The most stable, organic, new in the work of Bunin in the first years after the revolution of 1905-1907. was the desire to study social reality. The works of these years involve us in deep reflections on the history of Russia, its people, the fate of the Russian revolution. Interpenetration of national, historical, contemplative-philosophical thought is observed.
General characteristics of the "Village"
The story "The Village", created in 1910, has such a complex content in an outwardly traditional everyday appearance. This is one of the first major works of Ivan Alekseevich, written in prose. The writer worked on its creation for 10 years, starting work back in 1900.
V. V. Voronovsky described this work, which opens the village cycle in Bunin's work, as a study of the causes of "memorable failures" (that is, the reasons for the defeat of the revolution). However, the semantic content of the story is not limited to this. The story about the doom of the Russian outback, given in the "Village", is one of the most talented descriptions of the fate of the patriarchal system in the history of modern times. There is a generalized image: the village is the realm of death and hunger.
The task that the author has set for himself is to portray the Russian people without idealization. Therefore, Ivan Alekseevich conducts a merciless psychological analysis ("Village"). Bunin had rich material for him, which was given to the writer by the way of life, everyday life and psychology of the Russian backwoods, which were well known to him. A miserable, impoverished life, to match which the appearance of people - inertness, passivity, cruel customs - all this was observed by the writer, drawing conclusions, as well as conducting a thorough analysis.
"Village" (Bunin): the ideological basis of the work
The ideological basis of the story is a reflection on the complexity and problematic nature of the question "Who is to blame?". Kuzma Krasov, one of the main characters, struggles painfully to resolve this issue. He believes that there is nothing to exact from the unfortunate people, and his brother, Tikhon Krasov, that the peasants themselves are to blame for this situation.
The two characters mentioned above are the main characters of this work. Tikhon Krasov personifies the appearance of a new village master, and Kuzma - a people's intellectual. Bunin believes that the people themselves are to blame for the misfortunes, but does not give a clear answer to the question of what should be done.
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The story "Village" (Bunin): composition of the work
The action of the story takes place in the village of Durnovka, which is a collective image of the long-suffering village. In this title there is an indication of the idiocy of his life.
The composition is divided into three parts. In the first part, Tikhon is in the center, in the second part - Kuzma, in the third part the life of both brothers is summed up. Based on their fates, the problems of the Russian village are shown. The images of Kuzma and Tikhon are in many ways opposite.
Tikhon, being a descendant of serfs who managed to get rich and become the owner of an estate, is sure that money is the most reliable thing in the world. This hardworking, savvy and strong-willed man devotes his whole life to the pursuit of wealth. Kuzma Krasov, a truth-lover and folk poet, reflects on the fate of Russia, experiencing the poverty of the people and the backwardness of the peasantry.
Images of Kuzma and Tikhon
Using the example of Kuzma, Bunin shows the emerging features of a new folk psychology, Kuzma reflects on the savagery and laziness of the people, that the reasons for this are not only the difficult circumstances that the peasants fell into, but also in themselves. In contrast to the character of this hero, Ivan Bunin ("The Village") portrays Tikhon as prudent and selfish. He gradually increases the capital, and on the way to power and prosperity does not stop at any means. However, despite the chosen direction, he feels despair and emptiness, which are directly related to looking into the future of the country, which opens up pictures of an even more cruel and destructive revolution.
Through disputes, thoughts, conclusions of the brothers about himself and about his homeland, the writer shows the bright and dark sides of the life of the peasants, revealing the depth of the decline of the peasant world, conducting its analysis. "Village" (Bunin) is a deep reflection of the author about the deplorable situation created in the peasant environment.
The third part of the work is devoted to the image of the brothers at the time of the crisis - summing up the life path of the main characters of the work "The Village" (Bunin). These heroes are dissatisfied with life: Kuzma is consumed by melancholy and hopeless loneliness, Tikhon is preoccupied with a personal tragedy (lack of children), as well as the destruction of the foundations of the everyday life of the village. The brothers are aware of the hopelessness of the situation in which they find themselves. For all the difference in their characters and aspirations, the fate of these two heroes is largely similar: despite enlightenment and prosperity, the social position makes both of them superfluous, unnecessary.
The author's assessment of the revolution
The story "The Village" (Bunin) is a clear, sincere and truthful assessment of Russia during the life of the writer. He shows that those who are "rebels" are empty and stupid people who grew up in rudeness and lack of culture, and their protest is only an attempt to change something that is doomed to failure. However, they are unable to make a revolution in their own consciousness, which remains hopeless and bony, as the author's analysis shows. The village of Bunin is a sad sight.
Depiction of the peasantry
The men appear before the reader in all their ugliness: beating children and wives, wild drunkenness, torturing animals. Many Durnovites simply do not understand what is happening around them. So, the worker Koshel once visited the Caucasus, but he cannot tell anything about him, except that there is a "mountain on a mountain." His mind is "poor", he repels everything incomprehensible, new, but he believes that he has recently seen a real witch.
A soldier works as a teacher in Durnovka, the most ordinary-looking peasant, who, however, was talking such nonsense that one could only "distort with his hands." Training was presented to him as accustoming to strict army discipline.
The work "Village" (Bunin) gives us another vivid image - the peasant Gray. He was the poorest in the village, while having a lot of land. Once Gray built a new hut, but it had to be heated in winter, so he first burned the roof, and then sold the hut as well. This hero refuses to work, sits idle in an unheated dwelling, and the children are afraid of the torch, because they are used to living in the dark.
The village is the whole of Russia, therefore the fate of the whole country is reflected in the work. Bunin believed that the peasants were only capable of spontaneous and senseless rebellion. The story gives a description of how one day they rebelled throughout the county. It ended with the peasants burning down several estates, shouting "and they were silent."
Conclusion
Ivan Alekseevich was accused of hating the people, not knowing the village. But the author would never have created such a poignant story if he had not rooted for his homeland and peasants with all his heart, as can be seen in the work "The Village". Bunin wanted to show with the content of his story everything wild, dark, which prevents people and the country from developing.
The story "The Village", published in 1910, caused great controversy and was the beginning of Bunin's enormous popularity. This work, like the work of the writer as a whole, affirmed the realistic traditions of Russian classical literature. The story captures the richness of observations and colors, the strength and beauty of the language, the harmony of the drawing, the sincerity of tone and truthfulness. Despite the fact that Durnovka and the county town were chosen as the scene of the story, the scope of life in it is much wider and larger. The "village" is filled with rumors, disputes, conversations on trains, at bazaars, at gatherings, at inns. It has many actors who give the impression of a seething, many-voiced crowd. The heroes of the story are trying to understand the environment, to find some kind of foothold that will help them stay in this mighty stream, survive not only physically, but also spiritually. The general picture of life created by Bunin in "The Village" is marked by a high measure of artistic and historical authenticity. The idea of Bunin's story is based on the wide and varied experience of Russian literature. Durnovka Bunin - is the whole of Russia, as stated in the story. The name is expressive, the generalization is binding and significant. Bunin believes that the village is the national basis of the country and predetermines its development. The story "The Village" shocked with the merciless truth about the catastrophic share of the Russian village, presented "in its motley and current everyday life." In the center of the story are Tikhon and Kuzma, two siblings who adhere to different positions in life. In "The Village" the brothers Tikhon and Kuzma Krasov express different sides of the "Russian soul". Tikhon Krasov is an energetic and resourceful acquirer, a cruel, unscrupulous Russian muzhik, who bought the Durnovka bar from the ruined and took their place in the modern village. Tikhon firmly believed that the most durable and reliable thing in the world is money, which gives prosperity, well-being, and confidence in the future. In order to achieve the goal, Tikhon subordinated his whole life to the pursuit of wealth. On this path, he has to make deals with his conscience, to be tough with his fellow villagers. His temperamental, unbridled disposition is most revealed in the episode of Young's rape. The successful peasant Tikhon Krasov, who raped Young, his farm worker, and then blotted out the sin by passing her off as the dissolute Deniska, is the genetic stamp of a century-old aristocratic fun: to attach his yard mistresses to the poor peasants who have been blessed on this occasion. Marriage for profit does not bring Tikhon family happiness, for he is deprived even of the joy of fatherhood. He has no heirs to whom he could transfer the wealth accumulated throughout his life. The fate of the Krasov brothers is predetermined by the historical cycle of degeneration of Durnovka and Durnovka. Illegitimate, dead babies are a reminder of approaching death, the finiteness of life. And life with its constant fear of death becomes for Tikhon Krasov a gradual dying. The personal drama of the hero is exacerbated by social discord, when the foundations that seemed unshakable collapse. Tikhon Krasov is deeply amazed that in the fertile black earth region there can be famine, ruin and poverty. The history of the rise of Tikhon Krasov can serve as a kind of outcome of the half-century development of bourgeois relations in the Russian countryside. This result did not justify anyone's hopes. The situation of the poor peasants has become even worse, and the Durnovka peasants, as throughout Russia, are ready to start a land-hungry rebellion, and the “ceiling” of the life of the richest man in Durnovka remains depressingly low. Neither outbreaks of peasant uprisings, nor glimpses of the people's mind, nor the change of owners of Durnovka, changed, from Bunin's point of view, the fundamental foundations of national life. Bunin's own subject of research turned out to be the centuries-old deposits of the old in consciousness and in everyday life, weighing like a curse over the entire agricultural system of Russia. This determined the artistic and historical concept of the Bunin "village". Kuzma Krasov has a different understanding of life. This hero is presented to the reader as a truth seeker, a folk poet who is trying to understand and comprehend the tragedy of his people, their misfortune and guilt. Condemning the atrocities of the ruling circles, Kuzma painfully perceives poverty, backwardness, the darkness of the peasantry, its inability to rationally organize its life. Kuzma is an image of a broad generalization. This is the type of Russian talented self-taught, the type of Russian truth seeker, whose tragically sad life personifies the sad fate of hundreds and thousands of talented Russian people who have not found their way, the application of their forces. His mental interests are extinguished in the everyday life of Russian life. After all the wanderings, Kuzma returns to his brother in Durnovka and actually comes to terms with what he has. The "merciless truth" of Bunin's story was based on its author's deep knowledge of the "peasant kingdom". In it, Bunin shows the life of the peasantry on the eve of the first Russian revolution, the events of which completely destroy the usual course of life in the countryside. The heroes of the story are trying to understand the environment, to find a foothold for themselves. But the turbulent events of the beginning of the century exacerbate not only the social problems of the village, but also destroy normal human relations, lead the heroes of the "Village" into a dead end. Bunin not only saw and portrayed the working class, he perceived the proletarian merely as a peasant, "spoiled", "corrupted" by the city. This is exactly how the writer portrays the ridiculous Deniska, who has already been to Tula and is carrying “books” in his suitcase and pockets - the songbook “Marusya”, “The harlot wife”. Not only Deniska, but also all the other people of the "new village" are described by Bunin in sharply negative terms. The attitude towards the "rebels" among the peasants is especially irreconcilable. The writer shows how quickly they capitulate to those against whom they tried to rebel. Some of the "rebels" meekly capitulate to their masters; others, like Komar, die an absurd death; still others, such as Vanka Krasny, move away from those places where they tried to "stir up the people." The revolution was over, the people who tried to support it in the countryside proved incapable of sustained protest, everything in the life of the muzhik remained the same as before. Bunin emphasizes the randomness, surprise, senselessness, cruelty and aimlessness of the peasant revolt in Durnovka, which symbolizes Russia. Bunin's story "The Village" is terrifying with a fierce rejection of popular activity, popular anger against the conditions of wild existence, Bunin, with his inherent talent and detailed knowledge of the village, reflected its weakness, its centuries-old downtroddenness and backwardness, the unthinkability of the current situation in it. In Bunin's picture of village life, the rupture of social and family relations goes, as it were, in parallel and simultaneously.
