The problem of human moral stability. According to text A

Third conversation

G. A ... At that time, the prisoners were divided into two camps. Some still believed that they were repressed by mistake: they say, they cut down the forest - the chips fly, Stalin was still the king and god for them, while others began to slowly begin to see clearly. Mom, according to my observations, belonged to the second group.

I ask Galina Aleksandrovna to tell about her mother: who is she? How did you meet A.K.? How did her fate develop after G.A.'s arrest?

Mom - Sima Solomonovna Pesina - from poor family, in her youth she attended a social democratic circle, it was in 1906 or 1907. At a revolutionary demonstration - it was in Melitopol - a Cossack swung a whip at her. Mom looked up at him: "Don't hit me!" Sorry, didn't hit. Mom was then 17-18 years old.

Then she was sent to the Vologda province, carried in the "Stolypin" car. A.K. was brought from Vladimir. In this car they met. In Vologda itself, none of the deportees were left, they began to distribute them among smaller settlements. Yarensk fell out to both of them, so they accidentally ended up together.

And in the second exile, in Kem, Arkhangelsk province, in 1912, my mother herself, voluntarily went to A.K. There I was born. Shortly after my birth, I was baptized there. I was only child, neither before me, nor after me, there were no children in the family.

After I was born, my mother retired from revolutionary work. She was not a member of the party before. Subsequently, she became an employee. In Ivanovo, where we lived after the revolution before moving to Moscow, she worked as a teacher in a kindergarten, serving telephone exchange, proofreader in the newspaper.

In Ivanovo, my mother became terribly ill, it was after the 18th year. She was diagnosed with scurvy and, as the doctors then wrote, heart disease. In Moscow in 1921, when my father was transferred, the doctors said: "We'll try to send him to Kislovodsk, if it's not too late." The cause of the disease was very difficult living conditions. All responsible workers ate on an equal footing with the workers, there were no privileges, they received the same wormy herring. A. K. in Ivanovo edited the newspaper Rabochy Krai, at one time replaced Frunze, whom he had known for a long time - either in the position of chairman of the provincial executive committee, or secretary of the provincial committee.

Mom was arrested after the execution of his father (A.K. Voronsky was re-arrested on February 1, 1937, he was first charged with a relatively "mild" charge - in anti-Soviet agitation and participation in an anti-Soviet organization. On June 10, the charge was re-charged - an ominous paragraph 8 of Art. 58 of the Criminal Code of the RSFSR: committing terrorist acts As a result of the investigation, he was found guilty of being an active participant in an anti-Soviet terrorist organization, creating a subversive terrorist group in Moscow, which prepared on his instructions Act of terrorism against party and government leaders.

On August 13, 1937, the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court of the USSR sentenced A.K. Voronsky to be shot. - A. B.). Mom was sentenced to eight years.

There is a misconception that those from the CHSIR (members of the family of a traitor to the motherland. - A. B.) who abandoned their convicted family members were given three years, and those who did not refuse - eight years. This is not so, the terms, I think, were given depending on the position, the social status of the convict: the higher, the more ...

In the camp, it was in Mordovia, my mother worked in the workshop, embroidered something. She became seriously ill, she was sent to an invalid camp in Segezha, on the coast of the White Sea. During the war, in 1943 - by that time my mother had already been in prison for six years - she was transferred to Karaganda. My mother's sister lived in Tashkent at that time, and when my mother, as an incurable patient (she was activated even earlier), was released into the wild - apparently they did not want her to die in the camp, the administration did not like this and often acted in this way - the sister took mother to you. In Tashkent, she died two or three months later in the same 43rd year.

Around 1943, or a little earlier, my mother, by intuition, sent a statement to Kolyma: my daughter is with you, but she does not write to me. I had the right to write then. I was summoned to the camp EHF (cultural and educational department. - A. B.) and asked: "Why don't you write to your mother?" We started a correspondence. Mom's letters went missing when I was arrested before being placed on permanent settlement.

I didn't find out about my mother's death right away. The telegram that my aunt gave about this was hidden from me by my friend in the camp - she wanted to save me from this sad news. Then, unexpectedly for me, she asked for the address of my aunt - suddenly we will be scattered around different stages and we will lose each other. She probably wanted to ask her aunt not to write to me about this yet.

Freed and married, I wrote to my aunt about these events and only then did I learn from her that my mother had died. Where her grave is, I don't know.

I ask Galina Alexandrovna to return to the unfinished topic, at the time of A. K. Voronsky's expulsion to Lipetsk.

A.K. lived in Lipetsk for about seven months.

A. B. Where did Alexander Konstantinovich work? Has he been given a position?

G. A. Did not work anywhere in Lipetsk. Vyacheslav Polonsky, then editor of the magazine " New world"(the second part of the story "For Living and Dead Water" began to be printed there), went to the Central Committee and made sure that the book was published separate edition. The corresponding contract was probably concluded and an advance payment was paid. So we weren't poor.

I went to Lipetsk for the first time for the spring school holidays with G.K. K. was arrested, offered us financial assistance and housing.

In Lipetsk, A.K. first lived in a hotel (mother came to him almost immediately), and when his mother, Fedosiya Gavrilovna, arrived, he rented two rooms in some house.

In Lipetsk, A.K. had an accident (now, after many years, I can assume that he was rigged): while skating, he fell, a kidney prolapsed, which caused a serious illness. But despite her, he did a lot literary work. I consider the Lipetsk period his "Boldino autumn".

In the same year, he wrote a statement to the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks, which contained a request to be allowed to come to Moscow - for a consultation with doctors, and without waiting for this permission, having collected his things, he returned to Moscow. Here he wrote a statement about the withdrawal from the opposition.

In late October - early November 1929, the last conversation between Alexander Konstantinovich and Stalin took place. From my father's words, I know that several issues were raised in this conversation. On the periodical of military-patriotic direction. The idea of ​​its creation belongs to A. K. Later, it was implemented by the release of LOKAF (the first issue of the LOKAF magazine - " Literary Association Red Army and Navy" - came out in January 1931, since 1933 the magazine has been called "Znamya" - A. B.). Stalin offered Voronsky to become the editor of this magazine. A. K. agreed on the condition that he would be given complete freedom. No such freedom was guaranteed.

In this conversation, A. K. tried to intercede for Rakovsky, who was then an opposition figure in exile in Astrakhan: "It is too great a luxury for the party to keep such highly educated people in the provinces." The petition was not successful.

In connection with the signs of a food crisis - in particular, a shortage of meat - A. K. expressed the opinion that it is not worth counting on the development of pig breeding: a pig is an unreliable animal. A.K. left the village, his childhood passed in countryside, and these problems were of great interest to him, in 1929, in connection with mass collectivization, there was - for the future - a shortage of meat.

In my opinion, in this conversation Voronsky did not find common language with Stalin. And their acquaintance dates back to the 19-20s. It happened when they liberated Kharkov from the whites. Stalin was in charge of the military line. At the end of military operations, representatives of the Central Executive Committee were sent to Kharkov. Voronsky was among the commissioners.

According to the stories of A.K., the whites, retreating, removed telephones in all city institutions. At the same time, a whole carriage of these devices was at the disposal of the military. A.K. went to Stalin with a request to give out at least a certain number of telephones in order to install them in civilian institutions. Stalin refused him, and they quarreled. "I will complain about you to Lenin!" - said A. K. "I don't give a damn about you and your Lenin!" Stalin allegedly replied then.

However, their relationship was not always so irreconcilable. In particular, Stalin often supported the positions of Voronsky in his literary struggle with RAPP. "Averbakh and his company would have eaten me a long time ago," A.K. said, "if it weren't for Stalin's support." On the first of May, the 26th or 27th year, A.K. even received an invitation to the central rostrum of the Mausoleum, on which, in general, he was not supposed to be due to his rank.

G. A. Father read to me a lot from the very early childhood. At the age of five, I learned to read by myself, then I began to compose. With one of the first poems she came to her father. I remember that in the verse the line "pioneers of all countries" rhymed with the word "drum". You can imagine what it was like in terms of content. A.K. was furious at this poem: "Not a single living word! If you can't not write, then at least don't show it!" This offended me greatly, I burst into a roar and tried to roar louder so that my mother would hear and come to protect me. Mom, of course, came and tried to calm A. K .: "She's a child ..." - "Let him not write vulgarities!" - did not yield to A.K.

Politician, prose writer and publicist A. K. Voronsky was born on September 8, 1884 in the village of Khoroshavka, Kirsanovsky district, Tambov province, in the family of a priest. After the death of their father, the family settled in the village of Dobrinka, Usmansky district, where numerous relatives lived, including the last rector of the Chuevsky Nikolsky Church, Nikolai Ivanovich Dobrotvortsev. There the childhood of A.K. Voronsky passed.

After graduating in 1900 from the 1st Tambov religious school he entered the Tambov Theological Seminary, from which he was expelled in 1905 for "political unreliability."

Since 1904, Alexander Konstantinovich was a member of the RSDLP (b) and conducted party work in St. Petersburg, Vladimir, Saratov, Tambov, Odessa, and in the Crimea. Was in exile for 4 years imprisonment for 2.5 years, including a year in the fortress.

