The well-known events described in Shakespeare's Hamlet will appear before us from the point of view of the royal kitchen workers, led by the skilled chef Froggy. Every conceivable misfortune fell on Froggy. It was his cooking that was declared the cause of the death of Hamlet's father, the legitimate king of Denmark. But most importantly, Froggy was jealous of his wife, the charming cook Katie, who had seized the throne of Claudius. Froggy decides to take revenge on the newly-minted monarch and begins to actively intervene in Hamlet's fight against the forces of evil. Will the chef be able to prevent a bloody denouement, turn the tragedy into a comedy? The intrigue will be resolved only in the last scene, when, after the duel between Hamlet and Laertes, two weddings suddenly appear.
About the history of the play:
The famous playwright Aldo Nicolai (1920-2004), author of over 60 plays, wrote the comedy Hamlet in Hot Sauce in 1987. In 2002, the play was accepted for staging at the Chekhov Moscow Art Theater with the proviso that it must first be finalized. The fact is that "Hamlet in Hot Sauce" was written by an Italian author in the genre of black comedy and is replete with deaths. It seemed to the theater that the specific black humor inherent in the Western theatrical tradition would be lost when transferred to Russian soil, the play would “hang” between genres. Natalya Demchik was entrusted with writing the stage version of Hamlet in Hot Sauce for the Moscow Art Theater. It took two-thirds of the play to "undo the deaths". So appeared new version this comedy. The stage version by Natalia Demchik is designed in the genre of a classic situation comedy and adapted to Russian realities. The premiere took place in June 2002. The performance was staged by the famous director Pyotr Stein, Igor Ugolnikov played the benefit role of the royal cook, A. Semchev played the role of Hamlet. I. Zolotovitsky, I. Vernik, N. Nevedina, Yu. Chebakova and other artists from the Moscow Art Theater were also involved in the performance.
The rights to the stage version of the play "Hamlet in Hot Sauce" belong to Natalia Demchik.
From reviews:
“...Italian playwright Aldo Nicolai, very popular in Russia, came up with the idea of showing Shakespeare's Hamlet from the side of the kitchen. The plot is this. The cook (Igor Ugolnikov) was jealous of his wife for Claudius. To take revenge on him, he dresses up as the shadow of Hamlet's father and plays a performance known from Shakespeare's play. Further, the plot unwinds exactly according to Shakespeare, only in a comedic version. We won't reveal everything. culinary secrets performance, one thing can be said: all the characters in the finale of Nicolai's play die, in spite of any comedies. But to be honest, I couldn't make the characters' deaths funny. Therefore, playwright Natalya Demchik dramatically changed the ending of the play. In our Hamlet no one dies, but everyone gets married.
Our Hamlet is a fantasy on the theme of a great play. It so happened that the premiere coincided with the date of the death of Grigory Gorin, who often took familiar works and created wonderful fantasies based on them. I dedicate this performance to him. I would like to hope that we are at least half as close to what Gorin did. In my opinion, today people want to come to the theater and relax. So I tend to make the play fun.” Peter Stein, director of the play.
“…I play Hamlet. But this is not the main role. My Hamlet is naive and good-natured, almost a child. He's a bit out of his mind - he has something of Dustin Hoffman's character in "Rain Man" or Forrest Gump. The viewer will not hear the monologue “To be or not to be”, although the text of the play contains inclusions of Shakespeare's verse translated by Pasternak. Shostakovich's music for Kozintsev's film "Hamlet" will also be performed. I think the performance will be quite modern. The action takes place in the kitchen, where the characters spy on what is happening - and this is a kind of parody of the TV show "Behind the Glass". There is also such a remark in the performance: “Not everything is calm in Danish glassware!” Alexander Semchev, actor.
“It is a pity that this performance was the last on the life path of my friend Peter Stein.” Igor Ugolnikov, actor.
“... These events from the kitchen are only told - from the point of view of simple and sober-minded royal subjects, for whom pots and ladles are more important than the suffering of the prince. Seasoned with pepper and mustard, the story of Hamlet does not look so tragic at all. Moreover, Hamlet is played by the fat man Alexander Semchev, and his faithful friend Horatio is the showman and TV presenter Igor Vernik. In fact, Hamlet in Hot Sauce is more of a show than an academic theater performance. By the way, Shakespeare himself had Prince Hamlet funny, fat and, in addition, suffered from shortness of breath. Tamara Razumovskaya, critic.
Back in the mid-1890s, Korolenko was plotting, together with his closest friend and co-editor of Russian Wealth N. Fannensky, a memoir-journalistic book Ten Years in the Province, which was not yet connected with the history of a whole generation of the 1870s. The epic plan was outlined in the autumn of 1896 in Korolenko's correspondence with P.F. Yakubovich. The latter sent from Kurgan exile to the editors of "Russian wealth" the story "Youth" and expressed his dream of a "novel of our time." Korolenko, in a reply letter, supported the idea of "our novel", which "played out with more or less intensity among a whole generation", when "active populism filled the stage", and whose epilogue is "remote places". He believed, however, that not only insurmountable external obstacles in the form of censorship stood in the way of such a novel: we ourselves “we ourselves cannot yet look back with sufficient calmness and<...>"objectivity". Yakubovich, in turn, expressed the hope that the person who would be able to "cope with all the difficulties" would be Korolenko himself: "You, exactly You write all the same "our novel".
In 1905, when the climate of censorship eased considerably, Korolenko set about writing an artistic chronicle of his generation. “I wanted to pay tribute to the topic of the day and start from exile,” he wrote to his brother, but he overcame the temptation and began from childhood. However, the “first impression of being” was a fire: “reflections of a crimson flame” “against the deep background of the darkness of the night.” A picture that echoes the Russian reality of the "flaming year".
In an effort to define the genre of his work, Korolenko resorted to various formulas: the work is “almost fiction, not dry memories”, “life impressions”, “illuminated by memories”, but not a biography, not a “public confession”, not “his own portrait”, in the same time, the story of one life, where " historical truth” was given preference over “artistic truth”. In the end, "The History of My Contemporary" absorbed all the main principles of Korolenko's work - artistic and visual, memoir, lyrical, essay and journalistic. At the same time, the weight of the last two elements gradually increased, which corresponded to general direction writer's path.
Depicting the high spiritual image of his contemporary, Korolenko shares with the reader many anxieties and doubts. In 1916, he called the “young and ardent” period of his Narodism “the crushed ashes of still recent hopes”: “After that old sharp experience, I am skeptical about “ready-made formulas”, whether it be the formula of “popular” or “class” wisdom. He chose for himself a "partisan line" of action "from his own mind."
The generation of the 1860s-1870s, which Korolenko called “his own”, entered the historical arena with “boiling wine of denial” in their heads, with a tendency to act “very radically and very naively”, doing away with all sorts of “junk” using the “Fuck off” method. and to hell!” Korolenko treated all kinds of "nihilists" and "subversers" aloofly, believing that something new could be introduced only if it was based on a higher moral principle.
However, in the life of the “nihilistic generation” Korolenko overheard the motif of the exhaustion of denial, weariness from enmity, caught the young people’s desire for “something that could reconcile with life - if not with reality, then at least with its possibilities.”
The shortest and most capacious review of the "History of my contemporary" belongs to A.V. Amfiteatrov: "A fragrant book!" History prepared a cruel epilogue for the Korolenko generation: “the dictatorship of the bayonet,” as the writer defined in the last years of his life, “immediately moved us back centuries,” surpassing “the wildest dreams of the tsarist retrogrades.”
Prose writer, publicist
Born July 15, 1853 in Zhytomyr in the family of a county judge. Mother is the daughter of a Polish landowner. He spent his childhood in Zhytomyr, then in Rovno, where in 1871 he graduated from the gymnasium.
1871 - 74 - study at the St. Petersburg Institute of Technology.
1874 - 76 - study at the Petrovsky Agricultural Academy.
1876 - expelled from the academy for participation in student unrest, exiled to the Vologda province, but returned on the way and settled under police supervision in Kronstadt.
1877 - admission to the St. Petersburg Mining Institute.
1879 - Korolenko was arrested on suspicion of having connections with revolutionary leaders. Until 1881 he was in prison and exile.
Korolenko begins his literary activity back in the late 70s, but he was not noticed by a large public. His first story, Episodes from the Life of a Seeker, was published in 1879. After 5 years of silence, interrupted only by short essays and correspondence, Korolenko makes her second debut in Russian Thought in 1885 with the story Makar's Dream.
1881-1884 - for the refusal of the oath Alexander III exiled to the Yakutsk region.
1885-96 - lives under police supervision in Nizhny Novgorod, where he actively participates in the liberal opposition, collaborates in the liberal periodicals "Russian Vedomosti", "Severny Vestnik", "Nizhny Novgorod Vedomosti". At the same time, Korolenko wrote works of art: "The Blind Musician" (1887), "At Night" (1888), "In Bad Society", "The River Plays" (1891), etc.
1886 - Korolenko's 1st book "Essays and Stories" is published.
1893 - Korolenko's 2nd book is published.
1894 - Korolenko visits England and America. He expressed part of his impressions in the story "Without a language"
1896 - moves to St. Petersburg.
1895-1904 - Korolenko - one of the official publishers of the populist magazine "Russian Wealth".
1900 - The Academy of Sciences elects Korolenko an honorary academician in the category of fine literature. In 1902, together with A.P. Chekhov, Korolenko renounced his title in protest against the illegal cancellation of the election of M. Gorky to the Academy.
Since 1900 Korolenko has been living in Poltava.
1903 - Korolenko's 3rd book is published.
1904-1917 - Korolenko headed the magazine "Russian wealth". Here are published his essays "In the year of famine" (1892), "Pavlovian essays" (1890), articles "Sorochinsky tragedy" (1907), "Everyday phenomenon" (1910) and many others. others in total Korolenko is the author of about 700 articles, correspondence, essays, notes.
1906 - Korolenko begins to print in separate chapters the most extensive of his works: the autobiographical History of My Contemporary.
1914 - First World War finds Korolenko in France. Attitude towards her is reflected in the story "Prisoners" (1917). In the article "War, Fatherland and Humanity" (1917), Korolenko speaks in favor of continuing the war.
Korolenko responds to the February Revolution of 1917 with the article "The Fall of Tsarist Power. (Speech to Ordinary People about the Events in Russia)". In it, Korolenko points out that "there is no longer any place for tsarist power" in the future Russia, and the Constituent Assembly, as once Zemsky Sobor, "will establish the future form of government of the Russian state", emphasizes that "a lot of wisdom is needed to stop disagreements within the country, dangerous disputes about power and internecine strife", "while the homeland is threatened by invasion and the death of its young freedom"
Calling himself a non-party socialist, Korolenko does not share the ideas of the Bolsheviks and the principles of the proletarian dictatorship. He calls "to put the interests of the entire population above the party struggle." In the article "The Triumph of the Winners", Korolenko, referring to A.V. Lunacharsky, writes: "You are celebrating a victory, but this victory is disastrous for the part of the people that won with you, disastrous, perhaps, for the entire Russian people as a whole," because " power based on a false idea is doomed to perish from its own arbitrariness" ("Russian Vedomosti", 1917, December 3).
1917 - deputies from the People's Socialist Party at the Congress of Peasants held in Poltava on April 17 offer Korolenko to nominate him as a deputy to the Constituent Assembly, he refuses, citing ill health. On November 22, Korolenko was elected honorary chairman of the Poltava Committee of the Political Red Cross.
During the occupation of Poltava by the troops of the Ukrainian Central Rada and A.I. Denikin, Korolenko opposes terror and revenge.
In 1919-21, unable to appear in the press, Korolenko addressed a series of letters to Lunacharsky, Kh.G. Rakovsky, the main content of which was a protest against the extrajudicial reprisals of the Cheka.
Main works:
Stories from the "Siberian" cycle:
"Wonderful" (1880, distributed in lists, publ. 1905)
"Killer", "Son Makar", "Falconer" (all - 1885), "On the way" (1888, 2nd edition 1914)
"At-Davan" (1885, 2nd edition 1892)
"Marusina Zaimka" (1889, published 1899)
"Lights" (1901)
Stories:
"In Bad Society" (1885)
"The Forest Noises" (1886)
"The River Plays" (1892)
"No Tongue" (1894)
"Not terrible" (1903), etc.
The story "The Blind Musician" (1886, 2nd edition 1898).
Essays, including:
"In Desert Places" (1890, 2nd ed. 1914)
"Pavlovian Essays" (1890)
"In a hungry year" (1892-93)
"At the Cossacks" (1901)
"Ours on the Danube" (1909)
Journalism, including:
"Multan Sacrifice" (a series of essays, articles and notes, 1895-98)
"Celebrity of the End of the Century" (1898, Dreyfus Affair)
CHORAL AND VOCAL WORKS G.V. SVIRIDOVA: CHOICE OF TEXTS, GENRES
GV Sviridov entered the history of Russian musical art as a classic of the 20th century. He is an outstanding Russian composer, one of the brightest and most original artists who made a significant contribution to domestic art. The origins and foundations of Sviridov's creativity are in the centuries-old musical culture, and, above all, in Russian music of different eras. He is often called the most consistent adherent and continuer of the classical traditions.
Sviridov's vocal works form the main part of his work. The composer's creative heritage includes over 300 romances and songs, existing both separately and in the form of vocal cycles, poems. As A. Belonenko notes: “His favorite form is a song. He took this from the romantics he adored, from the cult of the lyric poem, from the Russian romance, from the German Lied. . In his vocal work, the composer managed to combine the everyday intonation of urban song, folklore and speech intonation. He saw the development contemporary music in the revival of the Russian national tradition. In his diary entries, Georgy Vasilyevich notes: “Great art is only possible based on great tradition» . Therefore, Sviridov is one of the few composers of the 20th century who has preserved the song-romance genre. The composer argued that music should return to melody, continued to defend the mode, tonality, classical harmony as the main foundations of music.
No less significant is the contribution of Sviridov to the national choral music. He wrote both large oratorio-epic works, as well as small cantatas, poems, cycles, individual miniatures for a cappella choir. In all genres, the composer managed to embody a rich figurative world. images folk life, nature, human feelings and moods, historical and social theme - all this is reflected in the choral work of Sviridov.
A. Belonenko identifies several ideological and figurative lines in the composer's work. The first and main line is the theme of the historical fate of Russia, the central event of which is the Russian revolution at the beginning of the 20th century. Sviridov's attention is focused on two events to which he constantly returned in his work - the revolution and the civil war. At the same time, revolutionary themes unite compositions of different genres, among them "The Poem in Memory of S. Yesenin", some songs to the words of A. Prokofiev, Yesenin's cantatas "Wooden Rus'" and "Bright Guest". The theme of the fate of the Russian peasantry is closely connected with the theme of the revolution. Sviridov came to this topic through an appeal to Yesenin's poetry (“A poem in memory of S. Yesenin”, a vocal cycle “My father is a peasant”). Belonenko writes that the reason the composer turned to this topic was "... an acute sense of anxiety for the fate of man, alienation from his land - this is the main motive underlying Sviridov's attitude to the theme of the peasantry".
The second line is lyrical. It includes reflections on the meaning of being (spiritual, philosophical lyrics), love lyrics. Belonenko notes: “The world in its pristine beauty, revealed to man as perfect harmony, is the fundamental principle of Sviridov’s choral landscapes, pictures of nature. Nature is the permanent habitat of Sviridov's muse.
The composer turned, as a rule, to the heights of world poetry, most of all Russian - A. Pushkin, M. Lermontov, N. Nekrasov, but also F. Sologub, A. Blok, S. Yesenin, M. Isakovsky, A. Prokofiev, B Pasternak.
In his work, the composer assigned a large role to the word. In his diaries, he writes: “But I am addicted to the word (.), as to the beginning of beginnings, the innermost essence of life and the world. The most effective of the arts seems to me to be the synthesis of words and music. This is what I do." Sviridov knew well and appreciated Russian literature as XIX. as well as the 20th century. First of all, he was attracted by the poetic word, as A. Belonenko notes: "... from him, as a rule, came the impulse of Sviridov's creativity." Sviridov sensitively reacted to the content and style of poetry. Contemporaries noted that he had an absolute poetic ear. “He is a brilliant poet, Sviridov. We have wonderful composers - tragedians, playwrights, novelists, and I think there is only one poet, ”composer V. Gavrilin wrote about him.
Sviridov, even before studying at the Leningrad Conservatory, clearly declared himself as a vocal composer . In 1935, the composer turned to the poetry of A. Pushkin and conceived a vocal cycle of six romances. Work on it proceeded throughout the year. Immediately after the end, the romances were published and had big success; Since 1937, in connection with the celebration of the 100th anniversary of the death of Pushkin, they have entered the repertoire of outstanding performers. It was this vocal cycle that brought fame to the young composer.
The cycle “Eight romances to the words of M. Yu. Lermontov”, created in 1937-1938, had a different fate. Unlike the Pushkin cycle, these romances were not very popular. One of the reasons for this was war time, which had to execute the loop. In addition, Sviridov himself believed that the cycle was far from perfect. Therefore, in 1956, when the composer decided to publish the first collection of his romances and songs, he returned to the cycle and rewrote it again.