The main goal that the author set himself was to reproduce exactly those incidents and events that affected Russia at the beginning of the twentieth century. Ivan Alekseevich showed the people in all their glory, not a bit softening the nature of what was happening. The work is a kind of psychological analysis, based on village life, which is quite familiar to the author himself.
The action described in the story takes place on the territory of the Russian Empire in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The main characters of the story are brothers who were born in a village with a discreet name "Durnovka". Their names are Tikhon and Kuzma, and the surname of the main characters is the Krasovs.
At a young age, they are actively involved in trade and have an excellent relationship. But, at a certain point, a quarrel arises between them, and they break off relations, practically ceasing to communicate with each other. Their paths diverge in different directions.
Tikhon, after parting, decides to open a tavern and a shop. At the same time, he buys up land for a penny, and also acquires and sells landowner's bread. Of course, such activities bring him wealth and prosperity over time. He has a lot of money and decides to purchase a manor estate. The author notes that success in the financial direction does not bring happiness and joy to Tikhon. He married, but could not have children in any way, since his wife constantly gave birth to dead babies. That is why, having reached the fiftieth birthday, he realizes that he has no heirs at all and there is simply no one to continue his activities. He understands that he wasted his years of life in vain and, with the approach of old age, begins to drink very heavily.
Kuzma, after a quarrel with his brother, led a completely different life. Even earlier, from his very childhood, he dreamed of getting a decent education. Knowing how to read and write, he begins to try himself in a variety of literature. This leads to the fact that Kuzma not only gets acquainted with the works of various writers, but also reads and writes stories and poems. He even managed to publish his own book. After rereading his edition, he realizes that his work is imperfect. In addition, books practically did not bring income. That is why he is also disappointed in his life, and like a brother, he begins to drink heavily. Strange thoughts constantly crept into Kuzma's head - either he wanted to commit suicide, or he decided to devote the rest of his life to the monastery.
With the approach of old age, both brothers realize that they absolutely cannot live without each other. It is such deplorable and unsuccessful life moments that lead them to reconciliation.
Tikhon decides to take Kuzma to him and appoints him as a manager in his rich house, his brother willingly agrees to work as a manager of the estate.
Upon returning to his native village of Durnovka, where the brothers have lived since birth, Kuzma is truly relieved and with pleasure begins to fulfill his direct duties as a manager. But after some time, Kuzma again becomes bored and sad. Conversations with his brother were rare, it was not enough for him. During the communication between Tikhon and Kuzma, only those issues that had a business orientation were discussed.
The author especially singles out the cook Avdotya, who lived on the estate. She paid no attention to Kuzma, and this depressed him greatly. The silent woman unwittingly made the life of the manager even worse and only increased the feeling of complete loneliness.
At a certain moment, Kuzma accidentally learns a secret that the cook Avdotya has been hiding for a long time. This woman used to have a relationship with his brother due to the fact that Tikhon could not have children from his own wife. But this attempt by Tikhon to acquire offspring was not crowned with success. Avdotya also could not get pregnant from the owner.
This connection became known to every person in the village. That is why no one wanted to marry her. Avdotya was disgraced by the whole village.
In order to at least a little atone for his guilt before the cook, Tikhon promises her to find a husband. But it seems that the owner does not really care how a woman will feel in marriage. He seduces with a good dowry of a real monster. When Kuzma finds out who exactly is planned to be Avdotya's husband, he refuses to participate in organizing the wedding event.
This man has a very mournful character, he regularly beats his father, the old man is constantly beaten up. But Avdotya has no other choice, and she agrees with the proposed solution. Kuzma, after a long pause, also agrees with Tikhon's choice.
The wedding celebration was organized in February. The bride was constantly in tears. Kuzma also could not hold back his tears during the blessing of Avdotya's bride. The guests invited to the holiday did not pay any attention to the fact that the bride was crying and behaved in the same way as the people usually behave at celebrations in the village - they drank strong drinks and had free fun.
Characteristics of the Krasov brothers
The images of the brothers created by the writer have completely different life values. Tikhon is almost completely sure that the main joy of a person is the presence of a large amount of money, which allows you to do whatever your heart desires. Kuzma believes that happiness is a quality education and knowledge of the foundations of the universe.The rich brother managed to achieve a lot during his activity - he earned a lot of money, became a very solid and respected person by many people. The only thing he could not achieve was the immortality that every person receives after the appearance of heirs. After the death of Tikhon, there will be nothing left. The memory of this person will be simply erased from the face.
The second brother, Kuzma, also failed to achieve what he wanted during his life. Yes, he received an education, but this scholarship could not bring him prosperity, fame, and also deprived him of respect from those around him.
Both brothers, looking back at the past years, can only observe sad consequences. Both main characters of the plot reached a dead end and turned out to be completely unnecessary - both for themselves personally and for those around them.
Characteristics of the cook Avdotya
In the work "The Village" the author pays special attention to the life situation in which the cook Avdotya got. She lives in the village and is completely subordinate to the foundations that have formed in the area. Avdotya was used for his own purposes by the main character - Tikhon. This made her even more unhappy and ruined the woman's life.Krasov knew perfectly well what he was doing, because in any case, this woman would have been disgraced. Even if she gave birth, her reputation would be irreparably damaged. But such arguments could not stop a prudent and rich man. When he tried to atone for his mistakes, in the end he did even worse - he added grief to the girl after the shame that she had previously suffered.
The character traits of the heroine and obedience to her master turned Avdotya into a slave, as well as a victim of circumstances. In this case, it was already useless to resist. Adhering to established traditions, the unfortunate, downtrodden cook agrees with all decisions made by outsiders. She is ready to perceive trouble in all its manifestations and accepts them as the inevitable blows of the fateful horn.
The image of Avdotya is closed from the outside world, she stops communicating, becomes silent and indifferent to everyone around her. She does not know what love and affection are, as she is used to being mistreated by others.
Even in Kuzma, the guest of the estate, she sees another gentleman, whose will she must unconditionally fulfill. The cook does not notice at all that the main guest of their house needs help himself. And no less than herself.
All the main characters of the story "The Village" are unhappy. This is not a coincidence. Bunin shows that despite the different values of life, in general, the Russian people are deeply unhappy.
The story "The Village" is one of the first major prose works of I.A. Bunin, which immediately put him on a par with the most famous writers of the early 20th century.
In the center of the story is the fate of two Krasov brothers: Tikhon and Kuzma. Both of them are descendants of serfs. However, in the new economic conditions, Tikhon, a man with a strong-willed character, quickly went uphill and bought out the very estate, the owner of which once hunted his great-grandfather with greyhounds. Having become the owner of Durnovka (the speaking name of the village reminds of the absurdities and contrasts of Russian life in general), Tikhon Ilyich showed himself to be an imperious master: "He followed every inch of the earth like a hawk."
Through the description of the life of the Krasov brothers and other heroes of the story, a panoramic picture of the life and customs of the Russian people emerges: poverty, superstition reign all around, there are rumors of upcoming riots. However, Bunin, as you know, was an opponent of social revolutions and tried with all his might to reconcile the interests of the master and the peasant, believing that the life of a prosperous peasant and an impoverished nobleman in Russia was approximately the same.
