Vasily Terkin is a merchant from the Nizhny Novgorod province! Petr Dmitrievich Boborykin.

There are so many of them in the world that they have read you, poet, like this poor book for many, many, many years.
This year Vasily Terkin turned 120 years old. No, that's not a typo. Everyone knows Vasily Terkin, the hero of Tvardovsky’s poem of the same name. But in Russian literature there was another Vasily Terkin. Long before the appearance
famous poem by A.T. Tvardovsky, in 1892 Peter’s novel was published
Dmitrievich Boborykin "Vasily Terkin". The hero of this novel is not
a soldier, but a merchant. Boborykin was the first in Russian literature to create the image
an enlightened entrepreneur, a patriot of Russia, who himself, having come out of
people's depths, sought to “give full speed to everything that lies in it
valuable, for the use of native lands and the same working and disadvantaged
people." Here are the words of Maxim Gorky, who highly valued this
novel and its hero [Gorky M. Collected works: In 30 volumes.- M., 1949-1955. T. 25. P. 308].

Naturally, such a noble entrepreneur, all thoughts and actions
which are aimed at the development of Russia, did not fit into the official
established framework of the Soviet period, where the merchant is a world-eater, predatory and
greedy, unjustly rich, and also illiterate.
Vasily Terkin studied with Boborykin at the provincial gymnasium.
As a result, the novel was unclaimed and simply forgotten about.

Just like the novel, its creator turned out to be forgotten. To a wide range of readers
Boborykin is generally unknown. Experts, following the assessment prevailing in
literary criticism of the Soviet period, classified it as mediocre
writers, writers of the so-called second row. It is undeniable that
Boborykin, revealing the inner world of the heroes of his novels, to
Didn't live up to Dostoevsky. He is a fiction writer. But he has his own
dignity. The palette of his work is extremely broad: he is both a playwright and
publicist, prose writer, literary critic and literary historian,
theater figure, memoirist, translator. And all this is multiplied by
unique hard work.

Boborykin lived a long life. It began under Pushkin - Boborykin
born in 1836, and ended when he read poetry in a full voice
Mayakovsky - Pyotr Dmitrievich died after the revolution, in 1921
Switzerland. Sixty years of his life were marked by tireless writing.
activities. Boborykin was known as one of the most cultured people of his era,
was fluent in the main European languages, had an excellent knowledge of the world
culture. By the way, this It was he who introduced the word into literature and journalism
"intelligentsia", which stuck. On Russian soil it was filled
special content, has become a concept that causes lively discussions,
at the same time, the founder of the word “intelligentsia” was again completely forgotten.

Boborykin was sensitive to changes and moods in society, possessing
amazing social responsiveness. With this quality he even evoked
irritation among his fellow writers. So, I.S. Turgenev with a big
wrote about Boborykin with some sarcasm: “I can easily imagine him at
ruins of the world, writing a novel in which the most
the latest “trends” of the dying land. There is no such hasty fertility
another example in the history of all literature! [Turgenev I.S. Full collection Op. and letters. Letters. T. 71. P. 260]

A contemporary of the “sixties” of the 19th century, an eyewitness to the pre-revolutionary
Russia, Boborykin never shared revolutionary views. He always
remained a reformer who believed in social evolution. A special place in
future forward movement of Russia, he assigned a new Russian
merchants - this explains the appearance of his Vasily Terkin. Evolutionary
Boborykin’s views were also rated with a minus sign at one time.
To some extent, for this reason, too, in Soviet times there was almost no
republished. In 1965, his memoirs “For Half a Century” were published.
(in two volumes), in 1984 - “Tales and Stories” and the following year - a novel
"China town". It so happened that Boborykin’s “Vasily Terkin” “drowned”
in time. He was eclipsed by Tvardovsky’s hero - Alexander Trifonovich
I really wanted to name my hero memorable, “catchy”, but nothing
He couldn’t think of a better way to use the title of Boborykin’s novel.
Apparently, he was sure that the progressive merchant Vasily Terkin
Russian history and culture will never return.

