The book includes satirical and lyric-psychological stories by Panteleimon Sergeevich Romanov (1884–1938) of the 1920s and 1930s. Their theme is the difficult years of post-revolutionary devastation and formation Soviet power; psychology of people adapting and accepting new system, the development of new relationships between people, the search for new foundations of morality.
Romanov Panteleimon
stories
Russian soul
Etude
Professor of Moscow University, Andrei Khristoforovich Vyshnegradsky, in the third year of the war received a letter from his two brothers from the village - Nikolai and Avenir, who asked him to come to them for the summer, visit them and relax himself.
Andrey Khristoforovich thought about it and, going to the telegraph office, sent a telegram to his brother Nikolai, and the next day he left for the village.
The intense life of Moscow was replaced by the spaciousness and silence of the fields.
Andrey Khristoforovich looked out the window of the carriage and watched the plowed hills running past him swell and fall, the bridges being repaired with the sleepers scattered downhill rush by.
Time definitely stopped, got lost and fell asleep in these flat fields. Trains stood at each stop for an infinitely long time - why, why - no one knew.
Why are we standing for so long? Andrey Khristoforovich asked once. - We are waiting for someone?
No, we are not waiting for anyone, - said the important chief conductor and added: - we have no one to wait for.
We sat on transfers for hours on end, and no one knew when the train would come. Once a man came up, wrote with chalk on the blackboard: "Train number 3 is late for 1 hour and 30 minutes." Everyone came and read. But five hours passed, and there was no train.
They didn't guess, - said some old man in a chute.
When someone got up and walked with a suitcase to the door, then they suddenly jumped up and all vied with each other rushed to the door, crushed each other, climbed over their heads.
It's coming, it's coming!
Where are you going with the knot?
The train is coming!
Nothing goes: one, maybe, got up for his own business, and everyone shied away.
So why is he getting up? Here's the accursed one, look, please, he messed up like everyone else.
And when the professor arrived at the station, it turned out that the horses had not been sent.
What am I going to do now? said the professor to the porter. He felt embarrassed. He did not see the brothers for 15 years, and they themselves called him and still remained true to themselves: either they were late with the horses, or they mixed up the numbers.
Don't worry, - said the porter, a nimble little man with a badge on his apron, - at the inn we will provide you with any horses you want. We have one word on this score!..
Well, take me to the inn, just don't get your suitcases dirty, please.
Be calm ... - the little man waved his hand over the covers, threw the suitcases on his back and disappeared into the darkness. Only his voice was heard somewhere ahead:
Along the wall, along the wall, sir, make your way, otherwise there is a puddle on the side, and a well to the right.
The professor, as he became, rolled somewhere from the first step.
They didn’t please ... - said the peasant. - It's true that it's a little dirty. Well, yes, we will dry soon. We live well here: there is a wide square right here for you, to the left - the church, to the right - the priests.
Indulge in me, in me, otherwise here now the pits will go. Last week, a surveyor blew a chubura, and they dragged him out by force.
The professor walked, every minute expecting that the same thing would happen to him as to the surveyor.
And the little man kept talking and talking endlessly:
Our area is good. And the rooms are good, Seleznevsky. And the people are good, remembering.
And everything was good with him: both life and people.
We must, apparently, knock, - said the peasant, stopping near some wall. He dumped the suitcases right into the mud and began banging on the gate with a brick.
Would you be quieter, why are you thrashing like that?
Do not worry. Otherwise, you won't wake them up. The people are strong. What are you doing there, oh, everyone went crazy! Are there horses?
There is ... - a sleepy voice was heard from behind the gate.
That's it - there is! Always reschedule so that you chop all your hands.
Please go upstairs.
No, you prepare a place for me in the carriage, I will sit down, and you harness and go. So it will be more likely ... - said Andrei Khristoforovich.
It's possible.
Is the road good?
The road is one word - Lub.
Lub ... splint, that is. Very smooth. Our seats are good. Well, sit down, I'll be in one minute.
Andrey Khristoforovich groped for the step, sat down in a huge sob, which was standing in a shed under a shed. He smelled of dusty felt and some kind of acid. Andrei Khristoforovich stretched out his legs on the hay and, leaning his head against the back, began to doze. From time to time a fresh, cool breeze swept over his face, coming in from above through the crack of the closed gate. There was a pleasant smell of tar, fresh hay and horses.
