On which ship did the Mikit Falcons serve? sea wind

Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov

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I. S. SOKOLOV-MIKITOV

Sixty years of active creative activity in the turbulent 20th century, full of so many events and shocks - this is the result of the life of the remarkable Soviet writer Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov.

He spent his childhood in the Smolensk region, with its sweet, truly Russian nature. At that time, the village still had old life and way of life. The boy's first impressions were festive festivities and village fairs. It was then that he merged with native land y, with her immortal beauty.

When Vanya was ten years old, he was sent to a real school. Unfortunately, this institution was distinguished by bureaucratic behavior, and the teaching went poorly. In spring, the smells of awakened greenery irresistibly attracted the boy beyond the Dnieper, to its banks, covered with a gentle haze of blossoming foliage.

Sokolov-Mikitov was expelled from the fifth grade of the school “on suspicion of belonging to student revolutionary organizations.” It was impossible to go anywhere with a “wolf ticket”. The only one educational institution, where a certificate of trustworthiness was not required, turned out to be St. Petersburg private agricultural courses, where a year later he was able to attend, although, as the writer admitted, he was very attracted to agriculture he did not experience, as indeed he had never experienced, any desire to settle down, to own property, to be a homebody...

Boring coursework soon turned out to be not to the liking of Sokolov-Mikitov, a man with a restless, restless character. Having settled in Reval (now Tallinn) on a merchant ship, he wandered around the world for several years. I saw many cities and countries, visited European, Asian and African ports, and became close friends with working people.

First World War found Sokolov-Mikitov in a foreign land. WITH with great difficulty He made it from Greece to his homeland, and then volunteered for the front, flew on the first Russian bomber “Ilya Muromets”, and served in the medical detachments.

Met in Petrograd October Revolution I listened with bated breath to V. I. Lenin’s speech in the Tauride Palace. At the editorial office of Novaya Zhizn I met Maxim Gorky and other writers. During these critical years for the country, Ivan Sergeevich became a professional writer.

After the revolution, he worked briefly as a teacher at a unified labor school in his native Smolensk region. By this time, Sokolov-Mikitov had already published the first stories, noticed by such masters as I. Bunin and A. Kuprin.

“Warm Earth” - this is what the writer called one of his first books. And it would be difficult to find a more accurate, more capacious name! After all, the native Russian land is really warm, because it is warmed by the warmth of human labor and love.

The stories of Sokolov-Mikitov date back to the time of the first polar expeditions about the voyages of the flagships of the icebreaker fleet “Georgy Sedov” and “Malygin”, which marked the beginning of the development of the Northern Sea Route. On one of the islands of the Arctic Ocean, a bay was named after Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov, where he found the buoy of the lost Ziegler expedition, the fate of which was unknown until that moment.

Sokolov-Mikitov spent several winters on the shores of the Caspian Sea, traveling through the Kola and Taimyr Peninsulas, Transcaucasia, the Tien Shan Mountains, the Northern and Murmansk Territories. He wandered through the dense taiga, saw the steppe and the sultry desert, and traveled all over the Moscow region. Each such trip not only enriched him with new thoughts and experiences, but was also imprinted by him in new works.

This man of good talent gave people hundreds of stories and tales, essays and sketches. The pages of his books are illuminated with the wealth and generosity of his soul.

The work of Sokolov-Mikitov is close to Aksakov’s, Turgenev’s, and Bunin’s style. However, his works have their own special world: not outside observation, but live communication with the surrounding life.

The encyclopedia says about Ivan Sergeevich: “Russian Soviet writer, sailor, traveler, hunter, ethnographer.” And although there is a full stop next, this list could be continued: teacher, revolutionary, soldier, journalist, polar explorer.

“There’s nothing to regret” - and yet it’s a pity

“I was born and raised in the middle part of Russia, between the Oka and Dnieper rivers, in a simple, working family, my great-grandfathers and grandfathers are forever connected with the land” (Quoted hereinafter from: I. Sokolov-Mikitov. Collected works in four volumes. L., 1985; vol. 4. P. 130), wrote Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov in his 1964 “Memoirs”.

He was born on May 17, 1892 in the village of Oseki, Kaluga province; lived a long life, 82 years; died on February 20, 1975, leaving behind books that were highly valued by many of his contemporaries - among them were A. Remizov, I. Bunin, M. Gorky, M. Prishvin, A. Tolstoy, K. Fedin, A. Tvardovsky, K .Paustovsky. He was lucky to have good, loyal friends in life and literature. But I would like to believe that it belongs not only to the history of Russian literature, but also to today.

In one of his favorite works - the story "Childhood" (1931) - the writer lovingly and deeply poetically reproduced the world of childhood, which remained in his memory for the rest of his life and in which he rightly saw the very origins of both his character and his creativity. The image of the young hero in the story is, of course, an artistic generalization in which personal impressions were melted, like wax, illuminated by later life experience, willingly or unwillingly, were subject to the laws of creativity. And yet there is a lot here that is deeply personal and autobiographical; Sokolov-Mikitov wrote about his hero, but thought about himself...

The beauty of Russian nature, the customs and traditions of the Russian village, the kaleidoscope of Russian characters, types that are imprinted in children's consciousness, the most diverse - ordinary, ordinary and extraordinary - events of those distant years, be it heavy thunderstorm on the road or reading books, the death of Uncle Akim - all this was laid in the foundation of the writer’s personality, determined his view of the world, and was later reflected in his artistic creativity... An unaccountable feeling of the fullness of life served as the basis of his natural optimism, which then helped him in the most difficult cases life.

However, childhood is not only a time of happiness and fullness of life; This is also a time of childhood fears, grievances, disappointments, a time when not only teeth and bones erupt and grow, but also personality, soul - and this process is not always easy and simple, often painful, complex, disharmonious. The hero of the story - and, of course, the author - is familiar with despair, and the awareness of his weakness, and the inability to understand many things that sometimes baffle him.

Sokolov-Mikitov’s childhood occurred at a time when a lot was already changing and disappearing in Russia: the poetic “Larinsky” estates were disappearing, the ancient landowner life of Turgenev’s novels, Chekhov’s cherry orchards were being cut down with might and main. Practical Lopakhins came to the village, to Russia, and the “iron” city, with its strict orders and laws, was advancing. The centuries-old way of life of the Russian village and Russian peasant life was being destroyed. “Everything changed in the village then. More and more often, suffering from unemployment and landlessness, men went to work in the cities, moved to mines, to factories. The youth returning from the city, having drank a different life, brought new words, new speeches were heard in the village ..." (p. 47). And yet - “there was still a lot of old, almost untouched in the remote Smolensk village...” (p. 48).

