil has forced himself on me. I will light your house on fire if I stay; finds me, and sometimes such melancholy that it would be better for me not to be born! Now I can’t answer for myself either: you’re better off, sir, leave me alone. This is all since that devil fraternized with me ... - Who? - asked the landowner. - But that died like a dog, from which the light retreated, an Italian. - Did he teach you to play, Yegorushka? - Yes! He taught me a lot for my destruction. I'd better never see him. - Was he a violin master too, Yegorushka? - No, he himself knew little, but taught well. I learned myself; he was only showing — and it’s easier for my hand to dry out than this science. Now I myself do not know what I want. Just ask, sir: “Yegorka! What do you want? I can give you everything, "- and I, sir, will not say a word to you in return, because I myself do not know what I want. No, you're better off, sir, leave me alone, I'll tell you another time. I’ll do something like that on myself so that they can send me away somewhere far away, and that’s the end of it! - Yegor! - said the landowner after a minute's silence, - I won't leave you like that. If you don’t want to serve with me, go; you are a free man, I cannot hold you; but now I will not leave you like that. Play me something, Yegor, on your violin, play it! for God's sake, play it! I am not ordering you, you must understand me, I am not forcing you; I ask you tearfully: play for me, Yegorushka, for God's sake, what you played for the Frenchman! Take your soul away! You are stubborn and I am stubborn; know, I have my own temper too, Yegorushka! I feel you, feel you as I do. I cannot be alive until you play for me that, of your own free will and desire, that played the Frenchman. - Well, be it! - said Efimov. - I gave, sir, a vow never to play in front of you, just in front of you, and now my heart is resolved. I’ll play you, but only for the first and last time, and more, sir, you will never hear me anywhere, even if they promised me a thousand rubles. Then he took a violin and began to play his variations on Russian songs. B. said that these variations are his first and best piece on the violin and that he never played anything more so well and with such inspiration. The landowner, who already could not hear the music indifferently, wept bitterly. When the game was over, he got up from his chair, took out three hundred rubles, handed them to my stepfather and said: - Now go, Yegor. I'll let you out of here and settle everything with the count myself; but listen: don't see me again. The road is wide in front of you, and if we collide on it, it will hurt me and you. Well, goodbye! .. Wait! one more piece of advice to you on the road, only one: don't drink and study, study everything; do not be arrogant! I tell you how your own father would tell you. Look, I repeat once again: study and don't know a glass, but if you take a sip from grief (and there will be a lot of grief!) - write is gone, everything will go to the devil, and maybe he himself is somewhere in the ditch, like your Italian , you will die. Well, now goodbye! .. Wait, kiss me! They kissed, and after that my stepfather was released. As soon as he was free, he immediately began by spending his three hundred rubles in the nearest district town, having fraternized at the same time with the blackest, dirtiest company of some revelers, and ended up by being left alone in poverty and without any help, some wretched orchestra of a wandering provincial theater was forced to join as the first and, perhaps, the only violin. All this did not quite agree with his initial intentions, which were to go to St. Petersburg to study as soon as possible, get a good job for himself and completely form an artist out of himself. But life in a small orchestra did not work out. My stepfather soon quarreled with an itinerant theater entrepreneur and left him. Then he completely lost heart and even decided on a desperate measure that deeply sickened his pride. He wrote a letter to a landowner known to us, depicted his position to him and asked for money. The letter was written quite independently, but there was no response. Then he wrote another, in which, in the most humiliating terms, calling the landowner his benefactor and dignifying him with the title of a true connoisseur of arts, he asked him again for help. Finally the answer came. The landowner sent a hundred rubles and several lines, written by the hand of his valet, in which he announced, in order to save him from any requests in the future. Having received this money, the stepfather immediately wanted to go to Petersburg, but, after paying off the debts, there was so little money that it was impossible to even think about the trip. He again stayed in the provinces, again entered some provincial orchestra, then again did not get along in it and, thus moving from one place to another, with the eternal idea of getting to Petersburg sometime soon, stayed in the provinces for six years. Finally, a terror attacked him. With despair, he noticed how much his talent had suffered, incessantly embarrassed by a chaotic, beggarly life, and one morning he abandoned his entrepreneur, took his violin and came to Petersburg, almost begging for alms. He settled somewhere in the attic and then for the first time got along with B., who had just arrived from Germany and was also planning to make a career for himself. They soon became friends, and B. even now remembers this acquaintance with deep feeling. Both were young, both with the same hopes, and both with the same goal. But B. was still in his first youth; he suffered little poverty and misery yet; moreover, he was above all a German and strove towards his goal stubbornly, systematically, with a perfect consciousness of his strength and almost calculating in advance what would come of him - whereas his comrade was already thirty years old, while he was already tired, tired, lost all patience and was knocked out of his first, healthy forces, forced to wander around provincial theaters and orchestras of landowners for seven whole years because of a piece of bread. He was supported only by one eternal, immovable idea - to finally get out of a bad situation, save up money and get to St. Petersburg. But this idea was dark, unclear; it was some kind of irresistible inner appeal, which finally, over the years, lost its first clarity in the eyes of Efimov himself, and when he arrived in Petersburg, he was already acting almost unconsciously, but according to some eternal, ancient habit of eternal desire and pondering this journey and almost without knowing what he would have to do in the capital. His enthusiasm was a kind of convulsive, bilious, impulsive, as if he himself wanted to deceive himself with this enthusiasm and make sure through it that the first strength, the first heat, the first inspiration had not yet run out in him. This incessant delight struck the cold, methodical B .; he was blinded