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Vasily Ivanovich Belov biography. Loyalty tested by time

Vasily Ivanovich Belov biography. Loyalty tested by time

23.02.2019

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Native home

The house seems to be breathing softly from heavy cat steps. Heavy blocks of snow sliding down from the roof thump. And with each block in the rafters strained from multi-ton gravity, relief from the snow burden is born.

I I almost physically feel this relief. Here, just like snow blocks from a dilapidated roof, multi-layered blocks of the past are sliding from the soul. A sleepless cat walks and walks in the attic, clocks are ticking like crazy.

I I listen to the clock and slowly calm down. Still, it's good to go home. Tomorrow I will fix the bathroom. I'll put an ax on the handle, and I don't give a damn that they gave me a winter vacation.

In such cases, not at all rare, it is better to build new house side by side with the old, which is what my ancestors did from time immemorial. And no one came up with the absurd idea to break to the ground an old house before you start chopping a new one.

Once the house was the head of a whole family of buildings. Nearby there was a large threshing floor with a barn, a vigorous barn, two haylofts, a potato cellar, a nursery, a bathhouse and a well chopped on an icy spring. That well was buried long ago, and the rest of the building was destroyed long ago. At home there was only one disconnected relative - a half-century-old banya soaked through and through.

I am ready to heat this bath almost every other day. I am at home, in my homeland, and now it seems to me that only here are such bright rivers, such transparent lakes. Such clear and always different dawns. So calm and thoughtful are the forests in winter and summer. And now it's so strange, joyful to be the owner old bath and a young ice-hole on such a clean, snow-covered river. And once I hated all this with all my heart. I vowed not to come back.

Then I rejoiced: at last I said goodbye to these smoky baths forever! Why now I feel so good here, at home, in a deserted village? Why do I heat my bath almost every other day? Strange, so strange and unexpected.

I decided to repair the sauna, replace the two lower rims, change and re-lay the shelves, and re-lay the stove.

At night, lying under a sheepskin blanket, I imagined how I would do the repair, and it seemed very simple and affordable. But in the morning everything turned out differently. It became clear that on their own, without the help of at least some old man, they could not cope with the repair. On reflection, I went to an old neighbor to ask for help. (492 words)

According to V. Belov

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Animal and bird herbs

Who has not happened on a warm summer day to find himself in a village or outside a city in a meadow, in some forest clearing? With your arms outstretched, you lie down, inhale the air infused with herbs, and look at the blue sky until it seems that you yourself are soaring among the white pensive clouds. A sweet blade of grass is clamped in your lips, and you think about everything easily and brightly. And even if you are still sad, your sadness is bright, like this sky, like the noise of grass bent over you.

Much is forgotten in life. But at least one morning summer day when you walked barefoot on the dewy grass, you will remember. You will remember the rising sun, not yet hot, still pale yellow, when you can look at it without squinting. When with its rays it illuminates the dark ridge of the distant forest and, slowly, as if with difficulty rising, suddenly flares up with a million of its reflections in convex drops of dew on wet leaves.

And if an animal, for example a cow, is only interested in the taste of grass and how much of it is around, then the indestructible curiosity of a person led him to give a name to each blade of grass and learned to recognize it by sight. Of course, in addition to curiosity, there was also a need, since knowledge of the surrounding world helped a person survive.

Getting acquainted with animals, a person named everyone he met. Since then, the hare has remained a hare, the wolf a wolf, the crocodile a crocodile, the cow a cow, and the bull a bull.

When a person began to look closely at plants, he noticed that many of them sometimes somewhat resemble already familiar animals. It is not difficult to imagine that a person even rejoiced at finding such a resemblance, clapped his hands and shouted loudly: “Yes, these are bear ears!” or "Yes it is raven eye!»

The wind stirs with bear ears in the clearings, along the roadsides, on the sandy slopes. You will stand next to this plant at the end of June - and you will see that its ears-leaves sometimes grow higher than you. And the plant itself will be two meters - no less. Corollas of flowers are yellow, on very short pedicels, collected in bunches in a long, thick and thick spicate brush. Well, just a blond braid of some kind of Vasilisa the Beautiful!

Once I was in a field where cows were grazing. The grass around is trampled down, eaten, and only the shaggy leaves of the bear's ears stand untouched. I plucked one plant and handed it to the cow. She took it in her mouth and suddenly let's shake her head and shake. And then she walked away from me offended. “Strange,” I thought, “if the grass is inedible, then why did the cow start chewing it? “Then I just found out: a cow trusts a person more than her experience. It turns out that I just deceived her and she had something to be offended by me for.

Herbs are well known to both animals and birds. Some of them are treated, others are afraid and therefore bypassed, like, for example, the raven eye. Butterflies, bees fly around this plant, but bears and moose use it as a medicine.

No less mysterious are other herbs and plants. You just need to know them, be interested in them and study them. (454 words)

According to A. Ginevsky and B. Mikhailov

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On Black Lake

The sunset burns heavily on the crowns of the trees, gilding them with ancient gilding. Below, at the foot of the pines, it is already dark and deaf. They fly silently and seem to look into the face the bats. Some incomprehensible ringing is heard in the forests - the sound of the evening, the burnt out day.

