Seeing a soldier
I believed for a long time that I remembered how my father left for the war. He believed and himself was surprised at his memory: after all, I was then no more than two years old.
Compassionate village old women often entertained me with stories about the dead father. In these old woman's recollections, my father always looked only good and not just good, but extraordinary. He was strong and brave, cheerful and kind, just and friendly with everyone. All the villagers loved him very much and pitied him. A blacksmith and a hunter, he did not offend anyone in his life, and when he went to war, he told his neighbors that he would stand for native land like this: "Either the chest in crosses, or the head in the bushes."
The more I listened to stories about my father, the more I yearned for him, felt sorry for myself, an orphan, and envied all my peers whose fathers were alive, albeit without crosses. And more and more my personal, though not very clear, memories coincided with what I heard about him.
And I mostly remembered seeing my father off to the war.
It was in that autumn time when the whole earth begins to glow and rustle with dry yellow foliage, when both sunrises and sunsets seem especially golden. Four mighty birch trees have stood near our house since time immemorial. I clearly remember that they were completely transparent, that the blue sky was not above the birches, not above them, but in the birches themselves, in the tops, in the branches.
The whole village gathered to see off their father under the birches. There were a lot of people, and the human voice and the noise of the leaves merged. Where did he come from old village- a brass band, but he was, and copper pipes shone just like autumn leaves, like all our land, and continuously hummed softly. My father, tall and handsome, walked among the crowd and talked with the neighbors, now with one, then with another; who will shake hands, who will be patted on the shoulder. He was in charge here, he was escorted to the war, he was kissed by women.
I remember flamboyant homespun sundresses, bright yellow scarves and aprons. Then my father took me in his arms, and I also became the leader in the crowd. "Take care of your son!" - he said, and the whole village answered him: "Fight, do not worry, we will grow up!"
I distinctly recalled many trifles about these wires. There were all vows, hugs, advice on the road. I do not remember only tears. People don’t cry on holidays, but for me everything was festive there. the very same big celebration began when a trio of horses were brought for my father. He got into a wicker cab, which we call a tarantass, shouted: "Hey, falcons!" - and the horses rushed. Already after him, someone anxiously managed to ask: "Did you take tobacco?" - then all the noises were covered with thunder of clear copper pipes.
A wide street from our house, from four mighty birches, went to the field, taking a little up, uphill. The field fence and the gate were clearly visible. On both sides of the outskirts, birch trees were golden. And so, when the troika at full gallop flew up to the gate, the birch trees suddenly flared up.
Maybe the setting sun illuminated them at that moment, maybe I dreamed all this someday, but the birch trees suddenly flared up with real fire, and the gates caught fire from them. The flame, very bright and completely smokeless, immediately engulfed every single dry perch. The heated horses could not stop in front of the burning gates, and it was already too late and there was no one to open them, my father, in addition, shouted in some kind of merry voice, as if he had struck a ringing anvil with a hammer, and the horses suddenly soared into the air and were transported through the fire. Only the wheels of the cab slightly touched the gate, due to which the red poles crumbled and a pile of luminous sparks rose to the sky.
I remember all this well and for a long time believed that everything was exactly like that. Later he himself went to war, and the feeling of the great solemnity of the moment again coincided with what I recalled about seeing off my father. "But how could this be?" I asked myself. "After all, I was only two years old then, no more."
And that's what became clear over time in connection with these memories.
As a child, I sometimes had to listen to the gramophone in my grandfather's house. There were times when my grandfather trusted me to play one or two records myself. Then I opened all the windows of the upper room, put an amazing box on the windowsill, directed a screaming green trumpet along the village and performed the rites. Of course, children ran from everywhere and with with open mouths from a distance looked into the pipe. And it seemed to me that they were looking at me, that I was becoming a hero not only in their own eyes, but also in the eyes of my peers, that they were all jealous of me. And I triumphed. It was not all the same for me, an orphan, to envy them. Here I am, here's what I can do - look! Or maybe my father has not yet been killed, he will still return, then I will show you ... So I took revenge for my little funny insults.
After many years I returned to native village, and in the house of the late grandfather I happened to once again sit down at the old square gramophone. In a pile of barely alive records with stickers, on which angels were drawn, then a dog sitting by the gramophone trumpet, I found one unfamiliar to me, already with a crack, a record - "Seeing off to war", or "Seeing off a soldier." My heart told me nothing when I decided to lose her too. Among the rusty needles, I chose one sharper one, turned the rusty handle again with effort several times, turned off the brake and, when the pawl and the green pipe on the record label merged into one circle, lowered the lever with the membrane. At first there was only the crackling of a rusty spring and a noise, as if I had put a needle not on a record, but on a grindstone - nothing could be distinguished. Then voices appeared, a brass band began to play, and I heard the first words: "Didn't you forget the tobacco?"
And at once I saw a wide village street, golden autumn leaves, a crowd of fellow villagers and own father leaving for the war. "Take care of your son!" he told the neighbors. And they kissed him and swore to him: "Fight, do not worry, we will save!"
My dear fellow countrymen! What happened to me! The brass pipes of the orchestra sounded clearer and more excited, their song broke through all the noises of time, through all the distances and layers of my memory, clearing it and resurrecting all the most sacred in my soul. Not just one village, but the whole of Russia accompanied my father to the war, all of Russia swore to the soldier to save and raise his son. And again there were no tears. But maybe the copper pipes drowned them out.
Then I heard the ringing of bells and the last parting words for the road. So that's where my too-early memories came from. That's where their origins are.
But where did the golden vision of autumn and the burning gates of the rural outskirts come from? It was, of course, a dream.
After all, I once dreamed that nails were taken out of a flower tree called a carnation, and multi-colored strings of beads were found ready in stacks of rotten hay, and I also believed for a long time that this is exactly what happens.
But no, not only in a dream did I dream of a frantic jump of a troika. Petr Sergeevich, a talented groom and a dashing rider, lives to this day on our collective farm. It was he who could drive for hours, slowly, through the forest, through the fields - through the stump of the deck. And in front of the village, in front of the people, he was transformed and his horses were transformed. "Hey, falcons!" - cried Pyotr Sergeevich, a broad Russian soul, and where did the silushka in shaggy legs come from - with a whistle, with a whirlwind, the tarantass flew up the hill past my four birches. It used to happen that the most unenviable little horse in the hands of Pyotr Sergeevich and in front of the whole village or, as we say, in the world, suddenly turned into a humpbacked horse.
Recently I heard a cheerful cry of my fellow countryman, escaping from the depths of my soul, as if he was throwing himself headlong into a squatting position, and again the farewell of my father stood up in my memory like a living picture. And again everything seemed to me unimagined, not a dream, but genuine - even the burning gates and the fabulous horses soaring into the air, everything, as the native side of its soldier saw off to war.
In the groom's house, the matchmaker and the thousand man stopped the young people in the dark hallway and waited until the lamp was taken out and the parents came out to meet them.
They put a loaf of rye bread on each of the bride and groom’s heads, the father and mother blessed them, kissed them - the icon went into action again, Pyotr Petrovich was very shy about this ceremony, he joked, but he didn’t want to offend the old people, he endured everything.
The father was even taller than his son and became so healthy, becoming, that the long-legged, lean groom looked like a perfect boy in his presence. I wanted to call my father solemnly: parent. He, like his brother, the thousandth, was stingy with words, behaved with his usual dignity. Maybe he once served somewhere as the chairman of the collective farm?
And the mother was spinning, spinning like a top, and her name was Leah.
The village of Gribaevo had already been radioed, a loudspeaker box hung in the hut near the shrine, and electricity was burning under the ceiling. Everything was affected by the proximity of the industrial facility. True, in order for the light to shine with sufficient strength, it was necessary to screw in light bulbs of one hundred and fifty candles and a lower voltage.
There were more colorful posters and slogans in the hut than Maria Gerasimovna's. In that pier, where Maria Gerasimovna had a miraculous work of the livestock specialist "Ivan Tsarevich on gray wolf", there hung a poster "Always with the party!". Nearby, a red-cheeked collective farmer, among baskets of fruits and vegetables, holds in her hands a huge cabbage head, like a jazz drum, and - the inscription:
For work, masters of vegetable gardens, orchards,
Now you have the floor.
We will give plenty of vegetables and fruits
Juicy, tasty, cheap!
Is this what Vologda poets compose, my friends?
And more posters:
"Raise waterfowl! This is a great reserve for increasing the production of nutritious cheap meat!"
What a language!
We are for peace, so that on the planet
All the children were happy!
And more and more...
There is an eight-year school in the village, and there are many teachers among the guests at the wedding. Even more employees and workers from the flax mill.
Again the bride and groom were seated at the table and again in outer clothing; and so they sat for a long time, until steam came from them.
Again there was beer, toasts in one word: "Bitter!", "Bitter!" - and dance. Again, the young people kissed picturesquely, but Pyotr Petrovich was already drinking from white belushka - he had achieved his goal! And the bride bowed every now and then, as if wound up, - such was the instruction of the mother.
Now sweet! Drink! - the groom joked and knocked over another belushka.
Every new guest was greeted at the door with a glass of beer. The host Leah undressed the guests herself and with such cordiality that the buttons flew to the floor. This, of course, affected her indomitable temperament, but the main thing was that it was accepted, and this was considered the highest chic of hospitality.
Again a dispute ensued, and with even greater bitterness between the workers of the flax mill and the collective farmers regarding the grade of the flax straw handed over.
Something else caught my eye.
At first, the guests were treated to beer - bready, thick, velvety, and as soon as they began to cheer up, liquid muddy mash was poured into the same dishes. Braga is also intoxicating, but after it the head hurts wildly, which is why they called Braga a "puzzle". But it costs much less than beer. They drink beer, knock them down with mash.
Some of the bride's relatives wanted to repeat the rite they liked with fresh chicken. Mistress Leah went berserk:
You have no conscience - tear off the head of a live chicken!
The tobacconists asked for matches. Leah handed over the box and warned:
What's left - return!
At first they thought it was a sign of good luck. Kind of like breaking glassware. No, it turns out that it's not about signs at all.
Why are you stingy, a wedding, after all! - told her not without fear of offending. - Where they drink, they pour it, where they eat, they beat it there.
Leah wasn't offended.
And you immediately want to ruin us. Even so, the costs are high.
What is a wedding without expenses? So your son will want to marry another time. It is necessary to ruin him so that he does not think about divorce.
Okay, drink when served!