“I have nothing to regret from this past,” we read at the end of the story. “I only regret the broods of grouse, village songs and sundresses that once filled me with pity.” childish feelings joy and love, which no force can now return..." (p. 96).

“There’s nothing to regret” - and yet it’s a pity... It’s a pity for the past, fleeting childhood, for those moments of happiness and fullness of life that he knew, for that world of Russian life, established way of life, customs, it’s a pity for parents, friends, it’s a pity for everything that “ cannot be returned by any means,” - it’s a pity for the past, no matter how wonderful the future may be... With this feeling of slight sadness and love-pity - here it is, his saving “raft” - and the writer says goodbye to his childhood.

We also find many motifs and themes of “Childhood” in the story “Helen” (1929), in which we also see an island of endless Russian space, Russian cosmos. The plot of the story develops slowly, as if gradually. Her chronological framework - Russo-Japanese War, the first Russian revolution of 1905. We learn how Khludov made his capital, how his son squandered his father's inheritance. In parallel with the line of the Khludovs, the theme of the Russian peasantry and its fate resounds in the story, gaining a crescendo. The author tells us about simple Russian peasants, such as the forester Frol, his father nicknamed Okunek, and other residents of the village. At the same time, the writer does not idealize them; he does not hide the fact that village people often turn out to be indifferent to the misfortune of their fellow countrymen. Poverty makes people callous and separates them; what unites them is their common friendly work. A true hymn to the free collective work The chapter "Rafts" sounds - about raftsmen rafting timber down the river┘

The image of Eleni is poetic and realistic at the same time - a quiet river and a small Russian village of the same name, which is located in the forest, in the swamps, in the very heart of Russia. Its middleness, its root essence is confirmed by the fact that it is the focus of many traditions of Russian life, with all its specificity, originality, and uniqueness. This world is dominated by respect for the distant and recent past, for the traditions of our ancestors. Slowly the sprouts of something new are breaking through here - something that comes from the city, from the outside world, with war and revolution. Despite all the isolation and hermeticity of this island of Russian space, it turns out to be vitally connected, united with all of Russia, with its historical soil, destiny.

The story "Elen" was conceived as a novel; it feels a certain incompleteness, lack of development of plot lines, atomic compression of images and individual scenes. However, the material underlying the story and the realistic skill of the artist make it a completely valuable, self-sufficient work. Its relevance is not striking, it is not declared, but it is organic integral part his art world. All this amounts to character traits already established in the late 20s - early 30s of the artist’s creative style.

Writer at 25

The formation of the writer took place in conditions of a sharp revolutionary breakdown of the traditional foundations of Russian national life. He was a witness and participant in the 1905 revolution, February Revolution finally, October 1917. I. Sokolov-Mikitov was drawn to his native land, to the village; he was in love with Russian nature with its open spaces and silence, Levitan's peace. At the same time, by his own admission, he “never experienced an attraction to settled life, property and home life” (p. 136). And therefore, from his youth, his life turned out to be filled with many different events.

He often changed professions (he was a doctor, aircraft mechanic, sailor, etc.), traveled a lot, participated in the First World War, and, as already mentioned, was not just an outside observer in revolutionary events. But, finding himself far from home, he yearned for his homeland, he was again and again drawn to his native places of “middle Russia.” All this was reflected in his work, in which the motifs of the road, partings and meetings, the motifs of distant travels and unquenchable love for the Motherland - as if in a symphony, complemented and enriched each other...

Already at the age of ten, I. Sokolov-Mikitov experienced the first “turning point” in his life, when he and his family moved from the village to the city (Smolensk), where a complex and contradictory world, previously unfamiliar, opened up to him.

At school, he especially did not get along with the law teacher - the class teacher, “who, for some unknown reason, disliked me” (p. 133). From the fifth grade of a real school he was “expelled with a wolf ticket” on suspicion of belonging to student revolutionary organizations.” “The expulsion from the school was preceded by a search in my room on Zapolnaya Street, in the presence of a gendarmerie captain and two policemen. As it turned out later, the reason for the search was the denunciation of a provocateur who served as a clerk in a tobacco shop, behind the partition of which we sometimes gathered" (p. 134). This became the second "turning point" in his life, introducing him to the revolutionary events in Russia.

One of the brightest, “stunning” impressions in the writer’s life was, by his own admission, the impression of the sea, which “conquered” him. He served as a sailor on ships of the merchant fleet, visited many cities and countries, and saw many seas. I. Sokolov-Mikitov recalled that the events of the First World War found him far from his homeland, on the shores of the Aegean Sea, where he wandered around the Chalcedonian Peninsula, near the legendary Olympus, without a penny in his pocket. “He returned to Russia by sea when the First World War was already raging over the world. This First World War, which shook the foundations of the old world, became the third life test" (p. 137).

Then, after living for a short time in the village, he went to the front as a volunteer, served in medical units, flew on the first Russian heavy bomber "Ilya Muromets", whose commander was Smolensk fellow countryman G.V. Alekhnovich is one of the first famous pilots in Russia. During the war years, Ivan Sergeevich continued to write and occasionally published in literary collections and magazines.

He met the February revolution at the front. Later, Sokolov-Mikitov recalled how, as a deputy from the front-line soldiers, he came “to revolutionary Petrograd, flooded with red flags.” Here I met the October Revolution; in the hall of the Tauride Palace he listened to Lenin's speech; Here, in the editorial office of Novaya Zhizn, I met A.M. Gorky and other writers who responded kindly to his creative experiences, for the first time began to think seriously about what soon determined his life, became his destiny... “The revolution became my fourth and final turning point in my life: I became a writer” (Memoirs, p. 137, vol. 4). At that time he was twenty-five years old.

Origins: folklore and “Russian nature”

I. Sokolov-Mikitov himself admitted that one of the main and first sources of his creativity was Russian folklore, Russian folk tales, which he knew well since childhood, loved, from which he drew inspiration. IN different years he created the cycle “Naughty Tales”, in which the writer “in his own language” told some famous fairy tale motifs, developed them, used well-known ones and created new images fairy-tale heroes. Working on fairy tales was a school for him, in which he learned the beautiful figurative Russian language, the ability to tell an artless and simple story, build a plot, combine fantasy, fiction with subtle and deep observations of life, human psychology, with his wise attitude towards genuine moral and spiritual values.

At the same time, Sokolov-Mikitov definitely and unequivocally declared himself as a follower of the realistic school. During these years, he created a series of stories about the war. He writes about what he knows well, what he has seen and heard himself, so his stories are often similar to sketches, essays, and correspondence. The author's commentary in them, as a rule, is minimal, philosophical reflections rare and stingy. At the same time, the main thing for a writer is to convey the state of mind.