And in the evening the lake will finally shine like a black, obliquely placed mirror. The night is already standing over him and looking into his dark water- a night full of stars.

Throughout the night, the fire of the fire flares up, then goes out. The foliage of birches hangs without moving. Dew flows down the white trunks. And you can hear how, somewhere very far away, an old rooster cries hoarsely

in the forester's hut.

IN In an extraordinary, never-heard silence, the dawn dawns. The sky is green in the east. Venus lights up like blue crystal at dawn. This best time days. Everyone is still sleeping. Water sleeps, water lilies sleep, sleep with their noses buried in snags, fish, birds sleep, and only owls fly around the fire slowly and silently.

The cauldron gets angry and mumbles on the fire. For some reason we speak in a whisper: we are afraid to frighten off the dawn. With a tin whistle, heavy ducks rush by. Fog begins to swirl over the water.

So we live in a tent on forest lakes for several days. Our hands smell of smoke and lingonberries - this smell does not disappear for weeks. We sleep two hours a day and almost never get tired. Two or three hours of sleep in the woods must be worth many hours of sleep in the stuffiness of city houses, in the stale air of asphalt streets.

Once we spent the night on the Black Lake, in high thickets, near a large pile of old brushwood.

We took a rubber inflatable boat with us and at dawn we rode it over the edge of coastal water lilies to fish. Decayed leaves lay in a thick layer at the bottom of the lake, and snags floated in the water.

Suddenly, at the very side of the boat, a huge humpbacked back of a black fish with a dorsal fin sharp as a kitchen knife emerged. The fish dived and passed under the rubber boat. The boat rocked. The fish surfaced again. It must have been a giant pike. She could hit a rubber boat with a feather and rip it open like a razor.

I hit the water with the oar. Fish in response to terrible force whipped her tail and passed under the boat again. We quit fishing and started rowing towards the shore, towards our bivouac. The fish always walked next to the boat.

We drove into the coastal thickets of water lilies and were preparing to land, but at that time a shrill yelping and a trembling, heart-grabbing howl were heard from the shore. Where we lowered the boat, on the shore, on the flattened grass, a she-wolf with three cubs stood with her tail between her legs and howled, raising her muzzle to the sky. She howled long and dull; the wolf cubs squealed and hid behind their mother. The black fish again passed by the very side and caught the oar with a feather.

I threw a heavy lead sinker at the she-wolf. She jumped back and trotted away from the shore. And we saw how she crawled along with the cubs into a round hole in a pile of brushwood not far from our tent.

We landed, made a fuss, drove the she-wolf out of the brushwood and moved the bivouac to another place.

Black Lake is named after the color of the water. The water is black and clear.

Downloaded from the learning portal http://megaresheba.ru/ all statements for passing the final exam in Russian for 11 classes in the Republic of Belarus.

This color is especially good in autumn, when yellow and red birch and aspen leaves fall on black water. They cover the water so thickly that the boat rustles through the foliage and leaves behind a shiny black road.

But this color is also good in summer, when white lilies lie on the water, as if on extraordinary glass. Black water has an excellent property of reflection - it is difficult to distinguish real shores from reflected ones.

IN meadow lakes in summer the water is clear, and in autumn it acquires a greenish marine color

And even the smell of sea water.

But most of the lakes are still black. The old people say that the blackness is caused by the fact that the bottom of the lakes is covered with a thick layer of fallen leaves. Brown foliage gives a dark infusion. But this is not entirely true. The color is explained by the peaty bottom of the lakes: the older the peat, the darker the water. (600 words)

According to K. Paustovsky

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Open main secret we asked for family happiness for a "diamond" couple from our city - Ivan Arkhipovich and Nadezhda Timofeevna Perepechkin, who have been married for sixty years. The spouses admit that they still remain for each other the best advisers, assistants, closest and most dear people. As in youth, they can joke and quarrel.

simple truths

- What's special here? - Nadezhda Timofeevna shrugs her shoulders when I ask her about the secrets of family longevity. - We live and live ...

But after some thought, he continues:

- To live to see a diamond wedding, the wife must have a golden character, and the husband must have iron restraint. A long and happy marriage is hard work. But after all, work, if it is truly loved, can bring pleasure. Everything is very simple, and there is no special secret to a long and happy marriage. The main thing is respect and patience, you need to be able to give in and appreciate each other. Like, simple words, but how young couples lack these simple things. Young people somehow live differently now, they get divorced too quickly, take offense at each other because of trifles. Why get married then? We also had a hard time, and we used to argue, but anyway, before you say something, you think whether it will offend Vanya. We were brought up in such a way that marriage is once and for all. In my youth, I did not even think about divorce. On the contrary, I could not get enough of the fact that our family is a full bowl, that children grow up in peacetime, not like my husband and I - in war.

"It was terribly scary"

Nadezhda Perepechkina, nee Lapa, was born in 1935 in the village of Novogorodka, Ilansky district. She does not know the exact date of her birthday.