However, time puts everything in its place. Today Boborykin again
turns out to be interesting in its own way. If the writer's contemporaries
a scrupulous description of life, architecture and traditions seemed banal,
boring and unnecessary, and they can be understood, then for us today a bygone era
with all the details of life turns out to be a valuable picturesque
history.

It was refreshing on the deck after a hot July day. The steamer Biryuch cautiously made its way along the narrow fairway between badges and poles smeared in white and red paint.

At the top of the wheelhouse, under the canopy, the pilot and his assistant peered into the bends of the fairway and every now and then turned the rudder wheel. To the right and left were the low banks of the upper reaches of the Volga before the Oka flowed into it. This was several miles before the city of Balakhna, where the right bank begins to rise, but does not even reach one third of the steepness of the coastal heights of the Oka near Nizhny.

The pilot made a sign to the sailor standing on the left hand, at the imported anchor, on the bow deck. The sailor's back, in a colorful knitted sweatshirt, stood out sharply against a piece of blue sky.

Five and a half! - came dejectedly from the nose, and the pole waved in the hands of the broad-shouldered guy.

The captain's assistant, a lean brunette in a leather cap, pressed his lips to the opening of the sound pipe and ordered the speed to slow down.

The steamer began to crawl. The slowed wheels splashed through the water, and their noise reverberated throughout the entire hull, producing a slight thrill that was also felt by the passengers.

There were many passengers - more and more fishing people flocked to Macarius for the fair.

Both halves of the deck, front and rear, were breaking under the load of all kinds of goods. It emitted a variety of smells. But everything was covered with the smell of leather goods with a mixture of something sweet, in large boxes with brands. It also tasted like hot lard. Second class passengers had long been drinking tea at tables, on benches, even on the floor, near the car itself. The Volga ringing dialect, with an emphasis on the “o,” ran throughout the entire ship, and women’s voices intertwined with men’s, even more melodious, with a more characteristic peasant voice. The “pure” public scattered to different corners. Two gentlemen, elderly, dapper, in light jackets, sat upstairs, on the side of the steering wheel. There, exposing the oval of her pale face to the breeze, the ash blonde was wrapped in an Orenburg scarf and chatting briskly with a gloomy army officer. In the wheelhouse, a merchant, completely yellow in complexion, was quietly and languidly drinking tea with his flabby, still young wife; on the aft deck of the first class, along the side benches, there were more than twenty people, almost all men. A teenage high school student, wearing a realist cap and a dark blouse, walked back and forth with an excited wide gait and smoked, loudly releasing puffs of smoke.

Five! - the sailor’s mournful cry continued again, and the ship slowed down even more, but did not stop.

"Biruch" sat in the water only four feet; he had one more left to avoid getting stuck on the riffle. This did not cause much concern either in the passengers or in the captain.

The captain had just gotten ready to drink tea and handed over the command to the assistant. He rose from the general first class cabin, stood in the doorway of the wheelhouse and then looked to the right at the passengers, searching for someone with his eyes.

Broad-shouldered, tall, red-cheeked, bright brown, slightly freckled, he looked like a true Volga shipowner, wore a blue cloth cap with a belt, without any braid, large oiled boots and a short brown business card. His wide, rich, plump face almost always smiled calmly and a little mockingly. This smile was also visible in the yellow-brown, small, common people’s eyes.

Boris Petrovich! - he shouted from the threshold of the door.

What do you want, my dear?

The passenger, older than him, about forty years old, in a lustrine robe and soft hat, responded in a deep note, thin, with a graying beard and a tired face.

He could be mistaken for anyone - a petty official, a merchant or a poor landowner.

Something, however, in the manner of peering and in the general position of the body did not resonate with the province.

Seagull? - asked the captain.

I'm ready.

So I'll have it brewed now. Ilya! - he stopped a footman passing by. - Get some tea!.. Come to me!.. Boris Petrovich, as you order, with bishop’s cream?