In 1911, he began publishing his first articles and essays in the Odessa newspaper Yasnaya Zarya. In 1912, A. K. Voronsky was a delegate to the Prague Conference.

After the revolution, he worked as the editor-in-chief of the newspaper Rabochy Krai in Ivanovo-Voznesensk, making it one of the best in Russia. In the early 1920s, Alexander Konstantinovich withdrew from party organizational work and devoted himself entirely to literature. He had the idea to publish the first Soviet "thick" magazine Krasnaya Nov, which began to appear in July 1921 and A.K. Voronsky was its editor. Alexander Konstantinovich contributed to the fact that all the best that was in the literature of those years was published in it. He wrote many articles about writers, who became classics of Soviet literature largely thanks to his support.

Critical and theoretical articles by A. K. Voronsky of these years were collected in the books “At the Junction” (1923), “Art and Life” (1924), “ Literary types"(1924)," Literary Records "(1926)," Mr. Britling drinks the cup to the bottom "(1927)," Literary portraits"(T. 1-2. 1928-1929), "The Art of Seeing the World" (1928).

In 1927, A. K. Voronsky was removed from the leadership of Krasnaya Novyu, removed from the editorial office of the Krug publishing house, expelled from the party for belonging to the Trotskyist opposition, and after his arrest in January 1929, he was exiled to Lipetsk.

The Lipetsk exile regime was not very strict, but he was forbidden to speak at meetings and in the local press. In Lipetsk, Alexander Konstantinovich and his family lived first in a hotel on Petrovsky Spusk, then in the wing of the lawyer M.A. Dyachkov on Pervomaiskaya Street (the house has not been preserved). I. Babel, L. Seifullina, B. Pilnyak, members of the group "Pass" close to him - I. Kataev, N. Zarudin and others came to visit him.

In Lipetsk, he wrote the stories “Exhibit”, “Factory”, “Prison Trivia”, “Fedya Gverillas”, in which Lipetsk and its inhabitants are recognizable, as well as a short story about A. I. Zhelyabov “Sleepless Memory”, three stories: "At the crossroads", "Weekdays", "Olga".

In the autumn of 1929, due to illness, he was allowed to return to Moscow, he was reinstated in the party and appointed editor of the department classical literature in Goslitizdat.

In 1927, his first book was published, created on the basis of autobiographical material, "For Living and Dead Water", reprinted in an enlarged form in 1934. Its logical continuation - the story "The Eye of the Hurricane" was published in 1931. In 1931-1933 his collections of stories were published, in 1933 a magazine publication of the novel "Bursa" appeared, in which the impressions of Dobrinsky's childhood came to life. In 1934, in the series "Life wonderful people The books "Zhelyabov" and "Gogol" were published.

In 1935, he was again expelled from the party, suspended from work and arrested on February 1, 1937. On August 13, 1937, A.K. Voronsky was shot. His personal investigation file was destroyed. 20 years later, on February 7, 1957, he was fully rehabilitated.

For decades, the name of A.K. Voronsky was "crossed out" from Soviet history. After the execution, his works were confiscated, for a long time not republished.

In the name of A.K. Voronsky in the village. The street is called Dobrinka.

Author's works

• Gogol. - M. : Journal and newspaper association, 1934. - 496 p.
• Zhelyabov. - M. : Journal and newspaper association, 1934. - 403 p. – (The life of remarkable people. A series of biographies; issues 3, 4).
• Literary-critical articles / entry. Art. A. G. Dementieva. – M.: Sov. writer, 1963. - 423 p.
• Bursa: novel / entry. Art. A. Dementieva. - M .: Art. lit., 1966. - 320 p.
• For living and dead water: a story / entry. Art. F. Levina. - M .: Art. lit., 1970. - 432 p.
• Selected articles about literature / entry. Art. A. G. Dementieva. – M.: Artist. lit., 1982. - 527 p.
• Selected lyrics / comp. and prepare. text by G. Voronskaya; intro. Art. V. Akimova. - M .: Art. lit., 1987. - 655 p. : portrait – Contents : Bursa; For living and dead water: stories; First work; bombs; From old letters; From Valentine's stories; Battleship; Fedya Guerillas: Stories.
• Eye of the hurricane: stories / comp., prepared. text, note. G. A. Voronskoy; intro. Art. V. Akimova. - Voronezh: Central-Chernozem. book. publishing house, 1990. - 234 p.: ill. – Contents: At the crossroads; Weekdays; Olga; Eye of the hurricane: a story.
• The art of seeing the world: portraits. Articles. – M.: Sov. writer, 1987. - 704 p.
• Sleepless Memory: Stories. – M.: Marekan, 2004. – 80 p.
• Strada: [lit.-crit. Art.]. - M. : Antikva, 2004. - 359 p.
• For living and dead water. – M. : Antikva, 2005. –
  • T. 1. - 170 p.
  • T. 2. - 375 p.
• Mr Britling Drinks the Cup to the Bottom: Sat. Art. and feuilletons / entry. Art. N. Kornienko. – M.: Antikva, 2005. – 243 p.
• Literary notes. - M. : Antikva, 2006. - 211 p. : ill.
• Collection of articles published in the newspaper "Working Land": 1918-1920. – M.: Antikva, 2006. – 388 p.
• Gogol / ed. intro. Art. V. A. Voropaev. - M. : Young Guard, 2009. - 447 p. : ill. – (Life of remarkable people. A series of biographies. Small series; issue 1).

Literature about life and work

• Volokitin V. A. A. K. Voronsky // Journey through Lipetsk region. - Voronezh, 1971. - S. 267-272.
• Kupriyanovsky P. Pages of the biography (writer) A. K. Voronsky // Russian literature. - 1982. - No. 4. - S. 246-247.
• Efremov E.P. The founder of Bolshevik criticism // Rise. - 1984. - No. 8. - S. 128-129.
• Literary activity of A. K. Voronsky // Questions of literature. - 1985. - No. 2. - S. 78-104.
• Medvedeva L. Lipetsk short story by A. K. Voronsky // Rise. - 1985. - No. 10. - P. 115-118.
• Akimov V. Our contemporary Voronsky: touches to the portrait // Neva. - 1989. - No. 8. - P. 178.
• Belaya G. Don Quixotes of the 20s: "Pass" and the fate of his ideas / G. Belaya. – M.: Sov. writer, 1989. - 415 p.
• Inanimate E. S. Alexander Voronsky. Ideal. Typology. Individuality / E. S. Nezhivoi. – M.: VZPI, 1989. – 180 p.
• “Maybe later, much will become more obvious and clear”: (from the document “party affairs of A.K. Voronsky”) // Questions of Literature. - 1995. - Issue. 3. - S. 269-292. - From the contents: [about the eviction of A.K. Voronsky to Lipetsk]. – S.: 274, 282.
• Dinershtein E. A. A. K. Voronsky. In search of living water / E. A. Dinershtein. – M.: Rosspen, 2001. – 360 p. : ill. - (People of Russia).
• Povartsov S. Preparatory materials for the biography of Babel I. E. // Questions of Literature. - 2001. - No. 2. - S. 202-232. - From the contents: About the trip of I. Babel to Lipetsk to see A.K. Voronsky.
• Vetlovsky I. Alexander Voronsky // Dobrinsky region: pages of history / I. Vetlovsky, M. Sushkov, V. Tonkikh. - Lipetsk, 2003. - S. 299-303.
• What the old walls will tell about: [A. I. Levitov and A. K. Voronsky in the Tambov Theological Seminary] // History of the Tambov Territory: essays on the history of culture and literature: textbook. allowance for historical and literary and cultural studies of local lore. - Tambov, 2005. - S. 113-114.
• Shentalinsky V. Shooting Nights // Star. - 2007. - No. 5. - S. 67-102.

Reference materials

• Lipetsk encyclopedia. - Lipetsk, 1999. - T. 1. - S. 233.
• Tambov encyclopedia. - Tambov, 2004. - S. 106-107.
• Zamyatinskaya encyclopedia. Lebedyansky context. - Tambov-Yelets, 2004. - S. 110-118.
• Glorious names of the land of Lipetsk: biogr. ref. about the known writers, scientists, educators, artists. - Lipetsk, 2007. - P. 124.
• The pride of the Usman land: short. ref. biogr. famous people who glorified their fatherland. - Usman, 2005. - Prince. 2. - P. 54.