My mother's documents did not survive. At that time, in the villages, such documents, passports were not particularly needed. I only know that I was born in January, but according to my passport, my birthday is December 29th. It turns out that by new date I'm almost a year younger.

The childhood of Nadezhda Timofeevna fell on the most terrible time for our country - the Great Patriotic War. At the slightest mention of her, Nadezhda Timofeevna's tears well up, the interlocutor immediately switches to terrible memories, the wound inflicted in childhood has not yet healed. She talks about nothing so emotionally and vividly as about the war:

It was very scary, oh, how scary. Children worked on a par with adults: they mowed, and rowed, and knitted sheaves. Sent to work - did not ask. Father Timofey Nesterovich and my two older brothers, Silantius and Thomas, at the very beginning of the Great Patriotic War taken to the front. The brothers returned from the war, the father, unfortunately, did not. Only a funeral came to him, in which it was said that he died on May 30, 1943. I still remember how dad brought a small piece of frozen bread in winter, saying that it was from a bunny, which I then warmed up on the stove - a potbelly stove. Mother, Matryona Titovna, having learned about the death of her father, became very ill and took to her bed. On this, one might say, my childhood ended.

The childhood and youth of Ivan Arkhipovich is in many ways similar to the childhood of his wife. He was born in Belarus in 1929. And in 1933 they big family, which numbered ten people, moved to the Aban region. Young men before the army (Ivan Arkhipovich served as a sapper on Sakhalin) worked on the wagon train. Sometimes I had to ride horses from Aban to Chunoyar, to take out oats from there.

You ride on a wagon train, and you don’t know what awaits you ahead. Not a soul around, only taiga. You get to the first hut, knock on the door to warm yourself, and there is the hostess with a gun, the peasants have all gone to the front. Women during the war, who lived near the taiga, quickly learned how to use guns. They went hunting to feed themselves and their children.

labor path

As a fifteen-year-old girl, Nadezhda went to work as a nanny in the family where she was infant. For this she had to leave native home and move to Ilansky, since then she has not returned to live in the village. After working as a nanny, the young girl got a job as a housekeeper to the chairman of the district executive committee, Yevstakhiy Natalevich. When Evstakhy Stepanovich moved to Krasnoyarsk, Nadezhda, in order to survive, was forced to get a job as a stoker. Agree, the profession is not easy, and the girl was not even twenty! When she no longer had the strength to work as a stoker, one friend advised her to try to get a job as a train acceptance officer at the Ilanskaya station, where she worked for almost six years.

I had to work in many places in my youth, - Nadezhda Timofeevna recalls. - But my favorite place of work was a garment factory, where I worked as a seamstress. This is my profession! Then they sewed a lot, without marriage, they tried to make all the seams even. The bathrobes of our production were just a feast for the eyes. For the quality of the work done, we were paid well at that time. My wage was a little - a little less than Ivan's salary, he then worked as an assistant driver in a locomotive depot. The authorities did not want to dismiss me for retirement, apparently, they valued me as an employee, but due to family circumstances (daughter had to leave maternity leave) I had to leave my favorite job, where I worked for fifteen years.

Ivan Arkhipovich worked all his life in a locomotive depot, for which he has a certificate of "Veteran of Labor". He started as a stoker on a steam locomotive, and retired as an assistant train driver. With special warmth, the veteran recalls his favorite work and his colleagues:

When he served, he decided not to return to his native collective farm. I went to my relative in Ilansky. Together with him they went to get a job in a locomotive depot. They took me first as a stoker on a steam locomotive, and later they transferred me to the driver's assistant. At one time I had to work as an assistant on two-section diesel locomotives. The route was to Krasnoyarsk or to Taishet. So I left for forty-three years. To this day I remember my colleagues: instructor Ivan Kurilyuk, machinists Konstantin Volkov, Leonid Kormin.

Wherever you go, only with a sweetheart along the way

The Perepechkins are less willing to talk about their feelings than about work. They probably think, like most of our grandparents, that showing off their love is simply indecent.

We met Ivan at a party on Borovaya Street, says Nadezhda Timofeevna. “He stood out from the other guys right away. Serious, stood silently, arms crossed over his chest. Then she only knew about him that she lives with her uncle in the same area (beyond the Pulsometr lake), as I do, works, builds a house. We talked, we seemed to like each other. Soon he came to woo, invited me to live in his unfinished house on Aerodromnaya Street (laughs). As you can see, we still live in this house.

But after all, as soon as the young mistress appeared in the house, he instantly changed, - Ivan Arkhipovich interrupts his wife. - We did not have enough female warmth with him, so the construction did not go. And with the advent of his wife, everything changed dramatically. I wanted to live, I wanted to work, I wanted to have kids!

The young people did not play a noisy wedding. They say there were no funds, both are not from rich families.

The warmth of a family hearth

Over the years family life The Perepechkins were able to accumulate the main wealth - two children (son Yuri and daughter Olga), daughter-in-law Lyubov, four grandchildren and four great-grandchildren who do not forget them, constantly visit and help with the housework.

When they were young, they always kept a large farm, - says Ivan Arkhipovich. - And there were cows, and piglets, and chickens. Although both worked, they managed to do everything, they were not lazy. Now we only have a cat as a pet.