The passenger in the robe winced, as if he had been bitten, and waved his hand.

No, my dear, no need for alcohol.

Your will!..

They passed through a narrow place on the deck, between the wheelhouse and the left casing. The wheels slapped less and less often, and the shouting of feet could be heard from the nose without interruption.

In the first class cabin, in addition to the room where the merchant and his wife were drinking tea, there was a fairly spacious cabin, from which another passenger came out and immediately called out to the captain, but he did not immediately hear his name.

Andrey Fomich! - the passenger repeated and followed him.

He pronounced the word “Andrey” slightly with the sound o instead of a. And the word “Fomich” echoed with Volga dialect.

He was of the same prominent stature as Captain Kuzmichev, but much thinner in stature and younger in face. He looked more like a rich merchant than a gentleman, otherwise he was the owner of a steamship, an engineer, a manufacturer, generally a business man, he dressed well and held his head a little back, which made him taller. On a checkered dark jacket, buttoned to the top, lay a thick gold chain from the side pocket to the loop. The large head was covered with a cap like a Hungarian one. From under it, dark brown hair curled at the temples; the beard was blond, with red, two wedges, carefully trimmed. A complex expression sat in the large features of the attractive peasant face. The eyes, with a wide slit, completely dark, disappeared into thick eyelids, the eyebrows formed a regular and thick arch, the nose thickened downwards, and from under the mustache looked out a red, juicy mouth with a sensual line of the lower lip. p.10

The second time he called out to the captain in a sonorous voice, in which there was much more of something youthful than in the figure and face of a man of about thirty.

A! Vasily Ivanovich! What do you want?

The captain immediately left the hand of the one he called Boris Petrovich and walked up, placing his hand on the visor.

In this bow, through the grin of the eyes, something special passed through. In the handsome passenger one could sense, if not a boss, then someone with influence in the shipping business.

God has mercy! - the captain answered out loud.

What are you doing? Are you thinking about getting started on the seagulls, and then probably on the side road, to Nizhny?

Yes, a sinful thing.

There was no bossy tone in the questions; however, something seemed to be businesslike.

Vasily Ivanovich’s big eyes focused on the passenger in the lustrine robe.

Who are you with? - he asked the captain even more quietly.

That one?

Yes, it stings my beard!

Didn't you admit something?

And have you seen any portraits of him?

Has it become a famous person?

Still would! Yes, this is Boris Petrovich...

And he named the name of a famous writer.

It can not be!

Vasily Ivanovich took off his hat and perked up.

He and I have been sharing bread and salt for a long time. He remembers me as a student.

How come you, my friend, won’t say anything!.. I’m lying in the cabin... and I don’t know that Boris Petrovich is coming with us!

But you also boarded the ship, Vasily Ivanovich, just before lunch. I have no idea. Would you like to meet?

Still would! He is my favorite! I could say that I have been reading them since the third grade of the gymnasium.

The handsome passenger's eyes grew darker. He had unusual mobility of his pupils. He was all excited from meeting his favorite writer and from the opportunity to talk with him at length. p.11

Vasily Ivanovich Terkin,” the captain called him, leading him to Boris Petrovich, “is on the line of a shareholder of our partnership.

They sat away from the others, closer to the stern; the captain went to make tea.

Their conversation dragged on.

“Boris Petrovich,” Terkin said about five minutes later, with affection in the sounds of his voice. - Why I love and honor you is because you are not afraid to show the truth about a man... about dark people in general.

It was refreshing on the deck after a hot July day. The steamer Biryuch cautiously made its way along the narrow fairway between badges and poles smeared in white and red paint.

At the top of the wheelhouse, under the canopy, the pilot and his assistant peered into the bends of the fairway and every now and then turned the rudder wheel. To the right and left were the low banks of the upper reaches of the Volga before the Oka flowed into it. This was several miles before the city of Balakhna, where the right bank begins to rise, but does not even reach one third of the steepness of the coastal heights of the Oka near Nizhny.

