Fyodor Kryukov works. Literary and historical notes of a young technician. On the mortal field your bivouac
Fedor Kryukov was born on February 14 (2), 1870 in the old Cossack village of Glazunovskaya in the Ust-Medveditsky district of the land of the Great Don Army in the family of Dmitry Ivanovich Kryukov. He grew up in the usual Cossack environment for that time. Fyodor Kryukov's grandfather was a retired military foreman. Ivan Gordeevich Kryukov left his son an inheritance of the "officers' section".
The father of the writer is the village chieftain, the sergeant (sergeant) of active service - genus. OK. 1815, in the same village of Glazunovskaya. DI. Kryukov was repeatedly elected ataman of the village and died in 1894, serving in this position for the fourth term. On his plot of land, Dmitry Ivanovich Kryukov led the economy diligently and from that gave education to his children. Akulina Alekseevna's mother, according to the writer Yu. Kuvaldin, is a Don noblewoman. Fedor, having received higher education, became a famous Cossack journalist, famous politician and writer. Alexander, having graduated from high school in Orel with a silver medal, served as a forester in Bryansk, in 1920, due to the wide popularity of his older brother, the Cheka of the Mikhailovka settlement was tortured to death (according to another version, he was shot by red thugs at the railway station due to his noble origin). Sisters Maria and Evdokia, bearing the red punishment because of their brother, probably died of hunger in the thirties. The adopted son Peter, after the death of his father, retreated with the White Guard. Kazakoman, poet and journalist, publisher - he always yearned for his homeland, the life of an emigrant in Europe did not work out, a lonely death in the nursing home for the disabled in San African in France.
In 1880 F.D. Kryukov successfully graduated from the parish school in his native Glazunovskaya. His parents sent him further to continue his studies - across two rivers, forty versts to Ust-Medveditskaya stanitsa, now the regional center of Serafimovich. In the district village of Ust-Medveditskaya, he studied very diligently, in high school he even moonlighted with private lessons. He graduated from high school with a silver medal in 1888. At that time it was one of the best high schools in Russia. Here, the Cossacks were given deep, solid knowledge not only of the state program. The atmosphere of Cossack mania, which reigned here, instilled in the young in uniform, in military-style stylish uniforms, pupils an ineradicable love for their native land, the traditions of the Cossacks, and Orthodoxy. Each of the high school students thoroughly knew the history of their land, all the exploits of its great representatives. From an early age, high school students were instilled in a taste for research, searching for documentary evidence of heroes and legendary events on the quiet Don. Probably for this and not accidentally within the walls of this gymnasium, together with Kryukov, F.K. Mironov (commander of the 2nd rank), A.S. Popov (writer Serafimovich 1863-1949) and Pyotr Gromoslavsky (M. A. Sholokhov's father-in-law), Ageev, Orest Govorukhin. Myopia did not allow F. Kryukov to become a military man; he had to make a state choice.
In 1888 F. Kryukov entered the state support at the Imperial St. Petersburg Institute of History and Philology, where he received an excellent education. The teaching of history, Russian literature and ancient classical languages \u200b\u200bwas excellent at the Institute. Lectures were given, as a rule, by professors of St. Petersburg University. The Historical and Philological Institute was established in St. Petersburg in 1867 specifically with the aim of training teachers of humanitarian disciplines for gymnasiums, for training teachers of ancient and new languages, literature, history, geography. The institute was housed in the former palace of Emperor Peter II (Universitetskaya emb., 11). Graduates of gymnasiums and philosophical classes of theological seminaries were accepted here. The training period lasted four years. Until 1904. the institute was a closed educational institution with full government content. The certificate of graduation from the institute was equivalent to a university diploma. In 1918. it was reorganized into the Pedagogical Institute at the 1st Petrograd University.
In June 1892 F. Kryukov successfully graduated from the Imperial Institute with a degree in history and geography. With his classmate V.F. Botsyanovsky (1869–1943) - literary critic, author of the first book about M. Gorky (1900) F. Kryukov was friends all his life. After graduation, Kryukov tried to free himself from six years of compulsory pedagogical service, intending to become a priest. However, it didn't work out. He will expressly tell about this in his memoirs "On the Good Shepherd. In memory of Father Philip Petrovich Gorbanevsky" - "Russian Notes", No. 6,1915).
In 1893-1905. teaches in Orel and Novgorod. Since September 29, 1893, Kryukov has been an educator at the Noble Boarding School of the Oryol Male Gymnasium (72, Karachevskaya St.). He came here at the age of 23, a year after his first appearance in print. He settled on the street. Voskresenskaya in Zaitsev's house. It is interesting that Kryukov in those years was the educator of the remarkable poet of the Silver Age, Alexander Tinyakov. Together they published a handwritten journal. The formation and formation of Kryukov as a writer took place in Orel. A lot of material and life observations have accumulated here on August 31, 1900. superstate became a teacher of history and geography, at the same time fulfilling the former duties of an educator until 1904. By the highest order for the civil department of October 11, 1898, he was approved by the class of the position held in the rank of collegiate assessor with seniority from September 29, 1893. that the teacher "was not brought to justice and was not prosecuted or investigated." Additionally, Kryukov taught history at the Nikolaev women's gymnasium (1894-98). From 1898 to 31 August 1905, he taught Russian at the Oryol-Bakhtin Cadet Corps.
On January 1, 1895, he was awarded the Order of St. Anna 2nd degree ("Anna on the neck"). In the early 1900s. Fyodor Dmitrievich is on the list of persons entitled to be jurors in the Oryol district. In February 1903 he delivered a lecture on the 42nd anniversary of the reform on the liberation of the peasants from serfdom. At the end of the same year, the writer joined the commission on the expansion of the gymnasium course, which spoke out against the exclusion of F. Dostoevsky and L. Tolstoy from the program.
The publication of the story about the morals of the Oryol male gymnasium caused a conflict with colleagues (see B. p., Orel. Confusion among teachers, "Russian Word", 1904, November 19), which was resolved by the displacement of Kryukov from August 31, 1905. for the post of supernumerary teacher of history and geography at the Nizhny Novgorod Vladimir Real School. After the story "Pictures of School Life" appeared in the capital's press, the dissenting teacher had to move to another city.
As a citizen and teacher, he was nevertheless noted by Russia. For his teaching activity Fyodor Dmitrievich was awarded the Orders of St. Anna, 2nd degree and St. Stanislav, 3rd degree. Fyodor Kryukov had the rank of State Councilor.
In April 1906 Fyodor Kryukov was elected a deputy of the First State Duma from the Oblast of the Don Army.
- "Since the summer of 1905, for one literary sin I was transferred by order of the trustee of the Moscow district from the Oryol gymnasium to the teacher of the Nizhny Novgorod real school... Here, in early March 1906, I received a government package with the seal of the Glazunov village administration. It was reported that the Glazunov stanitsa assembly, in pursuance of the Imperially approved provision on elections to the State Duma, chose me as an elector to the district electoral meeting in the Ust-Medveditsky district of the Don Cossack region. ("Elections on the Don" RB)
In 1906-1907. he incendiary, vividly spoke out in the Duma and in the press against the use of the Don regiments to suppress revolutionary uprisings. Some researchers believe that he was even one of the founders of the “People's Socialists” party.
In July 1906, after the dissolution of the Duma by Nicholas II, Kryukov in Vyborg. July 10 at the Belvedere hotel signed the famous "Vyborg Appeal", for which from December. 1907 served a 3-month prison sentence in the capital Kresty prison. Convicted under Article 129, part 1, paragraphs 51 and 3 of the Criminal Code. For campaign speeches on 08/20/1906 on the lower square in st. Ust-Medveditskaya, the liberal populist Kryukov - together with the future commander of the Second Horse FK Mironov - was prohibited from living within the Don Cossack Region. Cossacks Art. Glazunovskaya sent a petition to the military commander ataman to lift the shameful ban. But in vain. In 1907. for participation in revolutionary unrest he was administratively exiled outside the Don Cossack Region for several years. Access to previous teaching activities was also closed. My childhood friend, metallurgy scientist Nikolai Pudovich Aseev, helped out by arranging him as an assistant librarian at a mining institute.
Nevertheless Fyodor Dmitrievich regularly, two or three times a year, came to his "corner" of Art. Glazunovskaya. Kryukov always maintained an active interest in the life of the village, directly participated in it, really helping fellow countrymen in resolving the difficulties that arose. Here he not only took part in the current economic life, in the field work, took care of his relatives, but later also adopted a child. Together with sisters Maria and Evdokia, they began to raise their son Peter.
In November 1909. Kryukov, after the death of P.F. Yakubovich, with whom he was elected comrade-co-publisher of the thick capital magazine "Russian wealth".
With the outbreak of the First World War, patriotic, F.D. Kryukov found himself in a combat zone. In late autumn 1914 Fyodor Kryukov left the Don region to go to the Turkish front. After a long journey, he joined the 3rd hospital of the State Duma in the Kars region. He could not be called up to military service - in his youth he was released from military service due to myopia. He writes a lot of stories in magazines and newspapers, being a direct eyewitness to all the horrors of the war, as a representative of the committee of the third State Duma under the Red Cross detachment on the Caucasian front (1914 - early 1915).
In winter, in November 1915 - February 1916 - with the same hospital, he was on the Galician front. Kryukov reflected his impressions of this period in his life in the front-line notes "Group B" ("Silhouettes"). He printed numerous impressions of what he saw in frontline essays in the best Russian periodicals.
1917 The writer lived in Petrograd and was a direct witness to the beginning of the February revolution, but he took such a revolution, with all its vulgarity, negatively. In mrta 1917. in Petrograd, Kryukov was elected to the Council of the Union of Cossack Troops. In the essays "Collapse", "New", "New system" he showed a real picture of the abomination and decay that the so-called proletarian "revolution" brings. He does not stop working on the "big thing" - a novel about the life of the Don Cossacks.
January 1918, leaves Petrograd forever and returns to his homeland. In May 1918, Kryukov was arrested by the Red Army, and then released on the orders of Philip Mironov. In June 1918, in one of the offensives on the Mikhailovka settlement, he was shell-shocked as a result of a shell burst and was easily shell-shocked. Until July 5, battles are going on with varying success, the villages located between the Sebryakovo station and Ust-Medveditskaya pass from hand to hand. Kryukov was the director of the Ust-Medveditskaya women's gymnasium. In the fall of 1918, Kryukov became the director of the Ust-Medveditsa men's gymnasium and, probably, it was during this period that he wrote the main parts of the novel dedicated to the Civil War.
Stages of the writer's literary activity:
Even in the early years of his studies at the institute, Fyodor Dmitrievich became addicted to literature, which gradually became the main content of his life. Literary activity began with the article "Cossacks at the Academic Exhibition", published (03/18/1890) in the journal "Donskaya Speech". Until 1894, Fyodor Kryukov collaborated with the Petersburg newspaper, publishing short stories. For more than a year he lived to earn money from working with her (1892-94), printing short stories from the capital, rural and provincial life. At the same time, he was published in the "Historical Bulletin" - devoting large stories to the Don Cossacks in the Petrine era, "Gulebschiki. Essay from the life of the ancient Cossacks" (1892, No. 10) and "Shulgin massacre. (Studies from the history of Bulavinsky indignation)" (1894, No. 9: negative review: S.F. Melnikov-Razvedenkov - "Don speech". 1894, 13.15 Dec.). He began to publish in the "Northern Herald" in the 1890s, "Russian Gazette", "Son of the Fatherland" and others, then became the closest collaborator and member of the editorial board of "Russian Bogatstvo".
The first significant works from the life of the modern Don Cossacks date back to this time, such as "Cossack" (From stanitsa life (1896), "Treasure" (1897), "In native places" (1903). Since the beginning of the 900s Fyodor Kryukov mainly published in the journal VG Korolenko "Russian wealth." In several issues for 1913, it contained the chapters "Fun" and "Service", included in the large essay FD Kryukov "In the depth" (writer published it under the pseudonym I. Gordeev.) In addition to these chapters, the essay includes four more: "Deceived aspirations", "Riot", "New", "Intellectuals." In general, these works paint a broad panorama of the life of the Don Cossacks. As an observant writer , Kryukov notices the specific features of the Cossack disposition, the details of everyday life, features, the colorful dialect of his heroes, the attitude to military service, the curious and sad phenomena of their life. Fyodor Kryukov always considered VG Korolenko his godfather in literature. With the exception of the story "Treasure "Placed in" Historical Skiy Vestnik ”, almost all the works written by Kryukov in Orel were published in the journal“ Russian wealth ”, which was edited by Korolenko. The works of GI Uspensky, IABunin, AI Kuprin, VV Veresaev, D.N. Mamin-Sibiryak, K.M. Stanyukovich and other writers known for their democratic views.
Kryukov, complex and embarrassed, still tried to go beyond the newspapers and the magazine "Russian wealth". In 1907 he separately published Cossack Motives. Essays and stories "(St. Petersburg, 1907), in 1910 -" Stories "(St. Petersburg, 1910).
He was constantly published in the newspaper "Russkiye Vedomosti" (1910-1917), where he made 75 publications, and periodically in the newspaper "Rech" (1911-1915), essays, stories, numerous sketches. Since the beginning of the tenth years, Kryukov more and more often goes beyond the Cossack topics, seeks to expand the circle of his observations. Thanks to participation in the population census, the essay "Corner Tenants" (RB, 1911, No. 1) was born about the poor lower classes of St. Petersburg.
Having received support from Korolenko and the poet P. Yakubovich, he became a permanent contributor to the Russian wealth magazine. Since 1912, Kryukov has been its editor, head of the department of literature and art in the magazine. As a result of the long-term creative collaboration of Fedor Dmitrievich with V.G. Korolenko - the chief editor of the journal "Russian wealth" (since 1914 - "Russian bulletin"), it was that from 1896 to 1917 F.D. Kryukov published 101 works of various genres. Korolenko wrote: "Kryukov is a real writer, without quirks, without loud behavior, but with his own note, and the first one gave us the real flavor of Don."
In several issues of the magazine "Russian wealth" for 1913, the chapters "Fun" and "Service" were published, which are included in FD Kryukov's large essay "In Depth" (the writer published it under the pseudonym I. Gordeev). The period up to 1914 is the most significant in the work of F.D. Kryukov. He writes dozens of novellas and short stories describing the life of the people of contemporary Russia, paying special attention to his "native corner" - the Quiet Don. Since 1914 he has appeared in the journal "Russian Notes", one of the official publishers of which was V. G. Korolenko. In the stories ("Manual", "In native places", "Treasure", "Cossack", etc.) he painted the colorful life of the Don Cossacks. Later, under the influence of V.G. Korolenko, P.F. Yakubovich, Alexander Serafimovich, with whom Kryukov was on friendly terms, social motives are strengthened in his works. He describes the severity of the tsarist service of the Cossacks, the intolerable position of the poor, the powerlessness of women, revolutionary fermentation among Cossacks in the period 1905-1907.
Kryukov also depicted the life of Russian teachers, clergy, officials, and the military. He wrote artistic and journalistic essays. Lenin used Kryukov's essay "Without Fire" in his article "What is being done in populism and what is being done in the countryside?" (Vol. 18, p. 520, 522-523).
The total volume of works by F.D. Kryukov is at least 10 volumes (350 works), but during the life of the writer in 1914, only one was published.
In 1918-1919 he was the editor of "Donskiye Vedomosti" published in the magazine "Donskaya Volna", newspapers "Sever Dona", "Priazovsky Krai".
Last days - Mysterious death:
Secretary of the Army Circle. At the beginning of 1920, having collected manuscripts in field bags, retreated along with the remnants of Denikin's army from Novocherkassk, went through the Kuban to Yekaterinodar. January 23, 1920 in the Ekaterinodar newspaper Vechernee Vremya, a message flashed that F. Kryukov, after spending several days in the Kuban capital, went north to continue the fight against the Bolsheviks, remained exactly a month before his death ...