The nerve of war stories by I.S. Sokolov-Mikitov - thoughts about Russia, about the Russian character. There is pain and pride, but behind all this is the desire for truth. In the story “Here and There,” the writer reflects on “Russian nature”: “to say God knows what, but to be firm in action”; “to scold and curse the cause, but at the same time to pursue it uncompromisingly to the end, despite troubles and misfortunes” (p. 13).

In the stories "Cuckoo's Children", " Winged words", "Whisper of Flowers", "The Calm Before the Storm" there are many episodes in which the spiritual generosity of the Russian person, his dedication, and irresistible craving for beauty are revealed.

"No people"

Being in distant sea travel, on the fronts of the First World War, Ivan Sergeevich listened to what was happening in Russia. He accepted the revolution - first the February, and then the October - with enthusiasm, realizing the necessity and beneficialness of change, but also well understanding the difficulties facing the new government... The story “Desolation” is about one of these difficulties. “There are no people - that’s what I understood. Conscientious, conscientious people who understand the threatening situation of the country and the revolution.” “The great misfortune of Russia, worse than hunger, is desolation” (pp. 45, 47).

In 1923, his “Letters from the Village” were published in the magazine “Russia”, which contained interesting observations about the village in the first post-revolutionary years. “The ends are strangely mixed up: the twenty-first century is mixed up with the sixteenth century,” notes Sokolov-Mikitov (p. 70). In this mixture there is inevitably a lot of superficial, superficial things, which, in turn, negatively affects the language itself. “Time has filled the village with verbal rubbish - and the woman in the consumer shop, choosing chintz, no longer says to the godfather clerk: “Godfather Arsenya, give me better chintz”; the woman says: “It is advisable to take an energetic chintz.” In the volost executive committee, the chairman says to secretary Kuzka, to a smart guy: “Edit, Kuzka, a piece of paper" (p. 70). “New life, old life - where can I find words?!” - the author exclaims (p. 71). When reading “Letters┘” one involuntarily remembers the characters satirical works V. Mayakovsky, D. Bedny, stories and stories by M. Zoshchenko, M. Bulgakov.

"Sea" stories

In the same 1920s, I. Sokolov-Mikitov developed a whole layer of stories and works of other genres, which reflected the “sea” period of his life, numerous wanderings around the world, and travels.

He is concerned about distant countries, he admires the beauty and landscapes; he is shocked by such simple and eternal values as the sun, earth, sea, birds; he never tires of admiring all the changing splendor of nature day and night, at sunrise and sunset...

The world of sea stories is both romantic and realistic at the same time. Romance emanates from the heroes’ desire to travel, during which the world expands, surprises with its diversity, beauty - a real discovery and comprehension of the world occurs.

Sokolov-Mikitov's heroes are simple working people, sailors, loaders, men and women, Russians and English, Greeks and Turks - a whole gallery of artistic images created with varying degrees of expressiveness, memorable either for their unusualness, originality, or for their specificity and typicality. Most of the scenes are visible and tangible, the portraits are in relief, as if engraved on a medallion.

The author of the stories shows a deep and keen interest in those countries and peoples that pass before his eyes, which he meets when entering foreign ports - these are the ports of Africa, the Mediterranean countries, with their midday heat, the spicy smells of oriental bazaars, and the ports of England, Holland, other countries.

The hero spends years sailing away from his native shores, walking through the streets and squares of foreign ports and cities - and the dream of returning to Russia always remains a longed-for dream for the author himself and his heroic compatriots. Memories of childhood and youth, of parents and friends draw one back to one’s homeland; in his dreams he sees Russian fields and gardens, the river where he fished, roads, forests - the whole world of peace and quiet that is stored in the soul and serves as an inexhaustible reservoir during the difficult years of wandering. Events, both alarming and joyful, draw you home.

True to his creative manner and style, Sokolov-Mikitov, as a rule, does not build complex plots, intricacies, or go into deep philosophical reasoning and the psychological depths of his characters. He is limited to a restrained, meager recording of events, a brief author's commentary; here, it seems, a lot remains behind the scenes... But in the very manner of the narration, devoid of external effectiveness and significance, there is hidden internal energy and the tension of the unsaid, which pushes the reader’s imagination, helps him “complete” a lot himself, as if participating in the process of creation artistic image, a slightly outlined plot.

Restraint of intonation, leisurely external action, keen observation, fullness of words, harmony of the hidden and realized in what is depicted - these are just some of the characteristic features of I. Sokolov-Mikitov’s prose and his style, without understanding which it is impossible to have a meaningful attitude towards the artist and the real value of his work.

Ivan and the fog

The most notable work of Sokolov-Mikitov in the 1920s was the story “Chizhikov Lavra” (1926); it is also fundamentally autobiographical. The story has several time layers that interpenetrate one another, enrich the narrative, help penetrate into the hero’s spiritual world, and better understand the very origins of his character, his worldview. And here important role The hero's memories of his childhood, youth, and those years that preceded his emigrant odyssey play. These memories of the past as a lost paradise torment him, but also help him to withstand and survive in a foreign country. They are the solid foundation on which the building of his personality and his relationship with the world are built. They are like a litmus test that determines the most important life values, which guide the hero in his adult life.

Most of The story is dedicated to the life of the main character, Ivan, in England. He is upset that the British know offensively little about Russia. Peering at his surroundings, noticing the new, unusual, Ivan becomes even more acutely aware of himself, his belonging to Russia, to everything Russian. And now he is even more convinced: “there is something about a Russian person - no matter how he dresses, from a distance it is clear that he is Russian” (p. 157).

Homesickness is perhaps the hero’s most important, persistent pain. She constantly reminds of herself, strangles him - sometimes worse, more evil than “consumption” - truly “even with her head on the doorframe.” This melancholy devalues and distorts everything “here”; from this, sometimes the most ordinary things give rise to inappropriate feelings, unexpected irritation...

With the Bolsheviks coming to power in Russia, the attitude towards Russians abroad worsened even more: “┘they threw us out of the yard like skinny cattle” (p. 159). There was no permanent job, there was not enough money to pay for housing, they ate “naked bread”... A feeling of complete homelessness, almost doom, visits him on the streets of the city, where he spends whole days looking for food and work. “And suddenly it was like a hoof hit me in the forehead: “I’m lost!”... I didn’t really realize myself, there was only one thing in front of me: that there were people, houses, shops - and walls, walls, walls here, and that a person would die here, like where somewhere in the Siberian taiga... No one will even notice, not a single point will move. It became so scary for me then that I could even hit my head on a stone" (185).