In the morning, the bride, in the presence of guests, swept the floor in the hut, and every now and then various rubbish was thrown under her feet: it was checked whether she knew how to manage. This rite lasted a long time and was, perhaps, the most cheerful. Relatives and guests excelled, brought into the hut dust, worn-out bast shoes, with a roar they threw broken pots, all kinds of rubbish and scrap into the corners. One found somewhere the remains of a cavalry saddle and thumped them in the middle of the floor. The bride was only happy: they threw money on the floor with garbage, more often copper coins sometimes papers. True, she did not find anything in the old saddle, although she tore off all the skin and felt from it.
Seek, seek! You sweep badly, you sweep uncleanly! they shouted at her.
Galya tried: the wedding really swallowed everything up for her, everything that she earned was accumulated over several years. But as soon as she gape, as mischievous people grabbed a broom, and he had to be redeemed.
Then the bride - they already began to call her a young lady - walked around all those present with a dish of fresh pancakes in oil. The guest drank an honorary glass, ate a pancake and put his small change on the dish.
Even later, in the presence of guests, the young woman handed out gifts to new relatives: her father-in-law - a blue staple shirt, her mother-in-law - cuts for a sundress and underwear - a set-up, a matchmaker - a chintz for a jacket, a sister-in-law, the sister of the groom, a beautiful stately girl who recently graduated from ten years and works on a collective farm , - a dress and a scarlet ribbon in a braid, for a thousandth - a cut for a shirt, a grandmother - a headscarf, the rest - for someone a handkerchief, for someone a pouch for shag. Everything that had been sewn and embroidered for many weeks by the bride herself and her mother and friends was distributed in a few minutes. Nobody seems to be offended.
I, a visiting person, was also not bypassed. On the days of the wedding they awarded me priceless gifts friend Grigory Kirillovich and the collective farm driver Ivan Ivanovich Popovsky. They climbed around a lot of attics and lofts and found for me a set of cast bells and harp bells on a leather horse collar.
Soon there won't be any like this in the North either: not to hang them on wedding trucks, not on dump trucks!
They also presented me with a carved, painted spinner-spring, at least a hundred years old. These, too, will surely disappear from the face of the earth soon. And to the spinner - a wicker spindle with spindles. Still threshed birch - a flail, lying around unnecessarily almost from the beginning of collectivization. I also managed to get two shoulder straps made of birch bast.
With these wedding gifts I returned to Moscow. One motley was given to Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky on his seventieth birthday, another to a poet he knew on his wedding day, and in addition to bast shoes of his own weaving.
All ripped apart. He left only a birch bark, bells and bells on a leather collar.
I sit at the table, I write and call sometimes, I listen: they sing well!
LITTLE STORIES
Seeing a soldier
I believed for a long time that I remembered how my father left for the war. He believed and himself was surprised at his memory: after all, I was then no more than two years old.
Compassionate village old women often entertained me with stories about the dead father. In these old woman's recollections, my father always looked only good and not just good, but extraordinary. He was strong and brave, cheerful and kind, just and friendly with everyone. All the villagers loved him very much and pitied him. A blacksmith and a hunter, he did not offend anyone in his life, and when he went to war, he told his neighbors that he would stand for his native land like this: "Either the chest in crosses, or the head in the bushes."
The more I listened to stories about my father, the more I yearned for him, felt sorry for myself, an orphan, and envied all my peers whose fathers were alive, albeit without crosses. And more and more my personal, though not very clear, memories coincided with what I heard about him.
And I mostly remembered seeing my father off to the war.
It was at that autumn time when the whole earth begins to glow and rustle with dry yellow foliage, when both sunrises and sunsets seem especially golden. Four mighty birch trees have stood near our house since time immemorial. I clearly remember that they were completely transparent, that the blue sky was not above the birches, not above them, but in the birches themselves, in the tops, in the branches.
The whole village gathered to see off their father under the birches. There were a lot of people, and the human voice and the noise of the leaves merged. Where did it come from in the old village - a brass band, but it was, and the copper pipes shone just like autumn leaves, like our whole land, and continuously hummed softly. My father, tall and handsome, walked among the crowd and talked with the neighbors, now with one, then with another; who will shake hands, who will be patted on the shoulder. He was in charge here, he was escorted to the war, he was kissed by women.
I remember flamboyant homespun sundresses, bright yellow scarves and aprons. Then my father took me in his arms, and I also became the leader in the crowd. "Take care of your son!" - he said, and the whole village answered him: "Fight, do not worry, we will grow up!"
same wedding them to hang!
They also presented me with a carved, painted spinneret, at least 100 years old.
measure of prescription. These, too, will surely disappear from the face of the earth soon. A to
spinner - a woven spindle with spindles. Still threshed birch - flail,
lying around unnecessarily almost from the beginning of collectivization. I succeeded so
get two shoulder straps from a birch bast.
It was with these wedding gifts that I returned to Moscow. One pester
presented to Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky for his seventieth birthday, the other -
a familiar poet on his wedding day, and in addition to his own bast shoes
weaving.
All ripped apart. He left only birch bark, bells yes
vorkuny on a leather collar.
I sit at the table, I write and call sometimes, I listen: they sing well!
Alexander Yashin. Little stories
Alexander Yakovlevich Yashin (Popov) (1913-1968)
Source: Alexander Yashin, Selected works in 2 volumes, volume 2,
Prose,
Publishing house " Fiction", Moscow, 1972, circulation 25000 copies,
price 72 kop.
OCR and proofreading: Alexander Belousenko ( [email protected])
LITTLE STORIES
Seeing a soldier
First fee
After battle
Flayer
Creation
Michal Mikhalych
Liberty
Not a dog or a cow
Old boots
SEEING THE SOLDIER
I believed for a long time that I remembered how my father left for the war. I believed myself
I was surprised at my memory: after all, I was then no more than two years old.
Compassionate village old women often entertained me with stories about
dead father. In these old woman's memories, my father always looked
only good and not just good, but extraordinary. He was strong and brave
cheerful and kind, just and friendly with everyone. All the villagers loved
him and pitied him. A blacksmith and a hunter, he did not offend anyone in his life, but
when he went to war, he told his neighbors that he would stand for his native land like this:
"Either the chest in crosses, or the head in the bushes."
The more I heard stories about my father, the more I missed him,
felt sorry for himself, an orphan, and envied all his peers whose fathers were alive, even though
and no crosses. And more and more my personal, though not very clear memories
matched what I heard about him.
And I mostly remembered seeing my father off to the war.
It was in that autumn season when the whole earth begins to glow and
rustle with dry yellow foliage, when both sunrises and sunsets seem especially
gold. Near our house from time immemorial stood four mighty
birch. I clearly remember that they were completely transparent, that
the blue sky was not above the birches, not above them, but in the birches themselves, in the peaks,
in branches.
The whole village gathered to see off their father under the birches. The people were very
a lot, and the conversation of people and the noise of the leaves merged. Where did he come from in the old
village - a brass band, but it was, and the copper pipes glowed just like
autumn foliage, like all our land, and continuously softly hummed. my father
tall, handsome, walked in the crowd and talked with neighbors, now with one, then with
others; who will shake hands, who will be patted on the shoulder. He was in charge here
escorted to the war, he was kissed by women.
I remember flamboyant homespun sundresses, bright yellow scarves and aprons.
Then my father took me in his arms, and I also became the leader in the crowd. "Take care
son!" - he said, and the whole village answered him: "Fight, do not worry,
grow up!"
I distinctly recalled many trifles about these wires. Everything was there
vows, hugs, advice on the road. I do not remember only tears. On holidays
they don’t cry, but for me everything was festive there. The biggest holiday
began when a trio of horses were brought for my father. He sat in a wicker cab,
which we call a tarantass, shouted: "Hey, falcons!" - and horses
rushed. Already after him, someone managed to ask with concern: "Snuff something took
right?" - then all the noises were covered with the thunder of clear copper pipes.
A wide street from our house, from four mighty birches, went to the field,
taking a little up, uphill. The field fence and the gate were good
visible. On both sides of the outskirts, birch trees were golden. And that's when the troika is on
at full gallop flew up to the gate, the birches suddenly flared up.
Maybe they were illuminated at that moment by the setting sun, maybe I
all this was ever a dream, but the birch trees suddenly flared up with a real
fire, and from them the gates caught fire. Flame, very bright and perfect
smokeless, immediately covered all the dry perches to a single one. hot horses
could not stop in front of the burning gates, and it was already open
late and no one, my father, in addition, shouted in some merry voice,
as if hitting a ringing anvil with a hammer, and the horses suddenly soared into the air
and passed through the fire. Only the wheels of the cab slightly touched the gate,
because of which the red poles crumbled and a heap of luminous sparks rose to
sky.
I remember all this well and for a long time believed that everything was exactly like that.
Later he himself went to war, and the feeling of the great solemnity of the moment
again coincided with what I recalled about seeing off my father. "But how could
be? I asked myself. “After all, I was two years old then, no more.”
And that's what became clear over time in connection with these memories.
As a child, I sometimes had to listen to the gramophone in my grandfather's house.
There were times when grandfather trusted me to lose one or two
records. Then I opened all the windows of the room, put an amazing box on
window sill, directed a screaming green pipe along the village and
served as a priest. Of course, children ran from everywhere and with open
mouths from afar looked into the pipe. And I thought they were looking at me
that I become a hero not only in my own eyes, but also in my eyes
peers that they all envy me. And I triumphed. Not everything was for me
orphans, envy them. Here I am, here's what I can do - look! Maybe,
my father has not been killed yet, he will return, then I will show you ... So I took revenge
for their little funny grievances.
Many years later I returned to my native village, and in the house of the deceased
grandfather, I once again sat down at the old square gramophone. in a pile
barely alive records with stickers, on which angels were drawn,
then a dog sitting at the gramophone pipe, I found one unfamiliar to me, already with
a crack, a plate - "Seeing off to the war", or "Seeing off a soldier". Heart
nothing told me when I decided to lose her too. Among the rusty
needles I chose one sharper, again with effort I turned several times
rusty handle, turned off the brake and when the dog and the green pipe on the label
the plates merged into one circle, lowered the lever with the membrane. First was
only the crackling of a rusty spring and the noise, as if I had not put a needle on a record,
and on the grindstone - nothing could be disassembled. Then there were
voices, a brass band began to play, and I heard the first words: "Tobacco is not
did you forget?"
And at once I saw a wide village street, golden autumn leaves,
a crowd of fellow villagers and his own father, leaving for the war. "Take care of your son!" -
he told the neighbors. And they kissed him and swore to him: "Fight, do not worry,
save!"
