The little hero

I remember the day after I arrived, I organized a family show. There was a sea of people in the hall, as the saying goes, and there was not a single empty seat. For some reason, I arrived late, so I had to stand and enjoy the show. But the gaiety of the show drew me in and pushed me further and further forward. I pushed my way to the front row and ended up standing there with my arm resting on the back of an arm-chair. Inside the arm-chair sat a woman. That's my pretty blonde. But we didn't know each other then. Without realizing it, I gazed at her strangely round, seductive shoulders. Her shoulders were fat and white as milk foam. In fact, it didn't matter to me whether it was a beautiful woman's shoulder, or a cap with flaming ribbons, worn by a respectable lady in the first row to conceal her white hair. Beside the blonde sat an old maid who had passed her age. I have found many times since that these old maids have always tried to get as close as possible to the young and beautiful women, and crowded with them, and singled out those who did not like to be driven away from the young men. But that's not the point. As soon as the old girl noticed my observation, she bent down and giggled at the neighboring lady, whispering in her ear. The woman next to her suddenly turned her head, and I remember that her fiery eyes flashed at me in the darkness, and I trembled as if I had been burned, for I was unprepared for them.

The beauty could not help smiling.

"Did you enjoy their performance?" 'she asked, looking slyly into my eyes with a sneer on her face.

'Yes,' I replied, still looking with a certain curiosity, which seemed to satisfy her very much.

"Then why are you standing? You'll get tired. Don't you have a seat?"

"There is no room." 'I replied. This time I was not concerned with the shining eyes of the beauty, but with the fact that I had finally found someone to whom I could share my troubles, and I was very happy. "I've looked many times, and all the chairs are occupied," I added, as if I were complaining to her that all the seats were full.

"Come here quickly," she began quickly. She spoke quickly, and was quick to find a solution to any absurd idea that flashed through her capricious mind. "Come here and sit on my knee."

"On the knee?" I repeated, puzzled.

As I have said, I was beginning to feel very angry and ashamed of the special attention I was receiving. This one went farther than the others, as if he meant to make fun of me. Besides, I was a timid and shy boy, and somehow I was so frightened in the presence of women that my embarrassment was terrible.

"Come, sit on your knees! Why don't you want to sit on my knee?" She persisted, and laughed harder and harder, until at last she laughed, for God knows what, perhaps at her whimsical whim, perhaps at my embarrassment. But that was exactly what she needed.

My face flushed, and I looked around unnaturally, trying to get away. But she had foreseen it, and had grabbed my hand first, precisely to prevent me from slipping away. She suddenly pulled me into her arms, and, to my great surprise, unexpectedly pressed my hand with her hot, playful fingers, squeezing them so painfully that I had a great effort not to cry out, and at the same time made the most ridiculous ghost look. Besides, I was extremely surprised, puzzled, and even terrified that there were ridiculous and hateful women who, while chatting with little boys about trivial things, squeezed their children's hands till they hurt in front of everyone for no reason. It must have been my sad face that gave full expression to my doubts, so the mischievous woman laughed into my eyes like a madman, while squeezing my poor fingers more and more vigorously. She was beside herself with joy, for at last she had succeeded in fooling a poor boy into a very awkward position. I have fallen into a hopeless situation. In the first place, I was feverish with shame, for almost all the people around us had turned round and looked at us, some without any reason, some at once perceiving the beauty's mischief, and laughing. Next, I wanted to shout, for she pinched my fingers so cruelously because I did not scream. I was determined, like the Spartans, to resist the pain, for I feared that if I cried, I would cause disorder, and I did not know what to do when disorder arose. In utter despair I resolved to fight, and began to draw my hand to my side with all my strength, but the strength of my tormentor was much greater than mine. I finally couldn't help screaming, which was exactly what she wanted! She quickly threw me down and turned me around as if nothing had happened, as if it was not she but someone else who was fooling around. It was rather like a naughty schoolboy who, as soon as the teacher had turned his back, would play a trick on his neighbours, pulling a weak boy's ear, slapping him, kicking him, nudging him on the elbow, then quickly turning round, straighting himself up, burying his head in his book, and beginning to learn his lesson. In this way, the angry master, like a long-nosed kite, pounced on the noise, and was surprised to find himself caught.

