Clean Monday read the summary chapter by chapter. Clean Monday. Other retellings and reviews for the reader's diary

The Moscow gray winter day was getting dark, the gas in the lanterns was coldly lit, the shop windows were warmly illuminated - and the evening Moscow life, freed from daytime affairs, flared up: the cab sledges rushed thicker and more vigorously, the overcrowded diving trams rattled harder - in the dusk it was already clear how green stars hissed from the wires - dully blackening passers-by hurried more animatedly along the snowy sidewalks ... Every evening my coachman sped me at this hour on a stretching trotter - from the Red Gate to the Cathedral of Christ the Savior: she lived opposite him; every evening I took her to dine at Prague, at the Hermitage, at the Metropol, in the afternoon to the theaters, to concerts, and then to the Yar, to Strelna ... How should all this end, I I didn’t know and tried not to think, not to think it out: it was useless, just like talking to her about it: she once and for all put off talking about our future; she was mysterious, incomprehensible to me, our relations with her were also strange - we still were not quite close; and all this endlessly kept me in unresolved tension, in painful expectation - and at the same time I was incredibly happy every hour spent near her. For some reason, she studied at the courses, quite rarely attended them, but she did. I once asked: "Why?" She shrugged her shoulders: “Why is everything done in the world? Do we understand anything in our actions? In addition, I am interested in history ... ”She lived alone - her widowed father, an enlightened man of a noble merchant family, lived in retirement in Tver, collecting something, like all such merchants. In the house opposite the Church of the Savior, she rented a corner apartment on the fifth floor for the sake of a view of Moscow, only two rooms, but spacious and well furnished. In the first, a wide Turkish sofa occupied a lot of space, there was an expensive piano, on which she kept rehearsing the slow, somnambulistically beautiful beginning of the “Moonlight Sonata” - only one beginning, - on the piano and on the under-mirror elegant flowers bloomed in faceted vases - on my order fresh ones were delivered to her every Saturday, and when I came to see her on Saturday evening, she, lying on the sofa, over which for some reason hung a portrait of barefoot Tolstoy, slowly stretched out her hand to me for a kiss and absentmindedly said: “Thank you for the flowers .. .” I brought her boxes of chocolate, new books - by Hofmannsthal, Schnitzler, Tetmeier, Pshibyshevsky - and received all the same “thank you” and an outstretched warm hand, sometimes an order to sit near the sofa without taking off my coat. “It’s not clear why,” she said thoughtfully, stroking my beaver collar, “but it seems that nothing can be better than the smell of winter air with which you enter the room from the yard ...” It looked like she didn’t need anything : no flowers, no books, no dinners, no theaters, no dinners outside the city, although, nevertheless, she had favorite and unloved flowers, all the books that I brought her, she always read, ate a whole box of chocolate a day, for at lunch and dinner she ate no less than I did, she loved pies with burbot fish soup, pink hazel grouses in hard-fried sour cream, sometimes she said: “I don’t understand how people don’t get tired of it all their lives, to have lunch and dinner every day,” but she herself had lunch and dinner with the Moscow understanding of the matter. Her only obvious weakness was good clothes, velvet, silk, expensive fur... We were both rich, healthy, young and so good-looking that in restaurants, at concerts, they saw us off with their eyes. I, being a native of the Penza province, was at that time beautiful for some reason, a southern, hot beauty, I was even “indecently handsome,” as one famous actor once said to me, a monstrously fat man, a great glutton and clever. "The devil knows who you are, some kind of Sicilian," he said sleepily; and my character was southern, lively, always ready for a happy smile, for a good joke. And she had some kind of Indian, Persian beauty: a swarthy amber face, magnificent and somewhat sinister in its thick black hair, softly shining like black sable fur, eyebrows, eyes black as velvet coal; the mouth, captivating with velvety crimson lips, was shaded by a dark fluff; when leaving, she most often put on a pomegranate velvet dress and the same shoes with gold clasps (and she went to courses as a modest student, ate breakfast for thirty kopecks in a vegetarian canteen on the Arbat); and as much as I was prone to talkativeness, to simple-hearted gaiety, she was most often silent: she was always thinking something, everything seemed to be mentally delving into something; lying on the sofa with a book in her hands, she often put it down and looked inquiringly in front of her: I saw this, sometimes stopping by her and during the day, because every month she didn’t go out at all for three or four days and didn’t leave the house, she lay and read, forcing me to sit down in an armchair near the sofa and silently read. “You are terribly talkative and restless,” she said, “let me finish reading the chapter ... “If I hadn’t been talkative and restless, I might never have recognized you,” I answered, reminding her of our acquaintance: once in December, when I got into the Art Circle for a lecture