Panteleimon novels story fidelity summary. Panteleimon of novels - stories

The book includes satirical and lyrical-psychological stories by Panteleimon Sergeevich Romanov (1884–1938) of the 1920s-1930s. Their theme is the difficult years of post-revolutionary devastation and the formation of Soviet power; the psychology of people adapting and accepting a new system, the development of new relationships between people, the search for new foundations of morality.

Romanov Panteleimon

Stories

Russian soul

Etude

A professor at Moscow University, Andrei Khristoforovich Vyshnegradsky, in the third year of the war, received a letter from his two brothers from the village - Nikolai and Avenir, who asked him to come to them for the summer, visit them and relax himself.

Andrei Khristoforovich thought and, going to the telegraph office, sent a telegram to his brother Nikolai, and the next day he went to the village.

The busy life of Moscow was replaced by the spaciousness and silence of the fields.

Andrei Khristoforovich looked out the window of the carriage and watched how the plowed hills running past swelled and fell, bridges being repaired rushed by with sleepers scattered down the slope.

Time seemed to stop, got lost and fell asleep in these flat fields. Trains stood at each stop for an infinitely long time - no one knew why, why.

Why are we standing there for so long? - Andrei Khristoforovich asked once. - Are we waiting for someone?

No, we’re not waiting for anyone,” said the important chief conductor and added: “We have no one to wait for.”

We sat on transfers for hours, and no one knew when the train would arrive. One day a man came up and wrote with chalk on the blackboard: “Train No. 3 is 1 hour 30 minutes late.” Everyone came up and read. But five whole hours passed and there was no train.

“You didn’t guess,” said some old man with a keen ear.

When someone got up and walked towards the door with a suitcase, then they suddenly jumped up and everyone rushed to the door vying with each other, crushing each other, climbing over their heads.

It's coming, it's coming!

Where are you going with your bundle?

The train is coming!

Nothing goes: one, perhaps, got up to do his own thing, and everyone shied away.

So why is he rising! The damned one, look, please, he messed up like everyone else.

And when the professor arrived at the station, it turned out that the horses had not been sent out.

What will I do now? - the professor said to the porter. He felt offended. He had not seen his brothers for 15 years, and they themselves called him and still remained true to themselves: either they were late with the horses, or they mixed up the numbers.

“Don’t worry,” said the porter, a nimble little man with a badge on his apron, “at our inn they will provide you with whatever horses you want.” We have one word about this... One word!..

Well, take me to the inn, just don’t get your suitcases so dirty, please.

Be calm... - the man waved his hand over the covers, threw the suitcases on his back and disappeared into the darkness. Only his voice was heard somewhere ahead:

Make your way along the wall, along the wall, sir, otherwise there is a puddle on the side, and a well to the right.

The professor just stood up and rolled somewhere from the first step.

They didn’t bother me... - said the man. - It's true that it's a little dirty. Well, it will dry out soon. We live well here: there’s a wide square right here, to the left is the church, to the right is the priests.

Go after me, go after me, otherwise there will be mud pits here now. Last week, one land surveyor knocked his hand and was forcibly pulled out.

The professor walked, expecting every minute that the same thing would happen to him as to the surveyor.

And the little man kept talking and talking endlessly:

Our area is good. And the rooms are good, Seleznevsky. And the people are good and remembering.

And everything about him was good: both life and people.

“We must knock,” said the man, stopping near some wall. He dumped the suitcases directly into the mud and began pounding the gate with a brick.

Would you be quieter, why are you beating like that?

Do not worry. There is no other way to wake them up. The people are strong. What are you doing there, you've all gone crazy! Are there any horses?

There is... - a sleepy voice was heard from behind the gate.

That's it - there is! You will always sleep in such a way that you will break all your hands.

Come upstairs.

No, you prepare a seat for me in the carriage, I’ll sit down, and you harness it and go. It will be more likely this way... - said Andrei Khristoforovich.

It's possible.

Is the road good?

Road is one word - bast.

Lubok... lubok, that is. Very smooth. Our places are good. Well, sit down, I'll be there in a minute.

Andrei Khristoforovich groped for the footrest and sat down in a huge sob that stood in the barn under a canopy. He smelled of dusty felt and some kind of acid. Andrei Khristoforovich stretched out his legs on the bed of hay and, leaning his head against the back, began to doze. From time to time a fresh cool breeze blew across his face, coming from above through the crack of the closed gate. There was a pleasant smell of tar, covered with fresh hay and horses.

