Lately, I often hear different opinions about a woman’s vocation, and, to be honest, I sometimes ask myself this question: what is my purpose in this life? Yes, I, like many others, have a wonderful family, an interesting job, and beloved friends. On weekends we go to temple. However, despite the apparent fullness of life, I invariably felt a lack of something important. I came to the understanding that I not only want to invest in myself, family and profession - this is my direct responsibility, but to do something at the call of my soul, without any external motivators.

Six months ago, a very unexpected ministry appeared in my life (if someone had told me about this several years ago, I would never have believed it) - once a week I come to the palliative department, where there are people with serious, incurable diseases. Just one hour next to seriously ill patients - and I leave the walls of this institution as a completely different person. I suddenly stop feeling tired, forget about momentary difficulties and understand how beautiful this life is, how multifaceted and fulfilling it is. I find myself looking forward to every new meeting with those who are already on the verge of death, and who have such a thirst for life.

There is such wisdom that if you feel bad, find someone who is even worse and help him. But if everything is relatively good for you, is it worth waiting for some troubles before you start giving part of your life to those who need support and attention? This is probably what guides the sisters of mercy, next to whom I have been working for a long time, but whose motivation is sometimes hidden from prying eyes. Agree, this is not a typical situation when modern woman not only tries to become an ideal mother or housewife, but also gives part of her time, strength and energy to complete strangers.

Now there are more than 50 sisters in the Ekaterinburg Orthodox Mercy Service who serve in all social projects- from helping children to supporting the homeless. All of them are the most ordinary girls and women: students and pensioners, new mothers and mothers of many children, workaholics and housewives. They all have one thing in common - a sincere desire to help those who need care, attention and support - domestic, material, mental or spiritual.

Looking at them, you understand that a woman’s role and calling can be not only in family and work; there is another undeservedly forgotten area where a woman can realize herself - this is the path of serving her neighbors. It was service, selfless and even sacrificial, as was done at the beginning of the 20th century by Princess Elizaveta Feodorovna, the royal princesses of the Romanovs during the First World War, and the nurses during the Great Patriotic War. The ministry of a modern sister of mercy is even more diverse; each of them can find a job to her liking.

Traditionally, nursing care is indispensable in the children's sphere - walks, accompaniment during treatment in the hospital, creative and playful activities. Sometimes a sister of mercy turns out to be for a lonely sick child, perhaps not a natural mother, but for some time the only close person who can share the pain and fears of her little ward. Not only children, but also parents need nursing support, for example, in the children's oncology center, where sisters help their loved ones cope with the loss of a child. Some sisters care for lonely and elderly people at home, in hospitals and boarding homes, and also serve the homeless. They serve because people who find themselves on the street are a special category of wards who need a special approach and a huge heart full of love and care.

Sometimes I feel very sad from the lack of time and the awareness of my own helplessness in the face of many important and urgent matters, and I look at the nurses - how do they manage to do everything? But, as the classic said, a person always finds time for what is truly valuable to him, what resonates in his heart. And if, in addition to satisfying her own needs and interests, fulfilling her direct work or household responsibilities, a woman finds the opportunity to take care of someone who is now in pain, difficulty and fear, I think this is worthy of respect.

It is clear that not everyone can become Mother Teresa. And it is not at all necessary to go against the system or take sick children out of the combat zone. But I am sure that many of us are capable of at least one kind deed, a word, a look, to console and support our neighbor. And this is also the true feminine purpose.

There are women who are definitely sisters of mercy in life. You don’t have to hide anything in front of them, at least nothing that is sick and wounded in your soul. Whoever is suffering, go to them boldly and with hope and do not be afraid to be a burden, because few of us know how infinitely patient love, compassion and forgiveness can be in another woman’s heart. Entire treasures of sympathy, consolation, hope are stored in these pure hearts, so often also wounded, because a heart that loves a lot, saddens a lot, but where the wound is carefully closed from a curious look, because deep grief is most often silent and hidden. Neither the depth of the wound, nor its pus, nor its stench will frighten them: whoever approaches them is worthy of them; Yes, however, they seem to be born for heroism... F.M. Dostoevsky "Little Hero". “Stavropol maiden”, “heroine of duty”, “a woman without fear and doubt” - these were the words used by contemporaries to describe the young sister of mercy Rimma Ivanova, the only woman in the history of Russia - a holder of the Order of St. George who did not have an officer rank. Rimma Mikhailovna Ivanova was born on June 15 1894 in Stavropol in the family of the treasurer of the spiritual consistory. After graduating from the Olga girls' gymnasium, she became a teacher at the zemstvo school in the village of Petrovskoye. The young teacher dreamed of continuing her education, but these plans were not destined to come true - in 1914, the war with Germany began. Without hesitation, in the very first days of the war, Rimma enrolled in short-term training courses for nurses, after which she was sent to the diocesan infirmary. But the longer Rimma worked in the hospital and the more she listened to stories about the hardships of life at the front and the suffering of the wounded on the front line, the stronger her desire to be with the active army became. And in January 1915, despite the protests of her parents, Rimma voluntarily went to the front, to the 83rd Samur Infantry Regiment, which was stationed in Stavropol before the war. She flatly refused to stay at the regimental infirmary and, having cut her hair short, went to the front line under the name of orderly Ivan Ivanov. When the secret of the young volunteer was revealed, Rimma continued to serve under her real name. The brave sister of mercy rushed into the thick of the battle, where she was so needed by the wounded warriors. She soon became the regiment's favorite. The grateful soldiers and officers, surrounded by her care, could not praise her enough. The valor and courage of Rimma Ivanova in rescuing the wounded were awarded with awards - two St. George medals and a soldier's St. George Cross. The regiment commander noted: “Tirelessly, tirelessly, she worked at the most advanced dressing stations, always being under destructive... enemy fire, and, without a doubt, she was driven by one ardent desire - to come to the aid of the wounded defenders of the Tsar and the Motherland. The prayers of many wounded are rushing for her health to her. The parents, who missed their daughter, persuaded Rimma to return home and take a break from the horrors of the war. Yielding to persistent requests, in the summer of 1915 she took a vacation and came to Stavropol. But the attempts of her relatives to keep her were unsuccessful - a month later, Rimma went to the front again, placing herself at the disposal of the 105th Orenburg Infantry Regiment under the command of her brother, the regimental doctor Vladimir Ivanov. Not wanting to “sit out” in the rear, the ardent girl asked to be sent as a paramedic to the 10th company, which was fighting at that time on the front line near the village of Mokraya Dubrova, Grodno province. On September 9/22, fierce fighting began in the area where the 10th company’s positions were located. A barrage of artillery fire fell on the forward positions of the regiment. The girl barely had time to bandage the wounded. As the corps commander, General Mishchenko, noted, the sister, despite the persuasion of the regimental doctor, officers and soldiers, continued to fulfill her duty on the front line. The enemy pressed forward and came almost close to the Russian trenches. The company's strength was running out. Both officers were killed. Some soldiers, unable to withstand the enemy's onslaught, succumbed to panic. Then Rimma jumped out of the trench and shouted “Soldiers, follow me!” rushed forward. Everyone who was still able to hold a weapon in their hands rushed after the brave sister of mercy. Having thrown back the enemy, Russian soldiers burst into the enemy trenches. But the joy of a successful counterattack was overshadowed - a German bullet seriously wounded Rimma, who was in the first chains. The heroine has died glorious death brave on the front line of the 105th Regiment, mourned by soldiers and officers. She was only 21 years old... On the initiative of the regiment personnel, a petition was sent to Emperor Nicholas II to award Rimma Ivanova the Order of St. George, 4th degree. The tsar found himself in a difficult position - it was a purely military order, which was awarded exclusively to officers. Only one woman in Russia had previously been awarded the Military Order - its founder, Catherine II. However, the Emperor decided to make an exception. Despite the fact that Rimma Ivanova not only was not an officer, was not a noblewoman, but had no military rank, The Tsar signed a personal decree on the award. Thus, Rimma Ivanova became the first and only Russian subject to be awarded the Order of St. George for 150 years of its existence. Rimma Ivanova was buried in her native Stavropol, in the fence of St. Andrew's Church, giving her military honors. Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich sent a silver wreath intertwined with the St. George ribbon to Rimma’s grave. And Archpriest Simeon Nikolsky, addressing the townspeople, said: “...The sister of mercy became the leader of the army, accomplished the feat of a hero... Our city, the city of Stavropol! What glory have you been awarded! France had the Maid of Orleans - Joan of Arc. Russia has the Maid of Stavropol - Rimma Ivanova. And her name will henceforth live forever in the kingdoms of the world...” Rimma herself, in her last letter to her family, left the following testament: “My dear ones! If you love me, then try to make my wish come true: pray to God, pray for Russia and humanity.” Soon they composed a song about the heroine, wrote a waltz dedicated to her, local authorities Scholarships were established in her name. A monument was erected in Vyazma - a stele to the heroes of the war, on one of the sides of which the name of Rimma Ivanova was written in gold. The public began collecting funds for the installation of a monument to the heroine in Stavropol, but the revolution and civil war prevented the implementation of this plan. Heroes Great War, nicknamed “imperialist,” were not needed by the new government. The name of sister of mercy Rimma Ivanova, who carried about six hundred wounded Russian soldiers from under fire, has been forgotten. Her burial place was razed to the ground, and only today a modest tombstone has been installed in the fence of St. Andrew's Cathedral at the supposed place of her burial. On the building of the former Olginskaya gymnasium appeared Memorial plaque, and the Stavropol diocese and the local medical college established the Rimma Ivanova Prize “For Sacrifice and Mercy.” Prepared by Andrey Ivanov, Doctor of Historical Sciences

(From unknown memoirs)