and welcomed my stepfather as the future great musical genius. Otherwise, he could not imagine the future fate of his comrade. But soon B. opened his eyes and understood it completely. He clearly saw that all this impetuosity, fever and impatience was nothing more than an unconscious despair at the recollection of a lost talent; that even, finally, the talent itself, perhaps at the very beginning, was not at all so great that there was a lot of blinding, vain self-confidence, initial self-satisfaction and incessant fantasy, incessant dreams of one's own genius. “But, - said B., - I could not help but be surprised at the strange nature of my comrade. A desperate, feverish struggle of convulsively intense will and inner powerlessness was taking place in front of me. For seven whole years, the unfortunate man was so satisfied with only dreams of his future glory that he did not even notice how he lost the most initial in our art, how he lost even the most initial mechanism of the matter. Meanwhile, in his disordered imagination, the most colossal plans for the future were created every minute. Not only did he want to be a first-class genius, one of the first violinists in the world; not only have I already read; himself such a genius — he, moreover, thought of becoming a composer, knowing nothing about counterpoint. But what amazed me most, B. added, was that in this man, with his complete impotence, with the most insignificant knowledge in the technique of art, there was such a deep, such a clear and, one might say, instinctive understanding of art. He felt it so strongly and understood in himself that it was no wonder if he got lost in his own consciousness about himself and took himself, instead of a deep, instinctive critic of art, for a priest of art itself, for a genius. Sometimes he was able to tell me such deep truths in his crude, simple language, alien to any science, that I became perplexed and could not understand how he guessed it all, never reading anything, never learning anything, and I I owe him, - added B., - to him and his advice in their own improvement. As for me, - continued B., - I was calm about myself. I, too, passionately loved my art, although I knew at the very beginning of my path that nothing more was given to me, that I would, in my own sense, be a laborer in art; but on the other hand, I am proud that I did not bury, like a lazy slave, what was given to me by nature, but, on the contrary, increased a hundredfold, and if they praise my clarity in the game, they are surprised at the elaboration of the mechanism, then I owe all this to uninterrupted, vigilant labor, clear consciousness of one's strength, voluntary self-destruction and eternal hostility to arrogance, to early self-gratification and to laziness as a natural consequence of this self-gratification. " B., in turn, tried to share advice with his comrade, to whom he obeyed at the very beginning, but only in vain made him angry. Cooling followed between them. Soon B. noticed that apathy, melancholy and boredom began to seize his comrade more and more often, that his outbursts of enthusiasm were becoming less and less frequent, and that all this was followed by some kind of gloomy, wild despondency. Finally, Efimov began to leave his violin and sometimes did not touch it for weeks at a time. It was not far before the perfect fall, and soon the unfortunate fell into all vices. What the landowner warned him against happened: he indulged in immoderate drunkenness. B. looked at him with horror; his advice did not work, and besides, he was afraid to utter a word. Little by little, Efimov reached the most extreme cynicism: he was not at all ashamed to live at the expense of B. and even acted as if he had every right to do so. Meanwhile, the means of livelihood were depleted; B. somehow interrupted himself with lessons or was hired to play at parties with merchants among the Germans, with poor officials, who, although little by little, paid something. Efimov did not seem to want to notice the needs of his comrade: he treated him harshly and for weeks on end did not deign him with a single word. Once B. remarked to him in the most meek way that it would not be a bad thing for him not to neglect his violin too much, so as not to wean off the instrument completely; then Yefimov became completely angry and announced that he would never touch his violin on purpose, as if imagining that someone would beg him on his knees. Another time B. needed a friend to play at one party, and he invited Efimov. This invitation infuriated Efimov. He heatedly announced that he was not a street violinist and would not be as vile as B. to humiliate the noble art, playing in front of vile artisans who would not understand anything in his playing and talent. B. did not answer a word to this, but Efimov, thinking about this invitation in the absence of his comrade, who had gone to play, imagined that all this was only a hint that he was living at B.'s expense, and a desire to let him know so that he also tried to make money. When B. returned, Efimov suddenly began to reproach him for the meanness of his act and announced that he would not stay with him for a minute. He really disappeared somewhere for two days, but on the third he appeared again, as if nothing had happened, and again began to continue his former life. Only the old boyfriend and friendship, and even the compassion that B. felt for the deceased person, kept him from the intention to end such an ugly life and part with his comrade forever. Finally they parted. B. smiled with happiness: he acquired someone's strong patronage, and he managed to give a brilliant concert. At this time he was already an excellent artist, and soon his rapidly growing fame earned him a place in the orchestra of the opera house, where he so soon achieved a well-deserved success. Parting, he gave Efimov money and with tears begged him to return to the true path. B. and now can not remember him without special feeling. Meeting Efimov was one of the deepest impressions of his youth. Together they began their career, so ardently attached to each other, and even the strangestness, the grossest, sharpest shortcomings of Efimov tied B. to him even more. B. understood him; he saw right through him and knew how it would all end. When they parted, they embraced and both burst into tears. Then Efimov, through tears and sobs, said that he was a lost, unfortunate person, that he had known this for a long time, but that now he only saw clearly his own death. - I have no talent! - he concluded, turning pale as dead. B. was greatly moved. “Listen, Yegor Petrovich,” he said to him, “what are you doing over yourself? You are only ruining yourself with your despair; you have neither patience nor courage. Now you say in a fit of despondency that you have no talent. Not true! You have talent, I assure you of that. Do you have it. I can see this already by the way you feel and understand art. This I will prove to