Through his drowsiness he could hear the luggage being tied down, pulling the rope behind the carriage. Sometimes his driver, saying: "Oh, you, honest mother!", Repaired something. Sometimes he ran away to the hut, and then there was silence, from which the legs hummed pleasantly, as if at a stop while riding a sleigh in a snowstorm. Only occasionally did the horses snort and step over the straw as they chewed oats under the shed.
Half an hour later, the professor woke up in fright with the feeling that he was hanging over an abyss, and clutched the edge of the sod with his hands.
Where are you going! Hold your horses, crazy!
Be calm, we won’t leave, - a calm voice said from somewhere behind, now I’ll support the other side.
It turned out that they were not hanging over the abyss, but were still standing in the yard, and the driver was only going to grease the wheels, raising one side of the carriage.
As soon as we left the yard, it began to rain, direct, large and warm. And the whole neighborhood was filled with the steady sound of falling rain.
The driver silently reached under the seat, pulled out some tattered rubbish and covered himself with it, like a priest with a robe.
Half an hour later the wheels were already moving with a continuous murmur over deep ruts. And the sobs all somewhere pulled to the left and down.
The driver stopped and slowly looked back from the goat, then began to look around, as if studying the area in the dark.
What has become? Hey, are you lost?
No, it's like nothing.
What are you? There are ravines, right?
No, there are no ravines.
Well, so what then?
You never know what ... here, just look, you will hang out somewhere.
Yes, be careful! Where are you turning?
Romanov Panteleimon Sergeevich
stories
Panteleimon Sergeevich Romanov
(Agafon Shakhov)
STORIES
Russian soul
heavy things
In the dark
Italian accounting
Speculators
Death of Tikhon
worthy person
Technical words
bad chairman
Instruction
Weak heart
harmful thing
Blue jacket
promised land
Black flatbread
The wrong person
Without bird cherry
human soul
strong nerves
People's money
bad number
Herod's tribe
good boss
Trial of a pioneer
The right to life, or the problem of non-partisanship
thirteen logs
State property
Painters
Blue dress.
Light service
Economic basis
apple blossom
This will not be the case
Potatoes
Moscow horse racing
brilliant victory
white pig
RUSSIAN SOUL
Professor of Moscow University, Andrei Khristoforovich Vyshnegradsky, in the third year of the war received a letter from his two brothers from the village - Nikolai and Avenir, who asked him to come to them for the summer, visit them and relax himself.
“You must have turned sour there in the capital, you forgot your native, but here, brother, the Russian soul is still alive,” Nikolai wrote.
Andrey Khristoforovich thought about it and, going to the telegraph office, sent a telegram to his brother Nikolai, and the next day he left for the village.
The intense life of Moscow was replaced by the spaciousness and silence of the fields.
Andrey Khristoforovich looked out the window of the carriage and watched the plowed hills running past him swell and fall, the bridges being repaired with the sleepers scattered downhill rush by.
Time definitely stopped, got lost and fell asleep in these flat fields. Trains stood at each stop for an infinitely long time - why, why - no one knew.
Why are we standing for so long? - Andrey Khristoforovich asked once. - Are we waiting for someone?
No, we are not waiting for anyone, - said the important chief conductor and added: - we have no one to wait for.
We sat on transfers for hours on end, and no one knew when the train would come. Once a man came up and wrote with chalk on the blackboard: "Train No. 3 is late for 1 hour and 30 minutes." Everyone came and read. But five hours passed, and there was no train.
They didn't guess, - said some old man in a chuyka.
When someone got up and walked with a suitcase to the door, then they suddenly jumped up and all vied with each other rushed to the door, crushed each other, climbed over their heads.
It's coming, it's coming!
Where are you going with the knot?
The train is coming!
Nothing goes: one, maybe, got up for his own business, and everyone shied away.
So why is he getting up? Here's the accursed one, look, please, he messed up like everyone else.
And when the professor arrived at the station, it turned out that the horses had not been sent.
What am I going to do now? said the professor to the porter. He felt embarrassed. He did not see the brothers for 15 years, and they themselves called him and still remained true to themselves: either they were late with the horses, or they mixed up the numbers.
Don't you worry, - said the porter, a nimble peasant with a badge on his apron, - in our inn they will provide you with any horses you want. We have one word on this score...
Well, take me to the inn, just don't get your suitcases dirty, please.
