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?
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.
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 the younger brother Nikolai.
Let's go to the house quickly. Why are you looking at me like that? Aged?
Yes, very old...
What are you going to do, it’s getting to that ... 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 affectionately. - Why are you all looking at me?
Romanov Panteleimon Sergeevich (1884-) - Soviet writer. R. in the family of a small landowner. It has been published since 1911. In his early works, R. appears as an epigone of the literature of the nobility. They abound with borrowings from the classics. Romanov's first major story "Childhood" was written under the strong influence of L. Tolstoy's "Childhood and Adolescence". The estate motifs of this story and the image of the “repentant nobleman” outlined in it were widely developed in central work R. novel "Rus" (1926), conceived by the author as a monumental epic. However, in the three parts that came out, covering the summer of 1914 and the beginning of the World War, only the crisis and decay of the pre-war estates are shown and the forces that prepared the revolution are completely left in the shadow. Understanding the historical doom of the nobility, R. depicts in comic tones the figures of useless afterlife local nobility, weak-willed or deliberately unprincipled loafers. But at the same time, the author is sad about the bygone antiquity. With great warmth, he depicts the festive aspects of the old lordly life, traditional sublime image noble Girls, the manor landscape is imbued with lyricism in the spirit of the classical noble literature. The peasantry, taken at the moment of pre-revolutionary ferment, is shown in Rus' as an inert, lazy and stupid herd mass, incapable of any organized action.
Since 1918, R. has been writing many small comic stories. The heroes of these miniatures are the peasant masses or city dwellers, depicted from the perspective of a cursory sketch (the favorite scenes of action are the station, carriage, queue, etc.). Their plots were Ch. arr. diverse curiosities of everyday life in the first years of the revolution. Thanks to the sharp observation of the author and the expressiveness of the comic sketches, these short stories enjoyed wide popularity in their time; taken together, they give a sharply one-sided image of the masses; in comic episodes, R. invariably emphasizes the stupidity, inertia, the impenetrable lack of culture of the peasantry and urban inhabitants, the lack of understanding of the events taking place, and the selfish fear of each for himself. Particularly characteristic is the repetitive story about a herd team, where everyone unanimously does the opposite of what they decided to do - because of the fear of each individually being left in the cold (“Friendly People”, “Believers”, “Badge”, “Blue Jacket”, “ Bad person"). On the whole, R.'s stories are imbued with a spirit of disbelief in the revolutionary and creative forces of the masses.
From 1927 R. moved on to topics from the life of the urban intelligentsia. R.'s stories on "sexual" themes, in which pathetic grief " former people» about the lost «poetry» love relationship and indignation at the excesses of sexual anarchism and the simplification of modern youth (“Without bird cherry”, “Trial of a Pioneer”, 1927) are combined with an increased interest in thrill, to easy connections (“White Flowers”, “Unsent Letter”, “One Hour”, “Spring”, etc.). R. did not cope with the task of exposing the vulgarity, and his numerous rehashings of vulgar love collisions for the most part satisfy the demands of the philistine strata of readers.
R. repeatedly repeats and varies the epic of an intelligent opportunist (“The Right to Life”, 1927, “Lights”, “Actress”, “Comrade Kislyakov”, 1931). Here, as in the stories on "sex" themes, R., trying to raise the question of the intelligentsia in general as an integral class, invariably brings out only representatives of the philistine strata of the intelligentsia, far from the proletariat. His attempt to paint the image of a communist intellectual from among the peasants suffered a complete failure (the novel The New Tablet). Usually, the communists only flicker against the background of R.'s works, and Ch. arr. their low culture and attitude towards the intelligentsia is hostile and dismissive or, conversely, unexpectedly gullible.
Since 1932, new motifs have been heard in some of R.'s works and performances. He turns to an essay for sketching the construction of social industry ("Rus and the USSR"), with great sincerity he gives an image of the reforging of man in the process of social construction. Particularly attracted his attention are people of strong, purposeful will (the stories "On the Volga", "There will be no business behind this"), overcoming that element of laxity and laziness, which seemed to him until now "the dominant feature of the Russian national character". In the novel Property (1933), R. strives to show the destructive effect of possessive aspirations and the re-education of a person under the influence of the Soviet public, but resolves this topic extremely unsuccessfully.
Style early works R. contains rehashings of the style of classical literature of the nobility. The author achieves the greatest liveliness and accuracy in the transfer of the language of the peasants and the urban street crowd. With the transition to themes from the life of the intelligentsia, the language of R. - even in part of the author's narrative - uncritically absorbed a number of patterns of philistine-intelligentsia speech, such as "definitely", "terrible heartlessness", etc. Even more tasteless are the high-flown phrases of the philistine heroes about " acute happiness”, “flowering of the soul”, etc. in the context of ordinary and vulgar experiences. R. written plays - "Earthquake", "Maria Krokotova" and "Writer".
Bibliography
I. Complete collection. sochin., 12 vols., ed. "Nedra", M., 1928
Comrade Kislyakov, Sat. "Nedra", book. 18, M., 1930
Property, novel, GIHL, M. - L., 1933
Autobiography. Writers, ed. Vl. Linda, ed. 2, M., 1928
From notebook writer (Thoughts about Art), Sat. "Morning", M., 1927
About myself, about criticism and about other things, "30 days", 1927, No. 6
About his own, "Reader and Writer", 1928, No. 17
Stories, ed. " Soviet literature”, M., 1934.
II. Pakentreiger S., Talent of indifference, "Print and Revolution", 1926, No. 8
Nikitina E. and Shuvalov S., Fiction writers-contemporaries, M., 1927
Dispute at the Academy of Communist Education. Krupskaya (“Without bird cherry” by P. Romanov and others), “Young Guard”, 1926, No. 12 (transcript), Gusev S., Trial of Pioneers over P. Romanov, “Young Guard”, 1927, No. 7
P. Romanov. Collection, ed. "Nikitinsky subbotniks", M., 1928
Kogan L. V., Comic novel by P. Romanov, "Literature and Marxism", 1928, No. 6
Ingulov S., Bobchinsky on Parnassus. Dissenting opinion about P. Romanov, "Young Guard", 1929, No. 11