According to some reports, in the Kuban region, Kryukov fell ill with typhus, died of typhus or pleurisy, and was secretly buried near the village of Novokorsunovskaya. According to others, he was killed and robbed by Pyotr Gromoslavsky, Sholokhov's future father-in-law. Fyodor Kryukov fell ill with typhus and died on February 20 (according to some sources in the village of Novokorsunovskaya, according to others - in the village of Nezaimanovskaya or Chelbasskaya). It is also claimed that the writer Fyodor Dmitrievich Kryukov was buried near the fence of the monastery somewhere in the area of \u200b\u200bthe village of Novokorsunovskaya. His ashes have not been disturbed to this day - his grave is unknown, there is not even a cross on it. A mound may have grown somewhere in an unknown farm on the banks of Yegorlyk, maybe just by the side of the road ...
There is a version (I. N. Medvedeva-Tomashevskaya, A. I. Solzhenitsyn), according to which Fyodor Kryukov is the author of the "original text" of the novel "Quiet Don" by M. A. Sholokhov. Not all supporters of Sholokhov's theory of plagiarism support this version.
Fyodor Kryukov. Early 20th century
Looking through the maps and satellite images of the Don, one involuntarily comes to the conclusion that the topographic prototype of the Tatarsky farm is located sixty miles east of Veshenskaya. So, the Khovansky farm, whose very name is a secret bow from the Khovanshchina, the first spark of the Russian bourgeois-democratic revolution and the first attempt to introduce a parliamentary system in Russia. The point, however, is not the name. It's just that this place is identical in reality, and in proportions, and in absolute distances, as described in the novel. And there is no other such thing on the Don.
Let the attentive reader be convinced of this for himself:
Khutor Khovansky - twelve versts from Ust-Medveditskaya stanitsa, to the west along the Hetman Way. It is sheltered from the winds from the south by a chalk mountain, and in front of it is a high cliff and a sandy (so on the maps!) Spit, separated by an erik, a half-overgrown channel from Don to Don. On some maps, the spit is depicted as an island, on others as a peninsula.
Left bank - inconvenient: Obdonsky forest, windbreaks, hollows, valleys, sands. Here, just against the Melekhovs' kuren, is what is called the Prorva in the novel. This is a rare word that did not even make it into the Don dictionaries, but it is known by the Dictionary of Russian Folk Dialects (marked Don). Breakthrough - washing the banks, the place where the river washed itself a new channel. Another Don meaning is a hole. Well, in TD it is a dry channel leading to the Don from a long and narrow scimitar-shaped lake. The Breakthrough is filled and revived only during spring water yes summer showers. Then she hums and rattles so that she can be heard from the Melekhovs' smoking house (which is at least half a mile).
For Kryukov Prorv is a native word. That was the name of the river of his childhood, a workaholic river flowing past Glazunovskaya stanitsa: “Such a narrow river like the Prorva with blooming, moldy water, and above the river cherry orchards and gray, brooding willows listen to the wheels groaning, the water boils and rages, and they watch the sun catch the splashes, green, like shards of a bottle ”[F. D. Kryukov. Dreams // "Russian Bogatstvo", 1908].
Let's start with the diagram (all pictures are clickable!):
... I posted a post with a geographical reference of the Tatarsky farm to the real Khovansky farm. And his interpretation, confirmed by cartographic realities: Khovansky is a prototype of the Melekhov farm in "Quiet Don". There is simply no other place like this on the Don.
Received a response from the St. Petersburg bibliographer Igor Shundalov. He discovered that the scimitar-shaped lake west of the Tatarskoye lake, which in the novel is called Tsarev's pond, is called Tsaritsyn Ilmen on the map of 1870 (translated from the Don Tsaritsyno lake).
The lake is exactly as described in the novel - two or three versts east of the farm, on the very bank of the Don, separated from the river only by a sandy ridge. And it is, according to centurion Listnitsky, a half hundred miles from the station. The station is the Millerovo railway station, in the novel it flashes more than once. However, according to this link, a farm near Veshenskaya stanitsa is also suitable.
And here are the coordinates of Tsarev's Pond in the novel:
“Laughing, Gregory saddled the old womb left for the tribe andthrough the humane gates - so that my father would not see - went into the steppe. We drove toi will borrow under the mountain. The horses' hooves chewed on the mud, munching. In a loan nearhorsemen awaited them for a dried up poplar: the centurion Listnitskya beautiful mare and about seven farm children on horseback.
- Where to jump from? - the centurion turned to Mitka, adjusting his pince-nez and
admiring the mighty chest muscles of Mitka's stallion.
- From poplar to Tsarev's pond.
- Where is Tsarev's pond? The centurion narrowed his eyes short-sightedly.
- And there, your honor, near the forest.
The horses were built. The centurion raised the whip over his head. Epaulet on his shoulderswollen with a bump.
- As I say "three" - let it go! Well? One two Three!
The centurion rushed first, leaning against the bow, holding his cap with his hand. Hea second ahead of the rest. Mitka, with a bewildered pale face, stood upon the stirrups - it seemed to Grigory, for an agonizingly long time he lowered the stallion
a whip pulled up over his head.
From the poplar and Tsarev's pond - three versts. It was already in the nineteenth, when the anti-Bolshevik uprising began, Kryukov moved the Melekhov farm closer to Veshenskaya. And in the first version of the novel, the name Khovansky spoke for him (1682, the Streltsy revolt, led by Ivan Khovansky, the first attempt to establish a parliament in Russia).
Having described a certain area, but calling it by a different name, the artist counts on the reader's recognition and on remembering the real name. This happened in this case as well. The point is in the name of the farm, which refers to a whole complex of literary and historical memories that are very relevant. But, of course, in the case when the unspoken name itself is symbolic. So it happened with Kryukov with the Khovansky farm.
Researcher A.V. Venkov noticed the trail of the farm's transfer to Veshenskaya: “Prokhor Zykov (part 6, chapter LIV) moves from Tatarskoe along the Don to the west (upstream) and passes the Rubezhin farm, which belongs not to Vyoshenskaya, but to Elanskaya village, Vyoshensky yurt begins even higher (trap). Accordingly, Tatarsky is located even east of Rubezhin, and even more so it refers not to Vyoshenskaya, but to Elanskaya or even lower - Ust-Khoperskaya stanitsa ”.
Well, V. I. Samarin pointed out that the merchant Mokhov, a fellow countryman of the main characters, lives in a stanitsa located "not far from the mouth of the Khopr."
And so it happened.
But the fact that the name reverberated so clearly: Khovansky was a race leap across the zamishche to Tsarev's (!) Pond, in which the nobleman Listnitsky loses to tomorrow's punisher and executioner Mitka Korshunov.
To be honest, I did not even expect this.
I knew that with the total amount of matches, there could be no mistake. And I still sit a little shaken.
By the way, a map with Tsaritsyno Lake from 1870. This year Fyodor Dmitrievich Kryukov was born. So the hydronym Tsaritsin Ilmen can be trusted. Another thing is that Kryukov needed Tsarev's Pond here. As in the name of the farm, already during the civil war, the name of the Tatar man was needed, an unbending, thorny flower, sung first by Leo Tolstoy, and then by Fyodor Kryukov. In mid-November 1919, he writes:
“And I remember the wonderful image that the great writer of the Russian land found in“ Hadji Murad ”to depict the viable energy and force of opposition to that virgin and deep-rooted human species that has entered his native land, which amazed and captivated his heart with its selfless devotion - a light -tatarnik ... He stood alone in the midst of an exploded, beaten field, black and dull, alone, chopped off, broken, smeared with black earth mud, still sticking up. “It was evident that the whole bush was run over by the wheel and after that it got up and therefore stood sideways, but still stood, as if they had ripped out a piece of his body, twisted his insides, tore off his hand, gouged out his eyes, but he still stood and did not surrender to the person who destroyed all his brothers around him "...
I also think of my native Cossacks as an impenetrable flower-Tatar, who did not crawl to the roadside dust and ashes in the lifeless expanse of the crucified homeland, who defended their right to a dignified life and is now restoring a single Russia, my great fatherland, beautiful and ridiculous, shamefully annoying and inexpressibly expensive and close to the heart. "
And here is a Google image of Khovanskiy and its surroundings:
From the western edge of the farm to the "knee" of the Don, four miles, from the eastern end to the distant pond - three (everything, as in the novel). Further about another two miles to a huge farm meadow and "Aleshkin copse" (on the military map in 1990, an oak forest is marked here; and in TD), further east - Krasny Yar and a ford across the Don (historical name - Khovansky climb). From here the old man Melekhov crosses himself before mowing to the east, "on the little white pod of the distant bell tower." This is the tent-roofed bell tower of the Church of the Resurrection of the Lord (1782), dominating the surrounding area, the oldest building on the edge of the Ust-Medveditskaya stanitsa (up to it from the meadow plot of Melekhovs eight versts). Moreover, from the Melekhovsky meadow, only the bell tower looking to the west is visible, which covers the body of the temple.
… On December 15, 2018, I receive an electronic greeting from Don from Leonid Biryukov: “Why did old Melekhov cross himself before mowing to the east“ on a little white pod of a distant bell tower ”? Because the inhabitants of the Khovansky farm in the Ust-Medveditskaya stanitsa were parishioners of the Resurrection Church of the Ust-Medveditskaya stanitsa, the Ust-Medveditsky deanery. GARO. F 226. Op. 3.D. 11739. L. 1–29 rev.
Bell tower of the Resurrection Church above the coastal cliff of the Ust-Medveditskaya stanitsa ("little white pod"). Archival photo.
Let us turn to the General Staff's two-kilometer route in 1990.
The bell tower (look for the red "+" mark) is perfectly visible from the Khovansky climb (the mark is the red letter "X"), because the difference in heights of the right and left banks is quite large.
* * *
It so happened that the sequence of the first chapters of the first part of the novel (from the second to the eighth) turned out to be inverted: neither the editor Serafimovich, nor the young plagiarist appointed to the authors, were able to correctly restore the author's architecture of the text.
Similar errors of clumsy, forcible editing were found in other parts of the novel, see, in particular, in the publications of Alexei Neklyudov: http://tikhij-don.narod.ru
How this could happen is an idle question.
The incomplete "manuscript" of the novel ("drafts" and "white papers"), hastily prepared by Sholokhov in the spring of 1929 for the "commission on plagiarism", not only exposes its producers, but also gives an idea of \u200b\u200bthe original drafts of "Quiet Don". Mechanically reproducing the first author's edition, the editors of the mid-1920s inexperienced in textual criticism did not notice that the original author had significantly revised the initial edition of the novel and the sequence of chapters changed somewhat.
At the end of April 2010, in an epistolary discussion about the chronology of the novel, Moscow researcher Savely Rozhkov suggested that the first eight pages with the history of the Melekhov family and morning fishing in the protograph were located after the night fishing scene (and before mowing), while fishing with his father and the sale of carp to the merchant Mokhov falls on the day of Trinity. (Both the goose and the carp on this day are very useful. As well as the "festive shirt" ... But there are other, not indirect, but direct instructions. About them below.)
In addition to Rozhkov, Alexey Neklyudov and the author of this note took part in that discussion. Having checked the suggestion of a colleague, I was convinced of the correctness and the need to transfer the scene of the morning fishing (but not the history of the Melekhov family).
In Chapter II, before starting to fish for carp, Gregory exchanges such remarks with his father: “Where to rule? - To the Black Yar. Let's try near the entoy karshi, where we sat nadys ”(p. 14).
Let's turn to Sholokhov's "drafts". Gregory says: “Why are you angry, Aksyutka? Is it really for the breathy, what's in the loan? .. ”(p. 28). There is something else in the edition of TD, which was carried out in a more serviceable list: “- Why are you angry, Aksyutka? Is it really for the more puffy, what's in the loan? .. ”(TD: 1, VIII, 48).
Nadyshniy - the third day (DS). According to SRNG 1. the other day, recent; 2. Past, past. From the dialectal nadys: "This ush on the third day - neither vshira, nor greetings, but hope" (DS). Well, naughty - necessary (DS), from need... The scribe does not ponder the meaning and therefore confuses "e" with "s". (In the protograph after the "d" there were as many as nine "hooks" in a row, so similar to each other in advanced handwriting.)
But what the overhead karsha and what is this yar that old man Melekhov is talking about?
And here they are. In Chapter IV (!) Aksinya advises:
“- Grisha, at the coast, kubyt, karsha. Need to pass around.
A terrible jolt throws Gregory far away. Rumbling splash like since yar (italics mine .- A. Ch.) a lump of rock fell into the water ”(p. 33).
At this karshi (near the sunken elm tree), Grigory and Aksinya are sitting, mending the nonsense torn by the catfish. That is why they run into the question of Dunyashka, who has come running from the spit: “Why are you sitting here? Batyanka sent them to go to the spit as soon as possible.
This “sitting” will remind the old man to his son in three days on the morning fish: “- Where to rule? - To the Black Yar. Let's try near the entoy karshi, where we sat nadys ”(p. 14).
... And where was the gap in the delirium that Grigory and Aksinya was leading, and where Grishka almost drowned. And where he almost seduced the neighbor's wife.
Gregory does not know that his father saw everything from the hawthorn bushes, and therefore now orders his son to rule in the place of that almost happened crime.
That is why on the third day after that night fishing, Panteley Prokofievich, already dressed in a festive shirt, changed his mind about going to church. It was there, near the sunken karshi, that he should read his father's instruction to his son, it is there that his morality will be most effective.
But why was the right place chosen for night fishing?
Sterlet spawns on the Don in April-May. She chooses for this "spawning pits" - pools with a sandy and pebble bottom (just like that, with "kissed pebbles" near the spit near the Tatarsky farm). It is for the sterlet that the highly experienced old man Melekhov is hunting.
(For the localization of Black Yar, see the extract at the end of this text.)
The whole IV chapter is devoted to night fishing with nonsense, in a storm. There was also that heap in which Aksinya refused to Grigory, and the cunning Panteley watched this, waiting in the thickets of hawthorn.
So, two days later, on the third, the old man decides to talk to his son and calls him to go fishing with fishing rods. At the same time, the old man is wearing a "festive shirt". So in the Sholokhov imitation of the "draft" on p. 9, copying the protograph; in the publication, it is much more muffled, but also with a hint - a shirt "sewn with a cross" (!)
It takes place on Trinity. On what other day will the tight-fisted merchant Mokhov definitely buy a fresh carp, and the teacher in the morning, but after the service, that is, at 11 o'clock, will arrange an auction with a goose near the church fence?
After fishing, the father and son meet the people diverging from the mass and see how the churchwarden is selling goose from the church fence.
“In the square near the church fence, people were gathering. In the crowd, the teacher, raising a goose over his head, shouted: “Fifty rubles! From-yes-whether. Who is bigger?"
The goose turned its neck and blinked its turquoise eyes contemptuously ”(p. 19).
Why exactly fifty dollars?
Yes, because fifty kopecks is 50 kopecks, and Trinity is Pentecost.
The need to transfer chapter II (according to Sholokhov) to the place of VIII is also confirmed by the beginning of the next chapter, IX:
“From the Trinity, only remains of the farmsteads: dry chobor, scattered on the floors, dust of crumpled leaves and wrinkled, obsolete greenery of felled oak and ash branches, nestled near the gates and porches. Meadow mowing began from Trinity ... "
So chronology:
May 10, three days before Trinity (May 13/26, 1912) - raving fishing in a loan near Karshi. Gregory nearly drowned. In a shock, he sticks to Aksinya. Ch. IV.
S. L. Rozhkov believes that the day was not chosen by chance - it falls on seven (an ancient mermaid holiday, celebrated on the seventh day after the Ascension of the Lord). And it's hard to argue with that. At seven o'clock near the Black Yar, Aksinya (a purely mermaid's nature) almost drowned Grigory.
"Two days before Trinity" - the farmsteads divide the meadow. Ch. VIII beginning.
The day before Trinity ("the next day in the morning") - horse races, Gregory apologizes "for the more puffy (the day before yesterday) in the loan" Ch. VIII continuation.
