Read Turgenev's leaflet. Poems in prose (Senilia)

I was sitting in a birch grove in the fall, around mid-September. From the very morning there was a light rain, replaced at times by warm sunshine; the weather was changeable. The sky was either covered with loose white clouds, then suddenly cleared in places for a moment, and then, from behind the parted clouds, azure appeared, clear and gentle, like a beautiful eye. I sat and looked around and listened. The leaves rustled slightly above my head; by their noise alone one could find out what time of year it was then. It was not the cheerful, laughing trembling of spring, not the soft whispering, not the long chatter of summer, not the timid and cold babbling of late autumn, but barely audible, drowsy chatter. A weak wind pulled slightly over the tops. The interior of the grove, wet from the rain, was constantly changing, depending on whether the sun was shining or covered by a cloud; She then lit up all over, as if suddenly everything in her smiled: the thin trunks of the not too common birch trees suddenly took on a delicate glow of white silk, the small leaves lying on the ground suddenly dazzled and lit up with red gold, and the beautiful stems of tall curly ferns, already painted in their autumn color , like the color of overripe grapes, they showed through, endlessly getting confused and intersecting before our eyes; then suddenly everything around turned slightly blue again: the bright colors instantly faded, the birches stood all white, without shine, white, like freshly fallen snow, which had not yet been touched by the coldly playing ray of the winter sun; and stealthily, slyly, the smallest rain began to sow and whisper through the forest. The foliage on the birches was still almost all green, although noticeably paler; only here and there stood one, young, all red or all gold, and you had to see how she flashed brightly in the sun when its rays suddenly broke through, sliding and mottled, through the dense network of thin branches, just washed away by the sparkling rain. Not a single bird was heard: everyone took refuge and fell silent; only occasionally did the mocking voice of a tit ring like a steel bell. Before I stopped in this birch forest, my dog ​​and I walked through a tall aspen grove. I confess that I am not too fond of this tree - the aspen - with its pale lilac trunk and grey-green, metallic foliage, which it lifts as high as possible and spreads out in the air like a trembling fan; I don’t like the eternal swaying of its round, untidy leaves, clumsily attached to long stems. It is beautiful only on certain summer evenings, when, rising separately among the low bushes, it faces the glowing rays of the setting sun and shines and trembles, covered from roots to top with the same yellow crimson - or when, on a clear windy day, it is all noisy flows and babbles in the blue sky, and every leaf of it, caught up in aspiration, seems to want to break loose, fly off and rush off into the distance. But in general I don’t like this tree, and therefore, without stopping in the aspen grove to rest, I reached a birch forest, nestled under one tree, whose branches began low above the ground and, therefore, could protect me from the rain, and, admiring the surrounding view , fell asleep in that serene and gentle sleep that is familiar to only hunters.

I can’t say how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes, the entire interior of the forest was filled with the sun and in all directions, through the joyfully rustling leaves, the bright blue sky seemed to sparkle; the clouds disappeared, dispersed by the rushing wind; the weather had cleared, and there was that special, dry freshness in the air that, filling the heart with some kind of cheerful feeling, almost always predicts a peaceful and clear evening after a stormy day. I was about to get up and try my luck again, when suddenly my eyes stopped on a motionless human image. I took a closer look: it was a young peasant girl. She sat twenty paces from me, bowing her head thoughtfully and dropping both hands on her knees; on one of them, half open, lay a thick bunch of wildflowers and with every breath it quietly slid onto her plaid skirt. A clean white shirt, buttoned at the throat and wrists, lay in short soft folds near her waist; large yellow beads in two rows descended from the neck to the chest. She was very pretty. Thick blond hair of a beautiful ash color spread out in two carefully combed semicircles from under a narrow scarlet bandage pulled almost to the very forehead, white as ivory; the rest of her face was barely tanned by that golden tan that only thin skin takes on. I couldn't see her eyes - she didn't raise them; but I clearly saw her thin, high eyebrows, her long eyelashes: they were wet, and on one of her cheeks the dried trace of a tear shone in the sun, stopping at the very lips, which were slightly pale. Her whole head was very cute; even a slightly thick and round nose did not spoil her. I especially liked the expression on her face: it was so simple and meek, so sad and so full of childish bewilderment at her own sadness. She was apparently waiting for someone; something faintly crunched in the forest: she immediately raised her head and looked around; in the transparent shadow her eyes quickly flashed before me, large, bright and timid, like a deer’s. She listened for several moments, keeping her wide-open eyes on the place where the faint sound was heard, sighed, quietly turned her head, bent even lower and began to slowly sort through the flowers. Her eyelids turned red, her lips moved bitterly, and a new tear rolled from under her thick eyelashes, stopping and sparkling radiantly on her cheek. Quite a long time passed like this; the poor girl did not move, she only moved her hands sadly from time to time and listened, listened to everything... Again something rustled in the forest - she perked up. The noise did not stop, became more distinct, got closer, and finally decisive, nimble steps were heard. She straightened up and seemed timid; her attentive gaze trembled and lit up with anticipation. The figure of a man quickly flashed through the thicket. She took a closer look, suddenly flushed, smiled joyfully and happily, wanted to get up, and immediately fell all over again, turned pale, embarrassed - and only then raised a trembling, almost pleading look at the man who had come, when he stopped next to her.

I looked at him curiously from my ambush. I admit, he did not make a pleasant impression on me. This was, by all indications, the spoiled valet of a young, rich master. His clothes revealed pretension to taste and dandy negligence: he was wearing a short bronze-colored coat, probably from a lord's shoulder, buttoned to the top, a pink tie with purple tips and a velvet black cap with gold braid, pulled down to his very eyebrows. The round collars of his white shirt mercilessly propped up his ears and cut his cheeks, and his starched mittens covered his entire hand right down to the red and crooked fingers, decorated with silver and gold rings with turquoise forget-me-nots. His face, ruddy, fresh, impudent, belonged to the number of faces that, as far as I could notice, almost always outrage men and, unfortunately, very often appeal to women. He apparently tried to give his rough features an expression of contempt and boredom; constantly squinted his already tiny, petty-gray eyes, winced, lowered the corners of his lips, forced a yawn, and with a careless, although not entirely deft, ease, he either straightened his reddish, arrogantly curled temples with his hand, or plucked the yellow hairs sticking out on his thick upper lip - in a word, it was unbearably broken. He began to break down as soon as he saw the young peasant woman waiting for him; Slowly, with a lounging step, he approached her, stood there, shrugged his shoulders, put both hands in his coat pockets and, barely deigning the poor girl with a cursory and indifferent glance, sank to the ground.

“What,” he began, continuing to look somewhere to the side, shaking his leg and yawning, “how long have you been here?”

The girl could not answer him immediately.

It’s been a long time, Viktor Alexandrych,” she finally said in a barely audible voice.

A! (He took off his cap, majestically ran his hand through his thick, tightly curled hair, which began almost at the very eyebrows, and, looking around with dignity, carefully covered his precious head again.) And I had completely forgotten. Besides, look, it’s raining! (He yawned again.) Things are abyss: you can’t look after everything, and he’s still scolding. We're leaving tomorrow...