Through his drowsiness he could hear people fumbling with the baggage, pulling the rope behind the carriage. Sometimes his driver, saying: “Oh, you honest mother!”, repaired something. Sometimes he ran into the hut, and then there was silence, which made his legs hum pleasantly, as if stopping while riding a sleigh in a snowstorm. Only occasionally the horses, chewing oats under the canopy, snorted and stepped on the straw.

Half an hour later, the professor woke up in fright with the feeling that he was hanging over an abyss, and grabbed the edge of the sob with his hands.

Where are you going! Hold your horses, crazy!

“Be calm, we won’t abandon you,” he said from somewhere behind calm voice, now I’ll support the other side.

It turned out that they were not hanging over the abyss, but were still standing in the yard, and the driver was just about to oil the wheels, lifting one side of the carriage.

We had barely left the yard when it began to rain, direct, heavy and warm. And the whole neighborhood was filled with the uniform sound of falling rain.

The driver silently reached under the seat, took out some torn rubbish and covered himself with it, like a priest with a robe.

Half an hour later the wheels were already moving along deep ruts with a continuous murmur. And the sobbing kept pulling somewhere to the left and down.

The driver stopped and slowly looked back from the box, then began to look around, as if studying the area in the dark.

What happened? Hey, are you lost?

No, it's like nothing.

What about you? Are there ravines?

No, it’s as if there are no ravines.

Well, what then?

You never know... here, just look, you'll end up somewhere.

Yes, be careful! Where are you going?

The iron foundry clerk Kiryukhin was sitting in a pub with a friend and complaining to him:

Why, please tell me, have we gone ahead in terms of the structure of the state, maybe a thousand years ahead, but in terms of our way of life are we behind everyone else? Abroad, they say, you wouldn’t recognize a worker: he wears a hat and cuffs. And with us!... After all, someone gets a good salary, he could dress himself, dress up his family, clean up his room, say, hang up a picture of any kind. No! Not so. Everything goes only to vodka. And so they lived before, grimy, and so they remained grimy. And what rudeness of morals!... For him to answer you politely or, let’s say, apologize in some cultural way, he’ll fucking hang himself. To act in a noble manner seems to be a shame for him, as if he was humiliating himself. But being disgraceful and walking around in rags is nothing.

“We don’t look at that,” said the friend.

The other day I read about America - sons of bitches! Well, just like gentlemen. He'll put on a hat, it's clean, there are curtains on the windows! Because this is the order. Even if you have at least two pennies in your pocket, you must put necklaces on your neck or cuffs on your hands. Just take me now: I get a nonsense salary, but look, please, everything is as it should be: bell-bottoms, gloves, lace-up shoes. And today I’m going home, taking the gramophone, curtains for the windows, and a hat for my wife. After all, I’m turning around. But out of all our settlements, who lives culturally? One Kiryukhin. The other day, on Sunday, I went out - I was wearing gloves, my wife was in a coat, I apologized to those I met. Even the most wonderful thing is to die now!

Kiryukhin paid, put on his gloves and left. Since the two of us drank ten bottles, Kiryukhin had to apologize at every step.

In! - he shouted. “Now that muzzle over there pushed me, I should have covered it up in vain, and hit it hard in the teeth, but I just apologized.”

And how do you tolerate this?

How can you bear it... I endure it. But, I repeat again, ask who is the most cultured in the entire settlement? Kiryukhin. Come on, back off a little.

The friend stopped. Kiryukhin walked five steps away from him and shouted:

Can you see from a distance that I'm a clerk?

Don't know. Just sir and master.

That's it, brother. But in the summer I’ll put on a bowler hat and you’ll gasp.

Having sat down in the carriage, Kiryukhin spent a long time arranging things on the bench - a gramophone, curtains, a box with a hat - and kept talking to himself. Then he sat down next to some man in a fur coat with an astrakhan collar and said:

I’m on my way home, bringing all sorts of things. After all, it’s like with us: I spent half my salary on drink. I’ve only had one beer this whole month, but can you see how I’m walking? And I force my wife. I suppose it’s not obvious from the outside that I’m an office worker?

The neighbor looked at him and said nothing.

Kiryukhin took out a brush with a mirror and, taking off his hat, began to lick up his wet, sweaty hair with the brush.