Trinity: Panteley Prokofievich invites his son to go fishing and exiles him for Karsha, where they were sitting (the third day). Ch. II.
The new numbering is given in Roman numerals, highlighted in p / w, the numbering according to the Sholokhov edition is in brackets. Asterisks indicate subheadings that are not numbered. Each time they go as an addition to the chapter indicated by the number.
I(I). The history of the Melekhov family. Prokofy and the death of his wife after the birth of Pantelei. * * * The Pantelei family.
II(III). Gregory came home from the merrymaking in the morning. He gives water to his brother's horse, who is going to serve today At the request of his mother, Grigory wakes up Stepan and Aksinya Astakhovs. * * * Seeing off the Cossacks to the May camps. Gregory gives the horse a drink for the second time. (Error when mixing drafts.) Grigory flirts with Aksinya. The Cossacks go to the camps.
The latter is described through the eyes of Gregory: “The tall black horse swayed, lifting the rider on the stirrup. Stepan rode out of the gate with a hurried step, sat in the saddle, as if dug in, and Aksinya walked alongside, holding on to the stirrup, and from the bottom up, lovingly and eagerly, like a dog, looked into his eyes.
But on p. 18 "draft" after the words of Pantelei Prokofievich, said on the day of night fishing ("- we will click Aksin Stepanov, Stepan nadys asked to help him to mow, we must respect") there are lines crossed out with a blue pencil: "Grigory frowned, but in his heart he was delighted with his father's words. Aksinya did not lose his mind. All day he went over in his memory the morning conversation with her, her smile flashed before his eyes, and that lovingly doggy look from the bottom up, as she looked when seeing her husband ... "
That is, seeing off the Cossacks and late fishing take place on seven (Thursday) May 10/23, 1912. This is indicated by the "nadys" uttered by the old man Melekhov after the "shaking up" of the meadow two days before Trinity (in 1912 it fell on May 13/26; see below).
III (V). Petro Melekhov and Stepan Astakhov go to the training camp.
IV(Vi). Overnight Cossacks going to the training camp.
Begins: “Near the forehead, with a yellow sandy bald head, we stopped to spend the night. A cloud was coming from the west. " This thunderstorm will also be described in the next chapter: “A cloud went along the Don from the west” (p. 19 of the manuscript).
V(Iv). (Three days before Trinity. Thursday 7th week after Easter. Semik. Mermaid week, Great Thursday 10/23 May) "By the evening the storm gathered." This refers to the evening after the departure of the Cossacks to the camps. In the edition, this first phrase of Chapter IV sounds as it was corrected in the draft: “[The next day] By evening, a thunderstorm gathered” (p. 29). According to the manuscript, the old man Melekhov says: “- Stepan nadys asked him to mow” (p. 18). The same is in the edition (p. 44).
Evening thunderstorm, raving fishing in a zamishche near the Black Yar near Karshi, not far from the spit. Aksinya rejects Gregory. Panteley Prokofievich sees everything from the hawthorn thickets.
VI (Vii). Life story of Aksinya. (Ends with the phrase: "After fishing, nonsense ...")
Vii(Viii). “Two days before Trinity, the farmsteads were dividing the meadow” (Friday). From that day "nadys" (the day before yesterday, on Wednesday, that is, on the eve of his departure to the camps) Stepan asked old Melekhov to "mow him down." The next day (Saturday, the day before Trinity) Mitka Korshunov wakes up Gregory. Horse racing with Listnitsky. Conversation between Gregory and Aksinya. Gregory asks for forgiveness for "more pompous in a loan", that is, harassing fishing, which was the day before yesterday, on Thursday.
VIII (II). Pantelei Prokofievich goes fishing with his son Grigory. (Trinity, May 13/26, 1912). And he determines the place of fishing near the Black Yar: "near the entoy karshi, where they sat nadys", that is, in Semik, three days ago. * * * Fishing. They caught a carp. Explanation of the father and son. Mitka Korshunov. ("People were scattered through the streets from the mass of mass [...] On the square near the church fence people were gathering. In the crowd the churchwarden, raising a goose over his head, shouted:" Fifty rubles! From-yes-whether. Who is more? ". Brothers Shamilia. Merchant Sergei Platonovich Mokhov and his daughter.
IX... Meadow mowing began "from Trinity" (the day after Trinity). * * * On the mow, Grigory seduces Aksinya.
X.The merchant Mokhov opens his eyes to Panteley Prokofievich to the affair between Grigory and Aksinya. Explanation of the old man-Melekhov with Aksinya and with Grigory. The old man beat his son.
XI... Camps. Stepan learns about Aksinya's betrayal.
XII... Nine days before Stepan's arrival. Gregory and Aksinya.
P.S. OPENING OF PHILOLOGIST MIKHAIL MIKHEEV
My old friend from Moscow, Doctor of Philology Mikhail Mikheev, describing the archive of Fyodor Kryukov in the House of Russian Abroad, sent me several texts of Don songs collected by Kryukov as a student. This is a separate notebook. Among the songs there is, in particular, the one that gave the title to the story "On the azure river" (L. 19 ob): "On the azure river in that clear field it was ..."
Sholokhov caught the echo of this Kryukov name, giving the name "Azure Steppe" to one of the stories published under his name. And at the same time he stole another azure flower discovered by Kryukov: “ Dawn faded, the battle is over ": (" Azure steppe»).
But that wasn't what shocked me. In the same notebook, there was a song written by Fyodor Kryukov's hand, the plot of which became the outset of a love plot TD.
So, the field phonetic record made by FD Kryukov approx. 1890 in a large, still half-childish handwriting.
I am grateful to Mikhail Mikheev for permission to publish the lyrics. I do it in my own poetic writing. I will only make a reservation that the first word of this entry, apparently, over time and prompting to start the novel from this plot, originally meant only the beginning of the selection (not the text of the song, because the word "End" ends both the first and the second, located below on the same sheet song):
– – –1
start
Not the evening zoryushka began to fade
Midnight star she ascended high
Good rogue butterfly povadu pashala
The remote kind young man led the horse to drink
I talked to a good rascal grandma
Let the soul of the grandmother spend the night to bring in,
Come come my harosha I will be home
Alone at home I have my own will.
Post [those] liu *tibѣ a bed with a bed;
I'll put three pillows in the head // End: -
—————————————————————
* A typo? - A. Ch.
House of the Russian Diaspora. Fund 14 (FD Kryukov. Works of Cossack folklore.). Inventory 1. E. x. 25.Sheet 44v. For facsimile reproduction, see here, on "Nestorian", in the note "Finding the philologist Mikhail Mikheev."
On the back of l. -23 litters: "May 1889".
From this song I got to the first page of the novel "fading dawn":
“The kids grazing after the calves were told that they saw how Prokofy in the evenings, when the dawns wither, in his arms he carried his wife up to Tatarsky, azhnik, kurgan. He planted her there on the top of the mound, with his back to the spongy stone that had been worn out for centuries, sat down next to her, and so they gazed into the steppe for a long time. Been looking until then while the dawn faded, and then Prokofiy wrapped his wife up in a zipun and carried her home in his arms. "
Hence the strangeness of the narrative: before his brother leaves, Grishka twice gives Stepanov's horse to the Don, although there is a well at the base. (For the first time at night, and then in the morning. And only on the second attempt he meets his "rogue butterfly" walking with buckets.
In the polemic of life with the song, the ending of Chapter VIII is also written:
“Surprised Grigory caught up with Mitka at the gate.
- Will you come for a game? He asked.
- What is it? Or called for the night?
Gregory rubbed his forehead with his palm and did not answer. "
This is not at all about the coincidence of one folklore cliché. It is in this song that the novel begins with the fact that a Cossack woman, left alone in the house (her husband, obviously, is serving), goes to fetch water at night and she is met by a young Cossack who (at night!) Went to drink a horse. And she invites him to spend the night, because "alone at home" and she has "her own will."
The first chapters of the TD became a detailed plot of this song. Moreover, the song was recorded not by someone, but by Kryukov.
……………………………………………………………
P.S. Received a letter from Alexey Neklyudov:
Andrey, in addition, a version of the same song is sung by the Cossacks when they go to military training:
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Eh you, dawn-lightning,
She ascended to heaven early ...
Young, here she is, wench
Late on the water went ...
- Christonia, help!
And the boy, he guessed
I began to saddle my horse ...
Saddled a bay horse -
I began to catch up with the woman ...
(5 chapter of the 1st part)
I think it will be necessary to check which version is in the songbooks, if any.
In general, it's great ...
…………………………………………………………
Abbreviations:
TD - "Quiet Don"
DS - Big Explanatory Dictionary of the Don Cossacks. M., 2003.
Below is a reconstruction of the sequence of the first twelve chapters of The Quiet Don.
Publishing text: Sholokhov M. A. [Quiet Don: A Novel in Four Books]. // Sholokhov M. A. Collected works: In 8 volumes - M., 1956-1960:
http://feb-web.ru/feb/sholokh/default.asp?/feb/sholokh/texts/sh0/sh0.html
Andrey Chernov
Stanitsa Glazunovskaya. House of the writer F. D. Kryukov. Figure 1918
book one
Oh you, our father Quiet Don!
Oh, why are you, Quiet Don, flowing dim little bitch?
Oh, how quiet to me, Don, I’m not dull of the leak!
From the bottom of me, quiet Dona, cold keys beat,
In the middle of me, quiet Dona, white fish muddies.
(Old Cossack song)
PART ONE
Melekhovsky Dvor - at the very edge of the farm. Vorotz from the cattle base leads north to the Don. A steep, eight-sagged descent between mossy chalk boulders in green, and here is the shore: a nacreous scattering of shells, a gray broken border of pebbles aimed at waves, and beyond - Don's stirrup boiling in the wind with blued ripples. To the east, behind the red-blooded humane wattle fence, - the Hetman Way, wormwood graying, brown trampled by horse hooves, a living roadside, a chapel at a fork; behind it is a steppe covered with a fluid haze. From the south - the chalk ridge of the mountain. To the west is a street that runs through the square and runs towards the Zaimishche.
Having buried his father, Panteley ate into the farm: he re-covered the house, cut half a dozen of hummocks to the estate, built new sheds and a barn under the tin. The roofer, according to the master's order, cut out a pair of tin cocks from the scraps and fixed them on the roof of the barn. They amused the Melekhovsky base with their careless appearance, giving it an air of smug and prosperous.
Panteley Prokofievich sagged down the slope of the slippery little ones: he was wide, slouched slightly, but still looked like an old man. He was dry in the bone, lame (in his youth, at the imperial show at the races, he broke his left leg), wore a silver crescent-shaped earring in his left ear, his black beard and hair did not fade on him until old age, in anger he reached unconsciousness and, as you can see, this prematurely aged his once beautiful, and now completely entangled in a cobweb of wrinkles, stout wife.
His eldest, already married son, Petro, resembled his mother: small, snub-nosed, with a riotous wheat-colored hair, brown-eyed; and the youngest, Grigory, hit his father: half a head taller than Peter, at least six years younger, the same as Bati's, a drooping kite nose, blue tonsils of hot eyes in slightly oblique slits, sharp cheekbones covered with brown, rosy skin. Grigory stooped in the same way as his father, even in a smile they both had something in common, brutal.
Dunyashka - paternal weakness - a long-armed, big-eyed teenager, and Petrova's wife Daria with a small child - that's the whole Melekhov family.
II(III first part)
Gregory came home from the merrymaking after the first kochets. From the senses he smelled of the smell of peroxidized hops and the spicy dry herb of the Mother of God.
On tiptoe I walked into the room, undressed, carefully hung up the festive, with stripes, trousers, crossed myself, lay down. On the floor is the golden slumber of moonlight cut by the cross of the window sash. In the corner, under the embroidered towels, there is a dull gloss of silver icons, above the bed on a pendant there is a viscous buzz of disturbed flies.
I started to doze off, but my brother's child cried in the kitchen.
The cradle creaked like an unlubricated cart. Daria muttered in a sleepy voice:
Tsyts, you filthy child! No sleep for you, no peace. - Sang softly:
Were you an idea?
- She guarded the horses.
- What did you watch out for?
- A horse with a saddle,
With gold fringe ...
Grigory, falling asleep to the measured, lulling creak, remembered: “And tomorrow Peter should go to the camps. Dasha will remain with the child ... We must mow without him. "
I buried my head in a hot pillow, it oozes obtrusively into my ears:
- And what about your horse?
- Standing behind the gate.
- And where's the gate?
- The water carried away.
Grigory shook up a gleeful horse neigh. I guessed Petrov as a fighting horse by his voice.
With his fingers exhausted from sleep he buttoned his shirt for a long time, again he almost fell asleep under the flowing swell of the song:
- And what about the geese?
- They went into the reeds.
- And what about the reeds?
- The girls squeezed out.
- And what about the girls?
- The girls are gone.
- And what about the Cossacks?
- We went to war ...
Overwhelmed by sleep, Gregory got to the stables, took the horse out onto the alley. A spider web tickled his face, and suddenly sleep disappeared.
Along the Don, obliquely - a wavy moon lane, not driven by anyone. There is fog over the Don, and starry millet above. The horse behind it carefully rearranges its legs. The descent to the water is bad. On the other side, a duck quack, near the shore in the mud, swelled and thumped on the water in Omaha a catfish hunting for trifle.
Gregory stood by the water for a long time. The shore breathed fresh and damp deluge. Fractional drops fell from horse's lips. Gregory has a sweet emptiness in his heart. Good and thoughtless. Returning, he glanced at the sunrise, the blue semi-darkness had already resolved there.
Near the stable I ran into my mother.
Is that you, Grishka?
And then who is.
Did you drink the horse?
I gave him a drink, - Grigory answers reluctantly.
Leaning back, she carries her mother in a curtain to the flood of kizeki, shuffles her senile flabby bare feet.
I would have encouraged the Astakhovs. Stepan with our Peter was going to go.
Coolness puts a tight trembling spring in Grigory. The body is in prickly creeps. After three sills, runs up to the Astakhovs on the echoing porch. The door is not locked. In the kitchen, Stepan is sleeping on a spread sheet, with his wife's head under his arm.
In the thinning darkness, Grigory sees Aksinyin's shirt whipped above his knees, birch-white, shamelessly outstretched legs. He looks for a second, feeling his mouth dry and his head swelling in the iron ringing.
Hey, who is there? Get up!
Aksinya sobbed from sleep.
Who is it? Who is it? - Fussy fumbled, her bare hand began to huddle at her feet, pulling on her shirt. A speck of saliva dropped in a dream remained on the pillow; the glowing woman's dream is strong.
It's me. Mother sent to urge you ...
We've been infected ... We can't fit here ... We sleep from fleas on the floor. Stepan, get up, do you hear?
About thirty Cossacks left the farm for the May camps. The place of collection is the parade ground. By seven o'clock, carts with tarpaulin booths, foot and horse Cossacks in May canvas shirts, in gear, reached the parade ground.
Petro hastily sewn a cracked chumbur on the porch. Panteley Prokofievich walked around Petrov's horse, - pouring oats into the trough, occasionally shouted:
Dunyashka, have you sewn the crackers? Did you sprinkle the bacon with salt?
All in rosy color, Dunyashka swallowed the bases from cooking to smoking, laughing at her father's shouts, she brushed aside:
You, dad, manage your business, and I'll put my little brother down in such a way that he won't go to Cherkassky.
Didn't eat? Petro inquired, drooling and nodding at the horse.
Chews, - the father answered sedately, checking his sweatpants with a rough palm. It is a small matter - a crumb or a byka will stick to the saddle-cloth, and in one transition to blood it will rub the horse's back.
Doist Bay - give him a drink, dad.
Grishka takes him to Don. Hey, Gregory, lead your horse!
A tall, lean Don with a white star on his forehead went playfully. Grigory took him out the gate, - slightly touching the withers with his left hand, jumped on him and from his place - with a long trot. At the descent I wanted to hold back, but the horse knocked off its feet, became frequent, went downhill on a hint. Leaning back, almost lying on the back of the horse, Gregory saw a woman with buckets going downhill. He turned off a stitch and, overtaking the agitated dust, crashed into the water.