by Andrei Bely, who sang it, as I ran and danced on the stage, I twirled and laughed so much that she, who happened to be in the chair next to me and at first looked at me with some bewilderment, also finally laughed, and I immediately turned to her cheerfully. "It's all right," she said, "but all the same, be quiet for a while, read something, smoke... - I can not be silent! You can't imagine the power of my love for you! You don't love me! - I represent. As for my love, you know very well that apart from my father and you, I have no one in the world. In any case, you are my first and last. Is this not enough for you? But enough about that. You can’t read in front of you, let’s drink tea ... And I got up, boiled water in an electric kettle on a table behind the sofa blade, took cups and saucers from a nut slide that stood in the corner behind the table, saying what came to mind: - Have you finished reading "Fiery Angel"? - Checked it out. It's so pompous that it's embarrassing to read. - And why did you suddenly leave Chaliapin's concert yesterday? - I was too pissed off. And then I don’t like yellow-haired Russia at all. - You don't like it! Yes, a lot... "Strange Love!" I thought, and while the water boiled, I stood and looked out the windows. The room smelled of flowers, and it combined for me with their scent; behind one window lay low in the distance a huge picture of the riverside snow-gray Moscow; in the other, to the left, a part of the Kremlin was visible, on the contrary, somehow too close, the too new bulk of Christ the Savior was white, in the golden dome of which the jackdaws eternally curling around it were reflected in bluish spots ... “Strange city! I said to myself, thinking about Okhotny Ryad, about Iverskaya, about St. Basil the Blessed. - St. Basil's - and Spas-on-Bora, Italian cathedrals - and something Kyrgyz in the tips of the towers on the Kremlin walls ... " Arriving at dusk, I sometimes found her on the sofa in only one silk arkhaluk trimmed with sable - the inheritance of my Astrakhan grandmother, she said - I sat near her in the semi-darkness, without lighting the fire, and kissed her hands, feet, amazing in its smoothness body ... And she did not resist anything, but everything was silent. Every minute I looked for her hot lips - she gave them, breathing already impetuously, but all in silence. When she felt that I was no longer able to control myself, she pushed me away, sat down and, without raising her voice, asked me to turn on the light, then went into the bedroom. I lit it, sat down on a revolving stool near the piano and gradually came to my senses, cooled down from the hot dope. A quarter of an hour later she came out of the bedroom dressed, ready to leave, calm and simple, as if nothing had happened before: - Where to now? In the Metropol, maybe? And again the whole evening we talked about something extraneous. Shortly after we got close, she told me when I started talking about marriage: No, I am not fit to be a wife. I'm not good, I'm not good... This didn't discourage me. "We'll see!" I said to myself, hoping that her mind would change with time, and I didn't talk about marriage anymore. Our incomplete intimacy sometimes seemed unbearable to me, but even here - what was left for me but the hope of time? Once, sitting next to her in this evening darkness and silence, I clutched my head: No, it's beyond my power! And why, why do you have to torture me and yourself so cruelly! She said nothing. Yes, it's not love, it's not love... She called out evenly from the darkness: - May be. Who knows what love is? — I, I know! I exclaimed. - And I will wait until you know what love, happiness is! - Happiness, happiness ... "Our happiness, my friend, is like water in a delusion: you pull - it puffed up, but you pull it out - there's nothing."- What's this? - This is how Platon Karataev told Pierre. I waved my hand. - Oh, God bless her, with this Eastern wisdom! And again, the whole evening he talked only about outsiders - about a new production of the Art Theater, about a new story by Andreev ... Again it was enough for me that at first I sat closely with her in a flying and rolling sledge, holding her in a smooth fur coat , then I enter the crowded hall of the restaurant with her to the march from Aida, eat and drink next to her, hear her slow voice, look at the lips that I kissed an hour ago - yes, I kissed, I said to myself, with enthusiastic gratitude looking at them, at the dark fluff above them, at the pomegranate velvet of the dress, at the slope of the shoulders and the oval of her breasts, smelling some slightly spicy scent of her hair, thinking: "Moscow, Astrakhan, Persia, India!" In restaurants outside the city, towards the end of dinner, when everything was getting noisier all around in tobacco smoke, she, also smoking and getting drunk, sometimes led me to a separate room, asked to call the gypsies, and they entered deliberately noisy, cheeky: in front of the choir, with a guitar on a blue ribbon over his shoulder, an old gypsy in a Cossack coat with galloons, with the bluish muzzle of a drowned man, with his head bare like a cast-iron ball, behind him a gypsy sang with a low forehead under tar bangs ... She listened to the songs with a languid, strange smile .. At three or four o'clock in the morning I drove her home, at the entrance, closing my eyes from happiness, kissed the wet fur of her collar and in some kind of enthusiastic despair