But with my wife there is trouble... torment of torment! - he said, holding the brush and mirror in his hands and looking at his neighbor. - Therefore, accustoming our brother to cultural life is like forcing a pig to walk under saddle. After all, at least it’s the same wife. Another would thank God that she has such a husband - one might say, he goes ahead of everyone. And we have swearing every single day, almost leading to a fight. It’s good that she’s quiet, otherwise I’d beat her like Sidorov’s goat. That's how much I hated her - I just don't have the strength. You look in the city - the young ladies are all wearing hats, their marigolds are clean - well, culture, in a word, clean water. And this bastard will tuck up her dirty hem, roll up her sleeves, and only fuss with her pots. And she doesn’t understand anything. I told her all about Ford the other day. Like peas against a wall. Not interested!... I can talk about whatever you want. You don’t say a word, you’re just like some kind of blockhead, and I’m talking. But give me a real person, I’ll talk all the way, you’ll only have my mouth open. But the wife is a bastard, oh, a bastard! Well, I’ll come now, who should I talk to, what should I do to please my eyes? No, I see, I am not a resident in our state. I'll go wherever my eyes lead me. I’ll learn languages and leave. For example, take our party members... they are trying to do something, but it all comes to nothing. From the wrong end.

At the stop, a woman entered the carriage. Kiryukhin rushed to take his things off the bench.

Madam, please sit down, I’m going to relax now.

Don’t worry, I’ll sit here,” the woman said and sat down on another bench.

Kiryukhin sat down again, grinned and shook his head.

Well, it’s just wonderful, by God! - he said. “It would be nice if she were pretty, otherwise she’s kind of ugly, anyone else would just spit on such a mug, and I jump up: “Madam, please,” and I bet she, this madam, didn’t hear anything except swearing in her century.

About ten minutes later the train stopped. The neighbor took his things and left. Kiryukhin moved to another and said:

What a bastard, what a log! All the way I was the only one who spoke, but he didn’t even say a word!

When he arrived at his station, as he passed through the station, he greeted his acquaintances, raising his cap high above his head and bowing slightly to the side.

“Your gloves are good,” one of his friends told him.

“Six and a half,” Kiryukhin answered, putting his things on the floor and taking off one glove to let him look. Coming out to the entrance, he stood for a long time and, squinting his eyes, as if he were short-sighted, looked around the square with the cab drivers standing on it. They surrounded him in their long-skirted caftans with whips in their hands.

When Kiryukhin approached his village, he looked at the thatched huts, rubble, water trucks and at the women and men he met and felt some inexplicable contempt for them because they walked around in sheepskin coats, without collars and could not reason.

And he felt sorry for himself that he was the only one in the whole village so smart, living like this cultural life. And the more self-pity there was, the more contempt for everyone, and especially for his wife.

Of course, it’s good to come home now: his wife is, in essence, a good person, not a loudmouth, not a brawler, and if he were not so cultured, he would feel great.

But as soon as he sees her, he will feel an insurmountable contempt and hatred for her because she is a simple woman and cannot carry on any conversation. You talk to her about America, but she doesn’t know what this America is.

Here he is bringing her a hat. What if, as she dresses up, she will be a stuffed animal? No, if the hat doesn’t help, he’ll throw this matter to hell.

Does he really need a wife like that? He needs a gentle, subtle, delicate woman, just like himself. And this one is like a stupa.

And when the sleigh approached the house, he saw Akulina carrying slops to the pigs, and shouted to her:

Hey, bastard, don't you see that your husband has arrived? Here you go, a gift for you, hat. You probably don’t even know how to put it on. Eh, you snout!... You have attached yourself to my neck... Hello! How are the kids?...

Etude

“You’ve probably gone sour there in the capital, you’ve forgotten your family, but here, brother, the Russian soul is still alive,” wrote Nikolai.

Andrei Khristoforovich thought and, going to the telegraph office, sent a telegram to his brother Nikolai, and the next day he went to the village.

The busy life of Moscow was replaced by the spaciousness and silence of the fields.

Andrei Khristoforovich looked out the window of the carriage and watched how the plowed hills running past swelled and fell, bridges being repaired rushed by with sleepers scattered down the slope.

Time seemed to stop, get lost and fall asleep in these flat fields. Trains stood at each stop for an infinitely long time - no one knew why, why.