I was almost eleven years old then. In July, they let me go to visit a village near Moscow, to my relative, Tvu, who at that time had about fifty, and maybe more, guests... I don’t remember, I didn’t count. It was noisy and fun. It seemed that it was a holiday that began with that, so as never to end. It seemed that our owner promised himself to squander all his enormous fortune as quickly as possible, and he recently managed to justify this guess, that is, to squander everything, completely, completely, to the last chip. New guests were constantly arriving, but Moscow was two steps away, in plain sight, so those leaving only gave way to others, and the holiday went on as usual. Amusements were replaced by one another, and there was no end in sight. Either horse riding around the surrounding area, in whole parties, or walking in the forest or along the river; picnics, lunches in the field; dinners on the large terrace of the house, furnished with three rows of precious flowers, filling the fresh night air with aromas, under brilliant lighting, from which our ladies, almost all of them pretty, seemed even more charming with their faces animated by the day's impressions, with their sparkling eyes, with their cross, frisky speech, shimmering with a ringing laugh like a bell; dancing, music, singing; if the sky frowned, lively pictures, charades, and proverbs were composed; a home theater was set up. Eloquent speakers, storytellers, and bonmotists appeared. Several faces appeared sharply in the foreground. Of course, slander and gossip took their course, since without them the world would not stand, and millions of people would die of boredom like flies. But since I was eleven years old, I didn’t even notice these persons then, distracted by something completely different, and even if I noticed something, that’s not all. Afterwards I had to remember something. Only one brilliant side of the picture could catch my children's eyes, and this general animation, shine, noise - all this, hitherto unseen and unheard of by me, amazed me so much that in the first days I was completely confused and my little head was spinning. But I keep talking about my eleven years, and, of course, I was a child, nothing more than a child. Many of these beautiful women, caressing me, they had not yet thought of coping with my years. But it’s a strange thing! some feeling, incomprehensible to me, has already taken possession of me; something was already rustling through my heart, still unfamiliar; and unknown to him; but why did it sometimes burn and beat, as if frightened, and often my face would flush with an unexpected blush. Sometimes I was somehow ashamed and even offended for my various childhood privileges. Another time, it was as if surprise overcame me, and I went somewhere where they couldn’t see me, as if to take a breath and remember something, something that until now seemed to me to be I remembered very well and now I suddenly forgot about it, but without which, however, I can’t appear and can’t be without it. Then, finally, it seemed to me that I was hiding something from everyone, but I never told anyone about it, because I was ashamed, little man, to tears. Soon, amid the whirlwind that surrounded me, I felt some kind of loneliness. There were other children here, but all of them were either much younger or much older than me; yes, however, I had no time for them. Of course, nothing would have happened to me if I had not been in an exceptional situation. In the eyes of all these beautiful ladies, I was still the same small, indefinable creature that they sometimes loved to caress and with whom they could play like a little doll. Especially one of them, a charming blonde with curvy, thickest hair, which I have never seen since and, most likely, will never see, seemed to have vowed not to give me peace. I was embarrassed, but she was amused by the laughter that was heard around us, which she constantly caused with her sharp, eccentric antics with me, which, apparently, gave her great pleasure. In boarding schools, among her friends, she would probably be called a schoolgirl. She was wonderfully pretty, and there was something about her beauty that caught your eye at first sight. And, of course, she was unlike those little bashful blondes, as white as fluff and gentle as white mice or pastor’s daughters. She was short in stature and a little plump, but with delicate, fine lines of her face, charmingly drawn. There was something like lightning sparkling in this face, and the whole of her was like fire, alive, fast, light. Of her big ones open eyes as if sparks were falling; they sparkled like diamonds, and I would never exchange such sparkling blue eyes for any black ones, even if they were blacker than the blackest Andalusian gaze, and my blonde, really, was worth that famous brunette, who was sung by one famous and wonderful poet and who in such excellent verses he swore by the whole of Castile that he was ready to break his bones if they only allowed him to touch his beauty’s mantilla with the tip of his finger. Add to that my the beauty was the most cheerful of all the beauties in the world, the most eccentric laugher, as playful as a child, despite the fact that she had already been married for five years. Laughter did not leave her lips, as fresh as a morning rose, which had just managed to open, with the first ray of sun, its scarlet, fragrant bud, on which the cold large drops of dew had not yet dried. I remember that on the second day of my arrival a home theater was set up. The hall was, as they say, packed; there was not a single seat free; and since for some reason I happened to be late, I was forced to enjoy the performance while standing. But the cheerful game pulled me forward more and more, and I quietly made my way to the very first rows, where I finally stood, leaning on the back of the chairs in which one lady was sitting. It was my blonde; but we didn’t know each other yet. And so, somehow by chance, I stared at her wonderfully rounded, seductive shoulders, full, white, like boiling milk, although I decidedly still wanted to look: at the wonderful female shoulders or at the cap with fiery ribbons that hid the gray hair of one venerable ladies in the front row. Next to the blonde sat an overripe maiden, one of those who, as I later noticed, always huddle somewhere as close as possible to young and pretty women, choosing those who do not like to drive away young people. But that's not the point; Only this girl noticed my observations, leaned over to her neighbor and, giggling, whispered something in her ear. The neighbor suddenly turned around, and I remember that her fiery eyes sparkled at me so much in the semi-darkness that I, not prepared for the meeting, shuddered as if I had been burned. The beauty smiled. Do you like what they are playing? she asked, looking slyly and mockingly into my eyes. “Yes,” I answered, still looking at her in some kind of surprise, which she, in turn, apparently liked. Why are you standing? So you will get tired; Isn't there room for you? “That’s just it, no,” I answered, this time more preoccupied with concern than with the sparkling eyes of the beauty, and extremely glad that I had finally found kind heart, to whom you can reveal your grief. “I was already looking, but all the chairs were occupied,” I added, as if complaining to her that all the chairs were occupied. “Come here,” she said briskly, quick to respond to all decisions as well as to any extravagant idea that flashed through her eccentric head, “come here to me and sit on my lap.” On your knees?.. I repeated, puzzled. I have already said that my privileges began to seriously offend and conscience me. This one, as if laughing, went far, unlike the others. In addition, I, already always a timid and bashful boy, now somehow began to be especially timid in front of women and therefore became terribly embarrassed. Well, yes, on your knees! Why don't you want to sit on my lap? she insisted, starting to laugh harder and harder, so that finally she just started laughing at God knows what, maybe at her own invention or being glad that I was so embarrassed. But that's what she needed. I blushed and looked around in embarrassment, looking for somewhere to go; but she had already warned me, somehow managing to catch my hand, precisely so that I would not leave, and, pulling her towards her, suddenly, quite unexpectedly, to my greatest surprise, she squeezed it painfully in her playful, hot fingers and began to break my fingers, but it hurt so much that I strained all my efforts not to scream, and at the same time made funny grimaces. In addition, I was in the most terrible surprise, bewilderment, and horror even when I learned that there are such funny and evil ladies who talk to boys about such trifles and even pinch themselves so painfully, God knows why, and in front of everyone. Probably my unhappy face reflected all my bewilderment, because the minx laughed in my eyes like crazy, and meanwhile she pinched and broke my poor fingers more and more. She was beside herself with delight that she had managed to play tricks, confuse the poor boy and mystify him into dust. My situation was desperate. Firstly, I was burning with shame, because almost everyone around us turned to us, some in bewilderment, others laughing, immediately realizing that the beauty had done something wrong. Besides, I was so afraid I wanted to scream, because she was breaking my fingers with some kind of ferocity, precisely because I didn’t scream: and I, like a Spartan, decided to withstand the pain, afraid of causing a turmoil by screaming, after which I don’t know. what would happen to me. In a fit of complete despair, I finally began to fight and began to pull my own hand toward me with all my might, but my tyrant was much stronger than me. Finally, I couldn’t stand it, I screamed, that’s just what I was waiting for! Instantly she abandoned me and turned away, as if nothing had happened, as if it wasn’t she who had done the mischief, but someone else, just like some schoolboy who, when the teacher turned away a little, had already managed to play a mischief somewhere in the neighborhood , pinch some tiny, weak boy, give him a snap, a kick, push his elbow and instantly turn around again, straighten up, burying his face in a book, begin to hammer out his lesson and, thus, leave the angry Mr. teacher, rushing like a hawk to noise, with a very long and unexpected nose. But, fortunately for me, everyone’s attention was captivated at that moment by the masterful performance of our host, who was performing in the play that was being played, some kind of Scribe comedy, main role. Everyone applauded; I, under the noise, slipped out of the row and ran to the very end of the hall, to the opposite corner, from where, hiding behind a column, I looked in horror at where the treacherous beauty was sitting. She was still laughing, covering her lips with a handkerchief. And for a long time she turned back, looking at me from all corners, probably very much regretting that our crazy fight ended so soon, and thinking of ways to do something else. This began our acquaintance, and from that evening she did not lag behind me a single step. She persecuted me without measure and conscience, she became my persecutor, my tyrant. The whole comedy of her pranks with me lay in the fact that she said she was head over heels in love with me and cut me in front of everyone. Of course, for me, a downright savage, all this was painful and annoying to the point of tears, so that several times I was already in such a serious and critical situation that I was ready to fight with my insidious admirer. My naive confusion, my desperate melancholy seemed to inspire her to pursue me to the end. She didn’t know pity, and I didn’t know where to go from her. The laughter that was heard all around us and which she knew how to evoke, only set her on fire for new pranks. But they finally began to find her jokes a little too far. And indeed, as I now had to remember, she already allowed herself too much with a child like me. But that was her character: she was, by all appearances, a spoiled person. I later heard that she was spoiled most of all by her own husband, a very plump, very short and very red man, very rich and very businesslike, at least in appearance: fidgety, busy, he could not live in one place for two hours. Every day he traveled from us to Moscow, sometimes twice, and all, as he himself assured, on business. It was difficult to find a more cheerful and good-natured face, this comic and yet always decent physiognomy. Not only did he love his wife to the point of weakness, to the point of pity, he simply worshiped her like an idol. He didn't embarrass her in any way. She had many friends and girlfriends. Firstly, few people disliked her, and secondly, the anemone herself was not too picky in choosing her friends, although the basis of her character was much more serious than one might assume, judging by what I have now told . But of all her friends, she loved and distinguished one young lady most, her distant relative, who was now also in our company. There was some kind of tender, refined connection between them, one of those connections that sometimes arise when two characters meet, often completely opposite friends friend, but one of whom is stricter, deeper, and purer than the other, while the other, with high humility and a noble sense of self-esteem, lovingly submits to him, feeling all his superiority over himself and, like happiness, concludes his friendship in his heart . Then this tender and noble refinement begins in the relationships of such characters: love and condescension to the end, on the one hand, love and respect on the other, respect that reaches the point of some kind of fear, to fear for oneself in the eyes of the one who is so You value him highly, and to the point of a jealous, greedy desire to come closer and closer to his heart with every step in life. Both friends were the same age, but meanwhile there was an immeasurable difference in everything, starting with beauty. M-me M* was also very pretty, but there was something special about her beauty that sharply separated her from the crowd of pretty women; there was something in her face that immediately irresistibly attracted all sympathies, or, better to say, that awakened noble, sublime sympathy in those who met her. There are such happy faces. Around her, everyone felt somehow better, somehow freer, somehow warmer, and yet her large sad eyes, full of fire and strength, looked timidly and restlessly, as if under the constant fear of something hostile and menacing, and this strange timidity sometimes covered her quiet, meek features with such despondency, reminiscent of the bright faces of Italian Madonnas, that, looking at her, he himself soon became as sad as for his own, as for his native sadness. This pale, thinner face, in which, through the impeccable beauty of clean, regular lines and the dull severity of dull, hidden melancholy, the original, childish, clear appearance still so often shone through, the image of still recent trusting years and, perhaps, naive happiness; this quiet, but timid, hesitant smile - all this struck with such unconscious sympathy for this woman that a sweet, warm concern involuntarily arose in everyone’s heart, which spoke loudly for her from afar and made her closer to her even in a stranger. But the beauty seemed somehow silent, secretive, although, of course, there was no more attentive and loving creature when someone needed sympathy. There are women who are definitely sisters of mercy in life. You don’t have to hide anything in front of them, at least nothing that is sick and wounded in your soul. Whoever is suffering, go to them boldly and with hope and do not be afraid to be a burden, because few of us know how infinitely patient love, compassion and forgiveness can be in another woman’s heart. Entire treasures of sympathy, consolation, hope are stored in these pure hearts, so often also wounded, because a heart that loves