flew to the Red Gate. And tomorrow and the day after tomorrow everything will be the same, I thought—the same torment and the same happiness... Well, after all, happiness, great happiness! So passed January, February, came and went carnival. On Forgiveness Sunday, she ordered me to come to her at five o'clock in the evening. I arrived, and she met me already dressed, in a short astrakhan fur coat, astrakhan hat, and black felt boots. - All Black! - I said, entering, as always, joyfully. Her eyes were kind and quiet. “After all, tomorrow is already a clean Monday,” she answered, taking it out of her astrakhan muff and giving me her hand in a black kid glove. - "Lord, Lord of my life..." Do you want to go to the Novodevichy Convent? I was surprised, but hastened to say:- Want! “Well, all taverns and taverns,” she added. - Yesterday morning I was at the Rogozhsky cemetery ... I was even more surprised: - At the cemetery? What for? Is this the famous schismatic? Yes, schismatic. Pre-Petrine Rus! They buried their archbishop. And just imagine: the coffin is an oak log, as in ancient times, the golden brocade is as if forged, the face of the deceased is covered with white “air”, embroidered with large black script - beauty and horror. And at the tomb are deacons with ripids and trikiriyas... — How do you know that? Ripids, trikiriyas! “You don't know me. I didn't know you were so religious. - It's not religious. I don't know what... But, for example, I often go in the mornings or in the evenings, when you don't drag me to restaurants, to the Kremlin cathedrals, and you don't even suspect it... So: deacons - yes, what kind! Peresvet and Oslyabya! And on two choirs, two choirs, also all Peresvets: tall, powerful, in long black caftans, they sing, calling to each other - now one choir, then another - and all in unison, and not according to notes, but according to “hooks”. And the grave was lined inside with shiny spruce branches, and outside it was frost, sun, snow blinding ... No, you don’t understand this! Let's go... The evening was peaceful, sunny, with frost on the trees; on the bloody brick walls of the monastery, jackdaws resembling nuns chatted in silence, the chimes now and then played thinly and sadly on the bell tower. Creaking in silence through the snow, we entered the gate, walked along the snowy paths through the cemetery - the sun had just set, it was still quite light, marvelously drawn on the gold enamel of the sunset with gray coral, branches in hoarfrost, and mysteriously glowed around us with calm, sad lights inextinguishable lamps scattered over the graves. I followed her, looked with emotion at her little footprint, at the stars that her new black boots left in the snow—she suddenly turned around, sensing this: "Really, how you love me!" she said in quiet bewilderment, shaking her head. We stood near the graves of Ertel and Chekhov. Holding her hands in her muff lowered, she looked for a long time at the Chekhov grave monument, then shrugged her shoulder: — What a nasty mixture of Russian leaf style and the Art Theater! It began to get dark, it was freezing, we slowly went out of the gate, near which my Fedor meekly sat on the goats. "We'll drive a little more," she said, "then we'll go eat the last pancakes at Egorov's... Just not too much, Fyodor, really?"- I'm listening. - Somewhere on Ordynka there is a house where Griboyedov lived. Let's go look for him... And for some reason we went to Ordynka, drove for a long time along some alleys in the gardens, were in Griboedovsky lane; but who could tell us in which house Griboyedov lived - there were not a soul of passers-by, and besides, which of them could need Griboyedov? It had long been dark, the trees were turning pink through the hoarfrost-lit windows... “There is also the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent here,” she said. I laughed. — Again in the monastery? - No, it's me... The ground floor of Yegorov's tavern in Okhotny Ryad was full of shaggy, thickly dressed cabbies slicing stacks of pancakes drenched in excess butter and sour cream; In the upper rooms, also very warm, with low ceilings, the Old Testament merchants washed down fiery pancakes with grainy caviar with frozen champagne. We went into the second room, where in the corner, in front of the black board of the icon of the Mother of God with three hands, a lamp was burning, we sat down at a long table on a black leather sofa ... Fluff on her upper lip I was covered in hoarfrost, the amber of my cheeks turned slightly pink, the blackness of the ray completely merged with the pupil - I could not take my rapturous eyes off her face. And she said, taking out a handkerchief from a fragrant muff: - Good! Below are wild men, and here are pancakes with champagne and the Virgin with three hands. Three hands! After all, this is India! You are a gentleman, you cannot understand all this Moscow the way I do. - I can, I can! I answered. “And let’s order a strong lunch!” - How is it "strong"? - It means strong. How can you not know? "Gyurgi's speech..." — How good! Gyurgi! Yes, Prince Yuri Dolgoruky. "Gyurgi's speech to Svyatoslav, Prince of Seversky:" Come to me, brother, in Moscow "and commanded to arrange a strong dinner." — How good. And now only in some northern monasteries this Russia remains. Yes, even in church hymns. Recently I went to the Zachatievsky Monastery - you cannot imagine how wonderfully the stichera are sung there! And