Memoirs of Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin (Russian writer) about Anton Pavlovich Chekhov.

It happened that in early childhood you returned to the boarding school after a long summer vacation. Everything is grey, barracks-like, smells of fresh oil paint and mastic, the comrades are rude, the bosses are unkind. While it’s still day, you’re still somehow holding yourself together, although your heart is no, no, and will suddenly shrink from melancholy. Meetings are busy, changes in faces are striking, noise and movement are deafening.

But when evening comes and the fuss in the darkened bedroom subsides, - oh, what unbearable grief, what despair takes possession of the little soul! You bite the pillow, suppressing sobs, whisper sweet names and cry, cry hot tears, and you know that you will never satisfy your grief with them. And then you understand for the first time all the stunning horror of two inexorable things: the irrevocability of the past and the feeling of loneliness. It seems that right now I would gladly give up the rest of my life, I would endure all kinds of torment for just one day of that bright, beautiful existence that will never be repeated. It seems that he would catch every sweet, caring word and enclose it forever in memory, drink into his soul slowly and greedily, drop by drop, every caress. And you are cruelly tormented by the thought that due to negligence, in vanity and because time seemed inexhaustible, you did not take advantage of every hour, every moment that flashed in vain.

Children's sorrows are burning, but they will melt in their sleep and disappear with tomorrow's sun. We adults don’t feel them as passionately, but we remember them longer and grieve more deeply. Soon after Chekhov’s funeral, returning from a memorial service at the cemetery, one great writer said simple but full of meaning words:

We buried him, and the hopeless poignancy of this loss is already fading. But do you understand that forever, until the end of our days, there will remain in us an even, dull, sad consciousness that Chekhov is no more?

And now, when he is gone, you especially painfully feel how precious his every word, smile, movement, glance was, in which his beautiful, chosen, aristocratic soul shone. You regret that you were not always attentive to those special little things that sometimes speak more powerfully and intimately about the inner person than large matters. You reproach yourself for the fact that, due to the hustle and bustle of life, you did not have time to remember and write down many interesting, characteristic, important things. And at the same time, you know that these feelings are shared with you by all those who were close to him, who truly love him as a man of incomparable spiritual grace and beauty, who will honor his memory with eternal gratitude, as the memory of one of the most remarkable Russians writers.

I direct these lines to love, to the tender and subtle sadness of these people.

Chekhov's Yalta dacha stood almost outside the city, deep under the white and dusty Aut road. I don’t know who built it, but it was perhaps the most original building in Yalta. All white, clean, light, beautifully asymmetrical, built outside of any particular architectural style, with a tower-like structure, with unexpected projections, with a glass veranda below and an open terrace above, with scattered, sometimes wide, sometimes narrow windows - it would resemble buildings in the moderne style if its plan did not reflect someone’s attentive and original thought, someone’s unique taste. The dacha stood in the corner of the garden, surrounded by a flower bed. Adjacent to the garden, on the side opposite the highway, separated by a low wall, was an old, abandoned Tatar cemetery, always green, quiet and deserted, with modest stone slabs on the graves.

The flower garden was small, far from lush, and the orchard was still very young. Pears and wild apple trees, apricots, peaches, and almonds grew in it. In recent years, the garden has already begun to bear some fruit, giving Anton Pavlovich a lot of worries and touching, some kind of childish pleasure. When the time came to collect almonds, they were removed from Chekhov’s garden. They usually lay in a small heap in the living room on the windowsill, and it seems no one was cruel enough to take them, although they were offered.

A.P. he did not like and was a little angry when they told him that his dacha was too little protected from dust flying from above, from the Aut highway, and that the garden was poorly supplied with water. Not loving Crimea at all, and especially Yalta, he treated his garden with special, jealous love. Many people saw him sometimes in the morning, squatting, carefully coating the trunks of roses with sulfur or pulling out weeds from flower beds. And what a celebration there was when, amid the summer drought, it finally rained, filling the reserve clay tanks with water!

But it was not the feeling of ownership that was reflected in this troublesome love, but another, more powerful and wise consciousness. As he often said, looking at his garden with narrowed eyes:

Listen, every tree was planted here under my watch, and, of course, it’s dear to me. But that’s not what’s important either. After all, here before me there was a wasteland and absurd ravines, all covered in stones and thistles. But I came and made a cultural, beautiful place out of this game. Do you know? - he added suddenly with a serious face, a tone of deep faith. - Do you know, in three hundred to four hundred years the whole earth will turn into a blooming garden. And then life will be unusually easy and comfortable.

This thought about the beauty of the future life, which echoed so tenderly, sadly and beautifully in all his last works, was also in life one of his most sincere, most cherished thoughts. How often he must have thought about the future happiness of mankind, when, alone in the morning, he silently trimmed his roses, still wet with dew, or carefully examined a young shoot wounded by the wind. And how much meek, wise and submissive self-forgetfulness there was in this thought!

No, it was not an absentee thirst for existence, coming from an insatiable human heart and clinging to life, it was not greedy curiosity about what will happen after me, nor envious jealousy for distant generations. This was the melancholy of an exceptionally subtle, charming and sensitive soul, which suffered unduly from vulgarity, rudeness, boredom, idleness, violence, savagery - from all the horror and darkness of modern everyday life. And that is why, at the end of his life, when enormous fame came to him, and comparative wealth, and the devoted love for him of all that was smart, talented and honest in Russian society, he did not withdraw into the unattainability of cold greatness, did not fall into prophetic teaching, did not go into poisonous and petty hostility towards the fame of others. No, the entire sum of his great and difficult life experience, all his griefs, sorrows, joys and disappointments were expressed in this beautiful, melancholy, selfless dream of the future, close, albeit someone else's happiness.

How good life will be in three hundred years!

And that is why he looked after flowers with equal love, as if seeing in them a symbol of future beauty, and followed the new paths laid by the human mind and knowledge. He looked with pleasure at the new buildings of the original construction and at the large sea ships, was keenly interested in every latest invention in the field of technology and was not bored in the company of specialists. He spoke with firm conviction that crimes such as murder, theft and adultery are becoming less and less common, almost disappearing in a real intelligent society, among teachers, doctors, writers. He believed that the coming, true culture would ennoble humanity.

While talking about Chekhov's garden, I forgot to mention that in the middle of it there was a swing and a wooden bench. Both remained from “Uncle Vanya”, with which the Art Theater came to Yalta, came, it seems, with the sole purpose of showing the then ill A.P. Chu the production of his play. Chekhov valued both objects extremely and, when showing them, he always recalled with gratitude the kind attention the Art Theater paid to him. This is also the place to mention that these wonderful artists, with their exceptional delicate sensitivity to Chekhov’s talent and friendly devotion to him, greatly brightened up the last days of the unforgettable artist.

The crane was an important, sedate bird. He was generally distrustful of people, but he close friendship with Arseny, Anton Pavlovich's pious servant. He ran after Arseny everywhere, around the yard and in the garden, hilariously jumping up and down as he walked and flapping his outstretched wings, performing a characteristic crane dance that always made Anton Pavlovich laugh.

One dog was called Tuzik, and the other was Kashtan, in honor of the former, historical Kashtanka, who bore that name. This Chestnut, however, was not distinguished by anything other than stupidity and laziness. In appearance, he was fat, smooth and gangly, light chocolate in color, with meaningless yellow eyes. Following Tuzik, he barked at strangers, but as soon as you beckoned him and gave him a smack, he immediately turned over on his back and began to wriggle obsequiously along the ground. Anton Pavlovich gently pushed him away with a stick when he approached with tenderness, and said with feigned severity:

Go away, go away, fool... Don't pester me.

And he added, turning to his interlocutor, with annoyance, but with laughing eyes:

Would you like me to give you a dog? You won't believe how stupid he is.

But one day it happened that Kashtan, due to his characteristic stupidity and slowness, fell under the wheels of a phaeton, which crushed his leg. The poor dog ran home on three legs, screaming horribly. The entire hind leg was mangled, the skin and meat were torn almost to the bone, and blood was pouring out. Anton Pavlovich immediately washed the wound with warm water and sublimate, sprinkled it with iodoform and bandaged it with a gauze bandage. And you should have seen with what tenderness, how deftly and carefully his big, dear fingers touched the dog’s skinned leg, and with what compassionate reproach he scolded and persuaded the squealing Kashtan:

Oh, you stupid, stupid... Well, what happened to you?.. Be quiet... it will be easier... you fool...

We have to repeat a hackneyed passage, but there is no doubt that animals and children instinctively gravitated towards Chekhov. Sometimes I came to A.P. one sick young lady, who brought with her a girl of three or four years old, an orphan, whom she took in to raise. Some kind of special, serious and trusting friendship was established between a tiny child and an elderly, sad and sick man, a famous writer. They sat for a long time next to each other on a bench on the veranda; A.P. He listened attentively and intently, and she incessantly babbled her funny childish words to him and tangled her little hands in his beard.

All the simpler people he encountered treated Chekhov with great and heartfelt love: servants, peddlers, porters, wanderers, postmen - and not only with love, but also with subtle sensitivity, with care and understanding. I cannot help but tell here one incident, which I convey from the words of an eyewitness, a small employee in the “Russian Island of Shipping and Trade,” a positive, taciturn person and, most importantly, completely spontaneous in the perception and transmission of his impressions.

It was autumn. Chekhov, returning from Moscow, had just arrived on a ship from Sevastopol to Yalta and had not yet had time to leave the deck. There was an interval of that confusion, screams and confusion that always arise after the gangplank is lowered. At this chaotic time, the Tatar porter, who always served A.P. Chu and saw him from afar, managed to climb onto the ship before the others, found Chekhov’s things and was already preparing to carry them down, when the gallant and fierce assistant of the captain suddenly flew at him . This man did not limit himself to obscene curses, but in a fit of superior anger he hit the poor Tatar in the face.

“And then a supernatural scene happened,” said my acquaintance. “The Tatar throws things on the deck, beats his chest with his fists and, with his eyes wide, climbs on the assistant. And at the same time shouts to the whole pier:

What? Are you fighting? Do you think you hit me? That's who you hit!

And he points his finger at Chekhov. And Chekhov, you know, is all pale, his lips tremble. He approaches the assistant and says to him quietly, separately, but with an extraordinary expression: “Shame on you!” Believe me, by God, if I were in the place of this navigator, it would be better if they spat in my face twenty times than to hear this “shame on you.” And even though the sailor was thick-skinned, it got to him: he rushed about, muttered something, and suddenly disappeared. And they never saw him on deck again."

Office in the Yalta house of A.P. It was small, twelve paces long and six wide, modest, but breathing with some kind of peculiar charm. Directly opposite the front door is a large square window framed with colored yellow glass. On the left side of the entrance, near the window, perpendicular to it, there is a desk, and behind it a small niche, lit from above, from under the ceiling, by a tiny window; in the niche there is a Turkish sofa. On the right side, in the middle of the wall, is a brown tiled fireplace; at the top, in its cladding, a small place, not covered with tiles, is left, and in it, an evening field with haystacks stretching into the distance is carelessly but sweetly painted in colors - this is the work of Levitan. Further, on the same side, in the very corner, there is a door through which Anton Pavlovich’s single bedroom is visible - a bright, cheerful room, shining with some kind of girlish purity, whiteness and innocence. The walls of the office are covered in dark wallpaper with gold, and near the desk hangs a printed poster: “They ask you not to smoke.” Now near the front door to the right there is a bookcase with books. On the mantelpiece are several trinkets and among them a beautiful model of a sailing schooner. There are many pretty things made of bone and wood on the desk; For some reason, the figures of elephants predominate. On the walls are portraits of Tolstoy, Grigorovich, Turgenev. On a separate small table, on a fan-shaped stand, there are many photographs of artists and writers. Straight, heavy dark curtains descend on both sides of the window, and there is a large, oriental-patterned carpet on the floor. This drapery softens all the contours and darkens the office even more, but thanks to it, the light from the window falls on the desk more evenly and pleasantly. It smells like a delicate perfume, to which A.P. there was always a hunter. From the window one can see an open horseshoe-shaped ravine descending far to the sea, and the sea itself, surrounded by an amphitheater of houses. To the left, right and behind, mountains are piled up in a semi-circle. In the evenings, when lights are lit in the mountainous environs of Yalta and when in the darkness these lights and the stars above them merge so closely that you cannot distinguish them from each other, then the entire surrounding area is very reminiscent of other corners of Tiflis...

It always happens like this: you get to know a person, study his appearance, gait, voice, manners, and yet you can always recall his face as you saw it the very first time, completely different, different from the present. So, after several years of acquaintance with A.P., I retained in my memory the Chekhov as I saw him for the first time, in the common room of the “London” hotel in Odessa. He seemed to me then almost tall, thin, but broad-boned, somewhat stern in appearance. There were no traces of illness in him then, except for his gait - weak and as if on slightly bent knees. If you had asked me then who he looked like at first glance, I would have said: “like a zemstvo doctor or a teacher at a provincial gymnasium.” But there was also something rustic and modest about him, something extremely Russian, folk - in his face, in his dialect and in his turns of speech, there was also some seeming Moscow student carelessness in his manners. This was the first impression many people made, including me. But a few hours later I saw a completely different Chekhov - precisely that Chekhov whose face a photograph could never capture and which, unfortunately, none of the artists who painted from him understood or felt. I saw the most beautiful and subtle, the most spiritual human face that I have ever met in my life.

Many subsequently said that Chekhov had blue eyes. This is a mistake, but a mistake strangely common to everyone who knew him. His eyes were dark, almost brown, and the rim of his right eye was much more colored, which gave A.P.’s gaze, with some turns of his head, an expression of absent-mindedness. The upper eyelids hung somewhat over the eyes, which is so often observed in artists, hunters, sailors - in a word, in people with concentrated vision. Thanks to his pince-nez and his manner of looking through the bottom of his glasses, raising his head slightly upward, the face of A.P. often seemed harsh. But you had to see Chekhov in other moments (alas, so rare in recent years), when he was overcome by joy and when, with a quick movement of his hand, throwing off his pince-nez and rocking back and forth in his chair, he burst into a sweet, sincere and deep laugh. Then his eyes became semicircular and radiant, with kind wrinkles at the outer corners, and his whole body then resembled that well-known youthful portrait where he is depicted almost beardless, with a smiling, short-sighted and naive look, somewhat from under his brows. And so - amazingly - every time I look at this photograph, I can’t get rid of the thought that Chekhov’s eyes were really blue.

I noticed A.P.’s appearance. his forehead is wide, white and clean, beautifully shaped; only very recently did two vertical, thoughtful folds appear on it between the eyebrows, at the bridge of the nose. Chekhov's ears were large and ugly in shape, but I have only seen other such smart, intelligent ears on one other person - Tolstoy.

One summer, while using good mood Anton Pavlovich, I took several photographs from him with a hand-held photographic camera. But, unfortunately, the best of them and those that were extremely similar came out quite pale due to the dim lighting of the office. About other, more successful ones, A.P. himself said, looking at them:

Well, you know, it’s not me, but some Frenchman.

I now very vividly remember the squeeze of his big, dry and hot hand - a squeeze that was always very strong, courageous, but at the same time restrained, as if hiding something. I also imagine his handwriting: thin, without pressure, terribly small, at first glance - careless and ugly, but, if you look closely at it, very clear, gentle, elegant and characteristic, like everything that was in him.

A.P. got up, at least in the summer, quite early. None of even his closest people saw him casually dressed; He also did not like various household liberties such as shoes, dressing gowns and jackets. At eight or nine o'clock he could already be found walking around his office or at his desk, impeccably elegant and modestly dressed, as always.

Apparently, his best time for work was from morning to lunch, although, it seems, no one managed to catch him writing: in this regard, he was unusually secretive and bashful. But often on good warm mornings he could be seen on a bench behind the house, in the most secluded place of the dacha, where tubs of oleanders stood along the white walls and where he himself had planted a cypress tree. He sat there sometimes for an hour or more, alone, without moving, with his hands folded on his knees and looking ahead at the sea.

Around noon and later his house began to fill with visitors. At the same time, on the iron bars separating the estate from the highway, girls in white felt wide-brimmed hats hung for hours with their mouths agape. The most diverse people came to Chekhov: scientists, writers, zemstvo leaders, doctors, military men, artists, admirers and admirers, professors, secular people, senators, priests, actors - and God knows who else. They often turned to him for advice, for patronage, and even more often with a request to review the manuscript; various newspaper interviewers and simply curious people showed up; there were also those who visited him with sole purpose"to direct this great but lost talent in the proper, ideological direction." The begging poor came - both real and imaginary. These never met with refusal. I do not consider myself entitled to mention individual cases, but I firmly and surely know that Chekhov’s generosity, especially towards students, was incomparably broader than what his more than modest means allowed him.

People of all strata, all camps and shades visited him. Despite the tediousness of such a constant human cycle, there was something attractive for Chekhov: he became acquainted first-hand, from primary sources, with everything that was happening at a given moment in Russia. Oh, how wrong were those who in the press and in their imagination called him a man indifferent to public interests, to the restless life of the intelligentsia, to the burning issues of our time. He watched everything closely and thoughtfully; he was worried, tormented and sick with everything that the best Russian people were sick with. You should have seen how in the damned, dark times, when in his presence they talked about the absurd, dark and evil phenomena of our public life, - you should have seen how sternly and sadly his thick eyebrows moved, how pained his face became and what deep, supreme sorrow shone in his beautiful eyes.

Here it is appropriate to recall one fact, which, in my opinion, perfectly illuminates Chekhov’s attitude to the stupidities of Russian reality. Many people remember his refusal to become an honorary academician; the motives for this refusal are also known, but not everyone knows his letter to the Academy on this matter - a wonderful letter, written with simple and noble dignity, with the restrained indignation of a great soul:

"In December last year, I received notice of the election of A.M. Peshkov to honorary academicians, and I was not slow to see A.M. Peshkov, who was then in Crimea, the first to bring him the news of the election and the first to congratulate him. Then, a little later, it was published in the newspapers that, due to the involvement of Peshkov in the investigation under Article 1035, the elections were declared invalid, and it was precisely stated that this notice came from the Academy of Sciences, and since I am an honorary academician, this notice some of it came from me. I congratulated him heartily and I recognized the elections as invalid - such a contradiction did not fit in my mind, I could not reconcile my conscience with it. Introduction to 1035 Art. didn't explain anything to me. And after long deliberation, I could come to only one decision, which was extremely difficult and regrettable for me, namely, to ask to relinquish my title of honorary academician.

Listen, guess what? After all, Russia will have a constitution in ten years.

Yes, even here he sounded the same motive about the joyful future awaiting humanity, which echoed in all his works of recent years.

We must tell the truth: not all visitors spared A.P.’s time and nerves, while others were simply merciless. I remember one case, amazing, almost anecdotally incredible in terms of the enormous stock of vulgarity and indelicacy that a person of supposedly artistic rank revealed.

It was a nice, cool, windless summer morning. A.P. I felt unusually light, lively and carefree. And then a fat gentleman (who later turned out to be an architect) appears, as if from heaven, and sends Chekhov his business card and asks for a date. A.P. accepts it. The architect enters, introduces himself and, not paying any attention to the poster: “Please do not smoke,” without asking permission, lights a stinking, huge Riga cigar. Then, having delivered, as an inevitable duty, a few cobblestone compliments to the owner, he proceeds to the business that has brought him.