Tomorrow? - said the girl and fixed her frightened gaze on him.

Tomorrow... Well, well, well, please,” he picked up hastily and with annoyance, seeing that she was trembling all over and quietly bowed her head, “please, Akulina, don’t cry.” You know I can't stand this. (And he wrinkled his stupid nose.) Otherwise I’ll leave now... What nonsense is this - whining!

Well, I won’t, I won’t,” Akulina said hastily, swallowing tears with effort. - So are you going tomorrow? - she added after a short silence. - Someday God will bring me to see you again, Viktor Alexandrovich?

See you, see you. Not next year, but after. The master, it seems, wants to enter the service in St. Petersburg,” he continued, pronouncing the words casually and somewhat nasally, “and maybe we’ll go abroad.”

“You will forget me, Viktor Alexandrych,” Akulina said sadly.

No, why? I won’t forget you: just be smart, don’t be a fool, listen to your father... And I won’t forget you - no, no. (And he calmly stretched and yawned again.)

“Don’t forget me, Viktor Alexandrych,” she continued in a pleading voice. - It seems that I loved you so much, everything seems to be for you... You say, I should obey my father, Viktor Alexandrovich... But how can I obey my father...

And what? (He said these words as if from the stomach, lying on his back and putting his hands under his head.)

But of course, Viktor Alexandrych, you yourself know...

She fell silent. Victor played with the steel chain of his watch.

“You, Akulina, are not a stupid girl,” he finally spoke, “so don’t talk nonsense.” I wish you well, do you understand me? Of course, you are not stupid, not quite a peasant, so to speak; and your mother wasn’t always a peasant either. Still, you are uneducated, so you must obey when they tell you.

Yes, it’s scary, Viktor Alexandrovich.

And-and, what nonsense, my dear: where did I find fear! “What do you have,” he added, moving closer to her, “flowers?”

Flowers,” Akulina answered sadly. “I picked some field ash,” she continued, somewhat perking up, “it’s good for the calves.” And this is a series - against scrofula. Look, what a wonderful flower; I have never seen such a wonderful flower in my life. Here are the forget-me-nots, and here is Mother’s darling... And here I am for you,” she added, taking out from under a yellow mountain ash a small bunch of blue cornflowers tied with thin grass, “do you want it?”

Victor lazily extended his hand, took it, casually sniffed the flowers and began to twirl them in his fingers, looking up with thoughtful importance. Akulina looked at him... In her sad gaze there was so much tender devotion, reverent submission and love. She was afraid of him, and did not dare to cry, and said goodbye to him, and admired him for the last time; and he lay lounging like a sultan, and with magnanimous patience and condescension endured her adoration. I admit, I looked with indignation at his red face, on which satisfied, satiated pride was visible through the feigned contemptuous indifference. Akulina was so beautiful at that moment; her whole soul trustingly, passionately opened up before him, reached out and caressed him, and he... he dropped the cornflowers on the grass, took out a round piece of glass in a bronze frame from the side pocket of his coat and began to squeeze it into his eye; but no matter how hard he tried to hold it with a frowning brow, raised cheek and even nose, the glass kept falling out and falling into his hand.

What is this? - finally asked the amazed Akulina.

Lornet,” he answered with importance.

For what?

And to see better.

Show me.

Victor winced, but gave her the glass.

Don't break it, look.

I'm sure I won't break it. (She timidly brought it to her eye.) “I don’t see anything,” she said innocently.

“Well, close your eyes,” he objected in the voice of a displeased mentor. (She closed her eye, in front of which she was holding the glass.) Not that one, not that one, stupid! Another! - Victor exclaimed and, not allowing her to correct her mistake, took the lorgnette away from her.

Akulina blushed, laughed a little and turned away.

Apparently, it’s not good for us,” she said.

The poor thing paused and took a deep breath.

Oh, Viktor Alexandrych, how will we be without you! - she said suddenly.

Victor wiped the hollow of the lorgnette and put it back in his pocket.

Yes, yes,” he finally spoke, “it will be hard for you at first, for sure.” (He patted her condescendingly on the shoulder; she quietly took his hand from her shoulder and timidly kissed it.) Well, yes, yes, you’re definitely a kind girl,” he continued, smiling smugly, “but what to do? Judge for yourself! The master and I can’t stay here; Now winter is coming, and in the village in winter - you yourself know - it’s just nasty. It's the same in St. Petersburg! There are simply such miracles that you, stupid, cannot even imagine in a dream. What kind of houses, streets, and society, education - just surprise! After all, you cannot understand this.

Why, Viktor Alexandrych? I understood; I understood everything.

Look what!

Akulina looked down.

“You didn’t talk to me like that before, Viktor Alexandrych,” she said without raising her eyes.

Before?..before! Look!.. Before! - he remarked, as if indignant.

They were both silent.

However, it’s time for me to go,” Victor said and was about to lean on his elbow...

What to expect?.. After all, I already said goodbye to you.

Wait,” Akulina repeated.

Victor lay down again and began to whistle. Akulina still didn’t take her eyes off him. I could notice that she was gradually becoming agitated: her lips were twitching, her pale cheeks were faintly turning red...

Viktor Alexandrych,” she finally spoke in a broken voice, “it’s a sin for you, it’s a sin for you, Viktor Alexandrych, by God!”

What is sin? - he asked, frowning his eyebrows, and slightly raised and turned his head towards her.

It’s a sin, Viktor Alexandrovich. At least they said a kind word to me when I said goodbye; at least say a word to me, poor orphan...

What can I tell you?

I don't know; you know this better, Viktor Alexandrovich. Here you go, and at least a word... What have I done to deserve it?

How strange you are! What can I do?

Just a word...

Well, I loaded the same thing,” he said with annoyance and stood up.

“Don’t be angry, Viktor Alexandrovich,” she hastily added, barely holding back her tears.

I'm not angry, but you're stupid... What do you want? After all, I can’t marry you? I can’t, right? Well, what do you want? what? (He buried his face, as if expecting an answer, and spread his fingers.)

“I don’t want anything... I don’t want anything,” she answered, stuttering and barely daring to stretch out her trembling hands to him, “but just a word, goodbye...

And her tears flowed in a stream.

Well, that’s right, I’m off to cry,” Victor said coolly, pulling his cap over his eyes from behind.

“I don’t want anything,” she continued, sobbing and covering her face with both hands, “but what is it like for me now in the family, what is it like for me? And what will happen to me, what will happen to me, miserable one? They will give an orphan to a disgraceful one... My poor little head!

And he would at least say a word, at least one... They say, Akulina, they say, I...

Sudden, chest-wrenching sobs did not allow her to finish her speech - she fell face down on the grass and cried bitterly, bitterly... Her whole body was convulsively agitated, the back of her head kept rising... The grief that had been suppressed for a long time finally poured out in a torrent. Victor stood over her, stood there, shrugged, turned and walked away with long steps.

A few moments passed... She became quiet, raised her head, jumped up, looked around and clasped her hands; she wanted to run after him, but her legs gave way - she fell to her knees... I couldn’t stand it and rushed to her; but she barely had time to peer at me when the strength came from - she got up with a weak cry and disappeared behind the trees, leaving scattered flowers on the ground.