My dear fellow countrymen! What happened to me! Copper pipes
orchestra sounded clearer and more excited, their song made its way through everything
noises of time, through all the distances and layers of my memory, clearing it and
resurrecting all that is most sacred in the soul. Already not one village, but the whole of Russia saw off
my father to the war, all of Russia swore to the soldier to save and raise him
son. And again there were no tears. But maybe the copper pipes drowned out
their.
Then I heard the ringing of bells and the last parting words for the road. Here,
that's where my too-early memories came from. That's where their origins are.
But where did the golden vision of autumn and the burning gates of the countryside come from?
outskirts? It was, of course, a dream.
After all, I once dreamed that nails were taken out of a flower tree,
which is called a carnation, and multi-colored strings of beads are found ready in
stacks of rotten hay, and I also believed for a long time that this is exactly what happens.
But no, not only in a dream did I dream of a frantic jump of a troika. Lives and
Pyotr Sergeevich, a talented groom and a dashing rider, is still on our collective farm.
It was he who could drive for hours, slowly, through the forest, through the fields - through the stump of the deck. A
in front of the village, in front of the people, he was transformed and his horses were transformed.
"Hey, falcons!" - cried Pyotr Sergeevich, a broad Russian soul, and
where did the silushka in shaggy legs come from - with a whistle, with a whirlwind took off
tarantass up the hill past my four birches. Used to be the most unenviable
a horse in the hands of Pyotr Sergeevich and in front of the whole village or, as
we are told, in the world, suddenly turned into a humpbacked horse.
I recently heard a merry cry from the depths of my soul
fellow countryman, as if he rushed headlong into a squat, and again alive
a picture stood in my memory of seeing off my father. And again everything seemed to me
non-fictional, undreamed, but genuine - even burning gates and fabulous
horses soared into the air, everything, as the native side saw off to war
his soldier.
FIRST FEE
I stopped studying when I received my first fee. What is all this
It was a long time ago and what fun it is to remember all this!
The fee came from Moscow, from " Pioneer Truth". There from time to time
printed my notes on school life, and once even a fable was placed
"Olashki" - about a bourgeois who refused to eat pancakes when he found out that they
baked from Soviet flour. The bourgeois were principal at that time!
Money transfer, if I'm not mistaken, thirty rubles, caught me
by surprise. I have more than twenty or thirty kopecks in my pocket
happened.
Not without difficulty, having received money at the district post office, I bought in a store
sweets, gingerbread and cigarettes and rushed on foot to his native village. Case
it was winter. I then wore bast shoes, warm clothes, of course, were not, and go
it was easy for me. But I didn't walk, I ran. He ran all twenty kilometers.
Whether I sang songs and danced at the same time - I don’t remember. I only remember what
I didn’t eat a single candy, a single gingerbread all the way, because I wanted to
bring the whole thing to the village, for your mother. I wanted to brag: here,
like, what am I, take a bite! And, of course, I didn’t open a pack of cigarettes - I still
didn't smoke then.
Winter days are short, and no matter how light I was on my feet, I still reached the village
arrived only at night. In the dark, the corners of the log cabins crackled with frost, and in
the huts burned a torch in the lamps. Only one house had a kerosene
lamp, its windows shone brighter than the others. In this house, young people gathered for
gatherings .. We call such gatherings gazebos. The girls are sitting on
spinner shops, they spin flax or tow, and sing songs to the harmonica, yes
trying to please the guys, each to their own, and some to all at once, and
guys, until the quadrille starts, they just sit back, scoff.
I was then less than fifteen years old, but this is not important, What is important is that
I already liked one of the village girls, I was already in love - with her, with
adult, bride. What I thought then, what I wanted - only God knows. Myself
I, if I knew that, now I have forgotten.
Without bringing the gingerbread and sweets to the house, I first of all decided to appear on
gazebos. Never before have I been taken seriously in gazebos, in no one's
eyes, I was not yet an adult. "Well, well, they didn't accept it," I thought.
accepted, and now they will accept.
I really liked myself that day!
A kerosene lamp hung on a hook in the middle of the hut and burned at full strength:
the arbor had just begun, and the air had not yet had time to deteriorate at all. But
puffs and rings of tobacco smoke no longer dissipated, did not melt, but moved
under the ceiling, dense and thick. Girls in bright homespun, less often in calico
sundresses, as usual, sat on gingerbread hooves along the walls in a circle
the whole hut and twisted the spindles and spit on the fingers of the left hand,
pulling the thread out of the tow. The guys crowded in the middle of the hut, and some,
bolder, sat on the laps of the girls or next to them, engaging them in conversations and
interfering with spinning. Satisfied girls squealed and laughed. In a dark corner behind
a large Russian bakery that always smelled of pies and sour cabbage
underground, some couple were kissing. Sweet and mysterious to me
at these gatherings only just arose.
My love, Anna, was sitting far from the place of honor, but in the corner
on the right, in the semi-darkness of the kitchen, but she was the most beautiful of all. Red
a mottled sundress with white thread squares, a blue jacket, bright, also
motley, and no headscarf on her head. And on the face of a smile, not a smile, but
smile - affectionate, cunning, in which the cheeks are slightly pulled up
and a dimple forms on one of them, and the eyes squint. And more hair
braided with a very bright, but no longer red or blue, but, it seems,
purple, bright purple ribbon; Yes, even eyes, gleaming, everything
understanding, slightly squinted and, it seems, gray; and hands, quick,
hard-working and, probably, also affectionate. Oh, I wish I could touch them sometime!
Right hand Anna twisted the spindle so hard that it even buzzed from
pleasure, and the fingers of the left hand moved all the time at the tow beard and
were always wet with saliva.
Anna was so beautiful that, of course, none of the guys dared
sit next to her. Only I alone dare today! And what about the semi-darkness in the kitchen
- so it's good: here, in the corner, at least nothing will be visible.
Nothing! And it’s also good that the bakery is close from here, that mysterious corner,
where from time to time conspired couples go to kiss. Is this for
me today perhaps?
Entering the hut, the first thing I did was hand out cigarettes to the guys. Seems like nothing
nothing special happened. The guys just grabbed the whole pack at once and
began to smoke: cigarettes, after all, not shag. There was even more smoke in the hut.
Then I sat down with my girlfriend, my Anna. Sat down, how to sit down
adult guys to their girls. Before I never dared to sit
next to Anna, and now sat down. Anna spun linen. She wasn't surprised that I poked
on the bench next to her spinner she was just spinning. Now I had to speak
with her. I have never had the courage to speak to
her. I couldn't speak this time either. But this time it was different
I now had all sorts of advantages on my side, I had
strength - and sweets, and gingerbread, and what I real writer, otherwise
would send me money from Moscow itself. Today on the gazebos I was the most
main person.
I took a candy out of my pocket, unfolded the paper and myself, with my own hand
put candy in Anna's mouth. Again, nothing out of the ordinary happened. Anna
she just looked at me, opened her mouth, put the candy in her mouth and ate it. But
yet she looked at me. Still, she noticed me. I quickly
unwrapped the next candy and placed it back in Anna's mouth. She ate this
candy, but laughed at the same time. Her cheeks lifted, rounded, beautiful
eyes narrowed.
And so it went: I fed her sweets, and she laughed. Above what? Over whom?
Above me, of course! But it didn't bother me at all. Still she was
the most beautiful of all, and today I was the best of all. Ah, if I could with her
speak!
She would ask me
- Are you still studying?
And I would answer her:
- I'm learning - what! I am a writer! You see, a real writer. To me
already and money is paid for the fact that I am a writer. Do you know what it is? Here,
for example, all these sweets, gingerbread, cigarettes - where does it all come from? Just,
you know, I write, and that's it.
Of course, I would not be able to brag so shamelessly in the city, there immediately
I would have been caught. But here it was possible. Moreover, the situation
unusual, uplifting. After all, the guy in front of the girl is always a little
drawing, showing off. How else? Otherwise, would she love him?
The only trouble was that I could not speak to my Anna this time either. But
I was happy already because she ate my sweets and laughed at me. AND
when she ate them all, I put all the gingerbread in her hem. She ate
and gingerbread.
I myself have not tried either gingerbread or sweets. Why is this from
Great love or from calculation, from avarice, or from kindness of the heart?
I came home from the pavilions late at night, when everyone was already asleep, and,
hungry, fell asleep on a random straw bed near the chicken coop.
. In the morning my mother came to my bed. She didn't wake me up, she just
She stopped over me with her hands behind her back, and I woke up on my own. Good,
poor mother! She already knew everything. She knew her unintelligent but dangerous
lively firstborn living in the city without parental supervision, somewhere
got money - of course, this is not pure money, not labor! - buys
cigarettes, smokes himself and treats others, and distributes all sorts of sweets to the girls. Already and
it's up to the girls!
-- Hello mother! I tell her. - Something to eat!
And she told me:
- Tell me, boy, where did you get the money?
And from these words the happiness of all yesterday sang again in my soul and,
probably lit up in the eyes. I could not resist, and again carried me to
boasting.
- I am a writer. You know, writer! I tell her almost
choking with delight. - I was paid a fee. Transferred from Moscow. I
spent a little, do not be afraid, I will also give you money. And then I'll write again
anything. Fee, you know?
“Don’t talk to me,” the mother began to get angry, “you’ll tell the truth,
I won't do anything to you. Where did you get the money?
- So I'm telling the truth: I'm a writer, a poet. This is a fee. Creation,
understand?..
My good mother! It is unlikely that even now she understands where her son sometimes
money is found: he does not go to the service, he does not have a household, no fishing
is not engaged. How many years did educational programs work in the country, and my old mother
and lives out her life as an illiterate and is still for her what a writer, what
scribe is one and the same.
- Oh, you're so skvalyga accursed! - she was completely angry. - Confess
honestly don't want to? Do you think that you will hide the truth all your life, not in good conscience
live? So I'll skin you, since you're a writer...
And in the hands of the mother behind her back was a fresh birch wick - a rod.
She pulled off my soiled blanket, and I, unfed, undressed,
received his first real fee. Of course it wasn't my fault
But after all and she me only good wanted. So judge after that who is right, who
not right.
AFTER BATTLE
When they shoot in the mountains - either close or far - and a deaf echo
rumbles and surrounds you from all sides, height and spaciousness are felt
especially strong. It seems that you are not on earth - in the sky, somewhere
among thunders. Rifle clap sounds like a shell burst, a shot from
guns is like a mountain collapse. And a petty earthly feeling of fear leaves the soul.