The point was that the architect’s son, a third-grade high school student, was running down the street the other day and, according to the habit typical of boys, grabbed everything he came across as he ran: lamps, pedestals, fences. In the end, he ran his hand into the barbed wire and severely scratched his palm. “So, you see, dear A.P.,” the architect concluded his story, “I would very much like you to print about this in correspondence. It’s good that Kolya only tore off his palm, but this is an accident! He could have hurt some -an important artery - and what would happen then? “Yes, all this is very regrettable,” Chekhov replied, “but, unfortunately, I can’t help you in any way. I don’t write, and never have ever written, correspondence. I only write stories.” - “The better, the better! Insert this into the story,” the architect was delighted. “Stamp this homeowner with his full last name. You can even put my last name, I agree to that too... Or not... it’s still better than mine not the whole surname, but just put the letter: Mr. S. So, please... Because now we only have two real liberal writers left - you and Mr. P." (and here the architect named the name of one famous literary cutter).

I was not able to convey even a hundredth part of those terrifying vulgarities that the architect, offended in his parental feelings, uttered, because during his visit he managed to finish smoking the cigar to the end, and then it took a long time to ventilate the office from its fetid smoke. But as soon as he finally left, A.P. went out into the garden completely upset, with red spots on his cheeks. His voice trembled as he reproached his sister Maria Pavlovna and an acquaintance sitting with her on the bench:

Gentlemen, couldn't you save me from this man? They would have sent me to say that they were calling me somewhere. He tormented me!

I also remember - and this, I confess, is partly my fault - how a certain self-confident civilian general came to him to express his reader’s approval, who, probably wanting to please Chekhov, began, spreading his knees wide apart and resting his fists on them with his outstretched hands, in every possible way to revile one a young writer whose enormous fame was just beginning to grow. And Chekhov immediately shrank, withdrew into himself and sat the whole time with his eyes downcast, with a cold face, without uttering a single word. And only from the quick reproachful glance that he cast at parting at the acquaintance who brought the general, one could see how much grief this visit brought him.

He was just as bashful and cold about the praise that was lavished on him. It would happen that he would go into a niche, onto the sofa, his eyelashes would tremble and slowly drop, and would not rise again, and his face would become motionless and gloomy. Sometimes, if these immoderate delights came from a person closer to him, he tried to turn the conversation into a joke, to turn it in a different direction. Suddenly he will say, out of the blue, with a slight laugh:

Why is this so?

Very funny. Everyone lies. Last spring one of them came to my hotel. Requests an interview. And I just didn’t have time. I say: “Sorry, I’m busy now. Yes, however, write whatever you want. I don’t care.” Well, he already wrote it! I even felt feverish.

And one day he said with a most serious face:

What do you think: every cab driver in Yalta knows me. So they say: “Ahh! Chekhov? Which reader is this? I know.” For some reason they call me a reader. Maybe they think I read the dead? So, my friend, you should someday ask the cab driver what I do...

At one o'clock in the afternoon, Chekhov had dinner downstairs, in the cool and bright dining room, and almost always there was someone invited at the table. It was difficult not to succumb to the charm of this simple, sweet, affectionate family. Here one felt constant tender care and love, but not burdened by any lush or in a big word, - amazing delicacy, sensitivity and attention, but never going beyond the framework of ordinary, seemingly deliberately everyday relationships. And, besides, there was always a truly Chekhovian fear of everything inflated, elevated, insincere and vulgar.

It was very easy, warm and cozy in this family, and I completely understand one writer who said that he was in love with all the Chekhovs at once.

Anton Pavlovich ate extremely little and did not like to sit at the table, but kept walking from the window to the door and back. Often after dinner, left alone in the dining room with someone, Evgenia Yakovlevna (A.P.’s mother) would say quietly, with restless melancholy in her voice:

And Antosha again did not eat anything at lunch.

He was very hospitable, loved it when people stayed over for dinner, and knew how to treat people in his own special way, simply and cordially. Sometimes he would say to someone, stopping behind his chair:

Listen, drink some vodka. When I was young and healthy, I loved. You spend the whole morning picking mushrooms, you get tired as soon as you get home, and before lunch you drink two or three glasses. Wonderful!..

After dinner, he drank tea upstairs, on the open terrace, or in his office, or went down to the garden and sat there on a bench, in a coat and with a cane, pulling his soft black hat down over his eyes, and looking out from under its brim with narrowed eyes .

These same hours were the most crowded. They constantly asked on the phone if it was possible to see A.P., someone always came. Strangers came with requests for cards and inscriptions on books. There were also funny incidents here.

One “Tambov landowner,” as Chekhov dubbed him, came to him for medical help. In vain A.P. assured that he had long given up practice and was behind in medicine, in vain he recommended turning to a more experienced doctor - the “Tambov landowner” stood his ground: he did not want to trust any doctors except Chekhov. Willy-nilly, I had to give him some minor, completely innocent advice. Saying goodbye, the “Tambov landowner” put two gold pieces on the table and, no matter how much A.P. persuaded him, he never agreed to take them back. Anton Pavlovich was forced to give in. He said that, not wanting and not considering himself entitled to take this money as a fee, he would take it for the needs of the Yalta charitable society, and immediately wrote a receipt for its receipt. It turns out that this was all that the “Tambov landowner” needed. With a beaming face, he carefully hid the receipt in his wallet and then admitted that the only purpose of his visit was the desire to acquire Chekhov’s autograph. About this original and persistent patient A.P. he told me himself - half laughing, half angrily.

I repeat, many of these visitors annoyed Chekhov and even irritated him, but, due to his characteristic amazing delicacy, he remained even with everyone, patiently and attentive, accessible to everyone who wanted to see him. This delicacy sometimes reached that touching point that borders on lack of will. So, for example, one kind and fussy lady, a big fan of Chekhov, gave him, it seems on his name day, a huge sitting pug made of painted plaster, one and a half arshins high from the ground, that is, five times more than natural height. This pug was planted downstairs on the platform, near the dining room, and he sat there with an angry muzzle and bared teeth, frightening everyone who forgot about him with his immobility.

You know, I myself am afraid of this stone dog,” Chekhov admitted. - But it’s somehow awkward to remove it, they’ll be offended. Let him live here.

And suddenly, with his eyes lighting up with a radiant laugh, he added unexpectedly, as was his wont:

Have you noticed that in the homes of rich Jews, such plaster pugs often sit near the fireplace?

On other days, he was simply oppressed by all sorts of praisers, detractors, admirers and even advisers. “I have such a mass of visitors,” he complained in one letter, “that my head is spinning. It’s difficult to write.” But still, he did not remain indifferent to a sincere feeling of love and respect and always distinguished it from idle and flattering chatter. One day he returned in a very cheerful mood from the embankment, where he occasionally walked, and with great animation he said:

I had it now wonderful meeting. On the embankment, an artillery officer suddenly approached me, still quite young, a second lieutenant. "Are you A.P. Chekhov?" - “Yes, it’s me. What do you want?” - “Excuse me for being intrusive, but I’ve been wanting to shake your hand for so long!” And he blushed. Such a wonderful guy, and a sweet face. We shook hands and went our separate ways.

A.P. felt the best. in the evening, around seven o'clock, when they again gathered in the dining room for tea and a light dinner. Here sometimes - but year after year less and less often - the old Chekhov resurrected in him, inexhaustibly cheerful, witty, with ebullient, charming youthful humor. Then he improvised entire stories, where the characters were his acquaintances, and was especially willing to arrange imaginary weddings, which sometimes ended with the next morning, sitting over tea, the young husband saying casually, in a casual and businesslike tone:

You know, honey, after tea you and I will get dressed and go to the notary. Why do you need to worry about your money?

He came up with amazing - Chekhovian - surnames, of which I am now - alas! - I remember only one mythical sailor Koshkodavlenko. He also liked, jokingly, to age writers. “What are you saying - Bunin is my peer,” he assured with feigned seriousness. “Teleshov too. He is already an old writer. You ask him yourself: he will tell you how we walked with him at I.A. Belousov’s wedding. When is it was!" He said to one talented fiction writer, a serious, ideological writer: “Listen, you are twenty years older than me. After all, you used to write under the pseudonym Nestor Kukolnik...”

But his jokes never left a splinter in the heart, just as never in his life did this amazingly gentle man consciously cause even the slightest suffering to anything living.

After dinner he invariably kept someone in his office for half an hour or an hour. Candles were lit on the desk. And then, when everyone had already left and he was left alone, the fire in his large window glowed for a long time. Whether he was writing at this time, or sorting through his memorial books, recording the impressions of the day, it seems that no one knew.

In general, we know almost nothing not only about the secrets of his work, but even about the external, habitual methods of his work. In this regard, A.P. was strangely secretive and silent. I remember once in passing he said a very significant phrase:

He himself did this all the time, although sometimes he made exceptions for his wife and sister. Previously, they say, he was more generous in this regard.

This was at a time when he wrote a lot and very quickly. He himself said that he wrote a story a day back then. E.Ya. Chekhova also spoke about this. “It used to be, when he was still a student, Antosha would sit in the morning over tea and suddenly become lost in thought, sometimes looking straight into his eyes, but I knew that he couldn’t see anything. Then he would take a book out of his pocket and write quickly, quickly. And again he would think...”

But in recent years, Chekhov began to treat himself more and more strictly and more and more demanding: he kept stories for several years, never ceasing to correct and rewrite them, and yet, despite such painstaking work, the last proofs returned from him were dotted with marks all around , notes and inserts. In order to finish the work, he had to write it without stopping. “If I leave a story for a long time,” he once said, “then I can no longer begin to finish it. I then have to start again.”

Where did he get his images? Where did he find his observations and comparisons? Where did he forge his magnificent, unique language in Russian literature? He did not trust anyone and did not discover his creative ways. They say that after him there was a lot left notebooks; Maybe they will eventually contain the keys to these innermost secrets? Or maybe they will remain unsolved forever? Who knows? In any case, we must be content in this direction with only cautious hints and assumptions.

I think that always, from morning to evening, and maybe even at night, in sleep and insomnia, an invisible, but persistent, sometimes even unconscious work- the work of weighing, determining and remembering. He knew how to listen and question like no one else, but often, in the midst of a lively conversation, one could notice how his attentive and friendly gaze suddenly became motionless and deep, as if it went somewhere inside, contemplating something mysterious and important that was taking place in his soul. That's when A.P. and made his strange, surprising, unexpected questions that were not at all relevant to the conversation, which so confused many. They just talked and are still talking about neo-Marxists, and he suddenly asks: “Listen, have you never been to a horse farm? Definitely go. It’s interesting.” Or he asked a question for the second time to which he had just received an answer.

Chekhov was not distinguished by external, mechanical memory. I’m talking about that petty memory that women and peasants so often possess to a strong degree and which consists of remembering who was dressed how, whether he had a beard and mustache, what kind of watch chain he wore, what kind of boots, what color his hair was. It’s just that these details were unimportant and uninteresting to him. But on the other hand, he immediately took the whole person, determined quickly and correctly, like an experienced chemist, his specific gravity, qualities and order, and already knew how to outline his main, inner essence two or three strokes.

Once Chekhov spoke with slight displeasure about his good friend, a famous scientist, who, despite his long-standing friendship, somewhat oppressed A.P. with his verbosity. As soon as he arrives in Yalta, he immediately comes to Chekhov and sits from morning until lunch; at lunchtime he goes to his hotel for half an hour, and there he comes again and sits until late at night and talks, talks, talks... And so every day.

And suddenly, quickly cutting off this story, as if carried away by a new, interesting thought, A.P. added animatedly:

But no one can guess what is most characteristic about this person. But I know. The fact that he is a professor and scientist with a European name is of secondary importance to him. The main thing is that he considers himself a wonderful actor at heart and deeply believes that it was only by chance that he did not gain world fame on the stage. At home he constantly reads Ostrovsky aloud.

One day, smiling at his memory, he suddenly remarked:

You know, Moscow is the most characteristic city. Everything about her is unexpected. One morning we went out with the publicist S[ablin] from Bolshoy Moskovsky. It was after a long and cheerful dinner. Suddenly S. drags me to Iverskaya, right here, opposite. He takes out a handful of copper and begins to give to the poor - there are dozens of them. He puts in a penny and mutters: “About the health of God’s servant Michael.” His name is Mikhail. And again: “God’s servant Michael, God’s servant Michael...” And he himself doesn’t believe in God... Eccentric...

Here I have to come to a sensitive point, which perhaps not everyone will like. I am deeply convinced that Chekhov spoke with the same attention and with the same penetrating curiosity to a scientist and a peddler, to a beggar and a writer, to a major zemstvo figure and to a dubious monk, and to a clerk, and to a small postal official, who sent his correspondence. Is this why in his stories the professor speaks and thinks exactly like an old professor, and the tramp - like a true tramp? And isn’t that why, immediately after his death, he found so many “bosom” friends for whom, according to them, he was ready to fight through thick and thin?

It seems that he did not reveal or give his heart completely to anyone (there was, however, a legend about some close, beloved friend of his, an official from Taganrog), but he treated everyone complacently, indifferently in the sense of friendship and at the same time with great, perhaps unconscious, interest.

He often took his Chekhovian words and these lines, amazing in their conciseness and accuracy, directly from life. The expression “I don’t like this,” which so quickly passed from “The Bishop” into the use of the general public, was gleaned by him from one gloomy vagabond, half-drunken, half-crazed, half-prophet. I also remember that he and I once got into a conversation about someone who had died long ago. Moscow poet, and Chekhov vividly remembered him, and his partner, and his empty rooms, and his St. Bernard, Druzhka, who suffered from perpetual indigestion. “Well, I remember very well,” said A.P., smiling cheerfully, “at five o’clock this woman always came in to him and asked: “Liodor Ivanovich, and Liodor Ivanovich, isn’t it time for you to drink beer?” I then he carelessly said: “Oh, so where did you get this from in Ward E 6?” “Well, yes, from there,” answered A.P. with displeasure.

He also had acquaintances from those middle-class merchants who, despite millions, and the most fashionable dresses, and an outward interest in literature, said “eally” and “principled.” Some of them poured out to Chekhov for hours: what extraordinary subtle “nervous” natures they had and what a wonderful novel a “guineal” writer could make from their lives if they told everything. But he didn’t mind, he sat and was silent, and listened with visible pleasure - only a barely noticeable, almost elusive smile slid under his mustache.

I don't want to say that he was looking, like other writers, for models. But I think that everywhere and always he saw material for observation, and he did it involuntarily, perhaps often against his will, due to the long-sophisticated and never eradicated habit of thinking about people, analyzing them and generalizing. In this secret work there was probably for him all the torment and all the joy of the eternal unconscious process of creativity.

He did not share his impressions with anyone, just as he did not tell anyone about what and how he was going to write. It was also extremely rare for the artist and fiction writer to show up in his speeches. He, partly on purpose, partly instinctively, used ordinary, average, general expressions in conversation, without resorting to comparisons or pictures. He guarded his treasures in his soul, not allowing them to be wasted in verbal foam, and this was a huge difference between him and those fiction writers who tell their themes much better than they write them.

This happened, I think, from natural restraint, but also from special shyness. There are people who organically cannot tolerate, are painfully ashamed of, overly expressive poses, gestures, facial expressions and words, and this property of A.P. possessed to the highest degree. Here, perhaps, lies the answer to his apparent indifference to issues of struggle and protest and indifference to the interests of a topical nature that worried and worries the entire Russian intelligentsia. There was a fear of pathos, strong feelings and the somewhat theatrical effects inseparable from it. I can only compare this situation with one thing: someone loves a woman with all the ardor, tenderness and depth of which a person of subtle feelings, enormous intelligence and talent is capable. But he will never dare to say this in pompous, pompous words and cannot even imagine how he will kneel down and press one hand to his heart and how he will speak in the trembling voice of his first lover. And that’s why he loves and is silent, and suffers in silence, and never dares to express what a mediocre fop expresses in a cheeky and loud manner, according to all the rules of declamation.

Chekhov was invariably sympathetic, attentive and affectionate towards young, aspiring writers. No one left him depressed by his enormous talent and his own insignificance. He never said to anyone: “Do as I do, watch how I act.” If someone in despair complained to him: “Is it really worth writing if you remain “our young” and “promising” for the rest of your life, he would answer calmly and seriously:

Not everyone, my friend, can write like Tolstoy.

His attentiveness was sometimes downright touching. One aspiring writer came to Yalta and stayed somewhere beyond Autka, on the outskirts of the city, renting a room in a noisy and large Greek family. Once he complained to Chekhov that it was difficult to write in such an environment, and so Chekhov insisted that the writer certainly come to him in the morning and study with him downstairs, next to the dining room. “You will write below, and I will write above,” he said with his charming smile. “And you will also dine with me. And when you finish, be sure to read it to me or, if you leave, send it at least as a proof.”

He read surprisingly a lot and always remembered everything, and did not confuse anyone with anyone else. If the authors asked his opinion, he always praised, and he praised not in order to get rid of it, but because he knew how cruelly harsh, even fair criticism clips weak wings, and what cheerfulness and hope sometimes infuses with insignificant praise. “I read your story. It’s wonderfully written,” he said in such cases in a rough and sincere voice. However, with some trust and closer acquaintance, and especially at the convincing request of the author, he spoke, albeit with cautious reservations, but more definitely, more extensively and more directly. I have two letters of his, written to the same writer about the same story. Here's an excerpt from the first one.

“Dear N, I received the story and read it, thank you very much. The story is good, I read it at once, like the previous one, and got the same pleasure...”

“You want me to talk only about shortcomings, and this puts me in a difficult position. There are no shortcomings in this story, and if you can disagree, then only with some of its features. For example, you interpret your heroes, actors, in the old fashioned way , as they have been interpreted for a hundred years by everyone who has written about them - nothing new. Secondly, in the first chapter you are busy describing appearances - again in the old fashioned way, a description that you can do without. The five definitely depicted appearances tire your attention and in the end. Shaven actors look alike, like priests, and remain alike, no matter how hard you portray them. Thirdly, the rude tone, the excesses in the portrayal of drunks. That’s all I can tell you in response to this. Your question about the shortcomings; I can’t think of anything else.”

He always treated those writers with whom he had at least some kind of spiritual connection with care and attention. He never missed an opportunity to convey news that he knew would be pleasant or useful.

“Dear N,” he wrote to one acquaintance, “I hereby inform you that L.N. Tolstoy read your story and that he liked it very much. Please send him your book to the address: Koreiz, Tauride province, and to In the title, underline the stories that you find best, so that while reading, he starts with them, or send me the book, and I’ll give it to him.”

He also once showed a kind courtesy to the writer of these lines, informing him in a letter that “in the Dictionary of the Russian Language, published by the Academy of Sciences, in the sixth issue of the second volume, which (that is, the issue) I received today, you finally appeared. So, on page such and such, etc."

All these, of course, are little things, but they show so much concern and care that now, when this amazing artist is no longer wonderful person, his letters take on the meaning of some distant, irrevocable caress.

Write, write as much as possible, he told aspiring fiction writers. - It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t quite work out for you. Then it will come out better. And most importantly, don’t waste your youth and elasticity: now all you have to do is work. Look: you write wonderfully, but your vocabulary is small. You need to pick up words and phrases, and for this you need to write every day.