The cycle of songs "Sloboda Lyrics" to the verses of A. Prokofiev and M. Isakovsky was started by Sviridov in 1938, also during his studies at the Leningrad Conservatory. An interesting fact is that this work caused negative criticism from his teacher - D. Shostakovich. He accused Sviridov of the fact that in this work he “descends to the base, falls into the bourgeoisie, the common people.” But it was in this cycle that the composer began to search for his own style, the search for the very "simplicity" that would be characteristic of Sviridov's further work. The composer turned to this work repeatedly, constantly refining it. So, initially the composer adds a song to the verses of M. Isakovsky and gives the cycle the name "Village Lyrics". Later, in 1958, he makes the last edition: he rearranges the numbers, makes changes and approves the final name "Sloboda Lyrics". This work became a milestone in the composer's work.
The cycle differs significantly from Pushkin's and Lermontov's not only in musical language, style, but also in figurative content. In the first cycles, a lyrical mood prevails, the main theme is Sviridov's favorite image of the Poet. In "Sloboda Lyrics" there is another figurative sphere. The cycle is united thematically: love, separation, wedding. The poems chosen by the composer are closely connected with folklore - ditties, "suffering". According to A. Belonenko: “Here are given folk characters, sketches of peasant post-revolutionary life, the psychology of another, another I - common man» . As noted earlier, Sviridov continued the tradition of Russian everyday romance, which was very clearly manifested in the Sloboda Lyrics cycle, in the composer's use of typical everyday intonations. The cycle "Slobodskaya Lyrics" - can be called a landmark work in the work of Sviridov. According to Belonenko, the features of the composer's "mature Russian style" are felt in it, which will take shape by the mid-1950s.
The composer himself considered the end of the 1940s and 1950s a new stage in his work. It was during these years that Sviridov's style took shape, which, first of all, showed itself in the vocal cycle "My father is a peasant" and "The Poem in Memory of Sergei Yesenin." The premiere of "The Poem in Memory of Sergei Yesenin" in 1956 opened the world, as A. Belonenko writes, new Russian composer .
Sviridov's favorite poet was Sergei Yesenin. Yesenin and Sviridov are two outstanding creators of the 20th century, a poet and composer, whose work was bound by love for Russia. Sviridov's appeal to Yesenin's poetry was a kind of revival of the poet's heritage. Before the composer, the poet's work was little represented in music. Immediately after Yesenin's death, isolated romances and songs based on his poems appeared. And then came the period of oblivion of the poet, and not only in music. For many years his works were not republished, they were not heard on the stage, they were only occasionally mentioned in the history of Soviet literature from a negative point of view. And only in the 1950s composers again turned to his work. But before Sviridov, musicians saw nothing in Yesenin's poetry but love lyrics, rural scenery and sketches of village life. The composer approached his work from new positions. A. Sohor wrote: "He opened to musicians and listeners a different Yesenin - a national artist of large scale."
main theme works of this period was Russia, the Poet, the glorified native land of the Poet. A very important image for Sviridov is the image of the Poet, who embodies lyrical hero. According to A. Belonenko: “The composer trusts him with his most intimate thoughts, through the prism of his imagination and soul, we are shown Sviridov’s picture of the world, if I may say so, the artist’s worldview” .
"The Poem in Memory of Sergei Yesenin" is one of the most ambitious works of Sviridov associated with Yesenin's poetry. The original idea of the composer was to write a cycle of romances for voice and piano. But soon Sviridov realized that the composition being created went beyond the chamber. The final edition, created in 1956, is intended for a tenor soloist, choir and orchestra. The work remained to exist in two versions - vocal-symphonic and vocal-piano. The appearance of the "Poem ..." was in many ways important for the name of the poet, since it became a kind of "rehabilitation" of Yesenin, who had not been published in our country for many years.
L. Polyakova "Poem ...", consisting of 10 parts, divides into three large sections. The first (1 - 4 parts) is dedicated to the old peasant Rus'. The second (parts 5 and 6) are pictures of the night (analogous to the slow part of the symphonic cycle). The last section is devoted to the arrival of the new in the life of Rus'.
M. Elik notes that the origins of Sviridov’s melody can be found in Russian ritual songs (“Threshing”, “The Night under Ivan Kupala”), lyrical lingering (“The Night under Ivan Kupala”), the influence of folk chant, crying (“You are my land abandoned ... "," I - last poet villages…”), ditties (“Peasant boys”), as well as everyday romance of the 19th century (“In that land…”, “I am the last poet of the village…”). The last song(“The sky is like a bell”) summarizes the circle of intonations that go back to ritual chants and are associated with the embodiment of the epic beginning, pictures of nature, people's labor, customs.
After working in the cantata-oratorio genre, Sviridov again turns to chamber music. vocal genres. In 1956, the composer created a cycle of songs for tenor and baritone with piano "My father is a peasant." V. Vasina-Grossman notes that this cycle “can be considered as a return to the sphere of images of the Sloboda Lyrics, but appearing in a more generalized form, cleared of unnecessary “bytovisms” and “dialecticisms”, which is largely determined by the choice of poetic material » . The unifying beginning of this vocal cycle is the theme of the Motherland, Russia - a favorite theme of Yesenin's poetry. The poet is also characterized by bitter regrets about the ruined youth, forebodings of the near end - all this was reflected in the Sviridov cycle. For the work, the composer chose seven poems, among which there are landscape sketches and sketches of the life of the old village, there is also lyrics in which the intonations of lyrical songs and ditties are heard. According to L. Polyakova, the cycle can be conditionally divided into two large sections and an epilogue. The first section is formed by the songs "Sled", "Birch", "Rus shines in the heart" - these are a kind of three lyrical statements of the Poet. The second section of the cycle is formed by the songs “Recruit”, “Song for a Talyanka”, “In the Evening” - these are three genre sketches of folk peasant life. V. Vasina-Grossman writes that all the songs of the cycle are united by "... a correctly found Russian song intonation." Hence the proximity of the songs of the cycle to Russian folk songwriting. In its intonation structure, one can hear the intonations of a lyrical lingering song, ditty, harmonica picks.
According to A. Belonenko, after the "Poem ..." and the vocal cycle "My father is a peasant" in 1956-1958, Sviridov finds himself in a crisis situation. During these years, he turns to his previously created works, reworks them. Sviridov is in search of something new in his work: he experiments with tonality, even trying to master the twelve-tone technique. However, the composer is not satisfied with all this, he understands that he is not on the path with the young composers of this period. It was during these years that Sviridov became convinced that only the synthesis of music and words could give him the opportunity to express his most intimate thoughts and experiences. He comes to the conclusion that his genre is the song. The composer himself made an entry in his diaries: “The time has come for art that is spiritual, symbolic, static and simple. The song is the basis of the new, qualitatively new in art. Song and Mass".
"Five choirs without accompaniment to the words of Russian poets" was the composer's first experience of turning to the a cappella choir genre. Work on this cycle was completed in 1958. The idea did not take shape right away. The first two choirs to the words of N. Gogol and S. Yesenin served as the initial core of the work. The composer's archive contains information about the existence of this cycle for tenor, mixed choir and symphony orchestra. The final edition was intended for mixed choir a cappella. There are two recurring themes in the work. The first - the theme of youth, bygone youth is realized in the choirs "On Lost Youth", "In the Blue Evening", "The Son Met His Father", "How the Song Was Born". The second theme, characteristic of all Sviridov's work, the theme of the Motherland, is most clearly expressed in the last three choirs ("The son met his father", "How the song was born", "The Herd").
During 1961 - 1963 Sviridov worked on the vocal cycle "Petersburg Songs" for four singers (soprano, mezzo-soprano, baritone, bass), piano, violin and cello to the words of A. Blok. The composer first turned to his poems in his student years. Sviridov was especially attracted by Blok's poems associated with St. Petersburg, a city that the composer himself loved very much. In the poetic composition of the cycle there is no definite plot, no permanent characters, but there is a single main image associated with St. Petersburg. Here is a picture of city life in different times years with characters of different ages and social status. M. Elik singles out in the cycle the theme “... “little people”, “humiliated and insulted”, driven by life into attics and basements, dying from hopelessness and reaching for the light ...” . A. Sohor, as a unifying principle in Petersburg Songs, highlights the unity of time: “... the action in the cycle begins at dawn (“The Ring-Suffering”), captures the morning (“Verbochki”), the day (“On Easter”), twilight ( "In the attic", "In October") and ends late in the evening, almost at night ("We met with you in the temple") ".
In the 60s, the principles of neo-folklorism were clearly identified in the work of Sviridov. Cantata "Kursk Songs" (1964) belongs to the folklore line. V. Shchurov recalls the composer's preparation for the creation of the Kursk Songs: “I had a chance to come into contact with the initial process of creating Georgy Sviridov's Kursk Songs. During this period, I was a laboratory assistant in the Cabinet of Folk Music at the Moscow Conservatory and helped A. V. Rudneva at her significant meeting with the composer. Sviridov came to our office, having got acquainted with the recently published collection of Kursk songs by A. V. Rudneva, many of which made a strong impression on him ... He was looking for an idea for a future composition. Anna Vasilievna suggested a topic to him: the seasons. However, the composer did not accept this offer, saying that it was more attractive for him to reveal the feelings of a person. And most of all he is concerned about the theme of women's fate. by: 12, p. IX]. The cantata included various historical and stylistic layers of folk art, both ancient genres (calendar-ritual songs) and later ones (lyric). The composer creates a cycle on a folk song basis, according to Yu. Paisov: "... having managed to individually rethink the samples used and at the same time preserve the original flavor of the songs of the South Russian region in their original charm and integrity" . Sviridov himself was very kind to national traditions, in particular to Russian folk songs. In his notebooks, he wrote: “In essence, the ideal combination of words and music is a folk song. I mean a genuine folk song, and not numerous fakes, petty-bourgeois romances, etc.” .
"Three Old Songs of the Kursk Province" for mixed choir, solo violas, accompanied by two pianos, ocarina and percussion instruments are also based on song samples of Kursk folklore from Rudneva's collection. In the process of creating the Kursk Songs, Sviridov had more than seven songs in his work, which were included in the cantata. The composer said that he was going to make a suite or even two out of the remaining samples of folklore. He polished the work for a long time, often put it aside, and then returned to the idea again. Therefore, "Three old songs of the Kursk province" were published only in 1990.
Both works are interconnected not only by the fact that they are based on Kursk folklore, but also by themes. In "Three Old Songs of the Kursk Province" the composer continues the theme of the female share, fate, begun in the cantata. When comparing the two cycles, common features in the composer's technique (in melody, harmony, texture) are also revealed.
In the same period (60s), another work appeared on the verses of S. Yesenin - the vocal cycle "Wooden Rus'". Initially, a small cantata for tenor, male choir and piano was composed. And later, in 1965, the composer himself remade the cantata into a vocal cycle. In this work, a different circle of images of Yesenin's poetry is touched upon. Sviridov's constant theme "The Poet and the Motherland" is considered in a different aspect: it is a kind of lyrical confession of a young man who is aware of his life calling. The composer took the name of the vocal cycle from the poet himself, Yesenin's exclamation "My Rus', wooden Rus'!" placed as an epigraph to the cycle.
After Yesenin's "Wooden Rus'", Sviridov turns to the poetry of B. Pasternak. In 1965 he creates a small cantata " It is snowing". The composer turned to the poetry of Pasternak, as well as to Blok and Yesenin, more than once in his work. The very first romances were written on his poems, which Sviridov himself considered imperfect and did not even include in the list of compositions. It is interesting that earlier Pasternak's poetry did not attract the attention of composers, it was Sviridov who introduced the poet's work into music, was in this respect, a kind of pioneer (as with Yesenin). For his little cantata, the composer selected three poems from the last period of Pasternak's work. L. Polyakova defines the plot of the work as follows: “The theme of inexorably moving time, unchanging celestial bodies, carefree childhood and watching everything is poor, not recognized by anyone, but understanding everything and remembering everything (for eternity!) The artist, hiding in his lonely attic, - this is the content of the cantata “It is snowing””.
The work "Twenty-five Songs for Bass" to texts by different poets is not a single whole, although it has signs of a vocal cycle. Belonenko notes that this is an example of a multi-part composite composition (very characteristic of Sviridov's late work), which the musicologist calls a song collection. He explains that the song collection is a conditionally cyclical form, because as a whole the songs exist only on paper in written form, and they are never performed in their entirety. The collection includes a large number of miniatures (at least 15), which inside form independent mini-cycles, united by a common ideological and figurative content.
"Twenty-five Songs for Bass" as a whole did not take shape immediately. Belonenko in the introductory article to the 13th volume of the "Complete Works" for the first time describes the entire history of the formation of this collection. In the late 1950s, the composer was faced with the task of publishing individual songs under a common cover. So, in 1960, twenty-five songs for different voices and texts by different poets were published, which did not constitute a single composition. It was a random selection of songs that were never put together in that order afterwards. In the future, the song collection was transformed more than once: in 1971, the collection “15 Songs for Bass” was published; in 1972 - "16 songs for bass accompanied by piano"; in 1975 - another edition of "16 Songs for Bass"; in 1978 - "20 songs for bass accompanied by piano"; in the early 80s, a new and final edition of Twenty-five Songs for Bass was published. This song collection incorporates vocal miniatures composed by the composer mainly in the mature period of his creative work. It includes mini-cycles “Two songs about the Civil War”, “Three songs to the words of A. Isahakyan”, “Four songs to the words of A. Blok”, as well as individual songs to the words of A. Pushkin, F. Tyutchev, B. Kornilov, S. Yesenin, R. Burns, P.-J. Berenger.
In the 70s, Sviridov created the vocal cycle "Nine Songs to the Words of A. Blok" for mezzo-soprano. A feature of the cycle is that it was created for a specific voice timbre - E. Obraztsova. According to Belonenko, the composer and the singer were connected for many years by a creative community. Sviridov knew the possibilities and features of her timbre, her artistic abilities, so his vocal works for a low female voice created under the unconscious influence of the timbre of Exemplary. The vocal cycle included Blok's poems taken from various books. There is no logical, figurative-thematic connection between the songs, there is no plot, no definite idea. The connection of various verses acquires integrity through music. This is facilitated by the predominance of lyrics in the figurative sphere of songs, stylistic, intonation and harmonic unity (mode, rhythm, harmony).
Like the collection "Twenty-five songs for bass", the vocal cycle "Nine songs to the words of A. Blok" also took shape gradually. The initial basis was a mini-cycle of three songs ("Weathervane", "Beyond the mountains, forests ...", "Morning in Moscow"), published in 1974; in 1975, Four Songs to the Words of A. Blok were published; in 1979, the cycle "Seven songs to the words of A. Blok" was published in the collection of romances; final edition first and last time during the life of the composer was published in 1981 under the title "Nine songs to the words of A. Blok".
The period of the 1970s - early 1980s was very important and fruitful in terms of creativity. As the composer himself wrote: “It was an era of deep forebodings. A great national thought matured in it, which found a strong creative expression for itself ... ”The composer has the idea of turning to religious themes as a poetic source of creativity. He creates works that are deeply spiritual, but based on a mixture of ecclesiastical and secular genres.
"Spring Cantata" was written by the composer in 1972. The work is based on three fragments from the poem by N. Nekrasov “Who should live well in Rus'”. "Spring Cantata" is dedicated to the memory of A. Tvardovsky. With this dedication, the composer links the past and the present. The form of the cantata is extremely compressed, there are only four parts: "Spring Beginning", "Song", "Bells and Horns", "Mother Rus'". The first part is a kind of spring landscape of the Motherland; the second part is connected with the traditions of Russian life, it is based on a wedding song; the third part can be conditionally called an instrumental “intermezzo”, the cantata is crowned by a mighty popular glory Rus'.
Sviridov again turns to his beloved poet Yesenin. In works based on his poems, the image of Russia does not go away, only now it is Russia, ideal, invisible, heavenly. As the composer himself admitted in his diaries: “I am writing a myth about Russia”. During 1976 - 1977 he worked on one of his most significant works - the poem "Departed Rus'" for voice and piano to the verses of S. Yesenin. The poem is dedicated to a major researcher of Sviridov's work and his great friend musicologist A. Sokhor, who died while the composer was working on this work.
Most of the poems selected by Sviridov for the poem were written by the poet during the years of the revolution and civil war. In addition, the cycle includes excerpts from Yesenin's small poems, the so-called "Yesenin's Bible". As V. Veselov notes, “... all the action is raised to the cosmic height, to the “legendary”. Hence the legend of the images of good and evil, Christ and Judas, who appear in direct collision. By structure, this work is a vocal cycle, but Sviridov called it a poem. He clearly distinguished for himself the scope of the vocal cycle and the poem. To the first genre he attributed works narrower in content, to the second - cyclic vocal compositions with a deeper philosophical basis. The poem "Departed Rus'" is a philosophical, dramatic reflection on the unknown fate of Russia. The poetry of a work is connected with its integrity, unity of intention. The unifying principle is the image of Russia.