Be calm ... - the peasant waved his hand over the covers, threw the suitcases on his back and disappeared into the darkness. Only his voice was heard somewhere ahead:
Along the wall, along the wall, sir, make your way, otherwise there is a puddle on the side, and a well to the right.
The professor, as he became, rolled somewhere from the first step.
They didn’t please ... - said the peasant. - True, it’s a little dirty. Well, yes, we will dry soon. We live well here: there is a wide square right here for you, to the left - the church, to the right - the priests.
Where are you? Where to go here?
Indulge in me, in me, otherwise here now the pits will go. Last week, a surveyor blew a chubura, and they dragged him out by force.
The professor walked, every minute expecting that the same thing would happen to him as to the surveyor.
And the little man kept talking and talking endlessly:
Our area is good. And the rooms are good, Seleznevsky. And the people are good, remembering.
And everything was good with him: both life and people.
We must, apparently, knock, - said the peasant, stopping near some wall. He dumped the suitcases right into the mud and began banging on the gate with a brick.
Would you be quieter, why are you thrashing like that?
Do not worry. Otherwise, you won't wake them up. The people are strong. What are you doing there, oh, everyone went crazy! Are there horses?
There is ... - a sleepy voice was heard from behind the gate.
That's it - there is! Always reschedule so that you chop all your hands.
Please go upstairs.
No, you prepare a place for me in the carriage, I will sit down, and you harness and go. It will be more likely ... - said Andrei Khristoforovich.
It's possible.
Is the road good?
The road is one word - Lub.
Lubok ... Lubok, that is. Very smooth. Our seats are good. Well, sit down, I'll be in one minute.
Andrey Khristoforovich groped for the step, sat down in a huge sob, which was standing in a shed under a shed. He smelled of dusty felt and some kind of acid. Andrei Khristoforovich stretched out his legs on the hay and, leaning his head against the back, began to doze. From time to time a fresh, cool breeze swept over his face, coming in from above through the crack of the closed gate. There was a pleasant smell of tar, fresh hay and horses.
Through his drowsiness he could hear the luggage being tied down, pulling the rope behind the carriage. Sometimes his driver, saying: "Oh, you, honest mother!", Repaired something. Sometimes he ran away to the hut, and then there was silence, from which the legs hummed pleasantly, as if at a stop while riding a sleigh in a snowstorm. Only occasionally did the horses snort and step over the straw as they chewed oats under the shed.
Half an hour later, the professor woke up in fright with the feeling that he was hanging over an abyss, and clutched the edge of the sod with his hands.
Where are you going! Hold your horses, crazy!
Be calm, we won’t leave, - a calm voice said from somewhere behind, now I’ll support the other side.
Panteleimon Sergeevich Romanov
Romanov Panteleimon Sergeevich (2.071884-8.04. 1938), writer. Born in with. Petrovskoe, now Odoevsky district, Tula region, in a small estate noble family. The first story "Father Fyodor" was published in 1911 in the journal "Russian Thought". In 1925 he published the collection "Stories". Collaborated in the magazines "Krasnaya Nov", " New world”,“ Searchlight ”,“ Krasnaya Niva ”. He wrote lyrical and psychological (“Autumn”, 1914, “Light Dreams”, 1919, “Winter”, 1923, etc.) and satirical stories. The latter are devoted mainly to the era civil war, then - NEP. The writer denounces speculation in them (“Traffic Jams”, 1922), bureaucratic confusion (“Labyrinth”, 1918, “Weak Heart”, 1921), inertia, narrow-mindedness, cowardice, rising to satirical generalizations in the best stories. In works dealing with modern life and morality (story "Without bird cherry", 1926, novel " New Tablet", 1928, the story "Comrade Kislyakov", 1930), Romanov sought to show "the harm of sexual promiscuity." In the autobiographical story "Childhood" (1903-20, published in 1926), Romanov idyllically sang the small estate life and landscapes of central Russia. Forte stories - in a truthful depiction of child psychology. The epic novel "Rus" (Ch. 1-5, 1922-36) depicts manor Russia before the First World War, then the war until the February Revolution. Individual chapters of the novel rise to an extremely high level of artistry. Stylistically, "Rus" is sustained in the traditions of the Russian novel XIX in. In 1933, Romanov published the novel "Property" - about an artist who ruined his talent by money-grubbing. Romanov knew how to notice life's contradictions, sometimes to draw a character with a few strokes. He is characterized by lively lyricism and humor, mastery of dialogue, clear, realistic language.