The key here is the image of a wall that fences a person off from the world, from society, from his own kind; this is a symbol of a person’s complete alienation from the world around him, the inability to resist circumstances, to simply survive in these conditions. In many ways, a similar function is performed by another image that is often found on the pages of the story - the image of fog. It becomes a capacious artistic metaphor, meaning the vagueness, opacity of the surrounding world, the vagueness of the life goals of a person cut off from his homeland, who has lost touch with the root system of his people. “It was so foggy! People walked around like fish in a muddy pond. And the city was terrible, invisible and deathly yellow” (p. 186).

“Ours” and “theirs”, “ours” and “theirs” is one of the constant, cross-cutting motifs of the narrative, the principles of identification of a person in exile. With his mind, Ivan notes a lot of useful, reasonable things in the orders and customs of foreigners, he is ready to accept a lot, but his soul and heart rebel and reject. Memory colors the entire past in nostalgic tones, preventing it from fitting into “here”...

Various Russian people ended up abroad. The writer creates a whole gallery of types, characters, talks about human destinies - all of them are somehow connected with the revolution, with the changes that took place in Lately in Russia. Often the author only sketches a colorful portrait with a few strokes, without developing in detail this or that storyline, this or that drawing of the image. However, these few touches are enough to outline a unique character. Almost each of them has its own “eccentricity”, its own peculiarity - attractive or repulsive, but in the end we are presented with a rather motley and in many ways characteristic “mixture” of persons, a kind of panopticon of the types that made up the Russian emigration of those distant years.

Quiet classic

There were still years and decades of persistent creative work, moments of insight and ups, hours and days of doubt and despair - all that the life of a Russian artist, living one life with the people, with his country, is full of.

I. Sokolov-Mikitov did not shy away from controversial topics, current problems, often wrote on the “living trail” of events in the center of which he found himself. But at the same time, he retained a special, quiet tone of voice; artificial, superficial pathos was alien to him. He was often criticized for the passivity of the hero, for the insufficiently clear and precise author’s position, for the fact that his work allegedly lies away from the main, “main path” of Soviet literature...

30 years have passed since the death of Sokolov-Mikitov, the previous reproaches have become a thing of the past and have lost their relevance, but our time does not show due interest in this “quiet”, “forgotten classic”. To read it you need silence, peace of mind, faith in man, his purpose on earth, a non-vain, persistent love for the homeland, for Russia is needed - I.S. had all this. Sokolov-Mikitov in full. And one can only believe that his time will definitely come.

One of the brightest, “stunning” impressions in the writer’s life was, by his own admission, the impression of the sea, which “conquered” him.

“There’s nothing to regret” - and yet it’s a pity

In one of his favorite works - the story "Childhood" (1931) - the writer lovingly and deeply poetically reproduced the world of childhood, which remained in his memory for the rest of his life and in which he rightly saw the very origins of both his character and his creativity. The image of the young hero in the story is, of course, an artistic generalization in which personal impressions were melted down like wax, illuminated by later life experiences, and, willingly or unwillingly, were subject to the laws of creativity. And yet there is a lot here that is deeply personal and autobiographical; Sokolov-Mikitov wrote about his hero, but thought about himself...

The beauty of Russian nature, the customs and traditions of the Russian village, a kaleidoscope of Russian characters, types that are imprinted in children's consciousness, the most diverse - ordinary, ordinary and extraordinary - events of those distant years, be it a strong thunderstorm on the way or reading books, the death of Uncle Akim, - all this was laid in the foundation of the writer’s personality, determined his view of the world, and was later reflected in his artistic work... An unaccountable feeling of the fullness of life served as the basis of his natural optimism, which then helped him in the most difficult cases of life.

“I have nothing to regret from this past,” we read at the end of the story. “I only feel sorry for the broods of grouse, village songs and sundresses, I feel sorry for the childhood feeling of joy and love that once filled me, which no force can now return...” (p. 96 ).

We also find many motifs and themes of “Childhood” in the story “Helen” (1929), in which we also see an island of endless Russian space, Russian cosmos. The plot of the story develops slowly, as if gradually. Its chronological framework is the Russo-Japanese War, the first Russian revolution of 1905. We learn how Khludov made his capital, how his son squandered his father's inheritance. In parallel with the line of the Khludovs, the theme of the Russian peasantry and its fate resounds in the story, gaining a crescendo. The author tells us about simple Russian peasants, such as the forester Frol, his father nicknamed Okunek, and other residents of the village. At the same time, the writer does not idealize them; he does not hide the fact that village people often turn out to be indifferent to the misfortune of their fellow countrymen. Poverty makes people callous and separates them; What unites them is their joint, friendly work. The chapter “Rafts” sounds like a true hymn to free collective labor - about raftsmen rafting timber down the river...

The story "Elen" was conceived as a novel; it feels a certain incompleteness, lack of development of plot lines, atomic compression of images and individual scenes. However, the material underlying the story and the realistic skill of the artist make it a completely valuable, self-sufficient work. His relevance is not striking, it is not declared, but is an organic component of his artistic world. All this constitutes the characteristic features of the artist’s creative style that had already developed in the late 20s and early 30s.

Writer at 25

The formation of the writer took place in conditions of a sharp revolutionary breakdown of the traditional foundations of Russian national life. He witnessed and took part in the revolution of 1905, the February revolution, and finally the October 1917 revolution. I. Sokolov-Mikitov was drawn to his native land, to the village; he was in love with Russian nature with its open spaces and silence, Levitan's peace. At the same time, by his own admission, he “never experienced an attraction to settled life, property and home life” (p. 136). And therefore, from his youth, his life turned out to be filled with many different events.

Origins: folklore and “Russian nature”

I. Sokolov-Mikitov himself admitted that one of the main and first sources of his work was Russian folklore, Russian folk tales, which he knew well from childhood, loved, and from which he drew inspiration. Over the years, he created the cycle “Mischievous Tales”, in which the writer “in his own language” told some well-known fairy-tale motifs, developed them, used well-known ones and created new images of fairy-tale characters. Working on fairy tales was a school for him, in which he learned the beautiful figurative Russian language, the ability to tell an artless and simple story, build a plot, combine fantasy, fiction with subtle and deep observations of life, human psychology, with his wise attitude towards genuine moral and spiritual values.

At the same time, Sokolov-Mikitov definitely and unequivocally declared himself as a follower of the realistic school. During these years, he created a series of stories about the war. He writes about what he knows well, what he has seen and heard himself, so his stories are often similar to sketches, essays, and correspondence. The author's commentary in them, as a rule, is minimal, philosophical reflections are rare and sparing. At the same time, the main thing for a writer is to convey the state of mind.

In the stories “Cuckoo's Children”, “Winged Words”, “Whisper of Flowers”, “The Calm Before the Storm” there are many episodes in which the spiritual generosity of the Russian person, his dedication, and irresistible craving for beauty are revealed.

