NOTES OF A YOUNG MAN.

INTRODUCTION.

Your suggestion, my friend, surprised me. I thought about it for several days. In this sad, dark, colorless epoch of life; in this painful turning point, which God knows how it will end, to "write my memoirs." The thought frightened me at first; but when, little by little, the images of the long-past filled my soul and surrounded it with a joyful procession, I felt sorry to part with them, and I decided to write, in order to stop and hold onto these memories, to live with them a little longer. I felt so good under their influence, so free... Moreover, I thought, while I am writing, the spring waters will rise and wash my boat off the sandbank.

And it is strange! Since the beginning of my youth, I sought activity and a full life; the noise of the world beckoned me; but as soon as I began to live, some bufera infernal infernal storm spun me around, threw me far from people, outlined a circle of activity with a pocket compass, and ordered me to fold my arms. In my youth, I had to experience the solace of old men: to sort through the past and, instead of living in reality, to write down what has been lived. There is nothing to be done! With a sigh, I took up my pen; but as soon as I had written a page, I felt lighter. The burden of the present became less perceptible; my cheerfulness returned; I came alive again with the past; the distance between us disappeared. I began to like my work, I became carried away by it, and, like the mosquito in Krylov’s fable, "from Achilles I became Homer"; and why not, when I have lived my own Iliad? A whole part of life is finished; I have entered a new domain; here are different customs, different people. Why not stop, having crossed the boundary, while what has been passed is still clearly visible? Why not say goodbye to it like a brother when it is worthy of it? Every day distances us from one another, and there is no return. My notebook will be a tombstone