In 1978, the triptych "Hymns to the Motherland" was completed to the words of F. Sologub. In the process of work, the composer repeatedly changed the order of parts, for a long time did not give a name. The final version was formed only after the concert performance of the work. Sviridov was perhaps the first composer who turned to the poetry of Sologub. In Sologub's lyrics, he was attracted by sincere love for the Motherland - a theme that deeply worried the composer throughout creative way. The dramaturgy of "Hymns to the Motherland" is characterized by the unity of this theme. T. Maslovskaya writes about the triptych: “Having seen and germinated the grain of epicness underlying the Sologub hymns, Sviridov built a triptych that is distinguished by its monumentality, significance and some static character, characteristic of the hymn genre.”
The idea of the cantata "The Bright Guest" for mixed choir and orchestra to a text by S. Yesenin dates back to 1962. composition plan and musical material formed immediately. The piano score was already in the mid-60s, and was published only in 1979. By this time, an orchestral version of the cantata had also taken shape, but the composer never chose the final version, and work on the orchestration of the work continued over the next decades. But Sviridov never managed to complete the work on the score himself. After his death, the manuscripts were handed over to the composer R. Ledenev, who studied them and established several versions of the author's orchestration. One of these editions became the basis for the orchestration of the cantata.
The work is based on fragments of small biblical poems by S. Yesenin. In the composer's diary entries there is a note about the cantata "The Bright Guest", in which he writes: "The poems underlying this work were written by Yesenin in 1918. They are a direct response to the events of the revolution, which is understood (interpreted, considered) by Yesenin as the beginning of renewal, the spiritual transformation of the Motherland, Russia. A light mood reigns in the cantata, the form is concentrated, the parts are short, there is no bright contrast between them. The work consists of six parts. IN musical language palpable style characteristic of previous works to the verses of S. Yesenin.
In the late 80s - 90s, the socio-political changes that took place in our country influenced Sviridov's consciousness. The composer was very upset by the collapse of the USSR, it caused him complex, conflicting feelings. The works of these years reflect the mood of the composer in the last years of his life. First of all, the inevitable approach of death is reflected in the music of this time. In addition, during this period, the role of religious idea in his works. In his diaries, the composer defines the tasks of his work: “Art is not only art. It is part of the religious (spiritual) consciousness of the People.
Summarizing, it should be noted that in the choice of texts and genres in his work, Sviridov relied on three sources. The first is folk songs, primarily from the Kursk region, since he was from the city of Fatezh (Kursk region). The second source is Russian poetry of the 19th - early 20th centuries. As a rule, the composer turned to the lyric poetry of A. Pushkin, M. Lermontov, N. Nekrasov, A. Blok, S. Yesenin, M. Isakovsky, A. Prokofiev, etc. The third source is spiritual texts, the words of which are taken mainly from Russian Orthodox liturgical books, from folk spiritual songs. For the composer, the texts to which he referred were important as exponents of the national-spiritual, moral principle. The texts chosen by Sviridov demanded, according to the composer's ideas, an appropriate embodiment in music. One of these means was the anhemitonic intonation, so characteristic of his melodic style.
1. Belonenko A. "My form is a song ...". About chamber-vocal creativity of Sviridov // Georgy Sviridov. complete collection compositions. Volume 10. Romances and songs. M. SPb. 2003. - S. V - XXXII.
2. Belonenko A. Choral beginning of the music of Georgy Sviridov // Georgy Sviridov. Full composition of writings. Volume 18. Compositions for unaccompanied choir. M. SPb. 2003. - S. V - XVIII.
3. Vasina-Grossman V. G. Sviridov // Masters of the Soviet romance: 2nd edition, revised, supplemented. M. 1980. - S. 255 - 289.
4. Veselov V. Star romance // Music world George Sviridov. M. 1990. - S. 19 - 31.
5. Georgy Sviridov. Music as fate: Library of memoirs / Comp. A. Belonenko. M. 2002. - 785 p.
6. Book about Sviridov: Reflections. Statements. Articles. Notes / Comp. A. Zolotov. M. 1983. - 282 p.
7. Maslovskaya T. “Lights of life and eternity…” // Musical world of Georgy Sviridov. M. 1990. S. - 78 - 91.
8. Paisov Yu. Blok in reading Sviridov // Musical Life, 1980 No. 21. - P. 20.
9. Polyakova L. Notes on the writings of the 60s // Georgy Sviridov. Digest of articles. M. 1971. - S. 272 - 319.
10. Sohor A. Georgy Sviridov. M. 1972. - 320 p.
11. Sokhor A. Musical dramaturgy of Sviridov's vocal and symphonic works // Musical contemporary. M. 1979. Issue. 3. - S. 146 - 171.
12. Tokmakova O. "It is best to leave the song as a song." Kursk folklore in the work of Sviridov // Complete collection of works. Volume 3. Kursk songs. Three ancient songs of the Kursk province. M. SPb. 2003. - S. IX - XIII.
13. Elik M. Sviridov and poetry // George Sviridov. Digest of articles. M. 1971. - S. 58 - 124.
Information about the history of the creation of the vocal cycle is taken from the introductory article by A. Belonenko to the 13th volume of the publication “Georgy Sviridov. Full composition of writings".
children of nature
I am twenty one years old. I have an average household: three horses, two cows, a dozen sheep. Last autumn, he took a timber from the landowner, updated the hut, replaced the rotten crowns. Next fall, I'm thinking of buying a couple of oak poles, putting up new gates and attaching a crate. Then you can think about the bath. Nothing, God willing, and there will be a bath!
Our family is small - me and my mother. She is already old, she wants to marry me soon, all the talk is about that. Yes, and old Jamali, a respectable man in the village, the other day seemed to be interested: why is it that Hafiz is still single - he lives in abundance, no matter who he asks for, they won’t refuse. The old man himself also has a marriageable daughter, Fahernisa's name. He gave the eldest to a richer house, but did not calculate a little, in big family hit and suffer now, poor thing. And this one, they say, wants to attach to one where there are fewer people. The old man, of course, does not speak directly about this, but it seems to me that if I went to him a better matchmaker, there would be no refusal.
And Fahernisa herself seems to be reaching out to me. I have Aunt Farhi - a laugher, her mouth is always up to her ears. Every autumn, before you have time to cope with the bread, he comes and begins to praise some bride. The other day she showed up again, from the threshold she started an old song: why am I still not getting married, why my mother is getting old without a daughter-in-law.
- You, - she says, - apparently, you are afraid of girls?! Look, your buddies have had children for a long time... How long will we have to wait? Beauty and the article - she took it to everyone, let's not yawn, the girl is in full bloom ... And the dowry ... apparently, invisibly, as they say, will not fit in the house ... Here the other day we were at Karima's gatherings. Almost fifteen girls gathered ... All night long they were telling fortunes ... Jamaliyeva Fahernisa had not a single drop of shame: as they began to guess who would get who as suitors, she shouted: “Hafiz to me, yes Khafiz!”, well, how to stop Anna, right! Yes, the poor thing was not lucky - you never went out to her. Three times Shahiyeva Bibiasma got it. Fahernisa, poor thing, was very upset, she was completely depressed. There is nothing to guess here - you will be with Bibiasma. It can be seen that this is fate ... Here you replace the gate, attach the cage and marry. We'll play a merry wedding... Send my father-in-law as a matchmaker. If he undertakes, the matter will certainly burn out - you will be a sweetheart, your mother will be a daughter-in-law
Maybe Fahernisa loves me, but my heart is drawn to another. We have been walking with Bibiasma for a long time. The whole village knows about us, how many times we almost got caught. Every year I woo her, but no, the old man does not give her away and that's it. Whoever I send - refuses. People heard him say that I'm a good guy, but he doesn't want to give up his daughter for me. Without boasting, I will say that in the village, thank God, I am not one of the last, I am not some kind of slut. I am not offended by growth, I do not complain about health. As for drinking, again, no one will reproach. Of course, sometimes you miss a little - on a holiday or when someone arranges to help - with whom it does not happen.
In the old days, they say, the order was completely different, and now the bride’s father is trying to beat out more ransom for his daughter, and the mother is still trying to find out: what kind of family and what kind of temper does the future mother-in-law have. I have something with this, thank God - no brothers, no sisters, my own head. Yes, and the mother, perhaps, will get along with the daughter-in-law.
They say that those who marry for love are the most miserable people. Vaughn Timerkai with Mahi, Kamali's daughter. How many years they walked and got married against the will of their parents - out of love, but they live like a cat and a dog. They fight. His wife beats Timerkay, and he stands like a heifer, with his head bowed, afraid to say a word ... But sometimes you look - it's the other way around: he grabbed her by the hair and drags her, but she again - not a word in response, is silent and cries .. But not even an hour will pass - they have already reconciled, cooing like doves, hugging, kissing, crying ... Why is it so - only Allah knows ... They say that someone has brought damage to them ...
And how could I raise my hand against Bibiasma! ..
For some reason, our first conversation with Asma (Asma - short for Bibiasma) does not go out of our heads. The year was then fruitful. A neighboring old woman at the mouth of the Kuksu had a tithe of millet. The poor thing was lucky, the land in those places is fat, the millet flourished so that in some places it was up to the very chest. Panicles are large, bend from gravity. The old woman is alone in the field - there is little sense. Frosts were frequent, she was afraid that millet would disappear, she slaughtered a goat, arranged to help.
It seems to be inconvenient not to help a lonely old woman. Yes, it's time, things are up to the throat, the bread has not yet been delivered. I would break a little, scratch my head, and even refuse, but the old woman turned out to be wise. When I asked who would come, she named Asma first. How could you disagree!
Cattle got into the habit of spelt - it's high time to bring sheaves into the yard, an unfinished haystack stands in the field. But when I heard about Asma, everything went out of my head, now the haystack will probably get wet in the rain.
Asma! Everyone has it on their tongue. The old women affectionately pat her on the back, call her a dove, the guys only talk about her.
I arrived in the field later than the others. The guys there were already unharnessing the horses, the women were changing clothes behind a shock of oats. Before I could drive up, Asma immediately noticed. When she saw me, she blushed all over.
Then Aunt Farhi began to reap, after her, talking cheerfully and jokingly, the girls got down to business. Scarves are tied at the back of the head, white armlets to the elbows. Twenty people gathered to help - nine women, eleven men. It is known that men in such a case are the most unreliable people, and if there are women nearby, even more so. Here all the hope for the girls. They are already out there, and we are all standing near the carts and chatting ...
Aunt Farhi couldn't stand it:
- Hey; guys, - she shouted, - why are you sharpening your hair there in vain! .. Here we finish our share, look, there will be no help. No matter how you blush. There is nothing to do, we also took sickles in our hands. Millet is high, no need to bend down, the back is unlikely to hurt ... It's a pleasure to work.
However, it is impossible to call help and work - laughter and Jokes around ... There are both singers and masters of joking. Sometimes they will sing a ditty - and she is prickly, she takes girls for a living. Those, of course, do not remain in debt, they answer even more trenchantly. Happens. and tighten the lingering one, all together ...
There, in the very middle of the field, there is a small lake, overgrown with dense willow. We expected to reach it by noon.
Boyish voices were heard:
- Lunch is coming, lunch!
I looked up and saw that the lake was within easy reach. We pressed on together, and in a few minutes the matter was over.
Soon a cart drove up, on which, holding dishes wrapped in a tablecloth, sat a boy and two women. The girls, followed by us, ran through the willow thickets to the cart.
It so happened that as soon as I dived into the thickets, Asma appeared before me. I rushed to her, but she deftly dodged me and ran. I called out:
- Asma... I love you!..
When she heard my words, she stopped, glanced furtively at me, and when I took a step towards her, she rushed to the side and disappeared among the trees. I repeated again:
- Love you!
Echo replied:
- And I!..
From that day on, we started dating. God knows how many embroidered handkerchiefs she gave me. Aunt Farhi says that fate itself tied our hair together. I myself hope so. Only now, how to persuade her father! ..
I am alone with my mother, because the soldier does not threaten me. Guys like me have been getting married with us since they were seventeen. With Gilazhi, for example, we are of the same age - so his son will soon ride at night.
Whoever has a father, they don’t even ask, they want to get married, they don’t want to - when the time comes, they send matchmakers.
And I'm my own head. We live according to my mother, she consults with me in everything. She is already old, probably offended that she has to do everything herself and heat the stove and wash the floors. With a daughter-in-law, it would be much easier. Yes, and in front of relatives, she is uncomfortable, it seems, she is even ashamed that I still go single. In addition, evil tongues are talking different things behind their backs. Hafiz, they say, would have married long ago, but for him the bride has not yet grown up ... Nothing. I'll wait until the fall and send a matchmaker of slander... If they refuse this time too, then I don't know what to do... But it all started with that help.
Hay has arrived. This year, although the summer is dry, it is still a sin to complain - the grasses are not bad: the flood was high and the water stayed on the floodplain for a long time.
On one of the floodplains, Shahi's grandfather decided to arrange help. Of course, there is a lot of work to do too ... The hay is only half mowed, the rye stands untouched, sways in the wind, golden waves run along it. Start harvesting tomorrow. There is no time for help, I would have to remove my own in time, I’m ready to break into forty parts.
But be that as it may, twelve men gathered at Shahi's grandfather. He is a good old man, his son Ibrai was taken as a soldier - now he is as if without hands. In addition, just before the haymaking, two horses were taken away from him. The horses were a feast for the eyes, the whole village felt sorry for him ...
Rarely will anyone go to such a person. In addition, he has a beautiful daughter. Guys do not wait for an invitation, they fill themselves.
- But if you think about it, helping is different from helping, especially if it falls on the post. At other times in the morning you will drink tea with pancakes, in the afternoon, as expected, eat meat soup. And in the post - what?
The breakfast, by the way, was good! After all, Bibiasma is not some kind of white hand ... She loves everything to shine with her ... Sitting at such a table is a pleasure: the tablecloth is snow-white, the samovar is rubbed to a shine, the dishes are cleanly washed - in short, her hand is felt in everything.
After breakfast, the guys quickly harnessed four horses. We got into carts and left the village. It was barely dawn over the hills.
How wonderful in the summer at dawn! It is so easy to breathe... The nightingales sing... And the meadow, here it is, spreads from end to end and meets us, shining with pearly dew.
When twelve mowers passed the first mowing one after another, the sun rose ... It became more cheerful, the soul sang, an unusual lightness was felt in the whole body. How nice it is to mow in the early morning, on wet grass! .. In the morning the guys mowed effortlessly. Their sleeves are rolled up, their shirts are unbuttoned. But towards noon, the conversations fell silent. The heat increased with every minute. The grass was withering before our eyes, leaning towards the ground. The sky turned into a huge red-hot brazier and fell lower and lower. Here, brother, it’s not up to mowing, I’m constantly thirsty. Oh! To take a sip at least once, it would immediately feel better ... But fasting is fasting, you take water in your mouth - everything is gone.
Old man Shahi has red eyes from heat and thirst.
- Well, guys, - he says, - from the very dawn, mow, out
how much they screwed up. If you need to go home, go, I won't be offended.
But Karim-abzy said:
- So that eleven such batyrs are not finished off to the end ?!
Let's wait out the heat and finish ... These guys can survive without rest, nothing will happen to them!
We were silent. They hid - some under the cart, some under the bushes.
The heat intensified, the earth and the air heated up so much that it seemed that the earth had opened up nearby and the flames of the underworld were bursting upon us. The shadow did not save, the heat took away the last strength, unbearably tormented by thirst. Lying under a bush, I heard Shayakhmet and Satkay arguing nearby. Both suddenly jumped up and grabbed their scythes.
"Again, they didn't share something," I thought and went up to them.
What an unenviable position these guys have!
Shayakhmet at one time wanted to get Maibadar, the daughter of Aptryash's grandfather. Side by side, through old Safa, he found out that Grandfather Aptryash was not opposed to giving his daughter to him, only that it was necessary to agree on a ransom for the bride. Old man Aptryash insisted that beshmet, a pound of tea, half a pood of honey be added to the promised. Satkai, having heard about all this, quickly sent the old man Khairullu to Aptrya-sh and ordered: Maibadar should not be missed in any case. Khairulla put twenty-five rubles in advance on the table. They shook hands, and the matchmaker brought Satkay a gift from the bride.
Shayakhmet, of course, did not remain without a wife, Gilminur took over. But offended for life. For how many years they, wherever they meet, put spokes in each other's wheels. And today a quarrel broke out over a trifle. It turns out that Shayakhmet touched Satkay to the quick, saying that he completely ran out of steam at the last swath.
Satkai jumped up and shouted:
- Yes, I can mow without rest until sunset! ..
The giant was just waiting to add fuel to the fire:
"No," he said, "you can't stand it!"
We arrived in the midst of an argument.
- I won't if I don't leave you a hundred fathoms behind, -
Shayakhmet slapped his chest.
Satkai replied to this:
- You will go two steps - your own horse by the bridle
I'll bring it to you, - and with such force he hit the cart with his fist, that
she crackled.
Guys peeked out from under the cart, rubbing their eyes. And the old Shahi said conciliatoryly:
- Guys, it’s a sultry day, fast yourself, don’t get excited, so
because it doesn't take long to burn.
Will they listen!
In terms of strength and dexterity, both opponents are perhaps equal. Only now Satkay's braid was worse - I was afraid that he would really become ill. Seventy fathoms went smoothly. Satkai, apparently, was saving his strength: when the willow thickets passed, he walked faster. After some time, Shayakhmet nevertheless caught up with him and must have demanded to give way. But Satkay did not let them in, And they rushed forward frantically. Soon, however, Shayakhmet began to give up. When he reached the edge of the meadow, he stopped. And Satkay mowed further. He is a stubborn guy, he will burst, but he will do it his own way.