It was not so accepted among us that Nadia, as a woman, owes all homework to take on myself, and I will only go on trips, bring money to the house. They also worked around the house together, so, probably, there was no time, and no energy left for parties and quarrels. It wasn't before.

Nadezhda Timofeevna fully agrees with her husband. According to her, Ivan Arkhipovich never allowed himself, like other men, to insult her or hit her, he did not linger with his colleagues after the shift. He always hurried home, where his wife and children were impatiently waiting for him.

Together, no adversity is terrible

We live so long only because we are always together, together, - Nadezhda Timofeevna is sure. - If one of the spouses leaves earlier, the second is very sad and quickly gives up. Therefore, I always pray to God for myself and for Vanya. What do we need now? Only health, which only decreases every year, therefore I ask the Lord only health and strength. And while we are together, we are doubly stronger, and problems are easier to solve, and our hearts are happier.

The couple celebrated their 60th birthday with their family. Behind round table four generations gathered - the heroes of the occasion, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren - the main wealth strong family Perepechkins.

In such not at all rare cases, it is better to build a new house side by side with the old one, which my ancestors did from time immemorial. And no one had the absurd idea to break the old house to the ground before starting to cut down the new one.

Once the house was the head of a whole family of buildings. There was a large threshing floor with a barn nearby, a vigorous barn, two shed haylofts, a potato cellar, a nursery, a bathhouse and a well chopped on an icy spring. That well was buried long ago, and the rest of the building was destroyed long ago. At the house there was only one disjointed relative, a half-century-old, sooty bathhouse.

I am ready to heat this bath almost every other day. I am at home, in my homeland, and now it seems to me that only here are such bright rivers, such transparent lakes. Such clear and always different dawns. So calm and peacefully thoughtful are the forests in winter and summer. And now it is so strange, joyful to be the owner of an old bathhouse and a young ice-hole on such a clean, snow-covered river ...

And once I hated all this with all my heart. I vowed not to come back.

The second time I wrote an autobiography, entering the FZO school to study as a carpenter. Life and a fat aunt from the regional registry office made their own adjustments to the plans for the technical school. The same manager, albeit with anger, nevertheless sent me to the medical commission in order to establish the dubious fact and time of my birth.

In the district clinic, a good-natured doctor with a red nose only asked in what year I had the honor of being born. And wrote out a paper. I didn’t even see the birth certificate: it was taken away by representatives of the labor reserves.

And again, a six-month passport was issued without me.

Then I rejoiced: finally, forever said goodbye to these smoky baths. Why now I feel so good here, at home, in a deserted village? Why do I heat my bath almost every other day? ..

Strange, so strange and unexpected...

However, the bathhouse is so old that at one corner a whole third went into the ground. When I drown it, the smoke goes at first not into a wooden pipe, but, as it were, from under the ground, into a crack from a rotten bottom row. This bottom row was completely rotten, the second row was also slightly rotten, but the rest of the log house is impenetrable and strong. Calcined by the bathing heat that filled it thousands of times, this log house keeps the bitterness of decades.

I decided to repair the sauna, replace the two lower rims, change and re-lay the shelves, and re-lay the stove. In winter, this idea looked ridiculous, but I was happy and therefore reckless. In addition, the bath is not a house. It can be hung out without dismantling the roof and log cabin: the carpenter's leaven, once absorbed at the FZO school, fermented in me. At night, lying under a sheepskin blanket, I imagined how I would do the repair, and it seemed very simple and affordable. But in the morning everything turned out differently. It became clear that on their own, without the help of at least some old man, they could not cope with the repair. On top of that, I didn't even have a decent axe. On reflection, I went to an old neighbor, Olesha Smolin, to ask for help.

Outside the Smolinsk house, stretched-out underpants were drying lonely on a perch. The path to the open gate was marked out, new firewood, turned on its side, could be seen nearby. I went up the stairs, took hold of the brace, and a dog sang loudly in the hut. She rushed at me very zealously. The old woman, Olesha's wife Nastasya, escorted her out the door:

Go, go to the water! Look, fuliganka, ran into a man.

I said hello and asked:

At home by yourself?

Hello, father.

Nastasya, you see, was completely deaf. She fanned the shop with her apron, inviting them to sit down.

The old man, I ask, is he at home or gone where? I asked again.

And where should he, the rotten one, go: over there he dragged himself onto the stove. He says that a runny nose started up.

After some fuss, the owner got down on the floor and put on his boots.

Did you set up a samovar? He doesn't hear a whine. Konstenkin Platonovich, good health!

Olesha is a tendon, you won’t understand how old the collective farmer is, he immediately recognized me. The old man looked like a medieval pirate from a drawing from a children's book. Even during my childhood, his hooked nose was frightening and always made us kids panic. Maybe that's why, feeling guilty, Olesha Smolin, when we started running down the street on our own two feet, very willingly made whistles for us from willow and often drove up on a cart. Now, looking at that nose, I felt many long-forgotten sensations returning. early childhood…

Smolin's nose stuck out not straight, but in right side, without any symmetry, separated two blue eyes, like April drops. Gray and black stubble thickly poked his chin. I just wanted to see a heavy earring in Olesha's ear, and on his head a bandit hat or a scarf tied in a filibuster way.