a lot, saddens a lot, but where the wound is carefully closed from a curious look, because deep grief is most often silent and hidden. Neither the depth of the wound, nor its pus, nor its stench will frighten them: whoever approaches them is worthy of them; Yes, however, they seem to be born for a feat... M-me M * was tall, flexible and slender, but somewhat thin. All her movements were somehow uneven, sometimes slow, smooth and even somehow important, sometimes childishly quick, and at the same time some kind of timid humility was visible in her gesture, something as if trembling and unprotected, but no one not asking or begging for protection. I have already said that the disgraceful claims of the insidious blonde shamed me, cut me, stung me until I bled. But there was also a secret, strange, stupid reason for this, which I hid, for which I trembled like kashchei, and even at the mere thought of it, alone with my head thrown back, somewhere in a mysterious, dark corner where I could not reach the inquisitorial, mocking look of no blue-eyed rogue, at the mere thought of this subject I almost choked with embarrassment, shame and fear, in a word, I was in love, that is, let’s assume that I said nonsense: this could not be; but why was it that out of all the faces surrounding me, only one face caught my attention? Why did I love to follow her with my eyes, although I was decidedly not in the mood then to look out for ladies and get to know them? This happened most often in the evenings, when bad weather locked everyone in their rooms and when I, lonesomely hiding somewhere in the corner of the hall, looked aimlessly around, absolutely not finding any other thing to do, because rarely did anyone talk to me, except for my persecutors. , and on such evenings I was unbearably bored. Then I peered into the faces around me, listened to the conversation, in which I often did not understand a word, and at that time the quiet glances, the gentle smile and the beautiful face of m-me M * (because it was she), God knows why, they were caught by my enchanted attention, and this strange, vague, but incomprehensibly sweet impression of mine was not erased. Often for whole hours I seemed unable to tear myself away from her; I memorized every gesture, every movement of her, listened to every vibration of her thick, silvery, but somewhat muffled voice and strange thing! From all his observations he brought out, along with a timid and sweet impression, some kind of incomprehensible curiosity. It looked like I was trying to find out some secret... The most painful thing for me was the ridicule in the presence of m-me M *. These ridicule and comic persecution, in my opinion, even humiliated me. And when it happened that there was general laughter at my expense, in which even m-me M * sometimes unwittingly took part, then I, in despair, beside myself with grief, broke away from my tyrants and ran upstairs, where I ran wild for the rest of the day , not daring to show his face in the hall. However, I myself still did not understand either my shame or excitement; the whole process was experienced in me unconsciously. With m-me M* I hardly said two more words, and, of course, I would not have dared to do so. But then one evening, after a most unbearable day for me, I fell behind the others on a walk, was terribly tired and made my way home through the garden. On one bench, in a secluded alley, I saw m-me M *. She sat alone, as if she had deliberately chosen such a secluded place, bowing her head on her chest and mechanically fingering a handkerchief in her hands. She was so deep in thought that she didn’t even hear me come up to her. Noticing me, she quickly rose from the bench, turned away and, I saw, hastily wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. She cried. Drying her eyes, she smiled at me and went home with me. I don’t remember what we talked about; but she constantly sent me away under various pretexts: either she asked me to pick a flower for her, or to see who was riding on horseback in the neighboring alley. And when I left her, she immediately again raised the handkerchief to her eyes and wiped away the disobedient tears that did not want to leave her, kept boiling up in her heart again and again and kept pouring out of her poor eyes. I understood that, apparently, I was a great burden to her when she sent me away so often, and she herself already saw that I noticed everything, but she just couldn’t resist, and this tormented me even more for her. I was angry with myself at that moment almost to the point of despair, I cursed myself for my awkwardness and lack of resourcefulness, and yet I didn’t know how to deftly leave her behind without showing that I had noticed her grief, but I walked next to her, in sad amazement, even in frightened, completely confused and absolutely unable to find a single word to support our impoverished conversation. This meeting struck me so much that all evening I quietly followed m-me M * with greedy curiosity and did not take my eyes off her. But it so happened that she took me by surprise twice in the midst of my observations, and the second time, noticing me, she smiled. It was her only smile all evening. The sadness had not yet left her face, which was now very pale. All the time she was talking quietly with one elderly lady, an angry and grumpy old woman, whom no one liked for her spying and gossip, but whom everyone was afraid of, and therefore were forced to please her in every possible way, willy-nilly... At about ten o'clock m-me M*'s husband arrived. Until now I had been watching her very closely, without taking my eyes off her sad face; now, at the unexpected entrance of her husband, I saw how she shuddered all over and her face, already pale, suddenly became whiter than a scarf. It was so noticeable that others also noticed: I heard a fragmentary conversation to the side, from which I somehow guessed that poor m-me M * was not entirely well. They said that her husband was jealous like a blackamoor, not out of love, but out of pride. First of all, he was a European, a modern man, with examples of new ideas and vain about his ideas. In appearance, he was a black-haired, tall and particularly heavy-set gentleman, with European sideburns, a smug, ruddy face, teeth as white as sugar and an impeccable gentleman's bearing. They called him smart person . This is how in some circles they call one special breed of humanity that has grown fat at someone else’s expense, who does absolutely nothing, who wants to do absolutely nothing, and who, due to eternal laziness and doing nothing, has a piece of fat instead of a heart. You constantly hear from them that they have nothing to do due to some very complicated, hostile circumstances that “tire their genius,” and that, therefore, they are “sad to look at.” This is such an accepted pompous phrase for them, their mot d'ordre, their password and slogan, a phrase that my well-fed fat men lavish everywhere every minute, which has long been starting to get boring, like outright Tartuffe and an empty word. However, some of these funny people, who just can’t find what to do, which, however, they never looked for, is precisely for this purpose, so that everyone would think that instead of a heart they have not fat, but, on the contrary, generally speaking, something very deep, but what exactly? The very first surgeon would not say anything about this, of course, out of courtesy. These gentlemen make their way in the world by directing all their instincts towards rude mockery, the most short-sighted condemnation and immeasurable pride. Since they have nothing else to do but notice and confirm other people’s mistakes and weaknesses, and since they have as much good feeling as an oyster is given, it is not difficult for them, with such protective measures, to live with people quite carefully. This makes them overly vain. They, for example, are almost sure that they have almost the whole world on rent; that he is like an oyster for them, which they take in reserve; that everyone except them is fools; that everyone is like an orange or a sponge, which they will squeeze out until they need the juice; that they are the masters of everything and that this whole commendable order of things occurs precisely because they are such intelligent and characterful people. In their immense pride, they do not allow shortcomings in themselves. They are similar to that breed of everyday cheats, born Tartuffes and Falstaffs, who became so lost that they finally became convinced that this was how it should be, that is, in order to live and cheat; before they often assured everyone that they honest people that they themselves were finally convinced that they were truly honest people and that their cheating was an honest matter. They will never be enough for a conscientious inner judgment, for a noble self-esteem: for other things they are too thick. In the foreground they always and in everything have their own golden person, their Moloch and Baal, their magnificent I. All nature, the whole world for them is nothing more than one magnificent mirror, which was created so that my little god would constantly admire himself in it and not see anyone or anything because of himself; After that, it’s no wonder that he sees everything in the world in such an ugly form. He has a ready-made phrase for everything, and, which, however, is the height of dexterity on their part, is the most fashionable phrase. Even they contribute to this fashion, unfoundedly spreading to all crossroads the idea that they sense success. It is they who have the instinct to sniff out such a fashionable phrase and adopt it before others, so that it seems as if it came from them. They are especially stocked up with their phrases to express their deepest sympathy for humanity, to define what the most correct and rationally justified philanthropy is, and, finally, to endlessly punish romanticism, that is, often everything beautiful and true, each atom of which is more expensive than the whole of their slug breeds But they rudely do not recognize the truth in an evasive, transitional and unready form and push away everything that has not yet matured, is not settled and is wandering. A well-fed man has lived his whole life intoxicated, with everything ready, he has done nothing himself and does not know how difficult any task is to do, and therefore it is a disaster if some roughness hurts his fat feelings: for this he will never forgive, he will always remember and take revenge with pleasure . The upshot of it all is that my hero is nothing less than a gigantic, extremely bloated bag, full of maxims, fashionable phrases and labels of all kinds and varieties. But, however, Mr. M * also had a peculiarity, he was a remarkable person: he was a wit, a talker and a storyteller, and a circle always gathered around him in the living rooms. That evening he especially managed to make an impression. He mastered the conversation; he was in a good mood, cheerful, happy about something and made everyone look at him. But m-me M * was like sick all the time; her face was so sad that it seemed to me every minute that they were about to tremble on her long eyelashes old tears. All this, as I said, amazed and surprised me extremely. I left with a feeling of some strange curiosity, and all night I dreamed of Mr. M *, whereas until then I had rarely seen ugly dreams. The next day, early in the morning, they called me to a rehearsal of live pictures, in which I also had a role. Live paintings, theater and then a ball - all in one evening, were scheduled no more than five days later, on the occasion of a home holiday - the birthday of our host's youngest daughter. About a hundred more guests were invited to this almost improvised holiday from Moscow and the surrounding dachas, so there was a lot of fuss, trouble, and turmoil. The rehearsals, or better yet, the costume review, were scheduled at the wrong time, in the morning, because our director, famous artist R*, a friend and guest of our host, who out of friendship agreed to take on the writing and staging of the pictures, and at the same time our training, was now in a hurry to the city to purchase props and to make final preparations for the holiday, so there was no time to waste there was no time. I participated in one film, together with m-me M *. The painting expressed a scene from medieval life and was called “The Lady of the Castle and Her Page.” I felt an inexplicable embarrassment when I met m-me M* at the rehearsal. It seemed to me that she immediately read from my eyes all the thoughts, doubts, guesses that had arisen in my head since yesterday. In addition, it seemed to me that I was somehow guilty before her, having caught her tears yesterday and interfered with her grief, so that she would inevitably have to look sideways at me, as if I were an unpleasant witness and an uninvited participant in her secret. But, thank God, it went off without much trouble: they simply didn’t notice me. She, it seems, had no time for me or the rehearsal: she was absent-minded, sad and gloomily thoughtful; it was clear that she was tormented by some great concern. Having finished my role, I ran to change clothes and ten minutes later went out onto the terrace into the garden. Almost at the same time, m-me M * came out of other doors, and, just opposite us, her smug husband appeared, who was returning from the garden, having just escorted a whole group of ladies there and there having managed to hand them over to some - to an idle cavalier servant. The meeting of husband and wife was obviously unexpected. M-me M*, for some unknown reason, suddenly became embarrassed, and slight annoyance flashed through her impatient movement. The husband, who had been carelessly whistling an aria and thoughtfully groomed his sideburns all the way, now, upon meeting his wife, frowned and looked at her, as I now remember, with a decidedly inquisitorial gaze. Are you going to the garden? he asked, noticing the ombre and the book in his wife’s hands. “No, to the grove,” she answered, blushing slightly. Alone? With him... m-me M * said, pointing at me. “I’m walking alone in the morning,” she added in a kind of uneven, vague voice, exactly the kind when someone lies for the first time in their life. Hm... And I just took a whole company there. There everyone gathers at the flower gazebo to see off Ngo. He’s traveling, you know... some kind of trouble happened to him there, in Odessa... Your cousin (he was talking about the blonde) is laughing and almost crying, all at once, you can’t make her out. She told me, however, that you were angry with him for something and that’s why you didn’t go to see him off. Of course it's nonsense? She laughs, answered m-me M *, leaving the steps of the terrace. So this is your everyday cavalier servant? added m-r M *, twisting his mouth and pointing his lorgnette at me. Page! “I shouted, angry at the lorgnette and the mockery, and, laughing right in his face, jumped over three steps of the terrace at once... Happy journey! muttered Mr. M * and went on his way. Of course, I immediately went up to m-me M * as soon as she pointed me out to her husband, and looked as if she had already invited me an hour ago and as if I had been going for walks with her in the morning for a whole month. But I couldn’t figure it out: why was she so embarrassed, embarrassed, and what was on her mind when she decided to resort to her little lie? Why didn't she just say she was going alone? Now I didn’t know how to look at her; but, struck by surprise, I, however, very naively began to little by little look into her face; but, just like an hour ago, at the rehearsal, she did not notice any peeps or my silent questions. The same painful concern, but even more clearly, even deeper than then, was reflected in her face, in her excitement, in her gait. She was in a hurry somewhere, quickening her pace more and more, and anxiously looked into every alley, into every clearing of the grove, turning to the side of the garden. And I also expected