At first, their argument was fun for us, but when we saw that Satkai had fallen, we became worried.
- Eh, youth, you don’t care about anything, it was worth it because of a trifle
destroy yourself! - the old man Shahi reproached us and shook his head with displeasure.
head.
We surrounded Satkay. His face was covered in crimson spots, he was covered in sweat, he spoke with difficulty.
"Water," he whispered, holding his chest. "Everything is on fire... I'm dying..."
They brought water, but he did not drink, only wet his lips and face with a wet sleeve. This, apparently, helped, he looked around us with a cloudy look and in some otherworldly voice asked:
- Who knows, I can swim?
The most knowledgeable among us was old Fattah:
“It would be better for you, son, not to swim,” he said.
pray.
We moved him to the shade, closer to the water and laid him on fresh hay, moistened his face and chest. He breathed unevenly.
Old Shahi was seriously alarmed.
“It’s hot here,” he advised, “it’s better to take him home, let him lay matting in the cellar and lie down there.
We quickly harnessed the horse and Asma's brother took him to the village.
Meanwhile, the day grew hotter and hotter. We again hid from the sun.
There was a light cloud on the horizon. Another, second, third... They slowly began to gather together.
A breeze blew, and the clouds moved towards us, gradually darkening and promising saving rain. Start to scribble. We, shouting joyfully, began to catch drops in our mouths, danced, jumped. But the rain passed by. However, the heat subsided, the mood rose.
Here's someone playing the song:
Full-flowing river, In it cold water. A wave beats on the raft...
When they finished singing, Gilazhi said:
- Let's have a bite to eat. - Apparently, I forgot about the post.
- Gilazhi, you want to eat, right?! we raised it
to laugh.
Well, this Gilazhi talker, by God! He himself can’t really mow, and wag his tongue - there is no equal, as if the devil spat in his mouth!
When we are in Once again sat down to rest, Gilazhi asked Karim-abza:
- Look, Karim-abzy, our Hafiz right before our eyes
dries. What's going on with the guy! Don't know how to help him?
Karim-abzy just chuckled in response.
- Shahi's grandfather will give Asma for him - he will stop drying up, - Shayakhmet joked.
Where did they get the idea that I'm drying up? I have health - God forbid everyone, with one blow I can knock down any of them. And they chat just like that, having nothing to do. I silently glanced at Gilazhi.
- Look how Hafiz glares with his eyes! - he did not let up.
I said nothing again.
“Listen, grandfather Shakhi,” continued Gilazhi, “and
maybe I’ll fit your Asma, huh? .. Count to three hundred if
during this time I will swim across the river, will you give your daughter for me?
This Gilazhi gets away with everything, he can blurt out anything, the old man did not even get angry. Whether in jest, or seriously, he said, getting up:
- All of you have my Asma on your mind! There are so many of you, you don't know
for whom to give! Compete here with Karim, who for two
the circle will break forward, he will get it!
I jumped up and grabbed my grandfather by the hand:
- Will you keep your word? .. Will you give it back?
Everything happened so quickly that the old man was even taken aback, apparently, he sensed that he had started something wrong, but he did not refuse his word.
- The spoken word is like an arrow shot, - our ancestors used to say. - Come on, take a scythe!
The old people say that so far no one has been able to get around Karim-abzy in mowing.
Not far from us, a landowner lived alone. Before, he used to hire day laborers every summer. About a hundred hefty guys flocked to him at that time from all around. Others paid a day's worth of fifty kopecks - a ruble each, and Karim two rubles each, because he always walked ahead, pulling the rest behind him. And they treated him differently. True, it was a long time ago. Now Karim-abzy is no longer the good fellow. However, he is still considered the best mower in the district. Do not hear that he ever gave in to someone.
After the words of grandfather Shahi, guys surrounded me. Some of them smiled incredulously: with whom, poor fellow, did he decide to compete, and one of them directly said to me:
- Do not go crazy, is it possible to overtake Karim-abzy?
I stood my ground, my heart pounding with excitement.
Here Karim-abzy took a scythe, which, probably, was the same age as him, stuck it with a handle into the ground, and ran a bar along the blade.
- Well, guys... With God! he exclaimed. His voice sounded
strong and confident.
Surprisingly easily he went forward, it seemed that an unknown force was carrying him. I followed. The guys began to watch us. We passed the first swath on an equal footing. Either the years began to overcome Karim-batyr, or I really wanted to get ahead of him, only on the second run the old man began to clearly give up. I stepped on his heels. Having caught up with Karim-abzy, I struck a scythe at his very feet and shouted:
- Watch out, I'll catch you!
However, he did not want to give up so soon, straining his last strength, he tried to break away. This spurred me on even more. I passed the scythe again at his feet and shouted angrily:
- Get out! Give way!
From the cry of strength, I increased, I did not know what to do with the power bubbling in me.
- Well done ... - Karim-abzy finally squeezed out of himself and let him go ahead. Without looking back, not even knowing whether he was following me or not, I waved and waved the scythe, and each of my strokes seemed to be able to destroy any obstacle. When I finished, the guys picked me up and carried me to Shahi's grandfather.
- A real man will not repeat twice, - said the old man, - apparently, Allah wants it that way, - and agreed to marry Asma to me.
When the suffering ended, they played a wedding. The villagers later said that such a fun wedding had not been for a long time. Yes, and you are a couple, they say, very successful - beautiful and hardworking.
We live really well. In the village we are set as an example to others. Our mother is overjoyed with our happiness. Soon a small one should appear. Yesterday, they didn’t close their eyes with Asma all night, everyone was talking about the child. I myself want a daughter and to look like Asma. And she says: "Let there be a boy and so that you look like you. And we will call him Timerbulat."
What is meant to be, will be. If only he grew up healthy and happy.
The sun is going down, evening is approaching. The sky is clear.
Silence. Lifting sails like the wings of a great bird,
our ship slowly leaves the shore and takes
direction towards the setting sun.
Farewell, reliable, safe shore!
And the city, and the estuary, and the ships on it, and the minarets, and multi-colored flags - everything decreases in size as we move away, as if it goes into the ground; the farther we go, the denser the coast is shrouded in haze and the city with towers loses its shape.
Here they are no longer visible. Nothing around but the sky and the endless sea.
The sun hides behind the horizon. The sea, which shimmered so beautifully during the day, begins to darken, the crimson of the sunset acquires a darkish yellow tones, and after a while becomes dark gray. Bright colors and poetic pictures are gradually replaced by dark, gloomy tones, they give rise to anxiety in the soul and pull me into the mysterious depths of the spirit.
There are about two dozen people on the ship. They begin to lay down for the night, and soon, one by one, they fall asleep sweetly. Such silence, as if nature itself fell asleep. Under the cover of night, silence seems mysterious and disturbing.
Sailors are happy when it's so calm. They appreciate good weather and hurry to lie down after the passengers. Only one helmsman is awake, he guides the ship by the stars.
I also went to bed, but I felt that I would not fall asleep. Something agitated in me, some anxiety woke up, my soul sensitively caught the secret sighs of nature. We continue on our way.
Distant stars light up in the sky; the closer the night, the larger and brighter they are; finally, they fill the entire sky and shine like diamonds. Looking at them, you forget everything in the world, and dreams take you to the divine world, in which beauty, poetry and mercy reign. Earthly sorrows, big and small worries, worries miraculously leave you, and you plunge into the inexplicable bliss of peace.
Beautiful nature and starry sky - aren't they the same everywhere? Or am I seeing it all for the first time? Why is there no such peacefulness of feelings in me when I am in a huge city - there among high houses and noisy streets, where, in the hope of finding at least some consolation, I look up at the sky? Why do I feel so good now, when I look at this sea, which has absorbed so many stars! Why there, in the city, I cannot find peace and balance, as on this night?
The ship glides lazily forward. The night is still quiet, people are sleeping, the helmsman, looking at the twinkling stars, froze at the helm. It can be seen that he forgot himself, listening to this silence, and his thoughts are somewhere in the sky.
The whole world at this moment is immersed in silence and is its embodiment. It feels like our ship does not slide on the water at all, but stands motionless. The sea is calm and smooth. Myriads of stars, reflected in it, as in a mirror, seem to be precious stones scattered over its surface.
On a high mast, as if big star, the lantern hangs motionless.
Here from the bottom. the sea slowly floats a sad moon. At first, it is reddish-yellow, rising higher, begins to turn pale and after a while becomes already silvery. We bathe in its gentle, transparent rays.
With the appearance of the moon, the darkness recedes, the sea changes color, from disturbingly dark turns into thoughtful lead. The sky sinks lower, merges with the sea, and now we are swimming along a huge mirror, decorated with a moonlit road and diamond stars ... But recently everything was different, and nothing but night and silence existed.
When the moon rose and the dark curtain rose, there was some movement on the sea. Behind the stern the water was not as calm as it seemed, the waves shimmered under the light of the moon, the stars swayed overboard and dived. It seemed that on this night the sea and the sky were celebrating their first love, that the sky, looking from above with a loving gaze, received thousands of smiles in response and, forgetting everything, the two elements rushed to each other.
into an embrace. Once in the open sea, you begin to feel an extraordinary liberation from earthly hardships, quiet joy and pleasure instill in you. A bright feeling is born in the soul, some kind of detachment and peace embraces it, the anxieties of the world recede somewhere. I want to sit still, listening to this silence; if there was a talkative companion nearby, he would only interfere with your bliss.
Your deeds, your native land and the rest of the world - everything loses its former meaning during these hours, and you do not feel the running of time. Where, from where - and why you are sailing - everything is forgotten and you don’t want to remember.
The joys and sorrows of the world no longer exist for you, in front of you there is only an endless sea and a high sky that lovingly looks down - and you see their blissful merging and oblivion.
Feelings take you to inaccessible heights, to distant luminaries, to the great and mysterious realm of the spirit, where human flesh has no access.
The soul hovers in blue expanses, you are full of mercy, love and happiness, the devil in you is killed and trampled, and Jabrail himself is your companion. At these moments, I want to fall on my face, repent, confess to someone with all the fervor of love.
A spark of hope ignites in a desperate soul, one wants to live for thousands and thousands of years. But not the miserable life of the flesh, but another - sublime, beautiful and great.
But does such a life exist? If yes, where? Does it exist in the sky, among the stars? Maybe it's just a scam? In the depths of the Universe, perhaps, there is also grief, sadness, tears and the meaninglessness of life?
I'm not very talkative, but to talk another to me
not difficult. To meet a Muslim on the way for the old man, apparently, was a joy. He called himself Nuretdin, but it turns out that people call him farrash Nuri. Although he comes from Kazan, for many years he has been serving in one of the large mosques in Astrakhan; now he is going to visit his son Khayri, who works in the Caspian fisheries.
“I have only one son,” he admitted, “how can you not go ... He’s getting old, anything can happen ... I want to visit him in the end ...
The old man turned out to be talkative, and soon I became aware
history of his life.
- From an early age I grew up as an orphan, without supervision ... I lived on handouts, begging, - he began. - In a famine year, when there was nothing to feed on in the village, relying on God, I went with one person to the city. After long ordeals, he contracted for food to the blind man as a guide.
Finally, fate smiled at him - he joined the khazret as a worker. Khazret was a kind man and, having kept the boy for several years, until he grew up, assigned him to serve in the madrasah.
Nuri served well here too, did everything that was ordered. Rooms and dining room kept in order. He became a common favorite, shakirds began to teach him to read and write. A little time passed, and Nuri learned to freely read prayers and verses from the Koran. For many years he worked in the madrasah and left only after the death of the khazret, when the madrasah was empty.
Unaccustomed to hard work, Nuri began to look for a place at the mosque, as he managed to get used to the clergy. After a long and unsuccessful search, he went with one of the shakirds to Astrakhan. It was autumn, the shakirds were just returning to the madrasah, and Nuri without much difficulty found himself a position in one of them.
Here, too, he won the respect of the shakirds, and here he was willingly helped to study religious books. From time to time, Nuri managed to earn some money: he bound books and carried out small assignments. Having saved some money, he married a widow and soon became a respected person in the parish. Having snatched time from the service, he increasingly appeared in the mosque in a turban and a robe ...
Fortunately for him, his grandfather Safa, a servant of the mosque, died unexpectedly. Nuri was unanimously elected to replace the deceased. Since then, it has been called farrash Nuri. It turned out that he is still in this position and leads a pleasant, quiet life. He considers himself incredibly lucky.
- Glory to Allah, son! .. In the world, God gave me everything that I wanted, may he not deprive me of his mercy in the next world ...
It turned out that the brisk old man managed to become the murid of the ishan and was treated kindly by him. (Ishan is the head of the religious community of Muslims, having his adherents and followers - murids)
Ishan distinguishes him with special attention. How many times Nuri was honored to wash the hands of the benefactor before prayer, how many times he leaned on his shoulder while putting on his shoes. Sometimes he is interested in Nuri's health, asks about his wife
and children. Once he passed an unfinished cup. And such murids do not often fall out. One of the mentors closest to Ishan gave him an expensive rosary. Doesn't all this tell about their location? ..
The old man at sea for the first time. Our ship is not a reliable steamer, but only a sailboat, and, feeling this, the old man behaves uncertainly, there is fear in his eyes, and his face is pale.
In moments of danger, people turn to otherworldly forces for help. So did Nuri: not limited to reading the prescribed five prayers, he repeated everything he knew by heart, and did it sincerely. The moment the sea stirred and began to rock the ship, the old man shuddered; he was very worried that he would become food for fish.
We walked hard, at the risk of our lives; sometimes the ship spun like a piece of wood. At that moment the old man looked terrible. With loud prayers, he asked Allah for help and mercy, as if death had already taken him by the throat and he was losing his last strength.
I tried to calm him down, convinced him that fear would not help - but this only offended him! Pointing at the women who were being baptized, he angrily exclaimed:
- You see, the Russians pray to their god, and what are you doing?!
I looked at him and was surprised: it would seem that a man is seventy years old, his life can be considered lived, but he is so afraid of death. Why am I not afraid? Why don't we young people have such a lust for life?
The next night was especially hard. At sunset, a strong wind blew, clouds appeared from the north and soon covered the sky. It became difficult to distinguish the sea from the sky, suddenly night fell. The wind picked up. The sky suddenly flashed and split overhead, as if huge mountains were collapsing: Lightnings, like long peaks, pierced into the sea, rushed endlessly between the clouds.
It became terrifying, the wind roared, huge waves frantically rushed at the ship, and it heeled so that it seemed that we were about to go to the bottom. The situation was hopeless. Nobody expected to survive.
There were four women among the passengers. At first, on their knees, they whispered prayers, crossed themselves earnestly, and screamed at every lightning strike. Soon, unable to stand it, they fainted and, pale, stretched out on the floor. Alive, no - no one knew.
My old man repeated prayers, but after a while I noticed that something strange was happening to him: the greater the danger and the closer the death, the calmer and more detached he became. Then I realized: in despair, he believed in imminent death. .
Having performed ablution with great difficulty, he rolled out his prayer rug, sat on his knees and began to sort out the rosary. At first he wanted to give me his will, but, after thinking, he decided that no one would survive anyway, and said:
- If you save yourself with God's help, tell my people there how everything was ... Tell your son to quickly go to Astrakhan and pick up things. My old woman died, and besides my son, I now have no heirs.
The wind blew even stronger, the sea roared furiously, the ship jumped up and tossed in the waves. The ominous sound of the waves and the deafening peals of thunder took up arms against the ship even more, as if they wanted to devour and destroy us all.
- Is there any hope for salvation or not? I turned to the captain. And he, without hiding, answered: "The danger is great, this does not happen often."
My old man was still saying prayers. I didn't approach him.
So the night passed. I still wonder how we survived.
One of the crew members later told me that if it were not for the helmsman, who kept the ship bowed to the wave all the time, we would not have survived.
Before dawn, the sea calmed down a little, I went to bed. The difficult night must have exhausted me, because I slept for a long time. When he opened his eyes, the weather was already clear, the clouds parted, and a light haze hung over the bright expanse of the sea. The sea, disturbed by the past hurricane, was still rocking, but the waves were already weak. After the hell of the night, this clear, sparkling day seemed extraordinarily beautiful.
Seeing me on deck, the old man quickly approached me. He was still pale, his face showed traces of the horror he had experienced, but sincere joy and surprise were felt in his voice. - Here it is, God's mercy, the blessing of our teachers... To tell, because no one will believe what horror they experienced, what misfortune they got rid of... I made many vows to myself at night. I will fulfill, I will fulfill every single one, if I remain alive ... If only I could get to the shore ...
Last night he experienced such fear that, remembering, he changed his face and began to whisper prayers. All laziness the old man walked depressed.
By evening, the sea had subsided, and last night seemed to us already an uneasy dream. We continued on our way.
Finally, the old man found peace of mind and spoke again. Almost all the stories of the old man were connected with the sea - probably under the impression of what he had experienced. He recalled various stories about the treachery of the sea, told mysterious incidents that took place in the old days. His ancestor Gabdulla-haji made many pilgrimages to Mecca. The old man remembered well the stories of his grandfather.