Site materials used Big Encyclopedia Russian people - http://www.rusinst.ru
Romanov Panteleimon Sergeevich - prose writer.
Father was a petty official in the city of Belev, Tula Province, a representative of a rapidly impoverished late XIX in. Russian petty nobility. Mother - the daughter of a village deacon. The writer's childhood passed on a small farm in Belevsky district. Volodkovskaya volost, not far from the village of Karmanye, where the family moved in 1889, having sold the land in Petrovsky, in order to be able to educate children with the proceeds. Romanov studied at the Belevsky vocational school. V.A. Zhukovsky and in the gymnasium, and then - in the Tula gymnasium.
In 1905 he entered Faculty of Law Moscow University.
In 1908 he left the university and returned to the village, where he took some part in the affairs of the local zemstvo. In 1911 he joined the bank. Working in a bank as an attorney allowed Romanov to travel a lot around the country. These trips strengthened his panoramic perception of Russia as a whole organism with its own destiny. During the First World War, Romanov worked as a statistician in Vitebsk and as an assistant to the head of the statistical department of the Red Cross in Petrograd, and made trips to the front. During February Revolution served in the State Duma as a statistician and literary officer. From the second half of 1917, for 2 years, he headed the department of out-of-school education in the city of Odoev, Tula province. Herzen and Ogarev.
In 1919 Romanov moved to Moscow to live with his future wife ballerina A.M. Shalomytova. In Moscow, he worked for a short time as a member of the Censorship Commission at the Photographic Film Committee, for some time he was the secretary of the artistic council. Soon he leaves the service and devotes his life entirely to writing.
Romanov began to write early. In the last classes of the gymnasium, he worked on the story "Childhood", completed only 17 years later - in 1920.
By 1907-08, the idea of the epic novel "Rus" appeared. The beginning of Romanov's literary activity is considered to be 1911, when his first publication appeared in the Russian Thought magazine (No. literature XIX in.
From 1911 to 1917, Romanov published the stories The Court (1914), Winter (Woman) (1915), The Russian Soul (In native land”) (1916) and others, the story “The Writer” (1915), which served as the basis for play of the same name. The Russkiye Vedomosti newspaper publishes Essays on Siberia (1913), written on the basis of personal impressions from trips around the country. The essays revealed the originality of Romanov's view of the national character, far from the populist, purely sociological understanding of it. Romanov preferred the nationally characteristic to the socially determined. Following the positivist doctrine, Romanov believed that the national traits of any people are "nothing but those general reasons that make the people of this nation act this way and not otherwise" in every historical situation. The concept of immutable national features, capable of influencing circumstances, became one of the foundations of the Romanovs' work.
The first book of the writer - the first part of the first volume of the epic novel "Rus" (1923) - depicts the life of manor Russia on the eve of the First World War. The writer considered "Rus" the main business of his life and tirelessly emphasized its importance for his work. According to Romanov, "Rus" was to become the center to which all other works are drawn. The desire to show “all Russia” taken from Gogol is realized by Romanov as a task to reveal the stability of the eternal principle - the “folk element”, to indicate the continuity of the traditions of the Russian national collectivity, where social differentiation is dominated by features of national belonging. "Rus" gave rise in criticism to a flurry of accusations of the author of epigonism and nostalgia for the outgoing patriarchy.
In 1924, the previously written story "Childhood" was published, which adequately continued the national literary tradition artistic development of the world of the child's soul. In the same year, the play "Earthquake" was published - a tragicomic chronicle of post-revolutionary events, which bypassed many theaters in the country. Since that time, Romanov has been actively collaborating in literary and art magazines, becoming a member of literary society"Nikitinsky Subbotniks", at the evenings of which he reads his works. The 1920s saw the heyday of Romanov's creative activity, the peak of his literary fame. At this time, Romanov successfully combines writing with the public reading of his works in front of the widest possible audience. In the mid-1920s, Romanov's performances at the Polytechnic Museum, the Hall of Columns, etc. become one of the characteristic signs of the cultural life of Moscow.