ALEXANDER VORONSKY

FIRST WORK

Source: Voronsky "Selected", from-in "Fiction", M. 1976 Stepan told me: - The committee instructs you to write the May Day appeal. There have been recent arrests. I knew that the entire committee consisted of one Stepan, but at that moment I believed in a powerful and mysterious body. He gave me confidence. I didn’t even notice that my older comrade was a frail, pale man, with a sparse mustache and an even sparse beard, that he was vainly smoothing his hair - they already lay in modest, poor strands, resembling a soiled mop - and that a cream shirt it's time to put it in the wash, and sew on buttons at the collar. On the contrary, if Stepan seemed to me not a thunderer, holding lightning bolts in his hands and bringing thunder down to the ground, then he was nevertheless a powerful man, a kind of superman. I became proud and felt the gravest responsibility. “It is possible,” I answered outwardly indifferently and somewhat majestically, as if all my life I had done was to write menacing and accusatory appeals. Stepan took from the table a student's cap with a band so faded that it became almost white. There is a week left until the first of May. Hurry up. Bring it in tomorrow. Here is the address. I was returning home to the seminary commune, ignoring the fresh and singing April in the sky, the unclouded gloss of the first blossoming greenery, the schoolgirls, in those days for some reason, as if by choice, beautiful. I was preparing to write my first work. Previously, I had to be the author of two or three leaflets, but they were reproduced on a hectograph, only fifty, sixty copies, they spoke about our school needs. Now the sheet will be printed on a printing press, in real type, several thousand, it will be read everywhere: in factories, factories, in the countryside. There was a lot of political work to be done. It seems to me even now that rarely a writer, embarking on his best work, experienced excitement, fever, solemnity, doubts, fear, joy, which incinerated me on that one day when I was barely nineteen years old and the committee gave me an honorary literary order. I will not hide: I was not devoid of vain and ambitious thoughts and even careerism. If I was entrusted with writing the May Day leaflet, it is very likely that I will soon be introduced to the committee, and then I will be a real professional revolutionary. With envy, with admiration, I looked at Savich, at Varvara, at Halperin, at Stepan, and the representative who arrived Central Committee, comrade Sergei, was for me a creature fourth dimension . Now I too, expelled from the seminary a month ago, am close to a brave and select group of people. If only to write, to cope with the assignment! Near the commune, I met Vera at the gate. Vera graduated from high school. “Alexander,” she said, “we agreed to go by boat to the Tregulyaev Monastery, we will stay there all night. I hope you are with us. I loved Vera that spring, like all schoolgirls, even, perhaps, more: she was kind - she never refused to walk with me, to go around extras. There were other motivating reasons as well. - In the depths of our souls, - writes the science fiction writer Hoffmann, - such secrets often lie, about which we do not even tell our closest friends, and even more so, - we add from ourselves, - to readers. “Don't hope,” I said this time, I said sternly, indisputably and arrogantly. - My God, you have such a look, as if you received an inheritance from an uncle from America. Let's go. Vera smiled, revealing dimples on her cheeks, near her mouth, on her chin. She, the prankster, perfectly knew their strength. But even here I did not succumb to Verin's charm. “I have business,” I explained to her impressively and proceeded to the commune house. A seductive jumble was taking place in the commune. Bottles, sausages, rolls, rolls, cheese, sardines were put into baskets. The seminary basses growled, they argued about socialization. Lida shook out the ashes and coals from the samovar. Lyubvin looked gloomily at Olya, fiercely plucked his guitar. Gymnasium student Troshin fought with Denisov. Vissarion pulled off the currant tincture ahead of time and emptied it in the corner right from the neck, stocking up on strength and vigor. I was greeted with greetings, friendly clapping. I treated my comrades in the commune with restraint, and when I said very matter-of-factly that I would not go by boat, their indignation knew no bounds. I was reproached for treason, and pride, and even decadence and Nietzscheism. I endured all this steadfastly, although I really wanted to spend the night in the forest with my disorderly and careless friends. The real hour of testing, however, came a little late. I retired to a corner room, completely empty. I moved two boxes there: one to sit, the other instead of a desk. Having settled down, I saw our gang through the window. Cheerfully noisy, she went to Tsna. Here was Vera, my Vera. She walked with the realist Ivanovsky. He also courted Vera. It seemed to me that Vera gave him her hand too trustingly and even clung to him. It's too damn much. And what will happen on the boat, in the forest, at night? The boards of the box cracked under me from my indignation. I replaced the box with a bench (there were no chairs in our commune yet). Condemning myself for pettiness, I tried to concentrate. With grief and horror, I soon became convinced that not a single fresh thought entered my head. I didn't know how, where to start. On the white sheet were two words: "Comrades and citizens!" The matter did not move forward. Where did the rise disappear, pathos! The words came out languid, unconvincing. I looked out the window again. On the corner of the street stood a man in a worn black jacket, brown trousers tucked into high boots. After standing, he walked around, turned the corner, and soon reappeared. Is it a detective? Leaving the safe house from Stepan, it was necessary to check if the guard had followed me, but I forgot to do this. The man in the jacket had a sloping forehead, a flattened nose, and a gray mustache. From time to time he looked out the window of our house. There was no doubt, I brought a detective. How to be further? I tried to write, but the agent diverted my attention. He continued to walk past the house. What if they take me? During work? Arrests are made almost daily in the city, I will be caught red-handed, I will not write an appeal. Should I go to my mother in the diocesan school? It's safer there. I locked the house, went to Varvarinskaya Square. The detective followed me. He walked about twenty paces from me. His face was dull, redder. Receptions of its complexity did not differ. I slowed down, he did the same; I looked around, he looked up, pretending to look for the house number; sometimes he dusted himself off, once or twice he crossed the street to the other side. He pretended to be a flaneur, for which he had only one gesture: he put his hands behind his back. I left it at the front entrance of the school, it seems, in some bewilderment. He probably did not assume that my mother was a teacher in a charitable and impeccable institution that prepared mothers for priests. The mother's visit was unsuccessful. In the morning, sister Lyalya, tormented by consumption, was bleeding in her throat. She lay in bed, unable to even speak. There was sadness in the suffering eyes, dark forebodings; her lips turned white, and only her blond hair, thickly scattered over the pillows, reminded her of youth. It smelled of creosote. It was impossible to write in this environment. I sat by Lyalina's bed for a few minutes and got up. “Stay still with me,” Lialya whispered, raising her head with an effort, “you are somehow restless today. - I have a lesson, Lyalya, - I lied to my sister and turned away. - Get better, goodbye. - I won't get better... It must be a lot of fun in your commune. - She followed me with a long look, in it I read both anxiety for myself and envy for a healthy person. Mother shook her head and handed me a bundle of pies. The diocesan school was famous for them and kvass throughout the city. The detective patiently waited for me at the entrance, leaning against a tree and looking in at the windows. Passing by him, with undisguised hatred, I dug into his round neck, blackheaded neck, glossy face and gray moustache. What to do? Where to write an appeal? Time is running, I don't have any line ready. Lala is dying. I said goodbye to her stupidly and insensitively. I thought it was the agent's fault. From anger, from failures and grief, I decided to mock the guard. Let him follow me. I went to the station, from the station I made the detective walk from end to end along big street, brought him to the river Tsna, sat down on a bench. I was tired, the agent looked exhausted. Sitting down on a pedestal not far from me, he clearly condemned my behavior, squinting in my direction. I unwrapped the package of pies. The pies smelled delicious. They crunched on my teeth and when I pressed them with my fingers, oil oozed out of them. I ate slowly, chewing the pieces slowly. The detective was enjoying the meadow across the river, the dark forest at the edge of the horizon, he coughed and took a few deep swallows, fidgeting his Adam's apple, which gave me great pleasure. Having finished with pies, I indulged in dreams, not without, however, a fair amount of bloodthirstiness. Returning from Karelian exile, the eternal student Solovyov once told me about the amazing dog of the owner with whom he, Solovyov, lived. The owner was a smuggler next door to the Finnish border. The dog looked like a St. Bernard. The owner of Solovyov harnessed the horse and went to the border with the dog. He stopped a few miles from the border strip, let the dog go to the Finnish side. There, a Finn was waiting for her, also with a cart, loading the dog with smuggled goods, tying it with ropes. The dog made his way through the forest through the cordon to his master. During the night she loaded him with a full sled. IN regular time the dog was distinguished by a peaceful character, did not touch strangers, allowed itself to be stroked, but could not stand people in overcoats and bright buttons at all. They had a very bad time with her. I remembered this excellent animal, dreaming on a bench in the company of a detective. I imagined myself as the owner of this dog. No, I would not have kept her at all if she had taken it into her head to thrust her dazzling fangs right into the throat of my obsessive neighbor. My imagination was occupied by the most seductive pictures with blood and torn entrails. How nice to have one true friend! However, the detective, apparently, did not suspect in the least what bloody plans connected with him overcame my head. He continued to hang on the pedestal. Is it time for me to get rid of him? And isn't it shameful to indulge in idle fantasies when there is work waiting for me? I went to the outskirts to gardens and dachas. Having