Fortunately, however, everyone's attention was now drawn to the excellent performance of our host, who was playing the lead in a Skribaugh comedy. Taking advantage of the applause, I slipped out, ran to the corner opposite her at the end of the hall, hid behind a column, and looked fearfully from there toward where the cruel beauty sat. She covered her lips with her handkerchief and was still laughing. Then she turned her head several times, looking for me in every corner, and was probably very sorry that our absurd struggle had ended so quickly, and was working up another trick to play on me.

That's how our acquaintance began. From then on, she refused to leave me behind. She had no sense of propriety, no sense of conscience; she was always after me, a pursuer, a torturer. The whole absurdity of her tricks on me was that she pretended to dote on me and love me, and then made a fool of me in public, which was more intolerable than killing me. All this, of course, made me, a wild child who had never seen the world, very distressed and sad, and even tearful. I was several times in the midst of this grave crisis, ready to fight with this cunning beauty of mine. My innocent embarrassment, my desperate distress, prompted her to persecute me to the end. She knows no pity, and I don't know where to hide from her. The laughter around us (she was very good at making people laugh) could only fuel her desire for new pranks. But in the end, it became clear that her jokes had gone a little too far. In retrospect, it was a terrible thing for her to do to a child like me.

But that was her character. She is, in all respects, a very favoured woman. Later I heard that she was loved most by her own husband. He was fat, but short, good-looking, rich, and capable, at least in appearance. He was so active and busy that he could not stay in one place for an hour or two. Every day he left us to go to Moscow, sometimes twice up and down, as he said, on business. It would be hard to find a more cheerful and kind-hearted man than his comical and always serious look. Besides that, he loved his wife strangely, caring and caring, and worshiped her as an idol.

He obeyed her without restraint. She has more male friends than she knows how to count. First, there are few people who don't like her; In the second place, this merry girl was not excessively fastidious in the choice of her friends, and though you may make many assumptions from what I have said, the basis of her character is far more serious. But of all her friends, the one she liked and admired most was a distant relation, a young lady. Now this lady is in our group. There was a special intimacy between them. This is what happens when two diametrically opposed characters meet. The one was more serious, deeper, and purer than the other, while the other, with noble modesty and noble self-knowledge, submitted to the other with love, and felt that the other was superior to him in every way, and remembered his friendship in his heart as a kind of happiness. And this kind and noble relationship between the two characters begins: One side is love and complete tolerance, the other side is love and respect, respect to the level of fear, always worried about their position in the eyes of the other side, fear that the other side does not value their own, this respect may sometimes even develop to the point of jealousy and greed, hope in life step by step closer to the other side's heart.

Two girlfriends of the same age, but from the beauty of the beginning, between them in every aspect, there is a world of difference. Mrs. M's face is also very beautiful, but her beauty, a little special, obviously different from many gorgeous women. There was a peculiar expression in her face which, whenever anyone saw her, could not help liking her, or, rather, inspiring a high and noble liking in you. There are such lucky faces in the world. Anyone sitting next to her immediately seemed to feel better, to feel free, to feel warm. But her large, melancholy eyes, full of fire and force, looked timidly and uneasily, as if they were constantly threatened by a terrible enemy. This strange timidity sometimes cast a cloud of melancholy over her quiet, gentle, Italian Virgin Mary face, and you looked at it and could not help feeling melancholy yourself, as if you had some sorrow of your own. It was a pale, thin face. Through its fine, regular, immaculate beauty, and its silent sadness and coolness, it often revealed her childlike face, which had not long ago been the image of her carefree, perhaps innocent enjoyment of happiness. And this quiet, yet timid, wandering smile -- all these things produced a deep, unconscious sympathy for the woman, and a sweet, passionate interest in every heart, and a loud defence of her from afar, and drew strangers close to her.

But, for some unknown reason, this beauty was silent and withdrawn, though of course no one was more attentive and loving to others when they needed sympathy. Some women, like a nurse in life. In front of them, there is no need to hide anything, at least do not have to hide any inner pain and trauma. Anyone in trouble could approach them boldly and hopefully, without fear of embarrassment. Few of us know how much unforgiving love, compassion and forgiveness lurk in the hearts of some women. Pity, comfort, hope, these precious feelings are stored in these pure hearts, but these hearts are often deeply wounded, because they are full of love, they are full of sorrow, but they hide their wounds carefully from the curious eye, because deep pain is most easily kept silent and hidden. No matter how deep the cut was, whether it was purulent or smelly, it did not alarm them. No matter who goes to them, they will help. As if they were born to sacrifice their lives for others...