The pilot made a sign to the sailor standing on the left hand, at the imported anchor, on the bow deck. The sailor's back, in a colorful knitted sweatshirt, stood out sharply against a piece of blue sky.

Five and a half! - came dejectedly from the nose, and the pole waved in the hands of the broad-shouldered guy.

The captain's assistant, a lean brunette in a leather cap, pressed his lips to the opening of the sound pipe and ordered the speed to slow down.

The steamer began to crawl. The slowed wheels splashed through the water, and their noise reverberated throughout the entire hull, producing a slight thrill that was also felt by the passengers.

There were many passengers - more and more fishing people flocked to Macarius for the fair.

Both halves of the deck, front and rear, were breaking under the load of all kinds of goods. It emitted a variety of smells. But everything was covered with the smell of leather goods with a mixture of something sweet, in large boxes with brands. It also tasted like hot lard. Second class passengers had long been drinking tea at tables, on benches, even on the floor, near the car itself. The Volga ringing dialect, with an emphasis on the “o,” ran throughout the entire ship, and women’s voices intertwined with men’s, even more melodious, with a more characteristic peasant voice. The “pure” public scattered to different corners. Two gentlemen, elderly, dapper, in light jackets, sat upstairs, on the side of the steering wheel. There, exposing the oval of her pale face to the breeze, the ash blonde was wrapped in an Orenburg scarf and chatting briskly with a gloomy army officer. In the wheelhouse, a merchant, completely yellow in complexion, was quietly and languidly drinking tea with his flabby, still young wife; on the aft deck of the first class, along the side benches, there were more than twenty people, almost all men. A teenage high school student, wearing a realist cap and a dark blouse, walked back and forth with an excited wide gait and smoked, loudly releasing puffs of smoke.

Five! - the sailor’s mournful cry continued again, and the ship slowed down even more, but did not stop.

"Biruch" sat in the water only four feet; he had one more left to avoid getting stuck on the riffle. This did not cause much concern either in the passengers or in the captain.

The captain had just gotten ready to drink tea and handed over the command to the assistant. He rose from the general first class cabin, stood in the doorway of the wheelhouse and then looked to the right at the passengers, searching for someone with his eyes.

Broad-shouldered, tall, red-cheeked, bright brown, slightly freckled, he looked like a true Volga shipowner, wore a blue cloth cap with a belt, without any braid, large oiled boots and a short brown business card. His wide, rich, plump face almost always smiled calmly and a little mockingly. This smile was also visible in the yellow-brown, small, common people’s eyes.

Boris Petrovich! - he shouted from the threshold of the door.

What do you want, my dear?

The passenger, older than him, about forty years old, in a lustrine robe and soft hat, responded in a deep note, thin, with a graying beard and a tired face.

He could be mistaken for anyone - a petty official, a merchant or a poor landowner.

Something, however, in the manner of peering and in the general position of the body did not resonate with the province.

Seagull? - asked the captain.

I'm ready.

So I'll have it brewed now. Ilya! - he stopped a footman passing by. - Get some tea!.. Come to me!.. Boris Petrovich, as you order, with bishop’s cream?

The passenger in the robe winced, as if he had been bitten, and waved his hand.

No, my dear, no need for alcohol.

Your will!..

They passed through a narrow place on the deck, between the wheelhouse and the left casing. The wheels slapped less and less often, and the shouting of feet could be heard from the nose without interruption.

In the first class cabin, in addition to the room where the merchant and his wife were drinking tea, there was a fairly spacious cabin, from which another passenger came out and immediately called out to the captain, but he did not immediately hear his name.

Andrey Fomich! - the passenger repeated and followed him.

He pronounced the word “Andrey” slightly with the sound o instead of a. And the word “Fomich” echoed with Volga dialect.