I stood there, picked up a bunch of cornflowers and walked out of the grove into the field. The sun stood low in the pale, clear sky, its rays also seemed to have faded and grown colder: they did not shine, they spread with an even, almost watery light. There was no more than half an hour left until evening, and the dawn was barely breaking. A gusty wind quickly rushed towards me through the yellow, dried stubble; hastily rising in front of him, small, warped leaves rushed past, across the road, along the edge of the forest; the side of the grove, facing the field as a wall, trembled all over and sparkled with a small sparkle, clearly, but not brightly; on the reddish grass, on the blades of grass, on the straws - everywhere countless threads of autumn cobwebs glittered and waved. I stopped... I felt sad; through the gloomy, although fresh smile of fading nature, it seemed that the dull fear of the near winter was creeping in. High above me, heavily and sharply cutting through the air with its wings, a cautious raven flew by, turned its head, looked at me from the side, soared up and, cawing abruptly, disappeared behind the forest; a large flock of pigeons quickly rushed from the threshing floor and, suddenly spinning in a column, busily settled across the field - a sign of autumn! Someone drove past the bare hill, loudly knocking an empty cart...

I am back; but the image of poor Akulina did not leave my head for a long time, and her cornflowers, long withered, are still kept in my possession...

"Notes of a Hunter - Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword"

I was returning from a hunt in a shaking cart and, depressed by the stifling heat of a cloudy summer day (it is known that on such days the heat is sometimes even more unbearable than on clear days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and swayed, with gloomy patience abandoning all of myself to be devoured fine white dust, constantly rising from the broken road from under the cracked and rattling wheels - when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary restlessness and alarming movements of my coachman, who until that moment had been dozing even more deeply than me. He twitched the reins, fidgeted on the harness and began shouting at the horses, every now and then glancing somewhere to the side. I looked around. We rode across a wide, plowed plain; Low hills, also plowed, ran down into it with extremely gentle, wave-like rolls; the gaze embraced only some five miles of deserted space; in the distance, small birch groves with their rounded-toothed tops alone violated the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across fields, disappeared into hollows, wound along hills, and on one of them, which five hundred steps ahead of us had to cross our road, I made out some kind of train. My coachman was looking at him.

It was a funeral. Ahead, in a cart drawn by one horse, a priest rode at a pace; the sexton sat next to him and ruled; behind the cart, four men, with bare heads, carried a coffin covered with white linen; two women walked behind the coffin. The thin, plaintive voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened: she was crying. This iridescent, monotonous, hopelessly mournful tune sounded sadly among the empty fields. The coachman drove the horses: he wanted to warn this train. Meeting a dead person on the road is a bad omen. He actually managed to gallop along the road before the dead man could reach it; but we had not yet gone even a hundred steps, when suddenly our cart was given a strong push, it tilted, and almost fell over. The coachman stopped the scattering horses, bent down from the driver, looked, waved his hand and spat.

What is there? - I asked.

My coachman climbed down silently and slowly.

What is it?

The axle broke... it burned out,” he answered gloomily, and with such indignation he suddenly straightened the harness on the harness that it completely swayed to one side, but it stood, snorted, shook itself and calmly began to scratch with its tooth below the knee of its front leg.

I got down and stood on the road for some time, vaguely indulging in a feeling of unpleasant bewilderment. The right wheel was almost completely tucked under the cart and seemed to be lifting its hub upward with mute despair.

So what's now? - I asked finally.

Look who's to blame! - said my coachman, pointing with his whip at the train, which had already turned onto the road and was approaching us, - I’ve always noticed this, - he continued, - this is a sure sign - to meet a dead person... Yes.

And he again disturbed the companion, who, seeing his reluctance and severity, decided to remain motionless and only occasionally and modestly waved her tail. I walked back and forth a little and again stopped in front of the wheel.

Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. Quietly turning off the road onto the grass, a sad procession stretched past our cart. The coachman and I took off our hats, bowed to the priest, and exchanged glances with the porters. They performed with difficulty; their broad chests rose high. Of the two women walking behind the coffin, one was very old and pale; her motionless features, cruelly distorted by grief, preserved an expression of stern, solemn importance. She walked in silence, occasionally raising her thin hand to her thin, sunken lips. Another woman, a young woman of about twenty-five, had red and wet eyes, and her whole face was swollen from crying; Having caught up with us, she stopped wailing and covered herself with her sleeve... But then the dead man passed us, got out onto the road again, and again her plaintive, soul-wrenching singing was heard. Silently following the rhythmically swaying coffin with his eyes, my coachman turned to me.

“They’re burying Martyn the carpenter,” he said, “what’s wrong with Ryaba.”

Why do you know?

I learned from the women. The old one is his mother, and the young one is his wife.

Was he sick, or what?

Yes... fever... The day before yesterday the manager sent for the doctor, but the doctor was not found at home... But the carpenter was a good one; he made a lot of money, but he was a good carpenter. Look, the woman is killing him... Well, it’s well known: women’s tears are not bought. Woman's tears are the same water... Yes.

And he bent down, crawled under the reins and grabbed the arc with both hands.

However,” I remarked, “what should we do?

My coachman first rested his knee on the main shoulder, shook it twice with an arc, straightened the saddle, then again crawled under the reins of the harness and, casually pushing it in the muzzle, walked up to the wheel - walked up and, without taking his eyes off it, slowly pulled it out from under the floor caftan tavlinka, slowly pulled out the lid by the strap, slowly stuck his two thick fingers into the tavlinka (and two barely fit in it), crushed and crushed the tobacco, twisted his nose in advance, sniffed in space, accompanying each step with a long groan, and, painfully Squinting and blinking his teary eyes, he plunged into deep thought.

Well? - I finally said.

My coachman carefully put the tavlinka in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyebrows, without using his hands, with one movement of his head, and thoughtfully climbed onto the bench.

Where are you going? - I asked him, not without amazement.

Please sit down,” he answered calmly and picked up the reins.

How are we going to go?

Let's go, sir.

Yes axis...

Please sit down.

Yes, the axle is broken...

She broke, she broke; Well, we’ll get to the settlements... at a walk, that is. Here, behind the grove to the right, there are settlements called Yudins.

And do you think we'll get there?

My coachman did not deign to answer me.

“I’d better go on foot,” I said.

Whatever, sir...

And he waved his whip. The horses started moving.

We actually made it to the settlements, although the right front wheel could barely hold on and was spinning unusually strangely. On one hill it almost fell off; but my coachman shouted at him in an angry voice, and we descended safely.

Yudin's settlements consisted of six low and small huts, already twisted to one side, although they were probably erected recently: not all of their yards were surrounded by fences. Entering these settlements, we did not meet a single living soul; not even chickens were visible on the street, not even dogs; only one, black, with a short tail, hastily jumped out in front of us from a completely dry trough, where thirst must have driven her, and immediately, without barking, rushed headlong under the gate. I went into the first hut, opened the door to the hallway, called out to the owners - no one answered me. I clicked again: a hungry meow came from behind the other door. I pushed her with my foot: a thin cat darted past me, green eyes sparkling in the darkness. I stuck my head into the room and looked: dark, smoky and empty. I went to the yard, and there was no one there... In the fence, the calf mooed; The lame gray goose hobbled a little to the side. I moved to the second hut - and there was not a soul in the second hut. I'm in the yard...