something. Suddenly, a horse's clatter was heard behind us. It was a whole cavalcade of riders and riders, seeing off that Ngo, who so suddenly left our society. Among the ladies was my blonde, about whom Mr. M * spoke, talking about her tears. But, as usual, she laughed like a child and galloped briskly on a beautiful bay horse. Having caught up with us, Ny took off his hat, but did not stop and did not say a word to m-me M *. Soon the whole gang disappeared from sight. I looked at m-me M * and almost screamed in amazement: she stood as pale as a handkerchief and large tears were coming out of her eyes. By chance our glances met: m-me M * suddenly blushed, turned away for a moment, and anxiety and annoyance clearly flashed across her face. I was superfluous, worse than yesterday, it’s clearer than day, but where should I go? Suddenly m-me M*, as if she had guessed it, unfolded the book she had in her hands, and, blushing, obviously trying not to look at me, she said, as if she had just come to her senses: Ah! this is the second part, I was wrong; please bring me the first one. How can you not understand! my role was over, and it was impossible to drive me along a more direct path. I ran away with her book and never came back. The first part lay quietly on the table this morning... But I was not myself; my heart was beating as if in constant fear. I tried with all my might not to somehow meet m-me M*. But I looked with some kind of wild curiosity at the smug person m-r M *, as if there must now certainly be something special about him. I absolutely don’t understand what was in this comic curiosity of mine; I only remember that I was in some strange surprise at everything that I happened to see that morning. But my day was just beginning, and for me it was full of incidents. We had lunch very early this time. In the evening a general pleasure trip was scheduled to a neighboring village for a village festival that had taken place there, and therefore time was needed to prepare. I had already been dreaming about this trip for three days, expecting an abyss of fun. Almost everyone gathered on the terrace to drink coffee. I carefully made my way behind the others and hid behind the triple row of chairs. I was attracted by curiosity, and yet I never wanted to show myself to m-me M*. But chance chose to place me not far from my blonde persecutor. This time a miracle happened to her, an impossible thing: she became twice as beautiful. I don’t know how and why this is done, but such miracles even often happen to women. Between us at that moment there was a new guest, a tall, pale-faced young man, a registered admirer of our blonde, who had just arrived to us from Moscow, as if on purpose to replace the departed Ngo, about whom it was rumored that he was desperately in love into our beauty. As for the visitor, he had long been with her in exactly the same relationship as Benedick had with Beatrice in Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Trifles. In short, our beauty was extremely successful that day. Her jokes and chatter were so graceful, so trustingly naive, so forgivably careless; With such graceful self-confidence she was confident in everyone’s delight that she really was in some kind of special worship all the time. There was never a close circle of surprised listeners around her who had fallen in love with her, and she had never been so seductive. Every word she said was a temptation and a wonder, it was caught and passed around, and not a single joke of hers, not a single trick was in vain. It seems that no one expected so much taste, brilliance, and intelligence from her. All best qualities her everyday life was buried in the most willful extravagance, in the most stubborn schoolboyism, reaching almost to buffoonery; Rarely did anyone notice them; and if she noticed, she didn’t believe them, so now her extraordinary success was greeted with a universal passionate whisper of amazement. However, this success was facilitated by one special, rather delicate circumstance, at least judging by the role played by Mme M*’s husband at the same time. The mischievous woman decided - and it must be added: almost to everyone's pleasure, or at least to the pleasure of all the youth - to fiercely attack him for many reasons, probably very important in her eyes. She started with him a whole skirmish of witticisms, ridicule, sarcasm, the most irresistible and slippery, the most insidious, closed and smooth from all sides, the kind that hit right on target, but which cannot be attached to on either side to fight back and which only exhaust in fruitless efforts the victim, driving him to rage and to the most comic despair. I don’t know for sure, but it seems that this whole prank was deliberate and not improvised. Even at lunch this desperate duel began. I say “desperate” because Mr. M * did not put down his weapon soon. He needed to muster all his presence of mind, all his wit, all his rare resourcefulness, so as not to be crushed into dust, completely, and not to be covered with decisive disgrace. The case went on with continuous and uncontrollable laughter from all witnesses and participants in the battle. At least today was different for him from yesterday. It was noticeable that m-me M * tried several times to stop her careless friend, who, in turn, certainly wanted to dress up her jealous husband in the most clownish and funny costume, and must assume, in the costume of Bluebeard, judging by all the probabilities, judging by the fact what remains in my memory, and, finally, by the role that I myself happened to play in this collision. It happened suddenly, in the most ridiculous way, completely unexpectedly, and, as if on purpose, at that moment I stood in plain sight, not suspecting evil and even forgetting about my recent precautions. Suddenly I was brought to the fore as a sworn enemy and natural rival m-r M*, how desperately, to the last degree, in love with his wife, which my tyrant immediately swore, gave her word, said that she had evidence and that just today, for example, she saw in the forest... But she didn’t have time to finish; I interrupted her at my most desperate moment. This minute was so shamelessly calculated, so treacherously prepared for the very end, for the clownish denouement, and so hilariously funny, that a whole explosion of uncontrollable, universal laughter saluted this last trick. And although I realized then that the most annoying role did not fall to my lot, I was nevertheless so embarrassed, irritated and frightened that, full of tears, melancholy and despair, choking with shame, I broke through the two rows of chairs and stepped forward and, turning to my tyrant, shouted in a voice broken from tears and indignation: And aren’t you ashamed... out loud... in front of all the ladies... to say such a bad... lie?!.. you look like little... in front of all the men... What will they say?.. you so big... married!.. But I didn’t finish; there was deafening applause. My trick created a real furore. My naive gesture, my tears, and most importantly, the fact that I seemed to come out to defend m-r M *, all this produced such hellish laughter that even now, with just the memory, I myself feel terribly funny... I was dumbfounded, He was almost mad with horror and, burning like gunpowder, covering his face with his hands, rushed out, knocked the tray out of the hands of the footman who was entering at the door and flew upstairs to his room. I tore out the key that was sticking out from the door and locked myself from the inside. I did well, because they were chasing me. Not a minute had passed before my door was besieged by a whole gang of the prettiest of all our ladies. I heard their ringing laughter, their frequent conversation, their roaring voices; they all chirped at once, like swallows. All of them, every single one, asked, begged me to open the door for at least one minute; They swore that they would not harm me in the slightest, but that they would only kiss the dust of me. But... what could be more terrible than this new threat? I just burned with shame behind my door, hiding my face in the pillows, and didn’t open it, didn’t even respond. They knocked and begged me for a long time, but I was insensitive and deaf, like an eleven-year-old. Well, what should we do now? everything is open, everything has been revealed, everything that I so jealously guarded and concealed... Eternal shame and disgrace will fall on me!.. In truth, I myself did not know how to name what I was so afraid of and what I would like to hide; but, nevertheless, I was afraid of something for discovering this something I was still trembling like a leaf. The only thing I didn’t know until that moment was what it was: is it good or bad, glorious or shameful, commendable or not commendable? Now, in torment and violent anguish, I learned that it funny And ashamed! I felt instinctively at the same time that such a sentence was false, inhumane, and rude; but I was defeated, destroyed; the process of consciousness seemed to stop and become entangled in me; I could neither resist this sentence nor even discuss it thoroughly: I was foggy; I only heard that my heart was inhuman, shamelessly wounded, and burst into powerless tears. I was annoyed; Indignation and hatred seethed within me, which I had never known before, because only for the first time in my life did I experience serious grief, insult, and resentment; and all this was really so, without any exaggeration. In me, as a child, the first, inexperienced, uneducated feeling was rudely touched, the first, fragrant, virgin shame was so early exposed and desecrated, and the first and, perhaps, very serious aesthetic impression was ridiculed. Of course, my mockers did not know much and did not foresee much in my torment. Half of this included one hidden circumstance, which I myself did not have time to understand and was somehow still afraid of. In anguish and despair, I continued to lie on my bed, covering my face in the pillows; and heat and trembling washed over me alternately. I was tormented by two questions: what did I see and what exactly could the worthless blonde see today in the grove between me and m-me M*? And finally, the second question: how, with what eyes, with what means can I now look into the face of m-me M* and not die at that very moment, in the same place, from shame and despair. An extraordinary noise in the yard finally awakened me from the semi-consciousness in which I was. I got up and went to the window. The entire courtyard was cluttered with carriages, riding horses and bustling servants. Everyone seemed to be leaving; several horsemen were already mounted; other guests were accommodated in carriages... Then I remembered the upcoming trip, and little by little, anxiety began to penetrate my heart; I began to look intently at my klepper’s yard; but there was no klepper; therefore, they forgot about me. I couldn’t stand it and ran headlong downstairs, not thinking about the unpleasant encounters or my recent shame... Terrible news awaited me. This time there was neither a riding horse nor a place in the carriage for me: everything was dismantled, occupied, and I was forced to give way to others. Struck by new grief, I stopped on the porch and sadly looked at the long row of carriages, convertibles, carriages, in which there was not even the smallest corner for me, and at the elegant riders, under which impatient horses pranced. For some reason one of the riders hesitated. They were waiting only for him to go. His horse stood at the entrance, gnawing at the bit, digging the ground with its hooves, constantly shuddering and rearing with fear. Two grooms carefully held him by the bridle, and everyone cautiously stood at a respectful distance from him. In fact, an unfortunate circumstance happened that made it impossible for me to go. In addition to the fact that new guests arrived and dismantled all the places and all the horses, two riding horses fell ill, one of which was my clapper. But I was not the only one who had to suffer from this circumstance: it was discovered that for our new guest, that pale-faced young man, which I already mentioned, also does not have a riding horse. In order to avert trouble, our owner was forced to resort to extremes: recommending his wild, unridden stallion, adding, to clear his conscience, that he could not be ridden in any way and that he had long been planned to be sold for his wild character, if, however, there was a buyer for him . But the forewarned guest announced that he drives well, and in any case is ready to ride on anything, just to get going. The owner was silent then, but now it seemed to me that some kind of ambiguous and sly smile was wandering on his lips. While waiting for the rider to boast of his skill, he himself had not yet mounted his horse, impatiently rubbing his hands and constantly glancing at the door. Even something similar was said to the two grooms who were holding the stallion and were almost suffocating with pride, seeing themselves in front of the entire public with such a horse that, no, no, and would kill a man for no reason at all. Something similar to the sly smile of their master shone in their eyes, bulging with anticipation and also directed at the door from which the visiting daredevil was supposed to appear. Finally, the horse himself behaved as if he, too, had come to an agreement with the owner and counselors: he behaved proudly and arrogantly, as if feeling that he was being watched by several dozen curious eyes, and as if proud of his shameful reputation in front of everyone, exactly like some other incorrigible rake he is proud of his merry antics. It seemed that he was calling for a daredevil who would dare to encroach on his independence. This daredevil finally showed up. Ashamed that he had kept him waiting, and hastily pulling on his gloves, he walked forward without looking, went down the steps of the porch and raised his eyes only when he reached out his hand to grab the waiting horse by the withers, but was suddenly puzzled by its mad jump on its hind legs and a warning cry from the entire frightened public. The young man stepped back and looked in bewilderment at the wild horse, which was trembling all over like a leaf, snoring with anger and wildly moving its bloodshot eyes, constantly sitting on its hind legs and raising its front legs, as if about to rush into the air and carry off both its leaders with it. For a minute he stood completely puzzled; then, slightly blushing from slight embarrassment, he raised his eyes, looked around them and looked at the frightened ladies. The horse is very good! he said as if to himself, and, judging by everything, it must be very pleasant to ride, but... but, you know what? After all, I’m not going,” he concluded, turning to our host with his wide, simple-minded smile, which suited his kind and intelligent face so well. “And yet I consider you an excellent rider, I swear to you,” answered the delighted owner of the inaccessible horse, warmly and even gratefully shaking his guest’s hand, “precisely because you guessed from the first time what kind of beast you were dealing with,” he added with dignity. Would you believe me, I, who served in the hussars for twenty-three years, have already had the pleasure of lying on the ground three times by his grace, that is, exactly as many times as I sat on this... parasite. Tancred, my friend, the people here are not for you; apparently, your rider is some Ilya Muromets and is now sitting in the village of Karacharovo and waiting for your teeth to fall out. Well, take him away! He's done scaring people! It was in vain that they were only deduced,” he concluded, rubbing his hands smugly. It should be noted that Tancred did not bring him the slightest benefit, he only ate bread for nothing; in addition, the old hussar ruined all his seasoned reputation as a repairman on him, having paid a fabulous price for a worthless parasite who rode only on his beauty... Still, now he was delighted that his Tancred had not lost his dignity, he was still in