you with all your life. You told me about your old life. And then the same despair unconsciously visited you. Then your first teacher, this strange man about whom you told me so much, first awakened in you your love for art and guessed your talent. You felt it just as strongly and hard then as you feel it now. But you did not know yourself what was happening to you. You did not live in a landowner's house, and you yourself did not know what you wanted. Your teacher died too early. He left you with only vague aspirations and, most importantly, did not explain you yourself. You felt that you needed a different road, a wider one, that you were destined for other goals, but you did not understand how this would be done, and in your anguish you hated everything that surrounded you then. Your six years of poverty and misery have not been wasted; you studied, you thought, you were aware of yourself and your strength, you now understand art and your purpose. My friend, you need patience and courage. A lot awaits you more enviable than mine: you are a hundred times more an artist than I; but God grant you at least a tenth of my patience. Study and don't drink, as your good landowner told you, and most importantly - start over again, with the alphabet. What is bothering you? poverty, misery? But poverty and misery form the artist. They are inseparable from the beginning. Nobody needs you now, nobody wants to know you; so the light goes on. Wait, it won't be that much when they find out that you have a gift. Envy, petty meanness, and above all stupidity will impose on you more than poverty. Talent needs sympathy, it needs to be understood, and you will see what faces will surround you when you reach your goal even a little. They will bet on nothing and look with contempt at what has developed in you through hard work, deprivation, hunger, sleepless nights. They will not cheer you up, they will not console you, your future comrades; they will not show you what is good and true in you, but with evil joy they will raise every mistake of yours, they will point out to you exactly what is wrong with you, what you are wrong about, and under the guise of composure and contempt for you will be like a holiday to celebrate your every mistake (as if someone was without mistakes! ). You are arrogant, you are often inappropriately proud and you can offend the selfish insignificance, and then the trouble - you will be alone, and there are many of them; they torture you with pins. Even I am beginning to experience it. Cheer up now! You are still not so poor at all, you can live, do not neglect the black work, chop wood, as I chopped them at parties with poor artisans. But you are impatient, you are sick with your impatience, you have little simplicity, you are too cunning, you think too much, you give a lot of work to your head; you are daring in words and you are a coward when you have to pick up the bow. You are proud and have little courage. Be bold, wait, learn, and if you do not hope for your strength, then go at random; there is heat in you, there is a feeling. Perhaps you will reach the goal, but if not, still go by chance: you will not lose in any case, because the gain is too great. Here, brother, is our maybe - a great thing! Efimov listened to his former comrade with deep feeling. But as he spoke, the pallor disappeared from his cheeks; they brightened up with a blush; his eyes sparkled with an unfamiliar fire of courage and hope. Soon this noble courage turned into self-confidence, then into the usual insolence, and, finally, when B. was finishing his exhortation, Efimov was already listening to him absentmindedly and impatiently. However, he warmly squeezed his hand, thanked him and, swift in his transitions from deep self-destruction and despondency to extreme arrogance and insolence, announced arrogantly that his friend would not worry about his fate, that he knew how to arrange his fate, that soon and he hopes to get some protection for himself, will give a concert and then at once will call for himself both fame and money. B. shrugged, but did not contradict his former friend, and they parted, although, of course, not for long. Efimov immediately spent the money given to him and came for it another time, then the third, then the fourth, then the tenth, finally B. lost his patience and did not speak at home. Since then, he has completely lost sight of him. Several years have passed. Once B., returning home from a rehearsal, came across in one alley, at the entrance to a dirty tavern, a badly dressed, intoxicated man who called him by name. It was Efimov. He has changed a lot, turned yellow, swelling in the face; it was evident that the dissolute life had laid its mark on him in an indelible way. B. was extremely delighted and, not having time to say two words with him, followed him to the tavern, where he dragged him. There, in a distant little smoky room, he got a closer look at his comrade. He was almost in rags, in thin boots; his disheveled shirt-front was covered with wine. The hair on his head began to turn gray and crawl out. - What's the matter with you? Where are you now? - asked B. Efimov was embarrassed, even shattered at first, answered incoherently and abruptly, so that B. thought he saw a madman in front of him. Finally, Efimov admitted that he could not say anything if they did not give him vodka to drink, and that they had not believed him in the tavern for a long time. As he said this, he blushed, although he tried to cheer himself up with some bold gesture; but something impudent, dressed up, intrusive came out, so that everything was very pitiful and aroused compassion in kind B., who saw that his fears had come true completely. However, he ordered vodka to be served. Efimov's face changed from gratitude and was so lost that, with tears in his eyes, he was ready to kiss the hands of his benefactor. At dinner B. learned with great surprise that the unfortunate man was married. But he was even more amazed when he immediately learned that his wife made up all his misfortune and grief, and that the marriage had completely killed all his talent. - How so? - asked B. “I, brother, haven’t picked up a violin for two years now,” answered Efimov. - A woman, a cook, an uneducated, rude woman. Damn her! .. We just fight, we don't do anything else. - But why did you get married, if so? - There was nothing to eat. I met her; she had about a thousand rubles: I got married headlong. She fell in love with me. She herself hung around my neck. Who pushed her! The money has been spent, spent on drink, brother, and - what a talent there is! Everything is lost! B. saw that Efimov seemed to be in a hurry to justify himself in some way. “I dropped everything, I dropped everything,” he added. Then he announced to him that recently he had almost reached perfection in the violin, which, perhaps, although B. is one of the first violinists in the city, he would not stand a candle if he wanted to. - So