Kasyan with a beautiful sword. Analysis of the collection of i.s. Turgenev's "notes of a hunter" from a positional point of view
I was returning from a hunt in a shaking cart and, depressed by the stifling heat of a cloudy summer day (it is known that on such days the heat is sometimes even more unbearable than on clear days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and swayed, with gloomy patience abandoning all of myself to be devoured fine white dust, constantly rising from the broken road from under the cracked and rattling wheels - when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary restlessness and alarming movements of my coachman, who until that moment had been dozing even more deeply than me. He twitched the reins, fidgeted on the harness and began shouting at the horses, every now and then glancing somewhere to the side. I looked around. We rode across a wide, plowed plain; Low hills, also plowed, ran down into it with extremely gentle, wave-like rolls; the gaze embraced only some five miles of deserted space; small in the distance birch groves with their rounded-toothed tops, some violated the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across fields, disappeared into hollows, wound along hills, and on one of them, which five hundred steps ahead of us had to cross our road, I made out some kind of train. My coachman was looking at him.
It was a funeral. Ahead, in a cart drawn by one horse, a priest rode at a pace; the sexton sat next to him and ruled; behind the cart, four men, with bare heads, carried a coffin covered with white linen; two women walked behind the coffin. The thin, plaintive voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened: she was crying. This iridescent, monotonous, hopelessly mournful tune sounded sadly among the empty fields. The coachman drove the horses: he wanted to warn this train. Meeting a dead person on the road is a bad omen. He actually managed to gallop along the road before the dead man could reach it; but we hadn’t even gone a hundred steps when suddenly our cart was pushed hard, it tilted and almost fell over. The coachman stopped the scattering horses, bent down from the driver, looked, waved his hand and spat.
What is there? - I asked.
My coachman climbed down silently and slowly.
What is it?
The axle broke... burned out,” he answered gloomily and with such indignation he suddenly straightened the harness on the fastening one that it completely swayed to one side, but it stood, snorted, shook itself and calmly began to scratch with its tooth below the knee of its front leg.
I got down and stood on the road for some time, vaguely indulging in a feeling of unpleasant bewilderment. The right wheel was almost completely tucked under the cart and seemed to be lifting its hub upward with mute despair.
So what's now? - I asked finally.
Look who's to blame! - said my coachman, pointing with his whip at the train, which had already turned onto the road and was approaching us, - I’ve always noticed this, - he continued, - this is a sure sign - to meet a dead person... Yes.
And he again disturbed the companion, who, seeing his reluctance and severity, decided to remain motionless and only occasionally and modestly waved her tail. I walked back and forth a little and again stopped in front of the wheel.
Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. Quietly turning off the road onto the grass, a sad procession stretched past our cart. The coachman and I took off our hats, bowed to the priest, and exchanged glances with the porters. They performed with difficulty; their broad chests rose high. Of the two women walking behind the coffin, one was very old and pale; her motionless features, cruelly distorted by grief, preserved an expression of stern, solemn importance. She walked in silence, occasionally raising her thin hand to her thin, sunken lips. Another woman, a young woman of about twenty-five, had red and wet eyes, and her whole face was swollen from crying; Having caught up with us, she stopped wailing and covered herself with her sleeve... But then the dead man passed us, got out onto the road again, and again her plaintive, soul-wrenching singing was heard. Silently following the rhythmically swaying coffin with his eyes, my coachman turned to me.
“They’re burying Martyn the carpenter,” he said, “what’s wrong with Ryaba.”
Why do you know?
I learned from the women. The old one is his mother, and the young one is his wife.
Was he sick, or what?
Yes... fever... The day before yesterday the manager sent for the doctor, but they didn’t find the doctor at home... But the carpenter was a good one; he made a lot of money, but he was a good carpenter. Look, the woman is killing him... Well, it’s well known: women’s tears are not bought. Woman's tears are the same water... Yes.
And he bent down, crawled under the reins and grabbed the arc with both hands.
However,” I remarked, “what should we do?
My coachman first rested his knee on the main shoulder, shook it twice with an arc, straightened the saddle, then again crawled under the reins of the harness and, casually pushing it in the muzzle, walked up to the wheel - walked up and, without taking his eyes off it, slowly pulled it out from under the floor caftan tavlinka, slowly pulled out the lid by the strap, slowly stuck his two thick fingers into the tavlinka (and two barely fit in it), crushed and crushed the tobacco, twisted his nose in advance, sniffed in space, accompanying each step with a long grunt, and, painfully squinting and blinking his teary eyes, he plunged into deep thought.
Well? - I finally said.
My coachman carefully put the tavlinka in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyebrows, without using his hands, with one movement of his head, and thoughtfully climbed onto the bench.
Where are you going? - I asked him, not without amazement.
Please sit down,” he answered calmly and picked up the reins.
How are we going to go?
Let's go, sir.
Yes axis...
Please sit down.
Yes, the axle is broken...
She broke, she broke; Well, we’ll get to the settlements... at a walk, that is. Here, behind the grove to the right, there are settlements called Yudins.
And do you think we'll get there?
My coachman did not deign to answer me.
“I’d better go on foot,” I said.
Whatever, sir...
And he waved his whip. The horses started moving.
We actually made it to the settlements, although the right front wheel could barely hold on and was spinning unusually strangely. On one hill it almost fell off; but my coachman shouted at him in an angry voice, and we descended safely.