He was of the same prominent stature as Captain Kuzmichev, but much thinner in stature and younger in face. He looked more like a rich merchant than a gentleman, otherwise he was the owner of a steamship, an engineer, a manufacturer, generally a business man, he dressed well and held his head a little back, which made him taller. On a checkered dark jacket, buttoned to the top, lay a thick gold chain from the side pocket to the loop. The large head was covered with a cap like a Hungarian one. From under it, dark brown hair curled at the temples; the beard was blond, with red, two wedges, carefully trimmed. A complex expression sat in the large features of the attractive peasant face. The eyes, with a wide slit, completely dark, disappeared into thick eyelids, the eyebrows formed a regular and thick arch, the nose thickened downwards, and from under the mustache looked out a red, juicy mouth with a sensual line of the lower lip. p.10

The second time he called out to the captain in a sonorous voice, in which there was much more of something youthful than in the figure and face of a man of about thirty.

A! Vasily Ivanovich! What do you want?

The captain immediately left the hand of the one he called Boris Petrovich and walked up, placing his hand on the visor.

In this bow, through the grin of the eyes, something special passed through. In the handsome passenger one could sense, if not a boss, then someone with influence in the shipping business.

God has mercy! - the captain answered out loud.

What are you doing? Are you thinking about getting started on the seagulls, and then probably on the side road, to Nizhny?

Yes, a sinful thing.

There was no bossy tone in the questions; however, something seemed to be businesslike.

Vasily Ivanovich’s big eyes focused on the passenger in the lustrine robe.

Who are you with? - he asked the captain even more quietly.

That one?

Yes, it stings my beard!

Didn't you admit something?

And have you seen any portraits of him?

Has it become a famous person?

Still would! Yes, this is Boris Petrovich...

And he named the name of a famous writer.

It can not be!

Vasily Ivanovich took off his hat and perked up.

He and I have been sharing bread and salt for a long time. He remembers me as a student.

How come you, my friend, won’t say anything!.. I’m lying in the cabin... and I don’t know that Boris Petrovich is coming with us!

But you also boarded the ship, Vasily Ivanovich, just before lunch. I have no idea. Would you like to meet?

Still would! He is my favorite! I could say that I have been reading them since the third grade of the gymnasium.

The handsome passenger's eyes grew darker. He had unusual mobility of his pupils. He was all excited from meeting his favorite writer and from the opportunity to talk with him at length. p.11

Vasily Ivanovich Terkin,” the captain called him, leading him to Boris Petrovich, “is on the line of a shareholder of our partnership.

It was refreshing on the deck after a hot July day. The steamer Biryuch cautiously made its way along the narrow fairway between badges and poles smeared in white and red paint.

At the top of the wheelhouse, under the canopy, the pilot and his assistant peered into the bends of the fairway and every now and then turned the rudder wheel. To the right and left were the low banks of the upper reaches of the Volga before the Oka flowed into it. This was several miles before the city of Balakhna, where the right bank begins to rise, but does not even reach one third of the steepness of the coastal heights of the Oka near Nizhny.

The pilot made a sign to the sailor standing on the left hand, at the imported anchor, on the bow deck. The sailor's back, in a colorful knitted sweatshirt, stood out sharply against a piece of blue sky.

Five and a half! - came dejectedly from the nose, and the pole waved in the hands of the broad-shouldered guy.

The captain's assistant, a lean brunette in a leather cap, pressed his lips to the opening of the sound pipe and ordered the speed to slow down.

The steamer began to crawl. The slowed wheels splashed through the water, and their noise reverberated throughout the entire hull, producing a slight thrill that was also felt by the passengers.

There were many passengers - more and more fishing people flocked to Macarius for the fair.