You stand and wonder at yourself: either you are very small among these stone masses,
and therefore no bullet can hit you, or it is very large, almost
incorporeal as an echo, and your life will never end anyway.
In the morning the battle in the mountains stopped. The war seemed to be ending. When at all
It was quiet, from the nearby village came the barking of dogs. Suddenly sang very loudly
rooster. It smelled like a Russian village. The barking of dogs in the villages never ceased
what kind of shooting, but in the heat of battle they stopped hearing him, like the singing of birds,
like the sound of the wind in the trees.
The sun appeared in the sky. Maybe we just don’t have it in the morning
noticed.
There was a wind. And eagles. The wind could be seen in the sky, if you follow
behind the eagles, - he lifted them, tossed them a little, sometimes forced them sharply
flap your wings.
By the end of the battle, I was on a high saddle. There was nowhere else to go
no need. I looked around the sky and the earth and lay down in the grass. Lie down in the grass, feel
her wet fresh smell and heard the chirping of grasshoppers. I even saw
grasshoppers - there were a lot of them.
At first I didn't seem to think about anything. I just felt good. I
rested. Lie down without moving for at least half an hour - I had no other desires.
Then I suddenly clearly understood that the war was ending and that I was alive.
I turned on my back, as if to make sure that I was alive, that
the earth is solid, but the sky is above me.
The sky above me was very high, and the morning sun was not higher than the mountains and
illuminated only their distant peaks. The borders of the sun marked the height, walked
over valleys and gorges from rock to rock, from hill to hill.
The higher the sun rose, the wider its light spread over the mountains, and
at last the deepest valley lit up, the whole world shone.
I tossed the rifle aside and spread my arms. Everything sang in my soul, and I
remained silent and only smiled.
“My dear ones, my beloved ones!” I thought, remembering at the same time both my mother and
wife, and children, and all our distant friends and comrades. - Soon we will again
together. And everything will go well: I am alive. Where are you now, about many I have long been
I do not know anything..."
I wanted to write letters to everyone right now, to make inquiries. Sun
it got hotter and hotter, the smell of grass got stronger, fatigue in the body did not
passed, and I lay face up, eyes slightly closed and not moving. At the very
A grasshopper fussed around the temple, I did not touch it.
The dogs were still barking in the village. Bonfires were burning, somewhere very far away
the cannons rumbled, but our unit was not there, I could not rush anywhere,
I was left with two hours of complete freedom.
And at this time, someone's black shadow blocked the sun for a moment. I don't
shuddered, did not move, I only squinted my eyes - and saw a large mountain
eagle. Of all those lying in different places people he chose me and started circling,
going down and down. He probably mistook me for dead. But I was
alive. And I stopped following him, thinking about my own.
"Mom, my dear! - I thought. - There is no one with you now, not one
son. Mikhailo died near Stalingrad. But I'm alive and I'll come back to you, I'll come,
I will do everything to make you feel good.
My favorite children! Are you healthy? Now you will have everything - school, home,
happiness, everything will be: I'm alive. No one else will dare to separate us..."
The eagle kept circling and circling above me and had already sunk so low that
I heard the sound of his wings. The predator was very careful, circumspect. On
clear background the sky, it seemed completely black, ominously black. And I froze. Not
frightened, but froze and prepared to fight.
No, my strength was not exhausted, no claws frightened me, war
didn't weaken me.
"My dear, faithful friend! Be calm, I'm alive, and you won't have to
take me out of the battlefield, - I turned to my beloved. - Keep only
our children until my return..."
Through my eyelashes I saw the blunt ends parted, as if bared.
wings - each feather separately, a curved predatory beak and powerful steel claws.
The soft, taut noise grew louder and louder. Now the eagle must dive, and
then he will know that I am alive. I will seize him, doubt him, the robber will pay
head for their arrogance. Oh, don't touch, fly away before it's too late
hello!
From the heart went fire throughout the body - to the muscles of the arms, legs, I tensed
and apparently moved. At the same moment, the eagle soared up steeply and with a bewildered
screaming flew towards the blue rocks.
-- That's better! - I said aloud and for a long, long time lay without moving.
under clear high skies.
FLAYER
We often say: plays like a cat with a mouse. Tonight I saw
what it is.
I live in a village with a single woman, my relative, in a large
a clean hut, lined with homespun rugs, hung with handkerchiefs and
posters. The air in the hut is clean, there are relatively few bedbugs, food
healthy: berries, mushrooms, cabbage...
But what suits me best is that my old lady goes to bed early and,
before going to bed, he pours a full lamp of kerosene for me and diligently
cleans glass with crumpled newspaper.
At night I like to sit alone - to read, to think, to write - in the most perfect way.
silence. Warmth is buzzing in the chimney, a blizzard is bustling under the window, and a gray young
the cat is purring nearby. I can't stand cats for their arrogance and selfishness. They say,
the dog gets used to the owner, and the cat to the house. I don't think she's good for anything.
really does not get used and no cat can ever be relied upon. But
for some reason I fell in love with this young, gray one.
Today at midnight, the cat suddenly started fussing, began to meow, and I
I saw that she carried a live mouse out to the middle of the hut. The mouse was not yet
crumpled, quite fresh, fluffy and small, thinner than a cat's paw.
At first I did not feel any pity for her, but the cat, on the contrary,
He praised himself: they say, not a parasite, he knows his business!
The cat put the mouse on the rug in the middle of the hut and lay down next to it. mouse
crouched on the floor, stretching out her tail, and froze in surprise: she probably
it seemed that she was free and could run away wherever she wanted. This is true:
moment and she was gone.
- Oh, damn! - I exclaimed in frustration. - Gone!
But the cat sprang back, darted into the back corner of the hut, into the darkness, managed to catch
for a moment to search the whole floor there with his thick paws, a mouse found - how can I
imagined, groping, - and already calmly, holding it in her teeth, returned to
the middle of the hut.
- Lose it, fool! - I said.
The cat put the mouse back in its place and again lay down next to it, squinting
and constantly purring. And the mouse again believed that she was a free bird. On
this time the cat caught her at my feet, under the table. Next time - under
stove bench, then in the kitchen. And all this in the twilight, because my
the kerosene lamp did not illuminate the entire hut. The rugs on the floor were crumpled
a stiff cat's tail, like a fox's trumpet, flickered first in one place, then in
friend. How many times have I thought it was over, the mouse has escaped!
Seeing a soldier
I believed for a long time that I remembered how my father left for the war. He believed and himself was surprised at his memory: after all, I was then no more than two years old.
Compassionate village old women often entertained me with stories about the dead father. In these old woman's recollections, my father always looked only good and not just good, but extraordinary. He was strong and brave, cheerful and kind, just and friendly with everyone. All the villagers loved him very much and pitied him. A blacksmith and a hunter, he did not offend anyone in his life, and when he went to war, he told his neighbors that he would stand for his native land like this: "Either the chest in crosses, or the head in the bushes."
The more I listened to stories about my father, the more I yearned for him, felt sorry for myself, an orphan, and envied all my peers whose fathers were alive, albeit without crosses. And more and more my personal, though not very clear, memories coincided with what I heard about him.
And I mostly remembered seeing my father off to the war.
It was at that autumn time when the whole earth begins to glow and rustle with dry yellow foliage, when both sunrises and sunsets seem especially golden. Four mighty birch trees have stood near our house since time immemorial. I clearly remember that they were completely transparent, that the blue sky was not above the birches, not above them, but in the birches themselves, in the tops, in the branches.
The whole village gathered to see off their father under the birches. There were a lot of people, and the human voice and the noise of the leaves merged. Where did it come from in the old village - a brass band, but it was, and the copper pipes shone just like autumn leaves, like our whole land, and continuously hummed softly. My father, tall and handsome, walked among the crowd and talked with the neighbors, now with one, then with another; who will shake hands, who will be patted on the shoulder. He was in charge here, he was escorted to the war, he was kissed by women.
I remember flamboyant homespun sundresses, bright yellow scarves and aprons. Then my father took me in his arms, and I also became the leader in the crowd. "Take care of your son!" - he said, and the whole village answered him: "Fight, do not worry, we will grow up!"
I distinctly recalled many trifles about these wires. There were all vows, hugs, advice on the road. I do not remember only tears. People don’t cry on holidays, but for me everything was festive there. The biggest holiday began when a trio of horses were brought for my father. He got into a wicker cab, which we call a tarantass, shouted: "Hey, falcons!" - and the horses rushed. Already after him, someone anxiously managed to ask: "Did you take tobacco?" - then all the noises were covered with thunder of clear copper pipes.
A wide street from our house, from four mighty birches, went to the field, taking a little up, uphill. The field fence and the gate were clearly visible. On both sides of the outskirts, birch trees were golden. And so, when the troika at full gallop flew up to the gate, the birch trees suddenly flared up.
Maybe the setting sun illuminated them at that moment, maybe I dreamed all this someday, but the birch trees suddenly flared up with real fire, and the gates caught fire from them. The flame, very bright and completely smokeless, immediately engulfed every single dry perch. The heated horses could not stop in front of the burning gates, and it was already too late and there was no one to open them, my father, in addition, shouted in some kind of merry voice, as if he had struck a ringing anvil with a hammer, and the horses suddenly soared into the air and were transported through the fire. Only the wheels of the cab slightly touched the gate, due to which the red poles crumbled and a pile of luminous sparks rose to the sky.
I remember all this well and for a long time believed that everything was exactly like that. Later he himself went to war, and the feeling of the great solemnity of the moment again coincided with what I recalled about seeing off my father. "But how could this be?" I asked myself. "After all, I was only two years old then, no more."
And that's what became clear over time in connection with these memories.
As a child, I sometimes had to listen to the gramophone in my grandfather's house. There were times when my grandfather trusted me to play one or two records myself. Then I opened all the windows of the upper room, put an amazing box on the windowsill, directed a screaming green trumpet along the village and performed the rites. Of course, children ran from everywhere and with open mouths looked into the pipe from afar. And it seemed to me that they were looking at me, that I was becoming a hero not only in their own eyes, but also in the eyes of my peers, that they were all jealous of me. And I triumphed. It was not all the same for me, an orphan, to envy them. Here I am, here's what I can do - look! Or maybe my father has not yet been killed, he will still return, then I will show you ... So I took revenge for my little funny insults.