And he himself worked tirelessly on himself, enriching his charming, varied language from everywhere: from conversations, from dictionaries, from catalogues, from scientific works, from sacred books. This silent man's vocabulary was unusually enormous.

Listen, travel in third class more often,” he advised. - I regret that illness now prevents me from traveling in third class. Sometimes you hear wonderfully interesting things there.

He was also surprised at those writers who, for entire years, see nothing but the neighboring firewall from the windows of their St. Petersburg offices. And often he spoke with a touch of impatience:

I don’t understand why you, young, healthy and free, don’t go, for example, to Australia (Australia was for some reason his favorite part of the world) or to Siberia? As soon as I feel better, I will certainly go to Siberia again. I was there when I went to Sakhalin. You can’t even imagine, my friend, what it’s like wonderful country. A very special state. You know, I am convinced that Siberia will someday completely separate from Russia, just as America separated from the metropolis. Go, definitely go there...

Why don't you write a play? - he asked sometimes. - Write it down, really. Every writer must write at least four plays.

But he immediately agreed that the dramatic genre of writing is losing interest every day in our time. “Drama must either degenerate completely, or take on completely new, unprecedented forms,” he said. “We cannot even imagine what the theater will be like in a hundred years.”

We visited A.P. sometimes small contradictions that seemed especially attractive in him and at the same time had a deep inner meaning. This happened once with the question about notebooks. Chekhov just enthusiastically convinced us not to turn to their help, relying in everything on memory and imagination. “The big things will remain,” he argued, “but you will always invent or find little things.” But then, an hour later, one of those present, who by chance had spent a year on stage, began to talk about his theatrical impressions and, by the way, mentioned such an incident. There is a daytime rehearsal in the garden theater of a small provincial town. The first lover, wearing a hat and checkered trousers, hands in his pockets, walks around the stage, showing off in front of a random audience that has wandered into the auditorium. The engenue comedian, his “theater” wife, who was also on stage, turns to him: “Sasha, how did you hum from Pagliacci yesterday? Whistle, please.” The first lover turns to her, slowly measures her from head to toe with a destroying gaze and says in a bold actor’s voice: “What? Whistling on stage? And in church will you whistle? So know that the stage is the same temple!”

After this story A.P. He threw off his pince-nez, leaned back in his chair and laughed his loud, clear laugh. And he immediately reached into the side drawer of the table for his notebook. “Wait, wait, how did you tell this? The stage is a temple?..” And he wrote down the whole joke.

In essence, there was not even a contradiction in all this, and A.P. himself then he explained it. “There is no need to write down comparisons, neat lines, details, pictures of nature - this should appear by itself when it is needed. But a bare fact, a rare name, a technical name must be entered in a book - otherwise it will be forgotten, dissipated.”

Chekhov often recalled the difficult moments that the editors of serious magazines brought him, until he finally conquered them with the light hand of Severny Vestnik.

In one respect, you should all be grateful to me, he told the young writers. - It was I who opened the way for authors of short stories. It used to happen that when you brought a manuscript to the editorial office, they didn’t even want to read it. They will just look at you with disdain. “What? Is this called a work? But it’s shorter than a sparrow’s nose. No, we don’t need such things.” But I achieved it and showed others the way. Who cares, is that how I was treated! They made my name a household name. So they joked, it happened: “Oh, you, Che-ho-you!” It must have been funny.

Anton Pavlovich had a high opinion of modern literature, that is, strictly speaking, of the technique of modern writing. “Everyone has begun to write wonderfully these days, there are no bad writers at all,” he said in a decisive tone. “And that’s why it’s now becoming increasingly difficult to break out of obscurity. And, you know, who made such a revolution? Maupassant. He, as an artist of words, staged such huge demands that it has become impossible to write in the old way. Now try to re-read some of our classics, well, even Pisemsky, Grigorovich or Ostrovsky, just try, and you will see how old it is and how commonplace it is. on the other hand, our decadents. They are only pretending to be sick and crazy - they are all healthy men, but they are masters of writing."

At the same time, he demanded from writers ordinary, everyday plots, simplicity of presentation and the absence of spectacular scenes. “Why write this,” he wondered, “that someone boarded a submarine and went to the North Pole to seek some kind of reconciliation with people, and at the same time his beloved throws herself from the bell tower with a dramatic scream? All this is not true, and in in reality this does not happen. You need to write simply: about how Pyotr Semenovich married Marya Ivanovna. And then, why these subtitles: a psychic study, a genre, a short story? Put a simpler title anyway. whatever comes to mind - and nothing more. Also use less quotation marks, italics and dashes - this is mannered."

He also taught that the writer should remain indifferent to the joys and sorrows of his heroes. “In one good story,” he said, “I read a description of a seaside restaurant in a big city. And it’s immediately clear that the author is a curiosity about both this music and electric light, and roses in buttonholes, and that he admires them himself. Yes - not good. You need to stand outside these things and, although you know them well, down to the smallest detail, look at them as if with contempt, from top to bottom. And it will turn out right."

The son of Alphonse Daudet, in his memoirs of his father, mentions that this talented French writer half-jokingly called himself a “seller of happiness.” People of different positions constantly turned to him for advice and help, they came with their grief and worries, and he, already chained to a chair with an incurable, painful illness, found in himself enough courage, patience and love for a person to enter with his soul into someone else's grief , comfort, reassure and encourage.

Chekhov, of course, due to his extraordinary modesty and aversion to phrases, would never have said anything like that about himself, but how often did he have to listen to difficult confessions, help in word and deed, extend his tender and firm hand to the falling. In his amazing objectivity, standing above private sorrows and joys, he knew and saw everything. But nothing personal prevented his penetration. He could be kind and generous without loving, affectionate and sympathetic - without affection, a benefactor - without expecting gratitude. And in these features, which always remained unclear to those around him, lies, perhaps, the main clue to his personality.

Using the permission of one of my friends, I will give a short excerpt from Chekhov’s letter. The fact is that this man experienced great anxiety during the first pregnancy of his beloved wife and, to tell the truth, quite bothered A.P. with your pain. And Chekhov once wrote to him:

“Tell your wife not to worry, everything will turn out well. The birth will last about 20 hours, and then a most blissful state will come when she will smile, and you will want to cry with tenderness. 20 hours is the usual maximum for the first birth.”

What subtle attention to someone else’s anxiety is heard in these few, simple lines. But what is even more characteristic is that when later, having already become a happy father, this friend of mine asked, remembering the letter, how Chekhov knew these feelings so well, A.P. answered calmly, even indifferently:

Why, when I lived in the village, I constantly had to receive from women. It’s all the same - and there’s the same joy.

If Chekhov had not been such a wonderful writer, he would have been an excellent doctor. Doctors who occasionally invited him for consultations spoke of him as an extremely thoughtful observer and a resourceful, insightful diagnostician. And it would not be surprising if his diagnosis turned out to be more perfect and deeper than the diagnosis made by some fashionable celebrity. He saw and heard in a person - in his face, voice, gait - what was hidden from others, what did not give in, eluded the eye of the average observer.

He himself preferred to advise, in those rare cases when he was approached, proven, simple, mostly home remedies. By the way, he treated children extremely successfully.

He believed in medicine firmly and firmly, and nothing could shake this faith. I remember how he once got angry when someone began to disparage medicine based on Zola’s novel “Doctor Pascal.”

“Your Zola doesn’t understand anything and makes everything up in his office,” he said, nervously and coughing. - Let him go and see how our zemstvo doctors work and what they do for the people.

And who doesn’t know with what sympathetic features, with what love through outer rigidity and how often he described these wonderful workers, these unknown and unnoticed heroes, consciously condemning their names to oblivion? He described it without even sparing them.

There is a saying: the death of every person is like him. You involuntarily remember him when you think about the last years of Chekhov’s life, about his last days, even about his last minutes. Even at his funeral itself, fate introduced, by some fatal sequence, many purely Chekhovian traits.

He struggled with the inexorable disease for a long, terribly long time, but he endured it courageously, simply and patiently, without irritation, without complaints, almost without words. Recently, only in passing, he casually mentions in letters about his health: “My health has improved, although I still walk with a compress...”, “I just suffered from pleurisy, but now I’m better...”, “My health is not good. .. I’m writing little by little..."

He did not like to talk about his illness and became angry when he was questioned. Only sometimes you would learn something from Arseny. “This morning it was very bad - there was blood,” he will say in a whisper, shaking his head. Or Evgenia Yakovlevna will tell you in confidence with melancholy in her voice:

And today Antosha again tossed and turned all night and coughed. I can hear everything through the wall.

Did he know the extent and significance of his illness? I think he knew, but fearlessly, like a doctor and a sage, he looked into the eyes of impending death. There were various small circumstances that pointed to this. So, for example, one lady who complained to him about insomnia and nervous breakdown, he said calmly, with just a hint of submissive sadness:

You see, as long as a person's lungs are good, everything is fine.

He died simply, touchingly and consciously. They say his last words were: “Ich sterbe!”*. And his last days were darkened by deep sorrow for Russia, they were agitated by the horror of the bloody, monstrous Japanese war...

______________

*I'm dying! (German)

Like a dream, I remember his funeral. Cold, gray Petersburg, confusion with telegrams, a small group of people at the station, an “oyster car”, station authorities who had never heard of Chekhov and saw in his body only railway cargo. Then, as a contrast, Moscow, spontaneous grief, thousands of seemingly orphaned people, tear-stained faces. And finally, the grave at the Novodevichy cemetery, all littered with flowers, next to the modest grave of the “Cossack widow Olga Kukaretnikova.”

I remember the memorial service at the cemetery the day after his funeral. It was a quiet July evening, and the old linden trees above the graves, golden from the sun, stood motionless. The singing of gentle female voices sounded with quiet, submissive sadness and deep sighs. And then many people had some kind of confused, heavy bewilderment in their souls.

They left the cemetery slowly, in silence. I went up to Chekhov's mother and wordlessly kissed her hand. And she said to the tired in a weak voice:

What a grief we have... Antoshi is gone...

Oh, this amazing depth of simple, ordinary, truly Chekhovian words! The entire enormous abyss of loss, the entire irreversibility of the event that had taken place opened up behind them. No! Consolations would be powerless here. Can the grief of those people whose souls so closely touched the great soul of the chosen one be exhausted and calmed down?

But let the knowledge that their grief is our common grief ease their unquenchable melancholy. Let it be softened by the thought of unforgettableness, of the immortality of this beautiful, pure name. In fact, years and centuries will pass, and time will erase even the very memory of thousands of thousands of people living today. But distant future descendants, whose happiness Chekhov dreamed of with such charming sadness, will pronounce his name with gratitude and with quiet sadness about his fate.

He was about forty-five years old. Gray-haired, long-locked, and without a hat, limping slightly on his right leg, he sedately entered the cabin, offered Grachev a long, calloused hand and said in a sternly restrained voice:

Stepan Ilyich I. My son is here, Igor Krylov.

Peter shook the guest's hand and invited him to sit in a chair.

He knew little about Krylov's father. I heard that Stepan Ilyich fought as a machine gunner, fought many difficult roads, was wounded, and almost lost both legs. I knew this from others, but as for Krylov, the sailor remained silent.

Dad, like everyone else, is strict...

Grachev somehow had the idea of writing to his father about his service. Tell the front-line soldier the truth, let him influence his son. But the political officer did not recommend doing this, they say, why admit to your own powerlessness? And now he himself has arrived.

I immediately recognized him former front-line soldier, and political officer Ledenev is a kind nature...

He also visited his son’s combat post. Stepan Ilyich handed Grachev a leather pouch:

Light up your tobacco, it’s very strong!.. Well, how’s my son doing? Comrade Serebryakov said that he is under your command. On the collective farm they loved him very much...

“And here he is a slob,” Peter almost burst out. Even when he returned to the ship (the lieutenant was in the city all day on his business), he entered the radio room, he immediately read confusion on Krylov’s face, mixed with a feeling of some kind of timidity. At first, Peter thought that the sailor had caused trouble again, or perhaps Tanya had come here. But Igor approached him and quietly said: “Dad has arrived, he is in the political officer’s cabin, waiting for you...” And the sailor also asked not to say a word to his father about Tanya. Cool father, he won’t understand, it’s better that Igor will tell him himself later. Peter only said to Krylov: “Okay. But remember, if anything happens, I won’t remain silent!”

Now Peter looked at Stepan Ilyich as if he were loved one. And, without noticing it, he spoke to him frankly, as he would have spoken to his father. He told me about his service, that he had been attached to the sea since childhood, but it wasn’t easy at all...

He's all about me! - Stepan Ilyich perked up, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray. “Ksyusha, Igor’s mother, died,” he continued dully, “and she left him, the boy... Life was not easy for him, and I, a fool, did not return home immediately after the war. It was a bitter fate that befell me; I almost lost it completely. - He looked intently into Grachev’s face. - Aren't you going to laugh?

I? No way. “You, Stepan Ilyich, are direct with me,” Peter reassured him.

Then listen to how I almost lost my son. Maybe it will benefit you too...

Peter leaned his elbows on the cushion of the sofa and listened to him attentively.

...Stepan arrived in the regional center in the morning. The car stopped at a fork in the road. The driver - a big-browed man with a slanting scar on his dark face - got out of the cab.

“Here, brother, nearby,” he said.. “See, that old oak tree is turning black?” Hurry to him. That's where Green Valley is. A mile away from the river. The rapids are deep, the springs will cool your body right away, you're already across the bridge.

Well, as for your grief, believe me, it’s right here in your heart. Yes, war... - he took the visor of his oiled cap and sighed. - Life is like a hair: once it breaks. My cheek was ripped open... I was in the infantry... I came home and my mother didn’t recognize me. They ruined, says Vasya, your beauty.

“It doesn’t matter, as long as there is happiness in life,” thought Stepan.

“Family,” Stepan answered reluctantly.

“I have a strict flight, otherwise I would have taken him to the farm,” said the driver, getting into the cab.

The sun was rising somewhere near the forest plantation. Its rays gilded the wheat field. The larks sang. The steppe was filled with morning dew, but Stepan knew that in another hour or two, and the sun would burn mercilessly. Then the steppe will seem extinct.

“I have a good family, but I don’t wish for greater joy,” my ears were ringing.

Stepan felt sad, and hope flared up in him with renewed vigor. Maybe he will find his Ksyusha? “Without you, Stepan, life is not sweet. I’ll wait,” she said goodbye. Many years have passed since then. The trenches are already overgrown, and people’s wounds have healed...

The farm is located in a lowland. Little white houses were surrounded by gardens and vineyards. And then, in forty-three, the earth was burning here. Everything here is painfully familiar to Stepan and at the same time new. Here is an old oak tree that stands near the bridge over the river. It has hardly changed, except that the traces of fragments on its trunk have been covered with bark and young branches have appeared. The water pump is the same...

“The wounded boys pulled me out, otherwise I would have been on this river bottom...”

He stopped at the water pump. A guy was fiddling around the pipes, knee-deep in water. Stepan sat down on a hillock, lit a cigarette, and looked at the guy. He is twenty-three years old. Not exactly beautiful, but prominent. A resinous forelock in ringlets, falling onto the forehead, a dark, tanned face.

Kuzma Yegorych, are you going now? - the guy shouted to his grandfather standing by the engine.

“The pump doesn’t take water,” thought Stepan.

“She’ll go to hell,” the grandfather responded, approaching the guy. He also wore boots and a cap. - I'm completely exhausted. Worthless motor. How long will this be, agronomist?

“We’ll get a new one soon,” the guy said.

Grandfather grinned:

You're lying! So tell me, Igor, why did my Zoya bring two calves at once? Well, tell me? Explain it scientifically.

Water gurgled at the guy's feet. The engine began to chug and then died down.

He doesn’t take it, Kuzma Yegorych. Wait, I'll send Grishka Serdyuk.

Grandfather waved his hand.

The guy climbed onto land and wiped his dirty boots on the grass.

Good morning. Are you coming to me?

Stepan smiled:

I’m admiring the river... So, agronomist, the engine doesn’t pull, but the mechanic is chilling?

Igor sighed:

He should be kicked out of the collective farm, but it’s a pity. My father died in battle; before the war he was in charge of the water pump here. Mother died long ago. They married him, but he still drinks. How do you get along with someone like that?

Stepan grinned:

Do you regret it? Respected one, but hundreds suffer? The memory of the dead is in our own way, in our heartfelt way, but if his father had been alive, he probably would not have forgiven his son for such a shame. - Stepan stood up: - Well, let's go to the engine, I'm also a mechanic.

Soon the engine began to chug, throwing out clouds of smoke. The grandfather smiled, stroking his gray beard:

Probably a scientist?

“I’m thinking,” said Stepan, wiping his hands with a bunch of grass.

Raccoon Grishka, the mechanic, is a quitter and a drunkard. Ksyusha, his mother, an agronomist, was so ashamed of Grishka, she was so ashamed, and he felt like he had a stake on his head. Would you like to come to us, would you?

Stepan felt a pang in his chest: “Ksyusha... Isn’t it her?

And the guy is just as big-eyed..." Restraining himself, he asked:

What will the agronomist say?

The guy smiled:

I'll be glad. It’s just that we have a hard time with housing. True, you can live with me. The hut has a vault, three rooms, and there are two of us - me and my mother.

Where's dad? - asked Stepan.

The guy's face darkened.

No dad. War... - Igor pulled his cap down. - Well, will you join us as a mechanic?

We need to think.

The agronomist said goodbye and went to the neighboring brigade. Stepan looked after him thoughtfully.

Where did the little white house that stood next to the oak tree go? - he asked.

Memoirs of contemporaries about A.P. Chekhov Chekhov Anton Pavlovich

A. I. KUPRIN - IN MEMORY OF CHEKHOV

He lived among us...

It used to happen that in early childhood you would return to a boarding school after a long summer vacation. Everything is grey, barracks-like, smells of fresh oil paint and mastic, the comrades are rude, the bosses are unkind. While it’s still day, you’re still somehow holding yourself together, although your heart is no, no, and will suddenly shrink from melancholy. Meetings are busy, changes in faces are striking, noise and movement are deafening.

But when evening comes and the fuss in the darkened bedroom subsides, - oh, what unbearable grief, what despair takes possession of the little soul! You bite the pillow, suppressing sobs, whisper sweet names and cry, cry hot tears, and you know that you will never satisfy your grief with them. And then you understand for the first time all the stunning horror of two inexorable things: the irrevocability of the past and the feeling of loneliness. It seems that right now I would gladly give up the rest of my life, would endure all kinds of torment for just one day of that bright, beautiful existence that will never be repeated. It seems that he would catch every sweet, caring word and enclose it forever in memory, drink into his soul slowly and greedily, drop by drop, every caress. And you are cruelly tormented by the thought that due to negligence, in vanity and because time seemed inexhaustible, you did not take advantage of every hour, every moment that flashed in vain.

I direct these lines to love, to the tender and subtle sadness of these people.

Chekhov's Yalta dacha stood almost outside the city, deep under the white and dusty Autsk road. I don’t know who built it, but it was perhaps the most original building in Yalta. All white, clean, light, beautifully asymmetrical, built outside of any particular architectural style, with a tower-like structure, with unexpected projections, with a glass veranda below and an open terrace above, with scattered, sometimes wide, sometimes narrow windows - it would resemble buildings in the moderne style if its plan did not reflect someone’s attentive and original thought, someone’s unique taste. The dacha stood in the corner of the garden, surrounded by a flower garden. Adjacent to the garden, on the side opposite the highway, separated by a low wall, was an old, abandoned Tatar cemetery, always green, quiet and deserted, with modest stone slabs on the graves.