In the very middle of the brightly lit courtyard, in the very heat, as they say, there lay, with his face to the ground and his head covered with an overcoat, what seemed to me to be a boy. A few steps from him, near a poor cart, stood under a thatched canopy, a thin horse in tattered harness. The sunlight, falling in streams through the narrow holes of the dilapidated tent, dappled her shaggy red-bay fur with small light spots. Right there, in a tall birdhouse, starlings were chatting, looking down from their airy house with calm curiosity. I approached the sleeping man and began to wake him up...

He raised his head, saw me and immediately jumped to his feet... “What, what do you need? What is it?” - he muttered sleepily.

I didn’t answer him right away: I was so amazed by his appearance. Imagine a dwarf of about fifty with a small, dark and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly, thick black hair, which, like the cap on a mushroom, sat widely on his tiny head. His whole body was extremely frail and thin, and it is absolutely impossible to convey in words how unusual and strange his gaze was.

What do you need? - he asked me again.

I explained to him what was the matter, he listened to me, not taking his slowly blinking eyes off me.

So, can't we get a new axle? - I finally said, “I would gladly pay.”

Who are you? Hunters, or what? - he asked, looking me over from head to toe.

Hunters.

Are you shooting birds of the sky?.. animals of the forest?.. And isn’t it a sin for you to kill God’s birds and shed innocent blood?

The strange old man spoke very drawlingly. The sound of his voice also amazed me. Not only was there nothing decrepit about him, he was surprisingly sweet, young and almost femininely tender.

“I don’t have an axle,” he added after a short silence, “this one won’t do” (he pointed to his cart), you, tea, have a big cart.

Can you find it in the village?

What a village this is!.. No one here has... And there is no one at home: everyone is at work. “Go,” he said suddenly and lay down again on the ground.

I never expected this conclusion.

Listen, old man,” I spoke, touching his shoulder, “do me a favor, help me.”

Go with God! “I’m tired: I went to the city,” he told me and pulled the army coat over his head.

Do me a favor,” I continued, “I... I’ll pay.”

I don't need your payment.

Yes please, old man...

He rose halfway and sat down, crossing his thin legs.

I would probably take you to a cutting session (A felled place in the forest.). Here merchants bought a grove from us, - God is their judge, they are building a grove, and they built an office, God is their judge. There you could order an axle from them or buy a ready-made one.

And great! - I exclaimed joyfully. - Great!.. let's go.

An oak axle, a good one,” he continued, without rising from his seat.

How far is it to those cuts?

Three miles.

Well! We can get there in your cart.

Not really...

Well, let's go, - I said, - let's go, old man! The coachman is waiting for us on the street.

The old man reluctantly stood up and followed me outside. My coachman was in an irritated state of mind: he was about to water the horses, but there was extremely little water in the well, and its taste was not good, and this, as coachmen say, is the first thing... However, when he saw the old man, he grinned, nodded his head and exclaimed:

Ah, Kasyanushka! Great!

Hello, Erofey, a fair man! - Kasyan answered in a sad voice.

I immediately informed the coachman of his proposal; Erofey announced his consent and entered the courtyard. While he was unharnessing the horses with deliberate fuss, the old man stood leaning his shoulder against the gate, looking sadly first at him and then at me. He seemed perplexed: as far as I could see, he was not too pleased with our sudden visit.

Were you resettled too? - Erofey suddenly asked him, removing the arc.

Ek! - my coachman said through his teeth. - You know, Martyn, the carpenter... you know Ryabov’s Martyn, don’t you?

Well, he died. We have now met his coffin.

Kasyan shuddered.

Died? - he said and looked down.

Yes, he died. Why didn't you cure him, huh? After all, they say you heal, you are a doctor.

My coachman apparently had fun and mocked the old man.

Is this your cart, or what? - he added, pointing his shoulder at her.

Well, a cart... a cart! - he repeated and, taking it by the shafts, almost turned it upside down... - A cart! ?

“I don’t know,” answered Kasyan, “what you will go on; perhaps on this tummy,” he added with a sigh.

On this? - Erofey picked up and, going up to Kasyanova’s nag, contemptuously poked her in the neck with the third finger of his right hand. “Look,” he added reproachfully, “you’ve fallen asleep, you crow!”

I asked Erofey to pawn it as soon as possible. I myself wanted to go with Kasyan to the cuttings: black grouse are often found there. When the cart was already completely ready, and I somehow, together with my dog, had already fit on its warped popular print bottom, and Kasyan, curled up into a ball and with the same sad expression on his face, was also sitting on the front bed, Erofey came up to me and whispered with a mysterious look:

And they did well, father, to go with him. After all, he is like that, after all, he is a holy fool, and his nickname is: Flea. I don’t know how you could understand him...

I wanted to notice to Erofei that until now Kasyan seemed to me a very reasonable person, but my coachman immediately continued in the same voice:

You just see if he will take you there. Yes, if you please, choose the axle yourself: if you please, take the healthier axle... And what, Flea,” he added loudly, “is it possible to get hold of some bread from you?”

Look, maybe you’ll find it,” Kasyan answered, pulled the reins, and we drove off.

His horse, to my true surprise, ran very well. Throughout the entire journey, Kasyan maintained a stubborn silence and answered my questions abruptly and reluctantly. We soon reached the cuttings, and there we reached the office, a tall hut standing alone over a small ravine, hastily intercepted by a dam and turned into a pond. I found in this office two young merchant clerks, with teeth as white as snow, sweet eyes, sweet and lively speech and a sweetly roguish smile, I bargained for an axle from them and went to the cutting. I thought that Kasyan would stay with the horse and wait for me, but he suddenly came up to me.

What, are you going to shoot birds? - he spoke, - huh?

Yes, if I find it.

I'll go with you... May I?

It's possible, it's possible.

And off we went. The cleared area was only about a mile away. I admit, I looked more at Kasyan than at my dog. No wonder they called him Flea. His black, uncovered head (however, his hair could replace any hat) flashed in the bushes. He walked unusually quickly and seemed to be jumping up and down as he walked, constantly bending down, picking up some herbs, putting them in his bosom, muttering something under his breath and kept looking at me and my dog ​​with such an inquisitive, strange look. In low bushes, “in small things,” and on misfires, small gray birds often hang around, which every now and then move from tree to tree and whistle, suddenly diving in flight. Kasyan mimicked them, echoed them; The little quail (Young quail) flew, chirping, from under his feet - he chirped after him; The lark began to descend above him, fluttering its wings and singing loudly - Kasyan picked up his song. He still didn't talk to me...