why did it become? - said the surprised B. - Would you look for a place for yourself? - Not worth it! - said Efimov, waving his hand. - Who of you there understands anything! What do you know? Shish, nothing, that's what you know! Some kind of dance dance in a ballet dancer is up to you. You have never seen or heard good violinists. Why touch you; stay as you wish! Then Yefimov waved his hand again and swayed in his chair, because he was pretty drunk. Then he began to call B to him; but he refused, took his address and assured that he would visit him tomorrow. Efimov, who was now well fed, glanced mockingly at his former comrade and tried to prick him with something. When they were leaving, he grabbed B.'s rich fur coat and handed it as the lowest to the highest. Passing the first room, he stopped and introduced B. to the innkeepers and the public as the first and only violin in the whole capital. In short, he was extremely dirty at that moment. B., however, found him the next morning in the attic, where we all lived then in extreme poverty, in the same room. I was four years old then, and two years ago my mother married Efimov. It was an unfortunate woman. Before she was a governess, she was well educated, good-looking, and out of poverty she married an old official, my father. She only lived with him for a year. When my father died suddenly and the meager inheritance was divided among his heirs, my mother was left alone with me, with an insignificant amount of money that went to her share. Going to governess again, with a small child in her arms, was difficult. At this time, in some accidental way, she met with Efimov and really fell in love with him. She was an enthusiast, a dreamer, she saw some kind of genius in Efimov, she believed his arrogant words about a brilliant future; her imagination was flattered by the glorious fate of being the support, the leader of a genius, and she married him. In the first month, all her dreams and hopes disappeared, and a miserable reality remained in front of her. Efimov, who really got married, perhaps because my mother had some thousand rubles of money, as soon as they were spent, folded his hands and, as if rejoicing at an excuse, immediately announced to everyone that marriage had ruined his talent, that he could not work in a stuffy room, eye to eye with a hungry family, that songs and music would not come to mind, and that, finally, it is clear that such a misfortune was written to his family. It seems that he himself later became convinced of the validity of his complaints and, it seemed, was delighted with a new excuse. It seemed that this unfortunate, lost talent himself was looking for an external event, on which all the failures, all the calamities could be blamed. But he could not be convinced of the terrible thought that he had perished for art long and forever. He struggled convulsively, as with a painful nightmare, with this terrible conviction, and, finally, when reality overcame him, when his eyes opened for a minute, he felt that he was about to go mad with horror. He could not so easily lose faith in what had constituted his whole life for so long, and until his last minute he thought that the minute had not yet gone. In the hours of doubt, he indulged in drunkenness, which, with its ugly child, drove away his melancholy. Finally, perhaps he himself did not know how much he needed his wife at that time. It was a living excuse, and, indeed, my stepfather almost went crazy over the idea that when he buried his wife, which destroyed him, everything will go on as usual. Poor mother did not understand him. As a real dreamer, she could not bear even the first step in a hostile reality: she became hot-tempered, bilious, abusive, constantly quarreling with her husband, who found some pleasure in torturing her, and incessantly chasing him to work. But my stepfather's blinding, motionless idea, his extravagance made him almost inhuman and insensitive. He only laughed and vowed not to take violins in his hands until the death of his wife, which he announced to her with cruel frankness. Mother, who until her death passionately loved him, in spite of everything, could not bear such a life. She became eternally sick, eternally suffering, lived in continuous torment, and in addition to all this grief, all the concern for the sustenance of the family fell on her alone. She began to prepare food and first opened a table for visitors. But her husband slowly carried all the money from her, and she was often forced to send empty dishes instead of dinner to those for whom she worked. When B. visited us, she was busy washing clothes and dyeing old dresses. Thus, we all somehow made it up in our attic. The poverty of our family struck B. - Listen, you keep talking nonsense, - he said to his stepfather, - where is the murdered talent here? She feeds you, and what are you doing here? - And nothing! - answered the stepfather. But B. did not yet know all the misfortunes of mother. The husband often brought whole gangs of various tomboys and brawlers into his house, and then what was not! B. persuaded his former comrade for a long time; finally, he announced to him that if he did not want to correct himself, he would not help him in anything; said without ado that he would not give him money, because he would drink it on drink, and asked at last to play him something on the violin to see what could be done for him. When my stepfather went to fetch the violin, B. slowly began to give money to my mother, but she did not take it. For the first time she had to accept alms! Then B. gave them to me, and the poor woman burst into tears. My stepfather brought a violin, but first asked for vodka, saying that he could not play without it. They sent for vodka. He drank and left. “I’ll play you something of my own, out of friendship,” he said to B. and pulled out a thick dusty notebook from under the dresser. “I wrote all this myself,” he said, pointing to the notebook. - You will see! These, brother, are not your ballet dancers! B. silently scanned several pages; then he unfolded the notes that were with him and asked his stepfather, leaving aside his own composition, to play out something that he himself had brought. The stepfather was a little offended, however, fearing to lose his new patronage, he fulfilled B.'s order. Then B. saw that his former friend really did a lot and acquired during their separation, although he boasted that he had not taken an instrument in his hands since marriage. You should have seen the joy of my poor mother. She looked at her husband and was proud of him again. Sincerely delighted, kind B. decided to find a place for his stepfather. He already had great connections and immediately began to ask and recommend his poor comrade, taking a preliminary word from him that he would behave well. In the meantime, he dressed him better, at his own expense, and took him to some famous persons, on whom the place that he wanted to get for him