The disorder of Russian life is clearly emphasized in the story by the interior. In the house of Tikhon Ilyich, a dirty heavy blanket lies in the hallway, and two large sofas are overflowing with live and crushed dried bugs. What can we say about the hut of a poor peasant, which is described by I.A. Bunin on the example of Gray's dwelling, where there is no light, people live in the same room with cattle, and in the middle of the hut a hungry baby is writhing in a cradle from screaming.
Tikhon's brother Kuzma is a less practical man. By conviction, he is an anarchist, writes poetry. Handing over the management of the estate to him, Tikhon thinks: “An unreliable brother, an empty one, it seems, a man, well, as long as he can do it!”
In disputes between Kuzma and Balashkin, I.A. Bunin is trying to embody the controversy about the Russian people.
Kuzma often thinks about why he lives in the world, and bitterly realizes his hopeless loneliness.
A special role in the story is played by the image of Young, who, due to his master's whim, was taken by force by Tikhon Ilyich, then dishonored by the townspeople. This image of a disenfranchised Russian woman, hunted down by poverty, hard physical labor and bondage.
Having raped Young, Tikhon Ilyich shows an imaginary concern for her. Helping her first husband, who brutally beat a woman, get out into the other world, he marries her to Deniska, promising a rich dowry. This wedding, in fact, no one needs. Young is a calm, economic woman. She has a naturally kind heart. This is evidenced by her attitude towards the old Ivanushka, whom she affectionately, carefully feeds. “She smiled only at him alone,” writes I.A. Bunin. How many unspent tender feelings are hidden in the heart of this woman, who is not spoiled by fate.
Having learned about the upcoming wedding with Deniska, Young first agrees to her in order to somehow arrange her fate. Newlyweds are given gifts, a pig was slaughtered for the wedding. At the last moment, Kuzma, who dissuaded Young from this marriage, asks her: “Maybe we should throw this whole story away?” However, she feels that it is embarrassing to refuse, because she has already incurred expenses.
In the wedding scene, this idea of an unnecessary wedding looks even more ridiculous. Pain and sadness are heard in the words of the author when he writes: “And the hand of the Young, which seemed even more beautiful and dead in the crown, trembled, and the wax of the melting candle dripped onto the frills of her blue dress ...”.
The author's anxiety for the fate of Young in this unequal marriage is accompanied by pain for the fate of Russia. The village of Durnovka in the story symbolizes, in fact, our entire long-suffering country. And the central characters of the work - the Krasov brothers - are two sides of Russian life: the desire from the village to the city, and from the city to the village.
Where is my child?
Where is his bed?
He is in a high tower,
In a painted cradle.
Nobody visit us
Do not knock on the tower!
He fell asleep, rested
Covered with a dark canopy
Colored taffeta...
What a terrible mess
Death collects from people!
He faithfully served the king,
He loved his neighbor with all his heart,
Was respected by people...
hush, leaves, don't make noise,
Don't wake up Kostya! ¡
And, remembering his child, crushed in a dream by a dumb cook, he blinked from the welling tears.
On the highway that goes past the cemetery and disappears among the undulating fields, no one ever drives. They drive along a dusty country road, nearby. Tikhon Ilyich also rode along the country road. A tattered carriage cab flashed towards him, county cabbies dashing dashingly! and in the cab a city hunter: at his feet a piebald pointing dog, on his knees a gun in a case, on his feet high waders, although there were no swamps in the county. And Tikhon Ilyich clenched his teeth angrily; The midday sun was beating down, the wind was blowing hot, the cloudless sky was becoming slate. And Tikhon Ilyich turned away more and more angrily from the dust flying along the road, and looked more and more preoccupied at the lean, drying up bread. Crowds of pilgrims tortured by fatigue and heat walked with a measured step, with high staffs. They made low, humble bows to Tikhon Ilyich, but now everything again seemed to him a swindle. Humble! And I suppose they squabble at nights, like dogs! Raising clouds of dust, the horses were driven by drunken peasants returning from the fair, red, gray, black, but all equally ugly, skinny and shaggy. And, overtaking their rattling carts, Tikhon Ilyich shook his head: Oh, rogues, go to hell! One, in a chintz shirt torn to ribbons, was sleeping, pounding like a dead man, lying on his back, his head thrown back, his bloodied beard and nose swollen with dried blood. The other ran, caught up with his hat torn off by the wind, stumbled, and Tikhon Ilyich, with malicious pleasure, pulled him out with a whip. I came across a cart full of sieves, shovels and women; sitting with their backs to the horse, they shook and jumped; one had a new children's cap on her head with the visor backwards, another sang, the third waved her arms and shouted after Tikhon Ilyich with laughter: Uncle! I lost my check! Behind the outpost, where the highway turned aside, where the rattling carts fell behind and the silence, spaciousness and heat of the steppe enveloped him, he again felt that, after all, the most important thing in the world was “business”. Oh, and poverty is all around! The peasants were ruined to the ground, there was no market left in the impoverished estates scattered around the county ... The owner would be here, the owner! Halfway there was the large village of Rivne. Dry wind swept along the empty streets, along the vines, burned by the heat. At the rapids, hens ruffled and buried themselves in the ashes. A wild-colored church jutted out roughly on a bare pasture. Behind the church, a shallow clay pond under a manure dam gleamed in the sun - thick yellow water in which a herd of cows stood, every minute attending to their needs, and a naked peasant lathered his head. He entered the water up to his waist, a copper cross shone on his chest, his neck and face were black from sunburn, and his body was strikingly pale and white. Unbridle the horse, said Tikhon Ilyich, driving into the pond, smelling of a herd. The peasant threw a bluish-marble remnant on the bank, black with cow droppings, and, with a grey, soapy head, bashfully closing himself, hastened to fulfill the order. The horse leaned greedily on the water, but the water was so warm and disgusting that it lifted its muzzle and turned away. Whistling to her, Tikhon Ilyich shook his cap: Well, and you have water! Are you drinking? Do you have sugar ai? affectionately and cheerfully objected the peasant. We have been drinking for a thousand years! Yes, water, what here is some bread... Beyond Rovny the road went through solid rye, again skinny, weak, overflowing with cornflowers ... And near Vyselki, near Durnovka, rooks with open silvery beaks sat in a cloud on a hollow, gnarled willow, for some reason they love the fire: these days there is only one title only black skeletons of huts among the garbage. The rubbish smoked with a milky bluish haze, there was a sour smell of burning ... And the thought of a fire pierced Tikhon Ilyich with lightning. "Trouble!" he thought, turning pale. Nothing is insured with him, everything can fly off in one hour ... From these Petrovka, from this memorable trip to the fair, Tikhon Ilyich began to drink - and still often, not drunk, but to the point of a decent redness of his face. However, this did not interfere with business, but did not interfere, according to him, and health. “Vodka polishes the blood,” he said. Even now he often called his life penal servitude, a noose, a golden cage. But he walked along his road more and more confidently, and several years passed so monotonously that everything merged into one working day. And the new major events turned out to be something that they did not look forward to, the war with Japan and the revolution. Talk about the war began, of course, with boasting. “The Cossack will soon let down his yellow skin, brother!” But other words were soon heard. There is nowhere to put your land! Tikhon Ilyich also spoke in a strict economic tone. Not war, sir, but downright nonsense! And the news of the terrible defeats of the Russian army led him to malevolent admiration: Wow, great! So them, their mother so! At first, the revolution also delighted, and the murders delighted. How he gave this very minister under the vein, Tikhon Ilyich sometimes said in the heat of delight, how he gave there was no dust left of him! But as soon as they started talking about the alienation of lands, anger began to wake up in him. “All Jews work! All the Jews, sir, and here are those shaggy-haired students ! And it was incomprehensible: everyone was saying revolution, revolution, and around everything was the same, everyday: the sun is shining, rye is blooming in the field, the carts are reaching for the station ... The people were incomprehensible in their silence, in their evasive speeches. He became secretive, people! Just horror, how secretive! said Tikhon Ilyich. And, forgetting about the Jews, he added: Let's suppose that all this music is simple, sir. Change the government and equalize the land - after all, even a baby will understand, sir. And, therefore, the matter is clear for whom he oppresses, the people. But, of course, he is silent. And it is necessary, therefore, to follow, and strive so hard to keep quiet. Don't let him go! Otherwise, hold on: if he smells good luck, if he smells a helmet under his tail, he will shatter to smithereens, sir! When he read or heard that land would be taken away only from those who had more than five hundred acres, he himself became a "troublemaker." He even got into an argument with the men. It happened a man stands near his shop and says: No, it's you, Ilyich, don't interpret. By a fair assessment it is possible, take it. And so no, not good ... It's hot, it smells of pine planks piled up near the barns, opposite the yard. You can hear how behind the trees and behind the buildings of the station, the hot steam locomotive of the freight train is hoarse, making chests. Tikhon Ilyich is standing without a hat, screwing up his eyes and smiling slyly. Smiling and replies: Yes. And if he is not the owner, but a lodar? Who? Barin something? Well, this is a special case. It is not a sin to take away from such and such and with all the giblets! Well, that's it! But other news came they would take less than five hundred! and absent-mindedness, captiousness immediately took possession of the soul. Everything that is done around the house began to seem disgusting. Egor's henchman was carrying flour sacks out of the shop and began shaking them out. The top of the head is a wedge, the hair is hard and thick "and why is it so thick on fools?" the forehead is depressed, the face is slanting like an egg, the