"No people"

While on long sea voyages, on the fronts of the First World War, Ivan Sergeevich listened to what was happening in Russia. He accepted the revolution - first the February, and then the October - with enthusiasm, realizing the necessity and beneficialness of change, but also well understanding the difficulties facing the new government... The story “Desolation” is about one of these difficulties. “There are no people - that’s what I understood. Conscientious, conscientious people who understand the threatening situation of the country and the revolution.” “The great misfortune of Russia, worse than hunger, is desolation” (pp. 45, 47).

In 1923, his “Letters from the Village” were published in the magazine “Russia”, which contained interesting observations about the village in the first post-revolutionary years. “The ends are strangely mixed up: the twenty-first century is mixed up with the sixteenth century,” notes Sokolov-Mikitov (p. 70). In this mixture there is inevitably a lot of superficial, superficial things, which, in turn, negatively affects the language itself. “Time has filled the village with verbal rubbish - and the woman in the consumer shop, choosing chintz, no longer says to the godfather clerk: “Godfather Arsenya, give me better chintz.” The woman says: “It is advisable to take an energetic chintz.” In the volost executive committee... the chairman says to secretary Kuzka, to a smart guy: “Edit, Kuzka, a piece of paper" (p. 70). “New life, old life - where can I find words?!” - the author exclaims (p. 71). When reading “Letters...” one involuntarily recalls the characters of satirical works by B Mayakovsky, D. Bedny, stories and stories by M. Zoshchenko, M. Bulgakov.

"Sea" stories

True to his creative manner and style, Sokolov-Mikitov, as a rule, does not build complex plots, intricacies, or go into deep philosophical reasoning and the psychological depths of his characters. He is limited to a restrained, meager recording of events, a brief author's commentary; here, it seems, a lot remains behind the scenes... But in the very manner of narration, devoid of external showiness and significance, there is hidden the internal energy and tension of the unsaid, which pushes the reader’s imagination, helps him “complete” a lot of things himself, as if participating in the process of creating an artistic image, a slightly planned plot.

Ivan and the fog

The most notable work of Sokolov-Mikitov in the 1920s was the story “Chizhikov Lavra” (1926); it is also fundamentally autobiographical. The story has several time layers that interpenetrate one another, enrich the narrative, help penetrate into the hero’s spiritual world, and better understand the very origins of his character, his worldview. And here the hero’s memories of his childhood, youth, and those years that preceded his emigrant odyssey play an important role. These memories of the past as a lost paradise torment him, but also help him to withstand and survive in a foreign country. They are the solid foundation on which the building of his personality and his relationship with the world are built. They are like a litmus test that determines the most important life values that guide the hero in his adult life.

Most of the story is devoted to the life of the main character, Ivan, in England. He is upset that the British know offensively little about Russia. Peering at his surroundings, noticing the new, unusual, Ivan becomes even more acutely aware of himself, his belonging to Russia, to everything Russian. And now he is even more convinced: “there is something about a Russian person - no matter how he dresses, from a distance it is clear that he is Russian” (p. 157).

With the Bolsheviks coming to power in Russia, the attitude towards Russians abroad worsened even more: “...they threw us out of the yard like skinny cattle” (p. 159). There was no permanent job, there was not enough money to pay for housing, they ate “bare bread”... A feeling of complete homelessness, almost doom, visits him on the streets of the city, where he spends whole days looking for food and work. “And suddenly it was like a hoof hit me in the forehead: “I’m lost!”... I didn’t really realize myself, there was only one thing in front of me: that there were people, houses, shops - and walls, walls, walls here, and that a person would die here, like where somewhere in the Siberian taiga... No one will even notice, not a single point will move. It became so scary for me then that I could even hit my head on a stone" (185).

Various Russian people ended up abroad. The writer creates a whole gallery of types, characters, talks about human destinies - all of them in one way or another are connected with the revolution, with the changes that have recently occurred in Russia. Often the author only sketches a colorful portrait with a few strokes, without developing in detail this or that storyline, this or that drawing of the image. However, these few touches are enough to outline a unique character. Almost each of them has its own “eccentricity”, its own peculiarity - attractive or repulsive, but in the end we are presented with a rather motley and in many ways characteristic “mixture” of persons, a kind of panopticon of the types that made up the Russian emigration of those distant years.

Quiet classic

There were still years and decades of hard creative work ahead, moments of insight and ups, hours and days of doubt and despair - everything that the life of a Russian artist, living one life with the people, with his country, is full of.

I. Sokolov-Mikitov did not shy away from pressing topics and current problems; he often wrote on the “living trail” of events in the center of which he found himself. But at the same time, he retained a special, quiet tone of voice; artificial, superficial pathos was alien to him. He was often criticized for the passivity of the hero, for the insufficiently clear and precise author’s position, for the fact that his work allegedly lies away from the main, “main path” of Soviet literature...

30 years have passed since the death of Sokolov-Mikitov, the previous reproaches have become a thing of the past and have lost their relevance, but our time does not show due interest in this “quiet”, “forgotten classic”. To read it you need silence, peace of mind, faith in man, his purpose on earth, you need a non-vain, persistent love for the homeland, for Russia - I.S. had all this. Sokolov-Mikitov in full. And one can only believe that his time will definitely come.