Both halves of the deck, front and rear, were breaking under the load of all kinds of goods. It emitted a variety of smells. But everything was covered with the smell of leather goods with a mixture of something sweet, in large boxes with brands. It also tasted like hot lard. Second class passengers had long been drinking tea at tables, on benches, even on the floor, near the car itself. The Volga ringing dialect, with an emphasis on the “o,” ran throughout the entire ship, and women’s voices intertwined with men’s, even more melodious, with a more characteristic peasant voice. The “pure” public scattered to different corners. Two gentlemen, elderly, dapper, in light jackets, sat upstairs, on the side of the steering wheel. There, exposing the oval of her pale face to the breeze, the ash blonde was wrapped in an Orenburg scarf and chatting briskly with a gloomy army officer. In the wheelhouse, a merchant, completely yellow in complexion, was quietly and languidly drinking tea with his flabby, still young wife; on the aft deck of the first class, along the side benches, there were more than twenty people, almost all men. A teenage high school student, wearing a realist cap and a dark blouse, walked back and forth with an excited wide gait and smoked, loudly releasing puffs of smoke.

Five! - the sailor’s mournful cry continued again, and the ship slowed down even more, but did not stop.

"Biruch" sat in the water only four feet; he had one more left to avoid getting stuck on the riffle. This did not cause much concern either in the passengers or in the captain.

The captain had just gotten ready to drink tea and handed over the command to the assistant. He rose from the general first class cabin, stood in the doorway of the wheelhouse and then looked to the right at the passengers, searching for someone with his eyes.

Broad-shouldered, tall, red-cheeked, bright brown, slightly freckled, he looked like a true Volga shipowner, wore a blue cloth cap with a belt, without any braid, large oiled boots and a short brown business card. His wide, rich, plump face almost always smiled calmly and a little mockingly. This smile was also visible in the yellow-brown, small, common people’s eyes.

Boris Petrovich! - he shouted from the threshold of the door.

What do you want, my dear?

The passenger, older than him, about forty years old, in a lustrine robe and soft hat, responded in a deep note, thin, with a graying beard and a tired face.

He could be mistaken for anyone - a petty official, a merchant or a poor landowner.

Something, however, in the manner of peering and in the general position of the body did not resonate with the province.

Seagull? - asked the captain.

I'm ready.

So I'll have it brewed now. Ilya! - he stopped a footman passing by. - Get some tea!.. Come to me!.. Boris Petrovich, as you order, with bishop’s cream?

The passenger in the robe winced, as if he had been bitten, and waved his hand.

No, my dear, no need for alcohol.

Your will!..

They passed through a narrow place on the deck, between the wheelhouse and the left casing. The wheels slapped less and less often, and the shouting of feet could be heard from the nose without interruption.

In the first class cabin, in addition to the room where the merchant and his wife were drinking tea, there was a fairly spacious cabin, from which another passenger came out and immediately called out to the captain, but he did not immediately hear his name.

Andrey Fomich! - the passenger repeated and followed him.

He pronounced the word “Andrey” slightly with the sound o instead of a. And the word “Fomich” echoed with Volga dialect.

He was of the same prominent stature as Captain Kuzmichev, but much thinner in stature and younger in face. He looked more like a rich merchant than a gentleman, otherwise he was the owner of a steamship, an engineer, a manufacturer, generally a business man, he dressed well and held his head a little back, which made him taller. On a checkered dark jacket, buttoned to the top, lay a thick gold chain from the side pocket to the loop. The large head was covered with a cap like a Hungarian one. From under it, dark brown hair curled at the temples; the beard was blond, with red, two wedges, carefully trimmed. A complex expression sat in the large features of the attractive peasant face. The eyes, with a wide slit, completely dark, disappeared into thick eyelids, the eyebrows formed a regular and thick arch, the nose thickened downwards, and from under the mustache looked out a red, juicy mouth with a sensual line of the lower lip. p.10

The second time he called out to the captain in a sonorous voice, in which there was much more of something youthful than in the figure and face of a man of about thirty.

A! Vasily Ivanovich! What do you want?

The captain immediately left the hand of the one he called Boris Petrovich and walked up, placing his hand on the visor.

In this bow, through the grin of the eyes, something special passed through. In the handsome passenger one could sense, if not a boss, then someone with influence in the shipping business.

God has mercy! - the captain answered out loud.

What are you doing? Are you thinking about getting started on the seagulls, and then probably on the side road, to Nizhny?

Yes, a sinful thing.