Romanov became known to the general reader primarily as the author of satirical miniature stories about the life of the first years of the revolution, which made up the writer’s numerous collections: “Strong People” (1925), “Enchanted Villages”, “Good Places” (both - 1927), “Three whale" (1928) and many others. Romanov enjoyed persistent, though far from favorable attention from critics. Almost every of his works became the subject of sharp controversy. The bibliography of lifetime critical articles about the writer has hundreds of titles. However, most of them are of interest only as facts of the acute ideological and aesthetic struggle of that time. Romanov fully experienced the unenviable share of disgraced artists and, with phenomenal reader recognition, a striking lack of understanding of criticism. Romanov was accused of philistinism, portraying the "scum of the revolution", everyday life, empty anecdotes, photographicism and indifference, imitation and blind epigonism, and was dismissively called the "Soviet Chekhov". The peculiarities of typification in satirical stories-sketches, which produce a superficial impression of empirical photographism, are largely due to Romanov's adherence to the provisions of his own aesthetic theory, formulated in the main theoretical work of the writer - the remaining unpublished book "The Science of Vision", on which Romanov worked long years. The writer himself admitted that the theoretical study of questions of creativity preceded his artistic work. practice. The aesthetic credo of Romanov - "The Science of Vision" - reveals a close connection with the aesthetics of naturalism, with its subordination creative process the process of observation, the requirement of scientific objectivity, the rejection of the image of epoch-making social events. However, the stories-sketches built on the dialogue only create the appearance of “naturalistically” submitted observations. The artistic fabric of the stories reveals an orientation towards folklore aesthetics. The problem of the antagonism of the people and the authorities studied by Romanov appears in his the art world in the categories of mythologized folk consciousness, as a confrontation between holiness and satanism. The idea of the absurdity of the post-revolutionary world order found an adequate artistic embodiment in the motif of two worlds, which proved the hostility of the violent reorganization of the world traditional life. Behind the outward impassivity in the “naturalistically” presented observations of Romanov, one cannot but see the pain and anxiety of the artist, who does not accept those forms of life that lead to the death of the moral potential of the nation.
In the second half of the 1920s, Romanov creates a number of socio-psychological stories, dedicated to love, family, marriage. The writer's concern is caused by simplified theories of the violent reshaping of human consciousness (in particular, new theories of family and marriage), which tried to prove the historically transient nature of moral standards. With the story "Without bird cherry" (1926), which caused a heated controversy in the press, a wave of frantic debates among readers, Romanov spoke out against the vulgar materialism and nihilism that were planted in those years among the youth. Romanov defended the spirituality and romance of love. In the story "The Trial of a Pioneer" (1927), the writer opposed the officially proclaimed hypocritical spiritual asceticism, which threatened to simplify the great mysteries of life.
To the tragic fate of the Russian intelligentsia in Soviet Russia Romanov turned to the story “The Right to Life, or the Problem of Non-Party” (1927), in which he studied the relationship between talent and the requirements of the era, the destructive policy of the authorities towards the intelligentsia for society. The story reflects the last stage of the absorption of personality totalitarian regime. Romanov touched upon the same problems in the novel "Comrade Kislyakov" (1930) - in many respects the final one for the writer. The work, which portrayed the "reforging of the personality" as a violation of all moral norms, was naturally declared slanderous, and after the publication of the translation of the novel in England, it was also counter-revolutionary. After the persecution of Romanov the writer was unleashed, they practically ceased to print, and a systematic ousting of him from literature began. The artist, who sought in his works to reveal the destructive effect of deadly forms of life on a person, experienced their deadly force on himself. The novel Property, published in 1933, spoke of the decline in Romanov's creative powers. After the death of the writer, his books and the name itself were deleted from the history of Russian literature for a long time.
O.G. Malyshkina
Used materials of the book: Russian literature of the XX century. Prose writers, poets, playwrights. Biobibliographic dictionary. Volume 3. P - Ya. 218-220.
Read further:
Stories. M.; 1991
Literature:
Panteleimon Romanov: Critical series. No. 13 M.
Nikitinsky Subbotniks. 1928;
Afanasiev E.L. I want to accept the paths of my land in their entirety... // Romanov P. Childhood. story and stories. Tula, 1986, pp. 363-382;
Petrochenkov V. creative destiny Panteleimon Romanov. New York, 1988;
Sushilina I.K. On the path of your true life // P.S. Romanov. Apple blossom: a story and short stories. M., 1991. S.3-10.