I was returning from a hunt in a shaking cart and, depressed by the stifling heat of a cloudy summer day (it is known that on such days the heat is sometimes even more unbearable than on clear days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and swayed, with gloomy patience abandoning all of myself to be devoured fine white dust, constantly rising from the broken road from under the cracked and rattling wheels - when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary restlessness and alarming movements of my coachman, who until that moment had been dozing even more deeply than me. He twitched the reins, fidgeted on the harness and began shouting at the horses, every now and then glancing somewhere to the side. I looked around. We rode across a wide, plowed plain; Low hills, also plowed, ran down into it with extremely gentle, wave-like rolls; the gaze embraced only some five miles of deserted space; in the distance, small birch groves with their rounded-toothed tops alone violated the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across fields, disappeared into hollows, wound along hills, and on one of them, which five hundred steps ahead of us had to cross our road, I made out some kind of train. My coachman was looking at him. It was a funeral. Ahead, in a cart drawn by one horse, a priest rode at a pace; the sexton sat next to him and ruled; behind the cart, four men, with bare heads, carried a coffin covered with white linen; two women walked behind the coffin. The thin, plaintive voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened: she was crying. This iridescent, monotonous, hopelessly mournful tune sounded sadly among the empty fields. The coachman drove the horses: he wanted to warn this train. Meeting a dead person on the road is a bad omen. He actually managed to gallop along the road before the dead man could reach it; but we hadn’t even gone a hundred steps when suddenly our cart was pushed hard, it tilted and almost fell over. The coachman stopped the scattering horses, bent down from the driver, looked, waved his hand and spat. - What is there? - I asked. My coachman climbed down silently and slowly.- What is it? “The axle is broken... burnt out,” he answered gloomily, and with such indignation he suddenly adjusted the harness on the harness that it completely swayed to one side, but it stood, snorted, shook itself and calmly began scratching with its tooth below the knee of its front leg. I got down and stood on the road for some time, vaguely indulging in a feeling of unpleasant bewilderment. The right wheel was almost completely tucked under the cart and seemed to be lifting its hub upward with mute despair. - So what's now? - I asked finally. - Look who is to blame! - said my coachman, pointing with his whip at the train, which had already turned onto the road and was approaching us, - I’ve always noticed this, - he continued, - this is a sure sign - to meet a dead person... Yes. And he again disturbed the companion, who, seeing his reluctance and severity, decided to remain motionless and only occasionally and modestly waved her tail. I walked back and forth a little and again stopped in front of the wheel. Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. Quietly turning off the road onto the grass, a sad procession stretched past our cart. The coachman and I took off our hats, bowed to the priest, and exchanged glances with the porters. They performed with difficulty; their broad chests rose high. Of the two women walking behind the coffin, one was very old and pale; her motionless features, cruelly distorted by grief, preserved an expression of stern, solemn importance. She walked in silence, occasionally raising her thin hand to her swollen, sunken lips. Another woman, a young woman of about twenty-five, had red and wet eyes, and her whole face was swollen from crying; Having caught up with us, she stopped wailing and covered herself with her sleeve... But then the dead man passed us, got out onto the road again, and again her plaintive, soul-wrenching singing was heard. Silently following the rhythmically swaying coffin with his eyes, my coachman turned to me. “They’re burying Martyn the carpenter,” he said, “what’s wrong with Ryaba.” - Why do you know? - I learned from the women. The old one is his mother, and the young one is his wife. — Was he sick, or what? - Yes... fever... The manager sent for the doctor the day before, but they didn’t find the doctor at home... But the carpenter was a good one; he made a lot of money, but he was a good carpenter. Look, the woman is killing him... Well, it’s well known: women’s tears are not bought. Woman's tears are the same water... Yes. And he bent down, crawled under the reins and grabbed the arc with both hands. “However,” I remarked, “what should we do?” My coachman first rested his knee on the main shoulder, shook it twice in an arc, straightened the saddle, then again crawled under the reins of the harness and, casually pushing it in the muzzle, walked up to the wheel - walked up and, without taking his eyes off it, slowly pulled it out from under the floor caftan tavlinka, slowly pulled out the lid by the strap, slowly stuck his two thick fingers into the tavlinka (and two barely fit in it), crushed and crushed the tobacco, twisted his nose in advance, sniffed in space, accompanying each step with a long grunt, and, painfully squinting and blinking his teary eyes, he plunged into deep thought. - Well? - I finally said. My coachman carefully put the tavlinka in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyebrows, without using his hands, with one movement of his head, and thoughtfully climbed onto the bench. -Where are you going? - I asked him, not without amazement. “Please sit down,” he answered calmly and picked up the reins. - How are we going to go?- Let's go, sir. - Yes, axis... - Please sit down. - Yes, the axle broke... - She broke, she broke; Well, we’ll get to the settlements... at a walk, that is. Here, behind the grove to the right, there are settlements called Yudins. - And you think we’ll get there? My coachman did not deign to answer me.“I’d better go on foot,” I said. - Whatever, sir... And he waved his whip. The horses started moving. We actually made it to the settlements, although the right front wheel could barely hold on and was spinning unusually strangely. On one hill it almost fell off; but my coachman shouted at him in an angry voice, and we descended safely. In the very middle of the brightly lit courtyard, in the very heat, as they say, there lay, with his face to the ground and his head covered with an overcoat, what seemed to me to be a boy. A few steps from him, near a poor cart, stood under a thatched canopy, a thin horse in tattered harness. sunlight, falling in streams through the narrow holes of the dilapidated tent, dotted her shaggy red-bay fur with small light spots. Right there, in a tall birdhouse, starlings were chatting, looking down from their airy house with calm curiosity. I approached the sleeping man and began to wake him up... He raised his head, saw me and immediately jumped to his feet... “What, what do you need? what's happened?" - he muttered sleepily. I didn’t answer him right away: I was so amazed by his appearance. Imagine a dwarf of about fifty with a small, dark and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly, thick black hair, which, like the cap on a mushroom, sat widely on his tiny head. His whole body was extremely frail and thin, and it is absolutely impossible to convey in words how unusual and strange his gaze was. - What do you need? - he asked me again. I explained to him what was the matter, he listened to me, not taking his slowly blinking eyes off me. - So, can’t we get a new axle? - I finally said, - I would gladly pay. -Who are you? Hunters, or what? - he asked, looking me up and down.- Hunters. - Are you shooting birds of heaven, I suppose?.. animals of the forest?.. And isn’t it a sin for you to kill God’s birds, to shed innocent blood? The strange old man spoke very drawlingly. The sound of his voice also amazed me. Not only was there nothing decrepit about him, he was surprisingly sweet, young and almost femininely tender. “I don’t have an axle,” he added after a short silence, “this one won’t do” (he pointed to his cart), you have a big cart. - Can you find it in the village? - What a village this is!.. No one here has... And there is no one at home: everyone is at work. “Go,” he said suddenly and lay down again on the ground. I never expected this conclusion. “Listen, old man,” I said, touching his shoulder, “do me a favor, help.” - Go with God! “I’m tired: I went to the city,” he told me and pulled the army coat over his head. “Do me a favor,” I continued, “I... I’ll pay.” “I don’t need your payment.” - Yes please, old man... He rose halfway and sat down, crossing his thin legs. “I would probably take you to a beating.” Here merchants bought a grove from us, God is their judge, they are building a grove, and they built an office, God is their judge. There you could order an axle from them or buy a ready-made one. - And wonderful! - I exclaimed joyfully. - Great!.. let's go. “A good oak axle,” he continued, without rising from his seat. - How far is it from those cuts?