Before going out into the ocean, they took coal from the bay of a lonely stone island lying on the sea. The matter was urgent, the authorities were in a hurry to hand over the freight, and we loaded quickly, with the help of hired workers, from four barges towed on board at once. Of the entire crew, only the captain's mate went ashore to serve the required port uniform. A town built by crusading knights, which later served as a refuge for sea pirates, named in the medieval style lush and crackling, lay above the bay itself, and the sea stretched around - spacious, dazzlingly blue, with bright bunnies running along the waves. Above him, an elastic, warm wind blew all day from the African coast, stirring the stern flags of the ships, and the feathery leaves of date palms on the shore. The town was white, as if made of sugar, all surrounded by the densest greenery of orange orchards, mysterious because none of us could visit it.
The coal was loaded by half-naked people with uncovered curly heads. In single file, tenaciously stepping with their flat feet, they climbed onto the steamer along planks thrown from the barges to the upper deck, throwing round baskets, black with coal dust, from their thin, wet backs. Dust mixed with sweat lay on their faces, on their bare shoulders, on their thick lips and black eyelashes. Stretching out their necks, lowering their dark ones Long hands, they heavily climbed onto the deck and, straightening up, quickly ran down the flexible gangplank, swaying under their feet, into the barge, where six of the same coal-blackened people with large shovels were throwing heavy, resinous coal into baskets, which glittered dully at the breaks. They worked tirelessly, without rest, and the tarry stream of coal on their backs continuously rose upward and fell into the black mouth of the coal pits. Below, two people, with a habitual movement, hefted baskets filled with coal onto their shoulders, wet with sweat, with muscles and bones visible under the dark skin, and at the top, the other two overturned the baskets into the pit, and each time a cloud of gray, metallic glittering dust rose above the pit. Sometimes one of them, climbing the boards, would let out a thin, prolonged cry, and then everyone would answer him with the same pitiful cries. The work went quickly, because below, reflected in the water, head down, stood a short, smooth, festively shaven man in a light Panama hat pulled down over his eyes, in a loose summer suit and light yellow boots with wide heels.
A short man, protecting himself from dust, stood lazily on board and, with his hands behind his back, slowly rolled the knuckles of an amber rosary in his plump fingers. Round gray, with sharp points of the pupils, his eyes vigilantly followed the continuous stream of coal running onto the steamer along the wet human backs. From time to time, without unclenching his teeth, he uttered a short word in his throat, and then all human queue moved faster.
They began to load coal from noon, when the transparent, as always over the sea, overwhelming sun penetrated the city and the sea, and short shadows were cast from people on the deck. From the ship a white embankment, illuminated by the sun, was visible; women and men walked along it; women in black silk blankets that look like large open wings. And all day on the ship there was that bustle that inevitably accompanies any hasty loading.
The sailors worked below, in the steamship corridors, where it was dark, there was a warm draft, and there was a smell of heated oil coming from the machine. Behind the iron door of the galley, an old Chinese cook was sleepily fiddling with pots; one could hear coal falling with a roar behind the partition.
On the rear deck, at the entrance to the cockpit, the off-duty stokers, leaning on the railings, looked down where a boat filled with fruit swayed on the heavy, slowly sighing water. A tall Greek stood in it and, raising his head, moving his curled black mustache, offered his goods. Another Greek, in striped woolen stockings, with his graying head uncovered, sat at the oars. At the bottom of the boat were fresh oranges, boxes of sardines, Egyptian cigarettes and Greek cognac in thick bottles. The stokers, out of boredom, bargained, using that mixed language consisting of a set of English, Italian, Greek and Arabic words, in which sailors of different nations usually communicate with each other. From time to time they lowered a basket of silver coins on a thin string and in return received a bunch of small, tight oranges. There was a sharp and fresh smell of orange peel on the deck.
In the evening, when a small, wide-bottomed tugboat was moving the emptied barges away from the steamer and the sailors were washing black dust off the deck, a smart motor boat approached the steamer. In addition to two sailors with white bandages wrapped around their heads, there were passengers sitting in it: a young, ruddy man in a pith helmet and a slender girl, dressed with that expensive and careful simplicity by which rich people are recognized. The young man was the first to ascend the grating of the ladder lowered for them and offered his hand to his companion. And the sailors, who were wiping the deck with brushes, saw how she easily and briskly ran up the ladder. The Chinese boy, a windy guy, dry as a fish bone, sliding down to get his suitcases, managed to wink at the watchman standing at the gangway, timidly looking after the new guest.
And in the evening, when they set out to sea and the usual, well-established silence was established on the ship, characteristic of large cargo ships, which usually do not take passengers and remain at sea for weeks, the entire cockpit already knew about the new people. As always, the ship's news came through the barmaid, and from the Chinese boy, who had a difficult-to-pronounce name and was renamed on the ship simply as Ivan, the sailors learned that the passenger and passenger - brother and sister - were very rich people, owners of cotton plantations in the English colonies that they are traveling to Gibraltar. They were taken on board the ship at the request of the shipping agent, out of respect for their wealth. In the evening, each of the crew, on business or idle, tried to run past the open door of the cabin prepared for passengers, from which there was already the smell of expensive perfume.
Passengers remained upstairs on the spardeck all day. They spoke little to each other, with that calm indifference with which close people speak to each other. She went out onto the bridge and, leaning against the counter, looked at the sea, at the setting sun, and talked with the third mate, a young black-headed Latvian who was playing like an American. Laughing, she showed sharp, predatorily protruding teeth. The captain's mate pretended to be old sea wolf, constantly touched the visor, angrily looked away, catching the mocking glance of the helmsman standing over the compass. By the end of the day, there was not a person left on the ship who would not accidentally come up to the gangway to look at how the lightest light green gas curled around the girl’s head. It is not for nothing that sailors are the most sensitive people in the world, and every sailor has a dreamy heart beating under his shirt.
That is why after dinner, when the orderly Misha, a young, pimply guy, put a large copper teapot on the scrubbed table, the senior sailor Suslikov, sitting astride a bench with a needle in his hands, said, sighing:
- Eh, he’s following her! He’s protecting the little one so that the wolf doesn’t eat it... - And, leaning back from his sewing, scratching his wiry, tanned neck with the eye of a needle, he added: - Good girl!..
Passengers hardly slept at night. Covered with down blankets, they sat on the deck in open longchairs until the morning. The month, almost full, floated quietly over the sea. In its light the ship seemed large and ghostly; The lights on the masts turned deathly yellow, the stars melted coldly in the sky. The steamer walked in the middle of a wide silver road stretching towards the moon, and in the flickering light of the moon the silhouette of the forecastle and the lace of the shrouds were clearly visible. Twice the watchman hurriedly and busily ran past the passengers onto the deck. A passenger steamer passed by, and its lights glowed mysteriously for a long time. There was dampness, fog, and iodine coming from the sea. And just after midnight, when the silver road moved to the side and faded away, they went down to the cabin.
And the next morning, an event occurred on the ship that delayed the arrival of passengers for a whole day.
It was like this. At the very hour when the night watch ended and the washed sun rose above the pinkish sea, two new people appeared on the deck. They sat on the roof of the hold, on the canvas, still damp from the night. They were thin, black, almost naked. Their heads, covered with small, lamb-like hair, were small and dark. The large, knotty hands, dry at the wrists, seemed disproportionately long. The taller and older one held with both hands the knee of his right leg, the foot of which, with its ugly toes spread out, was covered in blood. Overcoming the pain, he tried to smile, showing his strong teeth palely.
Standing above him at full height was the fireman Mitya, who had just come off duty, a former wrestler, huge, loose, wearing a dirty net over his sweat-drenched body, with nostrils black from coal, with small eyes lined with coal dust. He stood with his fists on his hips, kneading an oily rag in his fingers, and asked hoarsely:
-Where did you come from, brothers?
They looked up at him with moist dark eyes and grinned pitifully.
- F-fu, devils, how far are you going to go? - Mitya spoke rudely and sympathetically.
Then the one who was younger and darker, almost a boy, showed Mitya with his long bare hand somewhere in the sea.
- Moskov, Moskov! - he said in a guttural bird voice.
- Go Go go! - Mitya cackled, shuddering naked body. - It’s a long way, brothers, to Moscow!
The boatswain, whitish and thick-chested, filled with healthy blood, equally indifferent to everything in the world, came down to them from the spar deck. He glanced at the black people, without taking his tight smile off his face; asked indifferently:
- Hares?
“Devils,” Mitya answered without turning around. - They were hiding in a coal pit. One had his leg broken.
And the boatswain, accustomed to not being surprised by anything, having not yet slept through, without stopping, went into the forecastle to raise the sailors to work.
Half an hour later the sailors, yawning, came out of the cockpit to wash, snorting into their towels and stopping over the hold. And the black people smiled at them naively and slyly, in their dark eyes it was said: “We don’t want harm to anyone, we deceived you a little, but you will understand us and will you come back for us - so poor and pitiful?..”