Aksinya came down the mountain, swaying, and shouted loudly from a distance:
Mad devil! The horse has not worn out the miracle! Wait, I'll tell my father how you drive.
But-but, neighbor, do not swear. You take your husband to the camps, maybe I will burn out on the farm.
Somehow n [a] devil [a] I need you!
Mowing will begin - if you ask, - Grigory laughed.
Aksinya deftly scooped a bucket of water from the scaffold on the yoke and, clutching her wind-inflated skirt between her knees, glanced at Grigory.
Well, is your Stepan going? - asked Grigory.
What do you want?
What are you ... You can't ask what?
Gathered. Well?
Remain, become, be, pathetic?
So it was.
The horse tore his lips from the water, chewed the flowing water with a creak, and, looking at the other side of the Don, hit the water with his front foot. Aksinya scooped up another bucket; Throwing a rocker over her shoulder, she went up the mountain with a slight swing. Gregory followed the horse. The wind ruffled a skirt on Aksinya, fingering small fluffy curls on his swarthy neck. A fringe embroidered with colored silk flamed on a heavy knot of hair, a pink shirt tucked into a skirt, without wrinkling, embraced the steep back and poured shoulders. Climbing up the hill, Aksinya leaned forward, the longitudinal hollow on her back clearly lay out under her shirt. Grigory saw the brown circles of the shirt that was fading from the armpits with sweat, and followed his eyes with every movement. He wanted to speak to her again.
I suppose you will miss your husband? AND?
Aksinya turned her head as she walked and smiled.
And then how. You’re getting married, ”she said intermittently, catching her breath,“ get married, and after you find out, they miss your friend.
Pushing the horse, leveling with her, Gregory looked into her eyes.
And some other women are happy to see their husbands off. Our Daria conceives fat without Peter.
Aksinya, moving her nostrils, breathed sharply; straightening her hair, she said:
The husband is not really, but draws blood. Will we marry you soon?
I don’t know about Dad. It must be after the service.
Young isho, don't marry.
Dryness alone. - She glanced sideways; without opening her lips, smiled tightly. And then for the first time Grigory noticed that her lips were shamelessly greedy, plump.
He, disassembling the mane into strands, said:
There is no desire to marry. Someone will love it anyway.
Ay noticed?
What should I note ... You are seeing Stepan off ...
Don't flirt with me!
Will you hurt?
I'll say a word to Stepan ...
I'm your Stepan ...
Look, brave, a tear will fall.
Don't worry, Aksinya!
I'm not scaring you. Your business with the girls. Let them embroider your wipers, but don't look at me.
I will gaze deliberately.
Well, look.
Aksinya smiled reassuringly and got off the stitch, trying to get around the horse. Gregory turned him sideways and blocked the road.
Let go, Grishka!
I won't let it go.
Don't be silly, I need to get my husband off.
Grigory, smiling, was hot on the horse: he, stepping over, pressed Aksinya to the ravine.
Let go, devil, there are people! Will they see what they think?
She gave a frightened glance to the sides and walked on, frowning and not looking back.
On the porch, Petro said goodbye to his family. Gregory sat on the horse. Holding his saber, Petro hurriedly ran down the sills, took the reins from Grigory's hands.
The horse, sensing the way, restlessly stepped over, chanted, chasing the mouthpiece in its mouth. Catching the stirrup with his foot, holding on to the bow, Petro said to his father:
Bald work is not nuri, dad! Overgrowth - we will sell. To celebrate Gregory's horse. But look, don't sell the steppe grass: in the meadow, you yourself know what hay will be.
Well, with God. Good hour, - said the old man, crossing himself.
With his usual movement, Petro threw his knocked-down body into the saddle, straightened the folds of his shirt behind him, tied with a belt. The horse went to the gate. The head of the checker flashed dimly in the sun, trembling in time with the steps.
Daria, with the child in her arms, followed. Mother, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and the corner of the curtain's reddened nose, stood in the middle of the base.
Brother, pies! I forgot the pies! .. Pies with potatoes! ..
Dunya galloped like a goat to the gate.
What are you yelling about, you fool! - Grigory shouted in annoyance at her.
There are pies left! - Leaning against the gate, Dunyashka moaned, and on the hot smeared cheeks, and from the cheeks on the everyday blouse - tears.
Daria watched her husband's white shirt covered with dust from under her palm. Panteley Prokofievich, swinging the rotting post at the gate, looked at Grigory.
Fix the gate and the parking lot at the corner. - After thinking, he added, as the news reported: - Petro left.
Through the fence, Grigory saw Stepan getting ready. Dressed up in a green woolen skirt, Aksinya brought him the horse. Stepan, smiling, was saying something to her. He slowly, in a businesslike manner, kissed his wife and did not take his hands off her shoulder for a long time. The hand, burned by her tan and work, turned coal black on Aksinya's white blouse. Stepan stood with his back to Grigory; through the fence one could see his tight, beautifully shaved neck, wide, slightly drooping shoulders and - when he bent down to his wife - the curled tip of his light brown mustache.
Aksinya was laughing at something and shook her head. The tall black horse swung, lifting the rider on the stirrup. Stepan rode out of the gate with a hurried step, sat in the saddle, as if dug in, and Aksinya walked alongside, holding on to the stirrup, and upward, lovingly and eagerly, looked into his eyes like a dog.
So they passed the neighboring kuren and disappeared around the bend.
Grigory followed them with a long, unblinking gaze.
III(V first part)
It is sixty versts to the Setrakov farm, the gathering place. Petro Melekhov and Astakhov Stepan were driving the same chaise. With them are three more Cossack farmers: Fedot Bodovskov, a young Kalmyk and pockmarked Cossack, second-in-order of the Life Guards of the Ataman Regiment, Khrisanf Tokin, nicknamed Khristonya, and a batteryman Tomilin Ivan, who was heading for Persianovka. After the first feeding, they harnessed a two-versed Christon's horse and Stepanovy black horse into the chaise. The other three horses, saddled, walked behind. He ruled a hefty and foolish, like most of the chieftains, Khristonya. Bending his back with a wheel, he sat in front, blocked the light into the booth, frightened the horses with a resounding octave bass. In a chaise, covered with a brand new tarpaulin, lay, smoking, Petro Melekhov, Stepan and the battery Tomilin. Fedot Bodovskov walked behind; apparently, it was not a burden for him to stick his crooked Kalmyk legs into the dusty road.
Khristonina's chaise was leading. Behind her trailed seven or eight more harnesses with tied, saddled and bareback horses.
Above the road swirled laughter, shouts, stringy songs, horse pussing, the ringing of empty stirrups.
Peter has a rusk bag in his head. Petro lies and twists a long yellow mustache.
- …on! Let's play the service one?
It's hot, hefty. Everything has dried up.
There are no taverns in the nearby farmsteads, don't wait!
Well, backwater. You are not a master. Eh, Grishka is your dishkanite! Will pull, pure silver thread, not a voice. We fought with him at the games.
Stepan throws back his head, - clearing his throat, starts in a low sonorous voice:
Eh you, dawn-lightning,
She ascended to heaven early ...
Tomilin, like a woman, puts his hand to his cheek, picks it up with a thin, groaning undertones. Smiling, tucking usina into his mouth, Petro looks at how the bundles of veins on the temples turn blue from the effort of the busty battery.
Young, here she is, wench
Late on the water went ...
Stepan lies with his head to Christon, turns, leaning on his hand; tight beautiful neck turns pink.
Christonia, help!
And the boy, he guessed
I began to saddle my horse ...
Stepan shifts the smiling gaze of his bulging eyes to Peter, and Petro, pulling his usina out of his mouth, joins his voice.
Christonya, gaping an exorbitant maw with bristles, roars, shaking the canvas roof of the booth:
Saddled a bay horse -
I began to catch up with the woman ...
Khristonya puts her bare foot on the edge of an arshin, waits for Stepan to start again. He, closing his eyes, - a sweaty face in the shadows, - gently leads the song, then lowering his voice to a whisper, then raising it to a metallic ringing:
Let me, let me, wench,
Give a horse to drink in the river ...
And again the voices of Christ are pressed like a bell-tossing buzz. Voices from the neighboring carriages also join the song. Wheels on iron tunnels clatter, horses sneeze from the dust, stringy and strong, hollow water, a song flows over the road. From the drying steppe muzgi, a white-winged lapwing takes off from a burnt brown kuga. With a cry he flies into the hollow; Turning his head, he looks with an emerald eye at the chain of carts, covered in white, at the horses curling the greasy dust with their hooves, at people walking along the side of the road in white, dusty shirts. The lapwing falls in the hollow, strikes the drying grass, crushed by the beast with a black chest - and does not see what is happening on the road. And along the road the chariots rumble, just as reluctantly stepping over the misted horses under the saddles; only the Cossacks in gray shirts quickly run from their chariots to the front hall, huddle around it, groan in laughter.
Stepan is standing at full height on the chaise, with one hand holding onto the canvas top of the booth, with the other shortly swinging; pours in the smallest, wasting patter:
Don't sit next to me
Don't sit next to me
People will say you love me
Do you love me,
You come to me
Do you love me,
You come to me
And I'm not a simple family ...
And I'm not a simple family,
Not simple -
Vorovsky,
Vorovsky -
Not simple,
I love the son of Prince ...
Fedot Bodovskov whistles; squatting, horses are torn from the strings; Petro, leaning out of the booth, laughs and waves his cap; Stepan, flashing with a dazzling smile, shrugs his shoulders mischievously; and along the road dust moves like a hillock; Khristonya, in a girdled long shirt, patched, wet with sweat, walks squatting, whirls with a flywheel, frowning and moaning, makes a Cossack woman, and on the gray silky dust there are monstrous spready traces of his bare feet.
IV(VI first part)
We stopped to spend the night near the forehead, with a yellow sandy bald head.
A cloud was coming from the west. Rain oozed from her black wing. They watered the horses in the pond. Dull willows hunched over the dam in the wind. In the water, covered with stagnant greenery and scales of wretched waves, lightning was reflected and distorted. The wind sprinkled sparsely with raindrops, as if it was pouring alms on the black palms of the earth.
The hobbled horses were allowed to pop, with three men on guard. The rest made fires, hung boilers on the drawbars of the chaise.
Christony was cooking. Stirring with a spoon in the cauldron, he told the Cossacks sitting around:
- ... The mound has become tall, like that. And I say to the deceased-bat: "And what, the ataman1 will not strike us for the fact that without any permission, we will begin to gut the mound?"
What is he talking about here? - Asked Stepan, returning from the horses.
I tell how we with the deceased father, the kingdom of heaven to the old man, were looking for treasure.
Where did you look for him?
This, brother, is already behind Fetisovaya beam. You know - Merkulov Kurgan ...
Well, well ... - Stepan squatted down, put a coal on his palm. Flashing his lips, he lit a cigarette for a long time, rolled it over his palm.
Here you go. So, Dad says: "Come on, Christan, we will unearth the Merkulov Kurgan." He had heard from his grandfather that there was a buried treasure in him. And the treasure, then, is not given to everyone. Dad promised God: if you give the treasure, they say, you will build a beautiful church. So we decided and went there. The land is staunch - the summons from the chieftain could only be. We arrive at night. They waited until it was getting dark, the mare was hobbled, and they themselves climbed to the top of the head with shovels. They began to buzovat right from the crown. They dug a hole of two arshins, the earth was pure stone, shook from the old days. I'm on my way. Dad whispers all the prayers, but I have, brothers, believe me, until that in my stomach grumbles ... In the summertime, you know, grudge: yoghurt and kvass ... Will catch across the stomach, death in the eyes - that's all! Father, the deceased, the kingdom of heaven to him, and says: "Fu," he says, "Christan, you bastard! I read the prayer, but you cannot hold back the food, breathe, there is nothing. Go, - he says, - get off the mound, or I'll cut your head off with a shovel. Through you, you bastard, the treasure can be buried in the ground. " I lay down under the mound and suffer from a stomach, I got stabbed, and my deceased father was a healthy devil! - digs one. And he darted to the stone slab. Calls me. I began to hook up with a crowbar, raised this stove ... Believe me, brothers, it was a month's night, and under the stove it shines ...
Well, you are making a gap, Christonya! - Petro could not bear it, smiling and tugging at his mustache.
What are you "breaching"? Fuck you to the teteri-yateri! - Khristonya pulled up his wide trousers and looked around at the audience. - No, I’m not, I’m not lying! The true god is the truth!
Beat to the shore!
So, brothers, it shines. I - lo and behold, and this, began to be, burnt coal. There he was forty measures. Dad says: "Climb, Christan, rake him out." Climbed. Throwing, throwing this passion, until the very light was enough. In the morning, look, look, and he - here he is.
Who! - Tomilin, who was lying on the blanket, asked.
Yes, the chieftain, who is. Rides in a cab: "Who allowed, such and such?" We are silent. He began to grab us - and into the village. The year before last, Kamenskaya was summoned to court, and Dad guessed that he had time to die. They wrote down with paper that he was not alive.
Khristonya took down the cauldron of steaming porridge and went to the cart for spoons.
What then is father? Promised to build a church, but never built it? - Stepan asked, waiting until Christonya returned with spoons.
You fool, Styopa, why did he start building a ba for coal?
Once he promised - it means he must.
As for the coals, there was no agreement, and the treasure ...
The fire quivered with laughter. Christonya raised his rustic head from the cauldron and, not understanding what was the matter, covered the voices of the others with a thick cackle.
V(IV first part)
By evening, a thunderstorm gathered. A brown cloud formed over the farm. The Don, disheveled by the wind, threw frequent ridge waves onto the banks. Behind the Levada, dry lightning blazed up the sky, thunder pressed the earth with rare peals. Under the cloud, open, a kite wheeled about, crows chased it with a cry. A cloud, breathing chill, walked along the Don, from the west. Behind the busy area the sky was menacingly black, the steppe was expectantly silent. Closed shutters slammed in the farm, old women hurried from Vespers, crossing themselves, a gray column of dust swayed on the parade ground, and the first grains of rain were already sowing the earth weighed down by the spring heat.
Dunyashka, dangling her pigtails, burned through the base, slammed the chicken coop door and stood in the middle of the base, flaring her nostrils like a horse facing an obstacle. Children kicked up in the street. The neighbor's eight-year-old Mishka was spinning, squatting on one leg - on his head, closing his eyes, his father's excessively spacious cap was whirling around - and shrieked:
Rainy, let the rain down.
We'll ride into the bushes
Pray to God
Worship Christ.
Dunyashka looked enviously at Mishka's bare feet, densely strewn with tiptoes, trampling the ground fiercely. She, too, wanted to dance in the rain and wet her head so that her hair would grow thick and curly; I wanted, just like Mishka's comrade, to gain a foothold in the roadside dust upside down, with the risk of falling into thorns, but my mother was looking out the window, slapping her lips angrily. Sighing, Dunyashka ran to the kuren. The rain fell vigorous and frequent. Thunder burst over the roof itself, and the fragments rolled over the Don.
In the hallway, father and sweaty Grishka were pulling rolled nonsense from the side of the room.
A harsh thread and a gypsy needle, helluva lot! - Grigory shouted to Dunyashka.
A fire was lit in the kitchen. Sew up the nonsense of the village of Daria. The old woman, rocking the child, muttered:
You, old, have always been fantasies. They would go to bed, everything goes up in price, and you burn. What is the current fishing? Where will the plague take you? You will overturn Isho, there will go to the base of the passion of the Lord. Look, look, how it is blazing! Lord Jesus Christ, queen of heaven ...
For a second, the kitchen turned dazzlingly blue and quiet: you could hear the rain scratching the shutters, followed by a gasp of thunder. Dunyashka squeaked and pushed her face down into delirium. Daria fanned the windows and doors with small crosses.
The old woman gazed with terrible eyes at the cat clung to her feet.
Dunka! Ho-oh-no you her, prok ... Queen of heaven, forgive me, sinner. Dunka, throw the cat to the bases. Shoot, you evil spirits! So that you ...