Romanov Panteleimon Sergeevich
stories
Panteleimon Sergeevich Romanov
(Agafon Shakhov)
STORIES
Russian soul
heavy things
In the dark
Italian accounting
Speculators
Death of Tikhon
worthy person
Technical words
bad chairman
Instruction
Weak heart
harmful thing
Blue jacket
promised land
Black flatbread
The wrong person
Without bird cherry
human soul
strong nerves
People's money
bad number
Herod's tribe
good boss
Trial of a pioneer
The right to life, or the problem of non-partisanship
thirteen logs
State property
Painters
Blue dress.
Light service
Economic basis
apple blossom
This will not be the case
Potatoes
Moscow horse racing
brilliant victory
white pig
RUSSIAN SOUL
Professor of Moscow University, Andrei Khristoforovich Vyshnegradsky, in the third year of the war received a letter from his two brothers from the village - Nikolai and Avenir, who asked him to come to them for the summer, visit them and relax himself.
“You must have turned sour there in the capital, you forgot your native, but here, brother, the Russian soul is still alive,” Nikolai wrote.
Andrey Khristoforovich thought about it and, going to the telegraph office, sent a telegram to his brother Nikolai, and the next day he left for the village.
The intense life of Moscow was replaced by the spaciousness and silence of the fields.
Andrey Khristoforovich looked out the window of the carriage and watched the plowed hills running past him swell and fall, the bridges being repaired with the sleepers scattered downhill rush by.
Time definitely stopped, got lost and fell asleep in these flat fields. Trains stood at each stop for an infinitely long time - why, why - no one knew.
Why are we standing for so long? - Andrey Khristoforovich asked once. - Are we waiting for someone?
No, we are not waiting for anyone, - said the important chief conductor and added: - we have no one to wait for.
We sat on transfers for hours on end, and no one knew when the train would come. Once a man came up and wrote with chalk on the blackboard: "Train No. 3 is late for 1 hour and 30 minutes." Everyone came and read. But five hours passed, and there was no train.
They didn't guess, - said some old man in a chuyka.
When someone got up and walked with a suitcase to the door, then they suddenly jumped up and all vied with each other rushed to the door, crushed each other, climbed over their heads.
It's coming, it's coming!
Where are you going with the knot?
The train is coming!
Nothing goes: one, maybe, got up for his own business, and everyone shied away.
So why is he getting up? Here's the accursed one, look, please, he messed up like everyone else.
And when the professor arrived at the station, it turned out that the horses had not been sent.
What am I going to do now? said the professor to the porter. He felt embarrassed. He did not see the brothers for 15 years, and they themselves called him and still remained true to themselves: either they were late with the horses, or they mixed up the numbers.
Don't you worry, - said the porter, a nimble peasant with a badge on his apron, - in our inn they will provide you with any horses you want. We have one word on this score...
Well, take me to the inn, just don't get your suitcases dirty, please.
Be calm ... - the peasant waved his hand over the covers, threw the suitcases on his back and disappeared into the darkness. Only his voice was heard somewhere ahead:
Along the wall, along the wall, sir, make your way, otherwise there is a puddle on the side, and a well to the right.
The professor, as he became, rolled somewhere from the first step.
They didn’t please ... - said the peasant. - True, it’s a little dirty. Well, yes, we will dry soon. We live well here: there is a wide square right here for you, to the left - the church, to the right - the priests.
Where are you? Where to go here?
Indulge in me, in me, otherwise here now the pits will go. Last week, a surveyor blew a chubura, and they dragged him out by force.
The professor walked, every minute expecting that the same thing would happen to him as to the surveyor.
And the little man kept talking and talking endlessly:
Our area is good. And the rooms are good, Seleznevsky. And the people are good, remembering.
And everything was good with him: both life and people.
We must, apparently, knock, - said the peasant, stopping near some wall. He dumped the suitcases right into the mud and began banging on the gate with a brick.
Would you be quieter, why are you thrashing like that?
Do not worry. Otherwise, you won't wake them up. The people are strong. What are you doing there, oh, everyone went crazy! Are there horses?
There is ... - a sleepy voice was heard from behind the gate.
That's it - there is! Always reschedule so that you chop all your hands.
Please go upstairs.
No, you prepare a place for me in the carriage, I will sit down, and you harness and go. It will be more likely ... - said Andrei Khristoforovich.
It's possible.
Is the road good?
The road is one word - Lub.