Chudovoe is even better. Last year I went there all the time on Strastnaya. Ah, how good it was! There are puddles everywhere, the air is already soft, the soul is somehow tender, sad, and all the time this feeling of the homeland, its antiquity ... All the doors in the cathedral are open, the common people come in and out all day, the whole day of the service ... Oh, I’ll leave I'm going somewhere to a monastery, to some of the most deaf, Vologda, Vyatka! I wanted to say that then I too would leave or slaughter someone so that they would drive me to Sakhalin, lit a cigarette, forgetting from excitement, but a sexual officer in white trousers and a white shirt, belted with a raspberry cord, approached, respectfully reminded: "Sorry, sir, we can't smoke here..." And immediately, with particular obsequiousness, he began in a patter: - What do you want for pancakes? Homemade herbalist? Caviar, seeds? Our sherry is extremely good for our ribs, but for the navka... “And sherry for the navy,” she added, delighting me with her kind talkativeness, which did not leave her all evening. And I listened absentmindedly to what she had to say next. And she spoke with a quiet light in her eyes: - I love Russian chronicles, I love Russian legends so much that until then I re-read what I especially like until I memorize it. “There was a city in the Russian land, the name of Murom, in which a noble prince, named Pavel, ruled. And the devil instilled in his wife a flying serpent for fornication. And this serpent appeared to her in human nature, very beautiful ... " I jokingly made scary eyes: - Oh, what a horror! She continued without listening: So God tested her. “When the time came for her blessed death, this prince and princess begged God to repose them in one day. And they agreed to be buried in a single coffin. And they ordered to carve out two coffin beds in a single stone. And they put on, at the same time, in a monastic robe ... " And again my absent-mindedness was replaced by surprise and even anxiety: what is the matter with her today? And so, this evening, when I took her home at a completely different time than usual, at eleven o'clock, she, after saying goodbye to me at the entrance, suddenly detained me when I was already getting into the sleigh: - Wait. Come see me tomorrow night before ten o'clock. Tomorrow is a skit at the Art Theatre. - So? I asked. - Do you want to go to this "skit"?- Yes. “But you said that you don’t know anything more vulgar than these “skewers”! “Now I don't know. And yet I want to go. I mentally shook my head - all quirks, Moscow quirks! - and cheerfully responded:- Ol Wright! At ten o'clock in the evening the next day, having gone up in the elevator to her door, I opened the door with my key and did not immediately enter from the dark hallway: it was unusually light behind it, everything was lit - chandeliers, candelabra on the sides of the mirror and a tall lamp under the light lampshade behind the head of the sofa, and the piano sounded the beginning of the "Moonlight Sonata" - all rising, sounding farther, the more wearying, more inviting, in somnambulistic-blissful sadness. I slammed the door of the hallway - the sounds broke off, the rustle of a dress was heard. I entered—she was standing straight and somewhat theatrical near the piano in a black velvet dress that made her thinner, shining with her elegance, the festive dress of pitch hair, the dark amber of her bare arms, shoulders, the tender, full beginning of her breasts, the sparkle of diamond earrings along her slightly powdered cheeks, coal velvet eyes and velvety purple lips; glossy black pigtails curled up to her eyes in half-rings, giving her the appearance of an oriental beauty from a popular print. “Now, if I were a singer and sang on the stage,” she said, looking at my confused face, “I would answer the applause with a friendly smile and slight bows to the right and left, up and to the stalls, and I myself would imperceptibly, but carefully remove foot train, so as not to step on it ... On the skiff she smoked a lot and sipped champagne all the time, stared intently at the actors, with lively cries and refrains depicting what seemed to be Parisian, at the big Stanislavsky with white hair and black eyebrows and the dense Moskvin in pince-nez on a trough-shaped face, both with deliberate seriousness and diligence, falling back, made a desperate can-can to the laughter of the public. Kachalov approached us with a glass in his hand, pale from hops, with large sweat on his forehead, on which a tuft of his Belarusian hair hung down, raised his glass and, looking at her with mock gloomy greed, said in his low acting voice: “Tsar Maiden, Queen of Shamakhan, your health!” And she slowly smiled and clinked glasses with him. He took her hand, leaned drunkenly on it and almost fell off his feet. He managed and, clenching his teeth, looked at me: - And what is this handsome man? I hate. Then she wheezed, whistled and rattled, the hurdy-gurdy stomped skipping polka - and, sliding, flew up to us little Sulerzhitsky, always hurrying somewhere and laughing, bent over, imitating Gostinodvor gallantry, hurriedly muttered: - Allow me to invite you to Tranblanc... And she, smiling, got up and, deftly, briefly stomping, flashing her earrings, her blackness and her bare shoulders and arms, walked with him among the tables, accompanied by admiring glances and applause, while he, raising his head, shouted like a goat:

Let's go, let's go quickly
Polka dance with you!

At three o'clock in the morning she got up, closing her eyes. When we were dressed, she looked at my beaver hat, stroked the beaver collar and went to the exit, saying, half jokingly, half seriously: - Of course, beautiful. Kachalov told the truth... "A snake in human nature, very beautiful..." She was silent on the way, bowing her head from the bright moon blizzard that was flying towards her. I spent a full month diving in the clouds over the Kremlin, “some kind of luminous skull,” she said. On the Spasskaya Tower, the clock struck three, - she also said: — What an ancient sound, something tin and iron. And just like that, the same sound struck three in the morning in the fifteenth century. And in Florence, the battle was exactly the same, it reminded me of Moscow there ... When Fyodor besieged at the entrance, she ordered lifelessly: - Let him go... Struck, she never allowed me to go up to her at night, I said in confusion: - Fedor, I will return on foot ... And we silently reached up in the elevator, entered the night warmth and silence of the apartment with tapping hammers in the heaters. I took off her fur coat, slippery from the snow, she threw a wet downy shawl from her hair onto my hands and quickly went, rustling with her silk bottom skirt, into the bedroom. I undressed, entered the first room, and with my heart sinking as if over an abyss, sat down on a Turkish sofa. Her footsteps were heard open doors lighted bedroom, the way she, clinging to the hairpins, pulled off her dress over her head ... I got up and went to the door: she, in only swan shoes, stood with her back to me, in front of the dressing table, combing black threads with a tortoiseshell comb long, hanging hair along the face. “He kept saying that I don’t think much about him,” she said, throwing the comb on the mirror-holder, and, throwing her hair back, turned to me: “No, I thought ... At dawn I felt her move. I opened my eyes and she was staring at me. I rose from the warmth of the bed and her body, she leaned towards me, quietly and evenly saying: — This evening I'm leaving for Tver. How long, God only knows... And she pressed her cheek against mine - I felt her wet eyelash blinking. I will write everything as soon as I arrive. I will write about the future. I'm sorry, leave me now, I'm very tired ... And lay down on the pillow. I dressed carefully, kissed her timidly on the hair, and tiptoed out onto the stairs, which were already brightening with a pale light. I was walking on the young sticky snow—the blizzard was gone, everything was calm and you could already see it far along the streets, and there was a smell of snow and from bakeries. I reached Iverskaya, the inside of which burned hotly and shone with whole bonfires of candles, knelt among the crowd of old women and beggars on the trampled snow, took off my hat ... Someone touched my shoulder - I looked: some unfortunate old woman was looking at me , grimacing from pitiful tears. Oh, don't kill yourself, don't kill yourself like that! Sin, sin! The letter I received two weeks after that was brief - an affectionate but firm request not to wait for her any longer, not to try to look for her, to see: “I won’t return to Moscow, I’ll go to obedience for now, then, maybe, I’ll decide to be tonsured .. May God give strength not to answer me - it is useless to prolong and increase our torment ... " I fulfilled her request. And for a long time he disappeared in the dirtiest taverns, drank himself, sinking more and more in every possible way. Then he gradually began to recover - indifferently, hopelessly ... Almost two years have passed since that clean Monday ... In the fourteenth year, under New Year, was the same quiet, sunny evening, like that one, unforgettable. I left the house, took a cab and went to the Kremlin. There he went into the empty Cathedral of the Archangel, stood for a long time, without praying, in its twilight, looking at the faint shimmer of the old gold of the iconostasis and the tombstones of the Moscow tsars; her. Leaving the cathedral, he ordered the cab driver to go to Ordynka, he drove at a pace, as then, along the dark alleys in the gardens with windows lit under them, he drove along Griboyedovsky lane - and he kept crying, crying ... On Ordynka, I stopped a cab at the gates of the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent: there black carriages were seen in the yard, the open doors of a small illuminated church were visible, the singing of a maiden choir wafted mournfully and tenderly from the doors. For some reason, I really wanted to go there. The janitor at the gate blocked my way, asking softly, imploringly: “You can’t, sir, you can’t!” - How can you not? Can't go to church? “You can, sir, of course you can, only I ask you for God’s sake, don’t go, the Grand Duchess Elzavet Fyodorovna is there right now and Grand Duke Mitri Palych... I slipped him a ruble - he sighed contritely and let it through. But as soon as I entered the yard, icons, banners, carried on their hands, appeared from the church, behind them, all in white, long, thin-faced, in a white obruss with a golden cross sewn on her forehead, tall, slowly, earnestly walking with lowered eyes , with a large candle in her hand, Grand Duchess; and behind her stretched the same white line of nuns or sisters singing, with the lights of candles in their faces - I don’t know who they were or where they were going. For some reason, I looked at them very carefully. And then one of those walking in the middle suddenly raised her head, covered with a white kerchief, blocking the candle with her hand, fixed her dark eyes into the darkness, as if just at me ... What could she see in the darkness, how could she feel my presence? I turned and quietly walked out of the gate. May 12, 1944