Gregory, dropping the clod of nonsense, was shaking in soundless laughter.
Well, why are you jumping up? Quit! Panteley Prokofievich shouted. - Women, sew up quickly! Nadys isho said: look at the nonsense.
And what a fish it is now, ”the old woman stuttered.
If you don't understand, be quiet! Let's take the most sterlet on the spit. The fish goes to the shore at once, afraid of the storm. The water must have gone muddy. Come on, run out, Dunyashka, hear - is the erik playing?
Dunyashka reluctantly, sideways, moved to the door.
Who will go to wander? Daria is not allowed, her breasts can get cold, - the old woman did not calm down.
Grishka and I, and with other nonsense - Aksinya, we will call someone from the women.
Out of breath, Dunyasha ran in. Raindrops hung on eyelashes, quivering. She smelled of damp black soil.
Erik is buzzing, he is scary!
Are you coming to wander with us?
Who is going to go?
We'll call the bab.
Well, put on a zipun and ride to Aksinya. If he does, let him call out to Malashka Frolov!
Enta will not freeze, - Grigory smiled, - she has fat on it, like on a good hog.
You should take a dry senz, Grishunka, - advised the mother, - put it under your heart, otherwise you will chill inside.
Gregory, run for hay. The old woman said the right word.
Soon Dunyashka brought in the women. Aksinya, in a torn blouse girded with a rope and in a blue underskirt, looked shorter and thinner. She, laughing with Daria, took off the kerchief from her head, twisted her hair tighter into a knot and, covering herself, throwing her head back, looked coldly at Gregory. Fat Malashka was tying up her stockings at the threshold, wheezing with a cold:
Have you got the bags? True God, we do not sway fish.
We went to the bases. The rain poured thickly on the softened earth, foamed puddles, and slid down to the Don in streams.
Gregory walked in front. Unreasonable amusement washed away him.
Look, dad, there's a ditch here.
Eka it's dark!
Hold on, Aksyusha, with me, we will be together in prison, - Malashka laughs hoarsely.
Look, Grigory, is there any Maidannikov pier?
She is.
From here ... conceive ... - Panteley Prokofievich shouts, overpowering the whipping wind.
Can't hear it, uncle! - Malashka wheezes.
Forget it, by God ... I'm from the depths. From the depths, I say ... Malashka, deaf devil, where are you pulling? I will go from the depths! .. Grigory, Grishka! Let Aksinya from the shore!
Don has a groaning roar. The wind tears the slanting rain cloth to shreds.
Feeling the bottom with his feet, Grigory plunged into the water up to his waist. The sticky cold crawled to my chest, tightened my heart with a hoop. A wave lashes into the face, into her tightly closed eyes, like a whip. Delirium inflates with a ball, pulls inward. Gregory's feet, shod in woolen stockings, slide along the sandy bottom. The lump breaks from the hands ... Deeper, deeper. Ledge. Legs break off. The current impulsively carries to the middle, sucks in. Gregory with his right hand is rowing to the shore with force. The black swaying depth scares him more than ever. The foot happily steps on the shaky bottom. A fish is knocking on the knee.
Go deeper! - from somewhere in the viscous rabble the voice of his father.
Delirium, tilted, again crawls into the depths, again the current tears the ground from under his feet, and Grigory, lifting his head, swims, spits out.
Aksinya, is she alive?
Alive as long as
Doesn't the rain stop?
The little one stops, the big one starts moving.
You are on the sly. The father will hear - he will swear.
I was scared of my father, too ...
They pull in silence for a minute. Water, like sticky dough, knits every movement.
Grisha, by the coast, kubyt, karsha. Need to pass around.
A terrible jolt throws Gregory far away. A thundering splash, as if a lump of rock fell into the water from a ravine.
A-ah-ah! - Aksinya screams somewhere near the shore.
Frightened Grigory, emerging, floats to the cry.
Aksinya!
Wind and flowing noise of water.
Aksinya! - cold with fear, shouts Grigory.
H-gay !!. Gri-go-ri-iy! - a muffled voice of fathers from afar.
Gregory throws waves. Something viscous under my feet, grabbed with my hand: nonsense.
Why didn't she respond? .. - Grigory yells angrily, getting out on all fours ashore.
Squatting, shivering, they take apart the tangled nonsense. From the hole of the torn cloud, a month hatches. Behind the loan, thunder speaks with restraint. The earth is glossy with unabsorbed moisture. The sky, washed by rain, is strict and clear.
Unraveling nonsense, Gregory peers into Aksinya. Her face is chalky-pale, but her red, slightly twisted lips are already laughing.
How it shoots me ashore, - she says, taking a breath, - I lost my mind. Went down to death! I thought you were drowned.
Their hands collide. Aksinya tries to slip her hand into the sleeve of his shirt.
How warm you have up your sleeve, she says plaintively, but I'm cold. Colic went through the body.
Here he is, the cursed catfish, where he sank!
Gregory pushes a hole one and a half yard across in the middle of nonsense.
Someone is running from the scythe. Grigory guesses Dunyashka. He shouts to her from afar:
Do you have threads?
Tuchka.
Dunyashka, out of breath, runs up.
Why are you sitting here? Batyanka sent them to go to the spit as soon as possible. We caught a bag of sterlet there! - In the voice of Dunyashka there is undisguised triumph.
Aksinya, brushing her teeth, sews up a hole in her delirium. At a trot, to keep warm, they run to the scythe.
Panteley Prokofievich turns the gypsy with his fingers, ribbed from water and plump, like a drowned man's; dancing, boasting:
Once they wandered around - eight, and another time ... - he takes a break, lights a cigarette and silently points his foot to the bag.
Aksinya looks in with curiosity. There is a grinding crack in the bag: a tenacious sterlet is rubbing.
Why did you fight off?
The catfish wasted nonsense.
Somehow, the cells were linked ...
Well, let's get to the knee and go home. Wander, Grishka, why have you got used to it?
Gregory steps over with stiff legs. Aksinya trembles so that Grigory feels her trembling through delirium.
Don't shake!
And I would be glad, but I can't take my breath away.
Come on this ... Come on out, damn it, this fish!
A large carp beats through delirium. Learning to step, Grigory bends the nonsense, pulls the clod, Aksinya, bending over, runs out onto the shore. The water that has flowed back rustles on the sand, the fish trembles.
Shall we go through a loan?
The forest is closer. Hey are you there soon?
Go and catch up. Let's rinse the nonsense.
Aksinya, wincing, wrung out her skirt, grabbed the bag with the catch on her shoulders, and walked almost at a trot along the spit. Gregory was talking nonsense. A hundred yards passed, Aksinya gasped:
I’m not here! Legs with a couple stuck.
Here is last year's heap, can you warm up?
And then. As long as you reach home, you can die.
Gregory rolled his hairstyle to one side and dug a hole. The stale hay struck with the hot smell of decay.
Climb into the middle. Here - like on the stove.
Aksinya threw the sack and buried herself up to her neck in the hay.
That's grace!
Shivering from the cold, Gregory lay down beside him. A delicate, exciting scent flowed from Aksin's wet hair. She lay with her head thrown back, breathing regularly with her half-open mouth.
Your hair smells like a bad drink. You know, such a white flower ... - whispered, bending over, Grigory.
She said nothing. Her gaze was hazy and distant, fixed on the damage of the wheeled moon.
Grigory, pulling his hand out of his pocket, suddenly pulled her head to him. She jerked abruptly, got up.
Keep your mouth shut.
Let me go, or I'll make a noise!
Wait, Aksinya ...
Uncle Panteley! ..
Ai lost? Panteley Prokofievich responded very close, from the hawthorn thickets.
Gregory closed his teeth and jumped from the heap.
Why are you making a noise? Ai lost? - Approaching, the old man asked.
Aksinya stood beside the shock, straightening a handkerchief knocked down on the back of her head; steam was smoking over her.
There is no way to get lost, but it was, she froze.
Whoa, woman, but, lo and behold, a shock. Get warm.
Aksinya smiled, bending down for the sack.
VI (VII first part)
Aksinya was married off to Stepan, seventeen years old. They took it from the Dubrovka farm, on the other side of the Don, from the sands.
A year before being issued, she plowed in the steppe in the fall, eight miles from the farm. At night her father, a fifty-year-old man, tied her hands with a tripod and raped her.
I will kill you, if you utter a word, and if you keep quiet, I will spare a plush jacket and leggings with galoshes. So remember: I will kill if that ... - he promised her.
At night, in one torn underclothes, Aksinya ran to the farm. Lying at her mother's feet, choking on sobs, she told ... Mother and older brother, an ataman who had just returned from service, harnessed horses to the chaise, put Aksinya with them and drove there to his father. For eight miles my brother almost set the horses on fire. The father was found near the camp. Drunk, he slept on a spread out zipun, an empty bottle of vodka was lying around. Before Aksinya's eyes, the brother unhooked the barges from the chaise, lifted his sleeping father with his feet, asked him something briefly and hit the old man in the bridge of the nose with the chained barge. Together with his mother they beat him for an hour and a half. Always meek, an elderly mother frenziedly tugged at her unconscious husband's hair, his brother tried with his feet. Aksinya lay under the chaise, wrapped her head, silently shaking ... Before the light, they brought the old man home. He mumbled piteously, rummaged around the room with his eyes, looking for the hidden Aksinya. Blood and whiteness rolled from his severed ear onto the pillow. In the evening he died. The people were told that the drunk fell from the cart and was killed.
A year later, the matchmakers arrived in an elegant chaise for Aksinya. The bride liked the tall, cool-necked and stately Stepan, and a wedding was scheduled for the autumn meat-eater. Such a pre-winter day came up, with frost and a cheerful ice-ringing day, they surrounded the young; from that time on, Aksinya settled in the Astakhov house as a young mistress. The mother-in-law, a tall old woman bent over by some cruel female disease, woke Aksinya early the next day after the party, brought her into the kitchen and, aimlessly rearranging the stags, said:
That's what, my dear little bitch, we took you not to cuddle and not to cuddle. Go ahead and cook the cows, and then go to the stove to cook. I am old, sickness prevails, and you take the economy into your hands, it will fall behind you.
On the same day, in the barn, Stepan deliberately and terribly beat his young wife. Hit in the stomach, in the chest, in the back; beat in such a way that people could not see it. From that time on, he began to grab him on the side, got confused with the walking little ones, left almost every night, locking Aksinya in a barn or a stove.
For a year and a half he did not forgive her offense: until the child was born. After that, he quieted down, but he was stingy with affection and still rarely slept at home.
A large multi-livestock farm dragged Aksinya into work. Stepan worked with laziness: having combed his forelock, he went out to his comrades to smoke, turn into cards, chat about farm news, and Aksinya had to clean up the cattle, and she did it. The mother-in-law was a bad helper. Having fussed, she fell on the bed and, stretching out the faded yellow of her lips in a thread, looking at the ceiling with eyes raging with pain, moaned, shrank into a ball. At such moments, profuse sweat appeared on her face, stained with black ugly large moles, tears accumulated in her eyes and often, one after another, flowed down. Aksinya, quitting her job, huddled somewhere in a corner and looked with fear and pity at her mother-in-law's face.
After a year and a half, the old woman died. In the morning at Aksinya, prenatal labor began, and by noon, an hour before the birth of the child, the mother-in-law died on the move, near the door of the old stable. The midwife, who ran out of the kuren to warn drunk Stepan not to go to the mother-in-law, saw Aksinin's mother-in-law lying with her legs tucked in.
Aksinya became attached to her husband after the birth of the child, but she had no feelings for him, she had a bitter woman's pity and a habit. The child died before he was one year old. Old life unfolded. And when Melekhov Grishka, flirting, stood Aksinye across the path, she saw with horror that she was drawn to a black affectionate guy. He stubbornly, with boogey persistence, courted her. And it was this stubbornness that was terrible for Aksinya. She saw that he was not afraid of Stepan, in her gut she sensed that he would not give up on her this way, and, with her mind not wanting this, resisting with all her might, she noticed that on holidays and on weekdays she began to dress up more carefully, deceiving herself, strove more often catch his eye. She felt warm and pleasant when Grishka's black eyes caressed her heavily and frenziedly. At dawn, waking up to milk the cows, she smiled and, not yet realizing why, recalled: “Today there is something joyful. What? Grigory… Grisha… ”This new feeling was frightening, filling all her feelings, and in her thoughts she groped, cautiously, as though across the Don on the spongy ice of March.
After taking Stepan to the camps, I decided to see Grishka as little as possible. After catching delirium, this decision became even stronger in her.
Vii(VIII)
Two days before Trinity, the farmsteads divided the meadow. Panteley Prokofievich went to the division. I came from there at lunchtime, gruntingly threw off the tweets and, relishingly scratching the legs weighed down by walking, said:
We got a plot near Krasniy Yar. The grass is not very good. The upper end reaches the forest, in some places there are hollows. Pyreichik slips by.
When to mow? - asked Grigory.
Since the holidays.
Will you take Daria, eh? - the old woman frowned.
Panteley Prokofievich waved his hand - get off, they say.
If you need it, we'll take it. For midday, collect what you are worth, opened up!
The old woman rattled the shutter and dragged the warmed cabbage soup out of the oven. At the table, Panteley Prokofievich talked for a long time about the carve-up and the rogue chieftain, who almost cheated the entire gathering.
He cheated this year too, - Daria stood up, - they beat off the uleshi, so he persuaded everything to Malashka Frolov to die.
An old bitch, - chewed Panteley Prokofievich.
Daddy, and who will be to dig up, to sin? Dunyashka asked timidly.
What are you going to do?
Alone, my dear, out of control.
We will call Aksyutka Astakhov. Stepan nadys asked him to mow. We must respect.
The next morning, Mitka Korshunov rode up to the Melekhov base on a saddle-legged white-footed stallion. The rain was splashing. Hmar hung over the farm. Mitka, bent over in the saddle, opened the gate and drove into the bases. An old woman called to him from the porch.
You, zaburunny, what have you resorted to? she asked with visible displeasure. The old one did not like the desperate and pugnacious Mitka.
And what do you want, Ilyinishna, nadot? - tying the stallion to the rail, Mitka was surprised. - I came to Grishka. Where is he?
Sleeping under the barn. Well, al paralyk hit you? Can't you walk pawns?
You, auntie, are a nail in every hole! - Mitka was offended. Swaying, waving and clicking the elegant whip on the tops of his patent-leather boots, he went under the shed.
Grigory slept in the cart removed from the front end. Mitka, screwing up his left eye, as if taking aim, pulled Grigory out with a whip.
Get up, man!
Mitka had the most abusive word for "man". Gregory jumped up a spring.
What are you doing?
Waking up to dawn!
Don't be silly, Mitriy, so far not angry ...
Get up, there is business.
Mitka sat down on the ridge of the cart, whipping the dried mud off his boot, said:
Grishka, I'm sorry ...
But how, - Mitka swore long, - he is not he, - the centurion, and asks.
In his hearts, without unclenching his teeth, he quickly threw words, trembled his legs. Gregory stood up.
What centurion?
Grabbing him by the sleeve of his shirt, Mitka said more quietly:
Infected saddle the horse and run away to the hare. I'll show him! I told him so: "Come on, your honor, let's try." - "Bring, grit, all your friends, comrades, I will cover you all, then that the mother of my mare in St. Petersburg at the officer's races received prizes." Yes, for me, his mare and his mother - damn them! - but I won't let the stallion jump!
Gregory hastily dressed. Mitka followed on his heels; stuttering with anger, he said:
He came to visit Mokhov, a merchant, this very centurion. Wait, whose nickname is he? Kubyt, Listnitsky. Such a fluffy, serious one. Wears glasses. Well, hey! For nothing that in glasses, and I will not overtake the stallion!
Laughing, Grigory saddled the old womb left for the tribe and through the humane gates - so that his father would not see - rode out into the steppe. We drove to the zaimishche under the mountain. The horses' hooves chewed on the mud, munching. Horsemen were waiting for them in a hare near a dried up poplar: the centurion Listnitsky on a lean, beautiful mare and seven farm children on horseback.