The sailors looked at them, shaking their heads, chuckling. And again the younger one, suddenly flashing his teeth, pointed to the dawning sea with his hand:
- Moskov! Moscow!
The boatswain passed by again. He was wearing an apron, splattered with paint, and a work suit. He walked, busily looking around the deck, and, as always at this time, went up to the bridge, where the senior mate was walking - a big, white man, who had just taken his watch, smelling of cologne. Climbing the ladder, holding the handrails with his hands, he economically reported on the current work on the ship: about the dried-out boats that needed to be repainted, about the red lead bought in Alexandria, about the cable that had frayed during loading coal - and in the end he said that there were two strangers, apparently coal loaders, hiding in a coal pit.
Of course, no one could be surprised that “hares” were discovered on the ship. What a deal! Is it possible to find a sailor who cannot talk about the many eccentrics who prefer the coal pits of trucks to the luxury cabins of transatlantic steamers? But the ship was heading to a foreign country, where the laws were unshakable and cruel to ordinary people. In those years, the civil war was still raging in Russia, Russian ports were closed, and many ships that remained in the hands of the White Guards wandered the seas and oceans: Russia was unreachable. The ship was aware of the order of the government of a foreign, inhospitable country, which prohibited ship captains, under pain of a severe fine, from importing people who could add extra mouths and unnecessary troubles.
That is why, ten minutes later, in front of the people sitting on the lid of the rear hold, the captain himself stood - a short, stocky, unhealthy yellow-faced non-Russian man, who, like many sailors of his age, suffered from heart and liver problems, and was always irritated in the morning.
Encouraged by general sympathy and cheerful, they looked at him boldly, smiling trustingly. In front of them, on the hatch, stood a tin tank with the remains of the sailors' breakfast, which the orderly had brought out to them. They took from the tank with their own long fingers and, moving the shells of their large ears, they ate slowly. They looked at the captain with the same simple-minded and sly goodwill with which they looked at the sailors. Licking their fingers, they sat in front of him, saying with their eyes: “You see, everything is fine, we deceived you a little, but, of course, you do not wish us harm.”
The captain stood in an unbuttoned tunic, in shoes that strangely did not go to the rusty deck, looking at them with growing annoyance.
- Where? - he asked in English, frowning.
Then the young man, having swallowed his piece and wiped his thick lips with the palm of his hand, looked at him cheerfully, shook his head in a friendly manner, and again pointed into the distance:
- Moskov! Moscow!
- The devil knows what! - said the captain, looking at them, and, cursing solo, so as not to be annoyed any more, he quickly walked to the bridge, where the awakening midday wind was already blowing, it was light, deserted and clean. - The devil knows what! - he repeated, going up the ladder, and, looking at the helmsman, he quickly ordered: - Left on board!
The helmsman, standing at the top helm, moved as usual and answered him in the same tone:
- There's port to board!
It was visible how, tilting slightly, the steamer rolled to the left, faster and faster, leaving behind a wide circle boiling with foam.
When the sun hit my eyes and shadows ran across the deck, and the sun’s glare began to play unbearably on the waves in front of the ship, the captain calmly said:
- Conquer!
- There you have it!
- Keep it up!
“Keep it up!” replied the helmsman, quickly taking control of the helm.
By the time the passengers woke up, the ship was heading back. They came out washed, refreshed, slightly smelling of perfume, in light suits, with a barely noticeable blue under their eyes. And again she, youthfully catching her arms, showing her stocking-covered calves, quickly ran from the lower deck onto the spardeck, towards the fresh daytime wind. For a minute the wind whipped her short dress tightly to her feet. white skirt. Fighting the wind, bowing her head, laughing, she ran, stamping her heels, past the sailors working on the spare boat, and in the smell of wind and oil paint her scent glided through - the smell of a young woman and perfume. A minute later the passengers stood on the bridge in front of the captain himself. And the captain, who had recently scolded rudely, while explaining himself to them, was emphatically polite with that rude politeness that old sailors flaunt, having undergone drill from the sailor's quarters to the salons of a Pacific steamer. He spoke English, his gold teeth gleaming courteously, and as the passengers listened to him, they frowned with displeasure. He, with the air of a kind but inflexible master, explained to them the harsh severity of the laws. Then the passenger’s brother, yielding to his persistence, shrugged his shoulders under his white sports jacket and, touching the visor of his helmet, stopped the conversation. And just like yesterday, they spent the whole day on the spar deck, and the sailors, passing by, saw how the wind played with the sheets of an open book on her lap.
And all this time half naked dark people They were still sitting on the hatch in the rear hold, with their legs stretched out. Now the bright sun was shining directly in their faces, the wind blew across their open heads. In the light of the morning sun, their nakedness and squalor were visible even more clearly, the wind stirred the rags of their clothes. Sailors approached them, patted them on the shoulder in a friendly manner and said, pointing to the east:
- Let's go back, take you home!
And they, not realizing that they were being taken to the place from which they had fled, bared their teeth, looked cheerfully and friendly with dark, submissive eyes.
- Moscow? - someone asked while running.
- Moskov! Moscow! - they quickly responded, bowing and placing dark palms to their chests.
This is how the day passed. They sat on the hatches, looking at the sea, at the distant golden clouds, at the unbearably shining sunny road, at the long line of smoke carried by the wind, and the one whose leg was broken swayed quietly, occasionally closing his eyes, as birds do. By five o'clock, when people, having finished work, came to dinner, they had already settled down so much that the younger one began to sing a strange melancholy song in his throaty voice.
And in the evening, when the shores of the island appeared, smoky blue, like a distant cloud, sailors surrounded them again, pointing to the foggy coastline:
- Home, home! Understand?
They understood when the steamer came very close and colorful flags fluttered on the front mast, calling out the port authorities. They suddenly found out by some sign that appeared to them on the shore. And their horror, reflected in their dark eyes, was so indescribably expressive that no one had the courage to smile while looking at them. They seemed petrified, wilted, and when, swaying on the waves, a port boat arrived and three of them climbed up the storm ladder onto the ship - in red fezzes, with police badges on their blue uniforms - they were ready, they obediently went down into the boat.
Half an hour later, the steamer, leaving the boat on the waves, which suddenly became smaller, was heading out to sea, and in the wardroom, large and clean, the wind blew away the draughty curtains, the sun, penetrating the porthole, ran like a bunny along the walls. The passengers sat at a long table covered with a linen tablecloth. They managed to forget the impression of the morning explanation and joked with the captain. And the captain, as always feeling rejuvenated in the evening, smiled more kindly at them, looking at the girl with impenetrably sharp black eyes. In imitation of the ocean way of life, we had lunch for a very long time. It swayed a little, a bunny ran along the walls, and every time, looking at him, the passenger felt how easily and pleasantly her head was spinning, she wanted to laugh pointlessly...
After a dinner of many courses, when the bunny on the wall turned orange and yellow, the captain ordered the battle to bring liquor from the cabin. Over liqueur and coffee, served in small cups, the passengers for the first time remembered the unexpected reason that had slowed down their journey. Remembering the black people for whom the ship had to be delayed, the ruddy brother of the passenger took out from his pocket golden feather and, having drafted a telegram about the involuntary delay, handed it to the telegraph operator, a young American who was respectfully present at dinner.
At night, the passengers, tired of the journey, bent over and dozed under blankets, and again the month quietly floated over the sea. The open door of the control room flashed with a blue, deathly light, where a milky-white telegraph operator, now strangely resembling a sorcerer, worked. In the morning they went down to the cabin, which still retained the stuffiness of the day. They were awakened only at noon, when a mountainous coast was visible to the right, smoky and ghostly, with a white stripe of surf. Small yachts with sails like gull wings seemed to stand motionless. It was visible how quickly the sky darkened on the horizon and the sea became thick and dark. On the yacht closest to the ship, which was rocking furiously on the waves, the sail was quickly lowered. The passengers - already dressed - stood on the bridge, watching through binoculars how the wind was blowing towards the ship, how quickly the sea was thickening. The wind was coming from the ocean, and the whole ship was ringing slightly.
This went on for an hour: foam flew into the faces of the passengers, it was difficult to breathe, the shrouds sang, the halyards of the signal flags beat harshly against the masts. Bowing her head, holding her hat with both hands, the girl laughed at the wind blowing from the ocean that opened beyond the shores of the strait.
One could see how the water of two colliding currents was boiling and swirling under the steamer, how far and menacingly the waves were moving in the ocean. From the right bank, which jutted out into the sea, a boat was coming towards the steamer. Turning quickly, the boat pulled up to the side, and it became clear that two women and a man were standing in it. The women waved their handkerchiefs, laughing, and the passenger answered them, holding onto the counter and hanging into the sea. The sailors who lowered the ladder again saw how she deftly and quickly ran down. She waved her handkerchief three times to the captain standing on the bridge and smiled.
And an hour later the ship entered the ocean, dark and blue, and - as it happens - no one remembered the passengers, the incident with the black people.