The weather was beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the heat did not subside. High and sparse clouds barely rushed across the clear sky, yellow-white, like late spring snow, flat and oblong, like lowered sails. Their patterned edges, fluffy and light, like cotton paper, slowly but visibly changed with every moment; they melted, these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. Kasyan and I wandered around the clearings for a long time. The young shoots, which had not yet managed to stretch above an arshin, surrounded the blackened, low stumps with their thin, smooth stems; round, spongy growths with gray edges, the very growths from which tinder is boiled, clung to these stumps; strawberries sprouted their pink tendrils over them; the mushrooms were sitting closely together in families. My legs were constantly getting tangled and clinging in the long grass, saturated with the hot sun; everywhere the sharp metallic sparkle of young, reddish leaves on the trees dazzled the eyes; Everywhere there were blue clusters of crane peas, golden cups of night blindness, half purple, half yellow Ivana da Marya flowers; here and there, near abandoned paths, on which wheel tracks were marked by stripes of small red grass, there were piles of firewood, darkened by wind and rain, stacked in fathoms; a faint shadow fell from them in oblique quadrangles - there was no other shadow anywhere. A light breeze would wake up and then die down: it would suddenly blow right in your face and seem to play out - everything would make a cheerful noise, nod and move around, the flexible ends of the ferns would sway gracefully - you would be glad to see it... but then it froze again, and everything again it became quiet. Some grasshoppers chatter together, as if embittered, and this incessant, sour and dry sound is tiresome. He walks towards the relentless heat of midday; it is as if he was born by him, as if summoned by him from the hot earth.

Without stumbling upon a single brood, we finally reached new cuttings. There, recently felled aspen trees sadly stretched along the ground, crushing both grass and small bushes; on others, leaves, still green, but already dead, hung limply from motionless branches; on others they have already dried out and become warped. Fresh golden-white chips, lying in piles near the brightly damp stumps, emanated a special, extremely pleasant, bitter smell. In the distance, closer to the grove, axes clattered dully, and from time to time, solemnly and quietly, as if bowing and extending its arms, a curly tree descended...

For a long time I did not find any game; Finally, from a wide oak bush, completely overgrown with wormwood, a corncrake flew. I hit; he turned over in the air and fell. Hearing the shot, Kasyan quickly covered his eyes with his hand and did not move until I loaded the gun and raised the crake. When I went further, he approached the place where the dead bird had fallen, bent down to the grass, on which a few drops of blood splashed, shook his head, looked fearfully at me... I later heard him whisper: “Sin!.. Oh, what a sin!"

The heat forced us to finally enter the grove. I threw myself under a tall hazel bush, over which a young, slender maple beautifully spread its light branches. Kasyan sat down on the thick end of a felled birch tree. I looked at him. The leaves swayed faintly in the heights, and their liquid-greenish shadows quietly slid back and forth over his frail body, somehow wrapped in a dark overcoat, over his small face. He didn't raise his head. Bored with his silence, I lay down on my back and began to admire the peaceful play of tangled leaves in the distant bright sky. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience to lie on your back in the forest and look up! It seems to you that you are looking into a bottomless sea, that it spreads widely beneath you, that the trees do not rise from the ground, but, like the roots of huge plants, descend, falling vertically into those glassy-clear waves; the leaves on the trees alternately show emeralds and then thicken into golden, almost black green. Somewhere far, far away, ending in a thin branch, a single leaf stands motionless on a blue patch of transparent sky, and another one sways next to it, its movement reminiscent of the play of a fish bank, as if the movement is unauthorized and not caused by the wind. Like magical underwater islands, white round clouds quietly float and quietly pass, and suddenly this whole sea, this radiant air, these branches and leaves drenched in the sun - everything will flow, tremble with a fugitive shine, and a fresh, trembling babble will rise, similar to an endless small the splash of a sudden swell. You don’t move - you look: and you can’t express in words how joyful, and quiet, and sweet it becomes in your heart. You look: that deep, pure azure evokes a smile on your lips, as innocent as itself, like clouds in the sky, and as if along with them happy memories pass through your soul in a slow line, and it all seems to you that your gaze goes further and further further and pulls you along with you into that calm, shining abyss, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from this height, from this depth...

Master, oh master! - Kasyan suddenly said in his sonorous voice.

I stood up in surprise; Until now he had barely answered my questions, otherwise he suddenly spoke.

What do you want? - I asked.

Well, why did you kill the bird? - he began, looking me straight in the face.

How for what? Crake is game: you can eat it.

That's not why you killed him, master: you'll eat him! You killed him for your amusement.

But you yourself probably eat geese or chicken, for example?

That bird is designated by God for man, and the corncrake is a free, forest bird. And he is not alone: ​​there is a lot of it, every forest creature, and field, and river creature, and swamp, and meadow, and upland, and downstream - and it is a sin to kill it, and let it live on earth to its limit... And for man the food is different: the food is different for him and the drink is different: bread is God’s grace, and the waters of heaven, and hand-made creatures from the ancient fathers.

I looked at Kasyan in surprise. His words flowed freely; he did not look for them, he spoke with quiet animation and meek gravity, occasionally closing his eyes.

So, in your opinion, is it a sin to kill fish? - I asked.

“Fish have cold blood,” he objected with confidence, “fish are dumb creatures.” She is not afraid, she does not have fun: the fish is a dumb creature. The fish does not feel, and the blood in it is not living... Blood,” he continued after a pause, “blood is a holy thing!” The blood does not see God's sun, the blood hides from the light... it is a great sin to show blood to the light, a great sin and fear... Oh, great!

He sighed and looked down. I admit, I looked at the strange old man with complete amazement. His speech did not sound like a peasant's speech: common people don't talk like that, and talkers don't talk like that. This language, deliberately solemn and strange... I have never heard anything like it.

Tell me, please, Kasyan,” I began, without taking my eyes off his slightly flushed face, “what do you do for a living?”

He did not immediately answer my question. His gaze moved restlessly for a moment.

“I live as the Lord commands,” he finally said, “but in order, that is, to earn a living - no, I don’t earn anything. I have been painfully unreasonable since childhood; I’m working while it’s wet, - I’m a bad worker... where am I! There is no health, and my hands are stupid. Well, in the spring I catch nightingales.

Do you catch nightingales?.. But how did you say that every forest, field, and other creature should not be touched?

There is no need to kill her, for sure; death will take its toll anyway. For example, Martyn the carpenter: Martyn the carpenter lived, and he did not live long and died; His wife is now worried about her husband, about her little children... Neither man nor creature can lie against death. Death does not run, and you cannot run away from it; Yes, she shouldn’t be helped... But I don’t kill nightingales, God forbid! I do not catch them for torment, not for the destruction of their belly, but for human pleasure, for comfort and fun.

Do you go to Kursk to catch them?

I go to and from Kursk, as it happens. I spend the night in swamps and woodlands, in fields I spend the night alone, in the wilderness: here the sandpipers whistle, here the hares scream, here the drakes chirp... In the evenings I notice, at mornings I listen, at dawn I sprinkle nets on the bushes... Another nightingale sings so pitifully , sweet... pitiful even.

And do you sell them?

I give to good people.

What else are you doing?

How do I do it?

What are you doing?

The old man was silent.

I'm not busy with anything... I'm a bad worker. Literacy, however, I mean.

Are you literate?

I mean literacy. The Lord and good people helped.

What, are you a family man?

Netuti, without family.