Where to jump from? - the centurion turned to Mitka, adjusting his pince-nez and admiring the mighty chest muscles of Mitka's stallion.
From poplar to Tsarev's pond.
Where is Tsarev's Pond? The centurion narrowed his eyes short-sightedly.
And there, your honor, near the forest.
The horses were built. The centurion raised the whip over his head. The shoulder strap on his shoulder is swollen with a bump.
As I say "three" - let it go! Well? One two Three!
The centurion rushed first, leaning against the bow, holding his cap with his hand. He was a second ahead of the rest. Mitka, with a bewildered pale face, stood up on the stirrups - it seemed to Grigory, for a long time he lowered the whip pulled over his head onto the stallion's croup.
From poplar to Tsarev's pond - three versts. Halfway through, Mit'kin's stallion, stretching out into the arrow, overtook the centurion's mare. Grigory galloped reluctantly. Lagging behind from the very beginning, he rode on a scanty hint, watching with curiosity the retreating, broken into links, a chain of galloping.
Near Tsarev's pond there is a sandy ridge alluded from the spring water. His yellow camel hump was overgrown with a sharp-leaved serpentine bow. Grigory saw how the centurion and Mitka jumped up onto the ridge at once and flowed to the other side, the others gliding behind them one by one.
When he approached the pond, the sweaty horses were already standing in a heap, the dismounted guys surrounded the centurion. Mitka shone with suppressed joy. Triumph shone through his every movement. The centurion, contrary to expectation, seemed to Gregory not in the least embarrassed: he leaned against a tree, smoking a cigarette, and said, pointing with his little finger at his mare, as if it had been ransomed:
I made a run of one and a half hundred miles on it. I just arrived from the station yesterday. If she had been fresher, never, Korshunov, you would have overtaken me.
Maybe, - Mitka was magnanimous.
There is no frolic of his stallion in the whole district, '' said the freckled boy who rode up last, enviously.
The horse is kind. - Mitka, trembling with excitement, patted the stallion's neck and, with a wooden smile, looked at Grigory.
Together they separated from the others, drove under the mountain, not the street. The centurion said goodbye to them chilly, put two fingers under his visor and turned away.
Already driving up the alley to the courtyard, Grigory saw Aksinya walking towards them. She walked, plucking a twig; saw Grishka - bent her head lower.
Why are you ashamed, al we are going with TV? - Mitka shouted and winked: - My Kalinushka, oh, bitterish!
Grigory, looking in front of him, almost drove by and suddenly struck the mare, who was walking peacefully with a whip. She sat down on her hind legs - glancing, splashed Aksinya with mud.
And-and-and, the devil is bad!
Turning abruptly, running into Aksinya with a hot horse, Grigory asked:
Why don't you say hello?
Not worth it!
For this, here and slapped - do not be proud!
Let go! Aksinya shouted, waving her hands in front of the horse's muzzle. - Why are you trampling me with your horse?
This is a mare, not a horse.
Let all one go!
Why are you angry, Aksyutka? Is it really more puffy, what's in the loan? ..
Gregory looked into her eyes. Aksinya wanted to say something, but a tear suddenly hung in the corner of her black eye; lips quivered pitifully. She swallowed convulsively and whispered:
Get off, Grigory ... I'm not angry ... I ... - And went.
Surprised, Grigory caught up with Mitka at the gate.
Will you come nona for the game? he asked.
What is so? Or called for the night?
Gregory rubbed his forehead with his palm and did not answer.
VIII (II first part)
Rare stars rose in the ashen dawn sky. The wind was drawing from under the clouds. Mist reared over the Don and, spreading along the slope of the chalk mountain, slid into the holes as a gray headless viper. The left-bank Obdon'e, sands, valleys, reedy impassability, forest covered with dew - blazed with a frenzied cold glow. Beyond the line, without rising, the sun languished.
In the Melekhov kuren, Panteley Prokofievich was the first to break away from sleep. Buttoning his shirt embroidered with crosses on the way, he went out onto the porch. The haunted courtyard is lined with dewy silver. He let the cattle out onto the alley. Daria in her bed ran to milk the cows. On the calves of her white bare feet, colostrum was sprinkled with dew; a smoky, crushed trail lay on the grass across the bases.
Panteley Prokofievich watched the grass crumpled by Darya's feet straighten and went into the upper room.
On the window-sill of the open window, the petals of the cherry blossoms in the front garden were deathly pink. Grigory slept on his face, throwing his hand backhand.
Grishka, will you go fishing?
What are you? - He asked in a whisper and dangled his legs from the bed.
Let's go and sit at the dawn.
Grigory, snoring, pulled off his everyday trousers, put them in white woolen stockings and put on a chirp for a long time, straightening the backdrop that had turned up.
In the Sholokhov edition, due to an editorial oversight, this “peaceful” epigraph is preceded by another, “military” (“It's not a glorious land [e] our lyushka has been plowed up ...”) Although, logically, he should open the second war book that was left without an epigraph. The epigraph to the third book (also military) corresponds to its content. The epigraph to the 7th part of the novel remaining in the drafts is unknown, but probably this part should have been included in the third volume, which grew from numerous quotes from the later White Guard memoirs and Bolshevik party articles. In this case, the logic of the three volumes (and the epigraphs to them) is as obvious as the polemic with the 19th century, the century of Leo Tolstoy: the formula of modern times is not War and Peace, but Peace - War - Civil War. Part 8 belongs entirely to Soviet imitators. ( Approx. A. Ch. In publications: "- Somehow, damn it, I need you!"
Nowadays, the Setraki farm in the Chertkovsky district of the Rostov region, 60 versts from Veshenskaya and 120 kilometers from the Khovansky ( approx. A. Ch.)
Gus - kerosene
Fishermen do not boil, but soar (fish feed is usually made from wheat, rye or barley). We find the correction missing in the editions in the "draft" manuscript: on top of "- Did your mother cook porridge?" ("Rough", p. 5) we read: "- Did your mother float here?" However, in further "editions": "- Did the mother cook the bait?" ("Whitewashed", p. 5); "- Did your mummy cook?" ("Belovaya", p. 5). ( Approx. A. Ch.)
In the editions of the description: "to the left." But the Black Yar should be called the right, sunless bank of the Don current in this place from west to east. The old man precisely determines the place of fishing: “- To the Black Yar. Let's try near the entoy karshi, where the nadys were sitting. "
In Sholokhov's “draft” (p. 6), “a huge, one and a half arshin of carp” later became “two arshin” (later editing in purple ink over black). But in nature, the maximum length of a carp is exactly one and a half arshins (a little over a meter), and its weight is up to 20 kg. A 15.5-pound carp, as Gregory found out with the help of a steelyard (about 6.5 kg), all the more cannot be "two-arshin" (that is, almost half a meter), since the carp of fish is fluffy and simply cannot be so thin. Before us is a typical Sholokhov revision. In the first book we meet a number of similar examples: this is an increase in the stocks of grain at the Mokhov mill (in poods), and an increase in the distance covered by a rider per day. It was for such postscripts (only not in someone else's prose, but in financial documents) that the young accountant Mikhail Sholokhov was tried in 1922. ( Approx. A. Ch.)
In Sholokhov's edition: "... behind her a slanting greenish cloth stood up water." According to the “draft” (p. 7): “... there was water behind it in a short canvas”. According to “whitewashed” (p. 6) and “whitewashed” (p. 6): “... behind her a slanting greenish cloth stood up water”. The editors were unable to read the text: if a large fish sat on the hook, the standing water (in the kotlin / kolovin, near the coast, behind a sunken elm tree) would thrash like a cloth during washing and rinsing. ( Approx. A. Ch.)
Vieux- drawbar in a bull sled. (Editor's note.)
———————————————
MANDATORY REARRANGEMENT OF THE FRAGMENT IN THE THIRD BOOK OF TH
Yar (in the meaning not a ravine, but a coastal cliff) near the spit cut off by Erik is not for nothing called Black. As one looking to the east, the Yar is called Red. And it is no coincidence that it was immediately clarified that the matter was taking place “in a loan” (p. 33). In Sholokhov's edition, this yar is twice (but not for the first time!) Mistakenly attributed to the left bank. But for seventy miles from Veshenskaya to Ust-Medveditskaya, the Don flows eastward. Therefore, the "black", that is, inaccessible to the sun's rays, is not the left, but the right bank. The one with the scythe.
This looks most egregious in the 6th unit, which describes Gregory's visit to his division, which had dug in on the left bank opposite Tatarsky, which was occupied by the Reds. Here the description of the right-bank zaimishche with many speaking farmstead realities is referred to the left bank. However, there is a completely different landscape: "The left-bank Obdonye, \u200b\u200bsands, valleys, reedy impassability, forest in dew" (Book 1, ch. II)
Fragment from p. 413-415 kn. 3 should not precede Gregory's visit to the positions of the Tartars entrenched on the left bank, but go after directly after:
“A hundred Tatar scouts were too lazy to dig trenches.
They're inventing devilry, '' murmured Christonya. - What are we, on the German front, or what? Roy, brothers, marked, began to be, knee-deep trenches. Thought, began to be, to dig such a sealed earth in two arshins deep? Yes, you can't get it with a crowbar, let alone a shovel.
They listened to him, they dug trenches for lying on the gristly steep slope of the left bank, and dugouts were made in the forest.
Well, now we have switched to the marmot position! - the never discouraged Anikushka joked. - We will live in nuryah, the grass will go for food, otherwise you would have to crack all pancakes with kaymak, meat, noodles with sterlet ... And donnichka do you want?
The Tartars did not care much about the Reds. There were no batteries against the farm. Occasionally, only from the right bank, the machine gun began to tap out fractionally, sending short bursts at the observer leaning out of the trench, and then again silence was established for a long time.
The Red Army trenches were on the mountain. From there, too, they occasionally shot, but the Red Army men went to the farm only at night, and then for a short while.
Arriving at the trenches of the Tatar scouts, Gregory sent for his father. Somewhere far on the left flank, Christonya shouted:
Prokofich! Go quickly, now, Grigory has arrived! ..
Grigory dismounted, handed the reins to Anikushka who approached, and from a distance he saw his father, who was hastily limping.
Well, great, boss!
Hello, dad.
I arrived?
I was going to force! Well, how are ours? Mother, Natalya where?
Panteley Prokofievich waved his hand and winced. A tear slid down his black cheek ...
Well, what is it? What's with them? - Grigory asked anxiously and sharply.
Didn't move ...
How so ?!
Natalya lay down clean in two days. Typhus, it must ... Well, the old woman did not want to leave her ... But don’t worry, son, everything is good there.
And the kids? Mishatka? Polyushka?
There too. And Dunyashka moved. I was afraid to stay ... It's a girl's business, you know? The infection with Anikushkina Baba went to Volokhov. And I’ve been at home twice. In the middle of the night on the longboat I'll quietly move, well, and I tasted it. Natalya is hefty bad, and the kids are nothing, thank God ... Natalyushka has no memory, her fever, her lips are caked with blood.
Why didn't you bring them here? - Grigory shouted indignantly.
The old man was angry, resentment and reproach were in his trembling voice:
What did you do? Couldn't you come in ahead of time to transport them?
I have a division! I had to ferry the division! - Grigory objected passionately.
We heard what you are doing in Vyoshki ...
Family, kubyt, and unnecessarily? Eh, Grigory! One must think about God, if one does not think about people ... I did not cross here, otherwise would I not have taken them? My platoon was in Elani, but the Pokedovs reached here, the Reds had already occupied the farm.
I'm in Vyoshki! .. This business does not concern you ... And you tell me ... - Gregory's voice was hoarse and strangled.
I’m nothing! - the old man was frightened, looking back with displeasure at the Cossacks crowding nearby. - I'm not talking about that ... And you quieter gutar, people, over there, hear ... - and switched to a whisper. - You yourself are not a tiny child, you yourself should know, and do not hurt your soul about the family. Natalia, God willing, will smell, and the Reds do not bully them. True, the chick-flyer was stabbed to death, but nothing else. Have had mercy and do not touch ... The grains took forty measures. Well, yes, it is not without damage to fight in war!
Maybe they could be picked up at once?
There is no need, in my opinion. Well, where to take her sick? And it's a risky business. They have nothing there either. The old woman looks after the household, it is calmer for me too, otherwise there were fires in the farm.
Who burned out?
The platz was all burnt out. There are more and more merchant houses. The matchmakers of the Korshunovs were completely burned. Matchmaker Lukinichna at once on Andropov, and Grishak's grandfather also remained to observe the house. Your mother told me that he, Grishak's grandfather, said: "I will not move anywhere from my base, and the Anchikhrists will not ascend to me, they will be afraid of the sign of the cross." At the end he conceived to interfere with his mind. But, as you can see, the krasyuki were not frightened of his cross, the kuren and the farmstead of the azhnik were engulfed in smoke, and there was nothing to hear about him ... And he really had to die. I made a domovina for myself twenty years ago, but everyone lives ... And your friends are burning the farm, die it by a precipice!
Mishka Koshevoy, be he cursed three times!
He is the true god! Ours was, tortured about you. He said to his mother: "How do we go over to the entu side - your first next one will be on
417
lard. Hang him on the tallest oak tree. I’m talking about him, ”he says,“ and I won’t trash checkers! ” And he asked about me and - grinned. “And this,” he says, “where did they carry the lame devil? I would sit at home - he says - on the stove. Well, and if I catch him, then I won't kill to death, but I’ll knock the weaves in, until the spirit will go out of him! ” That's how it turned out! He walks around the farm and lets fire into the merchants 'and priests' houses and says: “For Ivan Alekseevich and for Shtokman I will burn the whole Vyoshenskaya!” Is that your voice?
Grigory spoke with his father for another half hour, then went to the horse. In the conversation, the old man did not even hint at a word about Aksinya, but Gregory was depressed anyway. “Everyone must have heard, since Dad knows. Who could tell? Who, besides Prokhor, saw us together? Does Stepan really know? " He even gritted his teeth with shame, with anger at himself ...
I had a short talk with the Cossacks. Anikushka kept joking and asked to send several buckets of moonshine for a hundred.
We don't even need cartridges, if only there was vodka! - He said, laughing and winking, expressively clicking his fingernail on the dirty collar of his shirt.
Grigory treated Christonia and all the other farmers with the stored tobacco; and just before driving I saw Stepan Astakhov. Stepan approached, greeted slowly, but did not shake hands ..
Grigory saw him for the first time since the day of the uprising, peered inquisitively and anxiously: "Does he know?" But Stepan's handsome dry face was calm, even cheerful, and Grigory sighed with relief: "No, he doesn't know!"
End of quote.
(TD: 6, LXIII, 413-417).
Then Gregory goes to "his (!) Zamische" in order to secretly visit the family that remained on the other side at night - his mother, Natalia, children (for it is said that the Reds, having dug in on the mountain, do not enter the farm at night):
"Gregory has entered on your loanbefore the evening.
Everything here was familiar to him, every tree gave rise to memories ... The road went along the Maiden's Glade, where the Cossacks drank vodka every year on Peter's day, after they “shaken” (divided) the meadow. Aleshkin forest juts out into a cape.
414
A long time ago, in this then nameless forest, wolves slaughtered a cow that belonged to some Aleksey, a resident of the Tatarsky farm. Alexei died, his memory has been erased, as the inscription on the gravestone is erased, even his surname is forgotten by his neighbors and relatives, and the forest named after him lives on, pulling the dark green crowns of oaks and Karaichs to the sky. Their the Tatars are cut down to make the necessary household items, but from the stocky stumps in the spring, tenacious young shoots are swept out, a year or two of inconspicuous growth, and again Alyoshka's forest in the summer - in the malachite green of the outstretched branches, in the fall - like in golden chain mail, in the red glow of carved oak leaves lit by matinees.