a hurry one rider and thus acquired new, stupid laurels for himself. What, you’re not going? - screamed the blonde, who absolutely needed her cavalier servant to be with her this time. Are you really a coward? By God it’s so! - answered the young man. And are you serious? Listen, do you really want me to break my neck? So quickly mount my horse: don’t be afraid, it’s humble. We will not delay; they'll re-saddle in no time! I'll try to take yours; It cannot be that Tancred has always been so discourteous. No sooner said than done! The minx jumped out of the saddle and finished the last phrase, already stopping in front of us. You don’t know Tancred well if you think that he will allow himself to be saddled with your worthless saddle! And I won’t let you break your neck; That would really be a pity! - our host said, affecting, at this moment of inner contentment, according to his usual habit, the already affected and studied harshness and even rudeness of his speech, which, in his opinion, recommended a good man, an old servant and should especially appeal to the ladies. This was one of his fantasies, his favorite hobby, familiar to all of us. Come on, you crybaby, don’t you want to try? “You really wanted to go,” said the brave rider, noticing me, and, teasingly, nodded at Tancred, “actually so as not to leave with nothing, since I had to get off my horse for nothing, and not to leave me without a barbed word, if I made a mistake myself, it turned out to be a blind eye. You are probably not like... well, what can I say, famous hero and you will be ashamed to be afraid; especially when they look at you, wonderful page,” she added, glancing briefly at Mme M*, whose carriage was closest to the porch. Hatred and a feeling of vengeance filled my heart when the beautiful Amazon approached us with the intention of mounting Tancred... But I cannot tell you how I felt at this unexpected challenge from the schoolgirl. It was as if I had not seen the light when I caught her glance at m-me M*. Instantly an idea lit up in my head... yes, however, it was only a moment, less than a moment, like a flash of gunpowder, or the measure had already overflowed, and I suddenly now became indignant with all my resurrected spirit, so much so that I suddenly wanted to cut off strike down all my enemies and take revenge on them for everything and in front of everyone, showing now what kind of person I am; or, finally, some wonder someone taught me at that moment average history, in which I still did not know a single rudiment, and in my dizzy head tournaments, paladins, heroes, beautiful ladies, glory and winners flashed, I heard the trumpets of heralds, the sounds of swords, the screams and splashes of the crowd, and between all these screams one the timid cry of one frightened heart, which touches a proud soul sweeter than victory and glory, I don’t know whether all this nonsense happened in my head then, or, more accurately, a premonition of this still to come and inevitable nonsense, but only I heard that my hour was striking . My heart jumped, trembled, and I don’t even remember how in one leap I jumped off the porch and found myself next to Tancred. Do you think that I will be scared? I cried out boldly and proudly, unable to see the light from my fever, choking with excitement and blushing so that tears burned my cheeks. But you'll see! And, grabbing Tancred’s withers, I put my foot in the stirrup before they had time to make the slightest movement to hold me; but at that moment Tancred reared up, threw up his head, with one mighty leap escaped from the hands of the dumbfounded grooms and flew like a whirlwind, only everyone gasped and screamed. God knows how I managed to lift my other leg all the way; I also don’t understand how it happened that I didn’t lose my reasons. Tancred carried me beyond the lattice gate, turned sharply to the right and set off past the lattice in vain, without making out the road. Only at that moment did I hear the cry of fifty voices behind me, and this cry resonated in my sinking heart with such a feeling of contentment and pride that I will never forget this crazy moment of my childhood life. All the blood rushed into my head, stunned me and flooded me, crushing my fear. I didn't remember myself. Indeed, as I now had to remember, there was indeed something chivalrous in all this. However, my entire knighthood began and ended in less than an instant, otherwise it would have been bad for the knight. And even here I don’t know how I escaped. I knew how to ride a horse: I was taught. But my klepper looked more like a sheep than a riding horse. Of course, I would fly off Tancred if he only had time to throw me off; but, having galloped about fifty steps, he suddenly became frightened by a huge stone that lay by the road and shied away back. He turned on the fly, but so abruptly, as they say, headlong, that I now have a problem: how did I not jump out of the saddle like a ball, three fathoms, and not break into pieces, and Tancred from such a sharp turn did not brace himself legs He rushed back to the gate, violently shaking his head, spinning from side to side, as if drunk with rage, throwing his legs haphazardly into the air and with each jump shaking me off his back, as if a tiger had jumped on him and bit into his meat with its teeth and claws. Another moment and I would have flown off; I was already falling; but several horsemen were already flying to save me. Two of them intercepted the road into the field; the other two galloped so close that they almost crushed my legs, squeezing Tancred on both sides with the sides of their horses, and both were already holding him by the reins. A few seconds later we were at the porch. I was taken off the horse, pale and barely breathing. I was trembling all over, like a blade of grass in the wind, just like Tancred, who stood, leaning his whole body back, motionless, as if digging his hooves into the ground, heavily releasing fiery breath from his red, smoking nostrils, trembling all over like a leaf with small tremors and as if dumbfounded from insult and anger at the child’s unpunished insolence. All around me there were cries of confusion, surprise, and fear. At that moment my wandering gaze met the gaze of m-me M *, alarmed, pale, and I cannot forget this moment instantly my whole face turned red, blushed, lit up like fire; I don’t know what happened to me, but, embarrassed and frightened by my own feeling, I timidly lowered my eyes to the ground. But my gaze was noticed, caught, stolen from me. All eyes turned to m-me M*, and, taken by surprise by everyone’s attention, she suddenly, like a child, blushed from some kind of unwilling and naive feeling and through force, although very unsuccessfully, tried to suppress her blush with laughter... All this, if you look from the outside, was, of course, very funny; but at that moment one naive and unexpected trick saved me from everyone’s laughter, giving a special flavor to the whole adventure. The culprit of all the turmoil, she who until now had been my implacable enemy, my beautiful tyrant, suddenly rushed to hug and kiss me. She looked in disbelief when I dared to accept her challenge and pick up the glove that she threw to me, looking at m-me M*. She almost died for me from fear and remorse when I flew on Tancred; now, when it was all over and especially when she caught, along with others, my glance thrown at m-me M *, my embarrassment, my sudden blush, when she finally managed to give this moment, in the romantic mood of her light-hearted head, some new, hidden, unspoken thought, now, after all this, she was so delighted with my “knighthood” that she rushed to me and pressed me to her chest, touched, proud of me, joyful. A minute later, she raised her most naive, most stern face, on which two small crystal tears were trembling and shining, at everyone crowding around us both, and in a serious, important voice that had never been heard from her, she said, pointing at me: “Mais s” est trés sèrieux, messieurs, ne riez pas” without noticing that everyone is standing in front of her as if spellbound, admiring her bright delight, all this unexpected, quick movement of her, this serious face, this simple-minded naivety, these unsuspecting ones. Until now, the heartfelt tears boiling in her ever-laughing eyes were such an unexpected wonder in her that everyone stood in front of her as if electrified by her gaze, quick, fiery word and gesture. It seemed that no one could take their eyes off her, afraid to lower her gaze. for a rare moment in her inspired face. Even our host himself blushed like a tulip, and they claim that they heard him later admit that, “to his shame,” he was in love with his beautiful guest for almost a whole minute. Well, of course, after all this I was a knight, a hero. Delorge! Togenburg! was heard all around. Applause was heard. Oh yes, the coming generation! - added the owner. But he will go, he will certainly come with us! - the beauty screamed. We will and must find a place for him. He will sit next to me, on my lap... or no, no! I was wrong!.. she corrected herself, bursting into laughter and being unable to contain her laughter at the memory of our first acquaintance. But, laughing, she gently stroked my hand, trying with all her might to caress me so that I would not be offended. Timeless! certainly! echoed by several voices. He must go, he has won his place. And the matter was resolved instantly. The same old maid who introduced me to the blonde was immediately bombarded with requests from all the young people to stay at home and give me their place, to which she was forced to agree, to her great chagrin, smiling and quietly hissing with anger. Her protectress, around whom she hovered, my former enemy and recent friend, shouted to her, already galloping on her frisky horse and laughing like a child, that she envied her and would be glad to stay with her, because now it will rain and us all will soak. And she definitely predicted rain. An hour later there was a whole downpour, and our walk was lost. I had to wait for several hours in a row in the village huts and return home already at ten o’clock, in the damp, post-rain time. I started to have a slight fever. At that very moment when I had to sit down and go, m-me M * came up to me and was surprised that I was wearing only a jacket and with an open neck. I replied that I did not have time to take my cloak with me. She took a pin and, pinning the ruffled collar of my shirt higher, took the gauze scarlet scarf from her neck and tied it around my neck so that I wouldn’t catch a cold in my throat. She was in such a hurry that I didn’t even have time to thank her. But when we arrived home, I found her in the small living room, along with the blonde and the pale-faced young man who today gained fame as a rider by being afraid to mount Tancred. I came up to thank him and give him the handkerchief. But now, after all my adventures, I seemed ashamed of something; I rather wanted to go upstairs and there, at my leisure, think and judge something. I was overwhelmed with impressions. Handing over the handkerchief, as usual, I blushed from ear to ear. I bet he wanted to keep the handkerchief for himself, said the young man laughing, you can see in his eyes that he is sorry to part with your handkerchief. Exactly, exactly like that! the blonde picked up. Hey! ah!.. she said with noticeable annoyance and shaking her head, but stopped in time before the serious look of m-me M *, who did not want to take the joke too far. I quickly walked away. Well, what are you like! the schoolgirl spoke, catching up with me in another room and taking both hands in a friendly manner. Yes, you simply wouldn’t give away the scarf if you really wanted to have it. He said that he put it somewhere, and that was the end of it. What are you like? I couldn't do that! How funny! And then she lightly hit me on the chin with her finger, laughing at the fact that I turned red as a poppy: After all, I’m your friend now, right? Is our feud over, huh? Yes or no? I laughed and silently shook her fingers. Well, that’s the same!.. Why are you so pale and trembling now? Do you have chills? Yes, I'm unwell. Oh, poor thing! It’s because of his strong impressions! You know? Better go to sleep without waiting for dinner, and it will pass overnight. Let's go to. She took me upstairs, and it seemed like there would be no end to my care. Leaving me to undress, she ran downstairs, got me some tea and brought it herself when I had already gone to bed. She also brought me a warm blanket. I was very amazed and touched by all these cares and concerns about me, or I was so determined by the whole day, the trip, the fever; but, saying goodbye to her, I hugged her tightly and warmly, like the most tender, like the closest friend, and then all the impressions rushed to my weakened heart at once; I almost cried, clinging to her chest. She noticed my impressionability, and it seems that my minx herself was a little touched... “You’re a very kind boy,” she whispered, looking at me with quiet eyes, “please don’t be angry with me, huh?” you will not? In a word, we became the most tender, most faithful friends. It was quite early when I woke up, but the sun was already shining bright light the whole room. I jumped out of bed, completely healthy and cheerful, as if yesterday’s fever had never happened, instead of which I now felt an inexplicable joy within me. I remembered yesterday and felt that I would give a whole happiness if I could hug at that moment, like yesterday, with my new friend, with our fair-haired beauty; but it was still very early and everyone was asleep. Having quickly dressed, I went into the garden, and from there into the grove. I made my way to where the greenery was thicker, where the resinous smell of the trees was, and where the sun’s rays peeked in more cheerfully, rejoicing that I managed to pierce here and there the hazy density of the leaves. It was a beautiful morning. Imperceptibly making my way further and further, I finally came out to the other edge of the grove, to the Moscow River. It flowed two hundred paces ahead, under the mountain. On the opposite bank they were cutting hay. I looked at how whole rows of sharp braids, with each swing of the mower, were bathed in light and then suddenly disappeared again, like fiery snakes, as if they were hiding somewhere; how the grass, cut from the roots, flew to the sides in thick, fat breasts and was laid in straight, long furrows. I don’t remember how much time I spent in contemplation, when I suddenly woke up, hearing in the grove, about twenty steps from me, in a clearing that ran from high road to the master's house, snoring and the impatient tramp of a horse digging the ground with its hoof. I don’t know whether I heard this horse immediately when the rider rode up and stopped, or whether I had been hearing the noise for a long time, but it only tickled my ear in vain, powerless to tear me away from my dreams. With curiosity, I entered the grove and, having walked a few steps, I heard voices speaking quickly, but quietly. I came even closer, carefully parted the last branches of the last bushes bordering the clearing, and immediately jumped back in amazement: a white, familiar dress and a quiet voice flashed before my eyes. female voice echoed in my heart like music. It was m-me M*. She stood next to the rider, who hurriedly spoke to her from the horse, and, to my surprise, I recognized him as Ngo, the young man who left us yesterday morning and about whom Mr. M * was so fussed. But then they said that he was leaving somewhere very far, to the south of Russia, and therefore I was very surprised to see him again with us so early and alone with m-me M *. She was animated and excited as I had never seen her before, and tears were shining on her cheeks. The young man held her hand, which he kissed, bending down from the saddle. I've already seen the moment of farewell. They seemed to be in a hurry. Finally, he took a sealed package out of his pocket, gave it to Mme M*, hugged her