Many years later, I returned to my native village, and in the house of the late grandfather I happened to sit down again at the old square gramophone. In a pile of barely alive records with stickers, on which angels were drawn, then a dog sitting by the gramophone trumpet, I found one unfamiliar to me, already with a crack, a record - "Seeing off to war", or "Seeing off a soldier." My heart told me nothing when I decided to lose her too. Among the rusty needles, I chose one sharper one, turned the rusty handle again with effort several times, turned off the brake and, when the pawl and the green pipe on the record label merged into one circle, lowered the lever with the membrane. At first there was only the crackling of a rusty spring and a noise, as if I had put a needle not on a record, but on a grindstone - nothing could be distinguished. Then voices appeared, a brass band began to play, and I heard the first words: "Didn't you forget the tobacco?"
And at once I saw a wide village street, golden autumn leaves, a crowd of fellow villagers and my own father leaving for the war. "Take care of your son!" he told the neighbors. And they kissed him and swore to him: "Fight, do not worry, we will save!"
My dear fellow countrymen! What happened to me! The brass pipes of the orchestra sounded clearer and more excited, their song broke through all the noises of time, through all the distances and layers of my memory, clearing it and resurrecting all the most sacred in my soul. Not just one village, but the whole of Russia accompanied my father to the war, all of Russia swore to the soldier to save and raise his son. And again there were no tears. But maybe the copper pipes drowned them out.
Then I heard the ringing of bells and the last parting words for the road. So that's where my too-early memories came from. That's where their origins are.
But where did the golden vision of autumn and the burning gates of the rural outskirts come from? It was, of course, a dream.
After all, I once dreamed that nails were taken out of a flower tree called a carnation, and multi-colored strings of beads were found ready in stacks of rotten hay, and I also believed for a long time that this is exactly what happens.
But no, not only in a dream did I dream of a frantic jump of a troika. Petr Sergeevich, a talented groom and a dashing rider, lives to this day on our collective farm. It was he who could drive for hours, slowly, through the forest, through the fields - through the stump of the deck. And in front of the village, in front of the people, he was transformed and his horses were transformed. "Hey, falcons!" - cried Pyotr Sergeevich, a broad Russian soul, and where did the silushka in shaggy legs come from - with a whistle, with a whirlwind, the tarantass flew up the hill past my four birches. It used to happen that the most unenviable little horse in the hands of Pyotr Sergeevich and in front of the whole village or, as we say, in the world, suddenly turned into a humpbacked horse.
Recently I heard a cheerful cry of my fellow countryman, escaping from the depths of my soul, as if he was throwing himself headlong into a squatting position, and again the farewell of my father stood up in my memory like a living picture. And again everything seemed to me unimagined, not a dream, but genuine - even the burning gates and the fabulous horses soaring into the air, everything, as the native side of its soldier saw off to war.
First fee
I stopped studying when I received my first fee. What a long time ago it all was, and what fun it was to remember it all!
The fee came from Moscow, from Pionerskaya Pravda. My notes about school life were published there from time to time, and once even the fable "Olashki" was placed - about a bourgeois who refused to eat pancakes when he found out that they were baked from Soviet flour. The bourgeois were principal at that time!
The money transfer, if I'm not mistaken, about thirty rubles, took me by surprise. I have never had more than twenty or thirty kopecks in my pocket.
Not without difficulty, having received money at the district post office, I bought sweets, spice cakes and cigarettes in the store and rushed on foot to my native village. It was winter. I then wore bast shoes, of course, there was no warm clothes, and it was easy for me to walk. But I didn't walk, I ran. He ran all twenty kilometers. Whether I sang songs and danced at the same time - I don’t remember. I only remember that during the whole journey I did not eat a single candy, not a single gingerbread, because I wanted to bring everything in its entirety to the village, for my mother. I wanted to boast: here, they say, what I am, take a bite! And, of course, I didn’t open a pack of cigarettes - I didn’t smoke then.
Winter days are short, and light as I was on my feet, I still didn't get to the village until late at night. In the dark, the corners of the log cabins crackled from the frost, and in the huts a torch burned in the lamps. Only one house had a kerosene lamp, its windows shone brighter than the others. In this house, young people gathered for gatherings ... We call such gatherings gazebos. The girls sit decorously on benches with spinners, spin flax or tow, and sing songs to the harmonica, and try to please the guys, each to their own, and some to all at once, and the guys, until the quadrille begins, just mess around, scoff.
I was then less than fifteen years old, but this is not important. The important thing is that I already liked one of the village girls, I was already in love - with her, with an adult, with a bride. What I thought then, what I wanted - only God knows. I myself, if I knew something, I have now forgotten.
Without bringing the gingerbread and sweets to the house, I first of all decided to appear on the pavilions. Never before had I been taken seriously in the pavilions, in no one's eyes was I yet an adult. “Well, well, they didn’t accept it,” I thought. “They didn’t accept it, but now they will.”
I really liked myself that day!
A kerosene lamp hung on a hook in the middle of the hut and burned at full strength: the arbor had just begun, and the air had not yet had time to deteriorate at all. But the clouds and rings of tobacco smoke no longer dissipated, did not melt, but moved under the ceiling, dense and thick. Girls in bright homespun, less often in chintz sundresses, as usual, sat on hoofs along the walls around the circumference of the entire hut and twisted the spindles and spat on the fingers of their left hand, pulling the thread from the tow. The guys crowded in the middle of the hut, and some, bolder, sat on the laps of the girls or nearby, engaging them in conversations and interfering with spinning. Satisfied girls squealed and laughed. In a dark corner behind a large Russian bakery, which always smelled of pies and sour cabbage underground, a couple were kissing. Sweet and mysterious for me at these gatherings just arose.
My love, Anna, was far from sitting in the place of honor, but in the corner on the right, in the semi-darkness of the kitchen, but she was the most beautiful of all. A red variegated sundress with white thread squares, a bright blue jacket, also variegated, and no headscarf on her head. And on the face there is a smile, not a smile, but a smile - affectionate, cunning, in which the cheeks are slightly pulled up and a dimple forms on one of them, and the eyes squint. Moreover, hair braided with a very bright, but no longer red or blue, but, it seems, purple, bright purple ribbon; moreover, the eyes, gleaming, understanding everything, slightly squinted and, it seems, gray; and even hands, fast, hardworking and, probably, also affectionate. Oh, I wish I could touch them sometime! With her right hand, Anna turned the spindle so hard that it even buzzed with pleasure, and the fingers of her left hand moved all the time near the tow beard and were always wet with saliva.
Anna was so beautiful that, of course, none of the guys dared to sit next to her. Only I alone dare today! And that it's half-dark in the kitchen - so it's good: here, in the corner, at least nothing will be visible. Nothing! And it’s also good that the bakery is close from here, that mysterious corner where conspired couples from time to time go to kiss. Is this really possible for me today?
Entering the hut, the first thing I did was hand out cigarettes to the guys. Nothing special seems to have happened. The guys just snatched up the whole pack at once and began to smoke: cigarettes, after all, are not shag. There was even more smoke in the hut.
Then I sat down with my girlfriend, my Anna. Hooked, as adult guys sit down to their girls. Before, I never dared to sit next to Anna, but now I sat down. Anna spun linen. She was not surprised that I bumped into the bench next to her spinner, she was just spinning. Now I had to talk to her. I have never had the courage to speak to her. I couldn't speak this time either. But this time everything was different, I now had all sorts of advantages on my side, I had strength on my side - and sweets, and gingerbread, and the fact that I am a real writer, otherwise they would not send me money from Moscow itself. Today I was the most important person on the pavilions.
I took a candy out of my pocket, unfolded the piece of paper and, with my own hand, put the candy in Anna's mouth. Again, nothing out of the ordinary happened. Anna just looked at me, opened her mouth, took the candy in her mouth and ate it. But still she looked at me. Still, she noticed me. I quickly unwrapped the next candy and placed it back in Anna's mouth. She ate this candy too, but laughed at the same time. Her cheeks lifted, rounded, beautiful eyes narrowed.
And so it went: I fed her sweets, and she laughed. Above what? Over whom? Above me, of course! But it didn't bother me at all. Anyway, she was the most beautiful of all, and today I was the best of all. Oh, if only I could talk to her!
She would ask me
Are you still studying?
And I would answer her:
I'm learning what! I am a writer! You see, a real writer. I already get paid money to be a writer. Do you know what it is? Here, for example, all these sweets, gingerbread, cigarettes - where does it all come from? Just, you know, I write, and that's it.
Of course, I would not have been able to brag so shamelessly in the city, they would immediately catch me there. But here it was possible. In addition, the atmosphere is still unusual, uplifting. After all, the guy in front of the girl always draws a little, boasts. How else? Otherwise, would she love him?
The only trouble was that I could not speak to my Anna this time either. But I was happy already because she ate my sweets and laughed at me. And when she ate them all, I put all the gingerbread in her hem. She also ate gingerbread.
I myself have not tried either gingerbread or sweets. Why is this - from great love or from calculation, from stinginess or from kindness of the heart?
I came home from the pavilions late at night, when everyone was already asleep, and, hungry, fell asleep on a random straw bed near the chicken coop.
In the morning my mother came to my bed. She didn't wake me up, she just stood over me with her hands behind her back, and I woke up on my own. Good, poor mother! She already knew everything. She knew that her unintelligent, but dangerously lively first-born, living in the city without parental supervision, got money somewhere - of course, this is not pure money, not labor! - buys cigarettes, smokes himself and treats others, and distributes all sorts of sweets to the girls. It's up to the girls too!
Hello mother! I tell her. - Something to eat!
And she told me:
Tell me, boy, where did you get the money?
And from these words, the happiness of the whole yesterday sang again in my soul and, probably, lit up in my eyes. I could not resist, and again carried me to boasting.
I, my mother, am a writer. You know, writer! - I tell her, almost choking with delight. - I got paid a fee. Transferred from Moscow. I spent little, don't be afraid, I'll give you money too. And then I'll write something again. Fee, you know?
You don’t speak your teeth to me, - mother began to get angry, - if you tell the truth, I won’t do anything to you. Where did you get the money?
So I'm telling the truth: I'm a writer, a poet. This is a fee. Creativity, you know?
My good mother! It is unlikely that even now she understands where her son sometimes gets money from: he does not go to the service, he does not have a household, he is not engaged in any kind of fishing. How many years educational programs worked in the country, and my old mother lives out her life as an illiterate and still for her that a writer and a clerk are one and the same.
Oh, you're so skvalyga accursed! she finally got angry. - You don't want to confess? Do you think that you will hide the truth all your life, live without conscience? Here I will skin you, since you are a writer ...