A.P. did not like and was a little angry when they told him that his dacha was too little protected from dust flying from above, from the Aut highway, and that the garden was poorly supplied with water. Not loving Crimea at all, and especially Yalta, he treated his garden with special, jealous love. Many people saw him sometimes in the morning, squatting, carefully coating the trunks of roses with sulfur or pulling out weeds from flower beds. And what a celebration there was when, amid the summer drought, it finally rained, filling the reserve clay tanks with water!

But it was not the feeling of ownership that was reflected in this troublesome love, but another, more powerful and wise consciousness. As he often said, looking at his garden with narrowed eyes:

How good life will be in three hundred years!

While talking about Chekhov's garden, I forgot to mention that in the middle of it there was a swing and a wooden bench.

Both remained from “Uncle Vanya”, with which the Art Theater came to Yalta, came, it seems, with the sole purpose of showing the then sick A. P-chu the production of his play. Chekhov valued both objects extremely and, when showing them, he always recalled with gratitude the kind attention the Art Theater paid to him. This is also the place to mention that these wonderful artists, with their exceptional delicate sensitivity to Chekhov’s talent and friendly devotion to him, greatly brightened up the last days of the unforgettable artist.

The crane was an important, sedate bird. He was generally distrustful of people, but maintained a close friendship with Arseny, Anton Pavlovich’s pious servant. He ran after Arseny everywhere, around the yard and in the garden, hilariously jumping up and down as he walked and flapping his outstretched wings, performing a characteristic crane dance that always made Anton Pavlovich laugh.

Go away, go away, fool... Don't pester me.

And he added, turning to his interlocutor, with annoyance, but with laughing eyes:

Would you like me to give you a dog? You won't believe how stupid he is.

Oh, you stupid, stupid... Well, what happened to you?.. Be quiet... it will be easier... you fool...

We have to repeat a hackneyed passage, but there is no doubt that animals and children instinctively gravitated towards Chekhov. Sometimes a sick young lady came to A.P., bringing with her a girl of three or four years old, an orphan, whom she took in to raise. Some kind of special, serious and trusting friendship was established between a tiny child and an elderly, sad and sick man, a famous writer. They sat for a long time next to each other on a bench on the veranda; A.P. listened attentively and intently, and she incessantly babbled her funny childish words to him and tangled her little hands in his beard.

It was autumn. Chekhov, returning from Moscow, had just arrived on a ship from Sevastopol to Yalta and had not yet had time to leave the deck. There was an interval of that confusion, screams and confusion that always arise after the gangplank is lowered. At this chaotic time, the Tatar porter, who always served A. P-chu and saw him from afar, managed to climb onto the ship before the others, found Chekhov’s things and was already preparing to carry them down, when the gallant and ferocious captain’s assistant suddenly flew at him . This man did not limit himself to obscene curses, but in a fit of superior anger he hit the poor Tatar in the face.

“And then a supernatural scene occurred,” said my friend. - The Tatar throws things on the deck, beats himself in the chest with his fists and, eyes wide, climbs on the assistant. And at the same time he shouts to the whole pier:

What? Are you fighting? Do you think you hit me? That's who you hit!

And he points his finger at Chekhov. And Chekhov, you know, is all pale, his lips tremble. He approaches the assistant and says to him quietly, separately, but with an extraordinary expression: “Shame on you!” Believe me, by God, if I were in the place of this navigator, it would be better if they spat in my face twenty times than to hear this "shame on you". And even though the sailor was thick-skinned, it got to him: he rushed about, muttered something, and suddenly disappeared. And they never saw him on deck again.”

It always happens like this: you get to know a person, study his appearance, gait, voice, manners, and yet you can always recall his face as you saw it the very first time, completely different, different from the present. So, after several years of acquaintance with A.P., I retained in my memory the Chekhov as I saw him for the first time, in the common room of the “London” hotel in Odessa. He seemed to me then to be almost tall, thin, but broad-boned, and somewhat stern in appearance. There were no traces of illness in him then, except for his gait - weak and as if on slightly bent knees. If you had asked me then who he looked like at first glance, I would have said: “like a zemstvo doctor or a teacher at a provincial gymnasium.” But there was also something rustic and modest about him, something extremely Russian, folk - in his face, in his dialect and in his turns of speech, there was also some seeming Moscow student carelessness in his manners. This is exactly the first impression that many people made, including me. But a few hours later I saw a completely different Chekhov - precisely that Chekhov whose face a photograph could never capture and which, unfortunately, none of the artists who painted from him understood or felt. I saw the most beautiful and subtle, the most spiritual human face that I have ever met in my life.

Many subsequently said that Chekhov had blue eyes. This is a mistake, but a mistake strangely common to everyone who knew him. His eyes were dark, almost brown, and the rim of his right eye was much more colored, which gave A.P.’s gaze, with some turns of his head, an expression of absent-mindedness. The upper eyelids hung somewhat over the eyes, which is so often observed among artists, hunters, sailors - in a word, among people with concentrated vision. Thanks to his pince-nez and his manner of looking through the bottom of his glasses, raising his head slightly upward, A.P.’s face often seemed stern. But you had to see Chekhov in other moments (alas, so rare in recent years), when he was overcome by joy and when, with a quick movement of his hand, throwing off his pince-nez and rocking back and forth in his chair, he burst into sweet, sincere and deep laughter. Then his eyes became semicircular and radiant, with kind wrinkles at the outer corners, and his whole body then resembled that well-known youthful portrait, where he is depicted almost beardless, with a smiling, short-sighted and naive look, somewhat from under his brows. And now - surprisingly - every time I look at this photograph, I cannot get rid of the thought that Chekhov’s eyes were really blue.

What drew attention to A.P.'s appearance was his forehead - wide, white and clean, beautifully shaped; only very recently did two vertical, thoughtful folds appear on it between the eyebrows, at the bridge of the nose. Chekhov's ears were large and ugly in shape, but I have only seen other such smart, intelligent ears on one other person - Tolstoy.

One summer, taking advantage of Anton Pavlovich’s good mood, I took several photographs from him with a hand-held photographic camera. But, unfortunately, the best of them and those that were extremely similar came out quite pale due to the dim lighting of the office. About other, more successful ones, A.P. himself said, looking at them:

Well, you know, it’s not me, but some Frenchman.

Around noon and later his house began to fill with visitors. At the same time, on the iron bars separating the estate from the highway, girls in white felt wide-brimmed hats hung for hours with their mouths agape. A wide variety of people came to Chekhov: scientists, writers, zemstvo leaders, doctors, military men, artists, admirers and admirers, professors, secular people, senators, priests, actors - and God knows who else. They often turned to him for advice, for patronage, and even more often with a request to review the manuscript; various newspaper interviewers and simply curious people appeared; there were also those who visited him with the sole purpose of “directing this great but lost talent in the proper, ideological direction.” The begging poor came - both real and imaginary. These never met with refusal. I do not consider myself entitled to mention individual cases, but I firmly and surely know that Chekhov’s generosity, especially towards students, was incomparably broader than what his more than modest means allowed him.

People of all strata, all camps and shades visited him. Despite the tediousness of such a constant human cycle, there was something attractive for Chekhov: he became acquainted first-hand, from primary sources, with everything that was happening at a given moment in Russia. Oh, how wrong were those who, in the press and in their imagination, called him a man indifferent to public interests, to the restless life of the intelligentsia, to the burning issues of our time. He watched everything closely and thoughtfully; he was worried, tormented and sick with everything that the best Russian people were sick with. You should have seen how in the damned, dark times, when they talked about the absurd, dark and evil phenomena of our social life in his presence, you should have seen how sternly and sadly his thick eyebrows moved, how pained his face became and what a deep, highest sorrow shone in his beautiful eyes.

“In December last year, I received notice of the election of A. M. Peshkov as an honorary academician, and I was not slow to see A. M. Peshkov, who was then in Crimea, the first to bring him the news of the election and the first to congratulate him. Then, a little later, it was published in the newspapers that, due to the involvement of Peshkov in the investigation under Article 1035, the elections were declared invalid, and it was precisely stated that this notice came from the Academy of Sciences, and since I am an honorary academician, this notice some of it came from me. I congratulated him heartily and I recognized the elections as invalid - such a contradiction did not fit in my mind, I could not reconcile my conscience with it. Introduction to 1035 Art. didn't explain anything to me. And after long reflection, I could come to only one decision, which was extremely difficult and regrettable for me, namely, to ask to relinquish my title of honorary academician.

A. Chekhov."

Listen, guess what? After all, Russia will have a constitution in ten years.

Yes, even here he sounded the same motive about the joyful future awaiting humanity, which echoed in all his works of recent years.

We must tell the truth: not all visitors spared A. P-ch’s time and nerves, while others were simply merciless. I remember one case, amazing, almost anecdotally incredible in terms of the enormous stock of vulgarity and indelicacy that a person of supposedly artistic rank revealed.

It was a nice, cool, windless summer morning. A.P. felt unusually light, lively and carefree. And then a fat gentleman (who later turned out to be an architect) appears, as if from heaven, sends Chekhov his business card and asks for a meeting. A.P. accepts it. The architect enters, introduces himself and, not paying any attention to the poster: “They ask you not to smoke,” without asking permission, lights a stinking, huge Riga cigar. Then, having delivered, as an inevitable duty, a few cobblestone compliments to the owner, he proceeds to the business that has brought him.

The point was that the son of an architect, a third-grade high school student, was running down the street the other day and, according to the habit typical of boys, grabbed everything he came across as he ran: lamps, pedestals, fences. In the end, he ran his hand into the barbed wire and severely scratched his palm. “So, you see, dear A.P.,” the architect concluded his story, “I would very much ask you to print about this in correspondence. It’s good that Kolya only tore off his palm, but this was just an accident! He could hit some important artery - and what would happen then? “Yes, all this is very regrettable,” Chekhov replied, “but, unfortunately, I can’t help you. I do not write, and have never written correspondence. I only write stories." - “The better, the better! “Insert this into the story,” the architect was delighted. - Seal this homeowner with his full name. You can even put my last name, I agree to that too... Or not... it’s still better not to put my last name in full, but just put the letter: Mr. S. Yes, please... Because now we only have two real liberal writers left - you and Mr. P.” (and here the architect named the name of one famous literary cutter).

Gentlemen, couldn't you save me from this man? They would have sent me to say that they were calling me somewhere. He tormented me!

I also remember - and this, I confess, is partly my fault - how a certain self-confident civilian general came to him to express his reader’s approval, who, probably wanting to please Chekhov, began, spreading his knees wide apart and resting his fists on them with his outstretched hands, in every possible way to revile one a young writer whose enormous fame was just beginning to grow. And Chekhov immediately shrank, withdrew into himself and sat all the time with his eyes downcast, with a cold face, without uttering a single word. And only from the quick reproachful glance that he cast at parting at the acquaintance who brought the general, one could see how much grief this visit brought him.

Why is this so?

Very funny. They're all lying. Last spring one of them came to my hotel. Requests an interview. And I just didn’t have time. I say: “Sorry, I’m busy now. Yes, however, write whatever you want. I don't care". Well, he already wrote it! I even felt feverish.

And one day he said with a most serious face:

What do you think: every cab driver in Yalta knows me. So they say: “Ah! Chekhov? Which reader is this? I know". For some reason they call me a reader. Maybe they think I read the dead? So, my friend, someday you should ask the cab driver what I do...

At one o'clock in the afternoon, Chekhov had dinner downstairs, in the cool and bright dining room, and almost always there was someone invited at the table. It was difficult not to succumb to the charm of this simple, sweet, affectionate family. Here one felt constant tender care and love, but not burdened with a single pompous or loud word - amazing delicacy, sensitivity and attention, but never going beyond the framework of ordinary, seemingly deliberately everyday relationships. And, besides, there was always a truly Chekhovian fear of everything inflated, elevated, insincere and vulgar.

It was very easy, warm and cozy in this family, and I completely understand one writer who said that he was in love with all the Chekhovs at once.

And Antosha again did not eat anything at lunch.

These same hours were the most crowded. They constantly asked on the phone if it was possible to see A. P-cha, someone always came. Strangers came with requests for cards and inscriptions on books. There were also funny incidents here.

One “Tambov landowner,” as Chekhov dubbed him, came to him for medical help. In vain A.P. insisted that he had long ago given up practice and was behind in medicine, in vain he recommended turning to a more experienced doctor - the “Tambov landowner” stood his ground: he did not want to trust any doctors except Chekhov. Willy-nilly, I had to give him some minor, completely innocent advice. Saying goodbye, the “Tambov landowner” put two gold pieces on the table and, no matter how much A.P. persuaded him, he never agreed to take them back. Anton Pavlovich was forced to give in. He said that, not wanting and not considering himself entitled to take this money as a fee, he would take it for the needs of the Yalta charitable society, and immediately wrote a receipt for its receipt. It turns out that this was all that the “Tambov landowner” needed. With a beaming face, he carefully hid the receipt in his wallet and then admitted that the only purpose of his visit was the desire to acquire Chekhov’s autograph. A.P. told me about this original and persistent patient himself - half laughing, half angrily.

I repeat, many of these visitors annoyed Chekhov and even irritated him, but, due to his characteristic amazing delicacy, he remained even with everyone, patiently and attentive, accessible to everyone who wanted to see him. This delicacy sometimes reached that touching point that borders on lack of will. So, for example, one kind and fussy lady, a big fan of Chekhov, gave him, it seems on his name day, a huge sitting pug made of painted plaster, an arshin one and a half high from the ground, that is, five times more natural growth. This pug was planted downstairs on the platform, near the dining room, and he sat there with an angry muzzle and bared teeth, frightening everyone who forgot about him with his immobility.

You know, I myself am afraid of this stone dog,” Chekhov admitted. - But it’s somehow awkward to remove it, they’ll be offended. Let him live here.

And suddenly, with his eyes lighting up with a radiant laugh, he added unexpectedly, as was his wont:

Have you noticed that in the homes of rich Jews, such plaster pugs often sit near the fireplace?

On other days, he was simply oppressed by all sorts of praisers, detractors, admirers and even advisers. “I have such a mass of visitors,” he complained in one letter, “that my head is spinning. It's hard to write." But still, he did not remain indifferent to a sincere feeling of love and respect and always distinguished it from idle and flattering chatter. One day he returned in a very cheerful mood from the embankment, where he occasionally walked, and said with great animation:

I just had a wonderful meeting. On the embankment, an artillery officer suddenly approached me, still quite young, a second lieutenant. “Are you A.P. Chekhov?” - “Yes, it’s me. What do you want? - “Excuse me for being intrusive, but I’ve been wanting to shake your hand for so long!” And he blushed. Such a wonderful guy, and a sweet face. We shook hands and went our separate ways.

A.P. felt best in the evening, around seven o’clock, when they again gathered in the dining room for tea and a light dinner. Here sometimes - but year after year less and less often - the old Chekhov resurrected in him, inexhaustibly cheerful, witty, with ebullient, charming youthful humor. Then he improvised entire stories, where the characters were his acquaintances, and was especially willing to arrange imaginary weddings, which sometimes ended with the next morning, sitting over tea, the young husband saying casually, in a casual and businesslike tone:

You know, honey, after tea you and I will get dressed and go to the notary. Why do you need to worry about your money?

He came up with amazing - Chekhovian - surnames, of which I am now - alas! - I remember only one mythical sailor Koshkodavlenko. He also liked, jokingly, to age writers. “What are you saying - Bunin is my peer,” he assured with feigned seriousness. - Teleshov too. He is already an old writer. You ask him yourself: he will tell you how we walked with him at I. A. Belousov’s wedding. When did this happen? He said to one talented fiction writer, a serious, ideological writer: “Listen, you are twenty years older than me. After all, you used to write under the pseudonym Nestor Kukolnik...”

But his jokes never left a splinter in the heart, just as never in his life did this amazingly gentle man consciously cause even the slightest suffering to anything living.

He himself did this all the time, although sometimes he made exceptions for his wife and sister. Previously, they say, he was more generous in this regard.

This was at a time when he wrote a lot and very quickly. He himself said that he wrote a story a day back then. E. Ya. Chekhova also talked about this. “It used to be that, while still a student, Antosha would sit in the morning over tea and suddenly get lost in thought, sometimes looking straight into his eyes, but I knew that he couldn’t see anything. Then he takes a book out of his pocket and writes quickly, quickly. And he’ll think again...”

But in recent years, Chekhov began to treat himself more and more strictly and more and more demanding: he kept stories for several years, never ceasing to correct and rewrite them, and yet, despite such painstaking work, the last proofs returned from him were dotted with marks all around , notes and inserts. In order to finish the work, he had to write it without stopping. “If I leave a story for a long time,” he once said, “then I can’t begin to finish it. I have to start again then.”

Where did he get his images? Where did he find his observations and comparisons? Where did he forge his magnificent, unique language in Russian literature? He did not trust anyone and did not discover his creative ways. They say that he left behind many notebooks; Maybe over time they will contain the keys to these innermost secrets? Or maybe they will remain unsolved forever? Who knows? In any case, we must be content in this direction with only cautious hints and assumptions.

I think that always, from morning to evening, and maybe even at night, in sleep and insomnia, invisible, but persistent, sometimes even unconscious work was going on in him - the work of weighing, determining and remembering. He knew how to listen and question like no one else, but often, in the midst of a lively conversation, one could notice how his attentive and friendly gaze suddenly became motionless and deep, as if going somewhere inside, contemplating something mysterious and important that was taking place in his soul. It was then that A.P. made his strange, surprising, unexpected questions that were not at all relevant to the conversation, which so confused many. They just talked and are still talking about neo-Marxists, and he suddenly asks: “Listen, have you never been to a horse farm? Definitely go. This is interesting". Or he asked a question for the second time to which he had just received an answer.

Chekhov was not distinguished by external, mechanical memory. I’m talking about that petty memory that women and peasants so often possess to a strong degree and which consists of remembering who was dressed how, whether he had a beard and mustache, what kind of watch chain he wore, what kind of boots, what color his hair was. It’s just that these details were unimportant and uninteresting to him. But on the other hand, he immediately took the whole person, quickly and accurately determined, like an experienced chemist, his specific gravity, qualities and order, and already knew how to outline his main, inner essence in two or three strokes.

Once Chekhov spoke with slight displeasure about his good friend, a famous scientist, who, despite his long-standing friendship, somewhat oppressed A. P-ch with his verbosity. As soon as he arrives in Yalta, he immediately comes to Chekhov and sits from morning until lunch; at lunchtime he goes to his hotel for half an hour, and there he comes again and sits until late at night and talks, talks, talks... And so every day.

And suddenly, quickly cutting off this story, as if carried away by a new, interesting thought, A.P. added animatedly:

One day, smiling at his memory, he suddenly remarked:

You know, Moscow is the most characteristic city. Everything about her is unexpected. One morning we went out with the publicist S[ablin] from Bolshoy Moskovsky. It was after a long and cheerful dinner. Suddenly S. drags me to Iverskaya, right here, opposite. He takes out a handful of copper and begins to give to the poor - there are dozens of them. He puts in a penny and mutters: “About the health of God’s servant Michael.” His name is Mikhail. And again: “The servant of God Michael, the servant of God Michael...” And he himself does not believe in God... An eccentric...