- Three miles. - Well! We can get there in your cart.- Not really... “Well, let’s go,” I said, “let’s go, old man!” The coachman is waiting for us on the street. The old man reluctantly stood up and followed me outside. My coachman was in an irritated state of mind: he was about to water the horses, but there was extremely little water in the well, and its taste was not good, and this, as coachmen say, is the first thing... However, when he saw the old man, he grinned, nodded his head and exclaimed: - Ah, Kasyanushka! Great! - Hello, Erofey, fair man! - Kasyan answered in a sad voice. I immediately informed the coachman of his proposal; Erofey announced his consent and entered the courtyard. While he was unharnessing the horses with deliberate fuss, the old man stood leaning his shoulder against the gate and looked sadly first at him and then at me. He seemed perplexed: as far as I could see, he was not too pleased with our sudden visit. - Were you relocated too? - Erofey suddenly asked him, removing the arc.- And me. - Ek! - my coachman said through his teeth. - You know, Martyn, the carpenter... you know Ryabovsky Martyn, don’t you?- I know. - Well, he died. We have now met his coffin. Kasyan shuddered. - Died? - he said and looked down. - Yes, he died. Why didn't you cure him, huh? After all, they say you heal, you are a doctor. My coachman apparently had fun and mocked the old man. - Is this your cart, or what? - he added, pointing his shoulder at her.- My. - Well, a cart... a cart! - he repeated and, taking it by the shafts, almost turned it upside down... - A cart! ? “I don’t know,” answered Kasyan, “what you will go on; perhaps on this tummy,” he added with a sigh. - On this? - Erofey picked up and, going up to Kasyanova’s nag, contemptuously poked her with a third finger right hand in the neck. “Look,” he added reproachfully, “you’ve fallen asleep, you crow!” I asked Erofey to pawn it as soon as possible. I myself wanted to go with Kasyan to the cuttings: black grouse are often found there. When the cart was completely ready, and I somehow, together with my dog, had already fit on its warped popular print bottom, and Kasyan, curled up into a ball and with the same sad expression on his face, was also sitting on the front bed, Erofey came up to me and whispered with a mysterious look: “And they did well, father, to go with him.” After all, he is like that, after all, he is a holy fool, and his nickname is: Flea. I don’t know how you could understand him... I wanted to notice to Erofey that until now Kasyan seemed to me a very reasonable person, but my coachman immediately continued in the same voice: - You just see if he will take you there. Yes, if you please, choose the axle yourself: if you please, take the healthier axle... And what, Flea,” he added loudly, “is it possible to get hold of some bread from you?” “Look, maybe you’ll find it,” answered Kasyan, pulled the reins, and we drove off. His horse, to my true surprise, ran very well. Throughout the entire journey, Kasyan maintained a stubborn silence and answered my questions abruptly and reluctantly. We soon reached the cuttings, and there we reached the office, a tall hut standing alone over a small ravine, on a quick fix intercepted by a dam and turned into a pond. I found in this office two young merchant clerks with snow-white teeth, sweet eyes, sweet and lively speech and a sweetly roguish smile, I bargained for an axle from them and went to the cutting. I thought that Kasyan would stay with the horse and wait for me, but he suddenly came up to me. - What, are you going to shoot birds? - he spoke, - huh? - Yes, if I find it. - I'll go with you... May I?- Yes, yes. And off we went. The cleared area was only about a mile away. I admit, I looked more at Kasyan than at my dog. No wonder they called him Flea. His black, uncovered head (however, his hair could replace any hat) flashed in the bushes. He walked unusually quickly and seemed to keep jumping up and down as he walked, constantly bending down, picking up some herbs, putting them in his bosom, muttering something under his breath and kept looking at me and my dog with such an inquisitive, strange look. In low bushes, “in small things,” and in clearings, small gray birds often hang out, which constantly move from tree to tree and whistle, suddenly diving in flight. Kasyan mimicked them, echoed them; the powder flew, chirping, from under his feet - he chirped after him; The lark began to descend above him, fluttering its wings and singing loudly - Kasyan picked up his song. He still didn't talk to me... The weather was beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the heat did not subside. High and sparse clouds barely rushed across the clear sky, yellow-white like late spring snow, flat and oblong like lowered sails. Their patterned edges, fluffy and light, like cotton paper, slowly but visibly changed with every moment; they melted, these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. Kasyan and I wandered around the clearings for a long time. The young shoots, which had not yet managed to stretch above an arshin, surrounded the blackened, low stumps with their thin, smooth stems; round spongy growths with gray edges, the same growths from which tinder is boiled, clung to these stumps; strawberries sprouted their pink tendrils over them; the mushrooms were sitting closely together in families. My legs were constantly getting tangled and clinging in the long grass, saturated with the hot sun; everywhere the sharp metallic sparkle of young, reddish leaves on the trees dazzled the eyes; everywhere were blue clusters of crane peas, golden cups of night blindness, half purple, half yellow flowers Ivana da Marya; here and there, near abandoned paths, on which wheel tracks were marked by stripes of small red grass, there were piles of firewood, darkened by wind and rain, stacked in fathoms; a faint shadow fell from them in oblique quadrangles—there was no other shadow anywhere. A light breeze would wake up and then die down: it would suddenly blow right in your face and seem to play out—everything would make a cheerful noise, nod and move around, the flexible ends of the ferns would sway gracefully—you’d be glad to see it... but then it froze again, and that’s all again it became quiet. Some grasshoppers chatter together, as if embittered, and this incessant, sour and dry sound is tiresome. He walks towards the relentless heat of midday; it is as if he was born by him, as if summoned by him from the hot earth. Without stumbling upon a single brood, we finally reached new cuttings. There, recently felled aspen trees sadly stretched along the ground, crushing both grass and small bushes; on others, leaves, still green, but already dead, hung limply from motionless branches; on others they have already dried out and become warped. Fresh golden-white chips, lying in piles near the brightly damp stumps, emanated a special, extremely pleasant, bitter smell. In the distance, closer to the grove, axes clattered dully, and from time to time, solemnly and quietly, as if bowing and extending its arms, a curly tree descended... For a long time I did not find any game; Finally, from a wide oak bush, completely overgrown with wormwood, a corncrake flew. I hit; he turned over in the air and fell. Hearing the shot, Kasyan quickly covered his eyes with his hand and did not move until I loaded the gun and raised the crake. When I went further, he approached the place where the dead bird had fallen, bent down to the grass, on which a few drops of blood splashed, shook his head, looked fearfully at me... I later heard him whisper: “Sin!” Oh, what a sin!” The heat forced us to finally enter the grove. I threw myself under a tall hazel bush, over which a young, slender maple beautifully spread its light branches. Kasyan sat down on the thick end of a felled birch tree. I looked at him. The leaves swayed faintly in the heights, and their liquid-greenish shadows quietly slid back and forth over his frail body, somehow wrapped in a dark overcoat, over his small face. He didn't raise his head. Bored with his silence, I lay down on my back and began to admire the peaceful play of tangled leaves in the distant bright sky. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience to lie on your back in the forest and look up! It seems to you that you are looking into a bottomless sea, that it spreads wide under you that the trees do not rise from the ground, but, like the roots of huge plants, descend, falling vertically into those glassy clear waves; the leaves on the trees alternately show emeralds and then thicken into golden, almost black green. Somewhere far, far away, ending in a thin branch, a single leaf stands motionless on a blue patch of transparent sky, and another one sways next to it, its movement reminiscent of the play of a fish reach, as if the movement is unauthorized and not caused by the wind. Like magical underwater islands, white round clouds quietly float and quietly pass, and suddenly this whole sea, this radiant air, these branches and leaves drenched in the sun - everything will flow, tremble with a fugitive shine, and a fresh, trembling babble will rise, similar to an endless small the splash of a sudden swell. You don’t move - you look: and you can’t express in words how joyful, and quiet, and sweet it becomes in your heart. You look: that deep, pure azure awakens a smile on your lips, as innocent as itself, like clouds in the sky, and as if along with them happy memories pass through your soul in a slow line, and it still seems to you that your gaze goes further and further further and pulls you along with you into that calm, shining abyss, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from this height, from this depth... - Master, oh master! - Kasyan suddenly said in his sonorous voice. I stood up in surprise; Until now he had barely answered my questions, otherwise he suddenly spoke. - What do you want? - I asked. - Well, why did you kill the bird? - he began, looking me straight in the face. - What for?.. Crake is game: you can eat it. “That’s not why you killed him, master: you’ll eat him!” You killed him for your amusement. - But you yourself probably eat geese or chicken, for example? - That bird is designated by God for man, and the corncrake is a free, forest bird. And he is not alone: there is a lot of it, every forest creature, and field and river creature, and swamp and meadow, and upland and downstream - and it is a sin to kill it, and let it live on earth to its limit... But man is entitled to different food ; his food is different and his drink is different: bread - God's grace, yes, the waters of heaven, and the tame creature from the ancient fathers. I looked at Kasyan in surprise. His words flowed freely; he did not look for them, he spoke with quiet animation and meek gravity, occasionally closing his eyes. - So, in your opinion, is it a sin to kill fish? - I asked. “Fish have cold blood,” he objected with confidence, “fish are dumb creatures.” She is not afraid, she does not have fun: the fish is a dumb creature. The fish does not feel, the blood in it is not living... Blood,” he continued after a pause, “blood is a holy thing!” The blood does not see God's sun, the blood hides from the light... it is a great sin to show blood to the light, a great sin and fear... Oh, great! He sighed and looked down. I admit, I looked at the strange old man with complete amazement. His speech did not sound like a peasant's speech: common people don't talk like that, and talkers don't talk like that. This language, deliberately solemn and strange... I have never heard anything like it. “Tell me, please, Kasyan,” I began, without taking my eyes off his slightly flushed face, “what do you do for a living?” He did not immediately answer my question. His gaze moved restlessly for a moment. “I live as the Lord commands,” he said finally, “but in order to earn a living, that is, no, I don’t earn anything.” I have been painfully unreasonable since childhood; I’m working while it’s wet, I’m a bad worker... where am I! There is no health, and my hands are stupid. Well, in the spring I catch nightingales. - Do you catch nightingales?.. But how did you say that every forest, field, and other creature should not be touched? “There’s no need to kill her, that’s for sure; death will take its toll anyway. For example, Martyn the carpenter: Martyn the carpenter lived, and he did not live long and died; His wife is now worried about her husband, about her little children... Neither man nor creature can lie against death. Death does not run, and you cannot run away from it; Yes, she shouldn’t be helped... But I don’t kill nightingales, God forbid! I do not catch them for torment, not for the destruction of their belly, but for human pleasure, for comfort and fun. — Do you go to Kursk to catch them? - I go to Kursk and go anywhere, as it happens. I spend the night in swamps and woodlands, in fields I spend the night alone, in the wilderness: here the sandpipers whistle, here the hares scream, here the drakes chirp... In the evenings I notice, at mornings I listen, at dawn I sprinkle nets over the bushes... Another nightingale sings so pitifully , sweet... pitiful even. - And do you sell them? - I give it to good people. - What else are you doing?- How do I do it? - What are you doing? The old man was silent.- I’m not busy with anything... I’m a bad worker. Literacy, however, I mean. -Are you literate? - I mean literacy. God helped and good people. - What, are you a family man? - Netuti, without family. - What is it?.. They died, or what? - No, but this: the task in life did not work out. Yes, it’s all under God, we all walk under God; But a person must be just - that’s what! God pleases, that is. - Yes... yes... so... The old man hesitated. “Tell me, please,” I began, “I thought I heard my coachman ask you, why didn’t you cure Martyn?” Do you know how to heal? Your coachman is a fair man,” Kasyan answered me thoughtfully, “but also not without sin.” They call me a healer... What kind of healer am I!.. and who can heal? It's all from God. And there are... there are herbs, there are flowers: they help, for sure. Here is a series, for example, grass that is good for humans; here is the plantain too; There’s no shame in talking about them: pure herbs are from God. Well, others are not like that: they help, but it’s sin; and it’s a sin to talk about them. Even with prayer, is it possible... Well, of course, there are words like that... And whoever believes will be saved,” he added, lowering his voice. “You didn’t give anything to Martin?” - I asked. “I found out too late,” answered the old man. - What! Who is destined for it? The carpenter Martyn was not a dweller, not a dweller on the land: that’s how it is. No, for any person who does not live on earth, the sun does not warm him like another, and bread is of no use to him, as if something is calling him away... Yes; God rest his soul! — How long ago did you move in with us? - I asked after a short silence. Kasyan perked up. - No, recently: about four years. Under the old master, we all lived in our previous places, but the guardianship moved us. Our old master was a meek soul, a humble man - may he rest in heaven! Well, the guardianship, of course, judged fairly; Apparently, it just had to be that way. -Where did you live before? - We are with Beautiful Swords. - How far is it from here?- One hundred versts. - Well, was it better there? - Better... better. There are free places, riverside, our nest; and here it’s cramped, dry... Here we are orphaned. There, on Krasivaya on Mechi, you will climb a hill, you will climb - and, my God, what is it? huh?.. And the river, and the meadows, and the forest; and there is a church, and there again there are meadows. You can see far away, far away. That's how far you can see... Look, look, oh, really! Well, here the soil is definitely better: loam, good loam, the peasants say; Yes, from me there will be plenty of bread everywhere. - Well, old man, tell the truth, do you, tea, want to visit your homeland? - Yes, I would look. However, everywhere is good. I am a person without a family, a restless person. So what! Are you staying at home for a long time? But as you go, as you go,” he picked up, raising his voice, “and you’ll feel better, really.” And the sun is shining on you, and God knows better, and you sing better. Here, look, what kind of grass grows; Well, if you notice, you’ll pick it. Water flows here, for example, spring water, spring water, holy water; Well, if you get drunk, you’ll notice too. The birds of heaven are singing... Otherwise the steppes will follow Kursk, these kind of steppe places, this is surprise, this is pleasure for man, this is freedom, this is God’s grace! And they go, people say, to the warmest seas, where the sweet-voiced Gamayun bird lives, and leaves do not fall from the trees either in winter or in autumn, and golden apples grow on silver branches, and every person lives in contentment and justice... And Now I would go there... After all, you never know where I went! And I went to Romen, and to Sinbirsk - the glorious city, and to Moscow itself - the golden domes; I went to Oka the Nurse, and Tsnu the Dove, and Mother Volga, and saw a lot of people, good peasants, and visited honest cities... Well, I wish I had gone there... and so... and already... And I’m not the only sinner... there are many other peasants walking around in bast shoes, wandering around the world, looking for the truth... yes!.. And what about at home, huh? There is no justice in man - that's what it is... These last words Kasyan spoke quickly, almost inaudibly; then he said something else that I couldn’t even hear, and his face took on such a strange expression that I involuntarily remembered the name “holy fool” given to him by Erofey. He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to his senses. - Eco sunshine! - he said in an undertone, - what grace, Lord! It's so warm in the forest! He shrugged his shoulders, paused, looked absentmindedly, and began to sing quietly. I could not catch all the words of his drawling song; I heard the following:And my name is Kasyan,
And nicknamed Flea...