depended. The fact is that Efimov only swore in words, but, it seems, with the greatest joy he accepted the offer of his old friend. B. said that he felt ashamed of all the flattery and all the humiliated worship with which his stepfather tried to appease him, fearing somehow losing his favor. He understood that he was being put on a good road, and even stopped drinking. Finally they found a place for him in the theater orchestra. He passed the test well, because in one month of diligence and work he turned back everything that he lost in a year and a half of inactivity, promised to continue to study and be serviceable and accurate in his new duties. But the situation of our family has not improved at all. The stepfather did not give mother a penny from his salary, he lived everything himself, drank and ate with new friends, whom he immediately started a whole circle. He was mostly with theatrical ministers, choristers, figurants - in a word, with such a people, among whom he could excel, and avoided people of truly talented. He managed to instill in them some kind of special respect, immediately told them that he was an unrecognized person, that he was of great talent, that his wife had ruined him and that, finally, their conductor knew nothing about music. He laughed at all the orchestra's artists, at the choice of pieces that were put on the stage, and, finally, at the very authors of the operas played. Finally, he began to interpret some new theory of music - in a word, he got tired of the whole orchestra, quarreled with his comrades, with the bandmaster, rude to his superiors, acquired the reputation of the most restless, the most absurd and at the same time the most insignificant person and brought him to the point that he became unbearable for all. Indeed, it was extremely strange to see that such an insignificant person, such a bad, useless performer and careless musician at the same time with such huge claims, with such boastfulness, arrogance, with such a harsh tone. In the end, the stepfather quarreled with B., invented the most nasty gossip, the most disgusting slander, and used it for the obvious truth. He was survived from the orchestra after six months of disorderly service for negligence in the performance of duties and drunken behavior. But he did not leave his place so soon. Soon they saw him in his old rags, because a decent dress was sold and pledged again. He began to come to his former colleagues, whether they were glad or not happy with such a guest, spread gossip, chatted nonsense, cried about his life and called everyone to look at his villainess wife.Of course, there were listeners, there were people who found pleasure, having drunk the expelled comrade, to make him talk all sorts of nonsense. In addition, he always spoke sharply and intelligently and sprinkled his speech with caustic bile and various cynical antics, which were liked by a certain kind of listeners. He was mistaken for some extravagant jester, whom it is sometimes pleasant to make to talk out of idleness. They liked to tease him by talking about some new violinist who came in. Hearing this, Efimov changed his face, was shy, inquired who had arrived and who the new talent was, and immediately began to be jealous of his fame. It seems that only from that time did his real systematic insanity begin - his motionless idea that he was the first violinist, at least in Petersburg, but that he was driven by fate, offended, misunderstood due to various intrigues and was in obscurity. The latter even flattered him, because there are such characters who very much like to consider themselves offended and oppressed, to complain about it or to comfort themselves on the sly, worshiping their unrecognized greatness. He knew all the St. Petersburg violinists in every way and, according to his concepts, did not find a rival in any of them. Connoisseurs and amateurs who knew the unfortunate madcap loved to talk in front of him about some famous, talented violinist, in order to make him speak in his turn. They loved his anger, his caustic remarks, they loved the sensible and clever things that he said, criticizing the play of his imaginary rivals. They often did not understand him, but on the other hand, they were sure that no one in the world knows how to portray modern musical celebrities so deftly and in such a brisk caricature. the effectiveness of his attacks and the fairness of his judgment in the case when it was necessary to blaspheme. Somehow they got used to seeing him in the corridors of the theater and behind the scenes. The attendants let him in without hindrance, as a necessary person, and he became some kind of domestic Fersite. This life lasted two or three years; but at last he bored everyone even in this last role. A formal exile followed, and, in the last two years of his life, his stepfather seemed to have sunk into the water, and he was no longer seen anywhere. However, B. met him twice, but in such a pitiful state that compassion once again prevailed in him over disgust. He called him, but his stepfather was offended, pretended not to have heard anything, pulled his old warped hat over his eyes and walked by. Finally, on some great holiday, B. was informed in the morning that his former comrade, Efimov, had come to congratulate him. B. went out to him. Efimov stood drunk, began to bow extremely low, almost at his feet, moved his lips and stubbornly refused to go into the rooms. The meaning of his act was that where, they say, we, mediocre people, hang around with such nobility as you; that for us, little people, a lackey's place is enough to congratulate on the holiday: let us bow down and leave here. In short, everything was greasy, stupid and disgustingly disgusting. From that time on, B. did not see him for a very long time, exactly until the catastrophe, which resolved all this sad, painful and wonderful life. It resolved in a terrible way. This catastrophe is closely connected not only with the first impressions of my childhood, but even with my whole life. This is how it happened ... But first I must explain what my childhood was and what this person was for me, who was so painfully reflected in my first impressions and who was the cause of the death of my poor mother.Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky
Netochka Nezvanova
I don’t remember my father. He died when I was two years old. My mother got married another time. This second marriage brought her a lot of grief, although it was done for love. My stepfather was a musician. His fate is very remarkable: he was the strangest, most wonderful person I have ever known. It was too much reflected in the first impressions of my childhood, so much that these impressions had an impact on my whole life. First of all, to make my story clear, I will cite his biography here. Everything that I am now going to tell, I learned later from the famous violinist B., who was a comrade and short friend of my stepfather in his youth.