Lubok ... Lubok, that is. Very smooth. Our seats are good. Well, sit down, I'll be in one minute.
Andrey Khristoforovich groped for the step, sat down in a huge sob, which was standing in a shed under a shed. He smelled of dusty felt and some kind of acid. Andrei Khristoforovich stretched out his legs on the hay and, leaning his head against the back, began to doze. From time to time a fresh, cool breeze swept over his face, coming in from above through the crack of the closed gate. There was a pleasant smell of tar, fresh hay and horses.
Through his drowsiness he could hear the luggage being tied down, pulling the rope behind the carriage. Sometimes his driver, saying: "Oh, you, honest mother!", Repaired something. Sometimes he ran away to the hut, and then there was silence, from which the legs hummed pleasantly, as if at a stop while riding a sleigh in a snowstorm. Only occasionally did the horses snort and step over the straw as they chewed oats under the shed.
Half an hour later, the professor woke up in fright with the feeling that he was hanging over an abyss, and clutched the edge of the sod with his hands.
Where are you going! Hold your horses, crazy!
Be calm, we won’t leave, - a calm voice said from somewhere behind, now I’ll support the other side.
It turned out that they were not hanging over the abyss, but were still standing in the yard, and the driver was only going to grease the wheels, raising one side of the carriage.
As soon as we left the yard, it began to rain, direct, large and warm. And the whole neighborhood was filled with the steady sound of falling rain.
The driver silently reached under the seat, pulled out some tattered rubbish and covered himself with it, like a priest with a robe.
Etude
Professor of Moscow University, Andrei Khristoforovich Vyshnegradsky, in the third year of the war received a letter from his two brothers from the village - Nikolai and Avenir, who asked him to come to them for the summer, visit them and relax himself.
“You must have turned sour there in the capital, you forgot your native, but here, brother, the Russian soul is still alive,” Nikolai wrote.
Andrey Khristoforovich thought about it and, going to the telegraph office, sent a telegram to his brother Nikolai, and the next day he left for the village.
The intense life of Moscow was replaced by the spaciousness and silence of the fields.
Andrey Khristoforovich looked out the window of the carriage and watched the plowed hills running past him swell and fall, the bridges being repaired with the sleepers scattered downhill rush by.
Time definitely stopped, got lost and fell asleep in these flat fields. Trains stood at each stop for an infinitely long time - why, why - no one knew.
Why are we standing for so long? Andrey Khristoforovich asked once. - We are waiting for someone?
No, we are not waiting for anyone, - said the important chief conductor and added: - we have no one to wait for.
We sat on transfers for hours on end, and no one knew when the train would come. Once a man came up, wrote with chalk on the blackboard: "Train number 3 is late for 1 hour and 30 minutes." Everyone came and read. But five hours passed, and there was no train.
They didn't guess, - said some old man in a chute.
When someone got up and walked with a suitcase to the door, then they suddenly jumped up and all vied with each other rushed to the door, crushed each other, climbed over their heads.
It's coming, it's coming!
Where are you going with the knot?
The train is coming!
Nothing goes: one, maybe, got up for his own business, and everyone shied away.
So why is he getting up? Here's the accursed one, look, please, he messed up like everyone else.
And when the professor arrived at the station, it turned out that the horses had not been sent.
What am I going to do now? said the professor to the porter. He felt embarrassed. He did not see the brothers for 15 years, and they themselves called him and still remained true to themselves: either they were late with the horses, or they mixed up the numbers.
Don't worry, - said the porter, a nimble little man with a badge on his apron, - at the inn we will provide you with any horses you want. We have one word on this score!..
Well, take me to the inn, just don't get your suitcases dirty, please.
Be calm ... - the little man waved his hand over the covers, threw the suitcases on his back and disappeared into the darkness. Only his voice was heard somewhere ahead:
Along the wall, along the wall, sir, make your way, otherwise there is a puddle on the side, and a well to the right.
The professor, as he became, rolled somewhere from the first step.
They didn’t please ... - said the peasant. - It's true that it's a little dirty. Well, yes, we will dry soon. We live well here: there is a wide square right here for you, to the left - the church, to the right - the priests.
Where are you? Where to go here?
Indulge in me, in me, otherwise here now the pits will go. Last week, a surveyor blew a chubura, and they dragged him out by force.
The professor walked, every minute expecting that the same thing would happen to him as to the surveyor.