I jumped off my horse, and kept the revolver in my hand just in case. I approached and asked: “Who are you and why are you running across the steppe at midnight?”
And the moon came out big, huge! The girl saw the Red Army star on my hat, hugged me and cried.
It was here that we met her, Marusya.
And in the morning we drove the whites out of the city. The prisons were opened and the workers were released.
Here I am lying in the infirmary during the day. My chest is a little shot. And my shoulder hurts: when I fell from my horse, I hit a stone.
My squadron commander comes to me and says:
So the day has passed. Hello evening! And my chest hurts, and my shoulder aches. And my heart is bored. It’s boring, friend Svetlana, to be alone without friends!
Suddenly the door opened, and Marusya quickly, silently walked in on tiptoes! And then I was so happy that I even screamed.
And Marusya came up, sat down next to me and put her hand on my very hot head and said:
“I was looking for you all day after the fight. Does it hurt, honey?
And I say:
“I don’t care if it hurts, Marusya. Why are you so pale?
“Go to sleep,” answered Marusya. - Sleep tight. I’ll be by your side all the days.”
It was then that Marusya and I met for the second time and since then we have always lived together.
“Folder,” Svetlana asked then excitedly. - It’s not true that we left home? After all, she loves us. We just walk and walk and come again.
How do you know what he loves? Maybe he still loves you, but I’m no longer there.
Oh, you're lying! - Svetlana shook her head. - I woke up last night and saw that my mother put the book down, turned to you and looked at you for a long time.
Eco business that looks! She looks out the window and looks at all the people! There are eyes, so he looks.
Oh, No! - Svetlana objected with conviction. - When you look through the window, it’s not at all like that, but this is how...
Here Svetlana raised her thin eyebrows, tilted her head to the side, pursed her lips and looked indifferently at the rooster passing by.
And when they love, they don’t look like that.
It was as if a radiance illuminated Svetlanka’s blue eyes, her drooping eyelashes trembled, and Marusya’s sweet, thoughtful gaze fell on my face.
Robber! - I shouted, picking up Svetlana. - How did you look at me yesterday when you spilled the ink?
Well, then you kicked me out the door, and those who are kicked out always look angrily.
We didn't break the blue cup. Maybe Marusya herself somehow broke it. But we forgave her. How many people will unnecessarily think bad things about someone? One day Svetlana thought about me too. Yes, I thought bad things about Marusya too. And I went to the owner Valentina to ask if there was a closer road to the house.
Now my husband will go to the station,” Valentina said. - He will take you all the way to the mill, and it’s not far from there.
Returning to the garden, I met an embarrassed Svetlana at the porch.
Dad,” she said in a mysterious whisper, “this son Fyodor crawled out of the raspberry and is pulling gingerbread from your bag.
We went to the apple tree, but the cunning son Fyodor, seeing us, hastily disappeared into the thicket of burdocks under the fence.
Fedor! - I called. - Come here, don't be afraid.
The tops of the burdocks swayed, and it was clear that Fyodor was decisively moving away.
Fedor! - I repeated. - Come here. I'll give you all the gingerbreads.
The burdocks stopped swaying, and soon heavy snoring came from the thicket.
Then, like a giant above the forest, I walked through the burdocks, took out the stern Fyodor and poured out all the remains from the bag in front of him.
He leisurely gathered everything into the hem of his shirt and, without even saying “thank you,” headed to the other end of the garden.
Look, he’s so important,” Svetlana remarked disapprovingly, “he took off his pants and walks like a gentleman!”
A cart drawn by a couple pulled up to the house. Valentina came out onto the porch:
Get ready, the horses are good - they will finish quickly.
Fedor appeared again. He was now wearing pants and, walking quickly, was dragging a pretty smoky kitten by the collar. The kitten must have gotten used to such gripes, because he did not struggle, did not meow, but only impatiently twirled his fluffy tail.
On the! - said Fyodor and handed the kitten to Svetlana.
For good? - Svetlana was delighted and looked at me hesitantly.
Take it, take it if you need it,” Valentina suggested. - We have a lot of this stuff. Fedor! Why did you hide the gingerbread cookies in the cabbage beds? I saw everything through the window.
“Everything like my grandfather,” Valentina smiled. - He's such a big guy. And only four years.
We were driving on a wide, flat road. Evening was coming. Tired but cheerful people walked towards us from work.
A collective farm truck rumbled into the garage.
A military trumpet sounded in the field.
The signal bell rang in the village.
A heavy, heavy locomotive began to hum behind the forest. Tuu!.. Tuu!.. Spin, wheels, hurry up, carriages, the railway is long, distant!
And, holding the fluffy kitten tightly, happy Svetlana sang the following song to the sound of the cart:
Chiki-chiki!
Mice are walking.
They walk with tails
Very angry.
They climb everywhere.
They climb onto the shelf.
Fuck-gobble!
And the cup flies.
And who is to blame?
Well, it's no one's fault.
Mice only
From black holes.
- Hello, mice!
