She was kind and forgiving to all - to the flowers, to the animals, to the fish, to the elders... to human errors and weaknesses. Forgiveness cost her nothing.
Imagine...
Nurtured indoors, but of flowering health. Somewhat pale, but without a trace of exhaustion.
Free, agile movements.
Shy, girlish legs. Crisp and gentle profile, and such gay, such bright lips. Oh, happiness!
She slumps a little, but in her this is lovely. Always cheerful - without reason or incitement.
Structure of the mouth is slightly flawed, but in her even this is charming,
However, the best thing about her was her kindness, which she radiated as easily as the sun gives off light and heat...
Waltz. Light conversations. Viennese pastry.
Two servants in silk gloves.
Grand staircase with rented palms...
He appears.
Of course, he is serving somewhere.
Combed hair, trimmed moustache, learned in the art of kissing ladies' hands. Connections. Wears a uniform - that is he wears on his forehead, buttons and front and back some emblems, like eagles, axes, stars. In other words, he is serving somebody and somewhere.
Marriage, relatives' whispers. Departure abroad...
Actually, I am leaving it to the reader to complete the scene for himself, of read it from the immortal writer Turgenev.
He destroyed her purity and her beauty through frequent childbearing.
He made her a cook, a participant in cheap gossip.
He defiled her soul with all the petty grievances of the establishment in which and for which he served.
A year passed, and he married another. In a year and a half he could no longer remember what she looked like. It would seem to you, my reader, that nothing was left of the sweet-smelling flower, and that we should end the story in this place.
One winter she was sitting by the piano, and, just... out of boredom... played sad chords on the black keys.
And the poet, whom she probably did not notice, who was tolerated in her house out of pity, saw her hands.
These were the shining luminous hands. Hands which any woman would have proudly displayed to the world!
Hundred years had passed.
Long since dead are the parents, and the servant in silk gloves, and the beautiful flower, trampled by someone's feet. Also dead, in the position of an advisor to someone or something, is the hero of our story.
Yet, if the poet wanted, he could have given immortality to those hands caressing the black keys in the sad winter light.
A. I. Kuprin.
P.S. This story was written for those who understand that the greatest suffering and the greatest pleasure is thought.
(1910)