reached the vast and neglected section of the Lukyanenko-Alekseeva Narodnaya Volka, I, not at all embarrassed by the agent, climbed over the fence. Sitting astride the fence and getting ready to jump into the Alekseevs' garden, I lingered on it and quite unexpectedly quarreled for myself, namely: I set my long nose to the detective and moved him to the right and left. The detective blinked in confusion, his eyebrows grew wide, his mouth twisted, for some reason he raised right hand and immediately put it down. The next moment he looked at me sternly and condemningly, touching his gray mustache. My pursuer must have considered my boyish gesture unworthy of either my rank or my position as responsible. politician, on which the gendarme administration found it necessary to spend energy, time and money. If he had such sentiments, he was, of course, right. Nevertheless, I found myself in the garden with a relieved heart, leaving the detective among the weeds and nettles. Will I find a place to work with the Alekseevs? I got out into the alley. The dacha was brightly lit, laughter was heard, violin playing, young voices were heard. My hopes were in vain. I turned into a side gate and went out into the street. The detective lost sight of me. I went home. At home, I was convinced that vigor had left me. Barely reaching the bunk, I fell into a sinless and youthful sleep. I woke up in the morning with anxiety. By six o'clock in the evening it was necessary to take the finished appeal to the safe house. Again I perched on the boxes. Lonely on the piece of paper was: "Comrades and citizens!" The Communards had not yet returned from their walk. This upset me. No doubt. Faith has betrayed me ... Did Lyalya die overnight? I wanted to quit my job, not for a minute to go and see my sister. I got up and opened the window. Yesterday's detective stood on the corner. Noticing me, he turned away, but did not move, the scoundrel, from his place. So stubbornly watched only before the arrest. It is necessary, at least, to ensure that they are not caught red-handed. The attic came to mind. He can be a savior. Closing the window, I made my way through the kitchen into the hallway, up the narrow and rickety stairs. The attic was dusty, littered with rubbish, like all attics. Yellow hit the dormer window sunlight. I found a chair with three legs, with peeled upholstery, with a protruding spring. And here is the table in the corner. Glory, glory! It is not broken, you can write on it. I placed it by the dormer window, and under the armchair I placed a complex structure of planks, ledgers, and a pot, well worn and rusty through and through. I closed the passage to the attic by heaping bricks, scrap iron, boxes with broken dishes. The gendarmes will come, they need to break down the doors in the hallway or in the hallway, inspect the living rooms, overcome attic obstacles, guess they will look here. The detective was perfectly visible from the dormer window. His face is sad, his cheeks look puffed up. He walked back and forth with a clumsy gait. I watched him fearlessly, then turned to the sheets. Personal grief, joy, dokuki should be somewhere under a bushel when you write. Let there be volcanic concussions in the chest, the surface of the soul must be smooth, hardened. Coldness, prudence. Only then will you not fall into either extreme sensitivity, or false enthusiasm, or outpourings that no one needs. Works of art begin when biography ends, when "I" becomes "we." Let the detective, Vera, the Communards, even Lyalya be forgotten. Rescuing feeling. I also began to understand Flaubert's remark. He wanted the Salammbo to have a crimson glow. My words, proposals, appeals should be imbued with attic inconvenience, twilight, but the attic should be between the lines, invisibly and weightlessly. The white sheets, at first slowly, then quickly, filled with lines running along straight lines... Now nothing hindered me. I wrote. I wrote that the Russian empire is one gigantic plot in the hands of dashing people doing an evil deed. The area is dark, dank, dusty. The closed chambers are guarded by ferocious watchmen. Only the ringing of chains and keys is heard, the bolts gnash. But the dawn is already breaking, the sun of social independence and equality, the sun of labor and freedom, is rising. The site is surrounded by countless working crowds. They come from the west and from the east, from the south and north. The prison is taken by storm. The bars are already breaking, the gates are breaking. The hour of victory draws near... For the modern reader my comparisons and words will seem formulaic. Of course, they have faded, but I do not even ask for indulgence, but only offer to experience the conditions, atmosphere and time in which I, nineteen years old, was then. I assure you that the familiar comparisons and turns will again be filled with meaning and sparkle with life-giving fire. ... The detective continued to wander along the street, looking out the window of the corner room where I had recently been. In my opinion, he was somewhat upset and worried that he did not see me there anymore. Out of boredom, he wiped the dust from his boots with grass, looked at the rare passers-by, yawned, covering his mouth with a handful, and frightened the dogs a couple of times. "Watch out, watch out," I thought quite good-naturedly... The May Day demands had already been set out, things were coming to an end. Houses, streets are immersed in a fragrant green bath, and the blue of the sky, if I were not busy, I would like to stroke my hand. From the iron roof heated by the sun it became stuffy, it reminded me of the lid of a coffin. It smelled like cat poop. The end of the chimney was rough, clumsy, like the neck of an antediluvian monster... Communards appeared from the embankment. At least they have something. We spent a sleepless night, and laughter and jokes can be heard from a block away. "Oh, youth, youth!" I shook my head indulgently. Vera walked behind everyone arm in arm with Ivanovsky. Matte her face is a little tired, her eyes are gentle and kind. I also became kind and impartial. In essence, Ivanovsky is a beautiful, docile young man, he has rare, endearing freckles. He was saying something to Vera, apparently witty and funny. Vera smiled. The detective followed the group with a lively and stern look, and even grunted. I wrote in the verse: "Thunderstorms and storms of clear azure will not win, under the cover of the storm in the darkness of thunder lightning burns." Final slogans. The call was ready. I stretched sweetly in my chair. Between me and the world - a complete balance. I took down the barricade. Vera in the kitchen rang with dishes. - Good afternoon, Vera, did you have a good time? - Wonderful. Help me. I cut bread, ham, washed the plates and, by the way, washed myself. I even sang a song, which happened to me relatively rarely. Vera followed me closely. She wears a short apron with pink ends thin fingers water dripped. I told her: - Ivanovsky is a great guy, isn't he? Vera looked at me with disbelief. I answered her with all my appearance: I have no tricks, my words are true. I learned the wisdom of the biblical legend: after the creative act, the creator rested from his deeds and saw that everything was "very good". Vera did not answer, she became quiet and reserved. After tea, I drew the attention of the Communards to the detective. The detective began to survive. Through the open windows, they whistled piercingly, shouted curses, showed their fists. When this did not help, Melioransky and Lyubvin went out into the street. Walking past the guard, they tried to hit him with their shoulders, and Lyubvin looked at him so gloomily and savagely that the detective had no doubts about their intentions, the Communards. The detective fled. In the evening, with precautions, I made my way to the safe house. Giving the appeal to Stepan, my face changed. While he slowly read the leaflet, I tried in vain to guess the verdict from the play of his muscles, from his look. From impatience I could not sit still, then got up, then sat down again, then looked at cheap oleographs and postcards on the walls, then fiddled with books in my hands. "Good," Stepan said, folding and hiding the piece of paper in the side pocket of his jacket. - Good. With poetry, but this, perhaps, by the first of May is nothing, it will do. - Fits? - I asked perhaps calmer, while the whole world cheered and rushed like a whirlwind, sweetly spinning my head. - Today it will be necessary to hand over to the set. I don’t know if the font is enough, Stepan thought aloud. I told him about the detective. Stepan waved his hand dismissively: a common thing, before the first of May it could not be otherwise. I left Stepan stunned. Recently, Chapygin, a simple and wise writer, noted in his memoirs that he had long ceased to be pleased with newly published works. I will say to myself that I am already accustomed to finding satisfaction in those battle griefs that printed material brings me. I do not regret the lost joy that I experienced a quarter of a century ago, but I remember those days with gratitude... My joy was overshadowed by thoughts of Lyalya. I hurried to her place and spent the evening with my sister. She got better, but she didn't get up yet. I really wanted to brag about my success, but I had to keep the secret, and most importantly, my tongue did not turn when I peered into Lyalya's bloodless, haggard face. I didn't say anything to our Communards either, but I was very attentive to them. ... A week later I received a fresh appeal. The leaf was damp, oblong. The typographical ink lay down variegatedly: in some places it was very greasy, in other places, on the contrary, it was necessary to make an effort to make out the words. There were, however, few such places. Rereading the appeal, I did not recognize my phrases. They sounded, completely separate from me, more significant, better and smarter than what I felt capable of. I wondered: is it really mine? And I had no doubt that I could not write so well if I had to sit down at the table again. I learned to evaluate the results of my own creativity: worthy of a man the work is always better and higher than itself and its forces; that's how it looks to him. A person should be surprised when his creation is successful. No, you need to take up the alteration or postpone work. My first work was accompanied by arrests. The guards detained several distributors on the street and in railway workshops. Two workers were beaten in police stations. However, "circulation sold out entirely." On the day of the first of May, clashes and brawls took place, mounted gendarmes and policemen drove around everywhere. The districts of the bishop's farms, Akhlibin's grove, Tregulyaev's monastery were packed with detectives. And yet, several crowds managed to be held. By the way, May Day leaflets were distributed on them. Workers and students hid them in their pockets.