And in the hands of the mother behind her back was a fresh birch wick - a rod. She pulled off my filthy blanket, and I, unfed, undressed, received my first real fee. Of course, I was not to blame for anything, but after all, she only wanted the best for me. So judge after that who is right, who is wrong.
After battle
When they shoot in the mountains - either close or far - and a dull echo rumbles and surrounds you from all sides, the height and spaciousness are felt especially strongly. It seems that you are not on earth - in the sky, somewhere among the thunders. Rifle clap is heard like a shell burst, a cannon shot is like a mountain collapse. And a petty earthly feeling of fear leaves the soul. You stand and wonder at yourself: either you are very small among these stone masses, and therefore no bullet can hit you, or you are very large, almost incorporeal, like an echo, and your life will never end anyway.
In the morning the battle in the mountains stopped. The war seemed to be ending. When it was completely quiet, the barking of dogs came from the nearby aul. Suddenly, a rooster crowed very loudly. It smelled like a Russian village. The barking of dogs in the villages did not cease during any shooting, but in the heat of battle they ceased to hear him, like the singing of birds, like the sound of the wind in the trees.
The sun appeared in the sky. Maybe we just didn't notice it in the morning.
There was a wind. And eagles. The wind could also be seen in the sky, if you follow the eagles - it lifted them, tossed them a little, sometimes made them flap their wings sharply.
By the end of the battle, I was on a high saddle. There was nowhere else to go and no need. I looked around the sky and the earth and lay down in the grass. I lay down in the grass, smelled its damp fresh smell and heard the chirping of grasshoppers. I even saw grasshoppers - there were a lot of them.
At first I didn't seem to think about anything. I just felt good. I rested. Lie down without moving for at least half an hour - I had no other desires. Then I suddenly clearly understood that the war was ending and that I was alive.
I turned on my back, as if wanting to make sure that I was alive, that the earth was solid, and that the sky was above me.
The sky above me was very high, and the morning sun was not higher than the mountains and illuminated only their distant peaks. The borders of the sun marked the height, went over the valleys and gorges from rock to rock, from hill to hill.
The higher the sun rose, the wider its light spread over the mountains, and finally the deepest valley lit up, the whole world shone.
I tossed the rifle aside and spread my arms. Everything sang in my soul, but I was silent and only smiled.
“My dear ones, my beloved ones!” I thought, at the same time remembering my mother, and my wife, and children, and all my distant friends and comrades. “Soon we will be together again. And everything will go well: I am alive. Where are you Now, I don’t know anything about many…”
I wanted to write letters to everyone right now, to make inquiries. The sun was getting hotter, the smell of grass was getting stronger, the fatigue in my body did not go away, and I lay face up, slightly closing my eyes and not moving. A grasshopper was busy near the temple, I did not touch it.
The dogs were still barking in the village. Bonfires were burning, cannons rumbled somewhere very far away, but our unit was not there, I could not rush anywhere, I had two hours of complete freedom in reserve.
And at this time, someone's black shadow blocked the sun for a moment. I did not flinch, did not move, I just squinted my eyes - and saw a large mountain eagle. Of all the people lying in different places, he chose me and began to circle, descending lower and lower. He probably mistook me for dead. But I was alive. And I stopped following him, thinking about my own.
“Mom, my dear!” I thought. “There is no one with you now, not a single son. Mikhailo died near Stalingrad. But I am alive and will return to you, I will come, I will do everything to make you feel good.
My favorite children! Are you healthy? Now you will have everything - school, home, happiness, everything will be: I am alive. No one else will dare to separate us…”
The eagle kept circling and circling above me and had already descended so low that I heard the sound of its wings. The predator was very careful, circumspect. Against the clear sky, it looked completely black, ominously black. And I froze. Not scared, but froze and prepared to fight.
No, my strength was not exhausted, no claws frightened me, the war did not weaken me.
"My dear, faithful friend! Be calm, I am alive, and you will not have to take me out of the battlefield," I turned to my beloved. "Save only our children until my return ..."
Through my eyelashes, I could see the parted, as if snarling blunt ends of the wings - each feather separately, a curved predatory beak and powerful steel claws. The soft, taut noise grew louder and louder. Now the eagle must dive, and then he will know that I am alive. I will seize him, doubt him, the robber will pay with his head for his arrogance. Oh, don’t touch, fly away before it’s too late, I’ll pick up, hello!
Fire went from my heart all over my body - to the muscles of my arms and legs, I tensed up and, apparently, moved. At the same moment, the eagle soared steeply upwards and with a bewildered scream flew towards the blue rocks.
That's better! - I said aloud and for a long, long time I lay without moving under the clear high sky.
We often say: plays like a cat with a mouse. Tonight I saw what it is.
I live in a village with a lonely woman, my relative, in a large clean hut, lined with homespun rugs, hung with handkerchiefs and posters. The air in the hut is clean, there are relatively few bedbugs, the food is healthy: berries, mushrooms, cabbage ...
But what suits me most of all is that my old woman goes to bed early and, before going to bed, pours a full lamp of kerosene for me and diligently cleans the glass with a crumpled newspaper.
At night I like to sit alone - to read, to think, to write - in perfect silence. Heat hums in the chimney, a blizzard rages under the window, and a gray young cat purrs nearby. I can't stand cats for their arrogance and selfishness. They say that the dog gets used to the owner, and the cat to the house. I don't think she really gets used to anything and no cat can ever be relied upon. But for some reason I fell in love with this young, gray one.
Today at midnight, the cat suddenly started fussing, began to meow, and I saw that she carried a live mouse out into the middle of the hut. The mouse was not yet crumpled, quite fresh, fluffy and small, thinner than a cat's paw. At first, I did not feel any pity for her, but on the contrary, I praised the cat to myself: they say, she is not a parasite, she knows her business!
The cat put the mouse on the rug in the middle of the hut and lay down next to it. The mouse crouched on the floor, stretching out its tail, and froze in surprise: it probably seemed to her that she was free and could run away wherever she wanted. So it is: a moment - and she was gone.
Ah, damn! I exclaimed in frustration. - Gone!
But the cat bounced back, darted into the back corner of the hut, into the darkness, managed in an instant to search the entire floor with her thick paws, found a mouse - as it seemed to me, groping - and already calmly, holding it in her teeth, returned to the middle of the hut.
Let go, fool! - I said.
The cat put the mouse back in its place and lay down next to it again, squinting and purring incessantly. And the mouse again believed that she was a free bird. This time the cat caught her at my feet, under the table. The next time - under the stove bench, then in the kitchen. And all this in twilight, because my kerosene lamp did not illuminate the entire hut. The rugs on the floor were crumpled, a hard cat's tail, like a fox's pipe, flickered first in one place, then in another. How many times have I thought it was over, the mouse has escaped! "Missed the same, polorotaya!" I grumbled. But the cat didn't yawn. And I was convinced that this beast knows his business.
What are you doing there? the hostess asked awake from the stove and, without waiting for an answer, she began to snore again.
The mouse got tired and began to cheat. She didn't move for a long time, probably pretending to be dead. The cat lay on its side, tumbled, rose to its feet, arched its back and gently, from afar, touched the mouse with its terrible paw, and purred and meowed. She wanted to play. She demanded that the mouse also play with her, would not die ahead of time.
I illuminated them with a beam of a Chinese lantern and saw: the mouse is still alive, its black eyes gleam, only it waits, it wants to outwit its death. But, Lord, how small she was next to this monster! And suddenly, for the first time in my life, I felt sorry for the mouse, I even wanted it to run away. And, as if sensing that I was on her side, the mouse rushed under the stove, but the cat, without even jumping up, covered it with its paw and, together with it, playfully rolled over over its back.
This went on for a long time. For a long time the mouse did not leave the ghostly hope for freedom. As soon as it seems to her that she has finally outwitted her enemy, she can breathe, hide and dispose of herself at her own discretion, and the cat will again press her to the floor, to the ground. Press and release. She will let go and turn away, pretending that she does not care. And he meows demandingly, displeasedly: "Yes, run again, play with me!" Doesn't purr, but meows.
The cat, apparently, is asking to go outside, let it out!
No, she caught a mouse, she's playing! I replied.
Oh, damned tiger! Flayer! - the hostess said with hatred.
Finally, I also felt hatred for the cat.
I directed a narrow electric beam directly into her pale green eyes with a gray haze as she lay on her back, juggling a mouse like a magician with a ball, and blinded her.
Taking advantage of this, the mouse made a last attempt to go underground. But the “tigers” had, in addition to vision, animal hearing.
Wow, vile! I hissed with open hatred. - Caught it again! Bloodsucker! - And I was ready to kick her, because all my old dislike for the feline breed arose in me.
The mouse no longer showed signs of life. The cat meowed in bewilderment, resentfully and angrily pushed her with her left, then with her right paw, as if retreating from her, stepped aside - the mouse did not move and lay either on its side or on its back, lifting up its bare, thin, like matches, legs .
Then the cat ate it. She ate slowly, lazily, screwing up her eyes and munching. It looked like he was eating without pleasure, eating and disdain. The tail of a mouse stuck out of her mouth for a long time, as if a cat was considering whether to swallow this twine or spit it out. In the end, she swallowed the tail too.
My hostess dangled her legs from the stove.
Are you a midnighter, haven't you slept for a long time today?
I watched the cat play with the mouse, I answered.
Oh couple! groans the hostess, probably surprised at my frivolity.
What - "oh, couple"?
Well, you must!
What - "well, it is necessary"?
The hostess thinks, and finally, after thinking something over, she says:
A tiger - she is a tiger! She has her job and you have yours. Sleep come on!
OK! Let me sleep.
I lie down and fall into a disturbing dreary dream.
Creation
Again porridge!
Borka sat with mouthful, sniffled, pouted and looked at everyone with angry eyes. He was persuaded, scolded, tried to appease. But nothing helped. Dinner hours in the family began to be feared as a punishment. The mother was nervous, the father jerked up and left the table.
Grieving was helped by the neighbor boy Vanya. Once, during a meal, when even the patient mother did not sit at the table, Vanya said to Borka:
I don't like porridge either, but that's okay. I'll teach you, it will be interesting... Let's make the road!
Borka looked at his comrade through tears, thought, and nodded his head. Then Vanya sat down next to him, pushed the plate towards him, took the spoon from his hands.
Let's make a bike path first, like this! - he said, drew a narrow groove through the entire plate and handed the spoon full of porridge to Borka. - Will the bike pass?