eyes of a fish are bulging, and the eyelids with white, calf eyelashes are exactly stretched over them: it seems that there is not enough skin, that if the small one closes them, you will need to open your mouth, if he closes his mouth you will have to open your eyelids wide. And Tikhon Ilyich shouted angrily: Daldon! Duleb! What are you shaking at me? His chambers, kitchen, shop and barn, where there used to be a wine trade, all this was one log house, under one iron roof. Sheds of livestock hutches, covered with straw, were closely adjacent to it on three sides, and a cozy square was obtained. The barns stood opposite the house, across the road. To the right was the station, to the left was the highway. Behind the highway there is a birch forest. And when Tikhon Ilyich felt uneasy, he went out onto the highway. Like a white ribbon, from pass to pass, it ran south, descending along with the fields and again rising to the horizon only from a distant booth, where it was crossed by a cast-iron coming from the southeast. And if it happened that one of the Durnovsky peasants was driving - of course, who is more efficient, more reasonable, for example, Yakov, whom everyone calls Yakov Mikitich because he is "rich" and greedy, Tikhon Ilyich stopped him. If only I could buy a cap! he shouted with a grin. Yakov, in a hat, in a zamushka shirt, in short heavy trousers and barefoot, was sitting on the bed of the cart. He pulled on the rope reins, stopping the well-fed mare. Great, Tikhon Ilyich, he said with restraint. Great! I say, it's time to donate the hat to the jackdaw nests! Yakov, with a sly grin at the ground, nodded his head. It's... how to say?.. it wouldn't be bad. Yes, capital, for example, does not allow. Will interpret something! We know you, Kazan orphans! He gave the girl away, married the young man, there is money ... What else do you want from the Lord God? This flattered Yakov, but even more restrained him. Oh my God! sighing, he muttered in a trembling voice. Money... For example, I didn't have any in the institution... And the kid... what's the kid? The small one is not happy... It must be said directly not happy! Yakov was, like many men, very nervous, and especially when it came to his family and household. He was very secretive, but here nervousness overcame, although only jerky, trembling speech revealed it. And, in order to completely disturb him, Tikhon Ilyich asked sympathetically: Not happy? Tell me please! And all because of the woman? Jacob, looking around, scraping his chest with his nails: Because of a woman, her relative hurt her ... Jealous? Jealous... She signed me up as a daughter-in-law... And Jacob's eyes flickered: There she pressed on her husband, there she pressed on! Yes, I wanted to poison! Sometimes, for example, you'll cool down... smoke a little to make your chest feel better... Well, she put a cigarette under my pillow... If I didn't look, I'd be lost! What kind of cigarette is this? I pushed the bones of the dead and instead of tobacco and poured ... That's a little fool! I would teach her in Russian! Where are you going! I, for example, climbed on my chest! And he himself winds like a snake! .. I’ll grab my head, but my head is shorn… Tikhon Ilyich shook his head, was silent for a minute, and finally made up his mind: Well, how are you there? Are you waiting for a riot? But here secrecy immediately returned to Yakov. He smiled and waved his hand. Well! he muttered in a patter. What the hell is there riot! We have a humble people... a humble people... And pulled the reins, as if the horse was not worth it. And why was the gathering on Sunday? Tikhon Ilyich suddenly threw angrily. Gathering something? And the plague knows them! Fooled, for example... I know what they were talking about! Well, I’m not hiding ... They chatted, for example, that they came out, they say, an order ... came out like an order not to work for the masters at the same price ... It was very insulting to think that because of some Durnovka, the hands fell off the job. And there are only three dozen households in this Durnovka. And she lies in a damn yaruga: a wide ravine, on one side - a hut, on the other - a farmstead. And this manor with huts looks at each other and from day to day is waiting for some kind of “instruction” ... Oh, take a few Cossacks with lashes! But the "order" did come out. One Sunday a rumor spread that there was a gathering in Durnovka, and a plan was being worked out to attack the estate. With maliciously joyful eyes, with a feeling of unusual strength and audacity, with a readiness to "break the very devil's horns", Tikhon Ilyich shouted "harness the colt to the joggers" and ten minutes later he was already driving him along the highway to Durnovka. The sun was setting after a rainy day in gray-red clouds, the trunks in the birch forest were scarlet, the dirt road, sharply distinguished by black-violet mud among the fresh greenery, was heavy. Pink foam fell from the colt's haunches, from the harness that fidgeted over them. Snapping the reins firmly, Tikhon Ilyich turned away from the cast-iron, took the field road to the right, and, seeing Durnovka, doubted for a moment the veracity of the rumors of a mutiny. Peaceful silence was all around, the larks peacefully sang their evening songs, the smell of damp earth and the sweetness of wild flowers simply and calmly ... But suddenly the eye fell on the pairs near the estate, densely dotted with yellow sweet clover: a peasant herd was grazing on its pairs! It has begun, then! And, jerking the reins, Tikhon Ilyich flew past the herd, past the barn overgrown with burdocks and nettles, past the undersized garden full of sparrows, past the stables and the people's hut, and jumped into the yard... And then something absurd happened: in the twilight, dying from anger, resentment and fear, Tikhon Ilyich sat in the field on the joggers. His heart was pounding, his hands were trembling, his face was on fire, his hearing was sensitive, like that of an animal. He sat, listening to the cries coming from Durnovka, and recalled how the crowd, which seemed huge, tumbled, seeing him, through the ravine to the estate, filled the yard with clamor and abuse, huddled at the porch and pressed him to the door. In his hands he only had a whip. And he waved them, now retreating, now desperately throwing himself into the crowd. But the advancing saddler, angry, lean, with a sunken belly, sharp-nosed, in boots and a purple chintz shirt, waved his stick even wider and bolder. He, on behalf of the entire crowd, yelled that an order had been issued to "spoil this matter" to swindle on the same day and hour throughout the province: to drive out of all the savings outside laborers, to intercede for their work as locals, for a ruble for a day! And Tikhon Ilyich yelled even more furiously, trying to drown out the saddler: Ah! That's how! Pricked up, tramp, agitators? Got enough? And the saddler tenaciously, on the fly, caught his words. You're a tramp! he yelled, pouring blood. You, gray-haired fool! Oh, I don't know how much land you have? How much, cater? Two hundred? And I have damn! I have her and everything from your porch! And why? Who are you? Who are you, I ask you? From what such kvass? Well, remember, Mitka! Tikhon Ilyich finally shouted helplessly and, feeling that his head was in a turmoil, rushed through the crowd to the runners. Remember you yourself! But no one was afraid of threats, and a friendly cackle, roar and whistle rushed after him ... And then he traveled around the estate, froze, listened. He drove out onto the road, to the crossroads and stood facing the dawn, to the station, ready at any moment to hit the horse. It was quiet, warm, damp and dark. The earth, rising to the horizon, where a faint reddish light still smoldered, was as black as an abyss. S-stop, bitch! Tikhon Ilyich whispered through his teeth to a moving horse. Hundred-oh! And from a distance came voices, screams. And from all the voices stood out the voice of Vanka the Red, who had already visited the Donetsk mines twice. And then a dark pillar of fire suddenly rose over the estate: the peasants lit a hut in the garden, and the pistol, forgotten in the hut by an escaped tradesman-gardener, began firing from the fire by itself ... Subsequently, they learned that, indeed, a miracle had happened: on the same day, peasants rebelled almost all over the county. And the hotels of the city were for a long time crowded with landowners who sought protection from the authorities. But later Tikhon Ilyich recalled with great shame that he, too, was looking for her: with shame, because the whole rebellion ended with the muzhiks yelling around the district, burning and destroying several estates, and they fell silent. The saddler soon, as if nothing had happened, again began to appear in the shop on Vorgla and respectfully took off his hat on the threshold, as if not noticing that Tikhon Ilyich's face darkened at his appearance. However, there were still rumors that the Durnovites were going to kill Tikhon Ilyich. And he was afraid of being late on the way from Durnovka, felt the bulldog in his pocket, annoyingly pulling the pocket of his trousers, took an oath to himself to burn Durnovka to the ground one fine night ... to poison the water in Durnovka's ponds ... Then the rumors ceased. But Tikhon Ilyich began to firmly think of getting rid of Durnovka. “Not the money that my grandmother has, but the one in the bosom!” This year Tikhon Ilyich was already fifty. But the dream of becoming a father did not leave him. And so she pushed him against Rodka. Rodka, a lanky, gloomy fellow from Ulyanovka, went two years ago to the yard to Yakov's widow's brother, Fedot; married, buried Fedot, who died from drinking at a wedding, and went into the soldiers. And the young, slender, with very white, delicate skin, with a thin blush, with forever lowered eyelashes, began to work on the estate, on a day job. And these eyelashes worried Tikhon Ilyich terribly. Durnovsky women wear “horns” on their heads: as soon as from under the crown, the braids are placed on top, covered with a scarf and form something wild, cow-like. They wear ancient dark purple pony with a girdle, a white apron like a sundress and bast shoes. But Young, this nickname remained behind her, was good in this outfit too. And one evening, in the dark barn, where the Young One was stalking an ear, Tikhon Ilyich, looking around, quickly went up to her and quickly said: You will walk in half boots, in silk scarves ... I won’t regret a quarter! But Young was silent as if killed. Do you hear? shouted Tikhon Ilyich in a whisper. But Young seemed to be petrified, bowing her head and throwing a rake. And so he did not achieve anything. Suddenly Rodka appeared: ahead of time, crooked. It was shortly after the revolt of the Durnovites, and Tikhon Ilyich immediately hired Rodka, together with his wife, to the Durnovo estate, referring to the fact that "now you can't do without a soldier." On the eve of Ilyin's Day, Rodka