Alexander Konstantinovich Voronsky was a romantic man, firmly confident in direct action. artwork on the soul of a person, on his deeds and deeds. With faith in this ennobling beginning of literature, Voronsky acted.

He condemned Lassalle because he died in a duel over a woman, did not forgive Pushkin's passions that led him to death, but he himself was ready to die in a duel in a dispute for some classical ideal, like Andrei Bolkonsky.

He was a stranger to Dostoevsky's heroes, shunned all this dark force did not understand and did not want to understand.

Voronsky was a romantic dogmatist.

In essence, Voronsky did not have any other assessments, except for useful - not useful.

He treated poetry as he would treat prose, following the example of Belinsky.

Yesenin's talent recognized, but did not want to see that Yesenin's successes like poems about 26, about 36 and even "Anna Snegina" - all this is out of the question. great literature that "Moscow Tavern", "Inonia", "Sorokoust" will not be surpassed.

The collision with this poetics led Yesenin to death.

And “Soviet Russia”, “Persian motifs” and “Anna Snegina” are much lower in their artistic level than “Sorokoust”, “Inonia”, “Pugachev” or the top of Yesenin’s work - the collection “Moscow Tavern”, where each of the 18 poems that make up this amazing cycle - a masterpiece of Russian lyrics, distinguished by extraordinary originality, dressed in personal fate, multiplied by the fate of society - using everything that has been accumulated by Russian poetry of the 20th century - expressed with the brightest force.

But not only "Anna Snegina" and "Soviet Rus'" - here some satisfactory compromise was also found at the expense of artistry, of course, for all their verbose, essentially anti-Yesenin style - Yesenin does not have plot descriptive poems.

Yesenin is the concentration of artistic energy in a small number of lines - that is his strength and sign.

But it's not even about "Anna Snegina". Yesenin wrote and hastily, with the help of Voronsky and Chagin, published /577/ the fruits of his perestroika and "renounced his views" - in the then fashionable expression.

"The Ballad of Twenty-Six", "The Ballad of Thirty-Six", all this, as before made attempts in the same direction - the poem "Comrade", - is beyond art.

Attempts to rape themselves and led to suicide. Now we know that along with this hack, Yesenin also wrote "Yesenin's" poems "Snowstorm", "Black Man" ...

At that time, each "leader" provided patronage to some writer, artist, and sometimes provided material assistance.

Trotsky patronized Pilnyak, Bukharin - Pasternak and Ushakov, Yagoda - Gorky, Lunacharsky and Stalin - Mayakovsky.

Trotsky wrote several articles about Pilnyak, demanding mutual love and proof of it.

"Pilnyak is talented - but much will be asked of him" - this is how Trotsky's article about Pilnyak's "Naked Year" ended.

Yagoda patronized Gorky. One should not think that Gorky's name opened anyone's doors in the twenties. Gorky was never forgiven for his positions in 1917, his speech in defense of the war of 1914. Gorky's position was more than precarious, and the RAPP and Mayakovsky persecuted Gorky, not to mention Sosnovsky, in essence carrying out a party decision.

The party point of view on Gorky was outlined in a special article by Teodorovich “The Class Roots of Gorky’s Creativity” (lumpen, the Volga bourgeois anti-Leninist speeches, friendship with Bogdanov, who is an anti-Leninist school on the money of the millionaire Gorky).

Genrikh Yagoda took over to provide Gorky with a quiet life. It was solid support.

Gorky quickly conspired with Stalin, and after the execution of his friend Yagoda, he made the well-known statement "If the enemy does not surrender, he is destroyed."

Here, Gorky did not need the help and support of minor persons. Gorky was terrified of Stalin.

Vsevolod Ivanov left a story about his invitation to breakfast with Gorky at Nikolina Gora. /578/

During breakfast, Gorky's son, the famous amateur motorist Maxim, entered the dining room and said: "Dad, I just overtook the car, it seems, Joseph Vissarionovich."

Gorky's and Stalin's dachas were nearby.

Gorky turned pale, ran to apologize, breakfast was interrupted, and when the host returned, his face was gone, and the guests hurried to leave. This colorful episode was described in the magazine "Baikal" in 1969 in No. 1.

But what happened in the second half of the thirties, it became possible to tell in a short form only after thirty years.

About the twenties and now nothing truthful has been printed.

But back to the patrons, the party politics of the very top.

Nikolai Ivanovich Bukharin, in his report at the 1st Congress of Writers, called Pasternak the first name in Russian poetry. But together with Pasternak, Nikolai Ivanovich called Ushakov the hope of Russian poetry.

There was nothing unusual about this.

With his first books "Spring of the Republic" and "50 Poems" Ushakov immediately entered the front ranks of modern Russian poetry. People from Lefov, Constructivists, and Rappov stretched out their hands to him, hurrying to flood the new fearless talent into their nets.

Nikolai Nikolaevich Ushakov, a modest man, was afraid of cheerful glory and retreated into the shadows, not daring to take his place in the struggle of titans like Mayakovsky and Pasternak. A lot was expected from Ushakov. He didn't write anything better than the first their collections.

Stalin patronized Mayakovsky. Both figures exchanged compliments. Stalin, on the statement of Lily Brik, wrote a resolution addressed to N. I. Yezhov: “Mayakovsky is the best talented poet of our Soviet era. Indifference to his memory is a crime.”

Mayakovsky even earlier composed a poem on the same theme:

I want a pen to be equated with a bayonet,
With cast iron so that and with steel dressing, / 579 /
On the work of poetry at the Politburo
To make reports Stalin.

Pasternak decided to protect himself from Stalin's vengeful hostility expressed against all those who are praised by enemies, and wrote the poem itself about Stalin in 1934, calling the cycle "Artist":

Not a person lives - an act,
An act of growth in the globe of the earth.

This poem not only saved Pasternak, but honored him with a personal telephone conversation with Stalin, although not about his ode.

Until now, no one can understand how the poet, to whom Lenin had a sharply negative attitude, is inscribed in history and later even in a school textbook.

Mayakovsky was entered by Stalin and Lunacharsky.

When Gorky lived in Capri and negotiations began on such a delicate matter as Gorky's return to Soviet Union, Mayakovsky published his letter to Gorky in Novy Lef.

Voronsky received a letter from Gorky stating that he, Gorky, would reconsider his decision to return if he was not guaranteed that such demarches would be excluded from anyone.

Voronsky replied that he had informed the members of the government about this and Alexey Maksimovich did not have to worry. Mayakovsky will be put in his place.

Both letters are in Gorky's archive.

To which member of the government did Voronsky address? Not to Stalin... And hardly to Lunacharsky.

In any case, negotiations were conducted through Voronsky, and Voronsky was by no means an admirer of Gorky, neither as an artist nor as a public figure.

In a crowded dispute with Averbakh and the Rappovites, Voronsky challenged Gorky's belonging to proletarian literature (Gladkov, Lyashko, Bakhmetiev, etc.). Voronsky shook his finger, and the bekesha thrown over for warmth fell from his shoulders. In the end, Voronsky threw off the bekesha, put it on the pulpit and finished his speech without the bekesha - and then only put it on his sleeves and sat down at the wooden, unpainted table of the presidium.

In 1933 I was at the purge of Voronsky in Goslit. Last work Alexander Konstantinovich in Moscow /580/ - senior editor of Goslit. Goslit himself was then located in Vetoshny Lane.

The purge was led by Magidov, an old Bolshevik.

And Magidov, like Teodorovich - yes, everyone, without exception, people whose names were in the forefront of the builders of a new life - were all destroyed by Stalin, physically destroyed.

Voronsky told about his life, that, they say, he was mistaken, he worked there and there.

No questions were asked, there were few people, sixty people in the hall, or even less. Magidov was already preparing to dictate to the secretary: “Consider verified,” when suddenly a hand rose from the back rows, asking for words for a question.

A young guy got up. It was written on his face sincere desire comprehend the situation, do not prick, do not hint, but simply understand - for yourself.

Tell me, Comrade Voronsky, you were an outstanding critic. Your critical articles have not been seen in the Soviet press for a long time. So you wrote a book about Zhelyabov - that's good. The memoirs are even better. Tale, finally, the chapter of "Hurricane". All this very well proves a large reserve of creative energy. But criticism, where is your criticism?

Voronsky paused and answered calmly, unhurriedly and coldly:

The guy in the back rows enthusiastically nodded his head, sat down, disappeared from sight, and Magidov called another one for a check.

Alexander Konstantinovich Voronsky as the editor of two magazines - "Krasnaya Nov" and "Projector", as the head of a large publishing house ("Circle") and leader literary group"Pass" devoted a huge amount of time, energy, moral and physical strength to reading other people's manuscripts. A lot of poetry has always been written, and the drift of the twenties represented the same stormy sea as it is now.

I myself have been a consultant fiction at the Central Working Reading Room. Gorky in the House of Unions in the thirty-second and thirty-third years. The flow of manuscripts, conversations with authors, and more. But the library is not a magazine.

Alexander Konstantinovich read day and night and, of course, did not find anything worthwhile, he did not pick up a single name from /581/ by chance and could not pick it up - because in a hodgepodge such quantity and quality are special. It was this feature of art that dogmatists and theorists, realists and romantics, hermits and businessmen did not want to accept.

Not a single new name in literature that came out ordained by Voronsky.

Reading other people's manuscripts is the worst of worst jobs. A thankless job. But theoretical convictions forced Voronsky to turn in new searches and with new attention. However, this attention began to corrode skepticism over time. Voronsky's daughter tells how her father sometimes accepted someone's voluminous manuscript.