with one arm, as before, without leaving the horse, and kissed her deeply and long. A moment later he struck his horse and rushed past me like an arrow. M-me M * followed him with her eyes for a few seconds, then thoughtfully and sadly headed towards the house. But, having taken a few steps along the clearing, she suddenly seemed to come to her senses, hastily parted the bushes and walked through the grove. I followed her, confused and surprised by everything I saw. My heart was beating hard, as if from fear. I was as if numb, as if in a fog; my thoughts were broken and scattered; but I remember that for some reason I felt terribly sad. From time to time I flashed before me through its greenery White dress. I followed her mechanically, not letting her out of sight, but trembling so that she would not notice me. Finally she came out onto the path that led into the garden. After waiting for half a minute, I also went out; but imagine my amazement when I suddenly noticed on the red sand of the path a sealed package, which I recognized at first glance as the same one that had been handed to m-me M* ten minutes ago. I picked it up: white paper on all sides, no signature; at first glance, it was small, but tight and heavy, as if it contained three or more sheets of notepaper. What does this package mean? Without a doubt, this whole mystery would be explained to them. Perhaps it conveyed something that Noy had not hoped to express during the shortness of his hasty meeting. He didn’t even get off his horse... Whether he was in a hurry, or maybe he was afraid to betray himself at the hour of farewell, God knows... I stopped without going out onto the path, threw the package on it in the most visible place and did not take my eyes off it, believing that m-me M * would notice the loss, come back, and look for it. But, after waiting about four minutes, I couldn’t stand it, I picked up my find again, put it in my pocket and set off to catch up with m-me M *. I overtook her already in the garden, in a large alley; she walked straight home, with a quick and hasty gait, but lost in thought and with her eyes cast down to the ground. I didn't know what to do. Come and give it? This meant to say that I know everything, I have seen everything. I would have betrayed myself from the first word. And how will I look at her? How will she look at me?.. I kept expecting her to come to her senses, to grasp what she had lost, to retrace her steps. Then I could, unnoticed, throw the package on the road, and she would find it. But no! We were already approaching the house; She's already been noticed... This morning, as if on purpose, almost everyone got up very early, because only yesterday, as a result of a failed trip, they had planned a new one, which I didn’t even know about. Everyone was preparing to leave and had breakfast on the terrace. I waited about ten minutes so that they wouldn’t see me with m-me M*, and, going around the garden, I came out to the house on the other side, much after her. She walked back and forth on the terrace, pale and alarmed, crossing her arms on her chest and, from everything it was clear, strengthening herself and trying to suppress the painful, desperate melancholy that could be read in her eyes, in her walking, in her every movement. . Sometimes she would leave the steps and walk a few steps between the flower beds towards the garden; her eyes impatiently, greedily, even carelessly searched for something on the sand of the paths and on the floor of the terrace. There was no doubt: she missed the loss and seemed to think that she had dropped the package somewhere here, near the house, yes, this is so, and she is sure of it! Someone, and then others, noticed that she was pale and anxious. Questions about health and annoying complaints began to pour in; she had to laugh it off, laugh, seem cheerful. From time to time she glanced at her husband, who stood at the end of the terrace, talking with two ladies, and the same trembling, the same embarrassment as then, on the first evening of his arrival, seized the poor woman. With my hand in my pocket and tightly holding the package in it, I stood at a distance from everyone, praying to fate that m-me M * would notice me. I wanted to encourage her, to calm her down, even if only with a glance; tell her something briefly, furtively. But when she chanced to look at me, I shuddered and lowered my eyes. I saw her suffering and I was not mistaken. I still don’t know this secret, I don’t know anything except what I saw myself and what I just told. This connection may not be what one might assume at first glance. Maybe this kiss was a farewell kiss, maybe it was the last, weak reward for the sacrifice that was made for her peace and honor. Noy was leaving; he left her, perhaps forever. Finally, even this letter that I held in my hands, who knows what it contained? How to judge and who to condemn? Meanwhile, there is no doubt about it, the sudden discovery of a secret would be horror, a thunderclap in her life. I still remember her face at that moment: it was impossible to suffer any longer. To feel, to know, to be confident, to wait, like an execution, that in a quarter of an hour, in a minute, everything could be discovered; the package was found by someone and picked up; it has no inscription, it can be opened, and then... what then? What execution is more terrible than the one that awaits her? She walked among her future judges. In a minute, their smiling, flattering faces will be menacing and inexorable. She will read mockery, anger and icy contempt on these faces, and then an eternal, dawnless night will come in her life... Yes, I didn’t understand all this then as I think about it now. I could only suspect and have a presentiment and ache in my heart for its danger, which I was not even entirely aware of. But, no matter what her secret was, by those sorrowful moments that I witnessed and which I will never forget, much was redeemed, if anything had to be redeemed. But then there came a cheerful call for departure; everyone bustled joyfully; Frisky talk and laughter were heard from all sides. Two minutes later the terrace was empty. M-me M * refused the trip, finally admitting that she was unwell. But, thank God, everyone set off, everyone was in a hurry, and there was no time to bother with complaints, questions and advice. Few stayed at home. The husband said a few words to her; she answered that she would be healthy today, so that he would not worry, that she had no reason to go to bed, that she would go to the garden, alone... with me... Then she looked at me. Nothing could be happier! I blushed with joy; in a minute we were on the road. She walked along the same alleys, paths and paths along which she had recently returned from the grove, instinctively remembering her previous path, motionless looking ahead, without taking her eyes off the ground, searching on it, not answering me, perhaps forgetting that I was walking along with her. But when we reached almost the place where I picked up the letter and where the path ended, m-me M * suddenly stopped and in a weak voice, fading with melancholy, said that she was worse, that she would go home. But, having reached the garden lattice, she stopped again and thought for a minute; a smile of despair appeared on her lips, and, all exhausted, exhausted, having decided on everything, submitting to everything, she silently returned to the first path, this time forgetting even to warn me... I was torn with sadness and didn’t know what to do. We went, or rather, I led her to the place from which I heard, an hour ago, the tramp of a horse and their conversation. Here, near a thick elm tree, there was a bench carved into a huge solid stone, around which ivy curled and field jasmine and rose hips grew. (This whole grove was dotted with bridges, gazebos, grottoes and similar surprises.) M-me M * sat down on a bench, unconsciously looking at the marvelous landscape spread out in front of us. A minute later she unfolded the book and remained motionless, not turning the pages, not reading, almost unaware of what she was doing. It was already half past ten. The sun rose high and floated magnificently above us across the deep blue sky, seeming to melt in its own fire. The mowers had already gone far: they were barely visible from our shore. Behind them endless furrows of mown grass crawled unobtrusively, and from time to time a slightly moving breeze blew its fragrant perspiration on us. All around there was an incessant concert of those who “neither reap nor sow,” but are self-willed, like the air cut by their swift wings. It seemed that at that moment every flower, the last blade of grass, smoking with a sacrificial aroma, said to its creator: “Father! I am blissful and happy!..” I looked at the poor woman, who was alone, like a dead person, in the midst of all this joyful life: two large tears, erased by acute pain from her heart, stood motionless on her eyelashes. It was in my power to revive and make happy this poor, fading heart, and I just didn’t know how to proceed, how to take the first step. I suffered. A hundred times I tried to approach her, and each time some unrestrained feeling chained me in place, and each time my face burned like fire. Suddenly a bright thought dawned on me. The remedy was found; I am resurrected. Do you want me to pick you a bouquet! I said in such a joyful voice that m-me M * suddenly raised her head and looked at me intently. “Bring it,” she finally said in a weak voice, smiling slightly and immediately lowering her eyes to the book again. And even here, perhaps, the grass will be cut and there will be no flowers! “I shouted, happily setting off on a hike. Soon I picked my bouquet, simple, poor. It would be a shame to bring him into the room; but how joyfully my heart beat when I collected and knitted it! I took the rose hips and field jasmine on the spot. I knew that there was a field with ripened rye nearby. I ran there for cornflowers. I mixed them with long ears of rye, choosing the most golden and fat ones. Right there, not far away, I came across a whole nest of forget-me-nots, and my bouquet was already beginning to fill up. Further, in the field, I found blue bells and wild carnations, and for yellow water lilies I ran to the very river bank. Finally, already returning to the place and going into the grove for a moment to hunt for a few bright green palmate maple leaves and wrap them in a bouquet, I accidentally came across a whole family pansies, near which, fortunately for me, the fragrant violet smell revealed a hidden flower in the lush, thick grass, still sprinkled with shiny drops of dew. The bouquet was ready. I tied it with long, thin grass, which I twisted into a string, and carefully put the letter inside, covering it with flowers, but in such a way that it could be very noticeable if they gave my bouquet even a little attention. I carried him to m-me M*. On the way, it seemed to me that the letter was lying too visible: I covered it up more. Approaching even closer, I pushed it even more tightly into the flowers and, finally, almost reaching the spot, I suddenly shoved it so deep inside the bouquet that nothing was noticeable from the outside. A whole flame burned on my cheeks. I wanted to cover my face with my hands and immediately run, but she looked at my flowers as if she had completely forgotten that I had gone to pick them. Mechanically, almost without looking, she extended her hand and took my gift, but immediately put it on the bench, as if I was then handing it to her, and again lowered her eyes to the book, as if she were in oblivion. I was ready to cry from failure. “But if only my bouquet was near her,” I thought, “if only she didn’t forget about it!” I lay down nearby on the grass, put it under my head right hand and closed my eyes as if sleep was overtaking me. But I didn’t take my eyes off her and waited... Ten minutes passed; It seemed to me that she was becoming paler and paler... Suddenly, a blessed chance came to my aid. It was a large golden bee, which a kind breeze brought to me for good luck. She buzzed first above my head and then flew up to m-me M *. She waved her hand away once and twice, but the bee, as if on purpose, became more and more unobtrusive. Finally m-me M * my bouquet and waved it in front of her. At that moment, the package broke out from under the flowers and fell straight into the open book. I shuddered. For some time m-me M* looked, dumb with amazement, first at the package, then at the flowers she was holding in her hands, and seemed not to believe her eyes... Suddenly she blushed, flushed and looked at me. But I had already caught her gaze and closed my eyes tightly, pretending to be asleep; For nothing in the world would I look her straight in the face now. My heart sank and beat like a bird caught in the clutches of a curly-haired village boy. I don’t remember how long I lay there with my eyes closed: two or three minutes. Finally I dared to open them. M-me M * eagerly read the letter, and from her flushed cheeks, from her sparkling, teary gaze, from her bright face, in which every feature was trembling with a joyful feeling, I guessed that there was happiness in this letter and that everything had been dispelled like smoke. her melancholy. A painfully sweet feeling latched onto my heart, it was hard for me to pretend... I will never forget this moment! Suddenly, still far from us, voices were heard: Madame M*! Natalie! Natalie! M-me M * did not answer, but quickly got up from the bench, came up to me and bent over me. I felt like she was looking me straight in the face. My eyelashes trembled, but I resisted and did not open my eyes. I tried to breathe more evenly and calmly, but my heart suffocated me with its confused beats. Her hot breath burned my cheeks; she bent close to my face, as if testing it. Finally, a kiss and tears fell on my hand, on the one that lay on my chest. And she kissed her twice. Natalie! Natalie! where are you? was heard again, already very close to us. Now! m-me M * spoke in her thick, silvery voice, but muffled and trembling with tears, and so quietly that only I could hear her, now! But at that moment my heart finally betrayed me and seemed to send all its blood into my face. At the same moment, a quick, hot kiss burned my lips. I cried out weakly, opened my eyes, but immediately her gauze handkerchief from yesterday fell on them, as if she wanted to shield me from the sun with it. A moment later she was gone. I only heard the rustle of hastily retreating steps. I was alone. I tore off her scarf and kissed her, losing my mind with delight; for several minutes I was like crazy!.. Barely catching my breath, leaning on the grass, I looked, unconsciously and motionless, in front of me, at the surrounding hills, full of cornfields, at the river, winding around them and winding as far as the eye could follow between the new hills and villages, flashing like dots throughout the entire distance, flooded with light, into the blue, barely visible forests, as if smoking at the edge of the hot sky, and some kind of sweet calm, as if inspired by the solemn silence of the picture, little by little humbled my indignant heart. I felt better, and I breathed more freely... But my whole soul somehow languished dully and sweetly, as if with an epiphany of something, as if with some kind of premonition. Something timidly and joyfully was guessed by my frightened heart, slightly trembling with anticipation... And suddenly my chest shook, ached, as if something had pierced it, and tears, sweet tears flowed from my eyes. I covered my face with my hands and, trembling like a blade of grass, I unrestrainedly surrendered to the first consciousness and revelation of my heart, the first, still unclear insight into my nature... My first childhood ended with that moment.
........................................................
When, two hours later, I returned home, I no longer found m-me M*: she had left with her husband for Moscow, due to some sudden incident. I never met her again.

