Contrary to myself: 2 chapter

June 1826, the village of Berezovo, Tobolsk province, Russian Empire.

      The village graveyard was small and overgrown with sparse grass. Even now, in the summer, which turned out to be rather cold, the grass looked yellowed and withered.
It was drizzling in the morning, and heavy lead clouds hung so low as if they wanted to crush the deceased's relatives, who were so heartbroken. At the fresh grave stood only an old priest in a black robe and the family of the deceased. Only the sound of the wind, the piercing crows croaking and the chime of church bells was heard above their heads.
      Prisoners were often exiled to Berezovo for various crimes. True, in fairness it is worth noting that the link of hereditary nobles was a rarity, for this it was necessary to commit a particularly serious crime against the king and the Fatherland. Berezovo still remembered His Serene Highness Prince Menshikov, Prince Dolgoruky, Osterman, and now disgraced Decembrists settled here.
       The deceased, Pavel Nikolaevich Buturlin, just committed such a crime - an attempted coup. It was lucky that they did not hang, like many of his Decembrist comrades, but only sent to Siberia, but the death from smallpox nevertheless fulfilled its ruthless sentence, as if punishing the former count for breaking the oath given to the Emperor.
      Standing at the grave, a widow swaying with grief, in a black dress and hat with a veil, and next to her were three children - a young man of sixteen and two little girls, eight and six years old.
The widow and her children did not look like the rest of the villagers, it was noticeable that they were born in a different world, belonged to a different class. It was not only the clothes that differed from the village clothes, but also in their appearance: they were distinguished by some kind of noble estate characteristic of sophistication, grace, sophistication, innate dignity in every movement. Even to the one who saw this family for the first time, it immediately became clear that these were exiled nobles.
      The family of the deceased slowly wandered back home. A small wooden blockhouse on the edge of the village now served as their home. This home was so strikingly different from the luxurious mansion of Count Buturlin in Petersburg!
Now, walking on the wet path leading to the house, Maria Alexandrovna, widow of Count Buturlin, as if in a dream recalled the events of the last weeks before her husband’s death and blamed herself for not being able to save him not so much from illness as from unwillingness to live.

      The log cabin that was allocated for the Buturlin family was quite strong, but miserable and miserable, there was practically no furniture in it, only a few wide wooden benches, and a large table with six stools. Thank God that the stove in the house was large and regularly heated the room, but all the same, both little daughters of the Buturlins were seriously ill this winter, when they had to change the climate of St. Petersburg to severe Siberian frosts.
      Maria Alexandrovna nursed girls for days, without sleep and rest, praying tirelessly for their health. This quiet, laconic woman was not used to complaining, considering it a weakness of character. In addition, she did not have time for lamentations and tears - she, as his wife and mother, the keeper of the family hearth, needed to think about how to save this same hearth even here, on the edge of the Empire, in a God-forsaken place.
      The only doctor in the entire district was many miles from Berezov, and the family did not have the opportunity to send for him, not to mention paying for his services. And therefore, Maria Alexandrovna herself treated the girls: with herbal decoctions taken from the local healer, and with fervent prayers to Nikolai Ugodnik, who the former countess muttered relentlessly day and night.
      When the girls finally got better, the countess added a new misfortune: she began to notice how her husband gradually fell into despair and dropped her hands, losing her will to live.
      Pavel Nikolaevich blamed himself for bringing his family to such a fall. Link seemed to him the end of life, after which the very meaning of existence was lost. He could not look into the eyes of his wife and children, forced to eat brown bread and empty porridge, could not explain to little daughters why they now have no toys, silk dresses and favorite pastries, and why they will never return to St. Petersburg.