Pupyrushkin.

Alexander Konstantinovich weighed the paper weight on his hand.

Send back. Won't go.

Why? - the daughter was perplexed.

Because, - Voronsky said instructively, - if this is a talented author with a literary taste, he would write under a pseudonym.

There is a reason here, of course.

Then everyone was waiting for Pushkin: just about five years will pass- and a new Pushkin will appear, because capitalism is such a system that "crumpled and choked", and now ...

Time passed, but Pushkin was not there. Gradually they began to understand that art lives according to special laws, outside of social conflicts and is not determined by them.

He paid the same attention in his correspondence, in his writing activity and Gorky. It was the same policy and the same failures.

Whom did Gorky introduce into literature? Gorky's successors brought neither honor nor glory.

More than once we started a conversation with Voronsky about the future. Voronsky did not hope for new figures, but for the fact that all talented writers would go over to the Soviet side. And if they don’t pass, they won’t be allowed to write - “Who is not with us!”.

Therefore, Mandelstam and Akhmatova were also alien to Voronsky Soviet power element.

The future Alexander Konstantinovich drew before us in classical style general flourishing, the growth of all needs, the satisfaction of all tastes.

Somehow it happened to have a talk with Rakovsky on the same subject. Rakovsky politely listened to our boyish dreams and smiled. /582/

“I have to say, guys,” he said “guys”, even though he had university students, “that the picture you painted is attractive. But don't forget,” and Rakovsky smiled, “that these are the ideas of the people of bourgeois society. And mine and, most importantly, yours, yours, even though you are forty years younger than me - such are the ideas, the ideals of bourgeois society. No one knows what a person in a communist society will be like. What will be his habits, tastes, desires. Maybe he will love the barracks.

We don’t know its tastes, we can’t imagine it.”

Many years after this conversation I came across Gandhi's autobiography. Gandhi writes about his religion like this. “A person should be interested in self-denial, and not in the afterlife, which must be earned by self-denial. If an ascetic on earth fulfills his duty, then what afterlife better than this he can imagine ... "

How did it happen that Voronsky knew Lenin so well that even the organizational meeting of the first Soviet literary and artistic magazine Krasnaya Nov was at Lenin's apartment in the Kremlin? This first meeting was attended by Lenin, Krupskaya, Gorky and Voronsky. Voronsky made a report on the program of the new magazine, which he was supposed to edit and where Gorky supervised the literary and artistic part.

For this first issue, Lenin gave his article on the tax in kind.

In some memoir, I read that Lenin looked closely at the newspaper Rabochy Krai - in Ivanovo, which was led by Voronsky, and called him to new job. I guessed in him the author of yet unwritten books on art.

In fact, Alexander Konstantinovich Voronsky, a professional revolutionary, a Bolshevik underground worker, a member of the party since 1904, was one of the organizers of the party. Voronsky was a delegate to the Prague Conference in 1912, a party conference held by Lenin at one of the most poignant moments in party history. There were only eighteen deputies of the Prague Conference.

Voronsky's personal qualities are unmercenary, principled, modest in the highest degree- illustrated based on the stories of Krupskaya, Lenin. Voronsky became a close personal friend of Lenin, who was in Gorki in /583/ recent months 1923, when Lenin had already lost his speech. Krupskaya wrote about those who visited Lenin in Gorki at that time: Voronsky, Evgeny Preobrazhensky, Krestinsky.

Now all this is included in the reference books, Voronsky's visit to Lenin on December 14, 1923 is recorded. But another visit, later, at the end of December, when Alexander Konstantinovich was at Lenin's at the Christmas tree, is not recorded. This fact is not yet legally verified.

The first part of the memoirs of A. K. Voronsky "For living and dead water" was published by the publishing house "Circle", which was organized by Voronsky himself as the head of the "Pass" in 1927. The first part was written in 1926 - the beginning of stormy party and literary battles.

The so-called opposition, the young underground, first of all needed the most popular pamphlets outlining the elementary rules of conspiracy.

Kravchinsky, Bakunin, Kropotkin - all this was studied, studied by young people, especially students.

The task of quickly writing the catechism of the underground, where the reader could learn the elementary rules of conspiracy, behavior during interrogations, was undertaken by Alexander Konstantinovich Voronsky.

Fishelev gave a printing house, where he typed platform 83, the main opposition document. Trotsky and his friends Radek, Smilga, Rakovsky came forward with letters, and these platforms were reprinted and sent to the links.

Alexander Konstantinovich Voronsky took upon himself the special task of giving a popular guide to conduct.

Such guidance was the second and third parts of the memoirs "For living and dead water."

The second part was published in the Novy Mir magazine in No. 9-12 of 1928. This second part had a special epigraph from Lermontov.

And the marshals do not hear the call.
Others died in battle, /584/
Others cheated on him
And they sold their sword.

This eminently [expressive] epigraph was removed in separate editions.

The second part, where any arrested and exiled person can receive a good practical advice, was highly valued among the opportunistic youth.

This - main book, a desk guide for young underground workers of those days.

There is an example of the delegates of the Prague Conference, which decided the fate of Russia - all the delegates were eighteen people.

Voronsky wrote in his book extremely briefly about his closeness to Lenin. Lenin was very modest, but Voronsky himself was even more modest. The traits of modesty are the same for both of them.

In opposition, A. K. Voronsky was the chairman of the underground Central Control Commission. After all, the opposition was built as a parallel organization with the same "states", but "shadow".

There is no doubt that, renouncing views according to the then fashionable formula, Voronsky did not occupy even a shadow post in the underground. But once, on some day and hour, he occupied this underground shadow post.

I also know about the exclusive attitude of V. I. Lenin to A. K. Voronsky. Georges Kasparov, the son of Stalin's secretary Varia Kasparova, whom Stalin drove into exile and killed, told me in the Butyrka prison in the spring of 1937 that Nadezhda Konstantinovna Krupskaya, at the request of Lenin, and Voronsky visited Gorki with Lenin during his illness, as a personal friend , personal friend -<спасала Воронского, пока могла>.

From many years of reading publishing and magazine drift, Voronsky correctly concluded that talent is a rarity. And Voronsky paid particular attention to the approach of the so-called "fellow travelers" to the revolution.

RAPP broke his neck on fellow travelers, and also the nihilists from the LEF.

The dissolution of the RAPP went past Voronsky and did not bring any benefit to Voronsky.

Voronsky by this time - the beginning of the thirties - was imputed worst sin, in comparison with which literary battles were considered, and in fact were, less important. /585/

1928 - arrests throughout Moscow, the defeat of the university. Voronsky got his share. Rakovsky, Radek, Sosnovsky - in political isolators. Voronsky - in exile in Lipetsk. This is due to the energetic intercession of Krupskaya, who, according to her, was instructed by Lenin to look after Voronsky's health.

Krupskaya, who herself signed the main program - platform 83 - saved Voronsky's life as long as she could. In 1938 Krupskaya died.

According to the press, Voronsky's death is attributed to 1944. In fact, none of the comrades met with Voronsky after 1937. Voronsky's personal investigation file was destroyed by an unknown hand.

Voronsky signed platform 83, the main program of the left opposition, under this name the program went down in history. However, this initial program was called platform 84. The eighty-fourth was Krupskaya's signature, which Krupskaya later withdrew under Stalin's pressure. In Moscow, they gloomily joked that Stalin had threatened Krupskaya that he would announce Artyukhina as Lenin's wife. These gloomy witticisms were not very far from the truth. There have been many examples of this throughout history.

Krupskaya even spoke in defense of the opposition at some party conference, but was immediately disavowed by Yaroslavsky.

By a special decision - the clarification of this delicate and bloody subject - the leaders, that is, those who signed the platform, letters to the Central Committee, and so on, were deprived of the right to party rehabilitation and were restored to their civil rights only.

But this decision was not taken immediately. Long before this decision, a petition for party rehabilitation was initiated by Voronsky's daughter, on the basis of failed exclusions in the thirties, when execution and destruction overtook formalities such as expulsion from the party.

Voronsky's wife died a long time ago in the camps, his daughter endured twenty-two years in Kolyma - five in the camp on Elgen and seventeen in Kolyma itself.

She went there as a seventeen-year-old girl - she returned as a gray-haired and sick mother of two girls.

If Voronsky, with his principles, high moral demands on himself, would have considered it possible for himself to make a statement about rehabilitation - I don’t know. I cannot answer /586/ to this question. But the daughter applied, and Alexander Konstantinovich Voronsky received a full party rehabilitation.

Before 1967, Voronsky was not written about. His books were published very slowly. "For living and dead water" was published only in 1970 - fifteen years after rehabilitation; the collection of critical articles was carefully filtered to blot out the dubious spirit.

A year or two after the rehabilitation of Voronsky's daughter, some kind of certificate was needed in the PC about her father's party experience. An employee of the secretariat involved in these matters said that he could not issue certificates, because her father was rehabilitated incorrectly: "He, as a signatory of the platform, is not subject to rehabilitation."

Stephen told me:

The Committee instructs you to write a May Day proclamation.