They met in December by chance. When he got to Andrei Bely's lecture, he twirled and laughed so much that she, who happened to be in an armchair nearby and at first looked at him with some bewilderment, also laughed. Now every evening he went to her apartment, rented by her solely for the sake of a wonderful view of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, every evening he took her to dine in chic restaurants, theaters, concerts ... How all this was supposed to end, he did not know and tried not to even think: she put aside all talk of the future once and for all.

She was mysterious and incomprehensible; their relationship was strange and indefinite, and this kept him in constant unresolved tension, in agonizing expectation. And yet, what happiness was every hour spent next to her ...

In Moscow, she lived alone (her widowed father, an enlightened man of a noble merchant family, lived in retirement in Tver), for some reason she studied at the courses (she liked history) and kept learning the slow beginning of the Moonlight Sonata, only the beginning ... He teased her flowers, chocolate and newfangled books, receiving for all this an indifferent and absent-minded “Thank you…”. And it seemed that she didn’t need anything, although she still preferred her favorite flowers, read books, ate chocolate, dined and dined with appetite. Her obvious weakness was only good clothes, expensive fur ...

They were both rich, healthy, young and so good-looking that in restaurants and at concerts they were seen off with their eyes. He, being a native of the Penza province, was then handsome with southern, “Italian” beauty and had an appropriate character: lively, cheerful, constantly ready for a happy smile. And she had some kind of Indian, Persian beauty, and how talkative and restless he was, she was so silent and thoughtful ... Even when he suddenly kissed her passionately, impetuously, she did not resist, but was silent all the time. And when she felt that he was unable to control himself, she calmly pulled away, went into the bedroom and dressed for the next trip. “No, I’m not fit to be a wife!” she insisted. “It will be seen there!” he thought, and never spoke of marriage again.

But sometimes this incomplete intimacy seemed unbearably painful to him: “No, this is not love!” “Who knows what love is?” she answered. And again, all evening they talked only about strangers, and again he rejoiced only at the fact that he was simply next to Her, heard her voice, looked at the lips that he had kissed an hour ago ... What torment! And what happiness!

So passed January, February, came and went carnival. On Forgiveness Sunday, she dressed in all black (“After all, tomorrow is a clean Monday!”) And invited him to go to the Novodevichy Convent. He looked at her in surprise, and she talked about the beauty and sincerity of the funeral of the schismatic archbishop, about the singing of the church choir, which makes the heart tremble, about her lonely visits to the Kremlin cathedrals ... Then they wandered around for a long time Novodevichy cemetery, visited the graves of Ertel and Chekhov, searched long and fruitlessly for Griboyedov's house, and not finding it, went to Yegorov's tavern in Okhotny Ryad.

The tavern was warm and full of thickly dressed cabbies. “How good,” she said. “And only in some northern monasteries this Russia now remains ... Oh, I’ll go somewhere to a monastery, to some very remote!” And she read by heart from ancient Russian legends: “... And the devil instilled in his wife a flying snake for fornication. And this serpent appeared to her in human nature, very beautiful…”. And again he looked with surprise and concern: what is the matter with her today? All quirks?

Tomorrow she asked to be taken to the theatrical skit, although she noticed that there was nothing more vulgar than them. She smoked a lot at the skit and looked intently at the actors, grimacing to the laughter of the public. One of them first looked at her with mock gloomy greed, then, drunkenly leaning on his arm, inquired about her companion: “What kind of handsome man is this? I hate it”… At three o'clock in the morning, leaving the skit, She said, not jokingly, not seriously: “He was right. Of course it's beautiful. “A serpent in human nature, very beautiful…””. And that evening, contrary to custom, she asked to let the crew go ...

And in a quiet night apartment, she immediately went into the bedroom, rustled with her dress being removed. He went to the door: she, in only swan shoes, stood in front of the dressing table, combing her black hair with a tortoiseshell comb. “Here everyone said that I don’t think much about him,” she said. “No, I thought…” … And at dawn he woke up from her gaze: “Tonight I'm leaving for Tver,” she said. - How long, God only knows ... I'll write everything as soon as I arrive. I'm sorry, leave me now…”

The letter received two weeks later was brief - an affectionate but firm request not to wait, not to try to look for and see: “I won’t return to Moscow, I’ll go to obedience for now, then maybe I’ll decide to be tonsured ...” And he didn’t look, for a long time disappeared in the dirtiest taverns, drank himself, sinking more and more. Then he gradually began to recover - indifferently, hopelessly ...

Almost two years have passed since that clean Monday ... On the same quiet evening, he left the house, took a cab and drove to the Kremlin. For a long time he stood, without praying, in the dark Archangel Cathedral, then for a long time he drove, as then, through dark alleys and kept crying, crying ...

On Ordynka, I stopped at the gates of the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent, in which the girls' choir sang mournfully and tenderly. The janitor didn't want to let him through, but for a ruble, he sighed in dismay and let him through. Then icons, banners, carried in their hands, appeared from the church, a white line of singing nuns stretched out, with the lights of candles in their faces. He carefully looked at them, and then one of those walking in the middle suddenly raised her head and fixed her dark eyes on the darkness, as if seeing him. What could she see in the darkness, how could she feel His presence? He turned and quietly walked out of the gate.

Option 2

They met one day in December by chance. He came to listen to a lecture by Andrei Bely, and laughed so much that he infected everyone around him with his laughter. She was next to him, and also laughed, not understanding the reason. Now they went to restaurants and theaters together, and lived in the same apartment. They did not want to talk about the future, enjoying every minute of their happiness. In Moscow, she had a separate apartment. Father, from a wealthy family, lived in Tver. Every day he brought flowers and gifts. Both were not poor, young and happy. In restaurants, everyone followed them with their eyes, admiring the combination of such beauty. But for marriage, they were not yet ready.

There were times when it seemed to him that there was no love. In response, I heard only the words: “What is love? “. Again and again, they were just the two of them, and enjoyed every moment of life. So the winter passed, and on forgiveness Sunday she put on black clothes and offered to go to the Novodevichy Convent. He looked at her with surprise, and she told how the heart beats when you are in the temple, and how beautifully the church choir sings. They walked around the Novodevichy cemetery for a long time, looking for the graves of famous writers. After that, they went to a tavern on Okhotny Ryad.