Borka chuckled, but did not argue.
It will pass. Where's the porridge?
Vanya shrugged.
Then Borka ate the porridge and licked the spoon. Vanya said:
Now we will make the road such that it can be driven by car. Do it yourself!
Borka took the spoon in both hands and scratched the bottom of the plate with a scrape. The road is wide but uneven.
Clean up! Vanya advised.
Borka cleaned up, tilting his head to one side.
Now the “Moskvich” will also pass,” he said with conviction.
- "Moskvich", perhaps, will pass, but "Volga"? .. Come on for the "Volga"!
Borka liked the game. He ate porridge diligently, with pleasure.
This is already a big road, - Vanya said, when a green flower appeared in the middle of the plate, on the roadway. - Now even trucks with a bison and a bear can disperse.
Borka smoothed the edges of the highway on the right and left with a spoon, took another spoonful of porridge and, chewing, confirmed:
The bear and the bison will also disperse.
Finally, there was very little porridge left. Vanya looked at Borka hesitantly.
What are we going to do with the edges? - he asked.
And Borka was already smiling cheerfully and cunningly. Now he knew what to do with the roadsides. Porridge no longer seems boring.
Eat and curbs! - beaming with joy, he said. - And now I will not have a road, but an airfield. Reactive, right? No, rocket!
Like this! Vanya laughed, pleased with himself.
And they were good with each other.
Michal Mikhalych
All the children were like children, only Mikhal Mikhalych did not give anyone peace. From morning to evening, only his voice, his cries, his songs were heard in the apartment. It started with breakfast in the kitchen, where Mikhal Mikhalych usually went reluctantly, referring to the fact that he still had sleepy teeth, but when he sat down at the table, he demanded everything at once - milk, fish oil, cucumbers, and porridge. Then he rushed to the sisters, helped them get ready for school, because of which they cried and often were late for the first lesson. Next, Mikhal Mikhalych did exercises, "like in a circus", climbed up to the ceiling along bookshelves, reviewed everything in a row, right up to the encyclopedia, chased the cat, shouted to her "Kykys, beware!", Finally, gave his mother advice on how to cook porridge, and be sure to add something himself, and even added gas. He managed to do all this at the same time, there was no way to keep track of him. If the mother began to get nervous, he reassured her:
Mommy, I'm helping you! - and kissed her in a dress, on her hand, in whatever he had to. And the mother calmed down and wiped away the tears in her eyes.
In addition, Michal Mikhalych was very fond of visiting his grandmother either by car, or by train, or by plane. Without dad, such trips did not work out, so every day he looked forward to the return of dad from work. After returning from work, dad was strangely slowly undressing, but that was still all right. But if dad immediately sat down to dinner, Mikhal Mikhalych completely lost his patience and did not want to accept any explanations.
Well, let's go! he demanded.
You need to refuel, son, otherwise there won’t be enough gasoline, ”the father answered.
Enough, enough...let's go!
After dinner, dad lay down on the carpet in the middle of the room and lifted his legs.
Well, let's get on the plane right away, we'll get there as soon as possible.
In the evening, my father's comrades or mother's friends sometimes appeared in the apartment, and Mikhail Mikhalych calmed down for a few minutes, looking at them. funny people They always asked him the same question.
Misha, who do you love more, mom or dad?
Dad and TV, - answered Mikhal Mikhalych, and the guests laughed merrily.
Are you afraid of Baba Yaga?
I didn't remove her.
Did you never see it in a dream?
Didn't see it. I sleep with my face to the wall, I can't see anything.
The guests soon bored Mikhal Mikhalych, he left them and again went about his business - he drove "kykys", checked the tuning of the piano, swept the dust from under the tables. He kept pace everywhere, he was everywhere at once, filling the whole apartment, all the corners, he was great, omnipresent and immense, like life itself.
Late in the evening, having shaken everyone to death and tired himself, he asked: "Mom, undress me!" - went to bed facing the wall, curled up in a ball and fell asleep. The mother, bending over the bed, covered him with a gray flannelette blanket and gasped in surprise, as if she had seen her son for the first time.
Lord, it's just a baby, a lump!
Father came up, older girls came up and also looked at Mikhal Mikhalych with surprise. "He's still quite small!" they whispered.
He's really tiny! Absolutely, absolutely tiny! - said the sister. Amazing!
And what do you want?! - said the father. - He's only three years old. Give it time...
Misha very soon understood what it means: "Freedom is a conscious necessity."
So you understand? his mother asks.
Doing exercises in the morning is just as necessary for you as attending school, learning lessons. Understand?
Of course I understand! Misha agrees. And stubbornly repeats his own: - And if it's not interesting?
My dear! - loses patience mother. - But it's a necessity. And you realized it. Well, let's get started!
There is a need, but there is no freedom, - Misha answers. - Freedom is when it's interesting.
Mother almost weeps from annoyance:
My dove!..
But Misha is not going to give in. He repeats:
Freedom is when it's interesting!
The mother thinks and looks at her son with curiosity, as if for the first time she sees a living person in him.
If so, let's come up with something to keep you interested," she suggests.
Will we do exercises at home or go to the garden?
To the garden, to the garden.
Mom is forty years old, she is slender, strong, she went out into the garden in a light pajama suit and slippers. Misha - in shorts, without a T-shirt, barefoot.
The garden is cool with dew. The birds in the bushes and in the trees sing diligently, as if they were doing exercises.
The sun has barely separated from the horizon and is breaking through the forest - into the sky, to the expanse.
Become! - Commands the mother, asserting her feet on the sandy path.
Misha stands next to her.
Let's do what we did before," she says. - Hands up!
Well, up, - Misha sluggishly raises his hands.
Say: "Heaven!"
Sky! - Misha repeats with surprise. - I see the sky!
Hands down. Say: "Earth!"
Earth! Earth! Earth!
Hands to the side. Say "Sea"!
Sea! Misha doesn't mind.
Turn right - mountains!
Mountains! - already shouts Misha and adds: - Wow! What about to the left?
Turn left! mother commands. - Fields!
Fields! - admires Misha. - That's great!
Now come on again.
All exercises were done a second and a third time. For the fourth time, Misha is disappointed:
Again too?
The mother was confused:
Then invent yourself.
And Misha began to invent himself:
Birds in the sky! Aircraft! Birds again!
The grass is green! Flowers!
Forest all around! he shouted.
Deer in the mountains!
Bread is growing!
The next morning, Misha himself pulled his mother into the garden to exercise. He brought with him jumping ropes, a ball and various sticks.
Do you want, - he suggested, - today we will play leapfrog?
Misha must not have expected his mother to agree. And my mother agreed:
Leapfrog so leapfrog. Same charger!
Misha was sincerely surprised and delighted at this.
Well, you see, - he said to his mother, - now you understand how good it is when there is freedom. Now you are interested too.
Not a dog or a cow
My sister, returning late one day winter night from gatherings with a spinner and with a burning bundle of torch in her hands, she met a wolf in the middle of the village. He must have been very hungry, he sat, bared his teeth and did not want to give way to her.
Are you crazy, Sharik? the girl yelled at him. - Go away!
"Sharik" bared his teeth even more and growled, his eyes flashed badly. His sister poked him in the face with a burning torch.
Freaked out, right? I don't have anything for you.
The wolf stepped back, jumped to the side, into the snow.
When the alarmed parents told my sister that it was a wolf and not Sharik, she was surprised and did not believe:
What kind of wolf is it when it looks like a dog. A dog is a dog!
Recently, in the suburbs, an elk approached our dacha. He was so calmly calm, looked at me with such composure, even indifference, that I thought: was he not injured? isn't it sick? The real cow, a pet!
I quickly gathered my children, shouted to my wife, and in a crowd, the whole crowd moved towards the elk, behind the fence, into a small aspen forest. The children rejoiced: at last they would admire the wild beast.
What is he wild? What animal? - I was indignant. - Grab more bread and salt with you, now we will feed him.
What are you, daddy?
But you'll see!
We carefully, so as not to frighten, approached the moose closer and closer, and he turned his head and looked at us quite calmly, without any interest, even somehow tired. Perhaps, he thought, this inviolable lord of the groves near Moscow, is it worth it, they say, to get involved with this annoying small thing. Perhaps he was thinking something else. Only he looked so homely, cow-like, so tame, that I was completely bolder, or rather, insolent, especially from the point of view of an elk.
Bump, bang, bang! - I began to call him, as they call a cow in the villages, and, stretching forward my hand with heavily salted bread, I went to his wet, to his wet-lipped cow's muzzle. The illusion was too tempting.
But when I came quite close to him, when he was no more than ten paces away, and the elk suddenly stepped over nervously, I must have been frightened of his majestic size, and especially of his huge hook-nosed lump. Or maybe I was afraid that the elk, suddenly shifting from foot to foot and turning back for a moment, would run away from me? In any case, I stopped, froze. Then he made up his mind and threw bread at his feet.
It didn't have to be done. I forgot. In front of me, of course, was a beast, not a cow. A beast that is not inferior in strength to a bear.
The moose did not run away from me, but rushed at me. He decided that I was attacking him, and he went on the attack. But he rushed at me not quickly, without rage, without enthusiasm, lazily, only then, probably, to reason with the impudent one and get rid of him.
I screamed. My children, my wife, my family screamed even louder and probably even less beautifully. And the elk did not touch us. He turned and, spreading his huge ankle-length hind legs wide to the side, slowly disappeared into the aspen forest. "Well, God bless you, it's better not to get involved!" his white short tail seemed to say.
What a cow, daddy! - the children reproached me frightened.
Why, it is very much like a cow, completely tame!
Old boots
How's life, old man? Lupp Yegorovich, a gray-bearded, unkempt man, asked his friend every evening.
The fat, lazy cat, long nicknamed Old Valenok, turned his head awake, slightly opened his eyes, and reluctantly purred something indistinct. One might think that he was saying: "And how do you not get tired of year after year asking about the same thing? Well, I live as before! Upside down! What else do you need? Man!"
Lupp Yegorovich and Stary Valenok lived together for many years, and each thought that he was older than the other. For this simple reason, due to old age, they were lonely, and it seemed to both that they were friends only because there was no one else to be friends with and the only thing left was to endure each other.
But in their relationship, in addition to family affection, there was mutual respect, and at times even love.
When the cat was young and simple, he followed his master everywhere. Lupp Egorovich took a fancy to go fishing before the holiday - and the cat followed him. An old man will catch a small fish: a bleak, a minnow or a brush, he will throw it ashore, and the cat will eat it.