There have been recent arrests. I knew that the entire committee consisted of one Stepan, but at that moment I believed in a powerful and mysterious body. He gave me confidence. I didn’t even notice that my older comrade was a frail, pale man, with a sparse mustache and an even sparse beard, that he was vainly smoothing his hair - they already lay in modest, poor strands, resembling a soiled mop - and that a cream shirt it's time to put it in the wash, and sew on buttons at the collar. On the contrary, if Stepan seemed to me not a thunderer, holding lightning bolts in his hands and bringing thunder down to the ground, then he was nevertheless a powerful man, a kind of superman. I became proud and felt the gravest responsibility.

You can,” I answered outwardly indifferently and somewhat majestically, as if all my life I had done was to write menacing and accusatory appeals.

Stepan took from the table a student's cap with a band so faded that it became almost white.

There is a week left until the first of May. Hurry up. Bring it in tomorrow. Here is the address.

I was returning home to the seminary commune, ignoring the fresh and singing April in the sky, the unclouded gloss of the first blossoming greenery, the schoolgirls, in those days for some reason, as if by choice, beautiful. I was preparing to write my first work. Previously, I had to be the author of two or three leaflets, but they were reproduced on a hectograph, only fifty, sixty copies, they spoke about our school needs. Now the sheet will be printed on a printing press, in real type, several thousand, it will be read everywhere: in factories, factories, in the countryside. There was a lot of political work to be done. It seems to me even now that rarely a writer, embarking on his best work, experienced excitement, fever, solemnity, doubts, fear, joy, which incinerated me on that one day when I was barely nineteen years old and the committee gave me an honorary literary order. I will not hide: I was not devoid of vain and ambitious thoughts and even careerism. If I was entrusted with writing the May Day leaflet, it is very likely that I will soon be introduced to the committee, and then I will be a real professional revolutionary. With envy, with admiration I looked at Savich, at Varvara, at Galperin, at Stepan, and the representative of the Central Committee, Comrade Sergei, who arrived, was for me a being of the fourth dimension. Now I too, expelled from the seminary a month ago, am close to a brave and select group of people. If only to write, to cope with the assignment!

Near the commune, I met Vera at the gate. Vera graduated from high school.

Alexander, - she said, - we agreed to go by boat to the Tregulyaev Monastery, we will stay there all night. I hope you are with us.

I loved Vera that spring, like all schoolgirls, even, perhaps, more: she was kind - she never refused to walk with me, to go around extras. There were other motivating reasons as well. - In the depths of our souls, - writes the science fiction writer Hoffmann, - such secrets often lie, about which we do not even tell our closest friends, and even more so, - we add from ourselves, - to readers.

Do not hope, - I said this time, I said sternly, indisputably and arrogantly.

My God, you have such a look, as if you received an inheritance from an uncle from America. Let's go.

Vera smiled, revealing dimples on her cheeks, near her mouth, on her chin. She, the prankster, perfectly knew their strength. But even here I did not succumb to Verin's charm.

I have a business, - I impressively explained to her and proceeded to the commune house.

A seductive jumble was taking place in the commune. Bottles, sausages, rolls, rolls, cheese, sardines were put into baskets. The seminary basses growled, they argued about socialization. Lida shook out the ashes and coals from the samovar. Lyubvin looked gloomily at Olya, fiercely plucked his guitar. Gymnasium student Troshin fought with Denisov. Vissarion pulled off the currant tincture ahead of time and emptied it in the corner right from the neck, stocking up on strength and vigor. I was greeted with greetings, friendly clapping. I treated my comrades in the commune with restraint, and when I said very matter-of-factly that I would not go by boat, their indignation knew no bounds. I was reproached for treason, and pride, and even decadence and Nietzscheism. I endured all this steadfastly, although I really wanted to spend the night in the forest with my disorderly and careless friends. The real hour of testing, however, came a little late. I retired to a corner room, completely empty. I moved two boxes there: one to sit, the other instead of a desk. Having settled down, I saw our gang through the window. Cheerfully noisy, she went to Tsna. Here was Vera, my Vera. She walked with the realist Ivanovsky. He also courted Vera. It seemed to me that Vera gave him her hand too trustingly and even clung to him. It's too damn much. And what will happen on the boat, in the forest, at night? The boards of the box cracked under me from my indignation. I replaced the box with a bench (there were no chairs in our commune yet). Condemning myself for pettiness, I tried to concentrate. With grief and horror, I soon became convinced that not a single fresh thought entered my head. I didn't know how, where to start. On the white sheet were two words: "Comrades and citizens!" The matter did not move forward. Where did the rise disappear, pathos! The words came out languid, unconvincing. I looked out the window again. On the corner of the street stood a man in a worn black jacket, brown trousers tucked into high boots. After standing, he walked around, turned the corner, and soon reappeared. Is it a detective? Leaving the safe house from Stepan, it was necessary to check if the guard had followed me, but I forgot to do this. The man in the jacket had a sloping forehead, a flattened nose, and a gray mustache. From time to time he looked out the window of our house. There was no doubt, I brought a detective. How to be further? I tried to write, but the agent diverted my attention. He continued to walk past the house. What if they take me? During work? Arrests are made almost daily in the city, I will be caught red-handed, I will not write an appeal. Should I go to my mother in the diocesan school? It's safer there. I locked the house, went to Varvarinskaya Square. The detective followed me. He walked about twenty paces from me. His face was dull, redder. Receptions of its complexity did not differ. I slowed down, he did the same; I looked around, he looked up, pretending to look for the house number; sometimes he dusted himself off, once or twice he crossed the street to the other side. He pretended to be a flaneur, for which he had only one gesture: he put his hands behind his back. I left it at the front entrance of the school, it seems, in some bewilderment. He probably did not assume that my mother was a teacher in a charitable and impeccable institution that prepared mothers for priests.

The mother's visit was unsuccessful. In the morning, sister Lyalya, tormented by consumption, was bleeding in her throat. She lay in bed, unable to even speak. There was sadness in the suffering eyes, dark forebodings; her lips turned white, and only her blond hair, thickly scattered over the pillows, reminded her of youth. It smelled of creosote. It was impossible to write in this environment. I sat by Lyalina's bed for a few minutes and got up.

Stay with me, - Lialya whispered, raising her head with an effort, - you are somehow restless today.

I have a lesson, Lyalya, - I lied to my sister and turned away. - Get better, goodbye.

I won't get better... It must be a lot of fun in your commune. - She followed me with a long look, in it I read both anxiety for myself and envy for a healthy person.

Mother shook her head and handed me a bundle of pies. The diocesan school was famous for them and kvass throughout the city.

The detective patiently waited for me at the entrance, leaning against a tree and looking in at the windows. Passing by him, with undisguised hatred, I dug into his round neck, blackheaded neck, glossy face and gray moustache. What to do? Where to write an appeal? Time goes by, I don't have a single finished line. Lala is dying. I said goodbye to her stupidly and insensitively. I thought it was the agent's fault. From anger, from failures and grief, I decided to mock the guard. Let him follow me. I went to the station, from the station I made the detective walk from end to end along Bolshaya Street, led him to the Tsna River, sat down on a bench. I was tired, the agent looked exhausted. Sitting down on a pedestal not far from me, he clearly condemned my behavior, squinting in my direction. I unwrapped the package of pies. The pies smelled delicious. They crunched on my teeth and when I pressed them with my fingers, oil oozed out of them. I ate slowly, chewing the pieces slowly. The detective was enjoying the meadow across the river, the dark forest at the edge of the horizon, he coughed and took a few deep swallows, fidgeting his Adam's apple, which gave me great pleasure. Having finished with pies, I indulged in dreams, not without, however, a fair amount of bloodthirstiness. Returning from Karelian exile, the eternal student Solovyov once told me about the amazing dog of the owner with whom he, Solovyov, lived. The owner was a smuggler next door to the Finnish border. The dog looked like a St. Bernard. The owner of Solovyov harnessed the horse and went to the border with the dog. He stopped a few miles from the border strip, let the dog go to the Finnish side. There, a Finn was waiting for her, also with a cart, loading the dog with smuggled goods, tying it with ropes. The dog made his way through the forest through the cordon to his master. During the night she loaded him with a full sled. In ordinary times, the dog was distinguished by a peaceful character, did not touch strangers, allowed itself to be stroked, but did not stand people in overcoats and bright buttons at all. They had a very bad time with her. I remembered this excellent animal, dreaming on a bench in the company of a detective. I imagined myself as the owner of this dog. No, I would not have kept her at all if she had taken it into her head to thrust her dazzling fangs right into the throat of my obsessive neighbor. My imagination was occupied by the most seductive pictures with blood and torn entrails. How nice to have such a true friend! However, the detective, apparently, did not suspect in the least what bloody plans connected with him overcame my head. He continued to hang on the pedestal. Is it time for me to get rid of him? And isn't it shameful to indulge in idle fantasies when there is work waiting for me? I went to the outskirts to gardens and dachas. Having reached the vast and neglected section of the Lukyanenko-Alekseeva Narodnaya Volka, I, not at all embarrassed by the agent, climbed over the fence. Sitting astride the fence and getting ready to jump into the Alekseevs' garden, I lingered on it and quite unexpectedly quarreled for myself, namely: I set my long nose to the detective and moved him to the right and left. The detective blinked in confusion, his eyebrows grew wide, his mouth twisted, for some reason he raised his right hand and immediately lowered it. The next moment he looked at me sternly and condemningly, touching his gray mustache. My persecutor must have considered my boyish gesture unworthy of either my title or my position as a responsible political figure, on whom the gendarme department found it necessary to spend energy, time and money. If he had such sentiments, he was, of course, right. Nevertheless, I found myself in the garden with a relieved heart, leaving the detective among the weeds and nettles. Will I find a place to work with the Alekseevs? I got out into the alley. The dacha was brightly lit, laughter was heard, violin playing, young voices were heard. My hopes were in vain. I turned into a side gate and went out into the street. The detective lost sight of me. I went home. At home, I was convinced that vigor had left me. Barely reaching the bunk, I fell into a sinless and youthful sleep.