The first time Gabdulla visited the holy places at his own expense. The rest of the visits were at the expense of the rich, who sent it instead of themselves, in order to receive honorary title"hadji - a pilgrim. So between Mecca, Medina and Kazan, Gabdulla spent many days of his life. That's why he was called Gabdulla-hadji.
From the stories of his ancestor, the old man Nuri best remembered sea stories that happened on the way to the holy places. Most of them were about giant fish.
One story happened on the way back, when Gabdulla-haji, having visited the grave of the prophet, sailed back to Russia. There were other pilgrims on the ship with him. One morning people woke up and noticed a moving island in the sea. It seemed strange and frightened them. The islet was rocky, covered with small shrubs. Everyone wondered: what could it be? Is it really the end of the world0 Maybe an earthquake? In a word, a commotion arose on the ship ...
Fortunately, among them was an experienced old man who visited the Kaaba many times *.
(* The Kaaba is a Muslim temple in Mecca, where the sacred black stone, revered by Muslims, is located.)
He explained that this was not an island at all, but a giant fish, on the back of which all sorts of things had grown over thousands of years. In order to somehow reassure his companions and convince them that such cases happen at sea, he told them the following story: once the fishermen caught a lot of fish and decided to land on an island to eat and rest. Having gone ashore, they began to dry their clothes, someone dug a small hole and lit a fire. They sit by the fire, warm themselves and prepare to drink tea. Suddenly the island swayed, moved, as if in an earthquake.
It turns out that the island was not real, but one that they had just met - in a word, it was huge fish. The fish felt the heat of the fire and became worried.
The death of Gabdulla-hadji, like his life, was unusual. At one time, there were many different rumors about this among the people. Some said that he was robbed and killed in the desert by the Arabs, and some spread a rumor that, they say, he visited the Kaaba, but he was too lazy to go to the grave of the prophet and, as a punishment for this, his arms and legs were taken away in the desert .
Old Man Nuri says it's all a lie. The son of a classmate of Gabdulla-haji, Ishan Karim, told him exactly how it was. His ancestor died as the prophet Yunus. And it was like that.
Gabdulla-haji, together with other pilgrims, returned to his homeland. On a dark night, their ship suddenly stopped. Passengers began to worry. Nobody knew the reason for the stop. People sailing on the ship were seized with fear and panic, many cried and prayed. Some of the pilgrims, repenting of their sins, began to loudly confess. The captain, trying to hide his excitement, announced in a changed voice:
- The ship is delayed by fish. Such a misfortune at sea sometimes happens. Fish require sacrifice from us. There are, apparently, among you
a man who is destined to die. If we don't make a sacrifice,
perish.
Hearing those words, everyone on the ship was stunned. Faces of confusion and fear. Then began general weeping, pleas for mercy, repentant prayers and groans. But there is no other way.
However, voluntarily no one wanted to be a victim, so they decided to cast lots.
- Oh my God! .. What will happen? .. Who will be at the top, who will sacrifice their lives and save the rest!
The lot fell on Gabdulla-haji. Turning pale, he knelt down and silently, without resistance, decided to give himself into the hands of fate, for such was his lot! However, people felt sorry for Gabdulla-hadji. They thought about why their comrade, instead of happily and joyfully going to his homeland, where his relatives and friends were waiting for him, should die such a terrible death.
One old man began to exhort Gabdulla-hadji:
- No need to grieve, you have an honorable death, you will be numbered among the apostles of the faith, you will rise in the other world, overshadowed by divine light, and your place will be next to the prophets and saints.
He even recalled that the prophet Yunus accepted the same death.
But Gabdulla-hadji did not hear anything anymore: having lost consciousness, he fell.
He was wrapped in a shroud and lowered alive into the water.
The sea accepted its sacrifice.
The ship set off.
We swim further. The day is drawing to a close, the weather starts to deteriorate again, the wind picks up. There are some clouds in the sky. The storm is approaching again. The stories of the old man are already rather tired, heaviness in the whole body.
Leaving the old man, I went to bed. The ship is rocking slightly
and lulls me. I look at the clouds, my eyelids are gradually getting heavier,
tends to sleep, soon I fall asleep soundly.
And I wake up from excited voices.
I seem to have fallen in love with the sea. Its clear, transparent distances beckon me, scarlet sunrises and crimson sunsets, dark stormy nights - everything amazes me. I find a special meaning and charm in them.
Looking at the sea, I feel a quivering feeling in me, as if the soul spreads its wings. Oh my God! How clean, transparent the air is, what beauty is around!
The wind that had risen towards night subsided, the sky cleared and shone with blueness and infinity. The sea of mirrors stretched as far as the eye could see. The distances are shrouded in a pinkish haze. There is joyful peace in everything!
Here the edge of the sun is shown from the sea, and a yellowish-red flash illuminates the surface of the water. Both the distance and the vast expanse of the sea immediately change their color, are painted in iridescent tones.
Under a light wind, the ship quietly glides forward, we continue on our way ...
Mountains are visible to the east. As we approach, they seem to grow, increase in size. At the foot of the mountain, we already notice bluish forests, high minarets, towers and white temples of the city.
The ship starts moving. On the faces of people is the joy of getting rid of; dangers, impatience to set foot on solid ground. Passengers are excited, cheerful voices and laughter are heard. My old man is also fussing, thanking Allah for salvation, hastily collecting his belongings, preparing to go ashore.
Only me, a sinner, is sad. I do not feel joy and do not understand the excitement of the passengers. Hearing the sharp horns of a steam locomotive on the shore and looking at the chimneys of the factories, I again indulge in melancholy and anxiety, everything in me shrinks. At that moment, something in my soul dies, collapses and dies, as if its best part is taken away, Former peace and tranquility leave me. But what to do?..
The ship stops. The passengers who escaped death hurriedly leave the ship. I, too, reluctantly take my things and go ashore. 1911
The beginning of spring
I must have been about eleven years old when I returned from teaching.
“Son, bring me your commendation sheet,” said mother.
I have been looking forward to these words for a long time. Without remembering himself, he jumped up and rushed to the table, where books and notebooks lay in disorder, and on them, sparkling with golden letters, a letter of commendation. I took the paper carefully, as if it were a hero's reward for valor, and gave it to my mother.
It was my commendation, recently received at school. There is no need to blush with such assessments. I was sure not only that my mother would be completely satisfied, but also that it would pleasantly surprise her. Her request pleased me to no end.
From the time this letter fell into my hands, I re-read it many times and knew everything that was written there by heart. And all the same, I really wanted to hear how my dear, dear mother would read it.
"Well, mom? Is everything all right?" I said to myself, looking into her eyes.
I look forward to an answer. And my mother looked around the sheet several times, and then aloud, so that I could hear it, she began to read: five, five plus ...
A hot flame flared up in my chest, began to rise to my throat, then rushed to my face. Apparently, mom noticed this. She patted me on the back with her thin, powerless hands, then, with deep tenderness and love, she embraced me and pressed me to her heart.
I remember this very well even now.
Her heartfelt words: "Thank you, son, thank you, the light of my eyes, you did a good job!" - were said with such an expression and such a voice that it seemed that every sound of them was full of deep inner meaning and love. These words seem to still ring in my ears. Then my mother kissed me
in the eyes and on the forehead. I received this tenderness of hers with a feeling that cannot be erased from memory until death. There was a pleasant and sweet silence between us. No other words were spoken. But in my mother's big and deep eyes, full of hope and love, tears glistened. How is she
No matter how hard she tried to hide them, tears rolled down from her eyelashes and ran one after another down her pale face. Although with my mind I could not comprehend why these tears appeared, but with my heart I felt and understood everything. I did not have the strength to resist these burning tears that rose from the depths of my soul. I, too, was seized with great excitement, tears gushed out of my eyes and moistened my cheeks. I was satisfied, I had everything I wanted, all my desires were fulfilled, and it seemed that I needed nothing more. An only child and mother's companion, I had everything. She, as they say, did not have a soul in me and considered me the closest and most dear
being in the world. ?
Her caress warmed and touched.
Meanwhile, the tea had already ripened, on the table, one after another, the delicacies that I had missed so much appeared. We drank tea with gusto for a long time. Mom began to ask about my school life, delving into the smallest details - about my teaching, comrades, about exams, about what the teacher said about me. All this I told in detail and retold to her more than once.
After tea, my mother carefully looked at the textbooks that I studied, leafed through the notebooks and said with a satisfied look: - Now go play outside!
Joyful, in a good mood, I went out into the yard. Nine months I was not at home, I returned only tonight. Because I was very bored, I wanted to consider everything, and it was interesting to look at everything in a new way. I walked around the garden, greeting him, the garden with beds, the yard, the barn, the barn, the stable and the barn. The day was clear, the sky clear and bright, and the sun was slowly approaching noon. On such a wonderful day, I was pleased to meet my former acquaintances, with whom I parted for the first time in my life. Everything seems beautiful and sweet to me, my joy does not fit in my chest, it bursts out, is ready to overflow. These are the feelings that bothered me.
Meanwhile, friends, neighbor boys, having learned about my return, had already run to our house. There was a slight hiccup at first. They were shy about something and looked at me as if they were an elder. But after a few minutes the tension disappeared. We again became the old boys - Aptryay, Salihom - and started playing.
What kind of games we did not start, I don’t remember everything. We played everything famous games: into the ball, into the roof, into the horses. It came down to "hares across the street." In this game, it was necessary to say a rhyme:
Knife, knife, knife, Who cleaned the shop with them? Magpie, dove, You drive, baby!
. But all these entertainments could not entertain me - I dreamed about games all winter. We began to come up with something even more interesting, even more lively. Suddenly one of the boys said:
- There is no wind, it would be nice to go fishing now.
I supported him. Fishing with a line has been my favorite pastime since childhood.
On long, hot days, I used to go to distant rivers and wander there until I was exhausted. Therefore, when I heard about fishing, I could not resist and shouted:
- Well done, what a good thing I remembered! Let's go guys, let's go!
Some tried to object, but I persuaded them. I ran home and said:
- Mom, I'm fishing!
From the expression of my mother's face and her voice, it was not difficult to guess that she did not want to let me go, but after listening to my insistent request, she agreed:
- Okay, go, just look, be careful, don't swim
far.
I grabbed last year's fishing rod and, not feeling the ground under my feet, ran to the boys.
- Well, guys! They crawl like turtles, barely moving their legs. Timerkay and Aptryay haven't come yet!
And I want to run and jump. I forgot what walking is like, as if an indomitable force is raging in my body that cannot fit inside: I want to jump, spin, climb somewhere high, high, fall ... So I'm angry with the boys! They are still not there! It’s not very convenient for me to follow them or shout loudly, call them. And I'm pulling my neighbor Ibrai, forcing him to scream: "Hurry!"
Finally they showed up! So let's go. But here's the problem: where to go?
The boys are more lazy and persuade them to go to a small stream near the village. But I resist it with all my might. Firstly, this river is dirty and shallow. Secondly, except for small fish, nothing is caught there. The boys split into two groups and started arguing. But still, our side won, and we went to the lake, which was among the forests and fields, away from the village.
As soon as we left the village, breathing became freer. It seemed to me, having spent the whole winter among books and desks, in a cramped school room, that all these fields, meadows, mountains, where I ran so much since childhood, met me with special warmth. This made me happy.
It is now the middle of May, the sun is high, it warms pleasantly. The whole earth is engulfed in the charm of spring; a kind of quiet joy reigns everywhere. The willows on both banks of the river are dressed in dense green foliage and rustle quietly, carefully. A wide green meadow spreads along the river. The river flows through the very middle of this wide sea of undulating grass and makes unexpected turns. The silvery sheen of its course enhances the beauty of the whole area.
There are distant mountains, forests, a rolling winter field, meadows where we picked strawberries - all this seemed to be dressed up, everything was dressed in green velvet grass and adorned with yellow, red, pink flowers. The flowers were a little tired from the heat. On flowers and willows, wonderful birds sing their joyful and sad songs brought from across the sea. Wherever you look, beautiful pictures of nature are everywhere, songs that lift your spirits are everywhere.
Everyone, when he says "spring", feels it with his heart and soul. Everyone bows their heads before its infinite beauty and ringing song, the whole earth is immersed in its tender splendor and is immersed in a mysterious and joyful happiness.
... We are walking among this beauty, as if along the very breast of the mighty earth. On our way, between a wide green field and a high wooded mountain, a large mysterious lake gleams.
How good it is around!To this big lake, which is located three kilometers from the village, I had to run from an early age.
Beautiful nature, convenient for swimming and fishing, the coast has always attracted. From the north and west there are wide fields of grain, one of our strips of land also rests on the lake. In the hot, suffering season, when we worked in our field, I enjoyed swimming in the lake very much.
From the east and south, the lake laps at a high mountain covered with dense forest. Ever since I can remember, the mighty trees on the mountain and the glades where I picked berries seemed like old acquaintances to me. Everything around the lake is nice and beautiful, only one side of it, facing the village, seems a little ominous. There
there is a long swamp covered with reeds. No one can get to the middle of it.
Terrible and outlandish tales are told among the people about this swamp. Therefore, the places around the lake cause me concern. Not only to come close, even talking about it becomes somehow creepy, an inexplicable timidity appears in the soul.
But the passion for fishing overcame fear. Among the rivers and lakes known to us, there was no other place so rich in fish. Suppressing our fear, we went there.
Here is the lake.
We were lucky: there are no waves, the lake is completely calm, clear and smooth water shines like a mirror. Only the side that faces the fields ripples a little. But we still won't go there.
The lake, the old trees surrounding it, the green, softly rustling winter seem especially close to me today; I want to say hello to everyone, everything excites the soul, evoking memories.
My comrades rejoice not so much in familiar places, the beauty of the lake and its environs, but in calm weather. After all, when it is windy, the lake is agitated, fishing loses its charm, as the fish do not bite.
On the east side, under a high wooded mountain, the shore of the lake is very steep. It looks like the stones are about to fall on your head. We knew that the fish bite best there, so we decided to start from this place. If someone had sent us, we would hardly have agreed to go there. But because of the fish, we forgot about fear.
By the time we got to the lake, the sun was approaching noon and it was quite hot. But we didn't feel it. Here, under the steep bank, the rays of the sun did not reach, the coolness here was especially pleasant.
Silently settling in different places, we began to prepare fishing rods. Everyone was silent, in a hurry. We put the best bait on the hooks and with the words: "Run on the bait, shine on the sand!" - They threw the rods into the water.
No sooner had my hook disappeared into the water, than I felt that my whole body was filled with some kind of hot wave. There is a special charm in being the first to pull the fish. Therefore, everyone wants to catch her before their comrades.
The boys were quiet, no noise or rustle was heard. Each has an expression on his face, as if he were preparing to snatch a fish from the water and with his own hand put it on a hook.
Once at school, a student wrote off a prayer that allegedly helps to catch fish. I laughed at him then, assuring him that all this was nonsense. And now he repented that he had not learned the prayer himself. Who knows, maybe it would really help and I would be the first to pull out the fish, and even the biggest one. How great would that be! But even without that, for some reason, it seems to me that I am about to bite and I will be the first to pull out the fish. I keep my eyes on the float and wait for this joyful moment. The slightest movement of the float gives me hope. It seems that the fish has already arrived ... now she is playing with a hook ... I begin to spit superstitiously: pah!., pah!., if only not to jinx it ...
Here it is! The float moved! Here it sways and moves stronger, now it lay on its side! Oh, how my heart beats, my head is noisy! I can’t understand: either the fish is actually eating the bait, or it’s mischievous, deceiving me. No, apparently, and really pecking!
While I was thinking like this, my float instantly disappeared into the water. Then he jumped out and immediately dived again, very quickly and energetically went down. The line was very tight. There was no doubt - a healthy fish was caught.
Not remembering myself, I jerked the fishing rod and threw it on the shore with a swing. And what? A bare hook was sticking out on the fishing line, there was no bait on it. O Allah, how terrible, how distressing! What it's like to see an empty hook when you expect to see a big fish! It seemed to me that some kind of hot light went out in me and a breath of cold blew. Already without the previous excitement, I planted a new bait and threw the bait again. However, my hands were trembling for some reason. As soon as the hook disappeared into the water, the unpleasant trembling subsided. I again stared impatiently into the bobber and began to wait for large, beautiful fish.
I looked askance at my comrades - I wanted to know about their successes. After making sure that they were still without a catch, he calmed down a bit. But then one of them pulled out a sparkling fish. And what a fish! As soon as the big, beautiful, rarely hooked rudd flashed on the shore, we all dropped our rods and rushed to the lucky one. He tried to pull the fish out of the grass, trembling as if in a fever and fidgeting. At the sight of his prey, a feeling of regret woke up in us, and perhaps even envy, that we were not lucky enough to catch such a fish. We are discouraged. The thought occurred to me: if I were a fish, I would only get caught by myself. At times like this I always have strange thoughts.
Although each one envied his comrade to himself, we did not show it and did not say anything out loud. Only with hidden secret pain someone said:
- Well, brother Aptryay, you have made an initiative. If your hand turns out to be heavy, oh, and we'll give you the heat! Having said this, we returned to our rods. Our lucky comrade was still small and did not know how to handle fish. Admiringly looking at her, he held her in his hands and did not know what to do with her.