Society

A century later, the Smolensk nurses returned to the Red Cross, a hospital built at the beginning of the 20th century for sisters of mercy providing assistance to the city's poor.

When my father was admitted to the hospital, I was very young and was upset that no one was visiting his roommate - a paralyzed grandfather with dull light blue eyes. Now, many years later, I still understand why my father was able to get back on his feet, while his neighbor remained chained to his bed.

As long as she exists, this will continue

There are many grandfathers like the one from my memories and grandmothers in hospitals. Some were left alone, others were simply forgotten by their relatives. The biggest fear of all my friends - no one to bring a glass of water - came true for them.

A ray of light in this dark kingdom hospital loneliness appeared in our city in May 2011. Then the first volunteers of the future Mercy service began to help care for patients in the neurological department of the first city clinical hospital. The idea of ​​creating a volunteer service under the Smolensk diocese belonged to Bishop Panteleimon of Smolensk and Vyazemsk.

Seventy people attended the first volunteer meeting. Almost all of them remained. A month later, a sisterhood was formed. Together with doctors, volunteers and nurses take care of patients. Each in their own way. By the way, sick sisters affectionately and even respectfully call them wards.

Unfortunately, sometimes it turns out that after discharge, paralyzed patients return to an empty house. There is no one to care for them, and they are essentially sent home to die. To prevent this, a patronage service was created. Several times a week (and sometimes every day, depending on the situation), volunteers come to the patients, prepare food, and help around the house. We can say that the patronage service began with Natalya Petrovna, a woman with a serious illness. She ended up in the hospital in terrible condition, but doctors and volunteers managed to get her out. There was no one to care for the woman at home, but Natalya Petrovna responded sharply to all proposals to send her to a boarding school or other specialized institution - she stopped eating and taking medications. Obviously, this decision would have ended in death for her.

This woman's house became the first patronage post, as the sisters themselves call it.

— We monitor her condition all the time, explains Elena Elkind, head of the social ministry department of church charity. — We come to her in the morning and evening. Now we are not the only ones looking after her. As long as she is here, we will continue to love and care for her. And as long as we love and care for her, she can live like a human being.

About “Mercy” in faces

More recently, the sisters of mercy returned to the Red Cross. We returned after almost a century of absence. The thing is that at the beginning of the 20th century this hospital was built for nurses so that they could provide medical care to the poor residents of the city. For free. And now, a century later, they are again helping within the walls of the Red Cross - now to patients of the neurological department.

The sisterhood is part of not only the volunteer movement, but also part of the Russian Orthodox Church. What’s interesting is that many volunteers, having come to Mercy as atheists, gradually become churchgoers and begin going to church.

Now “Mercy” consists of a dozen sisters and almost two hundred volunteers. These are people different ages. Alena Vasilyeva, the youngest of the volunteers, is still in school. The girl came this summer, and now she is taking part in the promotions. There are also older people; as the sisters say, they have a large reserve of kindness.

These are people different professions. Among the volunteers are State Drama Theater actor Igor Golubev, his wife Larisa, commercial director of one of the city’s radio stations, choreographer, environmentalist, and psychologists. For example, Sergei, a security guard by profession, takes his grandparents for a walk in wheelchairs.

— There are many students among the volunteers, says Elena Grigorievna. — They are eager to do good deeds.

All these people are united by the desire to help those who really need this help.

Volunteers spend at least two to three hours a week with their charges; those who have the opportunity spend more. Free time occurs mainly after work or on weekends. But there are those who visit the sick every day.

Nurses and nurses are not complete opposites, but rather specialists who complement each other. They have different functional responsibilities. The former engage only in procedures prescribed by the doctor. If a nurse devotes more time to patients, she is unlikely to have time to do everything necessary, and in extreme cases, she will lose her job. Therefore, the sick are impersonal for her.

— It's easier to work this way“, my nurse friend admitted.

Sisters of mercy, on the contrary, deal with the person himself. They, like volunteers, do not have the right to provide medical care. But they provide sanitary and hygienic care, and also, no matter how trite it may sound, they give the ward a piece of themselves, talking with him, empathizing. All sisters are believers; they are united not only by their common work and care for their charges, but also by their common prayers for their health.

-The sisterhood and the entire Orthodox volunteer service of “Mercy” work selflessly, fulfilling the Christian commandment of love,- says Elena Elkind. — This has had the effect that recently the hospital staff and we have learned to listen and collaborate better with each other.

Among the participants in the movement there are professional doctors who, after work or in free time provide care as volunteers. Stanislava Guryeva is a doctor in the pulmonology department. As a sister of mercy, she works in another department. At first it was difficult for her: her colleagues did not understand how a doctor could work as a nurse, and for free. But such cases are not uncommon for the sisterhood. Among the guests of the Russian-Belarusian seminar of sisters of mercy, which took place in mid-November in Smolensk, was the elder sister of one of the Moscow sisterhoods, Tatyana Platonova. Having become a sister of mercy, she, a doctor by profession, an employee of a medical research institute, left everything and went to work as a nurse in one of the city hospitals.

In some cities there is not one sisterhood, as in Smolensk, but several. For example, in the Vitebsk diocese there are seven of them.

— Each sisterhood cares for one social object. If we also formed other sisterhoods in the parishes of the city and region, we could perform works of mercy for more people,- says Elena Grigorievna.

Friends and family react differently to their family members' involvement in the sisterhood.

-My family doesn’t quite understand what I do and why. Of course, initially my mother was offended and jealous that I devoted little time to her. She is the same age as the grandmothers I look after. Now she's accepted it— says Valentina Kovaleva, senior patronage sister.

Elena Grigorievna admits that it’s easier for her:

— Our whole family thinks in a similar way. My father was the director of the lyceum and always helped the students, my mother is also a teacher. My sister works at a center for the severely disabled in Berlin and lives for her work. My son Grigory works at a pedagogical college where disabled children study, he loves and appreciates this work very much. We probably have some kind of family trait - to treat our work this way.

Save on Skype

The Smolensk sisterhood is young, so older sisters share their experience with them.

— Sisters of the St. Demetrius School came to us, says Elena Elkind. — They conducted their first practice with us, taught us basic nursing skills, and brought their manuals. Our sisters, in turn, go to Moscow for retraining. But the main thing they taught us was to love people, know the history of the sisters of mercy and try with their lives to live up to the high ideals they served. The Moscow sisters taught us not only with words and presentations. The main lesson for us was the time spent with them in the hospital and at nursing posts. These were the main lessons of love. This love was reflected in every movement, in facial expressions, in voice. Then for the first time I understood what it means to fulfill the commandment of love.

Thanks to the experience of Moscow sisters, volunteers from Smolensk sometimes work miracles. Alexander Trofimovich had severe diabetes. Due to gangrene, one of the man’s legs was amputated; the second was next.