And the little man kept talking and talking endlessly:
Our area is good. And the rooms are good, Seleznevsky. And the people are good, remembering.
And everything was good with him: both life and people.
We must, apparently, knock, - said the peasant, stopping near some wall. He dumped the suitcases right into the mud and began banging on the gate with a brick.
Would you be quieter, why are you thrashing like that?
Do not worry. Otherwise, you won't wake them up. The people are strong. What are you doing there, oh, everyone went crazy! Are there horses?
There is ... - a sleepy voice was heard from behind the gate.
That's it - there is! Always reschedule so that you chop all your hands.
Please go upstairs.
No, you prepare a place for me in the carriage, I will sit down, and you harness and go. So it will be more likely ... - said Andrei Khristoforovich.
It's possible.
Is the road good?
The road is one word - Lub.
Lub ... splint, that is. Very smooth. Our seats are good. Well, sit down, I'll be in one minute.
Andrey Khristoforovich groped for the step, sat down in a huge sob, which was standing in a shed under a shed. He smelled of dusty felt and some kind of acid. Andrei Khristoforovich stretched out his legs on the hay and, leaning his head against the back, began to doze. From time to time a fresh, cool breeze swept over his face, coming in from above through the crack of the closed gate. There was a pleasant smell of tar, fresh hay and horses.
Through his drowsiness he could hear the luggage being tied down, pulling the rope behind the carriage. Sometimes his driver, saying: “Oh, you, honest mother!”, Repaired something. Sometimes he ran away to the hut, and then there was silence, from which the legs hummed pleasantly, as if at a stop while riding a sleigh in a snowstorm. Only occasionally did the horses snort and step over the straw as they chewed oats under the shed.
Half an hour later, the professor woke up in fright with the feeling that he was hanging over an abyss, and clutched the edge of the sod with his hands.
Where are you going! Hold your horses, crazy!
Be calm, we won’t leave, - a calm voice said from somewhere behind, now I’ll support the other side.
It turned out that they were not hanging over the abyss, but were still standing in the yard, and the driver was only going to grease the wheels, raising one side of the carriage.
As soon as we left the yard, it began to rain, direct, large and warm. And the whole neighborhood was filled with the steady sound of falling rain.
The driver silently reached under the seat, pulled out some tattered rubbish and covered himself with it, like a priest with a robe.
Half an hour later the wheels were already moving with a continuous murmur over deep ruts. And the sobs all somewhere pulled to the left and down.
The driver stopped and slowly looked back from the goat, then began to look around, as if studying the area in the dark.
What has become? Hey, are you lost?
No, it's like nothing.
What are you? There are ravines, right?
No, there are no ravines.
Well, so what then?
You never know what ... here, just look, you will hang out somewhere.
Yes, be careful! Where are you turning?
And the devil knows, - said the driver, - so you go - nothing, but like rain, then pick up your boots ...
Nikolai wrote that it was only 30 versts from the station, and Andrei Khristoforovich expected to arrive in three hours. But we drove 4-5 hours, stopped at an inn from an impossible road, and only by morning had overcome these 30 versts.
The carriage drove up to a low house with two whitewashed chimneys and a wide boarded porch, on which a white rooster perched on one leg. Not far away, in the open gates of a wattle shed, crouching on the ground by the tarantass, a worker was fussing about tying down a windrow, helping himself with his teeth and paying no attention to the newcomer.
And from the back porch, picking up a semi-caftan around the corners and rolling with galoshes in the mud, some old priest was in a hurry.
Seeing the professor, he waved his arms and remained in this position for some time, as if he were a ghost.
Hey, have you arrived? We're just going to send for you. Why a whole day earlier? Hey, what happened?
Nothing happened. I telegraphed that I would arrive on the 15th, and today the 16th.
My dear you! The sixteenth - you say? .. This means that yesterday they forgot to tear off a leaf from the calendar. What are you going to do here! Well, hello, hello. What a fine fellow you are, fresh, tall, slender. Well, uh...
This was younger brother Nikolay.
Let's go to the house quickly. Why are you looking at me like that? Aged?
Yes, very old...
What will you do to it suits... Lower, lower your head, - he shouted in fright, - otherwise you will knock.
Why did you make such doors for yourself? ..
What can you do ... - And he smiled slowly and kindly. - Why are you all looking at me?