I woke up in the morning with anxiety. By six o'clock in the evening it was necessary to take the finished appeal to the safe house. Again I perched on the boxes. Lonely on the sheet was: "Comrades and citizens!" The Communards had not yet returned from their walk. This upset me. No doubt. Faith has betrayed me ... Did Lyalya die overnight? I wanted to quit my job, not for a minute to go and see my sister. I got up and opened the window. Yesterday's detective stood on the corner. Noticing me, he turned away, but did not move, the scoundrel, from his place. So stubbornly watched only before the arrest. It is necessary, at least, to ensure that they are not caught red-handed. The attic came to mind. He can be a savior. Closing the window, I made my way through the kitchen into the hallway, up the narrow and rickety stairs. The attic was dusty, littered with rubbish, like all attics. Yellow sunlight shone through the dormer window. I found a chair with three legs, with peeled upholstery, with a protruding spring. And here is the table in the corner. Glory, glory! It is not broken, you can write on it. I placed it by the dormer window, and under the armchair I placed a complex structure of planks, ledgers, and a pot, well worn and rusty through and through. I closed the passage to the attic by heaping bricks, scrap iron, boxes with broken dishes. The gendarmes will come, they need to break down the doors in the hallway or in the hallway, inspect the living rooms, overcome attic obstacles, guess they will look here. The detective was perfectly visible from the dormer window. His face is sad, his cheeks look puffed up. He walked back and forth with a clumsy gait. I watched him fearlessly, then turned to the sheets. Personal grief, joy, dokuki should be somewhere under a bushel when you write. Let there be volcanic concussions in the chest, the surface of the soul must be smooth, hardened. Coldness, prudence. Only then will you not fall into either extreme sensitivity, or false enthusiasm, or outpourings that no one needs. Works of art begin when biography ends, when "I" becomes "we." Let the detective, Vera, the Communards, even Lyalya be forgotten. Rescuing feeling. I also began to understand Flaubert's remark. He wanted the Salammbo to have a crimson glow. My words, proposals, appeals should be imbued with attic inconvenience, twilight, but the attic should be between the lines, invisibly and weightlessly. The white papers at first slowly, then quickly filled with lines running in straight lines... Now there was nothing to stop me. I wrote. I wrote that the Russian empire is one gigantic plot in the hands of dashing people doing an evil deed. The area is dark, dank, dusty. The closed chambers are guarded by ferocious watchmen. Only the ringing of chains and keys is heard, the bolts gnash. But the dawn is already breaking, the sun of social independence and equality, the sun of labor and freedom, is rising. The site is surrounded by countless working crowds. They come from the west and from the east, from the south and north. The prison is taken by storm. The bars are already breaking, the gates are breaking. The hour of victory is approaching... My comparisons and words will seem stereotyped to the modern reader. Of course, they have faded, but I do not even ask for indulgence, but only offer to experience the conditions, atmosphere and time in which I, nineteen years old, was then. I assure you that the familiar comparisons and turns will again be filled with meaning and sparkle with life-giving fire.

... The detective continued to wander along the street, looking out the window of the corner room where I had recently been. In my opinion, he was somewhat upset and worried that he did not see me there anymore. Out of boredom, he wiped the dust from his boots with grass, looked at the rare passers-by, yawned, covering his mouth with a handful, and frightened the dogs a couple of times. “Watch, watch,” I thought quite good-naturedly ... The May Day demands had already been set out, the matter was coming to an end. Houses, streets are immersed in a fragrant green bath, and the blue of the sky, if I were not busy, I would like to stroke my hand.

From the iron roof heated by the sun it became stuffy, it reminded me of the lid of a coffin. It smelled like cat poop. The end of the chimney was rough, clumsy, like the neck of an antediluvian monster... Communards appeared from the embankment. At least they have something. We spent a sleepless night, and laughter and jokes can be heard from a block away. "Oh, youth, youth!" I shook my head indulgently. Vera walked behind everyone arm in arm with Ivanovsky. Matte her face is a little tired, her eyes are gentle and kind. I also became kind and impartial. In essence, Ivanovsky is a beautiful, docile young man, he has rare, endearing freckles. He was saying something to Vera, apparently witty and funny. Vera smiled. The detective followed the group with a lively and stern look, and even grunted. I wrote in the verse: "Thunderstorms and storms of clear azure will not win, under the cover of a storm in the darkness of thunder lightning burns." Final slogans. The call was ready.

I stretched sweetly in my chair. Between me and the world - a complete balance. I took down the barricade. Vera in the kitchen rang with dishes.

Good afternoon, Vera, did you have a good time?

Wonderful. Help me.

I cut bread, ham, washed the plates and, by the way, washed myself. I even sang a song, which happened to me relatively rarely. Vera followed me closely. She wore a short apron, and water dripped from the pink ends of her thin fingers.

I told her:

Ivanovsky is a great guy, isn't he?

Vera looked at me with disbelief. I answered her with all my appearance: I have no tricks, my words are true. I learned the wisdom of the biblical legend: after the creative act, the creator rested from his deeds and saw that everything was “very good”. Vera did not answer, she became quiet and reserved.

After tea, I drew the attention of the Communards to the detective. The detective began to survive. Through the open windows, they whistled piercingly, shouted curses, showed their fists. When this did not help, Melioransky and Lyubvin went out into the street. Walking past the guard, they tried to hit him with their shoulders, and Lyubvin looked at him so gloomily and savagely that the detective had no doubts about their intentions, the Communards. The detective fled.

In the evening, with precautions, I made my way to the safe house. Giving the appeal to Stepan, my face changed. While he slowly read the leaflet, I tried in vain to guess the verdict from the play of his muscles, from his look. From impatience I could not sit still, then got up, then sat down again, then looked at cheap oleographs and postcards on the walls, then fiddled with books in my hands.

Good, - said Stepan, folding and hiding the sheet in the side pocket of his jacket. - Good. With poetry, but this, perhaps, by the first of May is nothing, it will do.

Fits? - I asked perhaps calmer, while the whole world cheered and rushed like a whirlwind, sweetly spinning my head.

Today it will be necessary to hand over to the set. I don’t know if the font is enough, Stepan thought aloud.

I told him about the detective. Stepan waved his hand dismissively: a common thing, before the first of May it could not be otherwise.

I left Stepan stunned. Recently, Chapygin, a simple and wise writer, noted in his memoirs that he had long ceased to be pleased with newly published works. I will say to myself that I am already accustomed to finding satisfaction in those battle griefs that printed material brings me. I do not regret the lost joy that I experienced a quarter of a century ago, but I remember those days with gratitude ... My joy was overshadowed by thoughts of Lyalya. I hurried to her place and spent the evening with my sister. She got better, but she didn't get up yet. I really wanted to brag about my success, but I had to keep the secret, and most importantly, my tongue did not turn when I peered into Lyalya's bloodless, haggard face. I didn't say anything to our Communards either, but I was very attentive to them.

… A week later I received a fresh appeal. The leaf was damp, oblong. The typographical ink lay down variegatedly: in some places it was very greasy, in other places, on the contrary, it was necessary to make an effort to make out the words. There were, however, few such places. Rereading the appeal, I did not recognize my phrases. They sounded, completely separate from me, more significant, better and smarter than what I felt capable of. I wondered: is it really mine? And I had no doubt that I could not write so well if I had to sit down at the table again. I learned to evaluate the results of my own creativity: a work worthy of a person is always better and higher than himself and his forces; that's how it looks to him. A person should be surprised when his creation is successful. No, you need to take up the alteration or postpone work.

My first work was accompanied by arrests. The guards detained several distributors on the street and in railway workshops. Two workers were beaten in police stations. However, "circulation sold out entirely." On the day of the first of May, clashes and brawls took place, mounted gendarmes and policemen drove around everywhere. The districts of the bishop's farms, Akhlibin's grove, Tregulyaev's monastery were packed with detectives. And yet, several crowds managed to be held. By the way, May Day leaflets were distributed on them. Workers and students hid them in their pockets.