We have returned.
And what is it
Do we carry it with us?..
It meows
It's jumping
And drinks milk from a saucer.
Now get out
Into black holes
Or it will tear you apart
In pieces,
For ten pieces
Twenty pieces
For a hundred million
Shaggy pieces.
“We were driving along a wide, plowed plain; Low hills, also plowed, ran down into it with extremely gentle, wave-like rolls; the gaze embraced only some five miles of deserted space; in the distance, small birch groves with their rounded-toothed tops alone violated the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across fields, disappeared into hollows, wound along hills, and on one of them, which five hundred steps ahead of us had to cross our road, I made out some kind of train ... "
I read this excerpt to Ivan Ivanovich Baidin, chief engineer of the Tula Department of Land Reclamation and Water Management, and was pleased to note that although more than a hundred years have passed since the publication of the story “Kasyan with the Beautiful Sword”, the landscape of these places, in general, has not changed . The same plowed earth with a thick blue tint, the same hills and copses touched by autumn, the same path strewn with crisp leaves...
The picture that opened before us, with the exception of some details, indeed almost coincided with Turgenev’s text.
- Well, what about the “train”? - Ivan Ivanovich asked, and his lush Cossack mustache expressed bewilderment. “The author, as far as I remember, means by him a funeral procession, accompanied by mournful crying... You and I see a different picture,” he gestured towards the highway along which cars loaded with sugar beets were rolling... (By the way, one of the trucks picked up Baidin and me: the chief engineer of the regional water management department needed to select water intake sites on the Beautiful Sword, inspect new areas where bushes would be uprooted, and check hydrometric stations. And I accompanied him on this trip.)
“Turgenev’s procession,” I didn’t give up, “is a random element in the landscape.” I am sure that if he had the opportunity to visit these places again, he would recognize them at first sight. I mean nature, landscape...
“I would find out, but not quite,” Baidin stubbornly objected. He left the path and turned towards the Beautiful Sword, prying up the compacted crimson leaves with the toes of his boots, making it smell even more pungent and spicy. A young grove, descending like an amphitheater to the river, was drowning in the yellow and red waves of ripened autumn. The sky was turquoise, slightly shimmering, with a transition to a blurred blue. And the distant fields of winter crops looked just as bluish and turquoise from here when the sun fell on them.
“I would have found out, but not quite,” he still persisted. Chief Engineer, tuning in to a business conversation. “It’s only to a beginner that it seems like the land is so pristine.” In fact, every area of the surface here is under anthropogenic influence.
- So how is it? - I didn’t understand.
- And so... Take the soils, for example - they have changed since then. Yes, yes, and temperature, humidity, acidity too.
- Is it really that fast? - I doubted it. — In my opinion, changes of this kind accumulate in the soil for centuries...
“It’s all about fertilizers, nitrogen and phosphorus compounds, and also,” Baidin thought, picking up the right word, - in the unpredictable game of climate... Well, since the soil is different, that means a different landscape. Do you get the connection? After all, it also changes all the time - new cereals and shrubs appear, although we sometimes don’t notice it. - He looked up, where the tops of almost leafless trees stuck out. — By the way, this grove was not here then. And there were no cattle drives in the meadows, no communications hidden underground... And here’s another example for you: do you see the squares of winter crops? — I nodded silently. “So underneath them, at a depth of eighty centimeters and every hundred meters, there are pipes of the irrigation system. Nowadays you can’t live without watering... The slopes have also become flatter - the result of mechanized plowing. So, if Turgenev had a chance to hunt in our area again, he wouldn’t have to change the cart axle in every village and curse the local hills... But what’s there to talk about,” Baidin waved his hand. - From any fold of the terrain, crack, twist, you can read - if, of course, you know how to do this - all the changes, all the microscopic events by which nature lived.
“The river is more complicated,” the chief engineer frowned. - Well, let's go have a look...
While we were talking, going down the gentle slope, the Beautiful Sword kept shining through the trees. She drew intricate loops, raced against herself, throwing herself in lacy foam, and looked more like a fast mountain river than a calm Central Russian river. Sometimes the shaky reflections of plump, sun-tinted clouds fell on its surface; the colors imperceptibly transformed into one another, flickered with blinding reflections, glare, sparks and immediately melted, succumbing to the new color scheme.
I lowered my hand: the water was cold and clear. Pebbles entangled in algae and lonely walking minnows were visible as if through a magnifying glass. In the middle of the river, young fish were playing, chasing sunny bunnies. The surface of the water swelled elastically, as if it were heated from below over a small fire; from the heavy, mossy boulders stuck on the threshold, splashes flew with a hiss, and a trail of foam curled into craters. The river frolicked, swirled and fluttered like a butterfly on a summer afternoon...
However, as soon as we walked some three or four hundred meters along the shore, we did not recognize the Beautiful Sword. It opened up and flowed with the impersonal humility of a man for whom everything is in the past. In indifferent and slow bliss they swam past the shore, and it seemed that they had nothing to do with the river, as if they existed in another time, on their own.
Baidin commented on this change in Mecha’s behavior in his own way - as a land reclamation specialist.
— The tortuosity coefficient of the Beautiful Sword is much higher than that of an ordinary river in middle lane. - He paused. - What did we know about her before? The fact that it originates on the Raevsky plateau of the Alaun Upland. The fact that its length is 244 kilometers, the coastal heights fluctuate up to 280 meters, and is fed mainly by snow. Landslides, karst phenomena, slight pollution from domestic and industrial wastewater... How long does freeze-up last? What about the speed of the current in different seasons? And the amount of water taken by industry and agriculture? Finally, what is the ratio of wastewater to natural river flow? We poked around at this Sword like blind kittens: approximately... approximately... approximately... And now we know everything or almost everything about it.
- Well, for example? - I became interested.
- For example... - He took out an impressive folder from his briefcase entitled “Water management passport of the Krasivaya Mecha River basin. Volume 15,” he quickly leafed through it. - We now know who consumes water and how much, what the flow speed is... well, at least in this place (0.2 meters per second), where the riverbed is becoming overgrown and why, what is the chemical composition of the wastewater in the left tributary of the Beautiful Sword - Urodovka (don’t laugh, she’s no less beautiful than Mecha!), how much fish is caught (78 tons per year). Finally we know exact number vacationers on its banks - six and a half thousand people annually. And at least a third of them are on wheels. For such a small river this is, of course, a lot. After all, more than forty percent of harmful substances owe their origin to transport, and in particular to the transport of motor tourists... All this information, and there is a great deal of it here,” Baidin patted the leather binding for greater persuasiveness, “we received from employees of the Kazan department of the Northern Scientific -Research Institute of Hydrology and Land Reclamation, who worked here for several seasons...