He often took his Chekhovian words and these amazingly concise and accurate lines directly from life. The expression “I don’t like this,” which so quickly passed from “The Bishop” into the use of the general public, was gleaned by him from one gloomy vagabond, half-drunken, half-crazed, half-prophet. I also remember that we once got into a conversation about a long-dead Moscow poet, and Chekhov vividly remembered him, his partner, his empty rooms, and his St. Bernard, Druzhka, who suffered from perpetual indigestion. “Why, I remember very well,” said A.P., smiling cheerfully, “at five o’clock this woman always came in to him and asked: “Liodor Ivanovich, and Liodor Ivanovich, isn’t it time for you to drink beer?” then he carelessly said: “Oh, so that’s where you got this from in Ward No. 6?” “Well, yes, from there,” answered A.P. with displeasure.

He also had acquaintances from those middle-class merchants who, despite millions, and the most fashionable dresses, and an outward interest in literature, said “edal” and “principled.” Some of them poured out to Chekhov for hours: what extraordinary subtle “nervous” natures they had and what a wonderful novel a “guineal” writer could make from their lives if they told everything. But he didn’t mind, he sat and was silent, and listened with visible pleasure - only a barely noticeable, almost elusive smile slid under his mustache.

This happened, I think, from natural restraint, but also from special shyness. There are people who organically cannot tolerate, are painfully ashamed of, overly expressive poses, gestures, facial expressions and words, and A.P. possessed this property to the highest degree. Here, perhaps, lies the answer to his apparent indifference to issues of struggle and protest and indifference to the interests of a topical nature that worried and worries the entire Russian intelligentsia. There was a fear of pathos, strong feelings and the somewhat theatrical effects inseparable from it. I can only compare this situation with one thing: someone loves a woman with all the ardor, tenderness and depth of which a person of subtle feelings, enormous intelligence and talent is capable. But he will never dare to say this in pompous, pompous words and cannot even imagine how he will kneel down and press one hand to his heart and how he will speak in the trembling voice of his first lover. And that’s why he loves and is silent, and suffers in silence, and never dares to express what a mediocre bastard expounds freely and loudly, according to all the rules of declamation.

Chekhov was invariably sympathetic, attentive and affectionate towards young, aspiring writers. No one left him depressed by his enormous talent and his own insignificance. He never said to anyone: “Do as I do, watch how I act.” If someone in despair complained to him: “Is it really worth writing if you will remain “our young” and “promising” for the rest of your life,” he would answer calmly and seriously:

Not everyone, my friend, can write like Tolstoy.

His attentiveness was sometimes downright touching. One aspiring writer came to Yalta and stayed somewhere beyond Autka, on the outskirts of the city, renting a room in a noisy and large Greek family. Once he complained to Chekhov that it was difficult to write in such an environment, and so Chekhov insisted that the writer certainly come to him in the morning and study with him downstairs, next to the dining room. “You will write below, and I will write above,” he said with his charming smile. - And you will also have lunch with me. And when you finish, be sure to read it to me or, if you leave, send it at least in proof.”

He read surprisingly a lot and always remembered everything, and did not confuse anyone with anyone else. If the authors asked his opinion, he always praised, and he praised not in order to get rid of it, but because he knew how cruelly harsh, even fair criticism clips weak wings, and what cheerfulness and hope sometimes infuses with insignificant praise. “I read your story. “Wonderfully written,” he said in such cases in a rough and sincere voice. However, with some trust and closer acquaintance, and especially at the convincing request of the author, he spoke, albeit with cautious reservations, but more definitely, more extensively and more directly. I have two letters of his, written to the same writer about the same story. Here's an excerpt from the first one.

“Dear N, I received the story and read it, thank you very much. The story is good, I read it at once, like the previous one, and received the same pleasure ... "

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A.I. Kuprin A.P. did not like and was a little angry when they told him that his dacha was too little protected from dust flying from above, from the Autsk highway, and that the garden was poorly supplied with water. Not loving Crimea at all, and especially Yalta, he treated his garden with special, jealous love.

From the author's book

KUPRIN Alexander Ivanovich 26.8 (7.9).1870 – 25.8.1938Prose writer. Publications in the magazines “Russian Wealth”, “World of God”, “Modern World”, etc., newspapers “Kievlyanin”, “Strana”, “Life and Art”, “Kiev Word”, etc., in collections and almanacs “Knowledge” ", "Earth", "Lightning", "Harvest".

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| collection website
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| Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin
| In memory of Chekhov
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He lived among us...

Sometimes, in early childhood, you would return to a boarding school after a long summer vacation. Everything is grey, barracks-like, smells of fresh oil paint and mastic, the comrades are rude, the bosses are unkind. While it’s still day, you’re still somehow holding yourself together, although your heart, no, no, will suddenly shrink from melancholy. Meetings are busy, changes in faces are striking, noise and movement are deafening.
But when evening comes and the fuss in the darkened bedroom subsides, - oh, what unbearable grief, what despair takes possession of the little soul! You bite the pillow, suppressing sobs, whisper sweet names and cry, cry hot tears, and you know that you will never satisfy your grief with them. And then you understand for the first time all the stunning horror of two inexorable things: the irrevocability of the past and the feeling of loneliness. It seems that right now I would gladly give up the rest of my life, would endure all kinds of torment for just one day of that bright, beautiful existence that will never be repeated. It seems that he would catch every sweet, caring word and enclose it forever in memory, drink into his soul slowly and greedily, drop by drop, every caress. And you are cruelly tormented by the thought that due to negligence, in vanity and because time seemed inexhaustible, you did not take advantage of every hour, every moment that flashed in vain.
Children's sorrows are burning, but they will melt in their sleep and disappear with tomorrow's sun. We adults don’t feel them as passionately, but we remember them longer and grieve more deeply. Soon after Chekhov’s funeral, returning from a memorial service at the cemetery, one great writer said simple but full of meaning words:
“We buried him, and the hopeless poignancy of this loss has already passed. But do you understand that forever, until the end of our days, there will remain in us an even, dull, sad consciousness that Chekhov is no more?
And now, when he is gone, you especially painfully feel how precious his every word, smile, movement, glance was, in which his beautiful, chosen, aristocratic soul shone. You regret that you were not always attentive to those special little things that sometimes speak more powerfully and intimately about the inner person than large matters. You reproach yourself for the fact that, due to the hustle and bustle of life, you did not have time to remember and write down many interesting, characteristic, important things. And at the same time, you know that these feelings are shared with you by all those who were close to him, who truly love him as a man of incomparable spiritual grace and beauty, who will honor his memory with eternal gratitude as the memory of one of the most remarkable Russian writers.
I direct these lines to love, to the tender and subtle sadness of these people.

Chekhov's Yalta dacha stood almost outside the city, deep under the white and dusty Autsk road.

I don’t know who built it, but it was perhaps the most original building in Yalta. All white, clean, light, beautifully asymmetrical, built outside of any particular architectural style, with a tower-like structure, with unexpected projections, with a glass veranda below and an open terrace above, with scattered windows, sometimes wide, sometimes narrow - it would resemble buildings in the moderne style if its plan did not reflect someone’s attentive and original thought, someone’s unique taste. The dacha stood in the corner of the garden, surrounded by a flower garden. Adjacent to the garden, on the side opposite the highway, was an old, abandoned Tatar cemetery, separated by a low wall, always green, quiet and deserted, with modest stone slabs on the graves.
The flower garden was small, far from lush, and the orchard was still very young. Pears and wild apple trees, apricots, peaches, and almonds grew in it. In recent years, the garden has already begun to bear some fruit, giving Anton Pavlovich a lot of worries and touching, some kind of childish pleasure. When the time came to collect almonds, they were removed from Chekhov’s garden. They usually lay in a small heap in the living room on the windowsill, and it seems no one was cruel enough to take them, although they were offered.
A.P. did not like and was a little angry when they told him that his dacha was too little protected from dust flying from above, from the Aut highway, and that the garden was poorly supplied with water. Not loving Crimea at all, and especially Yalta, he treated his garden with special, jealous love. Many people saw him sometimes in the morning, squatting, carefully coating the trunks of roses with sulfur or pulling out weeds from flower beds. And what a celebration there was when, amid the summer drought, it finally rained, filling the reserve clay tanks with water!
But it was not the feeling of ownership that was reflected in this troublesome love, but another, more powerful and wise consciousness. As he often said, looking at his garden with narrowed eyes:
– Listen, every tree was planted here under my supervision, and, of course, it’s dear to me. But that’s not what’s important either. After all, here before me there was a wasteland and absurd ravines, all covered in stones and thistles. But I came and made a cultural, beautiful place out of this game. Do you know? - he suddenly added with a serious face, a tone of deep faith. – Do you know, in three or four hundred years the whole earth will turn into a blooming garden. And then life will be unusually easy and comfortable.
This thought about the beauty of the future life, which echoed so tenderly, sadly and beautifully in all his last works, was also in life one of his most sincere, most cherished thoughts. How often he must have thought about the future happiness of mankind, when in the morning, alone, he silently trimmed his roses, still wet with dew, or carefully examined a young shoot wounded by the wind. And how much meek, wise and submissive self-forgetfulness there was in this thought!
No, it was not an absentee thirst for existence, coming from an insatiable human heart and clinging to life, it was not greedy curiosity about what will happen after me, nor envious jealousy for distant generations. It was the melancholy of an exceptionally subtle, charming and sensitive soul, which suffered unduly from vulgarity, rudeness, boredom, idleness, violence, savagery - from all the horror and darkness of modern everyday life. And that is why, at the end of his life, when enormous fame and comparative wealth came to him, and the devoted love for him of all that was smart, talented and honest in Russian society, he did not withdraw into the unattainability of cold greatness, did not fall into the prophetic teaching, did not go into poisonous and petty hostility towards someone else's fame. No, the entire sum of his great and difficult life experience, all his griefs, sorrows, joys and disappointments were expressed in this beautiful, melancholy, selfless dream of the future, close, albeit someone else's happiness.
– How good life will be in three hundred years!
And that is why he looked after flowers with equal love, as if seeing in them a symbol of future beauty, and followed the new paths laid by the human mind and knowledge. He looked with pleasure at the new buildings of the original construction and at the large sea ships, was keenly interested in every latest invention in the field of technology and was not bored in the company of specialists. He spoke with firm conviction that crimes such as murder, theft and adultery are becoming less and less common, almost disappearing in a real intelligent society, among teachers, doctors, writers. He believed that the coming, true culture would ennoble humanity.
While talking about Chekhov's garden, I forgot to mention that in the middle of it there was a swing and a wooden bench. Both remained from “Uncle Vanya”, with which the Art Theater came to Yalta, came, it seems, with the sole purpose of showing the then sick A. P-chu the production of his play. Chekhov valued both objects extremely and, when showing them, he always recalled with gratitude the kind attention the Art Theater paid to him. This is also the place to mention that these wonderful artists, with their exceptional delicate sensitivity to Chekhov’s talent and friendly devotion to him, greatly brightened up the last days of the unforgettable artist.

In the yard lived a tame crane and two dogs. It should be noted that Anton Pavlovich was very fond of all animals, with the exception, however, of cats, for which he had an insurmountable aversion. The dogs enjoyed his special favor. He remembered the late Kashtanka, the Melikhovo dachshunds Brom and Khina so warmly and in such expressions as one remembers deceased friends. “Dogs are a glorious people!” - he sometimes said with a good-natured smile.
The crane was an important, sedate bird. He was generally distrustful of people, but maintained a close friendship with Arseny, Anton Pavlovich’s pious servant. He ran after Arseny everywhere, around the yard and in the garden, hilariously jumping up and down as he walked and flapping his outstretched wings, performing a characteristic crane dance that always made Anton Pavlovich laugh.
One dog was called Tuzik, and the other was Kashtan, in honor of the former, historical Kashtanka, who bore that name. This Chestnut, however, was not distinguished by anything other than stupidity and laziness. In appearance, he was fat, smooth and gangly, light chocolate in color, with meaningless yellow eyes. Following Tuzik, he barked at strangers, but as soon as you beckoned him and gave him a smack, he immediately turned over on his back and began to wriggle obsequiously along the ground. Anton Pavlovich gently pushed him away with a stick when he approached with tenderness, and said with feigned severity:
- Go away, go away, you fool... Don’t bother me...
And he added, turning to his interlocutor, with annoyance, but with laughing eyes:
- Would you like me to give you a dog? You won't believe how stupid he is.
But one day it happened that Kashtan, due to his characteristic stupidity and slowness, fell under the wheels of a phaeton, which crushed his leg. The poor dog ran home on three legs, screaming horribly. The entire hind leg was mangled, the skin and meat were torn almost to the bone, and blood was pouring out. Anton Pavlovich immediately washed the wound with warm water and sublimate, sprinkled it with iodoform and bandaged it with a gauze bandage. And you should have seen with what tenderness, how deftly and carefully his big, dear fingers touched the dog’s skinned leg, and with what compassionate reproach he scolded and persuaded the squealing Kashtan:
- Oh, you stupid, stupid... Well, what happened to you?.. Be quiet... it will be easier... you fool...
We have to repeat a hackneyed passage, but there is no doubt that animals and children instinctively gravitated towards Chekhov. Sometimes a sick young lady came to A.P., bringing with her a girl of three or four years old, an orphan, whom she took in to raise. Some kind of special, serious and trusting friendship was established between a tiny child and an elderly, sad and sick man, a famous writer. They sat for a long time next to each other on a bench on the veranda; A.P. listened attentively and intently, and she incessantly babbled her funny childish words to him and tangled her little hands in his beard.
All the simpler people he encountered: servants, peddlers, porters, wanderers, postmen, treated Chekhov with great and heartfelt love - and not only with love, but also with subtle sensitivity, with care and understanding. I cannot help but tell here one incident, which I convey from the words of an eyewitness, a small employee in the “Russian Island of Shipping and Trade,” a positive, taciturn person and, most importantly, completely spontaneous in the perception and transmission of his impressions.
It was autumn. Chekhov, returning from Moscow, had just arrived on a ship from Sevastopol to Yalta and had not yet had time to leave the deck. There was an interval of that confusion, screams and confusion that always arise after the gangplank is lowered. At this chaotic time, the Tatar porter, who always served A. P-chu and saw him from afar, managed to climb onto the ship before the others, found Chekhov’s things and was already preparing to carry them down, when the gallant and ferocious captain’s assistant suddenly flew at him . This man did not limit himself to obscene curses, but in a fit of superior anger he hit the poor Tatar in the face.
“And then a supernatural scene happened,” said my friend. - The Tatar throws things on the deck, beats himself in the chest with his fists and, eyes wide, climbs on the assistant. And at the same time he shouts to the whole pier:
- What? Are you fighting? Do you think you hit me? That's who you hit!
And he points his finger at Chekhov. And Chekhov, you know, is all pale, his lips tremble. He approaches the assistant and says to him quietly, separately, but with an extraordinary expression: “Shame on you!” Believe me, by God, if I were in the place of this navigator, it would be better if they spat in my face twenty times than to hear this “shame on you.” And even though the sailor was thick-skinned, it got to him: he rushed about, muttered something, and suddenly disappeared. And they never saw him on deck again.”

The office in A.P.’s Yalta house was small, twelve steps long and six wide, modest, but breathing with some kind of peculiar charm. Directly opposite the front door is a large square window framed with colored yellow glass. On the left side of the entrance, near the window, perpendicular to it, there is a desk, and behind it a small niche, lit from above, from under the ceiling, by a tiny window; in the niche there is a Turkish sofa. On the right side, in the middle of the wall, is a brown tiled fireplace; at the top, in its lining, a small place is left, not covered with tiles, and in it, an evening field with haystacks stretching into the distance is carelessly but sweetly painted in colors - this is the work of Levitan. Further, on the same side, in the very corner, there is a door through which Anton Pavlovich’s single bedroom is visible - a bright, cheerful room, shining with some kind of girlish purity, whiteness and innocence. The walls of the office are covered in dark wallpaper with gold, and near the desk hangs a printed poster: “They ask you not to smoke.” Now near the front door to the right there is a bookcase with books. There are several trinkets on the mantelpiece, and between them is a beautifully made model of a sailing schooner. There are many pretty things made of bone and wood on the desk; For some reason, the figures of elephants predominate. On the walls are portraits of Tolstoy, Grigorovich, Turgenev. On a separate small table, on a fan-shaped stand, there are many photographs of artists and writers. Straight, heavy dark curtains descend on both sides of the window, and there is a large, oriental-patterned carpet on the floor. This drapery softens all the contours and darkens the office even more, but thanks to it, the light from the window falls on the desk more evenly and pleasantly. It smells like a subtle perfume, which A.P. has always been a hunter of. From the window one can see an open horseshoe-shaped ravine descending far to the sea, and the sea itself, surrounded by an amphitheater of houses. To the left, right and behind, mountains are piled up in a semi-circle. In the evenings, when lights are lit in the mountainous environs of Yalta and when in the darkness these lights and the stars above them merge so closely that you cannot distinguish them from each other, then the entire surrounding area is very reminiscent of other corners of Tiflis...
It always happens like this: you get to know a person, study his appearance, gait, voice, manners, and yet you can always recall his face as you saw it the very first time, completely different, different from the present. So, after several years of acquaintance with A.P., I retained in my memory the Chekhov as I saw him for the first time, in the common room of the London hotel in Odessa. He seemed to me then to be almost tall, thin, but broad-boned, and somewhat stern in appearance. There were no traces of illness in him then, except for his gait - weak and as if on slightly bent knees. If you had asked me then who he looked like at first glance, I would have said: “like a zemstvo doctor or a teacher at a provincial gymnasium.” But there was also something rustic and modest about him, something extremely Russian, folk - in his face, in his dialect and in his turns of speech, there was also some seeming Moscow student carelessness in his manners. This is exactly the first impression that many people made, including me. But a few hours later I saw a completely different Chekhov - precisely that Chekhov whose face a photograph could never capture and which, unfortunately, none of the artists who painted from him understood or felt. I saw the most beautiful and subtle, the most spiritual human face that I have ever met in my life.
Many subsequently said that Chekhov had blue eyes. This is a mistake, but a mistake strangely common to everyone who knew him. His eyes were dark, almost brown, and the rim of his right eye was much more colored, which gave A.P.’s gaze, with some turns of his head, an expression of absent-mindedness. The upper eyelids hung somewhat over the eyes, which is so often observed in artists, hunters, sailors - in a word, in people with concentrated vision. Thanks to his pince-nez and his manner of looking through the bottom of his glasses, raising his head slightly upward, A.P.’s face often seemed stern. But you had to see Chekhov in other moments (alas, so rare in recent years), when he was overcome by joy and when, with a quick movement of his hand, throwing off his pince-nez and rocking back and forth in his chair, he burst into sweet, sincere and deep laughter. Then his eyes became semicircular and radiant, with kind wrinkles at the outer corners, and his whole body then resembled that well-known youthful portrait, where he is depicted almost beardless, with a smiling, short-sighted and naive look, somewhat from under his brows. And now - amazingly - every time I look at this photograph, I can’t help but think that Chekhov’s eyes were really blue.
What drew attention to A.P.’s appearance was his forehead – wide, white and clean, beautifully shaped: only very recently did two vertical, thoughtful folds appear on it between the eyebrows, at the bridge of the nose. Chekhov's ears were large and ugly in shape, but I have only seen other such smart, intelligent ears on one other person - Tolstoy.
One summer, taking advantage of Anton Pavlovich’s good mood, I took several photographs from him with a hand-held photographic camera. But, unfortunately, the best of them and those that were extremely similar came out quite pale, thanks to the dim lighting of the office. About other, more successful ones, A.P. himself said, looking at them:
- Well, you know, it’s not me, but some Frenchman.
I now very vividly remember the squeeze of his big, dry and hot hand - a squeeze that was always very strong, courageous, but at the same time restrained, as if hiding something. I also imagine his handwriting: thin, without pressure, terribly small, at first glance - careless and ugly, but, if you look closely at it, very clear, gentle, elegant and characteristic, like everything that was in him.