My stepfather's surname was Efimov. He was born in the village of a very rich landowner, from a poor musician who, after long wanderings, settled on the landowner's estate and was hired to join his orchestra. The landowner lived very luxuriously and most of all, to the point of passion, he loved music. It was said about him that he, who never left his village even for Moscow, once suddenly decided to go abroad for some kind of water, and went no more than a few weeks, solely in order to hear some famous violinist, who, according to the newspapers, was going to give three concerts on the waters. He had a decent orchestra of musicians, on which he spent almost all of his income. My stepfather entered this orchestra as a clarinetist. He was twenty-two years old when he met a strange man. In the same district, there lived a rich count, who went broke to maintain a home theater. This count refused the post of the conductor of his orchestra, a native of Italy, for bad behavior. The Kapellmeister was a really bad person. When he was kicked out, he completely humiliated himself, began to go to the village taverns, got drunk, sometimes begged for alms, and no one in the whole province wanted to give him a place. My stepfather made friends with this man. This connection was inexplicable and strange, because no one noticed that he had changed in any way in his behavior out of imitation of his comrade, and even the landowner himself, who at first forbade him to hang out with the Italian, then turned a blind eye to their friendship. Finally, the conductor died suddenly. In the morning the peasants found him in a ditch by the dam. They dressed up the investigation, and it turned out that he died of an apoplectic stroke. His property was kept by his stepfather, who immediately presented evidence that he had every right to inherit this property: the deceased left a handwritten note in which he made Efimov his heir in case of his death. The inheritance consisted of a black tailcoat, carefully preserved by the deceased, who still hoped to find a place for himself, and a violin, rather ordinary in appearance. Nobody disputed this inheritance. But only a few time later the first violinist of the count's orchestra appeared to the landowner with a letter from the count. In this letter, the count asked, persuaded Efimov to sell the violin left over from the Italian and which the count really wanted to acquire for his orchestra. He offered three thousand rubles and added that he had already sent for Yegor Efimov several times in order to end the bargaining personally, but that he stubbornly refused. The count concluded that the price of the violin was real, that he did not slow down anything, and in Efimov’s stubbornness he saw for himself an insulting suspicion of using his simplicity and ignorance in bargaining, and therefore asked to reason with him.
The landowner immediately sent for his stepfather.
- Why don't you want to give up the violin? - he asked him, - you do not need it. You are given three thousand rubles, this is a real price, and you are doing it unwisely if you think that they will give you more. The Count will not deceive you.
Efimov replied that he would not go to the count himself, but if he was sent, then it would be the will of the master; he will not sell the violin to the count, And if they want to take it from him by force, then it will again be the will of the master.
It is clear that with such an answer he touched the most sensitive string in the character of the landowner. The fact is that he always said with pride that he knows how to deal with his musicians, because they are all true artists to one person and that, thanks to them, his orchestra is not only better than the count's, but also no worse than the capital.
- Good! - answered the landowner. “I’ll notify the count that you don’t want to sell the violin because you don’t want to, because you have every right to sell or not sell, do you understand? But I myself ask you: why do you need a violin? Your instrument is clarinet, even though you are a poor clarinetist. Give her over to me. I'll give three thousand. (Who knew it was such a tool!)
Efimov chuckled.
- No, sir, I will not sell it to you, - he answered, - of course, your will ...
- Yes, do I oppress you, do I compel you! - shouted the landowner, pissed off, especially since the case was under the Count's musician, who could conclude from this scene very disadvantageously about the fate of all the musicians of the landowner's orchestra. - Go, ungrateful! So that I don't see you from now on! Where would you go without me with your clarinet that you don't even know how to play? But with me you are well fed, dressed, you receive a salary; you live on a noble foot, you are an artist, but you don’t want to understand and don’t feel it. Go out and don't annoy me with your presence!
The landowner drove away everyone he was angry with, because he was afraid for himself and for his fervor. And for anything he would not want to act too harshly with the "artist", as he called his musicians.
The bargaining did not take place, and it seemed that the matter ended, when suddenly, a month later, the count's violinist started a terrible business: under his own responsibility, he filed a denunciation against my stepfather, in which he proved that his stepfather was guilty of the death of the Italian and killed him with selfish goal: to take possession of a rich inheritance. He argued that the will was coerced by force, and promised to present witnesses to his prosecution. Neither the request nor the admonition of the count and the landowner who stood up for my stepfather - nothing could shake the informer in his intentions. He was imagined that the medical investigation over the body of the late Kapellmeister was done correctly, that the informer was going against the obvious, perhaps out of personal anger and annoyance, not having time to take possession of the precious instrument that was being bought for him. The musician stood his ground, swore that he was right, argued that the stroke came not from drunkenness, but from poison, and demanded an investigation another time. At first glance, the evidence seemed serious. Of course, the case was set in motion. Efimov was taken, sent to the city prison. A case began, which interested the entire province. It went very quickly and ended with the musician being caught in a false denunciation. He was sentenced to just punishment, but he stood his ground to the end and insisted that he was right. Finally, he confessed that he had no evidence that the evidence presented by him had been invented by himself, but that in inventing all this, he acted on assumption, on guess, because until now, when another investigation had already been made, when formally, Efimov's innocence was proved, he still remains fully convinced that the cause of death of the unfortunate bandmaster was Efimov, although, perhaps, he killed him not with poison, but in some other way. But they did not manage to carry out the sentence over him: he suddenly fell ill with inflammation in the brain, went mad and died in the prison infirmary.