What is it?.. They died, or what?

No, but this: the task in life did not work out. Yes, it’s all under God, we all walk under God; But a person must be just - that’s what! God pleases, that is.

And you don't have any relatives?

Yes... yes... yes...

The old man hesitated.

Tell me, please,” I began, “I heard my coachman ask you, why didn’t you cure Martyn?” Do you know how to heal?

“Your coachman is a fair man,” Kasyan answered me thoughtfully, “but also not without sin.” They call me a healer... What kind of healer am I!.. and who can heal? It's all from God. And there are... there are herbs, there are flowers: they help, for sure. Here is a series, for example, grass that is good for humans; here is the plantain too; There’s no shame in talking about them: pure herbs are God’s. Well, others are not like that: they help, but it’s sin; and it’s a sin to talk about them. Maybe even with prayer. Well, of course, there are words like that... And whoever believes will be saved,” he added, lowering his voice.

You didn't give anything to Martin? - I asked.

“I found out too late,” answered the old man. - What! It's destined for everyone. The carpenter Martyn was not a dweller, not a dweller on the land: that’s so true. No, for any person who does not live on earth, the sun does not warm him like another, and bread is of no use to him, as if something is calling him away... Yes; God rest his soul!

How long ago did you move in with us? - I asked after a short silence.

Kasyan perked up.

No, recently: about four years. Under the old master, we all lived in our previous places, but the guardianship moved us. Our old master was a meek soul, a humble man - may he rest in heaven! Well, the guardianship, of course, judged fairly; Apparently, it just had to be that way.

Where did you live before?

We are with Beautiful Swords.

How far is it from here?

One hundred versts.

Well, was it better there?

Better... better. There are free places, riverside, our nest; and here it’s cramped, dry... Here we are orphaned. There, on Krasivaya on Swords, you will climb a hill, you will climb - and, Lord my God, what is it? huh?.. And the river, and the meadows, and the forest; and there is a church, and there again there are meadows. You can see far away, far away. That's how far you can see... Look, look, oh, really! Well, the land is definitely better here; loam, good loam, the peasants say; Yes, from me there will be plenty of bread everywhere.

Well, old man, tell the truth, do you really want to visit your homeland?

Yes, I would look, but it’s good everywhere. I am a person without a family, a restless person. So what! Are you staying at home for a long time? But as you go, as you go,” he picked up, raising his voice, “and you’ll feel better, really.” And the sun shines on you, and God knows better, and you sing better. Here, look, what kind of grass grows; Well, if you notice, you'll rip it off. Water flows here, for example, spring water, spring water, holy water; Well, if you get drunk, you'll notice too. The birds of heaven are singing... Otherwise the steppes will follow Kursk, such steppe places, this is surprise, this is pleasure for man, this is freedom, this is God’s grace! And they go, people say, to the warmest seas, where the sweet-voiced Gamayun bird lives, and leaves do not fall from the trees either in winter or in autumn, and golden apples grow on silver branches, and every person lives in contentment and justice... And Now I would go there... After all, you never know where I went! And I went to Romen, and to Simbirsk - the glorious city, and to Moscow itself - the golden domes; I went to Oka the Nurse, and Tsnu the Dove, and Mother Volga, and saw a lot of people, good peasants, and visited honest cities... Well, I would go there... and so... and already... And I’m not the only sinner... there are many other peasants walking around in bast shoes, wandering around the world, looking for the truth... yes!.. And what about at home, huh? There is no justice in man, that's what it is...

Kasyan pronounced these last words quickly, almost inaudibly; then he said something else that I couldn’t even hear, and his face took on such a strange expression that I involuntarily remembered the name “holy fool” given to him by Erofey. He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to his senses.

He shrugged his shoulders, paused, looked absentmindedly, and began to sing quietly. I could not catch all the words of his drawling song; I heard the following:

And my name is Kasyan,

And nicknamed Flea...

“Eh!” I thought, “he’s writing…”

Suddenly he shuddered and fell silent, peering intently into the thicket of the forest. I turned around and saw a little peasant girl, about eight years old, in a blue sundress, with a checkered scarf on her head and a wicker body on her tanned bare arm. She probably never expected to meet us; as they say, she came across us and stood motionless in the green hazel thicket, on a shady lawn, timidly looking at me with her black eyes. I barely had time to see her: she immediately dived behind a tree.

Annushka! Annushka! “Come here, don’t be afraid,” the old man called affectionately.

Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, come to me.

Annushka silently left her ambush, quietly walked around - her childish feet barely made a noise in the thick grass - and came out of the thicket next to the old man himself. This was a girl not eight years old, as it seemed to me at first, judging by her small stature, but thirteen or fourteen. Her whole body was small and thin, but very slender and agile, and her beautiful face was strikingly similar to the face of Kasyan himself, although Kasyan was not handsome. The same sharp features, the same strange look, sly and trusting, thoughtful and insightful, and the same movements... Kasyan looked over her with his eyes; she stood sideways to him.

What, were you picking mushrooms? - he asked.

Yes, mushrooms,” she answered with a timid smile.

And did you find a lot?

A lot of. (She glanced quickly at him and smiled again.)

Are there any white ones?

There are also white ones.

Show me, show me... (She lowered the body from her hand and lifted the wide burdock leaf with which the mushrooms were covered halfway.) Eh! - said Kasyan, bending over the body, - how nice they are! Oh yes Annushka!

Is this your daughter, Kasyan, or what? - I asked. (Annushka’s face flushed faintly.)

No, that’s right, relative,” Kasyan said with feigned nonchalance. “Well, Annushka, go,” he added immediately, “go with God.” Look...

Why should she go on foot? - I interrupted him. - We would have taken her...

Annushka lit up like a poppy, grabbed the rope of the box with both hands and looked anxiously at the old man.

No, it will come,” he objected in the same indifferently lazy voice. - What does she need?.. It will come to that... Go.

Annushka quickly went into the forest. Kasyan looked after her, then looked down and grinned. In that long smile, in the few words he said to Annushka, in the very sound of his voice when he spoke to her, there was inexplicable, passionate love and tenderness. He again looked in the direction where she had gone, smiled again and, rubbing his face, shook his head several times.

Why did you send her away so soon? - I asked him. - I would buy mushrooms from her...

“Yes, you can buy houses there whenever you want,” he answered me, using the word “you” for the first time.

And she is very pretty.

No... what... so... - he answered, as if reluctantly, and from that very moment fell back into his former silence.

Seeing that all my efforts to get him to talk again remained in vain, I went to the cutting. Moreover, the heat subsided a little; but my failure, or, as we say, my misfortune continued, and I returned to the settlement with only one corncrake and a new axle. Already approaching the yard, Kasyan suddenly turned to me.

“Master, master,” he said, “I’m to blame for you; After all, it was I who gave you all the game.

How so?

Yes, I know that much. But you have a learned dog, and a good one, but he couldn’t do anything. Just think, people are people, huh? Here is the beast, but what did they make of it?

It would have been in vain for me to try to convince Kasyan of the impossibility of “talking” the game and therefore did not answer him. Moreover, we immediately turned through the gate.