Suddenly there was a strong splash, and we saw how pale the face of our comrade, and he himself began to rummage in the water with both hands.
Oh, poor thing, he missed his wonderful fish! .. Goodbye!
There is no need to conceal a sin: although we sympathized out loud, everyone was satisfied inwardly. We praised the fish that had sailed away with might and main, recalled how beautiful and big it was, almost the size of a pike that old Shagi caught.
I pulled out the second fish, but it was a very small, inconspicuous grayling. The boys laughed and said:
- Look, Salih caught a fish bigger than himself
little finger!
- Well, the strength is in you, Salih! How did you manage to pull out such a fish? - mocked me.
Although I was annoyed, I did not show my disappointment and said:
- Ah well? Envy is taken! You don't even get one!
Our first comrade had a light hand. Not in vain did we climb into such a distance. Among the fish we caught were large perches, pikes, burbots, tenches, which rarely fall on the bait.
Despite the good catch, the guys, not content with prey, pulled a few pikes from the top of old Yunus.
It's been a few hours since we arrived at the lake. Sitting on the shore and straining to watch the floats began to tire.
We threw the fishing rods deeper so that the bigger fish were caught, and we climbed the mountain ourselves. There was plenty of fun here. We looked at bird nests, gopher minks, looked for snakes, ate wild onions, young cow parsnip, then went to the winter fields - for sverbiga.
We had bread with us, we ate it with great appetite. Then, to freshen up, they bathed in the lake. The day was hot, there was stuffiness in the air, it was pleasant to swim in warm, gentle water. At the foot of the mountain, we collected flat pebbles and began to throw them into the lake. Before launching a pebble, every time they thought: "How many pancakes will turn out?" I had no special abilities for this occupation, and therefore it did not give me pleasure.
The long summer day passed like a holiday, imperceptibly. The sun was sinking to the west, it was getting dark. The air became softer and softer, it was impossible to breathe it. The moist air that came from the foliage of the old forest, from the winter crops on the opposite bank, mixing with the aroma of flowers, was fragrant.
The boys began to often look back towards the village and scratch their heads. It felt like they were tired.
One of the comrades, named Gali, who enjoyed our journey less than others, said:
It's evening, it's time to go home.
Many joined in his wish. Only Timerkay and Aptryai were against it. These two possessed some kind of power capable of subduing the boys. They were always stubborn, inventing something, arguing and reasoning.
Who leaves when it's time for a real bite? After all, by the evening the fish are biting especially well ... Because ... - and let's go, and let's go ...
We understand what keeps them here. If they come home early, they will be forced to work. That's what they're trying. It was not possible to convince the stubborn ones, and we again began to fish.
However, the former ardent desire was no longer there, the mood fell. We now paid little attention to our fishing rods, kept counting the fish and scratching our heads.
But then a thick black cloud rose from the west, and we got worried. Gali, who was the first to suggest going home, again began to say that before it was too late, we had to get under way. Others supported him:
- Let's go soon! Let's go!
But it was impossible to outguess the stubborn ones, they continued to repeat their own:
- Well, what if it rains! I bet it's not sugar
don't grow up! And dinner, probably, is not waiting for you on the table.
And the cloud kept growing, thickening and blackening. The rising wind gave her strength, and she began to move straight at us. Within a few minutes, the whole sky was covered.
The wind got stronger. The surface of the lake suddenly changed. Quiet and even, it was covered with large raging waves, which rose with an ominous noise to the sky. The sun hid behind clouds, a bright, clear day plunged into unpleasant darkness. In addition, as if spewing stones, thunder rumbled. Enveloping the whole world with fiery ribbons, a terrible lightning flashed. We were all seized with indescribable fear and excitement.
The ominous darkness, strong wind and lightning, it seems, seriously frightened even our stubborn ones. Now they themselves began to rush us, saying:
- Let's hurry! Well, why are you delaying! Let's run!
Like all children, we were afraid of thunderstorms with lightning and thunder. Therefore, grabbing the fishing rods in one hand, and the fish in the other, we set off along the lake home. You had to run a whole mile along the shore, and then pass a mysterious swamp overgrown with reeds.
The wind got stronger. The waves raged furiously, the dark lake roared ominously and rushed up, creating a terrible picture of a violent storm. The lake, from which until quite recently it was difficult to avert the enchanted gaze, now gave rise to a terrible cold in the soul.
The clouds in the sky grew thicker and darker, they mingled with black darkness, thunder and lightning raged more than ever. This made us so afraid that we waited: the mountains were about to bring down stones on us, lightning would strike and scorch our whole body. We were approaching scary place- to the swamp, and fear increased with inexpressible force.
All this, apparently, was not enough for us. One of the boys, who stubbornly insisted that we were not sugar, we would not melt, was now the most worried" and incessantly retold some terrible stories.
“Let’s run faster, faster!” he hurried.
it happened, you have to go through this overgrown place. My elder brother
I saw a dragon in these reeds. They say that during such a storm it rises to the clouds! How not to meet him.
Dragon!.. Oh, how scary!
Just the mere mention of him increases my fear a hundredfold. Of all the evil and fearsome creatures I could imagine, this was the cruelest and most powerful. I was more afraid of the dragon than of devils, evil spirits, mermaids and bottomless pools. At the mention of him, a shiver ran through my body, I wanted to quickly find some safe place and hide there. I still remember the stories of old Fakhri, who knew a lot of fairy tales and was famous for his ability to tell them well. He spoke:
- Do you know the little lizards that live in the mountains?
These very lizards, having reached a hundred years, turn into
into big dragons. Therefore, they should not be spared, but should be killed.
There will be no sin from this. If you leave them alive
so wait for the dragons.
Dragons live in swampy places overgrown with reeds, where a person would never get through. My grandfather saw the monster with his own eyes. It is fifteen girths long and no less thick than a horse. There is so much power in it that, taking in air, it can attract huge bulls from afar. When he lies peacefully in the reeds, no one touches him. If the dragon begins to rob, grab people, animals, then a black cloud descends and raises a strong storm on the ground. However, the cloud does not immediately manage to tear the dragon off the ground, it resists, wraps itself around the trees, clinging to the rocky cliffs. Therefore, when there is a fight between a cloud and a dragon, large trees are uprooted, huge stones are moved from their places. In the end, the cloud wins and lifts the dragon into the air. She carries him over the seven great seas, over the seven wide rivers, and when she reaches the magical mountain Kaf, she throws him into a bottomless abyss, where hissing snakes and dragons are teeming.
They say, having lived in the world for several hundred years, the dragon becomes a basilisk and then it can turn into a devil, a diva or some other magical creature.
...A long time ago, an old man lived in our village. Once, in a severe thunderstorm, he was returning from the forest and met a young beautiful girl on the road.
The girl approached him and began to ask: "Dear grandfather, let me sit in your cart." The old man took pity on the girl and put her in jail. As soon as she climbed into the cart, the old man's horse began to breathe heavily and sweat. And the girl asks: "I'm completely chilled, let me warm myself next to you." The old man obeyed: he seated her next to him and covered him with a hollow beshmet. The girl cried and said: "Oh, how cold I am! Let me into your mouth." Before she had time to utter these words, thunder rumbled with terrible force, lightning flashed and struck the girl. At that moment, she was gone. They say that it was not a real girl, but a terrible basilisk. If he managed to get into the old man's mouth, he, too, would be killed by lightning ...
There were even more stories about how the dragon flies. I believed that they were told by people who were completely incapable of deception. They indicated exactly when and where it happened, and claimed that they saw with their own eyes what people and horses, having lifted up, were carried away by the dragon, and then, having been torn to pieces, they were thrown twenty kilometers away.
And it was impossible not to believe all this: after all, they even called the length of the dragon's tail and the thickness of the trees that it twisted around.
I recalled how, as a child, I lay on my mother's lap and listened to fairy tales and legends about how St. Gali fearlessly exterminated dragons with forty heads that breathed fire.
All these stories made such a strong impression on me that at the word "dragon" amazing pictures arose before my eyes.
When I heard my comrade's words about the thickets of reeds, such terrible pictures arose before my eyes that I don't remember if I've ever been so frightened in my life. My head was filled with terrible visions, it seemed to me that now a huge dragon with ten heads, with eyes the size of a pelvis, would appear in front of me and swallow me up in an instant.
The wind and storm intensified, the thunder rumbled as if stone mountains were collapsing, lightning flashed, the darkness that entangled the world grew thicker, and the lake seemed to be rushing towards the sky with its furious, angry waves. We were still walking past the swamp overgrown with reeds, and I was beginning to lose my temper. My thoughts were confused, went into some alien, scary world and the eyes closed by themselves.
Here we are approaching the most terrible place. Oh, how creepy! My heart is about to jump out of my chest... At that moment, in front of me, very close, a thick column of dust swirled and rose. It seemed to me that a black cloud was stretching towards him from the sky, I even heard some kind of ominous hissing, and then something big thick, like a log, moving apart the reeds, came towards me.
My heart stopped in fear, my legs buckled. And the dark creature, it seemed, began to rise up with a noise and, just as the people said, rush from side to side.
What happened after, I don’t remember clearly, I only remember how I cried out in despair:
- Mom mom! The dragon... the dragon is flying!
Everything went dark before my eyes, the whole world began to spin, and I vaguely remember how my head touched the ground.
So quite a lot of time passed. When I came to my senses and opened my eyes, the first person I saw was my mother. Her reddened eyes are full of tears, her ashen-pale face is deeply agitated. Several other people were standing next to her, one of them, resembling a Russian, gave me something to drink and, shaking his head, said:
- These are the troubles fantasy can bring a person to! .. And the world was still beautiful: mountains, fields, forests were green; and nightingales sang incessantly everywhere.
I didn't stay in bed for long. As soon as he got to his feet, he ran to play again.
1910
Chubary
(Story of one love)
Finally, my cherished wish seems to come true!
In songs they sing that there are no spotted stallions. These are empty words!
A stallion can be spotted, but it turns out that there is no spotted foal. The old people, who have seen a lot in life, are able to distinguish the future spotted foal in the foal, although at birth it happens to be of a completely different color.
Foals that are born bay-roan, after a while, begin to become covered with colorful spots that look like flowers or moles on the face.
I was at most seven or eight years old when some terrible Bashkir with a black face and sparkling evil eyes unexpectedly presented us with his beautiful fat bay-roan mare, he himself brought her to our yard. I remember how he sat down on a large stone that lay at the gate, read a prayer, received a blessing, and in front of everyone gave us a mare.
People were surprised by the act of the Bashkir: for what reason did this wrestler Alimgul, known throughout the region for his anger, greed, and deceit, for no reason, for no reason, present such a gift to his natural enemy Khafiz (my father) and demand blessing? It would be another matter if the mare was an ordinary one! After all, what a mare! She is the mother of two dappled horses, famous throughout the region. On top of that, she should be foaling soon!
Such an act of the Bashkir did not fit in the minds of people.
Our neighbor, grandmother Fatiha, right there, in the presence of the Bashkir hero himself, said:
- Children, this is not good! There is probably some
trick.
Our relative grandfather Safa, stroking his white beard, also joined the opinion of grandmother Fatiha:
- Speaking in a bookish way, then I'll tell you: from a stone
water will flow, apples will grow on the aspen, Abuzhakhil will turn
into a Muslim, but Alimgul-bay will not just give
Hafiz such an illustrious mare, and even with a foal.
Isn't there, my children, some kind of deceit?
Bashkir calmly listened to all this, smiled slightly and, sparkling with his already shining black eyes, told what had happened to him after a long-standing struggle with Khafiz at Sabantuy.
When he finished his story, the astonished people began to bless him.
The name of my father is Mukhamedhafiz. For his high growth, he was nicknamed "Long Hafiz." In his youth, they say, he was as healthy as an oak, keen as a falcon, and brave as a lion. Whether in battle or in struggle, there was no one equal to him in the whole district. Even on the biggest Sabantuys, my father jokingly threw up famous wrestlers who came from unknown distant places.
And then one day a big Sabantuy was held in Chishmakh.
Horses of excellent bloodlines, well-known wrestlers in their area, unsurpassed horse riders from hundreds of miles came to this Sabantuy to test their strength, show themselves to the people and win glory.
The fight begins.
Everyone has long known everything: who can resist Hafiz?
Every wrestler who comes out to compete with him, my father jokingly throws away.
At the end, a lean, lanky black Bashkir comes out.
The heroes, as if testing their strength, first try to take hold of the belts, and then, putting their hands on each other's backs, under the gaze of thousands of eyes, they begin to walk around the round field.
- Oh my God! What it is?
The illustrious Hafiz suddenly rolled on the ground and toppled over!
The area is noisy, thundering. The father's friends could not bear such disgrace and cried out:
- Bashkir cheated, tripped!
They made a noise and demanded that the wrestlers come out again. Both sides agreed. Here the wrestlers are again on the round field, all the people, looking at this fight, froze.
Like a lion and a tiger putting their front paws on one another's backs, these two heroes have been walking in circles for half an hour.
Suddenly, again, quite unexpectedly, the Bashkir-bogatyr pressed Hafiz to himself, fell with him to the ground and threw him over his head with such force that he flew far away and collapsed with all his weight on his left arm.
The people were noisy, the square was buzzing.
Father got up and quickly stepped aside. He showed his hand to Zarif, who understood this, and asked:
- Broken or dislocated?
- It's okay, the arm is only dislocated, - he answered.
I was still small then, but everything that happened now stands before my eyes.
Sabantuy was still noisy, and my father threw over his shoulder a towel with a red border and a green chapan, which he won in single combat with the strongest wrestlers, tied his left hand with a red sash and slowly walked home.
I was afraid to utter a single word; whether from recent stress, or from the fact that his father was angry, his face was dark crimson.
Apparently, he was very annoyed and ashamed.
- Enough already: we fought in due time, let this be the last time! - He said.
And he kept his word. After that, I did not go to any Sabantuy. About him heroic strength and victories remained only in fairy tales to tell.
A lot of time passed, but the events of those days were remembered throughout the village. And therefore, when the Bashkir began to talk about how he fought with my father and how he defeated him, people said:
- We all know this... remember...
Alimgul angrily glanced at the audience and asked:
- Ah well? And you, Tatars, know all this? But what happened after this struggle in the soul of the victorious Bashkir, you didn’t even dream about ... Uncle Hafiz, he said after a pause, when I threw you off, I cheated. Imperceptibly, both for you and for the audience, he tripped. Even then, I had my doubts. But I thought: come what may, maybe this time God will forgive me. After all, it was only thanks to this trick that I threw you over my head ... They say that a person’s heart anticipates everything. It turns out that this is true. Before I had time to return from Sabantuy, I went to bed: my stomach cramped, something began to prick and scratch under my left rib. Nothing gets into the throat, I don’t eat,
I do not drink. He lay like that, without ceasing to scream, for three months. Then he made a vow. I decided that I fell ill because I cheated and deceived Hafiz, offended him. If I get better, I will give him my bay mare and ask for his blessing.
Recovered. But greed took its toll, beguiled like a devil. "Oh, can the insult of that Tatar turn into a disaster for me?" I thought. It was a pity for the mares.
A few years later, the disease recurred: my stomach cramped, something hurts, something scratches under the left rib ... It became completely unbearable. I didn't know what to do. At this time, I dreamed of my grandfather, long dead, with a long white beard, in a white shroud and with some kind of. large green staff in hand. He looked at me reproachfully and in an angry voice said: "Madman,
What is dearer to you - your life or a bay-roan mare?" And then he disappeared.
“If I get better, I won’t delay a single day - I’ll take it,” I repeated my vow. As you can see, I have recovered and am fulfilling my vow.
The old people were surprised. Grandfather Safa patted the Bashkir on the back and said:
- You speak as in a book: your mind, it turns out, is suitable not only for plotting intrigues, but also for good deeds too.
Behind him, everyone considered it necessary to thank the Bashkir, they again squatted down and blessed him.
- These years were very difficult for Hafiz. He was separated from his son and daughter. May the bay mare's tread be light, and may she bring happiness to this house! - everyone wished.
Bashkir left, the old people dispersed.
People told the truth: we really had a hard time. My older brother, just like my father, tall, healthy, strong and handsome, was slandered.
In our village there lived a very rich bai. They said that he had a lot of money and he carried it with him, in a special bag on his chest. Because of the land dispute between this bai and my father, there has been enmity for a long time.
Once in the winter, when this bai went somewhere, unknown people in broad daylight they dragged him into the forest and wounded him with a knife a verst from the village. But, unfortunately, they could not finish off completely. When they brought him home, he briefly came to his senses and, before his death, uttered the following slander:
- One of them was the son of long Hafiz, Shayakhmet. The rest I didn't recognize...
My brother was immediately shackled and taken away, condemned. To save him, his father worked day and night. Everyone in the village knew that the accursed bai had slandered his brother only because of enmity. While the father, wanting to save his son, was busy, he lost his last horse and cow. The brother was sentenced to twenty years hard labor. We were left in poverty.
But this grief, apparently, was not enough. My only sister, Gainia, secretly married an accordion player, Fakhri, from the lower end of the village. She was a mischievous girl from childhood and grew up a desperate girl. At gatherings, she was the first to go out to dance and sing, play the harmonica, make fun of the guys.