Dostoevsky believed that his novel "Netochka Nezvanova" could make a splash in the literary world. But that never happened. Before the novel was over, the writer was arrested. It was decided to turn the novel into a story. Literary magazines called this story "the story of one woman."
It all starts with the fact that little Netochka, who is only eight years old, lives in the attic with her mother and stepfather. The girl's mother is engaged in sewing, thereby trying to earn money for the family. Stepfather, Yegor Efimov, in his own words, is a genius violinist. But it doesn't work in any way. And he cannot study music, as his talent was ruined by an "evil" wife. And only the death of his wife will give vent to his talents.
The youth of the "genius" violinist was spent in a rich house of a landowner. In which he was a clarinetist in the orchestra. Then fate tied him with a somewhat bad person - an Italian violinist, who only knew how to drink. But deep down, he still hoped that he would return to music and become famous. The violinist dies and leaves Yegor in inheritance an old coat and a violin. Before his death, he managed to teach his friend to play it.
Having mastered the violin, Yegor felt himself a magnificent, just a brilliant violinist. He had many virtues that gave him money. Yefim was in no hurry to thank any of them, but only boldly drank away their money in a tavern. Seven years later, he left for St. Petersburg. In the capital, he met a less brilliant, but more hardworking violinist B. While Efimov continued to drink and hope that Fate itself would recognize him as a genius and give him fame, B stubbornly studied music and subsequently became famous.
Not wanting to work, Yegor got married. His chosen one was the young mother of Netochka, who saw in the musician a born genius and was ready to make any sacrifices for him. An old friend, B, helped Yegor get a job in a theater orchestra. But Efimov did not give the money to his wife, and only did what he drank. The head of the theater was so tired of his bad character that he was fired.
Little Netochka, not understanding the relationship between her stepfather and mother, was inspired by Efimov's speeches and dreamed that when her mother was gone, she and her stepfather would leave for a new life - in a rich mansion that could be seen from their windows.
The famous violinist S-c came to St. Petersburg. Efimov wanted to admire the one whom he, in his opinion, could easily surpass, but he had no money for a ticket. And he persuaded the girl to give the last money that her mother had given her for food. When Netochka's mother found out all this, she fell into despair and died. At this time, Yegor just returned from the concert. Netochka grabs her stepfather and together they escape from the attic to a new life. But Yegor leaves his "daughter", soon ends up in the hospital and dies.
Netochka's dream is coming true. She finds herself in that very rich "house with red curtains" under the tutelage of the kind and compassionate prince H-m. The girl begins a new life, she no longer knows the need, and a new feeling of love for the prince's daughter, Katya, seizes her heart. Netochka learns everything very quickly, everyone loves and regrets her. Proud Katya is not so fond of the poor orphan. She is offended that all the attention is paid not to her, but to Netochka. And the girl's quick learnability is very unnerving for the prince's daughter.
Once deciding to joke, Katya launches into the room of the prince's aunt, the bulldog Falstaff. Netochka loves Katya so much that she takes all the blame on herself. She is punished, but Katya, seeing all this injustice, raises a scandal in the house. And Netochka is forgiven. After that, the girls open up to each other. They laugh and cry together, trusting each other with absolutely everything. But adults do not like the closeness of girls - the parents take Katya and leave for Moscow for a long time.
Netochka is sent to live with Alexandra Mikhailovna, Katya's older married sister. This beautiful loving woman is ready to replace the girl's mother and devote a lot of energy to her upbringing. Everything would be fine, but little Netochka developed an antipathy for Alexandra Mikhailovna's husband, Peter Alexandrovich. She feels something unnatural in their relationship, some kind of secret. Because of which, Alexandra's health deteriorates, and every day she becomes paler and paler. In parallel with this, while studying, Netochka discovers novels for herself. And her world is taken over by fantasies, she literally lives in them. There is no more trust between her and Alexandra Mikhailovna.
At sixteen, the family discovers the girl's talent for singing, and she is sent to the conservatory. Life goes on, but one day Netochka finds a letter in one of the books. It is quite old and addressed to Alexandra Mikhailovna. A certain petty official S.O. writes to her. From the letter the girl learns that when Alexandra was already married, she fell in love with this unequal person. Society began to condemn her. But her husband protected her, while forcing S.O. to leave and forget about her beloved forever.
Surprised Netochka sees the situation between Peter and Alexandra - how he mocks her, how he shows his wife that this story still hurts him. At the same time, leaving his wife, he laughs at this whole situation.
Once Pyotr Alexandrovich tracks down Netochka in the library and sees the very letter. Justifying himself, he accuses the poor girl of correspondence with her lovers. During this scene, Pyotr Aleksandrovich threatens to expel Netochka from the house. The girl does not want to reveal the truth, so as not to injure her dear Alexandra Mikhailovna. But when, during a quarrel, Peter reminds his wife of the past, bringing her to a swoon by this, Netochka does not hold back and reveals the whole truth about his treachery. She is already ready to leave the house, but she is stopped by Peter's assistant, Ovrov. And before leaving the house, she needs to talk to him.