First, Smolin asked when I arrived, where I live and how old I am. Then he asked what salary and how much vacation they give. I said that I have twenty-four days of vacation.

It was not clear to me whether this was a lot or a little from the point of view of Olesha Smolin, but Olesha wanted to know the same thing, only from my point of view, and in order to change the conversation, I hinted to the old man about the bath. Olesha was not at all surprised, as if he believed that the bathhouse could be repaired in winter.

Bath, you say? Bath, Konstenkin Platonovich, is a tedious business. There and my grandmother. All deaf, like a chock, but she loves a bath. Ready to steam every day.

Without inquiring what was the connection between a deaf person and an addiction to a bath, I suggested the most profitable terms for work. But Smolin was in no hurry to sharpen his axes. First, he forced me to sit down at the table, since the samovar was already gurgling near the hearth, like a wild grouse in spring.

Doors! Shut the doors! - suddenly fussed Olesha. - Yes, tighter!

Not yet knowing what was the matter, I involuntarily made a movement towards the doors.

And then he will run away, ”Olesha concluded approvingly.

Yes, a samovar...

I blushed a little, I had to get used to the rustic humor. The boiling water in the samovar, ready to overflow, that is, "run away", immediately calmed down. Nastasya removed the pipe and stopped the draft. And Olesha, as if by chance, pulled out a check lightened by one third from under the bench. There was nothing to do: after a brief hesitation, I somehow forgot the first paragraph of my holiday rules, took off my sheepskin coat and hung it at the door on a carnation. We drank "in tea", in other words - a hot punch, which, out of habit, throws a person into a pleasant sweat, and then slowly turns the universe to another, surprisingly kind and promising side. Already half an hour later Olesha did not persuade me very strongly not to go, but I did not listen and, feeling some kind of delight in my legs, I hurried to the Selpov's shop.

Everywhere white pure snow. Daytime stoves were heated in the villages, and the golden smoke did not dissolve in the air, but lived, as it were, separately from it, then disappearing without a trace. The forests, pockmarked after yesterday's snowfall, could be seen clearly and close, there was a thick, bright silence everywhere.

While I went to the shop, Nastasya went off to gossip to the neighbors, and Olesha brought tiny, salted saffron milk caps with a blue tint in an aluminum saucer. After a mutual regale, they drank again, the logic immediately became different, and I dived, as if into a summer whirlpool after a hot day, imperceptibly went into the abyss of Olesha's conversations.