Thanks to all this, she gained notoriety, but this did not stop her. Her father persuaded her, explained that this year was very difficult, and therefore it was necessary to wait with marriage. Gainia nevertheless did in her own way - she fled with Fakhri to a neighboring village, and there the mullah sealed their marriage according to Sharia. She did not listen to her father.
After that they came to their father and said:
- Bless us, we have already become husband and wife.
The mother cried and said:
- I'm sorry, because this is our own child.
- I'm not offended by the horseman. If I were able
I myself would have given my daughter to him and played a wedding, but Gainia did not want to reckon with me, said the father and drove them out of the house.
But the mother could not calm down. At every opportunity, she, wiping the tears in her eyes, begged her father:
- If you, old man, were not angry, I would call the children
for a visit.
But the father was adamant.
Call me when I'm dead! he snapped.
What the old people called "a hard year" consisted precisely in these troubles of the father. AND good wishes old people came true.
The Bashkir mare appeared in good hour brought prosperity to our home. Exhausted without a horse, in two days the father taught the mare, who had not known the collar until that time, to the team and began to work as if he was going to turn the world upside down. Prosperity has come to us. Thanks to tireless work, by the fall, my father bought a second horse with the money from the harvest. Managed other business affairs. Thanks to the bay mare, we got back on our feet.
However, autumn brought me great grief. During the autumn thaw, my father harnessed a bay-roan mare and went into the forest. When he was crossing the river, the mare slipped, fell and threw off the foal. According to the father, the foal was already covered with hair and was larger than a cat. When I heard this, I wept day and night. After all, before that, the mare gave birth to two gray-haired horses. And I already boasted to my comrades that the future foal must necessarily be a spiky horse.
This damn mud and slippery road have deprived me of a colt.
For tears, my mother scolded me all the time:
- How stupid you are! Do they cry for the unborn
foal?
My father was not angry with me. After everything he went through because of his two older children, he gave all his heartfelt caress to me.
- Do not cry, son, - he said. - Next summer you will have a shaggy colt.
Not only do I count summer and winter, but I count weeks and days on my fingers.
Winter is coming to an end, but the wait is still very long... The long-awaited days are approaching.
A bay-roan mare with a foal. Now we do not harness it. If we harness, then on light work and at close distances. The mother is angry with the father:
- After all, you have two horses! .. That you always ride one! she says.
Her father stops her
- Stop doing that! Why upset a child in vain!
This "child" is me.
Indeed, whenever a bay-roan mare is going to be harnessed to some hard work or in long way, I go to my father, spin around him, caress. He sees my eyes full of tears that are about to shed, and, smiling from under his mustache, strokes my head:
- Well, well, Zakir, don't cry over trifles. Okay, let's not harness your mare.
For joy, I can’t feel my legs under me - no matter what they ask me to do, I immediately run to do it.
Some mares foaled as soon as the snow began to melt. When spring plowing began, in the village, in almost every yard, foals could be seen.
Here they are already frolicking. A little behind their mothers, they begin to neigh with young silver-voiced voices, announcing the mountains and forests.
Oh, when will my foal be like this?
It seems that there is not long to wait: the belly of the mare is getting bigger every day. Uncle Safa says that the mare will soon foal and that now it is impossible to take her eyes off her.
Boys play tricks on me all the time and ask:
- What will you give us, Zakir, to celebrate?
- Don't worry, I have a gift prepared for a long time. Only
would be born soon!
In recent days, my father and I did not get along because of the mare.
Wolves, it turns out, are very fond of foals. Fakhri had a good foal. They say that a wolf hurt him at night. As soon as I heard this, I didn’t say anything to my father, took the bridle and ran into the field to look for a bay-roan mare. You can’t leave a mare in the field: suddenly a wolf will meet and eat a foal.
The mare walked nearby. I found her quickly. To make it easier to catch, I took with me crusts of bread. Before, it used to be a little beckon, she herself goes towards. Behind Lately the mare has somehow changed: if you come close, she gets angry for nothing, or goes straight at you.
Here and now. He beckoned her with bread - where is there, unless you catch her! Snorts, rages for no reason, gets excited. I returned home in tears and began to beg my father:
- She will foal soon. Let's keep her at home!
I would look after her myself.
The father did not agree.
There is nothing to feed her at home. Nothing will happen to her
grazing in the meadow, by the river.
I began to cry, began to talk about wolves ... And my father still stood his ground:
- Don't be stupid! The wolf does not come to the meadows near the village, -
he says. - If we keep the mare at home, there will be nothing
feed her, and the foal will be bad ... If you are very afraid,
then guard her with the boys during the day, and in the evenings you will drive her home.
His words that if the mare is poorly fed, then the foal will be frail convinced me.
From the chicken coop, I quietly carried away the eggs. Found the hidden matches.
The day was wonderful. The rays of the spring sun looked straight into my eyes, and it seemed that the sun also rejoiced with me and even smiled at me a little.
As soon as the boys found out that I had eggs and matches, they gladly agreed to go with me to guard the mare.
I decided to kill two birds with one stone: to guard the mare and to fish. As soon as the conversation turned to fish, the guys all at once began to pull towards Lake Kondyzly.
- There, - they say, - and fishing is good - large pikes and perches
come across.
Fakhri's son, with sparkling eyes, says:
- We went on the third day, early in the morning, when we drove out the herd,
fished until dinner ... Galyavi pulled out thirty fish, and I -
twenty-four ... Among them were rudd as thick as an arm, there was also a very large catfish, but it cut off the line and left.
As soon as the boys heard this, everyone's eyes flared up, and everyone was ready to run to Lake Kondyzly.
I, too, almost forgot myself and did not join them, but in time I remembered about the mare and stopped.
- No, I can't go there. Let's go across the river Uzan, and
it bites well there, - I say and pull them towards the river, where
my mare is grazing.
I was alone, but still won: the guys remembered the eggs and matches that were in my white felt hat, and agreed.
The same Apush spoke now in a different way:
- Well, let's go, let's try our luck on Uzan. In past years, I caught a large carp and pike there. We took fishing rods, worms, bread, eggs, matches and ran across the field to the river, Uzan, towards the bright sun.
I was little interested in whether perch, carp will be caught or we will return with nothing at all - there, in the meadow, by the Uzan River, my mare is grazing, which should foal not today or tomorrow. Her father tied a large lasso around her neck and put on fetters. To the other end of the lasso, he tied a red arc. My thoughts were occupied only by a bay-roan mare, which at that time was walking among the bushes by the river with its long lasso and an arc tied to it.
When we left the village, the day was clear and windless. In the meadow we were greeted by bird voices. When we reached the Uzan River, the mother of my future foal stood with her head bowed on the banks of the Chiletamak and did not eat anything. I thought she was thinking about something. My dear, what are you thinking? The guys, seeing the mare, again began to tease me. Some said that she would have a stallion, others - a mare. I don't care, as long as I'm lucky enough to see a foal.
Not far from the place where our mare walked, there is a large lowland. It is located at the bottom of the Chiletamak cliff. Three rivers flow here from three sides. All of them are connected, from this the Uzan River, which used to resemble a small lake, immediately increases and, having absorbed the waters of all these rivers, it becomes wide, full-flowing and flows proudly, majestically.
I love my village! I love its mountains that close the village from the north. And even more I love the dense forest that has been growing and making noise for thousands of years on these mountains!
True, now the forest does not belong to us, it was somehow appropriated by one bai, and it is impossible to cut even a stick for a whip handle there. But still I was drawn to the forest. Its spring sorrel, hogweed, its summer flowers, wild strawberries, dense thickets of raspberries, currants, and especially autumn nuts made this forest always desirable, pleasant and sweet for me.
The full-flowing, majestic Uzan River, which has absorbed the waters of three rivers, is also dear to me.
Find out where these waters originate and where they flow! But on the other hand, I know very well that Uzan, passing through mountains and valleys, past our village, carries water into the Urshak River, Urshak flows into Dema, and Dema - Vak-Idel.
And where the Ak-Idel flows, only Allah knows.
Only grandfather Safa, who traveled a lot in his lifetime.
sometimes he says: where the birds fly away in autumn, there is a city called Astrakhan - the ancient city of khans. Behind this city, he continues, there is a surprisingly large sea. Ak-Idel flows for months, years through many villages, cities, mountains, through dense forests and, as if then, flows into this big sea. If you throw a chip into the Uzan River, it will float along the Urshak, Dema, Ak-Idel rivers and fall into that very distant sea.
Eh! To see this sea!
When I was spinning around my mare, unable to take my eyes off her, and thinking my thoughts, the boys who were sitting and fishing suddenly began to call me:
Zakir, Zakir! Bring the eggs, let's light the fire, bake
in the ashes!
They have abandoned their fishing rods, joking, playing, fumbling around the fire and waiting for the eggs to be baked.
The river Uzan flows not far from us. Everything flows and flows ... I remembered the words of grandfather Safa and turned to Apush:
- Do you know, Apush, where this river flows into?
He is a cunning person. Tells me:
- Give me one extra egg, I'll tell you.
- Well, - I say, - ladies.
He took the wet clay, crumpled it up and threw it up with such force that we immediately lost sight of it. Apush, bending his fingers, began to tell:
- Do you see the river Uzan? Once you see it, look at it. Twelve kilometers from here it flows into the river Urshak, Urshak
connects with Dema ... And Dema flows through beautiful meadows, flows
yes about big city Ufa, opposite high mountains, flows into
in Ak-Idel.
Someone interrupts him and asks:
- And where does the Ak-Idel flow into?
Apush again took a lump of clay and, aiming at the cranes flying above us, threw it up ...
- Ak-Idel, right? Ak-Idel flows through forests, mountains, cities,
then flows into the Astrakhan Sea.
The guys praise him:
- Well done to us, Apush! Take another egg.
Apush, without waiting for me to give him, pulls out my egg
and starts eating.
There was a big piece of wood under my feet, I picked it up.
- Tell me, if you throw this chip at Uzan, it will hit
or not in that distant sea? - I asked and threw a chip into the arms of a full-flowing river.
The waves picked her up and hurriedly carried her downstream.
The guys began to argue: Apush says that the sliver will not stop and will not sink, it will definitely fall into the sea, others do not agree with him: it will not reach, it will get wet in the water and drown, or it will be thrown ashore by a wave and it will get stuck in the reeds.
Noon passed. They ate the eggs, took fishing rods, fish, and set off home along the Uzan River. The children were happy that they had not come in vain. All caught ten to fifteen fish. Among them were large roach, perch and rudd.
I kept looking at my mare, looking until she was out of sight. She still stood drooping: she didn’t eat, she didn’t move. What is she, I wonder, thinking, my mare?
We cooked a large dish of potatoes at home. It turns out that I was very hungry and hurriedly began to eat large, goose-egg potatoes with salt and brown bread.
Though my mouth is full, I keep talking about the bay mare. The mother laughs, then gets angry:
- Some disease must have stuck to you or bewitched by a genie! You get up - you talk about the mare, you lie down - again about her. You only know about her and about her!
Just as I was about to object, Sapar, the eldest son of Fakhri from Lower Street, looked in the window and yelled, as if on fire:
- Zakir! Zakir! News! The bay foal!
The mother, bewildered, cried out:
- Oh, he will disappear because of the foal!
I jumped up, ran across the tablecloth spread out on the bunk, on which the cups were placed, and jumped out into the yard. My father was repairing a cart near the garden.
I rushed to him.
- Father, father, let's go quickly, the mare has foaled! I shouted.
My father was not at all angry with me. He stood up, took the bridle that hung on the fence, and asked: - Did you reward the one who said this for the good news?
At this time, Sapar appeared at the gate. He was waiting for a gift.
I had six kopecks in store especially for this occasion, which I collected by selling rags and goose feathers to buyers. Without thinking, I took out the money from where it was hidden and gave it to Fakhri's son.
And my father and I went for the foal.
Frisky animals, as they say, are born on their feet. And these are the right words.
When we arrived, the foal, with its not yet strong, thin legs, was already carefully stepping on the ground.
The poor thing is probably very hungry: he approaches his mother with one, then. on the other hand and diligently applied to her tight nipples.
The bay roan had been too irritable lately, so I was afraid to approach her.
When the father approached to put on the bridle, she neighed wildly and thinly and was ready to pounce on him to bite or kick, protecting her cub.
But my father knew no fear. Even the animals seemed to understand this. He boldly approached the angry mare, and before she had time to come to her senses, she found herself in a bridle. I followed him with surprise, and I no longer remember whether I was happy at that moment or not.
I came to my senses only when we returned home and tied the mare to the well post.
And the foal was amazing: his legs were very light, the ankles were long, thin; they say that only horses have such.
The tail and mane, not quite dry yet, were short, curly on their own, and looked like fluffy silk fringe. A stripe of black wool stretched like a ribbon along the rounded back from tail to the very mane, as wide as a finger. On the broad forehead of an oblong head was white stripe which distinguished the foal from thousands of millions of his peers and made it unique. It seemed that he was all cast by the hand of Allah himself and the angels - he was born so beautiful, so noble ...
I could not determine what suit he was. Not black, and it cannot be said that it is gray, and not as pure bay-roan as the mother. Some kind of bluish, gleams like a light blue flower.
Even the samovar would not have had time to boil, so little time had passed, and the guys had already begun to gather in the yard. Opening their mouths, everyone froze in surprise in front of this noble creature.
The news also reached our grandfather Safa. With his white beard fluttering in the wind, he hurried into the yard.
Grandfather was famous throughout the district as a connoisseur of horses.
Oh god, what is he going to say now? I froze in anticipation. Seeing the foal, the grandfather brightened up:
- O Allah, save him from the evil eye! ..
Then grandfather Safa looked at the foal for a long time and said:
- Yes, yes, I'm not mistaken! And this one is like brothers!
It turns out that my father had been secretly saving a small silver bell from me for a long time. Mom gave me a red ribbon. Grandfather carefully approached the colt, hugged him and began to whisper a prayer.
- Bismillah, save him, Allah ... Save him from the evil eye,
From the wolf and the dogs,” he said, tying a ribbon with a bell to my horse's neck.
Moving a little to the side, he again looked at the colt and said to his father:
- You know, Hafiz, he will be exactly like his brothers,
and the suit will soon become a chubara ... Good luck! You had grief
great, grief caused by two older children, it is you
aged ... With a light foot, a mare entered your yard, brought prosperity and joy.
Usually, when they are reminded of a brother and sister, it is very difficult for a father. His voice changes and he speaks differently. I looked at him anxiously to see if there were tears in my eyes.
- And do not say, grandfather Safa! Not ordinary people they have me
were, but a falcon and a lioness. They themselves became unhappy, and I
silvered hair without time.
After calming down a little, he said:
- So, apparently, it is destined ... Now one hope is for this, the youngest.
Grandfather Safa wished many more good things, praised the foal and, jokingly patting my ears, said:
- Well, Zakir, great happiness has come to you - the bay mare of the Bashkir of your father put your father on his feet, and gave you a chubar foal. The foal, like his brothers, is from the breed of horses ... If you don’t jinx it, this horse will be, - he repeated and, mumbling some more words, left.
I was happy! It seemed like I had grown a lot in a day. It's no joke - I have a foal! Horse! He will be chubary, and I will call him "Chubary". He will become, like his brothers famous in the neighborhood, a horse! Listen to how loudly he neighs with his silvery voice! Look how beautiful it frolics!
From that day Chubary filled my life. All my joys and sorrows come from him and return to him. I dream about them. In the morning, before I get dressed and wash, I run to the stable - to look at Chubary, to find out if he is healthy. Healthy, very healthy! He, like a hero in a fairy tale, grows by leaps and bounds, day by day he becomes more beautiful and stronger.
Now there was not a person in the village who would not remember him kind word. Everyone admires and says: "God forbid to smooth it out - what a handsome man! It is immediately clear that he is from a good breed!"
In the neighborhood it is not seen or heard that not only in nobility and beauty, but also in voice, in speed and ease of step, in ability to frolic, there was a foal equal to my Chubarom.
Summer has passed, followed by autumn. It's time for rain and sleet. One day on the eve of Veil Day, I woke up earlier. usual, but too lazy to get up.
From somewhere came the hurried voices of people.
Suddenly, for some reason, my heart began to beat anxiously.
I listened.
Father and mother are whispering behind the curtain. There is anxiety in their voices - either they are afraid of something, or they are grieving. What do they want to hide? I don't understand anything.
- You try not to let him know! - said
father and, throwing over his shoulder the lasso, which he held in his hand,
went out quickly.
I got even more scared.
- What happened, mom, what happened? I ask
clinging to her hem.
- Nothing happened, nothing, son ... It's still early for you to get up, lie down. Now I will fire up the stove, bake pancakes... As soon as the samovar boils, I will wake you up to hot pancakes.
My soul is not at peace. Although I lay down, but the dream did not come ...
Mother stayed to fry something by the stove, and I dressed somehow and went out into the street.
Apush walked towards:
- Oh, brother! Happy you are alive.
I was dumbfounded:
- What? What's happened? Who is alive?
Apush's eyes widened.