Characteristics of the characters
No point
A naive girl who lives first in her dreams and then in her fantasies. She easily succumbs to someone else's influence. At first, her life was guided by dreams that were built on the speeches of Yegor Efimov. Then she was guided only by the feeling of love, without seeing reality. Having become acquainted with novels, she went into a new world of fantasy. Throughout the novel, she grows, develops, discovers something new for herself. But she remains the same innocent gullible girl.
Netochka's mother
Initially - a victim, ready to give everything in the name of their illusions and unfulfilled desires. Doesn't see the real situation behind his feelings. She admires Yegor's "genius" and forgets about herself. I am ready to make any sacrifice in the name of a false ideal. And only when the problem is already in front of her, and nothing can be fixed, she understands the whole situation. But from his own powerlessness and already devoted strength to deify the "genius" Yegor dies.
Egor Efimov
Freelance clarinetist. Rude and narcissistic. He called himself a genius. And even when his inclinations as a violinist were recognized, he was so blinded by his narcissism and arrogance that he waited for the talent to raise him without any difficulty. From the very beginning, he is selfish. He easily accepts everything that is given to him, but does not give anything in return. In his opinion, it should be so. Because he is that unrecognized genius. He owes life, not he lives.
Katia
A charming, proud girl, raised in the highest circles. She knows how to present herself with dignity, learns a lot, but at the same time she is terribly narcissistic. Katya is jealous of anything that can attract more attention than her. And she is ready to injure anyone whose abilities are higher than her. But she cannot calmly look at the injustice. He does not recognize it in himself, but in the world around him he stands only for justice. And when their relationship with Netochka improves, she opens up as a person who is ready to be real and sincerely love.
Alexandra Mikhailovna
The woman with the most open heart. I am ready to take care of everyone. She accepts the orphan as her own mother. I am ready to love her just as much and spend no less energy on her upbringing than she would have spent on raising her own daughter. Dostoevsky speaks of her simply: quiet, gentle, loving. She is very impressionable: everything that happens in her life is reflected in her. Alexandra has an incomprehensible relationship with her husband, and they lead her to mental anguish and poor health. She feels guilty and does not deny it. But no matter how hard it is for her, she will not leave Netochka alone. I am ready to continue to sacrifice myself meekly, humbly and completely in vain.
Peter Alexandrovich
A person from high society, for whom his reputation is in the first place. If there is rubbish in the hut, he is not ready to take it out. He defended his wife when her secret romance was revealed. This could be regarded as an act of a noble person, if in the future he did not continue to mock his wife, daily reminding him of her guilt in front of him. He loves to be sacrificed. Whatever the situation, Peter will make anyone guilty, but not himself. And most of all, he fears that his true nature will come to the surface.
The novel is presented as an upbringing novel. It is divided into three parts - childhood, new life, mystery. Throughout the novel, there is an observation of the life of one person, its development, education, the emergence of new feelings. A lot of references are made regarding other characters, but thereby most of all revealing the peculiarity of Netochka.
In order to penetrate more deeply into the peculiarities of the situation and character of people, Dostoevsky makes references to the past, thereby delving into history. Making further the transition from the past to the present. Each story of a new person influences Netochka, evoking and instilling new feelings and sensations in her.
It all starts from childhood, as indicated in the first section. Netochka is brought up on the speeches of Efimov, she is inspired by them, her feelings are nourished by them. For her, he is an example, an ideal, the closest person. It is him that she puts above everything. He gives her dreams in which she sees her happy life in a rich house, and Yegor must be next to her. She blindly believes his every word, her dreams closed her eyes. And she completely trusts her stepfather.
And only when he leaves her, the situation becomes desperate. A new life begins for her. This life is marked by the arrival of Netochka to the prince's house. Finally, she not only gives something, but also receives care, understanding and compassion for this, hope for a better future. And at the same time Katya appears in her life, she immediately captures the girl's heart. It is then that a new transformation begins for Netochka: her feelings deepen, become more mature. These are no longer the dreams that were before - this is her present. What is happening to her now.
Long-awaited happiness
She knows herself as a real girl, with a full range of feelings and emotions. A person appears in her life who not only takes everything that she is ready to give him, but who gives in return no less. This makes Netochka more mature and opens her up to other people.
On a happy note of sincere love, the second chapter ends. The time comes for the third chapter: the mystery. It can be divided into two periods. The first period is when Netochka is surrounded by the love of Alexandra Mikhailovna. She gets what she did not receive before - the true love of her mother. Her mother admired Efimov too much, and therefore Netochka herself received less love and care. In the same period, Netochka opens novels that allow her to leave for a new world for her - the world of fantasy. Because of this, she becomes withdrawn. Mistrust appears in the family, but the same strong love remains.
In the story, the eternal struggle of the old with the new takes place, symbolizing the Russian society, which the old foundations do not allow to move forward and develop.
The next article is devoted to the story, which depicts the inner experiences of a girl who will have to choose between love and a secure future.
The turning point and the second period can be called the moment of finding a letter for Alexandra Mikhailovna from her lover. The heroine sees Alexandra's weakness, and in her soul there is a fracture from that timid, a little meek girl, she turns into a passionate and determined girl, ready to protect her friend from everything. Netochka is already independent and ready to make decisions, be responsible for them. Now her life is based only on her strength and courage. This is not the girl she was in the beginning. This is already an adult girl who is responsible for her life herself and is ready to fight for justice, for herself or for a loved one.