Russian travel writer Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov was born in the Oseki tract, Kaluga province, on May 30 (18), 1892 in the family of a clerk of a timber merchant.

Childhood and early youth writers were held in the Smolensk region.

In 1910, he entered agricultural courses in St. Petersburg, but soon got a job in Reval (now Tallinn) on a merchant ship and for several years visited European, Asian and African ports.

In 1918, Ivan Sergeevich was demobilized and went to his parents in the Smolensk region. He worked there as a teacher at a unified labor school. By this time, he had already published the first stories, noticed by Bunin and Kuprin.

Since 1919, Sokolov-Mikitov has been a sailor on a merchant ship.

In 1920, Ivan Sergeevich, among the crew, was written off from the steamship Omsk, which was sold at auction in Hull (England). Forced emigration began.

He lived in England for about a year, and in 1921 he moved to Germany.

After almost two years abroad, Sokolov-Mikitov returns to Russia. Wanderings around the port lodging houses of Hull and London gave him material for “The Siskin Lavra” (1926).

After returning to his homeland I.S. Sokolov-Mikitov participates in Arctic expeditions on the icebreaker "Georgy Sedov", headed by O.Yu. Schmidt.

Expeditions to the Arctic Ocean and Franz Josef Land were followed by an expedition to salvage the icebreaker Malygin. Ivan Sergeevich participated in it as a correspondent for Izvestia.

Arctic expeditions provide him with material for the series of essays “White Shores” and the short story “The Rescue of the Ship.”

The writer’s numerous travels around the country are described in the books “Lenkoran” (1934), “Paths of Ships” (1934), “Swans Are Flying” (1936), “Northern Stories” (1939), “On the Awakened Land” (1941), “Stories about the Motherland" (1947).

A quarter of a century of life of I.S. Sokolova-Mikitova was associated with Karacharovo, Konakovo district, Tver region. In October 1951, the writer visited his relatives, purchased a log house and began building his “Karacharovsky” house.

Since the summer of 1952, Sokolov-Mikitov has been conducting most of the year. Here Ivan Sergeevich worked on the books “Childhood” (1953), “On the Warm Earth” (1954), “Sounds of the Earth” (1962), “Karacharov’s Records” (1968) and others.

In the book “At the Holy Springs” (1969) he writes: “With a hunting rifle over my shoulders, I walked around the nearby forest lands and traveled in a boat along the Volga. I managed to visit the remote places of the Orsha forest, the Petrovsky lakes, where not every year can penetrate inexperienced person. I met young and old people, listened to their stories, admired nature. While living in Karacharovo, he wrote several short stories, which depict the native nature that is close to my heart.”

In the regional literary and artistic collection " Motherland“New chapters of the story “Childhood” were published. The writer was a member of the editorial board of the collection.

In the regional book publishing house His books “The First Hunt” (1953), “Leaf Faller” (1955), “Stories about the Motherland” (1956), etc. were published.

During the Karacharov period, Sokolov-Mikitov often turned to the memoir genre. Then “Autobiographical Notes” and “Childhood Dates” were written.

The book of memoirs “Old Meetings,” which the author wrote before last day, contains portrait essays writers M. Gorky, I. Bunin, A. Kuprin, M. Prishvin, K. Fedin, A. Green, A. Tvardovsky, polar explorer P. Svirnenko, artist and scientist N. Pinegin and others.

Writers A. Tvardovsky, V. Nekrasov, K. Fedin, V. Soloukhin, journalists, and artists visited the “Karacharovsky” house.

I.S. died Sokolov-Mikitov February 20, 1975. The urn with his ashes was buried in the cemetery in Gatchina.

In 1981, a memorial plaque was installed on the writer’s “Karacharovsky” house.

On which ship did the Mikit Falcons serve? sea ​​wind