In summer, in the Aleshkin copse, the thorny bramble thickly entwines the damp earth; on the tops of the old Karaichs, elegantly feathered Rollers and Magpies make their nests; in autumn, when the smell of acorns and an oak leaf-carrion smells energetic and bitter, flying woodcocks briefly visit in the copse, and in winter only a round printed fox's footprint will stretch like a pearl thread over the spread white carpet of snow. Grigory more than once in his youth went to set traps for foxes in Aleshkin forest ...
He rode under the cool canopy of the branches, along the old overgrown chariots of last year's road. I passed the Maiden's Glade, made my way to the Black Yar, and memories hit me like a hop in my head. About three poplars as a boy, he used to chase a brood of non-flying wild ducklings around the muzgochka, and from dawn to evening he caught a tench in Krugloe Lake ... And not far away was a hipped viburnum tree. It stands on the outskirts, lonely and old. It can be seen from the Melekhovsky base, and every autumn Grigory, going out onto the porch of his kuren, admired the viburnum bush, from a distance as if engulfed in a red tongue flame. The late Petro loved pies with bitter and astringent viburnum so much ...
With quiet sadness, Grigory looked around the places familiar from childhood. The horse walked, lazily driving away the midges and brown angry mosquitoes that were thickly swarming in the air with its tail.
Green wheatgrass and Arzhan bent gently in the wind. The meadow was covered with green ripples.
The text is highlighted in bold, indicating that the description of the right-bank path from the Khovansky climb (not far from the meadow in the Red Yar, where the Melekhovskaya plot was in 1912) to the rear gate of the cattle base. This is a path from the ford, through Aleshkin copse, Devichya Polyana, past the Black Yar.
Well, the trenches of the farm's hundreds are on the left bank.
There is an obvious rearrangement of the page: having driven into his own lodge, Grigory cannot find himself on the left bank of the Tatars entrenched there.
SPANISH WORDS ABOUT
in the 8th part of "Quiet Don",
tabloid counterfeiting of the first Sholokhovedov
Anonymous imitators who finished writing "Quiet Don" in 1940, with made a big mistake: focusing on the method of socialist realism (that is, on an ideological super task), they gave themselves away.
The last part of the novel does not contain what is obligatory (and, as a rule, repeatedly!) Occurs in every volume of the novel - cars and airplanes, maidans and zaimishches, plots, swamps and muzgi.
There are no messengers, gypsies, accordions and accordionists, sparrows, snakes, redwoods, alder trees, brooms, bees and sunflowers in this last part. Here they do not know how to untie anything and do not know the solutions.
There are no nouns "ruble" and "pillar", there is no such thing as "swearing".
There is nothing raspberry and nothing greenish. And no one is "angry". There are no words "power" and "emperor", epithets "military" and "free" (and in the previous parts: "free life"; "free Don"; "Cossacks are free people"; "free, free sons of the quiet Don") ... There is, of course, no key concept "Quiet Don". And - although people continue to die in hundreds and thousands - not a single word "corpse" (found 41 times in the previous chapters).
And there are no words with the root "sorrow".
See the table here at the end of the page.
It turns out that on February 14, 2010 Fyodor Dmitrievich Kryukov celebrated his 140th birthday - the very writer who was called the real author of The Quiet Don ...
The dispute about the authorship of The Quiet Don continues. Fedor Kryukov is 140 years old. When will we read it?
In the last century, they said: "The Soviet government for 70 years cannot forgive Gumilyov for having shot him."
But Gumilyov was read before the Soviet regime, and during, and after.
And this one is to blame. Let Gorky, Korolenko and Serafimovich read his prose, let his contemporaries call him "Homer of the Cossacks" ... He was most often published under pseudonyms (Gordeev, Berezin, etc.) in the populist magazine Russkoe Bogatstvo. There he served as co-editor of Korolenko in the prose department. And all the time he took up some narrow, regional topics ... No fame, no profit. And who, after 1905, wanted to read about the life of the Don Cossacks, if throughout Russia the very word "Cossack" was associated only with the whistle of a whip?
The lie of the Soviet myth: Kryukov is a tertiary writer.
Yes, open his first story "Gulebschiki" (the author is 22 years old) ...
The Don speech has never sounded so bewitching.
… I just hear: “Kryukov… Who is this Cossack officer? Leave it! .. ".
Since we are talking about a little-known writer, let us touch on his biography.
Fedor Dmitrievich Kryukov was born on February 2 (14), 1870 in the village of Glazunovskaya in the Ust-Medveditsky district of the Don Cossack Region. He is the son of a Cossack grain grower. Mother is a Don noblewoman. The family has three children. (In 1918, the younger brother, who served as a forester, for his intelligent appearance, was removed from the train and torn to pieces by the Red Guards.)
With a silver medal, he left the walls of the Ust-Medveditskaya gymnasium.
In 1892 he graduated from the St. Petersburg Institute of History and Philology (an institution with such requirements for students that even Alexander Blok, the son of a law professor and grandson of the rector of St. Petersburg University, had a hard time here). And for thirteen years he taught in Orel and Nizhny Novgorod.
In 1906 - Deputy from the Don Army in the First State Duma.
There, on June 13, he made a speech against the use of the Cossacks in the government's punitive actions. Since then, a certain Ulyanov (who is Lenin) has been very closely following the dangerous populist, his peer.
On Tolstoy's 80th birthday, issue 35 of the Bolshevik newspaper Proletary (September 1908) published Lenin's article "Leo Tolstoy as a Mirror of the Russian Revolution":
“Most of the peasantry cried and prayed, reasoned and dreamed, wrote petitions and sent“ intercessors, ”- quite in the spirit of Leo Nikolaich Tolstoy! And, as always happens in such cases, Tolstoy's abstinence from politics, Tolstoy's renunciation of politics, lack of interest in it and understanding of it, did what a minority followed the class-conscious and revolutionary proletariat, while the majority was the prey of those unprincipled, groveling, bourgeois intellectuals. who, under the name of cadets, ran from the meeting of Trudoviks to the Stolypin's hall, begged, bargained, reconciled, promised to reconcile — until they were kicked out with a kick from a soldier's boot. "
All this is primarily about Kryukov, who was the first to raise his voice in defense of the Cossacks.
But back in 1906, in his article "Philistine in a Revolutionary Environment," Kryukov was exposed as an empty politician whose efforts to free the working people are laughable. And in 1913, in another article ("What is being done in Narodism and what is being done in the countryside?"), The future leader generously quotes Kryukov's essay "Without Fire". In fact, Lenin regards its author as a new "mirror of the Russian revolution", although he refrained from using this label, obviously not wanting to put the Don author on a par with the classic and thus add points to the "unauthorized politician".
In the same 1913 Kryukov and polemicizes with Lenin in "Quiet Don". He tacitly agrees with the role of a new "mirror" assigned to him, but he shows that the driving force of the revolution is the powers that be themselves, their egoism, stupidity and mediocrity. And also - Lenin's supporters, zombie radicals like Shtokman, who do not know and do not understand either the Cossack or the peasant Russian way of life, but aiming to destroy the whole people's life together with the good and the bad, to destroy everything - to the ground.
Kryukov answers him in a novel about the Cossacks, on which he has been working since the early 1910s.
This Kryukov polemic with Lenin was not seen, because the novel was not finished. Meanwhile, she has been in plain sight for 80 years already, in The Quiet Don.
In the second part of the novel, the merchant Mokhov reads the June volume of Russian Wealth. His son comes to him. And he denounces the employee to Davydka.
“The roller driver who was dismissed from the mill spent whole nights with Valet in the adobe delivery room, and he, sparkling with evil eyes, said:
No-oo-oo, sha-li-ish! Their veins will soon be cut! One revolution is not enough for them ... ”(TD: 2, III, 135).
This is the end of the chapter. And in the first lines of the next one appears the "stranger" Shtokman. The one who will lay down the “larva of discontent” and from it “in four years will emerge from the decrepit walls of the larva of this strong and living embryo”.
October 25, 1917 minus four years and gives the end of October 1913. (Shtokman will arrive in Tatarsky on October 27).
The merchant Mokhov reads in the sixth book of “Russian Bogatstvo” for 1913 the end of the Don essays by Kryukov, published under the general title “In Depth. (Essays from the life of a remote corner) ". He reads about another merchant who lives on the Don several miles from Mokhov and, like Mokhov, is leading the country straight into the revolution.
At the same time, Mokhov's thoughts are busy with what will happen to Russia and his own business (in February 1917 he will go to General Listnitsky to look for answers to these questions).
Mokhov reads to himself, but the mirror system does not work.
Chasing Davydka away for an innocent joke, he himself grows a "living embryo".
Such is the eternal dispute on the native topic "who is to blame?" Only Kryukov needs things to be better for people, Ulyanov - as worse. (And he already knows what to do.)
On the First World War, Kryukov leaves as an orderly.
His opponent is still bored in Switzerland.
On Taganka in the "Library-Fund of the Russian Diaspora" I look through the archive of Fyodor Kryukov and among the drafts of the front-line essay "Group B." (1916) bump into strange entry... It was made on the right page of a double sheet extracted from a "memo book" (in our opinion - a notebook).
The book itself is apparently lost.
At first glance at this piece of paper it may seem that the text captured on it is worthy of a monumental, albeit very boring marginal "incompatible": the width of lowercase letters is almost microscopic - about 1 mm, a good half of the letters are indistinguishable from each other. It will be possible to decipher with the help of Natalia Vvedenskaya (and in two cases the TV journalist Viktor Pravdyuk and the philologist from Nalchik Lyudmila Vorokova helped):
June 10th. We walked around five o'clock. There were long shadows in the garden, the sun was not hot, from the Neva it smoked and the desired freshness. A criminal with a short beard, with a gray face, was stirring up the mown grass - it smelled of it drying up. I put away one small kopeck. And where the fluff rises, the luminous fluff of buzzards, or dandelions, rises - like transparent, small flies - whirls, curls, climbs into the face. The little butterfly flutters its wings and shines through; and everything smells of hay and rain moisture - meadow, sand. The soldier-sentry dreams, leaning on the muzzle, the warders dream, looking with an unseeing gaze in front of them, the criminal and political ones dream. Lowering their heads, putting their hands back or in their pockets, everyone thinks about something about their own ... About what? And it’s strange that we are circling like this on these slippery stones, polished by the prisoner's feet, and will not come together in a circle, we will not sing a common song; and they would listen to her evening freshness and sensitivity, and our - even if prisoners - songs were touching, and much would immediately grab the heart, and feel in the lungs ascent to the hearts of people - and community, and hope, and unity ... in our snares and prison poetry ... Now I understand "Glorious lake light Baikal ..." and I am ready to cry about this mountainous longing for freedom, for the lost world ...
The last word is written through "i" - this is, like in Tolstoy, about the world, which is not the absence of war, but the human community.
Before us is a page from a prison diary. In 1909, Kryukov was imprisoned in Kresty for signing the Vyborg Appeal - a call for civil disobedience (this is when the tsar dissolved the First Duma).
The writer returns home, but by the decision of the Don chieftain he was sent to an unprecedented exile in Russia. Don Cossacks were exiled from the Oblast to Petersburg. In St. Petersburg, however, they tried. And therefore, three years later - a loner in "Kresty". For three months.
And then he, a state councilor, worked for several years on Vasilievsky Island at the Mining Institute. Librarian assistant.
Dreams of "climbing to the heart of the people" will collapse in the spring of 1918.
The essay "In the corner", which tells about those days, he will end as follows:
“... They searched the bourgeoisie - both small and large - for inspiration they confiscated everything that came to hand, sometimes up to children's toys, they hid in their pockets what was more valuable.<…>
Alexey Danilych, will you take wood to cut it? - I ask one friend from the laborers.
Once. Appointed to the commission.
Which one?
In the culinary ... On the culinary part.
Ah ... it's a good thing.
Nothing: seven rubles per diem ... has its own pleasantness ... "
And this is up to the Bolsheviks. Their invasion of the Don is still ahead.
Unlike Gumilyov, who was shot in a trumped-up case, Kryukov was indeed guilty. He, perhaps, the only one of all the famous Russian intellectuals of that time, really tried to stop the "Bolshevik invasion." On the Don, he was re-elected - now the Secretary of the Don Parliament. At the same time, he also edits the government newspaper.
Shortsighted, bookish, in 1918 he picked up a Cossack saber. In the first battle, the horse under him was killed, and he was concussed. He joked himself: "In old age I had a chance to portray a general on a white horse ...".
Perhaps the most mysterious of all the deaths of Russian writers.
He did not “go to the people” like the older generation of the populist intellectuals. He himself was a people. He spoke and thought in the national language, sang a lot and willingly with the Cossacks, collected their songs. All six lines of the epigraph to "Quiet Don" It is not our glorious land that has been plowed up by plows ... - Kryukov was fully quoted even three times.
His younger contemporary recalled:
“When Kryukov was in the prime of his literary glory, there were already a dozen of us students in the village, and we were all looking forward to his arrival for the summer holidays. We knew that our young ladies would laugh at his knee-length blue and black satin shirts and patched pants. In particular, my sister pestered him:
And why are you, F.D., all in torn trousers, even if they wear good ones on holidays!
Chavo, AI, chasing women around the gardens - you will tear it anyway, so Masha (sister) won't give me new pants. "
Cheerful person.
Only now colleagues in the literary workshop remembered his forever sad eyes.
It is easy to explain why it was this intelligent, gentle man of left convictions, with such sad eyes and such a sense of humor (ranging from something very Nabokov's to the simple old-school Shchukar), not just “did not accept Soviet power,” but became with it fight actively. To do this, you just need to read his journalism of 1917-1919. Collection “Collapse. The Troubles of 1917 through the Eyes of a Russian Writer ”, entirely from Kryukov's articles, was published in the Moscow publishing house AIRO-XXI last year. (My friend and colleague Mikhail Mikheev found in the archives the half-rotted filings of Don newspapers printed on brown paper, and together with him and the philologist from Nalchik Lyudmila Vorokova we were preparing that book.)
When in 1928 the first chapters of The Quiet Don appeared in the magazine Oktyabr, Kryukov's still surviving admirers cried out in their voices: "Well, that's what Fedor Dmitrievich wrote! In March 1929 the newspaper Pravda gagged their mouths: "... the enemies of the proletarian dictatorship are spreading malicious slander that Sholokhov's novel is allegedly a plagiarism from someone else's manuscript." (Funny saying: slander about allegedly ... plagiarism!)
For ten years these, no longer shouting, but whispering, they will calm down in Stalinist style.
In 1974, in Paris, with a foreword by Solzhenitsyn, Irina Medvedeva-Tomashevskaya's book The Stirrup of the Quiet Don was published. The book says that the most famous Soviet novel was written by the fierce enemy of Soviet power.
Since the late 1980s, Kryukov began to be published little by little, but, as bibliographer A.A. Hare, ten volumes of his works are scattered throughout the periodicals of the end of the last century and the beginning of the last century.
A number of parallels between the prose of Kryukov and "Quiet Don" were revealed by the Rostov researcher Marat Mezentsev. Not all of them are convincing. But then there were no electronic search engines yet.
Oryol journalist Vladimir Samarin recalled how he was once struck by the intonational relationship of Kryukov's story "Swell" (1909) with landscape descriptions of "Quiet Don":
“It smelled of sweaty earth and damp kizek smoke. He crawled out of the pipes in gray streams and stood in thought for a long time over the thatched roofs, then reluctantly went downstairs, quietly lay down the street and wrapped it in a turquoise veil of willow at the end of the village. Above, between the disheveled braids of ruddy clouds, the sky was tenderly blue: the sun was rising. "
She will object: intonation can coincide by chance.
But dozens of stylistic constructions, plot twists, rare epithets and unrecorded sayings, author's metaphors and dialectal words that no Russian writer before and after Kryukov used cannot just “coincide”. (Of course, except for the author of The Quiet Don).
To steal a novel from Kryukov was madness: there are many self-quotations in his texts. (Each time the writer tried to improve himself.) But who knew in the 1920s that the Internet would appear? And it contains the National Corpus of the Russian language.
In this piggy bank, the volume of texts by Russian writers has already exceeded 150 million words.