Belov V I

carpentry stories

IN AND. BELOV

CARPENTRY STORIES

The house has stood on the ground for more than a hundred years, and time has completely twisted it. At night, savoring the joyful loneliness, I listen to the damp March wind beat on the ancient sides of the pine mansion. The neighbor's midnight cat mysteriously walks in the darkness of the attic, and I don't know what he needs there. The house seems to be breathing softly from heavy cat steps. Occasionally, along the layers, dry flint mats burst, tired bonds creak. Heavy blocks of snow sliding down from the roof thump. And with each block in the rafters strained from multi-ton gravity, relief from the snow burden is born. I can almost physically feel this relief. Here, just like snow blocks from a dilapidated roof, the multi-layered blocks of the past are slipping from the soul ... A sleepless cat walks and walks around the attic, clocks tick like crickets. Memory shuffles my biography like a preference partner a pack of cards. It turned out to be some kind of long bullet ... Long and confusing. Not at all what is on the personnel record sheet. There, everything is much simpler ... For the thirty-four years I have lived, I have written my biography thirty times and that is why I know it by heart. I remember how much I enjoyed writing it at first. It was nice to think that the paper where all your life stages, someone simply needs it and will forever be stored in a fireproof safe. I was fourteen years old when I wrote my autobiography for the first time. A birth certificate was required for admission to the technical school. And so I moved to straighten the metrics. It was right after the war. I wanted to eat continuously, even during sleep, but still life seemed good and joyful. Even more surprising and joyful was her future. With such a mood, I stomped seventy kilometers along the May road, which was beginning to dry out. I was wearing nearly new, fitted boots, canvas pants, a jacket, and a cap that had been shot through with shot. In the knapsack mother put three straw kolobs and an onion, and in her pocket there were ten rubles in money. I was happy and walked to the district center all day and all night, dreaming about my joyful future. This joy, like pepper to a good ear, was seasoned with a feeling of belligerence: I courageously clutched a folded bag in my pocket. At that time, rumors about camp refugees kept circulating. Danger seemed around every turn of the country road, and I compared myself with Pavlik Morozov. The unfolded fold-out was wet with palm sweat. However, all the way, not a single refugee left the forest, not a single one encroached on my kolobs. I came to the village at four in the morning, found the police with the registry office and fell asleep on the porch. At nine o'clock the impenetrable manager appeared with a wart on her fat cheek. I plucked up the courage to address her with my request. It was strange that she did not pay the slightest attention to my words. Didn't even look. I stood at the barrier, frozen in respect, anxiety and fear, counting the black hairs on my aunt's wart. My heart seemed to have gone to the heel ... Now, many years later, I blush from humiliation, realized in hindsight, I remember how my aunt, again without looking at me, grumbled with contempt: - Write an autobiography. She gave papers. And so, for the first time in my life, I wrote an autobiography: "I, Zorin Konstantin Platonovich, was born in the village of N ... ha, S ... district of the A ... region in 1932. Father - Zorin Platon Mikhailovich, born in 1905, mother - Zorina Anna Ivanovna, born in 1907. Before the revolution, my parents were middle peasants, they were engaged in agriculture. After the revolution, they joined the collective farm. His father died in the war, his mother was a collective farm worker. After graduating from the fourth grade, I entered the N seven-year school. I graduated in 1946. Then I didn’t know what to write, then all my life events were exhausted on this. With terrible anxiety, I filed papers over the barrier. The head did not look at the autobiography for a long time. Don't you know how an autobiography is written? ... I rewrote an autobiography three times, and she scratched her wart and went somewhere. Lunch began. After dinner, she nevertheless read the documents and asked sternly: My heart sank into my heel again: I didn’t have an extract ... And so I’m going back, I’m walking seventy kilometers to get this extract from the village council. I covered the road in a little over a day and was no longer afraid of refugees. gentle green sorrel. Before reaching the house about seven kilometers, I lost my sense of reality, lay down on a large roadside stone and did not remember how long I lay on it, gaining new strength, overcoming some ridiculous visions. At home, I carried manure for a week, then again I asked for leave from the foreman in the district center. Now the manager looked at me even with malice. I stood at the barrier for an hour and a half until she took the papers. Then, for a long time and slowly, she rummaged through them and suddenly said that it was necessary to request the regional archive, since there were no birth records in the regional civil acts. Again, in vain, I burned almost one hundred and fifty kilometers ... For the third time, already in the fall, after haymaking, I came to the regional center in one day: my leg got stronger, and the food was better - the first potatoes ripened. The manager seemed to just hate me. I can't give you a certificate! she screamed, as if to a deaf man. - There are no records for you! No! Is that clear? I went out into the corridor, sat down in a corner by the stove, and... burst into tears. sat on dirty floor at the stove and wept - weeping from his impotence, from resentment, from hunger, from fatigue, from loneliness, and from something else. Now, remembering that year, I am ashamed of those semi-childish tears, but they still boil in my throat. The grievances of adolescence are like notches on birch trees: they swim from time to time, but never completely overgrow. I listen to the clock tick and slowly calm down. Still, it's good to go home. Tomorrow I'll be repairing the bathhouse... I'll put an ax on the handle, and I don't give a damn that they gave me a winter vacation.