— We were warned that it would be taken away. The leg had already turned black, and it seemed there was no hope,- recalls Valentina Kovaleva. — But we consulted with the nurses daily on Skype, sent photographs of the leg, adjusted the dressings, invited an additional strong surgeon, and the leg was saved.

As for plans for the future, “Mercy” has huge ones. Several years ago, the basic medical college, together with the religious school, trained nurses. The unique program of the medical college is used by other regions of Russia. The director of the educational institution, Elena Tkachenko, agreed that the sisters’ education would resume next September. Sisters of mercy who have graduated from college will be able not only to nurse the sick, but also to provide them with medical care.

In addition, on Novo-Moskovskaya Street there is one unremarkable building - both outside and inside it looks like an ordinary hospital. Bare windows, lightly painted walls, empty corridors. This is a hospice. Here, seriously ill patients undergo chemotherapy courses, and some live out their lives. Elena Grigorievna’s plans are to make this place more comfortable for people. For this, according to her, what is needed is not so much money as volunteers. This is only a small part of what was planned. This is common practice in other cities: they do everything so that patients do not feel abandoned in the face of a serious illness.

Volunteering should become the norm. And volunteers, finally, must earn understanding from others. In Germany, according to Elena Elkind, half of the population are volunteers. The other part is children and those who need help.

Our city needs caring people. There are enough hospitals and patients who need Mercy’s help. In addition, now the Orthodox volunteer service is not only a sisterhood, but also a service for helping the homeless, a service for helping children left without parental care, a Smolensk home for mothers, the “Save Life” movement, the activities of the exhibition complexes “Sobriety” and “ Family values”, a social canteen, a group “Old Age in Joy”, a service “working with cases”, charity events to help children of large families, disabled children, humanitarian programs and, finally, a developing assistance center large families and families who find themselves in difficult life situations.

Volunteering does not exist to eliminate the shortage of medical personnel. It is so that people do not remain stone, so that they remain people. If you think about it even for a minute, all this was written for a reason. Detailed information about the Mercy volunteer service, how you can help it, and how it can help you, can be found on the website http://www.smolmiloserdie.ru.

P.S. This material might not have existed, just as there might not have been “Mercy” itself or the patients who needed the help of volunteers. If you think about it, in most cases, wards are someone's mother and father, someone's grandparents. If people stopped throwing other people into waste heaps, maybe this world would be a little better. Maybe it will be less lonely.

As one very young and very kind sister of mercy said, we must, first of all, be caring with our loved ones. Otherwise, what's the point of helping strangers?..

DOSTOEVSKY Fyodor

If there is no God and immortality of the soul, then there can be no love for humanity. - Fedor Dostoevsky

If you take everything that is foreign to your heart so much and if you sympathize with everything so much, then really, there is something to be happy about. the most unfortunate person. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Poor People"

If you yourself sin and are grieved even to the point of death about your sins or about your sudden sin, then rejoice for another, rejoice for the righteous, rejoice in the fact that even if you sinned, then he is righteous and has not sinned. - Fedor Dostoevsky"The Brothers Karamazov"

If such a feeling of “thirst for fame” becomes the main and only motive of an artist, then this artist is no longer an artist, because he has already lost the main artistic instinct, that is, love for art, solely because it is art, and nothing else, not fame. . - Fedor Dostoevsky"Netochka Nezvanova"

If what we consider sacred is shameful and vicious, then we will not escape punishment from nature itself: what is shameful and vicious carries death within itself and, sooner or later, will execute itself on its own. - Fedor Dostoevsky

If you set off towards your goal and stop along the way to throw stones at every dog ​​that barks at you, you will never reach your goal. - Fedor Dostoevsky

If the belief in immortality is so necessary for human existence, then, therefore, it is the normal state of humanity, and if so, then the immortality of the human soul itself undoubtedly exists. - Fedor Dostoevsky

If you want to regenerate humanity, give it land. - Fedor Dostoevsky

If you want to examine a person and know his soul, then delve not into how he is silent, or how he speaks, or how he cries, or how he is excited by the noblest ideas, but look at him better when he laughs. A person laughs well means he is a good person. - Fedor Dostoevsky

If you want, a person must be deeply unhappy, because then he will be happy. If he is constantly happy, he will immediately become deeply unhappy. - Fedor Dostoevsky

If you want to conquer the whole world, conquer yourself. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Demons"

If a person is educated, then he has received moral development and, if possible, a correct concept of evil and good. Consequently, he, so to speak, is morally armed against evil with his education, and consequently, he has the means to repel evil. – Fedor Dostoevsky

If there is something that protects society even in our time and even corrects the criminal himself and regenerates him into another person, then this, again, is the only law of Christ, which is reflected in the consciousness of one’s own conscience. Only by realizing his guilt as a son of Christ’s society, that is, the church, does he recognize his guilt before society itself, that is, before the church. Thus, it is only before the church that a modern criminal is able to admit his guilt, and not so much before the state. - Fedor Dostoevsky"The Brothers Karamazov"

If I see where the grain or the idea of ​​the future is, it’s here, in Russia. Why is that? But because we have and still have survived among the people one principle, and that is that the earth is everything to them, and that they derive everything from the earth and from the earth, and this is even in the vast majority. But the main thing is that this is a normal human law. There is something sacramental in the earth, in the soil. If you want to regenerate humanity for the better, to make people almost like animals, then give them land - and you will achieve your goal. At least our land and community are in the worst shape, I agree, but still a huge seed for a future idea, and that’s the point. In my opinion, order is in the earth and from the earth, and this is everywhere, throughout all of humanity. The whole order in every country - political, civil, everything - is always connected with the soil and with the nature of land ownership in the country. The nature of land ownership was the same as the nature of everything else. If there is something where we have the most disorder in Russia, it is in the ownership of land, in the relations of owners to workers and among themselves, in the very nature of cultivation of the land. And until all this is settled, do not expect a firm arrangement in everything else. – Fedor Dostoevsky

There is a God, there is! – Fedor Dostoevsky

There are things in the memories of every person that he reveals not to everyone, but perhaps only to his friends. There are also those that he will not reveal to his friends, except to himself, and even then in secret. But, finally, there are those that a person is afraid to reveal even to himself, and every decent person will accumulate quite a few such things. That is, even this: the more decent a person he is, the more he has them. At least, I myself only recently decided to remember my other previous adventures, and until now I have always avoided them, even with some anxiety. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Notes from the Underground"

There is, in extreme cases, that degree of final cynical frankness when nervous man, irritated and infuriated, is no longer afraid of anything and is ready for any scandal, even glad of it; rushes at people, having at the same time a vague but firm goal of certainly flying from the bell tower a minute later and at the same time resolving all bewilderments, if any. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Idiot"

There are things that not only cannot be talked about intelligently, but which it is also unwise to begin to talk about. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Demons"

There is the main thing, and there is the most important thing. - Fedor Dostoevsky

There are strange friendships: both friends almost want to eat each other, they live like this all their lives, and yet they cannot part. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Demons"

There are women who are definitely sisters of mercy in life. You don’t have to hide anything in front of them, at least nothing that is sick and wounded in your soul. Whoever is suffering, go to them boldly and with hope and do not be afraid to be a burden, because few of us know how infinitely patient love, compassion and forgiveness can be in another woman’s heart. Entire treasures of sympathy, consolation, hope are stored in these pure hearts, which are also often wounded, because a heart that loves a lot, saddens a lot, but where the wound is carefully closed from a prying glance, because deep grief is most often silent and hidden. Neither the depth of the wound, nor its pus, nor its stench will frighten them; whoever approaches them is worthy of them; Yes, however, they seem to be born for heroism... - Fedor Dostoevsky

There are historical events that carry everything along with them and which you cannot get rid of either by will or cunning, just as you cannot prevent the sea tide from stopping and turning back. - Fedor Dostoevsky

There are people like tigers, eager to lick blood. Who has once experienced this power, this boundless dominion over the body, blood and spirit of a man like himself, a man created in the same way, a brother according to the law of Christ; whoever has experienced the power and complete opportunity to humiliate with the highest humiliation another being who bears the image of God, he involuntarily somehow becomes no longer in control of his feelings. Tyranny is a habit; it is gifted with development, it finally develops into a disease. I stand by what is most best person can become coarse and dull from habit to the point of being a beast. Blood and power intoxicate: they develop coarseness and depravity; The most abnormal phenomena become accessible to the mind and feeling and, finally, sweet. Man and citizen perish forever under the tyrant, and a return to human dignity, to repentance, to rebirth becomes almost impossible for him. Moreover, the example and the possibility of such self-will have a contagious effect on the entire society: such power is seductive. A society that looks at such a phenomenon with indifference is already infected at its core. In a word, right corporal punishment, given to one over the other, is one of the ulcers of society, is one of the most powerful means for destroying every embryo in it, every attempt at citizenship, and the complete basis for its inevitable and irresistible decay. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Notes from the House of the Dead"

There are people about whom it is difficult to say anything that would present them at once and entirely, in their most typical and characteristic form; These are the people who are usually called “ordinary” people, “the majority”, and who really constitute the vast majority of any society. Ordinary people are constantly and for the most part a necessary link in the connection of everyday events; the very essence of some ordinary persons lies precisely in their ever-present and unchanging ordinariness, which never wants to remain what it is, and at all costs wants to become original and independent, without having the slightest means of independence. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Idiot"

There are people for whom clean underwear is even indecent. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Demons"

There are people whom for some reason it’s nice to see next to you in difficult times. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Idiot"

There are small children and big children. Everything is “child”. - Fedor Dostoevsky"The Brothers Karamazov"

There are moments in which you experience much more with your consciousness than in entire years. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Netochka Nezvanova"

There are minutes, you get to minutes, and time suddenly stops and will be forever. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Demons"

There are moments when people love crime. - Fedor Dostoevsky"The Brothers Karamazov"

There are times when the fairest man cannot be impartial. – Fedor Dostoevsky

There are natures so beautiful by nature, so rewarded by God, that even the thought that they could someday change for the worse will seem impossible to you. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Notes from the House of the Dead"

There are misfortunes that carry punishment in themselves. - Fedor Dostoevsky

There are seconds, five or six of them come at a time, and suddenly you feel the presence of eternal harmony, completely achieved. This is not earthly; I’m not talking about the fact that it is heavenly, but about the fact that a person in earthly form cannot bear. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Demons"

There is such a secret of nature, its law, according to which you can speak perfectly only the language with which you were born, that is, which the people to whom you belong speak. - Fedor Dostoevsky

There are some natures for whom quite strange things happen when they are especially happy and happy. The grimaces of a drunken man, a man who has tripped and fallen on the street, an argument between two women, and so on and so forth on this topic sometimes produce in some people the most good-natured delight, no one knows why. - Fedor Dostoevsky"The village of Stepanchikovo and its inhabitants"

There are crimes that always and everywhere, according to all kinds of laws, have been considered indisputable crimes since the beginning of the world and will be considered such as long as a person remains a person. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Notes from the House of the Dead"

There are characters who really like to consider themselves offended and oppressed, complain about it out loud, or console themselves in secret, worshiping their unrecognized greatness. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Netochka Nezvanova"

There is such a limit of shame in the consciousness of one’s own insignificance and weakness, beyond which a person can no longer go and from which he begins to feel enormous pleasure in his very shame. - Fedor Dostoevsky"Idiot"

There are three kinds of scoundrels in the world: naive scoundrels, that is, convinced that their meanness is the highest nobility, scoundrels who are ashamed of their own meanness with the inevitable intention of finishing it, and, finally, simply scoundrels, purebred scoundrels. – Fedor Dostoevsky