When Sholokhov's manuscripts surfaced in the late 1990s, researcher Zeev Bar-Sella suggested from photocopies of several pages that this was not the original, but an illiterate copy from a literate original, also made in pre-revolutionary spelling.
And in 2006 the Institute of World Literature published Sholokhov's "drafts" and "white papers" of the novel. And so he killed the fostered myth. Because we have not drafts before us, but a typical bullshit.
Sholokhovedy assert: the classic presented these manuscripts in 1929 to the “commission on plagiarism”.
The scribe worked like a bad student at recess: he blew it away, not understanding the meaning of what he was copying. And now the church "Like a lion" turned into "Like silt", "wheeled month" (moon) in "Spiky month"... Sholokhovsky "Fluffy goat", which is trampled in manure - in fact fluffy (fat). “At the house” - “at the Don”. "Scepter of Colors" - "Spectrum of Colors" etc.
Why do you need a copy where the text cannot be published?
Then, that, the original could not be shown. He was with yaty, eram, "i" ... This can be seen from dozens of incorrect readings.
I can imagine how Fadeev and Serafimovich were swearing ...
"Drafts" fully confirmed the opinion of Academician MP Alekseev (1896-1981), who communicated with Sholokhov at the presidiums of the USSR Academy of Sciences: "Sholokhov could not write anything, nothing!" (I know from Academician of the Russian Academy of Sciences Alexander Lavrov, a student of Alekseev).
However, this was also clear 80 years ago. Physicist Nikita Alekseevich Tolstoy recalled that his father A.N. Tolstoy fled Moscow when he was offered to head the same plagiarism commission. And at home, to the question "Who wrote" Quiet Don? ", He answered one thing:" Well, of course, not Mishka! "
Now that we have the electronic "National Corpus of the Russian Language" at hand, we can answer for sure: after all, Kryukov.
And Sholokhov's scholars can no longer save Sholokhov, and no other author can be imposed on The Quiet Don.
Is it conceivable that two different writers would come up with a set of identical epithets for the word "voice": viscous; octave, damp; dandruff; prodding, etc., if it is known that the first author introduced these constructions into the literature, and the second (in his own words) never read the first. And in the interval between the first and the second, none of the Russian writers in relation to the "voice" used these epithets.
Hundreds of dialectisms (not only from the Don, but also from Oryol, for example, “to show off” in the sense of ‘admire’) were first revealed in The Quiet Don.
But it turned out that Kryukov had them much earlier.
At the same time, even the mistakes of Kryukov's spelling are repeated: ulesh (ground share) - he actually lie down... (It's just that in everyday speech it is found mainly in the nominative case, and therefore the constant "sh" sounds at the end.)
The methods of transferring interjections are also repeated:
«- And-and, honey... "(" Cossack ") -" - And-and-and, my dear... "(TD: 1, XVIII, 92); "- Tyu-u! .. Ska-hall! .. "(" To the source of healings ") -" - Tyu-u! .. Ska-hall! .. (TD: 2, V, 144); “- ... I'm not afraid ... well, what a mess... "(" Officer ") -" - Well, well, the Bolsheviks - the Bolsheviks ... ”(TD: 5, XXVIII, 374).
The graphics that betray expression are also the same:
«- This what kind of speaker is here? " ("Quiet") - "- This you can ”(TD: 6, II, 24) .; "- ... by God, get married ( so! - A.Ch.). I advise. Very good! " ("New Days") - "- Got to your feet? Very good! We are taking Anna ”. - And knowingly, hintingly squinted: - Do you mind? You dont mind? Yes Yes Yes Yes, very good! " (TD: 5, XXVII, 299-300).
Let's add here and a few dozen "coincidences" of proverbs, sayings and quotations: fading dawn; “A Cossack works for a bull, a bull for a Cossack”; "We twist the tails of the bulls"; "Glory thunders with a trumpet"; "- Our business is veal - I ate it in the zakut"; "Like peas out of a sack"; "Like rain in autumn"; "How rust (rust) iron ..."; "Green kuga"; “Do not rustle!”; "They cut a heifer with a cucumber" and "shatskie - guys from the grabs"; "Legs converged with a couple"; "Drunk with dirt"; "Old clamp" (for the first time by Kryukov); "Horn with a horn"; "Row next to"; "The word is tin!"; tartar (burr as a symbol of inflexibility); "This is not fat, it will be forgotten."
Dozens of microplots and everyday situations coincide. (But this is too big a topic, and we will not touch it here).
Even the teasers are the same: tar, daub (about the Don Ukrainians). And the same exclamation of admiration "The cat of a bitch!", and the same curses: “- ... Wait, you'll get caught someday! Voryaga! " ("On Quiet Don". 1898); "- And you - stranger! He took someone else's, plundered... "(" In the corner ". 1918) -" - Stranger! B ... old! Voryaga! Stole someone else's harrow! .. "(TD: 3, XIII, 273), etc.
They will say: well, it really coincided. And what? .. Sholokhov, after all, also lived on the Don.
But Quiet Don is filled with Kryukov's author's metaphors. And this cannot be a coincidence: between the ribs of the cart; cut (in TD - cropped) month; damaged month (because of which the fish does not bite); pensive chicken; tenacious repeater with pink flowers; cooper horse (i.e. barrel); gray wormwood (before Kryukov, gray is only about hair or beard!); headdress like a white burdock; Kalmyk knot; acute (in TD - predatory) big nose (ebony is a kind of hawk); river scales (in TD - waves); lapwing in a kuga and a song nearby; broad-backed (about a human); swim like an ax; body as viable (and not similar) dough; jumped over the drawbar of the cart (In TD - carts); eve, the smell of honey and a stale dress; bullets like peas; bullets and a projectile like a drill; the face of the earth pitted with smallpox; sharp back (the spine is visible); reddened (in TD - redheads) boots; a man's face like an old bootleg (so! - A.Ch.) boot (the last example is the find of the Moscow researcher Savely Rozhkov), etc.
Before Kryukov, no one wrote this way:
"Thick honey smell came from large gold pumpkin flowers from a neighboring garden " (Kryukov. The story "Swell". 1909) - "... from the gardens there was a smell of honey smell of blooming pumpkin" (TD: part 6, LXI, 400).
But the rarest verb is to sing (sing): “- Is it much audible? she exclaimed in surprise. - Oh you. Lord! .. I, I, in my old age in Spasovka squeeze she took it into her head! .. This is all me, if she was wrong ... "Come on, let's play, we will dispel boredom, no one will hear." What an old fool! .. - And they sang well! - Ermakov responded with sincere admiration " (Kryukov. "Cossack". 1896) - "- This is not a send-off. Elansky play like that. They are so sandwiched... AND great, devils pull! - Prokhor responded approvingly ... " (TD: 7, XIX, 187)
And more from the unique:
« untiedcunning - Kalmyk - knots thin rope reins "( "Spring is Red". 1913) - "From this day tied into a Kalmyk knot between the Melekhovs and Stepan Astakhov there is anger. " ( TD: 1, XIV, 70).
«… bogged down in heavy, hummocky arable land» ( "Swell") - "... wiggling your legs over the hummocky plowing" (TD: 3, VII, 296).
Or here's a train scene:
"The whistle rumbled again, and then some iron pans clanked, the car, dissatisfied, as it seemed to Yegorushka, creaked like an old man, but immediately caught himself and, hiding his displeasure, laughed with a rattling laugh: pr ... frr ... prr ... frr ... The small station with its lights quietly floated back in the warm twilight of a summer night. Yegorushka's father, taking off his cap, began to be baptized frequently, and for the company with him he crossed himself twice and the father - slowly and earnestly. Meanwhile, at this time, past the carriage the pumping station ran quickly, and behind her some small houses with glowing windows... Then outside the windows it became dark, and only the stars blinked over the edge of the earth. And now the carriage itself was running with a rattling thud and saying: oh-ho-ho ... oh-ho-ho ... well, well ... well, well ... "( "To the source of healings").
What are these iron pans? Hint in Quiet Don:
“A few minutes later the locomotive tore the cars, clanked buffers , the hooves of the horses, which had lost their balance from the push, began to clatter. Composition swam past the water pump, past rare squares of lighted windows and darkbehind the canvas, birch bales ”(TD: 4, XV, 142).
And dozens, hundreds of dialectisms, which Russian literature did not know before Kryukov. We find more than half of them in The Quiet Don. But in the "Big Don Dictionary" there are 18 thousand dialectisms. How could two writers, having taken a thousand, almost two-thirds guess so?
And such is the set of folk words:
antilerita - antileria; aplets - epaulets; bishop; bonba; thief; shot (i.e., met); seriously; dohtur - dohtor; eroplane; stage - stage; libization - nibilized; a mobile and an oil car - an antomobile; by sign; society; oslobonit; patret; pinjak; help (help); accept (take); fearful - hide; strama; sobchat - sobchat; instrument; vater; fershal; fuligan - to bully; siskin; sixteen.
Another myth: there are few dialectisms in Kryukov's prose, especially in the author's speech.
American professor German Ermolaev argued that Fyodor Kryukov could not write “Quiet Don”, because in the first editions “one can find” cases of misuse of the same words. So, "blink" is used in the sense of "flicker": "And he went ... blinking shirt", "Daria, blinking at the hem...».
But this is also Kryukov. “... the shadow of his shaggy hat is sweeping blinked from the door to the ceiling "( "Dreams"), "Kirik blinked pitch black, wide beard ... "( "Ratnik").
So F.F. Kuznetsov, having found in the manuscripts of the novel "a predatory drooping nose like a scorpion" (and also a "drooping kite nose"), writes:
“… Sholokhov here, too, conducted a painful search for more precise words and more expressive details.<…> Of course, the "drooping, kite-like nose" is much more accurate than the "droopy nose," especially since it is difficult for a modern reader to understand what this word means. It comes from the dialectal: "osprey" - a type of hawk (according to other sources - from the falcon family), that is, it really indicates a "kite" nose. "
Alas, in the earliest story of Kryukov there is such a portrait of a Cossack: "His nose was sharp," skopchiny ", eyebrows are thick and gray, and eyes are small, yellow "(" Gulebschiki "). The replacement of "eunuch" with a kite was made to dilute homonyms and avoid comic ambiguity.
Felix Kuznetsov is right, referring to Serafimovich, "who rightly asserted that" Quiet Don "could be written only by a person who was born and raised in the Don region."
On the tenth anniversary of the Great October Revolution, at a banquet at the National Hotel, Serafimovich introduced a modest young man to foreign guests:
My friends! Here's a new novel! Remember the name - "Quiet Don" and the name - Mikhail Sholokhov. Before you is a great writer of the Russian land, whom few people know yet. But mark my word. Soon all of Russia will hear his name, and in two or three years the whole world!
How did Kryukov's novel get to Sholokhov? Much has been written about this, but everything is only versions. There is only no doubt that the case was arranged by a fellow countryman and admirer of Kryukov Alexander Serafimovich. According to one of the Don versions, the manuscript was transferred by Kryukov's sister to Serafimovich. Traces of his acquaintance with the unpublished novel also found their way to Iron Stream (1924). Yes, and in the magazine "October" he goes to work as editor-in-chief in order to print Sholokhov's novel. (After typing, he resigns.)
In 1912, he wrote to Kryukov, saying that what he portrayed "trembles alive, like a fish pulled out of water, trembles with colors, sounds, movement."
And with almost the same words Serafimovich admonished the young genius 'Don Stories': “Like a steppe flower, Comrade Sholokhov's stories become a living spot. Simple, bright, and you feel what you are telling - it stands before your eyes. Figurative language, that colored language spoken by the Cossacks. Compressed, and this compactness is full of life, tension and truth. "
And then there are the notes of the front-line writer Joseph Gerasimov (K. Kozhevnikov "Rains on Thursdays", "Vestnik", No. 19 (330), 2003). Before the war, he, a first-year student, came with his friend to the room of Serafimovich who was speaking in Sverdlovsk.
He drank milk during the conversation.
A friend, also a student, will blurt out, among other questions:
Is it true that Sholokhov did not write The Quiet Don himself? .. That he found someone else's manuscript? "
The master pretended not to hear - he reached for a second glass of milk ... And when they were saying goodbye, he threw the cryptic phrase: "For the sake of honest literature, you can enter into sin."
"Only later," wrote Gerasimov, "a belated guess dawned on me: he knew everything about the author of The Quiet Don, but he lied, believing that it was for the good."
But he really admired Kryukov. And he convinced himself that this was the only way to save the novel.
In his book about Sholokhov F.F. Kuznetsov revealed the secret of the tsifir on one of the "drafts" of the Sholokhov manuscript. This is the opening page of the second part of the novel:
“… But the beginning of the first chapter of the second part on this page did not follow. Instead, a column of numbers is written -
| x | 50 35 |
| 1750 | |
| x | 80 |
| 140000 | |
This is a well-known count to every writer: the number of lines per page - 50 multiplied by the number of printable characters per line - 35, which gives 1750, then the number of characters per page - 1750 is multiplied by the number of pages of the first part of the manuscript - 80, which gives 140 thousand printable characters ...
Let us congratulate the Sholokhoveda on a glorious find: we are really dealing with the calculation of the "page" of the first part of the novel. However, in the manuscript, it occupies not 80, but 85 (plus 2 pages of the insert). There are indeed 50 lines on the page, but not 35, but 45-50 characters per line (of course, counting the spaces between words, as is customary in book publishing).
Sholokhov mechanically copied Kryukov's estimate.
This is in a line of Kryukov's draft manuscripts ("Bulavinsky revolt", "Group B."), valid for 35-40 characters). Kryukov's handwriting was smaller than Sholokhov's, school. Kryukov left a margin of half a page. Here he made edits, here, in parallel with the first draft, he created a different version of the text.
Sholokhov was not embarrassed by the fact that the number of pages did not coincide (87 versus 80), and the number of characters in the line of his fake was much greater than in the Kryukov manuscripts.
He just didn't understand anything. And, having copied someone else's draft, he caught himself by the hand.
However, he knew how to be frank with his party comrades.
In March 1939, at the XVIII Congress of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks, the future Nobel laureate spoke about his creative method:
“In the units of the Red Army, under its red banners fanned with glory, we will beat the enemy in a way that no one has ever beat him, and I dare to assure you, comrade delegates of the Congress, that we will not throw our field bags - this Japanese custom is for us, well ... not to face. We will collect other people's bags ... because in our literary economy the contents of these bags will be useful later. Having defeated the enemies, we will still write books about how we beat these enemies. These books will serve our people ... ”.
The fact that it was a bag with a novel by Fyodor Dmitrievich Kryukov, Sholokhov kept silent.
To date, more than a thousand parallels between Kryukov's prose and The Quiet Don have been identified. There will be - many times more.
Let's repeat after Hamlet:
... After all, evil deeds are essentially immortal.
Cover with earth - they will still rise,
Though late, they will appear before people.
But not only the atrocities of Ulyanov and the Shtokmans appeared. A Russian speech appeared, a practically destroyed class. Thanks to Kryukov with his musical and spiritual gift to listen to other people, he preserved it, as the birch bark letters preserved the ancient Novgorod language.
Of course, his prophetic prose will also appear. I will list only my favorite: "Gulebschiki", "To the Source of Healings", "Comrades", "Flurry", "Mother", "Companions", "Happiness", "On the Azure River", "Worldly Network", "Burning Bush "," Warrior "," One Soul "," Crawling ".
The first story is dated 1892, the last - 1916.
And after the 16th year, he did not write stories. Essays only.
Yes "Quiet Don".
According to the official, but unconfirmed version (evidence - an anonymous telegram sent from nowhere), in the spring of 1920 Kryukov died of typhus in one of the Kuban villages during the retreat of the Whites to Novorossiysk, according to another, also unconfirmed, but still having a name and reporting some details, captured and shot by the Reds.
Welcome back, Fyodor Dmitrievich!
P. S. A dictionary of parallels between Kryukov's prose and “Quiet Don” on the writer's birthday is posted on his website. Here is his "Incomplete Collected Works":
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