In the morning I walk around the house and listen to the wind in the huge rafters. The native house seems to complain of old age and asks for repairs. But I know that the repair would be the death of the house: you can not shake up the old, hardened bones. Everything here has grown together and boiled into one whole, it is better not to touch these related logs, not to test their time-tested loyalty to each other. In such not at all rare cases, it is better to build a new house side by side with the old one, which my ancestors did from time immemorial. And no one had the absurd idea to break the old house to the ground before starting to cut down the new one. Once the house was the head of a whole family of buildings. There was a large threshing floor with a barn nearby, a vigorous barn, two shed haylofts, a potato cellar, a nursery, a bathhouse and a well chopped on an icy spring. That well was buried long ago, and the rest of the building was destroyed long ago. At the house there was only one disjointed relative, a half-century-old, sooty bathhouse. I am ready to heat this bath almost every other day. I am at home, in my homeland, and now it seems to me that only here are such bright rivers, such transparent lakes. Such clear and always different dawns. So calm and peacefully thoughtful are the forests in winter and summer. And now it is so strange, joyful to be the owner of an old bathhouse and a young ice-hole on such a clean, snow-covered river ... But once I hated all this with all my heart. I vowed not to come back. The second time I wrote an autobiography, entering the FZO school to study as a carpenter. Life and a fat aunt from the regional registry office made their own adjustments to the plans for the technical school. The same manager, albeit with anger, nevertheless sent me to the medical commission in order to establish the dubious fact and time of my birth. In the district clinic, a good-natured doctor with a red nose only asked in what year I had the honor of being born. And wrote out a paper. I didn’t even see the birth certificate: it was taken away by representatives of labor reserves; And again, a six-month passport was issued without me. Then I rejoiced: finally, forever said goodbye to these smoky baths. Why now I feel so good here, at home, in a deserted village? Why do I heat my bath almost every other day?.. Strange, everything is so strange and unexpected... However, the bath is so old that at one corner a whole third went into the ground. When I drown it, the smoke goes at first not into a wooden pipe, but, as it were, from under the ground, into a crack from a rotten bottom row. This bottom row was completely rotten, the second row was also slightly rotten, but the rest of the log house is impenetrable and strong. Calcined by the bathing heat that filled it thousands of times, this log house keeps the bitterness of decades. I decided to repair the sauna, replace the two lower rims, change and re-lay the shelves, and re-lay the stove. In winter, this idea looked ridiculous, but I was happy and therefore reckless. In addition, the bath is not a house. It can be hung out without dismantling the roof and log cabin: the carpenter's leaven, once absorbed at the FZO school, fermented in me. At night, lying under a sheepskin blanket, I imagined how I would do the repair, and it seemed very simple and affordable. But in the morning everything turned out differently. It became clear that on their own, without the help of at least some old man, they could not cope with the repair. On top of that, I didn't even have a decent axe. On reflection, I went to an old neighbor, Olesha Smolin, to ask for help. Outside the Smolinsk house, stretched-out underpants were drying lonely on a perch. The path to the open gate was marked out, new firewood, turned on its side, could be seen nearby. I went up the stairs, took hold of the brace, and a dog sang loudly in the hut. She rushed at me very zealously. The old woman, Olesha's wife Nastasya, escorted her out the door: - Go, go to the waterman! Look, fuliganka, ran into a man. I said hello and asked: - Are you at home by yourself? - Good, father. Nastasya, you see, was completely deaf. She fanned the shop with her apron, inviting them to sit down. - The old man, I ask, at home or gone where? I asked again. - And where should he, the rotten one, go: over there he dragged himself onto the stove. He says that a runny nose started up. - You yourself are wet, - Olesha's voice was heard, - Yes, and it didn’t start up now. After some fuss, the owner got down on the floor and put on his boots. - Did you put the samovar? He doesn't hear a whine. Konstenkin Platonovich, good health! Olesha is a tendon, you won’t understand how old the collective farmer is, he immediately recognized me. The old man looked like a medieval pirate from a drawing from a children's book. Even during my childhood, his hooked nose was frightening and always made us kids panic. Maybe that's why, feeling guilty, Olesha Smolin, when we started running down the street on our own two feet, very willingly made whistles for us from willow and often drove up on a cart. Now, looking at this nose, I felt many long-forgotten sensations of early childhood returning ... Smolin's nose did not stick out straight, but to the right side, without any symmetry, separated two blue, like April drops, eyes. Gray and black stubble thickly poked his chin. I just wanted to see a heavy earring in Olesha's ear, and on his head a bandit hat or a scarf tied in a filibuster way. First, Smolin asked when I arrived, where I live and how old I am. Then he asked what salary and how much vacation they give. I said that I have twenty-four days of vacation. It was not clear to me whether this was a lot or a little from the point of view of Olesha Smolin, but Olesha wanted to know the same thing, only from my point of view, and in order to change the conversation, I hinted to the old man about the bath. Olesha was not at all surprised, as if he believed that the bathhouse could be repaired in winter. Bath, you say? Bath, Konstenkin Platonovich, is a tedious business. There and my grandmother. All deaf, like a chock, but she loves a bath. Ready to steam every day. Without inquiring about the connection between a deaf person and an addiction to a bath, I offered the most favorable conditions for work. But Smolin was in no hurry to sharpen his axes. First, he forced me to sit down at the table, since the samovar was already gurgling near the hearth, like a wild grouse in spring. - Doors! Shut the doors! - suddenly fussed Olesha. - Yes, tighter! Not yet knowing what was the matter, I involuntarily made a movement towards the doors. - And then he will run away, - Olesha concluded approvingly. - Who? - Yes, a samovar ... I blushed a little, I had to get used to the village humor. The boiling water in the samovar, ready to overflow, that is, "run away", immediately calmed down. Nastasya removed the pipe and stopped the draft. And Olesha, as if by chance, pulled out a check lightened by one third from under the bench. There was nothing to do: after a brief hesitation, I somehow forgot the first paragraph of my holiday rules, took off my sheepskin coat and hung it at the door on a carnation. We drank "in tea", in other words - a hot punch, which, out of habit, throws a person into a pleasant sweat, and then slowly turns the universe to another, surprisingly kind and promising side. Already half an hour later Olesha did not persuade me very strongly not to go, but I did not listen and, feeling some kind of delight in my legs, I hurried to the Selpov's shop. Everywhere white pure snow. Daytime stoves were heated in the villages, and the golden smoke did not dissolve in the air, but lived, as it were, separately from it, then disappearing without a trace. The forests, pockmarked after yesterday's snowfall, could be seen clearly and close, there was a thick, bright silence everywhere. While I went to the shop, Nastasya went off to gossip to the neighbors, and Olesha brought tiny, salted saffron milk caps with a blue tint in an aluminum saucer. After a mutual regale, they drank again, the logic immediately became different, and I dived, as if into a summer whirlpool after a hot day, imperceptibly went into the abyss of Olesha's conversations.

Belov Vasily Ivanovich (b. 1932), Russian writer.

Born on October 23, 1932 in the village of Timonikha, Vologda Oblast, in a peasant family. Having finished village school, worked on a collective farm, then served in the army. Belov's poems and stories were published in provincial newspapers and magazines. Graduated in 1964 Literary Institute them. A.M. Gorky, studied at the poetic seminar of L.I. Oshanin. The first publication was the story The Village of Berdyaika (1961, magazine Our Contemporary).