I learned that the certification of small rivers in the region had recently been completed in Tula. This one is complicated complex work carried out on Tula land, which is included in the Non-Black Earth Zone of the RSFSR, for the first time. 1682 rivers, rivers and streams, now “enclosed” in fifteen volumes of typewritten text, are described according to tables, graphs and diagrams, and are taken under the close control of scientists and water management specialists. In more detail the areas of river basins, water flows during high water and low water periods were measured, statements were compiled chemical composition drainage, the most dry areas, water edge marks, tortuosity coefficient, water intake capacity were determined, all ponds and lakes affecting the hydrographic network, bridges, roads, crossings, mills, dams, mouths of oxbow lakes, springs, springs, communication and power lines were taken into account , the water protection zone is clearly marked. 1682 creations of nature (eleven thousand kilometers, if you stretch them in a line) finally received citizenship rights and legal registration indicating all hydrological and water management parameters.
Plavitsa and Zheleznitsa, Sorochka, Mutenka and Krasivaya... Now these are not just streams of moisture flowing silvery along the bottom of ravines, but independent water arteries - even if insignificantly small, to which man has come to add their usefulness to the treasury of national economic plans. It cannot be said that before receiving the “passport” all these arteries were working idle. They had served people faithfully before, helped trees grow, fed rivers, but their energy often poured out spontaneously, uncontrollably, uncontrollably. Now, concern for these sources has become purposeful, and prospects for their economic use have been outlined.
As you know, in the next 15-20 years, water consumption in our country will almost double. Meanwhile, the natural resources of the river basins of the Non-Black Earth Region of the RSFSR are far from limitless, and it may turn out that more than one small river will be “drunk”. This is why it is so important to know all our water supplies and store them carefully. This includes such “trifling” water systems, the length of which from source to mouth sometimes does not exceed five to ten kilometers.
Now, for example, in order to correctly judge the future efficiency of the Don, you need to carefully monitor its tributary - the Beautiful Sword, and to know about the latter, you need to take an inventory of all its rivulets, streams and springs. And although they do not have the same capabilities, and the strengths are not the same, they are the ancestors, the basis of all living things.
And the names of these “babies” are amazing. Skomoroshka, Snezhed, Dry Gat, Pig, Deer, Nettle, Besputa, Ulybysh, Very, Dunno - this is the Oka basin. Bobrik, Lyutaya, Nepryadva, Epiphany, Wet Tabola, Sukhaya Tabola, Gogol - Don basin. There are also rivers Zamarayka, Cheryomukha, Vertunya, Abrazhek, Shutikha; streams Galichka, Vesely, Buichik, Rotten Claw. But Sturgeon with its tributary Mordves, Tulitsa with Sinetulitsa, Skniga with Sknizhka, Bezhka with Nevezhka... And this is only a meager handful of the wealth that was contained in fifteen volumes.
When and what people came up with these names and released them into the world? Now, probably, no one remembers this, because the times when running water was awarded sonorous names are long gone. No one remained nameless: the Tula peasant, who had a knack for invention, apparently spotted all the streams flowing near his village and gave them his own names. And who will say that these blue veins of the Russian land should not be taken into account simply because they are insignificantly small, and their names are less interesting for science than, say, the names of lakes or large rivers?
“...Let’s go to Bolshaya Korchazhka,” Baidin suddenly suggested. - It’s not far from here. I'll show you one place.
- Any landmark?
“You’ll see,” he smiled mysteriously.
Along the shore, almost copying its curves, ran a narrow track overgrown with burdocks, apparently laid in the old days of carts. She either quickly ran up the hills, then turned into a field, then hid in dense bushes, then fell into damp ravines and, having felt the firmament, again pressed herself against the guiding Sword. The river still twisted cunningly. Autumn painted its banks in red and fawn colors, and only along the very edge of the water stretched a long white path of goose down. The wind whirled him in the air and threw him in his face.
- Those little devils! - Ivan Ivanovich was indignant. — We found ourselves, you know, a dispensary. The whole river was dirty. “The geese resting in the hollow heard his voice and raised a terrible “high.” Stretching out their necks like a snake, an innumerable army of geese rolled towards us with cackling and hissing, pressing us to the river, and we, without saying a word, began to jog. “It’s good that there are so many of them,” Baidin said without taking a breath. — Mecha is an excellent natural dining room. All conditions for feeding...
Big Korchazhka opened up with gray triangles of roofs with antenna poles, patches of vegetable gardens with withered tops, and heavy round haystacks. On the sunny eel the river flowed festively.
“This is where we chose a place for the site of the future dam,” Ivan Ivanovich pointed to a rift, near which a flock of geese splashed. “Here for now,” he emphasized, “although, as it seems to me, a better destination could not be found.” From here,” his hand described a semicircle, “the Efremov reservoir will begin, which will spill over twenty-one square kilometers... During the flood, Mecha consumes huge volumes of water, and in the summer, in the heat, in places it almost dries up. So we will stop the water in an artificial reservoir in order to distribute it evenly throughout the year.
I looked at the fast river, at the old hollow willows dormant in the sunny silence, at the rickety barns in the spills of slurry and understood that none of this would soon happen. According to the chief engineer, the flood area, along with suburban lands, will include about 1,300 household plots. Those who will be resettled from their “ancestral nests” to new places—to basic agricultural centers—will receive comfortable houses with outbuildings or monetary compensation.
But what will they be, these basic centers? Will they be able to accept all the displaced people? Will the new settlers be able to keep a cow in a new place, geese, ducks, chickens, piglets, or have a plot of land? And finally, what will it give, this reservoir, will it not disrupt the flow schedule of the Beautiful Sword established by nature, the living conditions of the river inhabitants? In addition, many hectares of valuable land will be buried forever under the water column...
“You’re exaggerating,” Baidin grinned into his mustache. “They’re not that valuable, these lands.” Although to some extent you are right: we are losing something here. But what an economic effect! Now here they collect at least 20-25 centners of hay per hectare, but they will take all sixty. With the help of modern irrigation systems...
- Well, what about the river itself? - I didn’t lag behind. — Will she retain the ability to self-purify? Now, running freely from source to mouth, Mecha heals itself from harmful impurities, becoming saturated with oxygen. If there is a reservoir, the flow speed will slow down sharply. Remember the Volga: after the creation of a cascade of artificial reservoirs, it began to be “late” to the Caspian Sea by almost 400 days. Diagnosis: natural balance is disturbed...
“I know, I know,” Ivan Ivanovich stopped me. — Algae rotting along the banks, water blooms, a high percentage of evaporation from the surface of the mirror, etc., etc. But understand correctly: we cannot, we do not have the right to sacrifice the creation of a reservoir solely for the sake of preserving the river in its original form. The intensification of agriculture sets its own conditions...