There were many people in the tavern. She could not stop thinking about how good it was in Russian monasteries, and she wanted to go to one someday. She recited old Russian legends by heart, and he again looked at her in surprise, not knowing what was happening to her.

The next day, she decided to drive to the theater meeting, although she said that it went. Here she looked at celebrities and smoked a lot. One of the actors watched her greedily all evening, and at the end, having drunk, he pressed his lips to her hand. He asked who her companion was, looking at him with hatred. Late at night, having come from a party, she thought that her gentleman was too handsome, like a snake in human form. And a little thought, released the crew.

Entering a quiet, calm apartment, she immediately went into the bedroom and took off her dress. He went to the door and saw her standing only in swan shoes. She stood in front of the mirror and combed her hair. Having said that it was not morning she was leaving for Tver to her father, she went to bed. Two weeks later, he received a letter saying that she was no longer coming. In addition, she asked not to seek a meeting with her. He did not look for a long time, going down to the bottom with the help of alcohol. Then, little by little, he began to come to his senses.

A few years later, he left the house and went to the Kremlin. It was a clean Monday, and for a long time he stood in one of the cathedrals without praying. Then he drove through the dark Moscow streets and cried.

After a while, he stopped at the gates of the Marfo-Mariinsky Monastery, where the girls' choir sang so beautifully and sadly. At first they did not want to let him in, but after paying the janitor a ruble, he entered. Here he saw how the nuns came out of the church, holding candles in their hands. He looked at them carefully. Suddenly he saw her. She stared into the darkness, straight at him, seeing nothing. It is possible that she felt his presence. He turned and left.

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Summary Clean Monday Bunin

Registration reader's diary is not an easy task. In order to correctly and concisely state the main events of the work, you need to have a worthy example before your eyes. You can always find it on Literaguru. Here at your service very summary Bunin's book Clean Monday.

(439 words) It was winter, and every evening the narrator drove up to the house next to the Cathedral of Christ the Savior to spend this time with his girlfriend. She lived there. Every evening they dined in restaurants, then attended theaters and concerts. Although they spent time together, they were still not very close - the girl refused to talk about what awaits their couple in the future.

She lived alone. The narrator brought her fresh flowers, boxes of chocolates, and books every week, but she seemed to be indifferent to gifts. She could not understand, for example, why people eat in restaurants every day. At the same time, she always ate with great appetite and read all the donated books. She had a great love for furs and silk.

As the narrator, as the girl, both were rich and beautiful, as from the cover. And he is a handsome man with a southern appearance, active and cheerful, and she also had oriental features, but was most often silent and calm. And often, while reading a book, I was distracted and thought about something.

Sometimes the narrator enjoyed those blissful moments when he could kiss her, but silence was his answer. When he spoke about the wedding, she replied that she was no wife. The hero hoped that her mind might change over time, and continued to woo and suffer from their strange and incomplete intimacy.

It's been two winter months, and on Forgiveness Sunday, she admitted that she often visits Moscow cathedrals alone. She admires church hymns, old Russia, old funeral rites. On the same evening, the two of them went to the Novodevichy Convent, then to a tavern. There, the girl promised herself that one day she would go to some farthest abode. The narrator was moved by her words. The very next evening they went to the theater for a skit. There she smoked, drank champagne and danced the polka, and then suddenly for the first time allowed the narrator to stay at her place at night.

In the morning she said that she was going to Tver that same evening and did not know when she would return. That day was Clean Monday.

A few weeks after leaving, she wrote that it was useless to look for her, and there was no need to scribble an answer - both would only be more painful from this. She is going to go to the obedience, and then, perhaps, to get a haircut as a nun.

The hero began to drink in taverns. So two years have passed since that clean Monday. And one day, on New Year's Eve, he visited the Archangel Cathedral, where he listened for a long time to the silence of the church and seemed to expect a miracle. Then he went to Ordynka, to the gates of the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent. A girl's choir was heard from there, and he entered the yard. The Grand Duchess appeared from the church in a snow-white robe, followed by the chorus girls with candles in their hands. Then one of them looked into the darkness at the narrator. He asked himself how she felt that he was there, seeing nothing, turned around and left the yard.

Every winter evening the author came to the apartment opposite the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, where his beloved lived. He took her to dinner, then to theaters, to concerts ... He did not know what awaited them in the future - she was mysterious and incomprehensible to him; their relationship kept him in suspense, but at the same time made him happy.

She studied at the history courses, although she rarely attended them. Every day, on his orders, fresh flowers were brought to her, he gave her books and chocolates. It seemed that she did not care about all this, but she had favorite and unloved flowers, and she always read books. At lunch and dinner, she ate no less than the storyteller, with a Moscow understanding of the matter, she loved expensive clothes, silks and velvet.