Annushka was not in the hut; she had already come and left the cart with mushrooms. Erofey fitted the new axis, first subjecting it to a strict and unfair assessment; and an hour later I left, leaving Kasyan some money, which at first he did not accept, but then, after thinking and holding it in the palm of his hand, he put it in his bosom. During this hour he spoke almost not a single word; he still stood leaning against the gate, did not respond to the reproaches of my coachman, and said goodbye to me very coldly.

As soon as I returned, I managed to notice that my Erofei was again in a gloomy mood... And in fact, he did not find anything edible in the village; the watering place for the horses was poor. We left. With displeasure expressed even on the back of his head, he sat on the box and fearfully wanted to speak to me, but, waiting for my first question, he limited himself to a slight grumble in an undertone and instructive, and sometimes sarcastic, speeches addressed to the horses. “Village!” he muttered, “and also a village! I asked if he wanted kvass, and there was no kvass... Oh, Lord! And the water - just ugh! (He spat out loud.) No cucumbers, no kvass - nothing. Well, you, - he added loudly, turning to the right harness, - I know you, such a panderer! You like to indulge yourself, I suppose... (And he hit her with a whip.) The horse completely dissembled, but what a willing belly it used to be... Well, well , look around!.."

Tell me, please, Erofey,” I spoke, “what kind of person is this Kasyan?”

Erofey did not answer me quickly: he was generally a thoughtful and unhurried person; but I could immediately guess that my question amused and calmed him.

A flea? - he finally spoke, shaking the reins. - A wonderful man: just as there is a holy fool, you won’t soon find another such a wonderful man. After all, for example, he is like our savras: he got away from the hands too... from work, that is. Well, of course, what kind of worker is he, what kind of soul holds him in, well, but still... After all, he’s been like that since childhood. At first, he and his uncles went as a cab driver: he had three grades; Well, and then, you know, I got bored and quit. He began to live at home, but he couldn’t sit at home either: he was so restless - he was definitely a flea. He got the master, thank you, he was kind - he didn’t force him. Since then he has been hanging around like this, like a boundless sheep. And he’s so amazing, God knows: he’s silent as a tree stump, then he suddenly speaks, and what he speaks, God knows. Is this manners? This is not manners. An incongruous person, as he is. However, he sings well. It’s so important - nothing, nothing.

What exactly is he healing?

What a cure!.. Well, where is he! That's the kind of person he is. However, he cured me of scrofula... Where is he! a stupid man, as he is,” he added after a pause.

Have you known him for a long time?

For a long time. We are their neighbors on Sychovka, on Krasivaya, on Mechi.

What about this girl we came across in the forest, Annushka, is she related to him?

Erofey looked at me over his shoulder and grinned from ear to ear.

Heh!.. yes, similar. She is an orphan; She doesn’t have a mother, and it’s not known who her mother was. Well, it must be a relative: she looks a lot like him... Well, she lives with him. Hot girl, nothing to say; she’s a good girl, and he, the old man, dotes on her: she’s a good girl. Why, you won’t believe it, but he probably wants to teach Annushka how to read and write. Hey, he’ll do it: he’s such a wicked person. So fickle, disproportionate even... Uh-uh! - My coachman suddenly interrupted himself and, stopping the horses, bent over to the side and began to sniff the air. - No, does it smell like burning? This is true! These are new axles for me... And, it seems, what did I smear... Go get some water: by the way, here’s a pond.

And Erofey slowly got down from the irradiation, untied the bucket, went to the pond and, returning, listened, not without pleasure, to the hissing of the wheel hub, suddenly engulfed in water... About six times he had to douse the hot axle on some ten versts, and already completely It was evening when we returned home.

Ivan Turgenev - Notes of a Hunter - Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword, read the text

See also Turgenev Ivan - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Notes of a Hunter - The End of Tchertopkhanov
I Two years after my visit, Pantelei Eremeich began...

Notes of a Hunter - Office
It was autumn. I had been wandering through the fields with a gun for several hours and...

Village

Last day of June; for a thousand miles around Russia is our native land.

The whole sky is filled with an even blue; There is only one cloud on it - either floating or melting. Calm, warm... the air is fresh milk!

The larks are ringing; goofy pigeons coo; swallows soar silently; horses snort and chew; the dogs do not bark and stand quietly wagging their tails.

And it smells like smoke, and grass, and a little tar, and a little leather. The hemp plants have already entered into force and are releasing their heavy but pleasant spirit.

A deep but gentle ravine. On the sides, in several rows, are big-headed, fissured willows at the bottom. A stream runs through the ravine; at the bottom of it, small pebbles seem to tremble through light ripples. In the distance, at the end-edge of earth and sky, there is the bluish line of a large river.

Along the ravine - on one side there are neat barns, cubicles with tightly closed doors; on the other side there are five or six pine huts with plank roofs. Above each roof is a tall birdhouse pole; above each porch there is a carved iron steeply maned ridge. The uneven glass of the windows shimmers with the colors of the rainbow. Jugs with bouquets are painted on the shutters. In front of each hut there is a decorative bench; on the rubble the cats curled up in a ball, their transparent ears pricked up; beyond the high rapids the vestibule darkens coolly.

I am lying at the very edge of the ravine on a spread blanket; There are whole heaps of freshly mown, languidly fragrant hay all around. The clever owners scattered the hay in front of the huts: let it dry a little more in the hot sun, and then go to the barn! It will be nice to sleep on it!

Curly children's heads stick out from every heap; tufted hens look for midges and insects in the hay; a white-lipped puppy flounders in tangled blades of grass.

Fair-haired guys, in clean, low-belted shirts, in heavy boots with trim, exchange glib words, leaning their chests on an unharnessed cart, and grin at each other.

A chubby young woman looks out of the window; Laughs either at their words or at the fuss of the guys in the piled hay.

Another pullet with strong hands drags a large wet bucket from the well... The bucket trembles and swings on the rope, dropping long fiery drops.

The old housewife stands in front of me in a new checkered pane, in new cats.

Large blown beads in three rows wrapped around her dark, thin neck; the gray head is tied with a yellow scarf with red specks; he hung low over the dimmed eyes.

But the old eyes smile welcomingly; The whole wrinkled face smiles. Tea, the old lady is reaching her seventh decade... and even now you can see: she was a beauty in her time!

Spreading out the tanned fingers of her right hand, she holds a pot of cold, unskimmed milk, straight from the cellar; the walls of the pot are covered with dewdrops, like beads. In the palm of her left hand, the old woman brings me a large slice of still warm bread. “Eat to your health, visiting guest!”

The rooster suddenly crowed and busily flapped its wings; the locked calf mooed in response, slowly.

Oh, contentment, peace, excess of the Russian free village! Oh, peace and grace!

And I think: why do we need the cross on the dome of Hagia Sophia in Tsar-Grad and everything that we, city people, are striving for?

I walked across a wide field, alone.

And suddenly I thought I felt light, cautious steps behind my back... Someone was following my trail.

I looked around and saw a small, hunched old woman, all wrapped in gray rags. The old woman's face alone was visible from under them: a yellow, wrinkled, pointed-nosed, toothless face.

I approached her... She stopped.