left for the city to get new brooms and shovels, and Young was washing the floors in the house. Stepping through the puddles, Tikhon Ilyich entered the room, looked at the Young Lady bending to the floor, at her white calves splashed with dirty water, at her whole body resounding in marriage ... And suddenly, somehow especially deftly controlling his strength and desire, stepped towards Young. She quickly straightened up, raised her excited, flushed face, and holding a wet rag in her hand, strangely shouted: So I will lubricate you, little one! There was a smell of hot slop, hot body, sweat... And, seizing Young's hand, brutally squeezing it, shaking it and knocking out a piece of rag, Tikhon Ilyich caught Young by the waist with his right hand, pressed it to him, so that the bones crunched, and carried it to another room where there was a bed. And, throwing back her head, widening her eyes, the young woman no longer struggled, did not resist... After that, it became painful to see his wife, Rodka, to know that he was sleeping with Young, that he was savagely beating her every day and every night. And soon it got creepy. Inscrutable are the ways along which a jealous person comes to the truth. And Rodka came. Thin, crooked, long-armed and strong, like a monkey, with a small short-cropped black head, which he always bent, looking with a deeply sunken shining eye from under his brows, he became terrible. In the soldiers, he picked up Khokhlack words and accents. And if the Young Lady dared to object to his short, harsh speeches, he calmly took the belt whip, approached her with an evil grin and, through his teeth, calmly asked, hitting the “in”: What are you talking about? And he pulled her out so that her eyes darkened. Once Tikhon Ilyich stumbled upon this massacre and, unable to bear it, shouted: What are you doing, you bastard? But Rodka calmly sat down on the bench and only looked at him. What are you talking about? he asked. And Tikhon Ilyich hastened to slam the door... Wild thoughts began to flicker: to adjust so, for example, that Rodka would be crushed somewhere by the roof or the ground ... But a month passed, another passed, and hope, that hope that had intoxicated with these thoughts, cruelly got pregnant! What was the reason for continuing to play with fire after that? It was necessary to deal with Rodka, to drive him away as soon as possible. But who was to replace him? Rescued the case. Unexpectedly, Tikhon Ilyich reconciled with his brother and persuaded him to take over the management of Durnovka. He learned from an acquaintance in the city that Kuzma had long served as a clerk for the landowner Kasatkin and, most surprising of all, had become an "author". Yes, they allegedly printed a whole book of his poems and marked on the back: "The author's warehouse." Ta-ak-s! drawled Tikhon Ilyich, hearing this. He is Kuzma, but nothing! And what, let me ask you, did they print it like that: an essay by Kuzma Krasov? All honor with honor, answered an acquaintance, who firmly believed, however, like many in the city, that Kuzma “rips off” his poems from books, from magazines. Then Tikhon Ilyich, without leaving his seat, at a table in Daev's tavern, wrote a firm and brief note to his brother; It's time for the old people to reconcile, to repent. And the next day, and reconciliation, and a business conversation with Daev. It was morning, the tavern was still empty. The sun shone through the dusty windows, illuminated the tables covered with damp red tablecloths, the dark, freshly bran-washed floor, smelling of the stables, the clerks in white shirts and white trousers. In the cage, in every way, as inanimate, as wound up, the canary was flooded. Tikhon Ilyich, with a nervous and serious face, sat down at the table, and as soon as he demanded a couple of teas, a long-familiar voice sounded over his ear: Well, hello. Kuzma was shorter than him, bony, drier. He had a large, thin, slightly cheeky face, frowning gray eyebrows, small greenish eyes. He didn't just start. First, I will tell you, Tikhon Ilyich, he began, as soon as Tikhon Ilyich poured tea for him, I will tell you who I am so that you know ... He grinned: Who are you messing with ... And he had a way of rapping out syllables, raising his eyebrows, unbuttoning and fastening his jacket with the top button when talking. And buttoning up, he continued: You see, I am an anarchist... Tikhon Ilyich raised his eyebrows. Don't be afraid. I don't do politics. And you won't tell anyone to think. And there is no harm to you here. I will manage properly, but, I say frankly, I will not flay. And the times are not the same, Tikhon Ilyich sighed. Well, the times are still the same . You can still, fight something. No, it doesn't fit. I will manage, I will give my free time to self-development ... that is, reading. Oh, keep in mind: you will read you will not count in your pocket! said, shaking his head and twitching the tip of his lips, Tikhon Ilyich. Yes, perhaps, and this is not our business. Well, I don't think so, objected Kuzma. I, brother, how shall I tell you? strange Russian type. I myself am a Russian person, keep in mind, put in Tikhon Ilyich. Yes, different. I do not want to say that I am better than you, but different. You, I see, are proud that you are Russian, and I, brother, oh, far from being a Slavophile! It is not appropriate to play much, but I will say one thing: do not boast, for God's sake, that you are Russians. We are a wild people! Tikhon Ilyich, frowning, drummed his fingers on the table. That's probably right, he said. Wild people. Crazy. Well, that's it. I can say that I staggered around the world quite a bit, so what? I have never seen more boring and lazier types anywhere. And whoever is not lazy, squinted Kuzma p.) brother, there is no point in that either. Tears, gangsters his nest, but what's the point? How so what's the point? asked Tikhon Ilyich. Yes, yes. Twisting it, a nest, is also necessary with meaning. Sow, they say, and I will live like a human being. Here it is, yes here it is. And Kuzma tapped his chest and forehead with his finger. We, brother, apparently, are not up to it, said Tikhon Ilyich. “Live near the village, sip gray cabbage soup, scold thin bast shoes!” Bast shoes! Kuzma responded caustically. For the second thousand years, brother, we carry them, be they thrice cursed! And who is to blame? Tatars, you see, crushed! You see, we are young people! But maybe there, in Europe, they also pressed a lot - all sorts of Mongols. Perhaps the Germans are no older ... Well, yes, this is a special conversation! Right! said Tikhon Ilyich. Let's talk about business! Kuzma, however, began to finish: I don't go to church... So you are a Molokan? Tikhon Ilyich asked and thought: “I am lost! Apparently, we must get rid of Durnovka!” Like a Molokan, Kuzma chuckled. Yes, do you go? If it weren't for fear and neediness, I would have completely forgotten. Well, I'm not the first, I'm not the last, objected Tikhon Ilyich, frowning. All sinners. Why, it is said: in one breath, everything is forgiven. Kuzma shook his head. You speak habitually! he said sternly. And you stop and think: how is it so? He lived and lived as a pig all his life, sighed, and everything disappeared as if by hand! Does it make sense or not? The conversation was getting heavy. "That's right, too," thought Tikhon Ilyich, looking at the table with shining eyes. But, as always, he wanted to avoid thoughts and talk about God, about life, and he said the first thing that came to mind: And I would be glad to heaven, but sins are not allowed. Here, here, here! picked up Kuzma, tapping his fingernail on the table. Our most beloved, our most disastrous feature: the word is one thing, but the deed is another! Russian, brother, music: it's bad to live like a pig, but still I live and will live like a pig! Well, let's talk business... The canary is silent. The tavern was crowded with people. Now it was heard from the market how, somewhere in the shop, a quail was beating surprisingly clearly and loudly. And while the business conversation was going on, Kuzma kept listening to him and sometimes in an undertone picked up: "Smart!" Having agreed, he slammed his palm on the table and said energetically: Well, then, so, don't become a pushover! and, reaching into the side pocket of his jacket, he took out a whole pile of papers and papers, found among them a little book in a marble-gray cover and placed it in front of his brother. Here! he said. I yield to your request and my weakness. The book is bad, the verses are ill-considered, long-standing... But there is nothing to be done. Here, take it and hide it. And again Tikhon Ilyich was excited that his brother was the author, that on this marble-gray cover was printed: "Poems by K. I. Krasov." He turned the book over in his hands and said timidly: Otherwise, I would read something ... Eh? Do me a favor, read the rhyme three or four! And, lowering his head, putting on his pince-nez, putting the book far away from him and sternly looking at it through the glasses, Kuzma began to read what self-taught people usually read: imitations of Koltsov, Nikitin, complaints about fate and need, challenges to the setting cloud-bad weather. But there were pink spots on her thin cheekbones, and her voice trembled at times. Tikhon Ilyich's eyes also shone. It didn't matter if the poems were good or bad, what mattered was that they were composed by his own brother, a simple man who smelled of shag and old boots... And with us, Kuzma Ilyich, he said, when Kuzma fell silent and, taking off his pince-nez, looked down, and we have one song ... And unpleasantly, bitterly twitched his lip: We have one song: what for? Having settled his brother in Durnovka, however, he set to work on this song even more willingly than before. Before handing over Durnovka to his brother, he found fault with Rodka because of the new tugs eaten by the dogs, and refused him. Rodka chuckled defiantly in response and calmly went to the hut to collect his belongings. The young woman listened to the refusal, too, as if calmly, , having parted with Tikhon Ilyich, she again adopted the manner of impassively silent, not looking into his eyes. But half an hour later, having already gathered, Rodka came with her to ask for forgiveness. The young woman stood on the threshold, pale, with swollen eyelids from tears, and was silent; Rodka bent his head, crumpled his cap and also tried to cry, grimaced disgustingly, and Tikhon Ilyich sat and squinted his eyebrows, clicked on the abacus. He had mercy on only one thing - he did not deduct for tugs. Now he was firm. Getting rid of Rodka and handing things over to his brother, he felt cheerful, all right. "Unreliable brother, empty, it seems, a man, well, but as long as it will come down!" And, returning to Vorgol, he busied himself tirelessly throughout October. And, as if in harmony with his mood, the weather was wonderful throughout October. But all of a sudden it broke, was replaced by a storm, downpours, and something