Both of them were young and gorgeous. Going out into the light, the couple caught admiring glances. He, being a native of the Penza province, was unexpectedly handsome with a kind of southern, hot beauty, his character was lively and disposed to a smile, a good joke. Her beauty was oriental: the swarthy face, thick black hair, black eyes, like velvet coal, made her face beautiful. He was as talkative as she was silent.

She often thought about something. When visiting her, the author often found her reading. At such moments, she could not leave the house for three or four days. Then she made him sit in a chair next to him and silently read. She reproached him for being too talkative and restless, to which he reminded her of their acquaintance. One day in December, at a lecture by Andrei Bely, he laughed out loud, which first aroused her bewilderment, and then made her laugh.

He swore his love to her, and she replied that for her there were no people closer than her father and him. "Strange Love!" thought the narrator. His thoughts were echoed by the landscape of the “strange city”, in which such dissimilar buildings as Okhotny Ryad, St. Basil the Blessed, Spas-on-Bora adjoined ...

Arriving at dusk, he sometimes found her in one arkhaluk, kissed her hands, feet, body, hot lips. She didn't resist, but she remained silent. Then she pushed him away and went into another room, letting him cool down and come to his senses. A quarter of an hour later, the woman came out dressed and ready to go.

One winter evening, sitting in silence, he clutched his head and asked her why she tormented them both so much. To her silence, he added that this was not love. "Who knows what love is?" she called out of the darkness. "I know!" he exclaimed, promising to wait for her to discover feelings of love and happiness. The woman quoted the words from the dialogue between Platon Karataev and Pierre about the essence of happiness, and he asked not to bother him with all this Eastern wisdom.

And again the whole evening the conversation was only about strangers. Again, the author had enough of her presence nearby, her voice, the pattern of her lips and the spicy smell of her hair.

Sometimes, tipsy, she would take him to the office and call the gypsies. The woman listened to their songs with a kind of languid smile, and then asked to be taken home. Standing at her house and kissing the fur of her collar, he understood that tomorrow would be the same, and this was both great torment and great happiness.

So January and February passed, and Maslenitsa came. On forgiveness Sunday, she met him in black. She responded to his remark with a reminder that the next day was Clean Monday, and offered to go to the Novodevichy Convent. She told him about how she was at the Rogozhsky cemetery and that in the mornings she often goes to cathedrals. The woman told him about the archbishop's burial, the white "air" that covered his face, about the deacons with ripids and trikiriyas. He was surprised at her deep knowledge and admitted that he had no idea about the religiosity of his beloved. She replied that it was not religiosity, although she herself found it difficult to give it any definition. He followed her, admiring the small footprints in the snow. Turning around and shaking her head, she remarked with quiet bewilderment:

It's true how you love me!

After standing for a short time at the graves of Chekhov and Ertel, they moved on. She remembered that somewhere on Ordynka there is Griboyedov's house. Having traveled for a long time through unknown lanes and, of course, not finding the writer's house, they arrived at Yegorov's tavern in Okhotny Ryad. The ground floor was full of shaggy cabbies eating piles of pancakes generously covered with butter and sour cream. Old Testament merchants sat in the upper rooms. They went into the second room. In the corner in front of the icon of the Three-Handed Mother of God a lamp was burning. She admired the spirit of Russia, which remained only in the northern monasteries and in church hymns. Inadvertently, a woman notices that she would like to go to a remote monastery, but the author did not take her words seriously.

She was talkative all evening. When her beloved began to read Russian legends from memory, he at first tried to joke, but, noticing her concentration, he became agitated, not understanding what was happening to her.

Returning home, she asked him to take her the next evening to the "skit" of the Art Theater. He was discouraged, remembering her recent contempt for them. At the meeting, she smoked and drank champagne all the time, watching the antics of the actors. A drunken Kachalov approached her and proclaimed a toast in her honor. Clinking glasses with him, she slowly smiled. Then the music thundered and Sulerzhitsky, always hurrying somewhere, flew up to them and invited her. She went to dance the polka, accompanied by applause.

Returning, she asked the narrator to let the coachman go. The author was surprised, because before that the woman did not allow him to stay overnight. The next morning she admitted that she was leaving for Tver. She wasn't sure if she would come back and asked him to leave. He timidly kissed her hair and left. Having reached the Iberian chapel, he stopped in a crowd of old women and beggars and fell to his knees, pulling off his hat. An old woman touched his shoulder, grimacing with tears of pity, and urged him not to kill himself like that - “sin!”.

Two weeks later he received a letter in which she asked him not to write to her and not to wait.

He fulfilled her request and began to disappear into taverns. Almost two years later, on New Year's Eve, it was almost as quiet an evening as the unforgettable one. He took a cab and went to the Kremlin. After standing in the Archangel Cathedral, he drove along Griboedovsky Lane. And he kept crying, crying ... At the gates of the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent, he stopped when he heard the singing of the girls' choir. Having slipped a ruble to the janitor who did not want to let him in, he was about to go inside, as a procession led by the Grand Duchess and the Grand Duke came out of the door. Behind them stretched a line of singing girls. One of the sisters lifted her eyes and peered into the darkness. How could she feel that he was standing there? He turned and walked out of the gate.