- Who are you? What do you need? Are you poor? Are you waiting for alms?

The old woman did not answer. I leaned towards her and noticed that both her eyes were covered with a translucent, whitish membrane, or hymen, such as is found in other birds: they protect their eyes with it from too bright light.

But the old woman’s hymen did not move and did not open her pupils... from which I concluded that she was blind.

- Do you want alms? – I repeated my question. - Why are you following me? “But the old woman still did not answer, but only shrank a little.

I turned away from her and went my way.

And now again I hear behind me the same light, measured, as if creeping steps.

“This woman again! – I thought. - Why did she pester me? “But I immediately added mentally: “She probably blindly lost her way, and is now following my steps by ear, so that together with me she can go out to a residential area.” Yes Yes; This is true".

But a strange uneasiness gradually took over my thoughts: it began to seem to me that the old woman was not only following me, but that she was guiding me, that she was pushing me now to the right, now to the left, and that I was involuntarily obeying her.

However, I continue to walk... But ahead, on my very road, something turns black and widens... some kind of hole...

“Grave! – flashed in my head. “That’s where she’s pushing me!”

I turn sharply back... The old woman is in front of me again... but she sees! She looks at me with large, angry, ominous eyes... the eyes of a bird of prey... I move towards her face, towards her eyes... Again the same dull hymen, the same blind and stupid appearance.

"Oh! – I think... – this old woman is my destiny. That fate from which a person cannot escape!”

“Don’t leave! don't leave! What kind of madness is this?... We have to try.” And I rush to the side, in a different direction.

I walk quickly... But the light steps still rustle behind me, close, close... And the pit darkens again ahead.

I again turn in the other direction... And again the same rustling from behind and the same menacing spot in front.

And wherever I rush, like a hare on the run... everything is the same, the same!

“Stop! - I think. - I’ll deceive her! I’m not going anywhere!” – and I instantly sit down on the ground.

The old woman is standing behind me, two steps away from me. I can't hear her, but I feel that she is here.

And suddenly I see: that spot that was black in the distance is floating, crawling towards me!

God! I look back... The old woman looks straight at me - and her toothless mouth is twisted into a grin...

- You will not leave!

There are two of us in the room: my dog ​​and me. A terrible, furious storm is howling outside.

The dog sits in front of me and looks me straight in the eyes.

And I also look into her eyes.

It's like she wants to tell me something. She is mute, she is without words, she does not understand herself - but I understand her.

I understand that at this moment the same feeling lives in both her and me, that there is no difference between us. We are solemn; The same quivering light burns and glows in each of us.

Death will swoop down and wave its cold wide wing at him...

Who will then figure out what kind of fire was burning in each of us?

No! It’s not an animal or a person who exchange views...

These are two pairs of identical eyes looking at each other.

And in each of these pairs, in animals and in humans, one and the same life fearfully presses against the other.

I was walking down the street... I was stopped by a beggar, a decrepit old man.

Inflamed, tearful eyes, blue lips, rough rags, unclean wounds... Oh, how hideously poverty has gnawed at this unfortunate creature!

He extended his red, swollen, dirty hand to me... He moaned, he bellowed for help.

I started rummaging through all my pockets... Not a wallet, not a watch, not even a handkerchief... I didn’t take anything with me.

And the beggar waited... and his outstretched hand weakly swayed and trembled.

Lost, embarrassed, I firmly shook this dirty, trembling hand...

- Don’t blame me, brother; I have nothing, brother.

The beggar stared at me with his bloodshot eyes; his blue lips grinned - and he, in turn, squeezed my cold fingers.

“Well, brother,” he mumbled, “and thank you for that.” This is also alms, brother.

I realized that I also received alms from my brother.

Living - many years ago - in St. Petersburg, every time I happened to hire a cab driver, I entered into a conversation with him.

I especially loved talking with night cab drivers, poor suburban peasants who arrived in the capital with shaggy-dyed sleighs and a bad nag - in the hope of feeding themselves and collecting rent for the masters.

One day I hired such a cab driver... A guy of about twenty, tall, stately, a fine fellow; blue eyes, rosy cheeks; Brown hair curls in ringlets from under a patched cap pulled down just above her eyebrows. And as soon as this torn army coat fit on these heroic shoulders!

However, the cab driver’s handsome, beardless face seemed sad and gloomy.

- What, brother? – I asked him. - Why aren’t you cheerful? Is there any grief?

The guy didn't answer me right away.

“Yes, master, yes,” he said at last. - Yes, and such that there is no need to be better. My wife died.

- Did you love her... your wife?

The guy didn't turn to me; I just tilted my head a little.

- Loved you, master. The eighth month has passed... but I can’t forget. My heart is gnawing at me... and well! And why did she have to die? Young! healthy!... One day the cholera was gone.

- And was she kind to you?

- Oh, master! – the poor man sighed heavily. - And how friendly we lived with her! She died without me. When I found out here that she had already been buried, I now hurried to the village and home. I arrived and it was already past midnight. I entered my hut, stopped in the middle and said quietly: “Masha! and Masha!” Only the cricket cracks. I started crying here, sat down on the hut floor, and slammed my palm onto the ground! “Insatiable, I say, womb!... You devoured it... devour me too! Ah, Masha!

Getting off the sleigh, I gave him an extra five-altyn. He bowed low to me, holding his hat with both hands, and trudged along the snowy tablecloth of the deserted street, bathed in the gray fog of the January frost.

Once upon a time there was a fool in the world.

For a long time he lived happily; but little by little rumors began to reach him that he was considered everywhere to be a brainless scoundrel.

The fool became embarrassed and began to grieve about how to stop those unpleasant rumors?

A sudden thought finally illuminated his dark little mind... And he, without any hesitation, brought it into execution.

An acquaintance met him on the street and began to praise the famous painter...

- Have mercy! - exclaimed the fool. – This painter was archived a long time ago... You don’t know this? I didn’t expect this from you... You are a backward person.

The acquaintance was frightened - and immediately agreed with the fool.

– What a wonderful book I read today! - another friend told him.

- Have mercy! - exclaimed the fool. - Shame on you? This book is no good; everyone gave up on her long ago. Don't you know this? You are a retarded person.

And this acquaintance got scared - and agreed with the fool.

- What a wonderful person my friend N. N. is! - the third acquaintance said to the fool. - This is a truly noble creature!

- Have mercy! - exclaimed the fool. - N.N. is a notorious scoundrel! He robbed all his relatives. Who doesn't know this? You are a retarded person!

The third acquaintance was also frightened - and agreed with the fool, retreated from his friend.

And no matter who, no matter what they praised in front of a fool, he had one rebuke for everything.

Does he sometimes add reproachfully:

- Vicious! Bileweed! - his friends began to talk about the fool. - But what a head!

- And what a language! - others added. - Oh, he's talented!

It ended with the publisher of one newspaper offering the fool to head his critical department.

And the fool began to criticize everything and everyone, without changing at all either his manner or his exclamations.

And what should they do, poor young men? Although, generally speaking, one should not be in awe... but here, go ahead, don’t be in awe - you end up among the backward people!

A life for fools between cowards.