completely unexpected happened in Durnovka. Rodka worked in October on the cast-iron line, and Young lived idle at home, only occasionally earning a five-kopeck piece, two kopecks in the garden at the estate. She behaved strangely: at home she was silent, crying, but in the garden she was sharply cheerful, laughing, singing songs with Donka Koza, a very stupid and beautiful girl who looked like an Egyptian. The goat lived with a tradesman who rented a garden, and Young, who for some reason became friends with her, looked defiantly at his brother, an impudent boy, and, glancing, hinted in songs that she was drying up for someone. It is not known whether she had anything with him, but it all ended in great misfortune: leaving near Kazanskaya for the city, the townspeople arranged an “evening” in their hut, invited Goat and Young, played all night on two showers, fed girlfriends with zhamki, gave tea and vodka to drink, and at dawn, when they had already harnessed the cart, suddenly, with laughter, they threw the drunken Young to the ground, tied her hands, raised her skirts, gathered them in a bundle over her head and began to twist with a rope. The goat rushed to run, huddled with fear in the wet weeds, and when she looked out of them, after the cart with the burghers rolled hard out of the garden, she saw that Young, naked to the waist, was hanging on a tree. There was a sad misty dawn, a fine rain was whispering in the garden, the Goat was crying in three streams, she didn’t get a tooth on the tooth, untying the Young, she swore by her father-mother that she, the Goat, would be killed with thunder sooner than they would find out in the village what had happened in the garden. .. But not even a week, as rumors spread around Durnovka about the disgrace of the Young. It was, of course, impossible to verify these rumors: “No one has seen it, but the Goat will take it cheaply.” However, the conversations caused by rumors did not stop, and everyone was looking forward with great impatience to the arrival of Rodka and his reprisals against his wife. Worried, out of the rut again! expected this reprisal and Tikhon Ilyich, who learned the story in the garden from his workers: after all, the story could have ended in murder! But it ended in such a way that it is still not known what would have struck Durnovka more, the murder or such an end: on the night of Mikhailov's day, Rodka, who came home to "change his shirt", died "from the stomach"! This became known on Vorgla late in the evening, but Tikhon Ilyich immediately ordered the horse to be harnessed and in the darkness, in the rain, rushed to his brother. And rashly, after drinking a bottle of liquor with tea, in passionate expressions, with shifty eyes, he repented to him: My sin, brother, my sin! Kuzma was silent for a long time, after listening to him, he paced the room for a long time, fiddling with his fingers, breaking them and cracking his joints. Finally, out of nowhere, he said: So you think: is there anyone more fierce than our people? In the city, the whole gluttonous row is chasing after a thief who has grabbed a penny cake from a stall, and if he catches up, he feeds him with soap. The whole city is running to the fire, to the fight, but how sorry it is that the fire or the fight is soon over! Don't shake your head, don't shake your head: he's sorry! And how do they enjoy it when someone beats his wife with a mortal combat, or beats up a boy like Sidorov's goat, or makes fun of him? This is the most fun topic ever. Keep in mind, Tikhon Ilyich interrupted warmly, there were always and everywhere a lot of swindlers. Yes. But you yourself did not bring this ... well, how is it? Fool something this? Motya Duck Head, or what? asked Tikhon Ilyich. Well, here, here ... Didn't you bring him to your place for fun? And Tikhon Ilyich chuckled: he brought it. Once even Motya was delivered to him in a cast-iron pot in a sugar barrel. The authorities are familiar well, they delivered it. And on the barrel they wrote: “Caution. Damned fool." And they teach these very fools masturbation for fun! Kuzma continued bitterly. Poor brides smear gates with tar! Poison beggars dogs! For fun, pigeons are knocked off the roofs with stones! And there are these doves, you see, a great sin. The holy spirit itself, you see, takes on the image of a dove! The samovar had long since cooled down, the candle had swollen, the smoke was dull blue in the room, the whole slop bowl was full of stinking soaked cigarette butts. The fan, a tin pipe in the upper corner of the window, was open, and sometimes something in it began to squeal, whirl and whine dully, like in a volost government, thought Tikhon Ilyich. But it was so smoky that even ten fans would not have helped. And the rain rustled on the roof, and Kuzma walked like a pendulum from corner to corner and said: Yes, well, nothing to say! Kindness indescribable! You read history your hair will stand on end: brother against brother, matchmaker against matchmaker, son against father, treachery and murder, murder and treachery ... Epics are also a pleasure: “teared his white chests”, “let out the guts to the ground” .. Ilya, so that of his own daughter “stepped on his left foot and pulled his right foot” ... And the songs? Everything is the same, everything is the same: the stepmother “dashing and greedy”, the father-in-law “fierce and picky”, “sits on the ward, like a dog on a rope”, the mother-in-law is again “fierce”, “sits on the stove; exactly a bitch on a chain", sister-in-law certainly "dogs and slanderers", brothers-in-law "evil scoffers", husband "either a fool or a drunkard", his "father-in-law makes Zhana beat more painfully, lower the skin to toe", and the daughter-in-law to this very priest “she washed the floors poured into the cabbage soup, the threshold of the scraper baked the pie”, she addresses the hubby with such a re “Get up, hateful, wake up, here’s slop for you wash yourself, in you onuchi wipe off, here’s a piece for you hang yourself” ... And our jokes, Tikhon Ilyich! Is it possible to invent dirtier obscene! And proverbs! “For a beaten man they give two unbeaten men” ... “Simplicity is worse than theft” ... So, in your opinion, is it better for beggars to live? Tikhon Ilyich asked mockingly. And Kuzma joyfully picked up his words: Well, here, here! There is no one in the whole world more naked than us, but on the other hand, there is no more impudent for this very nakedness. What's worse to hurt? Poverty! "Heck! You have nothing to eat...” Yes, here’s an example for you: Deniska ... well, this ... the son of Gray ... a shoemaker ... the other day and says to me ... Stop, interrupted Tikhon Ilyich, but how is Gray himself doing? Deniska says "he's starving." Bitch man! said Tikhon Ilyich with conviction. And you don’t sing songs to me about him. I don't sing, Kuzma answered angrily. Listen better about Deniska. So he tells me: “Sometimes, in a year of famine, we, apprentices, would go out to Chernaya Sloboda, and there these prostitutes were visibly invisible. And hungry, skins, hungry! You give her half a pound of bread for all the work, and she and eat it all under you... It was such a laugh! ..” Notice! shouted Kuzma sternly, stopping: “It was such a laugh!” Yes, you wait, for Christ's sake, Tikhon Ilyich interrupted again, let me say a word about the matter! Kuzma stopped. Well, talk, he said. Just say something? How about you? No way! To give money that's all for a short time. After all, think about it: there is nothing to drown with, nothing to eat, nothing to bury! And then hire her again. To me, to the cooks... Tikhon Ilyich went home as soon as light, on a cold foggy morning, when there was still a smell of wet threshing floors and smoke, the roosters sang sleepily in the village, hidden by fog, the dogs slept by the porch, the old turkey slept, perched on the bough of a half-naked apple tree near the house, bloomed with dead autumn leaves. In the field, two paces away, nothing could be seen behind the thick gray haze driven by the wind. Tikhon Ilyich did not want to sleep, but he felt exhausted and, as always, drove his horse hard, a big bay mare with a tied tail, wet and seemed thinner, dapper, blacker. He turned away from the wind, raised the cold and damp collar of his chuyka to the right, silvered from the smallest rain beads that completely covered it, looked through the cold droplets hanging on his eyelashes, how the sticky black earth was wrapping itself thicker and thicker on a running wheel, how he stood in front of him and did not pass a whole a fountain of highly jostling clods of mud that had already covered his bootlegs looked askance at the horse's working thigh, at its pressed foggy ears ... And when he, with a face mottled with mud, finally flew up to the house, the first thing Yakov's horse was at the hitch. Quickly winding the reins on the front, he jumped off the runners, ran to the open door of the shop, and stopped in fright. Daldo-it! Nastasya Petrovna spoke behind the counter, apparently imitating him, Tikhon Ilyich, but in a sick, affectionate voice, and leaned lower and lower towards the money box, rummaging through the rattling copper coins and not finding change in the dark. Daldon! Where is it, kerosene, now sold cheaper? And, not finding it, she straightened up, looked at Yakov standing in front of her in a hat and coat, but barefoot, at his slanting beard of an indeterminate color, and added: Didn't she poison him? And Jacob hastily muttered: It's none of our business, Petrovna... The plague knows it... Our business is the side... The side, for example... And all day long Tikhon Ilyich's hands trembled at the memory of this mumbling. Everyone, everyone thinks she poisoned me! Fortunately, the secret remained a secret: Rodka was buried, Young cried, seeing off the coffin, so sincerely that it was even indecent, after all, this voice should not be an expression of feelings, but a performance of the rite, and little by little Tikhon Ilyich's anxiety subsided. Moreover, there was a lot of trouble, but there were no assistants. There was little help from Nastasya Petrovna. Tikhon Ilyich hired only “pilots” as laborers until the autumn prayers. And they've already split up. Only the annuals remained, the cook, the old sentry man, nicknamed Zhmykh, and the little Oska, "the boobie of the king of heaven." And how much care one cattle required! Twenty sheep overwintered. Six black, always gloomy and somewhat dissatisfied wild boars sat in the cove. There were three cows, a bull, a red heifer standing on the boil. There are eleven horses in the yard, and in the stall there is a gray stallion, angry, heavy, maned, busty, a man, but four hundred rubles: my father had a certificate, one and a half thousand cost. And all this required an eye and an eye. Nastasya Petrovna had been planning for a long time to visit friends in the city. Finally got up and left. After seeing her off, Tikhon Ilyich wandered aimlessly into the field. Sakharov, head of the post office in Ulyanovka, walked along the highway with a gun over his shoulders, known for such a ferocious treatment of the peasants that they said: “You hand in a letter, your arms and legs are shaking!” Tikhon Ilyich went out to him under the road. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at him and thought: "Stupid old man. Look, elephants roam in the mud. And shouted amiably: With the field, or what, Anton Markych? The postman stopped. Tikhon Ilyich came up and greeted me. Well, what a field there! answered the postman gloomily, huge, round-shouldered, with thick gray hair sticking out of his ears and nostrils, with large eyebrows and deep sunken eyes. So, walked for the sake of hemorrhoids, he said, pronouncing the last word with particular care. And keep in mind, Tikhon Ilyich responded with unexpected vehemence, holding out his hand with spread fingers, keep in mind: our Palestines are completely deserted! There are no titles left what a bird, what a beast, sir! Forests were cut down everywhere, said the postman. Yes, how-with! How they cut it down! Under the comb! pick up Tikhon Ilyich. And suddenly he added: Shedding-sir! Everything is shedding! Tikhon Ilyich himself did not know why this word had escaped his tongue, but he felt that it had not been said in vain. “Everything is shedding,” he thought, “just like cattle after a long and difficult winter...” And, having said goodbye to the postman, he stood for a long time on the highway, looking around with displeasure. It was raining again, and an unpleasant wet wind was blowing. It was getting dark over the undulating fields—winter fields, arable lands, stubbles, and brown copses. The gloomy sky descended lower and lower towards the earth. Rain-drenched roads gleamed like tin. At the station they were waiting for a mail train to Moscow, from there it smelled like a samovar, and this woke up a dreary desire for comfort, a warm, clean room, a family ... At night it rained again, it was dark, even if you gouged out your eye. Tikhon Ilyich slept badly, grinding his teeth painfully. He was shivering, it’s true, he caught a cold, standing on the highway in the evening, the scent with which he covered himself slipped to the floor, and then he dreamed of what had haunted him since childhood, when his back chilled at night: twilight, some narrow lanes, running a crowd galloping on heavy carts, firefighters on angry black batyugs ... Once he woke up, lit a match, looked at the alarm clock, it showed three, raised his scent and, falling asleep, began to worry: they would rob the shop, drive the horses ... Sometimes it seemed that he was at an inn in Dankovo, that at night the rain rustled on the canopy of the gate and twitched every minute, the bell tolls over them, thieves arrived, brought his stallion into this impenetrable darkness and, if they find out that he is here, they will kill him. .. Sometimes the consciousness of reality returned. But the reality was also disturbing. The old man walked under the windows with a mallet, but it seemed that he was somewhere far, far away, then Buyan, choking, tore someone up, ran away into the field with a stormy bark and suddenly reappeared under the windows and woke up, stubbornly rattled, standing on one place. Then Tikhon Ilyich was about to go out and see what was going on, if everything was in order. But as soon as it came to the point of deciding to get up, how thicker and more often began to chirp in the dark windows of a large slanting rain, driven by the wind from the dark boundless fields, and the dream seemed sweeter than the father-mother ... Finally, the door banged, it blew damp cold, the guard, Cake, rustling, dragged a bundle of straw into the hallway. Tikhon Ilyich opened his eyes: it was dim, watery light, the windows were sweaty. Stomp, stomp, brother, said Tikhon Ilyich in a voice hoarse from sleep. Yes, let's go feed the cattle, and go to sleep. The old man, who had grown thin overnight, all blue from cold, dampness and fatigue, looked at him with sunken dead eyes. In a wet hat, in a wet short chekmenian coat and disheveled bast shoes, saturated with water and mud, he muttered something muffled, kneeling with difficulty in front of the stove, stuffing it with cold, fragrant starnovka and blowing sulfur. Did the cow chew the tongue? shouted Tikhon Ilyich hoarsely, climbing out of bed. What are you muttering under your breath? He staggered all night, now let's feed, the old man muttered, without raising his head, as if to himself. Tikhon Ilyich squinted at him: I saw how you staggered! He put on his coat and, overpowering the slight trembling in his stomach, went out onto the trampled porch, into the icy freshness of a pale, rainy morning. Lead puddles poured everywhere, all the walls darkened from the rain. It was a little drizzling, "but, surely, it will pour again by dinnertime," he thought. And he looked with surprise at the shaggy Buyan, who rushed towards him from around the corner: his eyes sparkle, his tongue is fresh and red like fire, his hot breath is full of dog ... And this is after a whole night of running around and barking! He took Buyan by the collar and, splashing through the mud, walked around, looked around all the locks. Then he tied him to a chain under the barn, returned to the passage and looked into the large kitchen, into the hut. The hut smelled disgustingly and warmly; the cook slept on a bare horse, covering her face with an apron, putting out a rump and bending her legs to her stomach in large old felt boots with soles thickly trampled on the earthen floor; Oska was lying on the bunk, in a short fur coat, in bast shoes, with his head buried in a greasy heavy pillow. “The devil has contacted the baby! thought Tikhon Ilyich with disgust. Look, she was whoring all night, and in the morning on the bench! And, glancing over the black walls, the small windows, the slop tub, the huge broad-shouldered stove, he shouted loudly and sternly: Hey! Lord-boyars! It's time and honor to know! While the cook was lighting the stove, boiling potatoes for the boars and fanning the samovar, Oska, without a hat, stumbling from drowsiness, dragged the trunks for the horses and cows. Tikhon Ilyich himself unlocked the creaking gates of the varka and was the first to enter its warm and dirty comfort, surrounded by awnings, stalls and cubbyholes. Above the ankle was manure. Manure, urine, rain all merged and formed a thick brown slurry. The horses, already darkening with velvety winter fur, roamed under the sheds. Sheep in a dirty gray mass huddled in one corner. An old brown gelding dozed alone near an empty manger smeared with dough. It drizzled and drizzled from the inhospitable, stormy sky above the courtyard square. The wild boars whined painfully, insistently, purring in the cloak. "Boredom!" thought Tikhon Ilyich, and immediately barked savagely at the old man, who was dragging a bundle of starnovka: What are you dragging through the mud, old tranda? The old man threw the starnovka on the ground, looked at him, and suddenly said calmly: I hear from the tranda. Tikhon Ilyich quickly looked around to see if the fellow had gone out, and, making sure that he had gone out, quickly and also as if calmly approached the old man, punched him in the teeth, so much so that he shook his head, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and let him go with all his might. to gate. Out! he shouted, gasping for breath and turning white as chalk. So that yours and the spirit don’t smell here anymore, you are such a jerk! The old man flew out the gate and five minutes later, with a bag over his shoulders and with a stick in his hand, he was already walking along the highway, home. Tikhon Ilyich, with shaking hands, gave the stallion a drink, filled him with fresh oats, he only rummaged yesterday, drooled over, and, striding broadly, drowning in slurry and manure, went to the hut. Done, or what? he shouted as he opened the door. Hurry up! The cook snarled. The hut was covered with warm fresh steam, pouring out of the cast iron from potatoes. The cook, together with the little one, furiously pushed them with pushers, sprinkling them with flour, and over the knock Tikhon Ilyich did not hear an answer. Slamming the door, he went to drink tea. In the small hallway, he kicked a heavy, dirty blanket that lay near the threshold, and went to the corner, where, over a stool with a pewter basin, a copper washstand was nailed and on a shelf lay a smeared piece of coconut soap. As he rattled the washstand, he squinted, moved his eyebrows, flared his nostrils, could not stop his angry, shifting gaze, and said with particular distinctness: That's how workers! Tell him the word he gives you ten! Tell him ten he'll give you a hundred! No, you're lying! Maybe not by summer, maybe there are a lot of you, devils! By winter, brother, if you want to eat, you will come, you son of a bitch, come, eat, bow! The washcloth has been hanging by the washstand since Michaelmas. She was so worn out that, looking at her, Tikhon Ilyich clenched his jaw. Oh! he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Oh, mother queen of heaven! Two doors led from the hallway. One, to the left, to the room for visitors, long, semi-dark, with windows for cooking; there were two large sofas in it, hard as stone, upholstered in black oilcloth, overflowing with both living and crushed, withered bugs, and on the wall hung a portrait of a general with dashing beaver sideburns; the portrait was bordered by small portraits of the heroes of the Russian-Turkish war, and at the bottom was the inscription: “Our children and Slavic brothers will remember glorious deeds for a long time, like our father, a brave warrior, defeated Suleiman Pasha, defeated the enemies of the infidels and walked with his children along such steepness , where only mists and feathered kings rushed about. Another door led to the master's room. There, to the right, near the door, a glass slide gleamed, to the left a stove-bed was white; the stove once cracked, it was whitewashed over with clay, and the outlines of something like a broken, thin man were obtained, which Tikhon Ilyich was very tired of. Behind the stove rose a double bed; over the bed was nailed a rug of muddy green and brick wool with the image of a tiger, with a mustache and protruding cat ears. Opposite the door, against the wall, stood a chest of drawers covered with a knitted tablecloth, on it was Nastasya Petrovna's wedding box... To the shop! shouted, opening the door, the cook. Dali was covered with a watery fog, again it became like twilight, it was drizzling, but the wind turned, it blew from the north and the air freshened up. More merrily and louder than in all the last days, the departing freight train called out at the station. Great, Ilyich, said, nodding his wet Manchurian hat, a sharp-mouthed peasant who was holding a wet piebald horse by the porch. Great, threw Tikhon Ilyich, glancing sideways at the strong white tooth that gleamed because of the peasant's split lip. What do you