— Why then was the certification carried out, if the Beautiful Sword was previously assigned the role of an “absurd” river? “In my temper, it seems, I went overboard, but just enough to inflame my interlocutor.
The geese, who had surrounded us, suddenly lost all their aggressiveness and listened with keen interest to the rumblings of the environmental discussion, as if their future, the geese, depended on Baidin and me.
“You are asking the question incorrectly,” the chief engineer hotly defended himself. “Either we build a reservoir and destroy the river, or we refuse construction and leave the river alone. “Either - or” is a completely illiterate formulation of the question. Most likely, it can be expressed as follows: “and - and.” And we are building an artificial pond, and doing everything possible to ensure that the Beautiful Mecha continues to remain beautiful.
- But losses are inevitable! - I stood my ground.
“I agree, we can’t do without losses.” But we can make them minimal. For example? We will build and improve treatment facilities in Efremov - many of them are still in operation, but without the proper return as we would like. Of course, artificial cleaning is not always effective and should not be overestimated. Now, if many household and other wastewater were discharged not into the river, but, say, into fields, it would be great. Indeed, in most cases, this is a valuable organic fertilizer... In addition, with the help of small dams, you can drive water so that it does not stagnate near the coast and thus cleans itself of pollution...
“It’s on the river,” I persisted. — But what about the reservoir, where water exchange will probably be delayed and rapid development of phytoplankton will begin? Who knows, maybe even signs will have to be put up: “Drinking, swimming and fishing are strictly prohibited!” The concept of “thickened water” is all too well known to scientists...
“Well, you know...” Ivan Ivanovich looked at me as if I was in retrograde and reached into his pocket for cigarettes. — Understand: the construction of a reservoir is dictated by the highest state interests. We, the people of Tula, need water, and so do the residents of the Don with its growing industry. And you can’t stock up on it anywhere except in a reservoir. “He took a deep drag, and the wind blew the smoke from his lips. — Have you thought about the Sea of Azov? It is becoming catastrophically salty, and even with little effort, we must save it... Do you take into account the health and leisure of people? This is such a pleasure - a reservoir! You can fish, swim, or even take a boat ride. “Ivan Ivanovich walked up to a quiet pool, where closely grown algae almost held back the pressure of the water, stood and was silent. — Well, as for phytoplankton, you’re probably right here. Flowering, duckweed, oxygen starvation are terrible disasters of water bodies. And therefore we must also think and check, check...
Of course, Baidin and I did not discuss even a tenth of the issues: one spontaneously erupted dispute is not enough for this. Many scientific and economic bodies are now engaged in the specific development of the problems of the Beautiful Sword; dozens of scientists are involved in the orbit of technical and economic research; And the main idea- how to benefit from the river without disturbing the delicate natural relationships - forms the essence of this work. Because the Beautiful Sword today is not only a creation of nature, but, more correctly, a creation of nature and man...
From the surrounding meadows and copses there was a smell of fresh hay, mushroom smell, and the acrid bitterness of fires. We sat down near the shore; Geese grazed peacefully nearby, plucking grass. The river rolled in a tangle of tight blue streams, in pearly flashes of spray, and thoughts rolled after the river, exciting the imagination, spurring the memory.
- Remember at Turgenev’s? — I said to Baidin, opening the volume of “Notes of a Hunter.”
- What exactly? - he became interested.
- Listen... “You don’t move - you look: that deep, pure azure awakens a smile on your lips, innocent like itself... And it still seems to you that your gaze goes further and further and pulls you yourself into that calm, shining abyss, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from this height, from this depth...”
Tula region
Oleg Larin, our specialist. corr.
On a stuffy summer day I was returning from hunting in a shaking cart. Suddenly my coachman became worried. Looking ahead, I saw that a funeral train was crossing our path. This was a bad omen, and the coachman began to urge the horses to pass in front of the convoy. We had not gone even a hundred steps when the axle of our cart broke. Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. The coachman Erofey said that they were burying Martyn the carpenter.
We walked along to the Yudin settlements to buy a new axle there. There was not a soul in the settlements. Finally I saw a man sleeping in the middle of the yard in the full sun, and I woke him up. I was amazed by his appearance. He was a dwarf of about 50 years old with a dark, wrinkled face, small brown eyes and a cap of thick, curly, black hair. His body was frail, and his gaze was unusually strange. His voice was surprisingly young and femininely gentle. The coachman called him Kasyan
After much persuasion, the old man agreed to take me to the cuttings. Erofey harnessed Kasyanov’s horse, and we set off. At the office I quickly bought an axle and delved into cutting, hoping to hunt grouse. Kasyan tagged behind me. No wonder they nicknamed him Flea: he walked very quickly, picked some herbs and looked at me with a strange look.
Without stumbling upon any brood, we entered the grove. I lay down on the grass. Suddenly Kasyan spoke to me. He said that the domestic creature was ordained by God for man, but it is a sin to kill the forest creature. The old man's speech did not sound like a man; it was a solemn and strange language. I asked Kasyan what he does for a living. He replied that he did not work well, but hunted nightingales for human pleasure. He was a literate man, he had no family. Sometimes Kasyan treated people with herbs, and in the area he was considered a holy fool. They were resettled from Krasivaya Mecha about 4 years ago, and Kasyan missed his native place. Taking advantage of his special position, Kasyan walked around half of Russia.
Suddenly Kasyan shuddered, peering intently into the thicket of the forest. I looked around and saw a peasant girl in a blue sundress and with a wicker box on her arm. The old man affectionately called her, calling her Alyonushka. As she came closer, I saw that she was older than I thought, about 13 or 14 years old. She was small and thin, slender and agile. The pretty girl was strikingly similar to Kasyan: the same sharp features, movements and sly look. I asked if it was his daughter. With feigned carelessness, Kasyan replied that she was his relative, while passionate love and tenderness was visible in his entire appearance.
The hunt was unsuccessful, and we returned to the settlements, where Erofei was waiting for me with his axis. Approaching the yard, Kasyan said that it was he who took the game away from me. I was never able to convince him that this was impossible. An hour later I left, leaving Kasyan some money. On the way, I asked Erofey what kind of person Kasyan was. The coachman said that at first Kasyan and his uncles drove a cab, but then he gave up and began to live at home. Erofey denied that Kasyan knew how to heal, although he himself was cured of scrofula. Alyonushka was an orphan and lived with Kasyan. He doted on her and was going to teach her to read and write.
We stopped several times to wet the axle, which was heating up from friction. It was already quite evening when we returned home.