A.P. got up, at least in the summer, quite early. None of even his closest people saw him casually dressed; He also did not like various household liberties, such as shoes, dressing gowns and jackets. At eight or nine o'clock he could already be found walking around his office or at his desk, impeccably, elegantly and modestly dressed, as always.
Apparently, his best time for work was from morning to lunch, although, it seems, no one managed to catch him writing: in this regard, he was unusually secretive and bashful. But often on good warm mornings he could be seen on a bench behind the house, in the most secluded place of the dacha, where tubs of oleanders stood along the white walls and where he himself had planted a cypress tree. He sat there sometimes for an hour or more, alone, without moving, with his hands folded on his knees and looking ahead at the sea.
Around noon and later his house began to fill with visitors. At the same time, on the iron bars separating the estate from the highway, girls in white felt wide-brimmed hats hung for hours with their mouths agape. A wide variety of people came to see Chekhov: scientists, writers, zemstvo leaders, doctors, military men, artists, admirers and admirers, professors, secular people, senators, priests, actors - and God knows who else. They often turned to him for advice, for patronage, and even more often with a request to review the manuscript; cheeky newspaper interviewers and simply curious people showed up; there were also those who visited him with the sole purpose of “directing this great but lost talent in the proper, ideological direction.” The begging poor came - both real and imaginary. These never met with refusal. I do not consider myself entitled to mention individual cases, but I firmly and surely know that Chekhov’s generosity, especially towards students, was incomparably broader than what his more than modest means allowed him.
People of all strata, all camps and shades visited him. Despite the tediousness of such a constant human cycle, there was something attractive for Chekhov: he became acquainted first-hand, from primary sources, with everything that was happening at a given moment in Russia. Oh, how wrong were those who, in the press and in their imagination, called him a man indifferent to public interests, to the restless life of the intelligentsia, to the burning issues of our time. He watched everything closely and thoughtfully; he was worried, tormented and sick with everything that the best Russian people were sick with. You should have seen how in the damned, dark times, when they talked about the absurd, dark and evil phenomena of our social life in his presence, you should have seen how sternly and sadly his thick eyebrows moved, how pained his face became and what a deep, highest sorrow shone in his beautiful eyes.
Here it is appropriate to recall one fact, which, in my opinion, perfectly illuminates Chekhov’s attitude to the stupidities of Russian reality. Many people remember his refusal to become an honorary academician; the motives for this refusal are also known, but not everyone knows his letter to the Academy on this matter - a wonderful letter, written with simple and noble dignity, with the restrained indignation of a great soul.

“In December last year, I received notice of the election of A. M. Peshkov as an honorary academician, and I was not slow to see A. M. Peshkov, who was then in Crimea, the first to bring him the news of the election and the first to congratulate him. Then, a little later, it was published in the newspapers that due to the involvement of Peshkov in the investigation under Article 1035, the elections were declared invalid, and it was precisely stated that this notice came from the Academy of Sciences, and since I am an honorary academician, this notice is part came from me too. I congratulated him heartily, and I recognized the elections as invalid - such a contradiction did not fit in my mind, I could not reconcile my conscience with it. Introduction to 1035 Art. didn't explain anything to me. And after long reflection, I could come to only one decision, which was extremely difficult and regrettable for me, namely, to ask to relinquish my title of honorary academician.
A. Chekhov."

It’s strange how they didn’t understand Chekhov! He, this “incorrigible pessimist,” as he was defined, never tired of hoping for a bright future, never stopped believing in the invisible, but persistent and fruitful work of the best forces of our homeland. Who among those who knew him closely does not remember this usual, favorite phrase of his, which he so often, sometimes even completely out of tune with the conversation, suddenly uttered in his confident tone:
- Listen, you know what? After all, Russia will have a constitution in ten years.
Yes, even here he sounded the same motive about the joyful future awaiting humanity, which echoed in all his works of recent years.
We must tell the truth: not all visitors spared A. P-ch’s time and nerves, while others were simply merciless. I remember one case, amazing, almost anecdotally incredible in terms of the enormous stock of vulgarity and indelicacy that a person of supposedly artistic rank revealed.

7-8 grades
WRITER'S OFFICE

The office in Anton Pavlovich’s Yalta house was small, twelve steps long and six wide, modest, but breathing with some kind of peculiar charm. Directly opposite the front door is a large square window. On the left side of the entrance, near the window, perpendicular to it, there is a desk, and behind it a small niche, lit from above, from under the ceiling, by a tiny window; in the niche there is a Turkish sofa. On the right side, in the middle of the wall, is a brown tiled fireplace. At the top, in its cladding, a small place is left, not covered with tiles, and in it, an evening field with haystacks stretching into the distance is carelessly but sweetly painted in colors - this is the work of Levitan.

Further, on the same side, in the very corner, there is a door through which Anton Pavlovich’s bedroom is visible - a bright, cheerful room, shining with some kind of girlish purity, whiteness and innocence. The walls of the office are covered in dark wallpaper with gold, and near the desk hangs a printed poster: “They ask you not to smoke.” Now near the front door to the right there is a bookcase with books. On the mantelpiece are several trinkets and between them a beautifully crafted model of a sailing schooner. There are many pretty things made of bone and wood on the desk; For some reason, the figures of elephants predominate. On the walls are portraits of Tolstoy, Grigorovich, Turgenev. On a separate small table, on a fan-shaped stand, there are many photographs of artists, etc. writers.

Straight, heavy dark curtains descend on both sides of the window, and there is a large carpet with an oriental pattern on the floor. This drapery softens all the contours and darkens the office even more, but thanks to it, the light from the window falls on the desk more evenly and pleasantly. It smells of subtle perfume, which Anton Pavlovich has always been a lover of. From the window one can see an open horseshoe-shaped ravine descending far to the sea, and the sea itself, surrounded by an amphitheater of houses. To the left, right and behind, mountains are piled up in a semi-circle. In the evenings, in the mountainous environs of Yalta, lights are lit, and in the darkness these lights and the stars above them merge so closely that you cannot distinguish them from each other. Then the entire surrounding area is very reminiscent of some corners of Tiflis.

(According to A. Kuprin)

CAPTAIN OF THE BOMBARDER COMPANY

The Russian army was marching towards Narva. Tra-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta! - the regimental drums beat out the marching roll.

The troops marched through the ancient Russian cities of Novgorod and Pskov, marching with drums and songs. It was dry autumn. And suddenly the rains began to pour. The leaves fell off the trees. The roads have washed away.” The cold weather has begun. Soldiers are walking along roads washed out by rain, soldiers' feet are drowning in mud up to their knees.

It is difficult for soldiers on a campaign. A cannon got stuck on a bridge while crossing a small stream. One of the wheels was crushed by a rotten log and sank down to the very axle.

The soldiers shout at the horses and beat them with whips. The horses were skinny and bones after the long journey. The horses are straining with all their might, but there is no benefit - the guns are not moving.

The soldiers huddled near the bridge, surrounded the cannon, trying to pull it out with their hands.

Forward! - one shouts.
- Back! - another commands.

The soldiers make noise and argue, but things don’t move forward. A sergeant is running around the gun. He doesn’t know what to come up with. Suddenly the soldiers look - a carved cart is rushing along the road. The well-fed horses galloped up to the bridge and stopped. The officer got out of the cart. The soldiers looked - the captain of the bombardment company. The captain is enormous, two meters tall, has a round face, large eyes, and a jet-black mustache on his lip, as if glued on. The soldiers were frightened, stretched out their arms at their sides, and froze.

Things are bad, brothers,” said the captain.
- That's right, bombardier-captain! - the soldiers barked in response.

Well, they think the captain will start swearing now. This is true. The captain approached the cannon and examined the bridge. -Who is the eldest? - asked.

“I, Mr. Bombardier-Captain,” said the sergeant,
- This is how you take care of military goods!
- the captain attacked the sergeant. - You don’t look at the road, you don’t spare the horses!
“Yes, I... yes, we...” the sergeant began to speak.

But the captain did not listen, he turned around - and there was a slap on the sergeant’s neck! Then he went back to the cannon, took off his elegant caftan with red lapels and crawled under the wheels. The captain strained himself and picked up the cannon with his heroic shoulder; The soldiers even grunted in surprise. They ran up and pounced. The cannon trembled, the wheel came out of the hole and stood on level ground.

The captain straightened his shoulders, smiled, and shouted to the soldiers:

Thank you, brothers!

He patted the sergeant on the shoulder, got into the cart and rode on. The soldiers opened their mouths and looked after the captain.

Gee! - said the sergeant. And soon the general and his officers caught up with the soldier.
“Hey, servants,” the general shouted, “didn’t the sovereign’s cart pass here?”
“No,” the soldiers answered, “the bombardier’s captain was just passing through here.”
- Bomber captain? - asked the general.
- That's right! - the soldiers answered.
- What kind of captain is this? This is Tsar Peter Alekseevich himself!

(According to S. Alekseev)

PICKPOCKET

The tram car was overcrowded. At the stop at the Nikitsky Gate, more people squeezed into the carriage: an old woman with a striped bag over her shoulders, a tall, stocky man in a cavalry overcoat and a black kubanka, and another man with a sharp nose, in a tightly buttoned coat and a gray cap.

The last to get on the tram was a poorly dressed young man with books under his arm. Looking at the conductor in confusion, he rummaged through his pockets in search of a ten-kopeck piece and smiled joyfully when the ten-kopeck piece was found.

Few people left the carriage. We passed several stops. Suddenly a man in a gray cap noticed that a cavalryman in an overcoat was slowly reaching into the pocket of a young man with books. The thief was caught by the hand at the crime scene. The tram stopped and the crowd poured out into the street.

Everyone was screaming and worried. The angriest of all, it seems, was the old woman with the bag.

Who wanted to take away his last shirt! - she yelled.

And no matter how hard the man in the overcoat and kubanka tried to prove that it was unthinkable to take off a shirt, even the last one, from another person on a tram, no one believed him anyway. The policeman began to find out the circumstances of the crime and demanded documents from the thief. The thief reached into his pocket and took out a small brown book.

“I don’t have a passport with me,” he said embarrassedly, “but I only have a membership card of the Writers’ Union.” I myself am also a writer, and my name is Arkady Gaidar.
- We know such writers! - The evil old woman was the first to scream.

And after her everyone screamed too.

Among the noise and uproar, only one injured young man with books did not shout or worry.

Who are you and what was stolen from you? - the policeman asked him in a gentle, kind voice.
“I myself am a newcomer,” said the young man, “and yesterday I became a first-year student at the First Medical Institute.” I have already spent my money myself, and have not yet received the scholarship.
- Found a capitalist, swindler! - the old woman said angrily, and the policeman shook his head reproachfully and suggested that the young man still look to see if any documents or other valuables had been taken from him.

The young man conscientiously turned out his pockets, and in front of everyone, a crumpled fifty-ruble note slowly fell onto the pavement.

This is not my money, I didn’t have any money,” the young man said.

And there was confusion in the crowd. Everyone began to look at the rogue writer, but he was silent, looking at the ground and crumpling his cuban hat in his hands.

There was an unusual silence, the policeman said that due to the lack of evidence of a crime, he would with great pleasure release the writer and ask the eyewitnesses to go home.

The writer Arkady Gaidar also wanted to leave, but the evil old woman managed to grab him by the sleeve. She untied her bag, took out and handed Gaidar a large ruddy apple.

Take it, kind person, - said the evil old woman. - Take it, it’s a huge apple, I won’t sneak it into your pocket - you’ll notice anyway.

(According to B. Emelyanov)

COLOSSUS OF RHODES

In the eastern part Mediterranean Sea, eighteen kilometers from the Asia Minor peninsula, the island of Rhodes is located - one of the centers of Aegean culture. Numerous works of ancient art from this island, where its own school of sculpture was formed, have survived to this day. The outstanding work of this school is the statue of Helios, the so-called Colossus of Rhodes. In the third century BC, Rhodes was attacked by the general Demetrius, who failed to win, despite special siege engines - the last word military equipment. Demetrius retreated, leaving a huge siege tower covered with iron on the shore. Instead of destruction, it brought unexpected benefits and worldwide fame to the city. Enterprising merchants who arrived in the city bought it “for scrap metal” for fabulous money, with which the islanders erected a statue of Helios, the patron saint of Rhodes. This wonder of the world was erected in two hundred and ninety-two - two hundred and eighty BC in memory of the successful defense of the island.

In the trade square between the sea and the city gates, on an artificial hill lined with white marble, the largest statue of a young man in the world was erected, thirty-six meters tall. Only a few people could wrap their arms around thumb on the giant's foot. His powerful legs were spread, the palm of his right hand was raised to his eyes, and in his left hand he held a blanket falling to the ground. Leaning back slightly, the young man peered into the distance. The head was decorated with a crown of rays diverging to the sides. It was an image of the god Helios, the patron saint of the island, raised at his behest from the bottom of the sea.

The statue took twelve years to construct and stood for more than half a century, until it was destroyed by an earthquake in two hundred and twenty-four BC. She bent over so that her head and shoulders rested on the ground. The Rhodians and their neighbors tried to raise the fallen giant; the Egyptian king sent skilled craftsmen and copper, but, unfortunately, it was not possible to restore it. For almost a thousand years, a broken statue lay on the shore of the bay - a landmark of Rhodes. Then an enterprising merchant purchased it for melting down. The colossus was cut into pieces, and the expensive bronze was taken away on ninety camels.

(According to B. Chernyak)

BOX

On New Year's Eve, Nikita received guests. An old friend came to stay with his mother with her children Victor and Lilya.

One evening, mother called all the children to the dining room. The tablecloth was removed from the large table. Mother brought four pairs of scissors and began to brew the starch. She poured no more than a teaspoon into a glass, poured two tablespoons of cold water into it and began stirring until the starch turned into a paste. Then mother poured boiling water into the mush from the samovar, stirring vigorously with a spoon all the time. The starch became transparent, like jelly. It turned out to be an excellent glue.

The boys brought a leather suitcase and placed it on the table. Mother opened it and began to take out sheets of multi-colored paper and cardboard, candles, Christmas tree candlesticks, goldfish and cockerels, glass balls, lanterns, crackers and a large star. The children moaned with delight.

There are still good things there,” said mother, lowering her hands into the suitcase, “but we won’t unwrap them yet.” Now let's glue it.

Victor took on gluing chains, Nikita took on candy bars, and Mother cut paper and cardboard. Lilya asked in a polite voice:

Aunt Sasha, will you let me glue the box?
- Clay, honey, whatever you want.

The children began to work in silence, breathing through their noses, wiping their starched hands on their clothes. At this time, my mother was telling how in the old days there were no traces of Christmas tree decorations and you had to do everything yourself. That's why there were such skilled people that they glued together a real castle with towers, spiral staircases and drawbridges.

Lilya, listening, worked quietly and silently, only helping herself with her tongue in difficult moments. Nikita left the pounds and looked at her. At this time, mother left the dining room.

What are you gluing? - Nikita asked.
“This is a box for doll gloves,” Lilya answered seriously. - You're a boy, you won't understand this.

She raised her head and looked at Nikita with blue, stern eyes.

“You’re so red,” said Lilya, “like a beet.”

And she again bent over the box. Her face became sly. Nikita sat as if stuck to the chair. The girl laughed at him, but he was not offended or angry, but only looked at her. Suddenly Lilya, without raising her eyes, asked him in a different voice, as if now there was some kind of secret between them and they were talking about it:

Do you like this box? Nikita replied:
- Yes. Like.
“I really like her too,” she said and wanted to add something else, but at that time Victor came up and, sticking his voice between Lilya and Nikita, said quickly:
- Which box, where is the box? Well. nonsense, an ordinary box. I'll make as many of these as I want.
- Victor, I, honestly“I’ll complain to mom that you’re stopping me from gluing,” Lilya said in a trembling voice. She took glue and paper and moved it to the other end of the table.

(According to A. Tolstoy)

FIRE NEAR THE RIVER

Still, I met those who not only litter, but also clean. No, not in my homeland, not in Siberia. I met him in the Moscow region.

I was driving from Domodedovo airport and near a birch grove I saw a gray-haired, lightly dressed man with a plastic bag, wearing rubber gloves, and a woman dressed in sweatpants, a men's cut shirt, also wearing gloves and also with a bag.

They slowly moved along the edge of the grove, talking about something, from time to time they bent down and put paper, boxes of cigarettes and cigarettes, foil, scraps of polyethylene, cigarette butts, soggy pieces of bread, old shoes, rags - everything that littered around - into a bag. yourself a person.

Have you seen any crazy people? - For some reason, the taxi driver who was taking me to Moscow exclaimed angrily.

I looked at him questioningly.

Academician with his wife. They have a dacha nearby. When they go for a walk, they take bags and a shovel with them. Whatever garbage they collect, they will burn it near the river, straighten it out somewhere, and bury it somewhere. They don’t let you pick flowers, they take you right by the breasts! Will you really clean up everything after us, the bastards?

He turned the steering wheel sharply. Two elderly people disappeared around a bend.

Every time I go to Domodedovo airport and see the smoke of a fire over the Pakhra River, I think with quiet joy about the patient people who do the voluntary work that is so necessary for a tired land - they burn garbage near the river.

(According to V. Astafiev)

GORGEOUS

An official of the treasury chamber, an elderly widower, married a young, beautiful daughter of a military commander. He was silent and modest, and she knew her worth. He was thin, tall, consumptive, wore iodine-colored glasses, and spoke somewhat hoarsely. And she was short, perfectly and strongly built, always well dressed, very attentive, a good housewife, and had a keen eye. He seemed as uninteresting in all respects as many provincial officials, but his first marriage was to a beauty. Everyone just shrugged: why and why did such people come for him?

And so the second beauty calmly hated his seven-year-old boy from the first, pretending that she did not notice him at all. Then the father, out of fear of her, also pretended that he did not and had never had a son. And the boy, naturally lively and affectionate, began to be afraid to say a word in their presence, and there he completely hid, as if he ceased to exist in the house.

Immediately after the wedding, he was transferred to sleep from his father's bedroom on a sofa in the living room, a small room near the dining room, decorated with blue velvet furniture. But his sleep was restless; every minute he would knock the sheets and blanket onto the floor. And soon the beauty said to the maid:

This is a disgrace, he will wear out all the velvet on the sofa. Lay it out for him, Nastya, on the floor, on that mattress that I told you to hide in the late lady’s large chest in the corridor.