need? And, hastily letting go of the salt and kerosene, hastily returned to the chambers. Forehead will not be crossed, dogs! he muttered as he walked. The samovar, which stood on the table near the wall, seethed, bubbled, the mirror hanging over the table was covered with a coating of white steam. The windows and the oleography nailed under the mirror were sweating, a giant in a yellow caftan and red morocco boots, with a Russian banner in his hands, behind which the Moscow Kremlin looked with towers and eyes. Framed photographic cards surrounded the painting. In the most honorable place hung a portrait of the famous priest in a moire cassock, with a sparse beard, swollen cheeks and small piercing eyes. And, looking at him, Tikhon Ilyich earnestly crossed himself at the icon in the corner. Then he took the sooty teapot off the samovar and poured a glass of tea, which smelled strongly of a steamed broom. "They won't let me cross my forehead," he thought, wincing in pain. Stabbed, damn them! It seemed that you need to remember something, figure it out, or just lie down and get a good night's sleep. I wanted warmth, peace, clarity, firmness of thought. He got up, walked over to the mound, which rattled glass and crockery, took from the shelf a bottle of rowanberry, a little cube-shaped glass on which it was written; "The monks accept him too"... Ay not necessary? he said aloud. And poured and drank, poured and drank more. And, eating a thick pretzel, he sat down at the table. He greedily sipped hot tea from a saucer, sucked, holding on his tongue, a piece of sugar. As he sipped his tea, he glanced absentmindedly and suspiciously at the wall, at the peasant in the yellow caftan, at the shell-framed cards, and even at the priest in the moiré cassock. “We pigs don’t care about laziness!” he thought and, as if justifying himself to someone, added rudely: Live near the village, sip some sour cabbage soup! Looking sideways at the priest, he felt that everything was doubtful... even, it seems, his usual reverence for this priest... was doubtful and had not been thought through. If you think carefully ... But then he hastened to look at the Moscow Kremlin. Scary to say! he muttered. Never been to Moscow! Yes, I haven't been. And why? Boars do not order! That huckstering did not let, then an inn, then a tavern. Now stallions and wild boars are not allowed in. Yes that Moscow! In a birch forest, which is behind the highway, and then ten years in vain he was going. I kept hoping somehow to snatch a free evening, to take a carpet, a samovar with me, to sit on the grass, in the coolness, in the greenery, but I didn’t snatch it ... Like water between my fingers, the days slip, I didn’t have time to come to my senses fifty knocked, just about the end of everything, but how long, it seems, did you run without trousers? Right yesterday! The faces from the frame-shells looked motionless. Here, on the floor (but among the thick rye) are two Tikhon Ilyich himself and the young merchant Rostovtsev and hold glasses in their hands, exactly half filled with dark beer ... What a friendship began between Rostovtsev and Tikhon Ilyich! How I remember that gray Shrovetide day when they were filming! But what year was that? Where did Rostovtsev disappear to? Now there is not even a certainty whether he is alive or not ... And here, stretched out to the front and petrified, are three tradesmen, smoothly combed in a straight row, in embroidered blouses, in long frock coats, in polished boots, Buchnev, Vystavkin and Bogomolov. Vystavkin, the one in the middle, holds bread and salt in front of his chest on a wooden plate covered with a towel embroidered with roosters, Buchnev and Bogomolov according to the icon. These were filmed on a dusty, windy day, when the elevator was being consecrated, when the bishop and the governor arrived, when Tikhon Ilyich was so proud that he was among the public that greeted the authorities. What do you remember from that day? Only that they had been waiting for five hours near the elevator, that a cloud of white dust was flying in the wind, that the governor, a long and clean dead man in white trousers with gold stripes, in an embroidered gold uniform and a cocked hat, was walking unusually slowly towards the deputation ... which was very it was terrible when he spoke, taking bread and salt, that everyone was struck by the unusual thinness and whiteness of his hands, their skin, the thinnest and shiny, like the skin taken from a snake, shiny, blurry rings and rings on dry, thin fingers with transparent long nails .. Now this governor is no longer alive, and Vystavkin is no longer alive ... And in five, ten years they will say the same about Tikhon Ilyich: The late Tikhon Ilyich ... In the upper room it became warmer and more comfortable from the heated stove, the mirror cleared up, but nothing could be seen outside the windows, the glass was white with a matte steam, which means that it was fresh in the yard. The tedious groan of hungry boars was heard more and more audibly, and suddenly this groan turned into a friendly and powerful roar: it was true that the boars heard the voices of the cook and Oska, dragging a heavy tub of mash towards them. And without finishing his thoughts about death, Tikhon Ilyich threw the cigarette into the washer, pulled on his coat and hurried off to the stove. Walking broadly and deeply through the squelching manure, he himself opened the cloak, and for a long time did not take his greedy and dreary eyes off the wild boars, who rushed to the trough, into which the mess was poured with steam. The thought of death was interrupted by another: the deceased is deceased, and this deceased, perhaps, will be set as an example. Who was he? An orphan, a beggar, who in childhood did not eat a piece of bread for two days ... And now? Your biography of life should be described, once said mockingly. Kuzma. And it's probably not something to laugh at. It means that there was a head on his shoulders, if not Tishka, but Tikhon Ilyich came out of a beggar boy who could barely read ... But suddenly the cook, who was also gazing intently at the wild boars, crowding each other and climbing into the trough with their front legs, hiccupped and said: Oh, my God! If only we had no trouble today! I see now in a dream they seem to have caught up with us cattle in the yard, they have caught up with sheep, cows, all sorts of pigs ... Yes, all black, all black! And my heart sank again. Yes, this is the beast! From one cattle you can hang yourself. Three hours have not passed, again take up the keys, again carry food around the yard. In the common stall there are three dairy cows, in separate ones there is a red heifer, a Bismarck bull: now give them hay. Horses, sheep are supposed to have trunks for dinner, and the stallion and the devil himself can’t think of anything! The stallion poked his muzzle into the latticed top of the door, lifted his upper lip, bared pink gums and white teeth, contorted his nostrils... And Tikhon Ilyich, with a rage unexpected for himself, suddenly barked at him: Pamper, anathema, strike you with thunder! Again he got his feet wet, froze there was grits and again drank the mountain ash. He ate potatoes with sunflower oil and pickles, cabbage soup with mushroom sauce, millet porridge ... His face flushed, his head felt heavy. Without undressing, only pulling dirty boots leg by foot, he lay down on the bed. But I was worried that I would have to get up again: horses, cows and sheep should be given oat straw by the evening, the stallion too ... or not, it’s better to kill it with hay, and then water it and salt it well ... Only after all You will surely oversleep if you let yourself go. And Tikhon Ilyich reached for the chest of drawers, took the alarm clock, and began to wind it up. And the alarm clock came to life, pounded and in the upper room it seemed to be calmer under his running rhythmic knock. Thoughts are confused... But they had just become confused, when suddenly there was a rough and loud church singing. Opening his eyes in fright, Tikhon Ilyich at first made out only one thing: two peasants were yelling in the nose, and from the hallway he smelled cold and the smell of wet chekmens. Then he jumped up, sat down and saw what kind of peasants they were: one was a blind man, pockmarked, with a small nose, a long upper lip and a large round skull, and the other was Makar Ivanovich himself! Makar Ivanovich was once just Makarka and everyone called him: “Makarka the Wanderer”, and one day he went into a tavern to Tikhon Ilyich. Wandering somewhere along the highway, in bast shoes, a skufie and a greasy cassock, and went in. In the hands a high stick, painted with verdigris, with a cross on the upper end and with a spear on the lower, behind the shoulders a knapsack and a soldier's manner; hair is long, yellow; the face is broad, the color of putty, the nostrils are like two gun muzzles, the nose is broken, like a saddle arch, and the eyes, as is often the case with such noses, are light, sharply shiny. Shameless, quick-witted, greedily smoking cigarette after cigarette and blowing smoke into his nostrils, speaking rudely and abruptly, in a tone that completely excludes objections, Tikhon Ilyich liked him very much, and just for this tone, for what was immediately obvious: Son of a bitch". And Tikhon Ilyich kept him as an assistant. He took off his vagrant clothes and left him. But Makarka turned out to be such a thief that they had to beat him severely and drive him away. And a year later, Makarka became famous throughout the county for divinations, so ominous that they began to fear his visits like fire. He will come up to someone under the window, mournfully drag on “rest in peace with the saints” or give a piece of incense, a pinch of dust and that house cannot do without a dead person. Now Makarka, in his old clothes and with a stick in his hand, stood at the threshold and sang. The blind man caught on, rolling his milky eyes under his forehead, and by the disproportion that was in his features, Tikhon Ilyich immediately identified him as an escaped convict, a terrible and merciless beast. But even more terrible was what these vagabonds sang. The blind man, gloomily moving his raised eyebrows, boldly burst into a vile nasal tenor. Makarka, his fixed eyes shining sharply, boomed in a ferocious bass. It came out something excessively loud, rudely slender, ancient church, imperious and menacing.The mother of cheese-earth will burst into tears, burst into tears! ¡
Blind poured out
Ra-spa-che-tsya, raz-ry-yes-is! ¡
Makarka echoed with conviction.
Before the Savior, before the image,
The blind man screamed.
Perhaps the sinners will repent! ¡
Makarka threatened, opening impudent nostrils. And, merging his bass with the tenor of the blind man, he firmly pronounced:
Do not pass the judgment of God!
Do not bypass the eternal fire!
My boring evening has come
I don't know what to start
My dear friend has come
He began to caress me...
Kisses, hugs,
Farewell to me...