- Oh, you chicken head! Know nothing? Today on
a whole pack of wolves came up the mountain. They strangled four foals and drank their blood... Your Chubary survived, only slightly injured...
Something hit my head, my tongue was taken away, I froze in place and could not utter a word. And Apush says:
- Stupid, what are you waiting for? Run faster! There they are being taken, - and pointed down towards the bridge.
Indeed, from the other side, people were driving a large herd of horses.
Not remembering myself, I rushed there.
What is this?
Our sable horse is harnessed to a large cart, a bay-roan mare is tied to a shaft. She constantly neighs, wants to escape and go somewhere.
Next to the cart, father ...
When I came closer, I saw a picture even sadder: my Chubary was lying on a cart with his legs tied.
- What it is?! - I'm confused. Petrified. - Dad, really
Did they kill our foal too? .. - And I sobbed loudly.
Father gently took my hand.
- Don't cry, Zakir... Four foals were killed. Chubary
ours is alive. Only bitten back leg... To stop the bleeding
we bandaged his wound and put him on a cart.
I was lucky, the wound was not deep. Thanks to vigilant care, my Chubary recovered in a week and became just like before. Only on his right leg from the trace of wolf teeth left White spot one finger wide.
Together with Chubary, I also fell ill, lost sleep, stopped eating, and when he recovered and began to frolic, I also began to move away.
So the winter passed.
XIV
In the spring, when the foal is two years old, it is customary for us to cut off his mane, cut off his tail: they make a "cut". I didn't want to disfigure Chubary like that. I asked him to cut only his bangs so that they would not fall into his eyes.
It seemed to me that now he began to resemble the beautiful daughters of Russian boyars. And I did not allow the mane to be cut off completely, but to trim it so that it was magnificent and fluttering in waves.
I took brushes and ribbons from my mother and tied them to the mane on both sides. Others have their foals and their tail cut somehow ugly, after which it becomes like a head of cabbage or a bare hand. I did not allow this: the foal's tail was cut quite a bit, only the very end, and trimmed all around. Because of the haircut, stallions in the spring look like plucked crows. And my Chubary was like a well-dressed son of a boyar, who had gathered for a visit. I saw such a stallion only with one rich man, Absalyam, when my parents went to hire him to harvest. But when I told my father about it, he just shook his head.
- Eh, son, all these whims of yours would not have gone sideways and everything would not have ended sadly.
However, despite his misgivings, he did everything the way I wanted.
Seeing the beautiful haircut of my stallion, the boys were amazed ... After that, everyone began to cut their foals according to our model.
Summer, autumn, winter passed. Spring came. Chubarom went to the third year. When a stallion is at this age, in the village they say that he "stepped into the furrow for the first time", and gradually they begin to accustom him to a team.
I would never agree to Chubary being harnessed. We, besides Chubary, had two more horses. The roan mare remained dry this year. She became wide, like a log house. One for five horses can work. And savrasy does not lag behind her. Therefore, my father never hinted at using Chubaroy even for small transportation. He, apparently, did not forget the words of grandfather Safa that this stallion would grow up to be a horse, like his two brothers. However, there are no roses without thorns. To my great dismay, my father bought untouched virgin land from the Bashkir Kysylda, which had not yet seen a plow and a plow. He thought that if millet was sown on soft soil, then the weeds would kill it. Even an iron plow took this virgin land with difficulty, because in some places there were stones and bushes. To plow it, they pulled out a long-forgotten heavy plow. Two horses could not pull him, he was so bulky. We needed four, and at least three healthy horses.
My parents talked among themselves and decided to harness Chubary third. Hearing this, I went to my father almost crying.
- What's happened? Who hurt you?
- Nobody offended! Why are you harnessing my Chubary
into the plow? I asked, and I couldn't help but cry.
My mother came running to my voice. She seemed to be jealous of me for Chubarom. Anytime my colt was mentioned, she would get angry with me. And now - before my father had time to tell her what was the matter, she began to shame me:
- Ai, Allah! I thought something bad happened...
How can you kill yourself like that because of a foal! .. Don't you think
you all your life to cherish and cherish him? That's crazy!
But my father does not get angry, does not scold, but, wanting to reassure me, says:
- Stop it, Zakir, don't cry over trifles. Nothing is
happens, we will harness it from the edge. You yourself will adjust, look after him.
But his words upset me even more - I sobbed even harder. And he didn't go to eat. I wept and wept incessantly until, tired of tears, exhausted, I fell asleep on a plank near the garden fence.
I woke up, I look - I'm lying on a featherbed in a closet.
Noon passed. The sun had already sunk very low. Everything around seemed quiet, pleasant, affectionate.
There is no one in the house. No wagon or plow can be seen in the yard, and the gates are wide open.
I jumped up and ran to the shed.
I ran - and what do I see? My Chubary, tied with a long rein, walks around the barn from one end to the other. Probably missed: when he saw me, he whinnied.
Although we did not talk, we understood each other very well. When I appear, he rejoices, and when I scratch his mane and stroke his muzzle, he gently and gently neighs. I took my Chubary to the well, gave him a drink and went home.
My father smiled at me and said with a barely perceptible reproach:
- Oh, you crybaby! It worked out your way! Turns out,
uncle Vildan also bought virgin land next to us, so we decided
plow in turn.
Joy filled my soul. It seemed that everything was dancing around: the earth, the sky, the whole world.
And again I did not leave my mother: whatever she ordered, I did everything. She ordered to bring firewood, carried it, take goslings to the river - took them away. She ordered to collect the eggs that the chickens had laid, and ran to the chicken coop.
When leaving for work, it turns out that the father did not take food, because the sour milk had not yet settled, and the bread was not ready; I had to bring him lunch.
- Call Mukhtar, - said the mother, - together and take it.
I didn't argue with her, I just said:
- I can do it alone!
- If you can't, you'll spill your milk. Go together.
I agreed to this too.
When we came to the field, we were met by Apush, who was plowing next to us. Laughing, he said:
- Oh, you, son of a dog, still took yours - did not let you harness
his Chubary! Don't give in, Zakir! The future horse does not need to carry a plow!
This time, I managed to get my way.
But victory was sometimes given to me at a high cost. As soon as I disobey, say a word across - I am immediately reminded of Chubar.
“Speak again! If you don’t obey, we’ll harness your Chubary to the forest,” they say to me, frightening.
I immediately bite my tongue... It would be better if they harnessed me myself, I agree to this, as long as they don't touch my Chubary.
After all, it was not for nothing that grandfather Safa, a horse connoisseur famous throughout the district, said that this foal looked like his two brothers, horses. And in general, everyone unanimously predicts a glorious future for him. If you harness it for firewood or a plow, what kind of horse will it be ?! What will remain of the horse in it? Come what may - I will not let him harness, I will ride him, I will teach him to ride, I will make him the first horse in the district.
Finally, the thing I've been waiting for so long has arrived.
Sabantuy today!
And not some, but one that rarely happens in the whole neighborhood - the largest, most wonderful! Glorious horses will gather. Famous wrestlers will come. Famous runners will compete in speed.
Today, both for me and for my Chubary, may become unforgettable.
My stallion is tested. Already in the third year I began to accustom him to the saddle. Since then, there have not been many horse races in our village. Needless to say, no one could compete with my Chubary: as soon as we set off, I fly forward, while others remain far behind, disappear from sight.
It happened to compete with neighboring villages. Among their horses were those that came first or second on many Sabantuys.
Chubary defeated them easily, just joking. But this sabantuy is completely different. They say that mountain Bashkirs came from afar with their famous horses. Among them, the gray mare was especially praised, which last year at the races in Ufa disgraced all the horses, leaving them far behind. I don't even think about other horses. The only thing that scares me is this gray mare. Where did she come from, as a sin!
My father and grandfather Safa also understood my condition very well.
The horse, it turns out, is prepared for the races in a completely different way. As soon as spring came, grandfather Safa, who had many horses, began to instruct his father on how to take care of Chubary, what to feed, how to drink, how to drive around - he taught everything, everything. Not limited to this, he himself came almost every day, looked and again instructed.
When there was about a week left before Sabantuy, father and grandfather got down to business with particular zeal. Chubary was given in small portions only dry hay, oats, and a little sourdough. The father was not lazy, he looked after the stallion day and night. I've always been around. And without that handsome, Chubary became even better. The mane and tail are wavy and fluffy. The sunken stomach seems to be tied with a belt. And he seemed to grow taller... He walked so lightly, as if he did not walk on the ground, but flew on wings invisible to the eye.
He used to be picky about food, and now, probably, sensing the approach of the races, he began to eat even less ...
I didn't let anyone ride it, I always drove it myself. If during a walk along the road another horse appeared and began to overtake my horse, then don’t even think about holding it - it breaks the bit and flies like on wings!
I had no doubt: Chubary knew that Sabantuy was coming, he felt that he was going to compete at the races, and he was getting ready for it. I'm getting ready too.
< Отец и дедушка Сафа не то шутя, не то серьезно поговаривают о каком-то другом мальчике, который должен скакать на Чубаром.
“You are still small,” they explain to me, “and Chubary is still
not used to big jumps.
I don’t even allow the thought that anyone else would ride Chubar. When they talk about it, my eyes immediately fill with tears.
Grandfather Safa calms me down.
- All right, son, all right, - he says, - come what may: overtake or fall behind - blame yourself. Everything depends on you.
The whole village seemed to be turned upside down. Dzhigits on horseback collect towels from the yards. They go into houses where there are young daughters-in-law. The guys, some on horseback, some on foot, went around the houses and collected eggs. For them, eggs painted green or red are stored there. The women were bustling around incessantly: dressing, preening, putting on make-up, running from house to house.
During the previous Sabantuevs, I was among the guys. This time they don't thrill my soul. Chubary's heart is torn into battle, he cannot stand still. To warm up, I rode it several times along the village.
Grandfather Safa says that a warm-up is needed, without it even the best horses can fall behind.
We prepared a whip. My father made a loop for her so that she could pass her hand through. I put on a red cotton shirt. They say that the skullcap flies off the head during the races, so many guys do not wear it, they tie their heads with a scarf or something else.
I also asked my mother for a handkerchief, and she, rummaging through the chest, took out a green handkerchief. I didn't like red scarves. My Chubary was the first in beauty, and the boy who sat on it should look no worse, I thought.
As soon as the muezzin climbed the minaret to call for morning prayers, grandfather Safa came to us.
"It's already time, let's go to the square," he said. My heart is beating, I'm trembling, something is pressing against my chest. Chubary was even more worried than I was.
My father took him by the bridle, I took off my shoes, took off my trousers, grabbed a whip, a green scarf, and the three of us went along the alley of the old man Zhamali to the square.
There is a wide hill on the western side of the village. Sabantuy is always held there.
On one side, quietly agitated, a sea of multi-colored clothes stretches - these are women. On the other side, the men were crowded together. It's not like there's a fight going on. Nearby are children, old people, merchants with trays, some carts, something else; all this covered the hill like a black cloud.
A little further on, near the field fence, horses were impatiently digging the ground with their hooves.
On some of the horses sat boys with a scarf tied around their heads, some were led by the bridle. Horses have hollow bellies. All slender as gazelles. These are horses.
We turned left, towards the horses. And the closer we got to them, the more Chubary's impatience grew.
Uncle Sadyk appeared on horseback. He has a pole in his hand, at the end is a towel with a red border ... He rode closer and shouted loudly:
- It's time, move on! Wait by a lonely birch.
They put me on Chubary, tied a scarf around my head. I gave the skullcap to my father.
Everyone was silent. And grandfather Safa repeated again and again:
- At first, do not hurry too much, but when you pass the crossroads,
do not be sorry, whip harder! Look, leave the occasion free!
This brute does not like to be constantly pulled.
- By force holding their horses ready to take off, everyone went to the birch.
From us to a lonely birch fifteen miles.
In past years, they galloped seven or eight versts, this year many famous horses have gathered from everywhere, therefore, they say, they have marked such a long distance. I don't remember how we got to the lonely birch. It wasn't easy. It was necessary to go only step by step. But it was impossible to keep Chubary. If he sees a horse in front or behind, he starts to rush forward. When I arrived, many horses were already in place, walking back and forth.
Seeing the horses, I was completely at a loss: one is more beautiful and more noble than the other. Even the hope of victory waned. After all, none of them was worse than my Chubary!
The famous gray mare also arrived. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was amazing: the mane is short, the tail is liquid, the body is thin. The pelvis is narrow, in one direction as if slightly curved. But the chest, like that of a lion, is wide and strong. Knees
Slightly apart. When I saw her grandmother, I was even more surprised: they were so long that I had never seen in my life. The eyes are large, play, sparkle. On it, holding a whip in his hands, sat a black-black Bashkir boy with an uncovered head. Despite the fact that he was small, the boy was not at all worried - it is immediately obvious: he knows the habits of a horse.
Among the horses, this gray mare stood calmest of all.
Everyone has arrived. Uncle Sadri started building us. This turned out to be a difficult task: as soon as he finishes equalizing, then one horse will break ahead, then the other cannot stand still. Finally, Uncle Sadri lined them all up and ordered:
- One two Three! Hey, let's go, folks!
Before he had time to utter the first sound of the word "gay", the horses flew as if on wings. .
Where the rest were, overtaken or lagged behind, I could not know. As soon as we rushed, we, three horses - mine, a gray mare and another red horse, - colliding side by side, flew side by side, all three.
Whether our horses walk on the ground or fly through the air on invisible wings, I could not determine. Forests, rivers, large, large swamps can be seen a little ahead, but they do not have time to flash in our eyes, we are already rushing past like lightning.
On the way, the swampy river Aerkul. They say that the worst thing on our way is this river.
Stomping, overtaking each other, all three of us enter this slippery and swampy river together, but only the gray mare and my Chubary, our third comrade, a boy on a red horse, climbed ashore, it seems, somersaulted into the water.
Now there are two of us...
The forces are equal: sometimes the mare lags behind a little, but the boy urges her on, and now the head of my Chubary is next to the tail of his horse.
Here is another quagmire.
I feel dizzy, I feel like I'm falling. A doubt is born in my soul: I close my eyes and hold on to Chubary's mane. When I open my eyes, I see that we have emerged from the quagmire, but the gray mare is flying three or four fathoms ahead of me...
It looks like the end is coming soon: the minarets of the mosque are already visible. I sharply pull the bridle on the left, on the right I hit the horse with a whip with all my might. Chubary just sighed, and before I could blink my eye, I was ahead of the gray mare.
Here is the village, the gate, now the hill is approaching like a black cloud, with a huge crowd of people. The owners of the horses rush to meet us on horseback.
Among them is the father. - Heidi, Zakir, strike again! Again!! More!!! he shouts.
- Heidi, Chubary! Hey gray mare!!!
- Heidi, Chubary!
We are driven on from both sides, shouting, making noise, waving their arms.
However, Chubary and the gray mare walk almost side by side.
Once again I pulled the bridle, once again with all my strength I hit the horse on the left, on the right ... Chubary sighed again, and we, ahead of the gray mare by some half an arshin, jumped out to the Maidan.
The black cloud splits in two. The head of a gray mare was at the rib of my Chubary, but we had already passed the line.
Noise, din, crush! It's like the end of the world has come! In one hand, the headman has a green chapan - this is for the one who came first, in the other - a large towel, this is for the second.
In the midst of the dust and noise, either by mistake or for some other reason, the headman handed the chapan to the gray mare, and threw a towel around my Chubary’s neck and said:
- You seem to have come second.
I didn’t remember what I was doing, it went dark before my eyes, waving the whip with force, hit the headman in the face, tore out the chapan from the dark-haired boy and rushed away from the crowd. Whether I hit the headman with a whip in the face or not, I did not know ...
I didn’t have time to look at it, because everyone knows: you can’t immediately stop a galloping horse!
Soon grandfather Safa, father, neighbors came up to me. They hugged me and took me off the horse. Everyone praised me, everyone said thank you. Grandfather Safa kept stroking my head and saying:
- Well done, son, did not disgrace.
Father took Chubary by the bridle and began to lead him. I took off my headscarf, put on a skullcap, and entered the agitated stream of people.
The boys started to scare me:
- You broke the old woman's face. Here he will ask you!
By this time, the elder himself appeared. The face, it seems, is really broken: one eye is bandaged with a white handkerchief.
I was not afraid of him, I was surprised. He was not at all angry with me, but hugged me and stroked my head.
“As a child, I also rode a lot,” he said. “When you come first, and you are given a gift intended for the second, it is always very insulting ... I'm not angry with you. You're tired, go home, rest! - And he gave me twenty kopecks in silver.
The whole world was mine. Chubary's victory over the gray mare, famous throughout the region, was an unprecedented happiness.
However, this happiness soon turned into a great misfortune. I don’t know whether I really drove Chubary and set him on fire, or whether it was his ruin that, upon arrival at the Maidan, I stopped arguing with the headman, but something happened: on the second day of the Sabantui, Chubary could not get up, did not drink, did not eat. The poor thing looked longingly at everyone with humanly intelligent, tear-filled eyes, and lay like that for almost a week. And on Friday morning, at ten o'clock, he was gone.
In the last moments of Chubary I stood at his head. I couldn't cry. My heart turned to stone...
And for a long time it seemed to me that Chubary took with him my love for everything: for earth, sky and people.
1922