And the boy, in his complete loneliness in the whole world, began to live a completely independent life, completely isolated from the rest of the house - inaudible, unnoticeable, the same every day. He humbly sits in the corner of the living room, draws houses on a slate board or whispers, syllable by syllable, reading the same book with pictures, bought with his late mother, looking out the windows... He sleeps on the floor between the sofa and a tub with a palm tree. He makes his own bed in the evening and diligently cleans it himself, rolls it up in the morning and takes it into the corridor into his mother’s chest. All the rest of his good stuff is hidden there.

(According to I. Bunin)

AROUND THE WORLD BAG

Varvara Egorovna has been working as a rural postman for sixteen years. Every day Aunt Varya leaves the house with a large canvas bag over her shoulder to the post office to get the mail. Her bag is skinny for now, but on the way back the bag will become very thick.

She walks five kilometers to get the mail, and ten kilometers to get the mail back, because back then she travels from village to village, from yard to yard.

The mail is delivered to our department late, after lunch, but Aunt Varya always delivers it all on the same day.

This is how our postman walks every day for sixteen years: in autumn and spring - in rubber boots, in summer - in slippers, and in winter in the snow - in white felt boots.

One day Vasya Zhuk, sitting with the guys on the porch and seeing Aunt Varya, said:

You know what, guys? Yesterday, out of nothing to do, I was counting how much Aunt Varya has gone through in sixteen years.

The guys became interested.

“Probably about a thousand kilometers,” said Shurka.
“Ten thousand,” Petka suggested.

Wait,” Vasya interrupted, “I’ll tell you for sure: she walks about fifteen kilometers a day.” We'll throw away the weekend. She has about three hundred working days left in the year. Three hundred times fifteen is four thousand five hundred kilometers. So?

No one had a pencil, and the guys worked together to finish counting in their heads, checking each other. It turned out to be seventy-two thousand kilometers.

I'm telling you! - Vasya did not let up. - How much distance does the globe have along the equator? Who remembers?

And the guys are surprised to come to the conclusion:

I would go around twice! Our Aunt Varya would have walked the whole earth twice with her bag.

That’s how they called Aunt Varya’s mail bag “around the world bag” from then on.

(According to N. Nezlobin)

SUMMER STORM

We were so engrossed in fishing that we did not notice the rain, which crept up on us in small steps from behind the forest. It thickened, dispersed, and soon the channel became crowded with bubbles, which, before they had time to form, burst and dispersed in circles. The rain was so thick that the wind could not get through it and lay embarrassed in the forest.

We hurried and swam to the island where there was coniferous forest, surrounded on all sides by mowing. They grabbed their backpacks and rushed to the fir trees. Beneath them lay red dry grass. The rain didn't penetrate here. But we were already wet and chilled. I didn't want to move. However, it was necessary to make a fire. And with great difficulty we divorced him.

And the rain increased the speed. A huge black cloud was creeping onto the river, and in one minute it became dark. Then the rain stopped all at once. And then gusts of wind rushed along the river, wrinkled and disturbing the water. Nervous lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and the wind died down again. It became quiet.

Only large drops, rolling down from the wet, resinous branches of the fir trees, splashed loudly on the wide, wrinkled leaves of the hellebore, which had already sprouted its fourth shoot, and from the other side of the river could be heard the alarming bleating of goats grazing through the forest.

Lightning strikes became more frequent. They pierced the dark cloud with bright needles and stuck into the tops of mountains, now clearly visible, now disappearing into the darkness. Thunder rumbled almost continuously. We were expecting a crazy downpour.

But an amazing thing: a menacing cloud dropped a quiet, mushroom rain to the ground, while itself, thundering in the reflections of lightning, floated on, dragging a fluffy, forked tail behind it. This tail cleanly swept away everything in its path. The blue sky appeared again with the washed and contented face of the sun.

And at once everything around us came to life: birds sang, grasshoppers began to chatter, a nimble mouse ran past us. The cloud was far away. She crawled over the passes and was still throwing bright arrows, but the sounds of thunder no longer reached us.

(According to V. Astafiev)

SUMMER ON A ROPE

Rowan trees bend under the weight of ripe berries. Flocks of gray blackbirds whistle above them. The maples have become cold and yellowed - sometimes it seems as if golden horses have frozen in the autumn garden. The aspens babble with their scarlet leaves quietly and sadly.

Lucy and grandfather approached the bench near the old Antonovka. The granddaughter raised her head and saw a nimble bluish-gray bird silently running along the trunk.

The nuthatch is in charge, putting the garden in order for winter... - the grandfather noted.

The nuthatch listened to the tree. For a moment he froze in place, found a caterpillar in the bark, turned upside down and disappeared.

The breeze rustled. The leaf on the top branch trembled and trembled, as delicate as a bird’s feather. The branch swayed, something broke off from it and flew down. An apple fell. Healthy, yellow, it hit the ground with a loud sound.

Hooray! - Lucy shouted and rushed to pick it up. Hard, wet, it seemed to burn her fingers with cold.
- Antonovka - autumn sun! - said grandfather.

They go for a walk along a familiar path to the Serebryanka River, past a barn filled to the brim with birch firewood, past a tall linden tree with black empty rook nests, past a stumpy stump overgrown with the gray tight hooves of tinder fungi.

The low bluish fog, illuminated from somewhere inside, melted imperceptibly to the eye and merged with the sedge that had begun to turn yellow. Golden haystacks were imprinted over the meadow. On the other side, the domes of willows turned silver. The river lights up and sparkles. Fallen leaves and dark nettle stems crunch underfoot. And all around there is silence: soft, long, interrupted at times by the ringing call of tits. Lucy likes these cheerful sounds and this garden that drops apples in the morning. The air smells of bitter gray wormwood.

Grandfather, what is that string in the sky?

Large birds flew high, high.

The cranes took flight. They are dragging summer along with them.
-Where to?
- They take them to hot regions. Where there is no winter.

Lyusya stopped, took off her scarf from her head and waved goodbye to the cranes and the fly. The wind tore the scarf from the girl’s hands, played with it, lifted it into the sky and turned it into a crane.

(According to A. Barkov)

EXTRA TICKET

My grandmother had four daughters. But only my mother lived in the same city as my grandmother. From our house to my grandmother's it was necessary to walk twenty-seven steps.

It’s good that we don’t live together in the same apartment,” my grandmother said. - Since childhood, I love visiting. They meet you, see you off... They look after you!

She loved not only to visit, but also to travel. On New Year's Eve, for some reason, my grandmother always expected that her daughters, who lived in other cities, would call her to their place. She even looked at the stores for toys that she would take to her grandchildren.

The daughters sent greeting cards. They wrote that they miss you very much. They loved her. And, probably, they simply didn’t think to invite.

Once on New Year's Eve, our school was supposed to have a trip to the children's theater. Three days before, it turned out that our class got tickets to the stalls, and the parallel one - to the mezzanine, although it was no worse than our class. It even seemed to me that it was better, because Galya Kozlova studied there.

I bought two tickets for a children's theater performance. “I’ll go up to Gala,” I thought, “and casually say: “I happen to have an extra ticket.” It is better to sit in the stalls than in the mezzanine. Take it if you want...” And I’ll sit next to her throughout the performance!

Just before the New Year, cards arrived from all my mother’s sisters. They congratulated grandma, mom and dad, and even me. They wrote again that they miss you very much and can’t wait to see you!

There is also a beauty in waiting: everything is still ahead... - the grandmother said quietly.

Mom and Dad began to explain that they really didn’t want to go to some company tomorrow, but they simply couldn’t help but go. And I said to them sadly:

And tomorrow I have to go to the theater...

The grandmother began hastily looking for something in her bag. Then I suddenly... unexpectedly for myself said:

Come with me, grandma. I have an extra ticket.

Grandmother bent even lower over her bag. She continued to search for something in her. But now, it seemed to me, out of joy.

“I’ll have to do my hair,” she said. - But you won’t get to the hairdresser tomorrow! I'll wear my black dress. A? What do you think? Won't it look mournful?
- Black is the color of celebration! - Dad objected.

And grandma’s theater binoculars were also solemnly black.

Do you want to watch? - she asked before the performance began.

I took the binoculars... and pointed them at Galya Kozlova, who was sitting on the mezzanine.

During intermission, grandma suggested:

Let's go to the buffet. I love hustle and bustle at theater buffets!

We went out into the foyer. I thought that the guys would silently chuckle when they saw me with my grandmother. But no one laughed...

Grandma, let's go quickly... Look what a line! - I said.
- Well, no! - she objected. - The old woman in the children's theater should be allowed out of line.

They let her through... Having already reached the very buffet counter, she turned around and shouted to me:

Do you like apple pie?
“I love you,” I answered insincerely. Because I realized that my grandmother loves them very much.

(According to A. Aleksin)

BOAT MOTOR

One warm May day, Uncle Sima and I went to the Koptevsky market.

A deafening rumble was heard above one of the rows. Motorcycles were sold there. And suddenly, among the motorcycles, we saw a boat motor. Smoky and oily, it lay on a newspaper, and its rusty blades crashed into the ground.

Well, what a good thing! - Uncle said and turned to me. - Let's buy, huh? Let's go to the dacha, catch fish, go on a hike!..
- Of course we buy! - I answered.

At my uncle's house, we built a wooden platform over the bathroom and screwed a motor to it. Aunt Masha laughed at her husband:

Who will heat the river for you?

My uncle began to invite various masters to his place on Sundays. The craftsmen assembled and disassembled the engine, changed the composition of the mixture of gasoline and oil, but everything was in vain.

From the aunt’s conversations, it turned out that because of the engine, the uncle had completely abandoned work and the family had already begun to eke out a miserable existence. And soon the heat began in Moscow. My parents went to a sanatorium on the Volga, and I was sent to Aunt Masha’s dacha.

One day my uncle brought a motor to the dacha. The next morning my uncle went with me to the reservoir. We took a boat from the boat station, attached a motor to it, and I rowed out into the middle of the spill. My uncle and I pulled the rope for an hour and a half. The engine didn't even sneeze.

Aunt Masha met us at the gate.

Back to old times, Seraphim?! - she said. - If you don’t listen to me, you might as well be ashamed of people.

And for some reason my aunt hit me on the back. Soon Aunt Masha left for Moscow for the whole day, and I was left alone at the dacha. I invited Tolik, whose father worked at the boat station, to visit. The two of us inspected the engine.

“He’ll work for me so cute,” said Tolik.

It turns out he had already tinkered with such a motor once. We tied the motor to a bicycle rack and took it to the reservoir. Tolik brought a bottle of clean aviation gasoline, and we installed the motor on a light boat.

I rowed away from the shore, and Tolik pulled the rope. The engine jerked forward so much that we almost fell out of the boat! At that moment, the thin board at the stern broke in two, and our motor plummeted into the water to a depth of seven meters.

A speedboat passed, a large wave carried us to the side, and after a minute we could no longer determine exactly where the motor sank. On the way back, my soul was torn with grief.

At the dacha, sitting at the table were Uncle Sima, Aunt Masha, who had already arrived from the city, and with them a man in a tie and glasses.

Ah, nephew! Did you swim? - said the uncle. - Meet me: he’s an engineer, a designer of outboard motors. Prepare our apparatus. He will fix it quickly.

Aunt Masha tapped her forehead with her hand and began pouring tea.

Why cook it? - I said quietly. - He's already... ready. We started launching, and he drowned.
- Drowned?! - Auntie asked joyfully and, jumping up to me, kissed me.
- What a smart guy! Thank you! Honestly, drowned?

But my uncle didn’t say a word to me.

(According to I. Dick)

FROG

IN cloudy days we read Walter Scott's novels. Peacefully rustled across the rooftops and in the garden warm rain. The wet leaves on the trees trembled from the impact of small raindrops, water flowed in a thin and transparent stream from the drainpipe, and under the pipe a small green frog sat in a puddle. Water poured directly onto her head, but the frog did not move and only blinked.

When there was no rain, the frog sat in a puddle under the washstand. Once a minute, cold water dripped onto her head from the washstand. From the same novels by Walter Scott, we knew that in the Middle Ages the most terrible torture was such a slow dripping of ice water on the head, and we were surprised at the frog. Sometimes in the evenings a frog came into the house. She jumped over the threshold and could sit and watch the fire of a kerosene lamp for hours.

It was difficult to understand why this fire attracted the frog so much. But then we realized that the frog came to look at the bright fire in the same way as children gather around an untidy tea table to listen before bed

fairy tale The fire flared up and then weakened from the green midges burning in the lamp glass. It must have seemed like a big diamond to the frog, where, if you peer for a long time, you can see entire countries with golden waterfalls and rainbow stars in each face.

The frog was so carried away by this tale that he had to be tickled with a stick to wake up. Then the frog went home, under the rotten porch, on the steps of which dandelions managed to bloom.

(According to K. Paustovsky)

MAVRUSHA

Mavrusha was a bourgeois and voluntarily became a serf. The painter Pavel, wandering around on rent, by the way, worked in Torzhok, where he met Mavrusha. They fell in love with each other, and my mother willingly gave permission, because Paul was bringing an extra serf slave into the house.

About two years after this, Pavel was called to Malinovets for domestic work. Obviously, he did not foresee this accident, and it amazed him so much that although he did not disobey the master’s order, he appeared alone, without his wife. It was a pity for him to forever imprison his young wife of her own free will in a serfdom hell; I thought: the gentlemen would hold me for a month or two and then let me go again on rent. But mother thought differently. There was a lot of work: the entire iconostasis in the Malinovets church had to be restored, so it was impossible to determine the time frame. Therefore, Paul was ordered to demand his wife to come to him. In vain he begged to be released, offering double rent and even pledging to appoint another painter for himself. In vain he insisted that his wife was sick and unaccustomed to work. Mother didn’t want to hear anything.

And there will be work for the sick woman here,” she said, “and if, as you say, she is not used to work, then I will take on this: I will quickly get used to it.”

However, Mavrusha persisted for some time and did not show up. Then she was brought to Malinovets in a convoy.

At the first glance at the new slave, mother was convinced that Pavel was right. Indeed, it was a weak and anemic creature.

But, my dear, did you do anything at home? - she asked Mavrusha.
- I baked bread for sale.
- Well, you’ll bake bread here too.

And they assigned Mavrush to bake sieve and white bread for the master’s table, and by the way, they also entrusted the baked bread for church services to her.

Paul was a meek and obedient, pious man. The servants loved him so much that they did not envy the comparatively free life that he enjoyed. They treated Mavrusha with the same sympathy.

From time to time mother called Pavel to her.

How long will your noblewoman sit idle? - she approached him.
- Forgive her, madam! - Pavel begged, kneeling down. - She doesn't know how to work. He's baking bread.
- That’s three to four hours a week... Do you know how others work!
- I know, madam, but she’s sick with me.
- I’ll knock this disease out of her! OK! I'll wait a little longer and see what happens from her.

Months passed. Mother more and more assumed the role of an imperious mistress, and Mavrusha continued to “celebrate” and even began to bake bread carelessly.

Pavel more than once tried to reconcile his wife with the new position, but all his efforts in this sense were in vain. Apparently, she still loved her husband, but this affection was already dominated by the idea of voluntary enslavement, the power of which she only now understood. The thought that marriage had given her nothing but a yoke of slavery oppressed her to such an extent that the most sincere love could easily give way to indifference and even hatred.

(According to M. Saltykov-Shchedrin)

MEDAL

During the battle near the Rymnik River, a young, unfired soldier, Kuzma Shapkin, chickened out and sat in the bushes all day. Shapkin did not know that Suvorov noticed him. In honor of the victory over the Turks, orders and medals were sent to Suvorov's army. The officers formed their regiments and companies. Suvorov arrived to the troops and began distributing awards.

Shapkin stood in line with everyone else and waited for all this to end as soon as possible. The soldier was ashamed. And suddenly... Shapkin shuddered and decided that he had misheard.

Grenadier Shapkin, come to me! - Suvorov shouted.

The soldier stands as if his feet are rooted into the ground, and does not move.

Grenadier Shapkin, come to me! - repeated Suvorov.
“Go, go,” the soldiers pushed Kuzma.

Shapkin came out, lowered his eyes, and blushed. And Suvorov once - and a medal on his shirt.

In the evening, the soldiers sat down near the tents, began to remember the details of the battle, and list what awards were given to whom and for what. One for coming up with a way to recapture the trenches from the Turks. To the other - for the Turkish banner. The third for the fact that he alone was not intimidated in front of a dozen Turks and, although exhausted from wounds, did not give himself into captivity.

Well, why do you need a medal? - the soldiers ask Shapkin.

And there is nothing to answer. Shapkin wears a medal, but he just doesn’t find peace for himself. Depressed. He avoids his comrades. He is silent all day.

Did the medal crush your tongue?! - the soldiers joke.

A week passed, and the soldier’s conscience was completely eaten away. Shapkin could not stand it and went to Suvorov. He enters the tent and returns the medal.

God have mercy! - exclaimed Suvorov. - Reward back!

Shapkin lowered his head low and confessed everything to Suvorov. “Well,” he thinks, “my head is lost.” Suvorov laughed and hugged the soldier.

Well done! - said. - I know, brother, I know everything without you. I wanted to experience it. Good soldier. Good soldier. Remember: a hero is not born, a hero is made. Go. And the medal, okay, let it stay with me. Only, mind you, the medal is yours. You deserve it. You should wear it.

Suvorov was not mistaken.

In the next battle, Shapkin was the first to break into the Turkish fortress, earning a medal and great glory.

(According to S. Alekseev)

BEARS

A young eight-year-old mother bear spent the entire fall thinking about how best to lie down in her den. She had little experience: only two or three years. The children were very embarrassed. Last year's mentor began to lose control and imagined himself as an adult. To show him the real place, we had to resort to slaps. And the two little ones - the females - did not understand anything at all, they were frightened of everything, constantly stuck under their paws, or were so carried away by playing with each other that they had to be looked for for a long time among the flying leaves of wild raspberries, blackberries and wolfberries.

“Someone will probably be looking for our tracks,” the bear thought. “Isn’t man a terrible, incomprehensible, omnipotent animal?”

And she tried to hide the heavy marks of her feet. But on the young, melting snow, the prints of her feet lay everywhere in regular black spots among the white. This drove her into despair.

The weather was deceiving: it would snow, then it would stop, and the next morning it would suddenly rain.

Finally, at the end of October, she felt that blizzards and heavy snow were approaching. Then she ordered the children:

Follow me.

And all four of them moved from south to north, along the path that the bear deliberately avoided in the fall. She herself walked in front, then the little ones, and behind her was a mentor. And all of them, obeying an ancient instinct, tried to follow the trail.

The mother bear had long ago chosen, back in the summer, a secluded place. A large pine tree fell there, turning its roots outward, and there was a lot of forest scrap, branches, twigs and debris all around.

“The weather is coming from the north,” she thought. “The snow will cover everything, cover it, level it.” Going to the den, the caring mother kept scratching the tree trunks with her claws, leaving signs for herself. “As we go, so we will come out.”

It was difficult to lie down. The cubs nestled comfortably near her fat belly, which had grown fat during the fall. They weren't very angry if she squeezed them a little, turning from side to side. Pestun could not calm down for a long time, grumbled, bit, crushed the younger ones with his paws, looked outside, snapped at his mother, everything seemed awkward to him.

