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Morning gray

The train came in the evening. He’s still coming. In the summer at this time still light. The path from the station is short. The yard is full of our neighbors: “Wait a grandchild on a vacation…” – “Wait!” – meet the grandparents.

The next day was the long-awaited two events: on the morning grandpa went to the bookstore, and in the evening grandma Tasia got out a box of postcards. First we looked at old – they sent my grandmother a teacher of French in 1920. To me it was amazing: the Civil war, the elusive Avengers, Chapaev in the cloak, and in the Siberian city of children learning French and the teacher sends a twelve year old girl greeting cards for Easter and Christmas.

And then came the turn of the Soviet postcards. Sets about the cities, astronauts, hockey players, birds, and among them were our beloved grandmother and a set of postcards about the estate Spasskoe-Lutovinovo.

When I was in a hurry to quickly turn these long-familiar to me postcards of Linden alleys and manor house, the grandmother said: “because There lived Turgenev…”

My grandmother grew up in a modest family of a wounded veteran of the Russo-Japanese war, early orphaned and in any manors never lived. In his youth, abandoned the French language, shorn braids, wore a red scarf. But Turgenev.

Obviously, anything can inspire a person, but you cannot kill his memory about his childhood. Perhaps when a family member has read Turgenev and the autumn morning my father hummed, staring at the misted window: “misty Morning, hoary morning…”

Ivan Sergeyevich included in us before we read it. And he lives in us regardless of whether we read it or school years did not open.

Tolstoy and Dostoevsky require rereading. But Turgenev did not require.

Reading “War and peace”, we instinctively think: it’s hard work to write such a book! And reading “Fathers and sons” or “nest”, we have no idea what Turgenev worker and how he’s six years written four of his famous novel.

Recently I came across an article about “Fathers and sons” written by my ancestor Sergei Rymarenko in March 1862. Then Roman just appeared in the journal. Famous article Antonovich and Pisarev is yet to come. Even close friends of Turgenev haven’t read the novel, and the 22-year-old student at the Medico-surgical Academy wrote him a treatise, which I read on a friendly literary Assembly.

Sergei did not accept his coeval Bazarov. Nervously, ardently, convincingly but Sergey was proved that Yevgeny Bazarov, you cannot judge the younger generation. We love poetry, said Sergei, and not the enemies of art, a vulgar Buchner, whom you have attributed to us, despised. “Turgenev has Bazarov left one used to work, why he went Ghost, not a living man.” Sergei resent the dishonesty of Eugene: “he allows himself to kiss a woman did not give him any sort of right”.

Of course, Sergei wanted to address his work to the author, but the writer long ago, in the autumn of 1861, he lived in Paris. And how nice they argued, brought them to meet. Turgenev at the time loved, and disputes till the morning, and intelligent young guests.

Two months after Sergei Rymarenko read to his friends a lecture about “Fathers and children”, for them, the police came. The manuscript of the lecture filed on Petersburg fires. Two years Sergey was kept in the Peter and Paul fortress. Justified, but just in case, was exiled to Astrakhan. There he died of tuberculosis at thirty-one years.

Turgenev did not know that Sergey was thinking about “Fathers and children”.

DATE

November 9 (October 28 old style), 1818, was born in Orel, Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev.

Fathers and sons

God bless you, children! Seen age is: fathers – rags, silly, and children are geniuses, but because in the unfortunate country and everything goes topsy-turvy.

From the letter of the artist Stefan Rymarenko, the son of Sergey, 11 Dec 1861.

Verses 25-year-old Turgenev

Misty morning, morning, gray,

Fields sad, snow covered,

Reluctantly and remember the time past,

Remember and persons that have been forgotten

Remember the abundant passionate speech,

Views, so greedy, so catch timidly,

The first meeting, last meeting

A quiet voice sounds favorite.

Remember the parting with the strange smile,

Many will remember the native far

Listening to the murmur of the wheels continually

Looking pensively into the sky wide.

November, 1843