At least salt it! - Lupp Yegorovich made fun of Old Valenok.
But the cat liked fish and unsalted, if it were alive. An old man is sitting with a fishing rod, not moving, and a cat is fishing near the edge of the water, guarding every little thing that swims near the bank. A fish swims up very close, - in clear water it seems large, - the cat bites it with its paw and is surprised that there is nothing in the paw. And Lupp Yegorovich laughs:
These are not mice!
The owner became interested in catching hazel grouse in snares - and the cat began to hunt for birds in the forest and in the garden.
Over time, the friends even outwardly began to resemble each other: Lupp Yegorovich, having acquired a large beard and lush eyebrows like two cat tails, looked more and more like a shaggy cat, and the fluffy Old Valenok looked like Lupp Yegorovich. But they themselves did not notice this and were rarely polite to each other.
Old Valenok became arrogant and arrogant over the years. He contemptuously looked from his couch at the hairy Lupp returning late at night and did not budge, even when he began to stroke him along the back, he only stretched out his tail so that the old man's hand could go over the tail. To purr with pleasure, to purr, as it should be for any animal of a feline breed, Old Valenok also did not always find it necessary. And they didn’t want to think about getting off the couch, meeting a friend at the threshold with his tail up and rubbing against his wire rod, hemmed and darned in many places. Neither he nor Lupp Yegorovich remembered such an incident. And if the cat did purr, Lupp Yegorovich would say:
You purr, you cat of a bitch, so you want to eat. It's so simple, out of the goodness of your heart, you won't purr.
If not for Lupp Yegorovich, Old Valenka would not exist at all. But does he understand it? The late wife of Lupp Yegorovich, Nastya, kept a cat in the house, did not even forbid her to kitten, but every time she destroyed the entire offspring. Once she put blind kittens in a hole, covered them with a stone, and the stone lay loosely, and the kittens began to squeak, the cat heard, rushed about, she herself undermined the ground under the stone and pulled out one kitten alive. The old woman wanted to drown him at once, but Lupp Yegorovich objected. "Fate!" he said. "Let him live!"
And the cat survived. And he became an old felt boot.
Lupp Yegorovich did not work on the collective farm, the years passed, but his character was still restless, he interfered in everything, judged everything and everyone. In the behavior of the Old Valenok, the old man was most outraged by his silent drowsiness. "How can you turn a blind eye to everything if you are a living being?" - often with surprise and anger he interrogated the cat.
Today Lupp Yegorovich came home tipsy and was especially talkative. He hung his sheepskin coat on a hook next to the carob washstand, brushed some wetness from his moustache, then went into the kitchen, fiddled with his fork in the bakery, pulled out a pot with the rest of the cabbage soup, brought them to the table and shouted:
Come on, old man, I'll feed you!
The cat made some wet gurgling sounds in response, looked at what was offered to him and whether it was worth leaving the warm place because of this, and, carefully getting up and stretching, he began to slowly descend from the couch, from step to step. His movements were slow, like those of Lupp Yegorovich, they must have imitated each other even in this.
Not hungry, are you? - Lupp Yegorovich said with resentment, waiting for the Old Valenok to descend from the stove and swim up to the table. - Not hungry, old devil, or have you already received your pension? Unfortunate couch potato! Oh, and you are lazy, brother, for which they only feed you with bread! A suitable name has also been given to you, a well-deserved name: You are a felt boot - you are a felt boot!
The cat sedately approached the table, sniffed the outstretched hand with a piece of bread dipped in liquid low-fat cabbage soup - the hand smelled not of cabbage soup, but of tobacco - and refused to eat. He meowed indignantly. " Your name better, isn't it?" he seemed to say.
My name, brother, is also not so hot, so it's not my fault. The priest was angry with my father for his freethinking and annoyed him in every way he could. A son was born, and he ruined his life for all eternity even in the font, for me, too. At school and in the village, they didn’t let me pass before, everyone crossed as they wanted: “Lupa yes Lupa ...” But did I deserve it? You deserve it. Your name stuck to you. Are you purring, you bastard? Lupp Yegorovich concluded his remarks affectionately.
“Purring!” answered Old Valenok. “What do you want? ..
And Lupp Egorovich didn’t need anything, he just wanted to talk, he felt good. "Is it really impossible to talk heart to heart with a cat?" It's been five years since Nastya, the old woman, died. The daughter got married and works with her husband at the oil factory. "I wish you, Old Valenka, where you need to settle down!" Two sons learned a lesson and left the village, they are getting on to become bosses. "Everyone now climbs into the bosses!" Lupp Yegorovich would like to talk about this, but - a cat, what does he know? ..
Do you have a soul? - Lupp Yegorovich asks the cat. - Do you think about life and how do you understand it, the current one?
Old Valenok is silent and, dissatisfied, returns to the warm couch, to his usual place. There he presses his soft paws, lays his fluffy tail around him, as if wrapping himself in a wide woolen scarf and, indifferent to everything, closes his green tired eyes.
Here is your main flaw: you are indifferent! Life is going, and you sleep and sleep, - Lupp Yegorovich continues to reprimand him. - You have no soul, only one wool. And mice you burst with wool. Why are you closing your eyes? If you had a soul, you would not close your eyes when they talk about business with you. Well, I drank, so what? My daughter does not leave without attention, thanks to her: she got out into the people, she taught for a reason, she became a man. There is always support from her - both in oil and money ... Things, you know, in general, are going on, and the people live, have adapted, but still you don’t have to close your eyes, otherwise there will be no movement. So I say to the chairman: put me in the apiary, don't ruin it, this very old man's business is an apiary, it will be profitable. What is he? Do not interfere, he says, mind your own business, we will give you a pension soon. He, therefore, takes the initiative, and my, this very initiative, where? Again about my daughter. If the old woman were alive, it would be easier, otherwise there are not enough places in the manger, in kindergarten queues. Here we say to the girls: study, liberate yourself! And who will babysit the children? Do you understand what I'm talking about, or do you, couch potato, not care about anything?
The cat lay quietly, did not demand anything, did not ask anything.
Twilight was falling in the hut, the outlines of the Old Valenka began to blur. The indifference of the cat irritated Lupp Yegorovich, but he understood that it was useless to be offended by the animal. Leaning his hands on the bench, he got up heavily, went to the boat near the stove, groped for a spoon, a piece of bread, and, returning to the table, sipped some cabbage soup. The light would be lit, but why? Soon to sleep, but for now I didn’t even doze off. The nights are long now, you have to sleep a lot, why hurry? The desire to talk has not yet left Lupp Yegorovich. He turned back to the cat and suddenly growled:
Let me smoke!
Old Valenok was silent.
You see what you are: with you as with a person, but what about you? Well, Prokop and I drank a little, sat down, conferred, stirred up our souls. Come on, and you can’t grumble at the old people? How many times has our collective farm been either enlarged or disaggregated - how can the soul not get sick? They screwed up the apiary - bees, you see, are unprofitable, they screwed up chickens - chickens are unprofitable, horses for sausage - horses are unprofitable. The land has become unprofitable, the forest is advancing on hayfields, on arable land. Look at that, and the old people will become unprofitable. What is this happening? Again I say to the chairman: all the banks along the river are covered with willows, give them to the peasants, they will clean them up, let them mow for their cows for two years, then it will go to the collective farm, it’s profitable. What is he? He says you are pouring water on the petty bourgeoisie ... Why are you silent? Lupp Yegorovich shouts at the cat. - Well, I drank a little, so I know my business, my soul hurts. And what are you living on earth for, what are you responsible for? Where is your standard? Are you meeting your standards or not?
Lupp Yegorovich, whose tongue was beginning to slur more and more, suddenly became so excited that he tore the rolled rod from his leg and threw it at the cat. The cat started up, but did not jump off the couch, only moved to another place. He must have been accustomed to such antics of the old man, calmness did not betray him. Round eyes slightly opened, a green light flashed in the twilight - and the peaceful course of life in the house was restored.
Well, brother, did we talk with you? - the old man began to calm down. - It's good that you know how to keep silent, otherwise we would chop wood together. We probably won't get a pension. I can not pass by, you are my brother, my conscience does not allow. Others in old age either squint or go blind, but in old age I only began to see more. Here, let's say, back wages. There is additional payment - for animal husbandry, for flax, for hay - all this is observed. And the workday itself is again worthless. Is it good for people or bad? And how tricky money has become! ..
Lupp Yegorovich yawned. The futility of talking with the cat suddenly became so obvious to him that he immediately got tired and wanted to sleep. But it was necessary to conclude the conversation in such a way that victory remained on his side. He did this:
I don't care about myself, you understand? Here you sit and do not lead your nose. You old Valenok! Bruh!
Lupp Egorovich slept undressed, he only took off the wire rod and put it on the stove. He placed one wire rod next to the cat, but did not look for another: it seemed that the cat opened its wise eyes and looked at him mockingly, - they say, you scatter it yourself, and collect it yourself.
Okay, okay, let's talk! - said Lupp Yegorovich and stroked the cat on the head. He didn't move.
Usually Lupp Yegorovich slept on the stove, spreading a padded jacket under his sides. But it is difficult to climb on the stove, now there was neither the strength nor the desire for this. Therefore, he took a bench from the table, moved it to another bench near the wall, put the same padded jacket from the stove at the head of the bed, and lay down on his back, throwing his hands back, fists under his head. His shaggy eyebrows closed at the bridge of his nose, his broad beard covered his entire chest, stretched out to the sash. Falling asleep, Lupp Yegorovich muttered to himself:
No matter how good it is in people, but at home it is better. No matter how soft the pillow is, but your fist is softer ...
Old Valenok kindly, even benevolently, looked from above as his owner was getting into bed, and when the first light snoring sounded in the hut, he seemed to be transformed: he arched his back, easily and gently jumped off the couch and darted underground to the next hunt for mice. His indifference was gone: he went to fulfill his life norm...
At night, the moon illuminated the log walls of the hut, an open Russian stove, an empty stove bench, a dark table that had not been scraped for a long time, on it a pot with the rest of cabbage soup, benches pushed together, and a sleeping old man with a wide beard on his chest.
In the light of the moon, a fluffy Siberian cat came out of the underground like a ghost, stealthily approached his grumpy old friend, put a precious gift under his side - a half-strangled mouse, the largest, fattest of all that he managed to hunt for that night. Then, lightly and carefully, so as not to wake the old man, he climbed onto his chest and, burying himself in a wide, uncombed beard, purred with satisfaction.