But finally he too, obeying the general law of bears, fell soundly asleep. And in his sleep the adult idiot smacked and grunted just like a little one and, just like them, pressed his muzzle to his mother’s belly. Mother did not sleep. She didn’t sleep, but only dozed lightly from time to time. From her breath a thin steam curled over the den.

And all the forest animals - squirrels, martens, stoats, foxes, wolves - respectfully walked around the bear's winter resting place from afar.

Observant crows croaked over her and chatty magpies gossiped, but flew away... Sometimes the mother bear would stick out her nose, grab the snow with her smooth tongue, watch how the hares frolicked, how the black grouse dived into the snowdrifts, listened indifferently, moving her ears, to the distant knock of the woodcutters and fell asleep again.

(According to A. Kuprin)

BEAR-FISHERMAN

Last year I celebrated spring in Kamchatka. There I once saw a fisherman bear. A huge bear is sitting in the river.

He sits up to his neck in water, only his dry head sticks out of the water like a stump. His head is huge, shaggy, with a wet beard. He tilts it on one side, then on the other: he is looking for fish. And suddenly he began to grab something in the water with his paws.

I see - he takes out a pink salmon fish. He bit the pink salmon and sat on it. Why did he, I think, sit on a fish? He sat down and sat in the water on a fish. Moreover, he checks with his paws: is it here, is it under him?

Now the second fish swims past, and the bear caught it. He bit it and also sits on it. And when he sat down, he stood up again, of course. And the first fish was dragged away from under him by the current. I can see from above how this pink salmon rolled along the bottom. And how the bear barks! Lost fish. Oh you! It is not clear to him, poor fellow, what is being done with his reserve, where it goes. He will sit and sit, and then feel under him with his paw: is the fish here, has it run away? And as soon as he grabs the new one, again I see that the old one has rolled out from under him, and look for fistulas!

After all, in fact, what a shame: the fish are lost, and that’s it!

He sat on the fish for a long, long time, grumbled, even missed two fish, and did not dare to catch; I saw them sail by. Then he again picked up a pink salmon with his paw. And again everything is the same: the same fish are no longer there.

I’m lying on the shore, I want to laugh, but I can’t laugh. Try and laugh! Here the bear will eat you out of anger along with your buttons.

The huge sleepy fish was dragged by the current straight towards the bear. He grabbed it and put it under him... Well, of course, it was empty underneath him.

At this point the bear was so offended that he roared at the top of his lungs, just like a steam locomotive. He reared up and hit the water with his paws. Roars and chokes.

He got out of the water, shook himself off and went into the forest. And the fish was again dragged by the current.

(According to E. Charushin)

DREAM

Since childhood I dreamed of having a vest. I wanted to walk down the street so that people would see the vest and think: “This is a sea wolf.” Vitya Kotelok from the neighboring yard cut a triangular piece from his vest, which I sewed to the T-shirt so that it would shine through the neckline of the collar. I unbuttoned my collar as soon as I went outside. In the evenings, the guys took the accordion into the yard and sang: “Ships came into our harbor, Big ships from the ocean...” Dusk fell on Moscow and brought with it the smell of the sea. It seemed to me that the surf was roaring in the neighboring alleys, and in the bronze colors of the sunset I saw the eternal movement of the waves. Opening my collar wide, I wandered along Drovyanoy Lane. Gusts of wind touched my face, I smelled seaweed and salt. The sea was everywhere, but the main thing was that it was in the sky, and neither houses nor trees could block its spaciousness and depth. I felt like a sea wolf who had stayed too long on the shore. Like a wolf, I should have plowed the oceans, but instead I swam around the city on a tram and dived into the subway. I didn't have much seafaring. Once I spent two weeks in the Gulf of Finland on a vessel called a “net lifter”, and went around Lake Ladoga on a barge called “Luza”. The years went by and that's it less sea remained in the sky for me. I didn’t find any algae or salt in Drovyanoy Lane.

Access to the sea,” I muttered to myself while walking along the Yauza, “I need access to the sea.” I simply have nowhere to keep the ship.

Every year I gathered on a long voyage, but could not find a suitable ship.

Buy a rubber boat, advised an old friend, the artist Orlov.
- I need a bedpan, not an inflatable trough. Besides, I want to come up with something of my own, unusual.

We spent the whole evening sitting in Orlov’s workshop, which is located right next to the Yauz Gate, and inventing ships and boats from different materials.

It’s impossible to keep a ship in Moscow,” Orlov finally said. - Yauza
- a great way out. Build a boat - you will never see a ship in your life.

And suddenly a thought occurred to me:

I will build a boat, but only the lightest one in the world.
“You can’t do without bamboo,” Orlov said thoughtfully. - Bamboo is the lightest material.

Gradually, a rumor spread around the world that there was a person in Moscow looking for bamboo. Unknown persons, mostly from the Bird Market, called me:

Do you need bamboo? Come.

I went to addresses, often in the direction of Taganka, but everywhere I found fishing rods or ski poles. Armchairs, bookcases, fans. Together with me, the artist Orlov suffered from “bamboo disease”.

(According to Yu. Koval)

MIDAS

One day, cheerful Dionysus with a noisy crowd of maenads and satyrs wandered through the wooded rocks. Only Silenus was not in Dionysus's retinue. He fell behind and, stumbling at every step, very drunk, wandered through the Phrygian fields. The peasants saw him, tied him with garlands of flowers and took him to King Midas. Midas immediately recognized the teacher Dionysus, received him with honor in his palace and honored him with luxurious feasts for nine days. On the tenth day, Midas himself took Silenus to Dionysus. Dionysus was delighted when he saw Silenus, and allowed Midas, as a reward for the honor he showed his teacher, to choose any gift for himself. Then Midas exclaimed:

O great god Dionysus, make everything I touch turn into pure gold!

Dionysus granted Midas' wish; he only regretted that Midas had not chosen a better gift for himself. Midas left rejoicing. Rejoicing at the gift he received, he plucks a green branch from the Oak - the branch in his hands turns into gold. He picks ears of corn in the field - they become golden, and the grains in them are golden. He picks an apple - the apple turns golden, as if it were from the gardens of the Hesperides. Everything Midas touched immediately turned to gold. When he washed his hands, water flowed from them in golden drops. Midas rejoices. So he came to his palace. The servants prepared a rich feast for the happy Midas. But then he realized what a terrible gift he had asked from Dionysus. With one touch of Midas everything turned to gold. The bread, all the food, and the wine turned golden in his mouth. Midas realized that he would have to die of hunger. He stretched out his hands to the sky and exclaimed:

Have mercy, have mercy, O Dionysus! Sorry! I beg you for mercy! Take this gift back!

Dionysus appeared and said to Midas:

Go to the sources of Pactol, there in its waters wash away this gift and your guilt from your body.

Midas, at the behest of Dionysus, went to the sources of Pactolus and plunged into its clear waters. The waters of Pactolus flowed like gold and washed away the gift received from Dionysus from the body of Midas. Since then, Pactol has become gold-bearing.

(According to N. Kuhn)

ALMS

Up close big city, an old, sick man was walking along a wide road. He staggered as he walked. His emaciated legs, tangling, dragging and stumbling, walked heavily and weakly, as if they were strangers. His clothes hung in rags. His bare head fell onto his chest. He was exhausted.

He sat down on a roadside stone, leaned forward, leaned on his elbows, covered his face with both hands - and through his crooked fingers, tears dripped onto the dry, gray dust. He recalled...

He remembered how he, too, was once healthy and rich. But he spent his health, and distributed his wealth to others, friends and enemies... And now he does not have a piece of bread - and everyone has abandoned him, his friends even before his enemies... Should he really stoop to beg for alms? His heart was bitter and ashamed. And the tears kept dripping and dripping, dappling the gray dust. Suddenly he heard someone calling his name. He raised his tired head and saw a stranger in front of him.

The face is calm and important, but not strict. The eyes are not radiant, but light; the gaze is piercing, but not evil.

“You gave away all your wealth,” an even voice was heard. - But you don’t regret what you did good?
“I don’t regret it,” the old man answered with a sigh, “only now I’m dying.” The stranger continued:
- And if there were no beggars in the world who stretched out their hands to you, you would not have the opportunity to show your virtue, could you not practice it?

The old man did not answer anything and became thoughtful.

“So don’t be proud now, poor man,” the stranger spoke again, “go, extend your hand, give other good people the opportunity to show in practice that they are kind.”

The old man perked up and raised his eyes... But the stranger had already disappeared. And in the distance a passer-by appeared on the road.

The old man approached him and extended his hand. This passerby turned away with a stern expression and did not give anything.

But another followed him - and he gave the old man a small alms.

And the old man bought himself some bread with these pennies. And the begged piece seemed sweet to him. And there was no shame in his heart. A quiet joy dawned on him.

(According to I. Turgenev)

THE POET'S GRAVE

A few kilometers from Mikhailovsky, on a high hillock, stands the Svyatogorsk Monastery. Pushkin is buried under the wall of the monastery. Around the Monastery there is a village - Pushkinskiye Gory.

The village is littered with hay. Day and night, carts slowly rumble along the huge cobblestones: they are transporting dry hay to the Pushkin Mountains. The warehouses and shops smell of matting, smoked fish and cheap chintz. Chintz smells like wood glue.

The only tavern rings with the thin but continuous clink of glasses and teapots. There is steam up to the ceiling, and in this steam, sweaty collective farmers and black old men from the times of Ivan the Terrible are leisurely drinking tea with crusts of gray bread. Where these old people come from here - parchment-like, with piercing eyes, with a dull, croaking voice, similar to holy fools - no one knows. But there are many of them. There must have been even more of them under Pushkin, when he wrote “Boris Godunov” here.

To get to Pushkin’s grave you have to walk through the deserted monastery courtyards and climb a weathered stone staircase. The stairs lead to the top of the hill, to the dilapidated walls of the cathedral.

Under these walls, above a steep cliff, in the shade of linden trees, on the ground covered with yellowed petals, Pushkin’s grave lies white.

A short inscription “Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin”, solitude, the sound of carts below under the slope and clouds, thoughtful in the low sky. This is all. Here is the end of a brilliant, excited and brilliant life. Here is a grave known to all mankind, here is that “sweet limit” that Pushkin spoke about during his lifetime. It smells like weeds, bark, settled summer.

And here, on this simple grave, where the hoarse crows of roosters can be heard, it becomes especially clear that Pushkin was our first national poet.

He is buried in rough sandy soil where flax and nettles grow, in a remote folk area. From his grave hill one can see the dark forests of Mikhailovsky and distant thunderstorms that dance in a circle over the bright river Sorotya, over the modest and vast fields that bring peace and wealth to his dear land.

(According to K. Paustovsky)

THE SEA LAUGHED

The sea laughed. Under the light blow of the sultry wind, it shuddered and, covered with small ripples that brilliantly reflected the sun, smiled blue sky thousands of silver smiles. In the deep space between the sea and the sky there was a cheerful splash of waves, running up one after another onto the gentle shore of the sand spit. This sound and the shine of the sun, reflected a thousand times by the ripples of the sea, harmoniously merged into a continuous movement, full of living joy. The sun was happy that it was shining; the sea - by what reflected its jubilant light.

The wind gently stroked the satin chest of the sea; the sun warmed her with its hot rays, and the sea, sighing drowsily under the gentle power of these caresses, saturated the hot air with the salty aroma of vapors. Greenish waves, rushing up onto the yellow sand, threw white foam onto it; it melted with a quiet sound on the hot sand, moistening it.

The narrow, long spit looked like a huge tower that had fallen from shores in the sea. Sticking a sharp spire into the boundless desert of water sparkling with the sun, it lost its foundation in the distance, where a sultry haze hid the earth. From there, with the wind, a heavy smell flew in, incomprehensible and offensive here, among clean sea, under the blue, clear roof of the sky.

Wooden stakes were stuck into the sand of the spit, strewn with fish scales, and nets hung on them, casting a web of shadows. Several large boats and one small one stood in a row on the sand, the waves running up the shore as if

beckoned them towards them. Hooks, oars, baskets and barrels were scattered randomly on the spit, among them stood a hut assembled from willow twigs, splints and matting. In front of the entrance, felted boots stuck out on a gnarled stick, with their soles pointing to the sky. And above all this chaos towered a long pole with a red rag at the end, fluttering in the wind.

(According to M. Gorky)

SEA LIGHTS

The sea near the shore is greenish. Then it turns black, becomes tarry, but this darkness does not frighten Dima. A boy can sit for hours on a steep rocky shore, look into the distance and dream. Usually Dima comes here alone, but now Slava is next to him.

The warbler steps from foot to foot and throws a flat pebble into the sea:

It will surface five times...
- Yeah! - Dima agrees. Glory swings, throws a pebble into the sea:
- What are you thinking about?

Twilight thickens and turns into darkness. The moon rolls across the sky like a golden orange. The sea flashes with lights, sighs and seems to roll from side to side.

Glory! Have you ever counted lights?
- Invented it for me too.
- I didn’t invent anything. Just living lights.
- Alive?! - Slava straightened his cap that had slipped over his eyes, grinned and waved his hand hopelessly. Dima pouted and became quiet.

Far, far away, where you cannot distinguish the sea from the sky, a light flashed and went out. Dima stood up and shouted:

You know, I wished for that light over there!
- What will happen?
“We’ll see,” Dima answered quietly.

The wind came. He tousled Dima’s flaxen bangs. He doused the guys with prickly spray, shook the old port lanterns and flew into the sea.

Suddenly, a distant light broke away from thousands of others, came to life and crawled somewhere along its own path. Here he is closer... closer... And he turned into a burning firefly, then faded for a moment and immediately flared up as a huge night sun.

Ship! - Slava shouted. - Look... There!
- My light came to life...
- And if I make a wish, will it come true? - Slava asked with caution and lowered his eyes.
- But of course! - Dima nodded.

And, as if confirming the words of the little dreamer, new lights flashed and ran in the distance. And the ship hummed loudly, invitingly: “It’s coming!”

(According to A. Barkov)

SEA SAILING

I sailed from Hamburg to London on a small steamer. There were two of us passengers: me and a little monkey, which a Hamburg merchant sent as a gift to his English companion. The monkey was tied with a thin chain to one of the benches on the deck, it darted about and squeaked pitifully, like a bird.

Every time I passed by, she extended her black, cold hand to me - and looked at me with her sad, almost human eyes. I took her hand and she stopped squeaking and thrashing about.

It was completely calm. The sea stretched out all around like a motionless lead-colored tablecloth. It seemed small. A thick fog lay on it, covering the very ends of the masts, and blinded and tired the eye with its soft darkness. The sun hung like a dull red spot in this darkness; and before evening she would all light up and turn red in a mysterious and strange way.

Long straight folds, like the folds of heavy silk fabric, ran one after another from the bow of the steamer. Whipped foam swirled under the wheels. Milky white and hissing weakly, it broke into serpentine streams.

A small bell at the stern tinkled incessantly and plaintively, no worse than the squeak of a monkey. From time to time a seal surfaced and, having tumbled steeply, went under the barely disturbed surface. And the captain, silent man with a tanned, gloomy face, he smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the frozen sea.

He answered all my questions with a curt grunt. Involuntarily I had to turn to my only companion - a monkey. I sat down next to her. She stopped squeaking and again extended her hand to me.

The motionless fog enveloped both of us with a soporific dampness. Immersed in the same, unconscious thought, we stayed next to each other, like family.

I smile now... but then I had a different feeling. We are all children of the same mother - and I was pleased that the poor animal calmed down so trustingly and leaned against me as if it were my own.

(According to I. Turgenev)

BRIDGES

The Russians fought in Italy. French generals acted against Suvorov. The French chose a place convenient for themselves - one that would certainly defeat Suvorov. They retreated to the Adda River. We went over to the other side. They burned their bridges behind them. “Here,” they decided, “we will destroy Suvorov during the crossing.”

And so that Suvorov would not understand their plan, the French generals pretended to retreat further. They retreated towards the river all day, and then returned back and hid their soldiers in the bushes and ravines.

Suvorov went out to the river. Stopped. He ordered to build bridges. The soldiers rolled up their sleeves. Axes in hand. Work was in full swing. There are two bridges, one not far from the other. Soldiers compete with each other. On every bridge they strive to be the first to manage it.

French watchmen are watching the river. Every hour they report to their generals how the Russians are doing their work. The French generals are happy. Everything is going exactly according to plan. They rub their hands with joy. Well, Suvorov got caught! The French were cunning. However, Suvorov turned out to be more cunning.

When the bridges were almost ready, he suddenly withdrew his army in the middle of the night and moved down the bank of the Adda.

What about the bridges, your Excellency? - the sapper officers became worried.
“Be quiet,” Suvorov put his finger to his mouth. - Build bridges. It's louder to knock with axes.

Axes are clattering over the river, and the field marshal, meanwhile, has led his army downstream and forded it, without any bridges, to the enemy bank.

The French generals are calm. They know: the bridges are not ready. A clumsy knock over the river calms the French. The generals are not worried.

And suddenly... Suvorov appeared from the back, from the rear. Hit with bayonets.

Hooray! Miracle heroes, follow me!..

The generals realized what was going on, but it was too late.

The French did not expect the Russians. They trembled and ran. More than two hundred officers alone fell into the hands of Suvorov.

The bridges were still completed. How can we do without bridges, since the army has not only miracle soldiers, but also convoys and artillery.

(According to S. Alekseev)

AT AN EVENING AT POGODIN'S

In Moscow, at an evening with Pogodin, Lermontov met Gogol for the first time. The guests were sitting in the garden. On this day there was a folk festival. The smell of sweaty chintz came from behind the brick fence from the boulevard. Dust, golden from the evening dawn, settled on the trees.

Gogol, narrowing his eyes, looked for a long time at Lermontov, a slightly stooped officer, and lazily said that Lermontov obviously did not know the Russian people, since he was used to moving in the world. Drink kvass with the men, sleep in a chicken hut next to the calves, break your lower back mowing - then, perhaps, you will be able - and even then to a small extent - to judge the lot of the "people".

Lermontov politely remained silent. Gogol didn't like this. Lermontov was surprised by Gogol's conversations and his grumpy voice. At dinner, Gogol spent a long time choosing, waving his fork in the air, which salty milk mushroom to plunge the fork into.

One thing was clear to Lermontov: Gogol neglected him. “A capable young man, of course. He wrote excellent poems on the death of Alexander Sergeevich. But you never know who can write good poetry! Writing is worship, a difficult schema. And this officer doesn’t look like a schema-monk at all.”

In response to Gogol, Lermontov, after waiting for time, read an excerpt from “Mtsyri”.

“Something else,” Gogol ordered. Then Lermontov read a dedication to Maria Shcherbatova:

She exchanged the flowering steppes of Ukraine for secular chains, For the glitter of a tiresome ball... Gogol listened, wrinkling his face, picking the sand under his feet with the toe of his boot, then said with bewilderment:

So it turns out that this is what you are like! Let's go!

They went to dark alley. Nobody followed them. The guests sat in armchairs on the terrace. Green transparent midges burned on the candles. On the boulevard the carousel jingled dashingly. In the alley, Gogol stopped and repeated:

Like the nights of Ukraine,
In the twinkling of the never-setting stars,
Filled with secrets
The words of her lips are fragrant...