Belov Vasily Ivanovich

The publication of the story Habitual Business (1966) put Belov's name in the first row of authors " village prose". The protagonist of the story, the peasant Ivan Afrikanovich, having gone through the war simple soldier lives in his native northern village. He expresses his philosophy of life with the words: “Live everywhere. And all is well, all is well. It's good that he was born, it's good that he gave birth to children. Live, she is live." Ivan Afrikanovich also perceives the lack of rights on the collective farm as an inevitable given. The story describes how main character works, drinks from a hopeless life and from his own carelessness, as in search of better share leaves home, but then returns to the village and again plunges into his usual life. Evaluation of his actions in the categories of "good - bad" turns out to be impossible, just as such an assessment of the entire diverse life of man and nature, in which the hero is literally "dissolved", is impossible. It is no coincidence that the life philosophy of Ivan Afrikanovich is somewhat similar to the “thoughts” of the cow Roguli described by the author, who “had been indifferent to herself all her life, and she did not remember well those cases when her timeless immense contemplation was violated.”

The "fluidity" of the image of Ivan Afrikanovich is especially pronounced in his attitude towards his wife Katerina: he loves her dearly and at the same time calmly relates to the fact that, not yet recovering from childbirth, she takes on a difficult physical work. The death of Katerina becomes a greater shock for him than the fear experienced during the war. The rise of the human spirit Habitual business tragically, but the ending of the story is enlighteningly symbolic: after the death of his wife, after the death of his wife, Ivan Afrikanovich finds his way out of the forest in which he got lost, and realizes that Life is going regardless of his will. In the final internal monologue hero this feeling is expressed as follows: “And the lake, and this damned forest will remain, and Mishka Petrov will drink wine, and they will run to mow again. It turns out that life will not stop anyway and will go on as before, albeit without him, without Ivan Afrikanovich. It turns out, after all, that it was better to be born than not to be born.

The stylistic structure of the story, its intonation correspond to an even rhythm peasant life. The author's speech is completely devoid of pathos. All palette human feelings- from happiness to despair - is concluded by Belov in strict narrative forms. The prose writer seems to distance himself from what is happening, giving both his characters and his style to the power of a powerful current of life. After the publication of Habitual Business, critics and readers unanimously admired the writer's excellent language, his subtle understanding of peasant psychology and life philosophy. The Carpenter's Tales (1968) evoked a similar assessment. Their main character, the carpenter Konstantin Zorin, like Ivan Afrikanovich, embodies the peasant attitude.

In Kanuna's novel (parts 1–2, 1972–1976), peasant psychology and life are shown in historical terms. The action takes place in the northern village. Belov called Kanuny "a chronicle of the late 20s" and continued it with the novel The Year of the Great Break (1989), in which the time frame of the story is extended to 1930. Belov also tried his hand at dramaturgy. His most famous play Over the Bright Water (1973) is devoted to the same problem as prose: the disappearance of old villages, the destruction of the peasant economy. In the play Alexander Nevsky (1988), Belov turned to the historical theme.

The publication of the novel Education According to Dr. Spock (1978), in which the author contrasted urban and rural lifestyles, was greeted with caution and skepticism by some critics and readers. not entirely clear to him. city life Belov showed unequivocally - as the focus of immorality. The reason that the city child grows up unhappy, the author of Education according to Dr. Spock, saw not so much in the dislike of his parents for each other, but in the unnaturalness of the city. way of life as such. This is shown even more prominently in the novel Everything Ahead (1986). Nostalgia for the bygone integrity of the peasant way of life brought to life not only the novel All Ahead, but also the book Lad. Essays on Folk Aesthetics (1979–1981). The book consists of small essays, each of which is devoted to some aspect of peasant life. Belov writes about everyday activities and customs, about the peculiarities of perception of different seasons, about plants and animals in peasant everyday life - that is, about natural harmony folk life. In the year of publication, Lada Belov was awarded State Prize THE USSR.

Belov lives in Vologda, is an active member of the Union of Writers of Russia, a regular contributor to the magazine Our Contemporary. Vologda life, well known to him, was described in Bukhtina's cycle of Vologda swear words in six topics (1988).

Vasily Ivanovich Belov photo

Vasily Ivanovich Belov - quotes

I became a writer not out of pleasure, but out of necessity, my heart boiled too much, silence became unbearable, bitterness choked me. But it turned out that this slippery path (first poetry, then prose) became the main path of my life. This path coincided with music, and with a sail, and with a detector receiver, and most importantly - with a book!

Soviet power was normal power, even Stalinist power, and the people adapted to it. And then the abnormal power began, which simply does not need the people. Soviet power was created by Lenin, and Stalin, and even Trotsky, by all the Bolsheviks, and the state, it must be admitted, was created powerful. Perhaps the most powerful in all of Russian history. And now it's gone and never will be. No and Soviet power. I understand that I also had a hand in destroying it with my writings, with my radical appeals. We must admit. I remember constantly fighting with her. And all my friends are writers. And again I am ashamed of my activities: it seems that I was right in my words, but the state was destroyed. And more trouble came. How not to be ashamed?

The grievances of adolescence are like notches on birch trees: they swim from time to time, but never completely overgrow.