What fairy tales did Gorky write for children? Tales of Italy

Alexey Peshkov born in Nizhny Novgorod into the family of a carpenter (according to another version, the manager of the Astrakhan office of the shipping company I. S. Kolchin) - Maxim Savvatyevich Peshkov (1839-1871). Mother - Varvara Vasilievna, nee Kashirina. Having been orphaned early, he spent his childhood years in the house of his grandfather Kashirin (see Kashirin's House). From the age of 11 he was forced to go “to the people”; worked as a “boy” in a store, as a pantry cook on a steamship, as an apprentice in an icon-painting workshop, as a baker, etc.

In 1884 he tried to enter Kazan University. I became acquainted with Marxist literature and propaganda work.
In 1888 he was arrested for connections with N. E. Fedoseev’s circle. He was under constant police surveillance. In October 1888, he became a watchman at the Dobrinka station of the Gryaze-Tsaritsyn Railway. Impressions from his stay in Dobrinka will serve as the basis for the autobiographical story “The Watchman” and the story “Boredom for the Sake.”
In January 1889, at a personal request (a complaint in verse), he was transferred to the Borisoglebsk station, then as a weighmaster to the Krutaya station.
In the spring of 1891 he set out to wander around the country and reached the Caucasus.
In 1892 he first appeared in print with the story “Makar Chudra”. Returning to Nizhny Novgorod, he publishes reviews and feuilletons in Volzhsky Vestnik, Samara Gazeta, Nizhny Novgorod Listok, etc.
1895 - “Chelkash”, “Old Woman Izergil”.
1897 - “Former People”, “The Orlov Spouses”, “Malva”, “Konovalov”.
From October 1897 to mid-January 1898, he lived in the village of Kamenka (now the city of Kuvshinovo, Tver Region) in the apartment of his friend Nikolai Zakharovich Vasiliev, who worked at the Kamensk paper factory and led an illegal workers' Marxist circle. Subsequently, the life impressions of this period served the writer as material for the novel “The Life of Klim Samgin.”
1899 - novel “Foma Gordeev”, prose poem “Song of the Falcon”.
1900-1901 - novel “Three”, personal acquaintance with Chekhov, Tolstoy.
1901 - “Song about the Petrel.” Participation in Marxist workers' circles in Nizhny Novgorod, Sormovo, St. Petersburg, wrote a proclamation calling for the fight against autocracy. Arrested and expelled from Nizhny Novgorod.
In 1902 - A. M. Gorky turned to drama. Creates the plays “Bourgeois”, “At the Bottom”.
1904-1905 - writes the plays “Summer Residents”, “Children of the Sun”, “Barbarians”. Meets Lenin. He was arrested for the revolutionary proclamation and in connection with the execution on January 9, but then released under public pressure. Participant in the revolution of 1905-1907. In the fall of 1905 he joined the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party.
1906 - A. M. Gorky travels abroad, creates satirical pamphlets about the “bourgeois” culture of France and the USA (“My Interviews”, “In America”). He writes the play “Enemies” and creates the novel “Mother”. Due to illness (tuberculosis), Gorky settled in Italy on the island of Capri, where he lived for 7 years. Here he writes “Confession” (1908), where his differences with the Bolsheviks were clearly outlined (see “The Capri School”).
1908 - play “The Last”, story “The Life of an Useless Person”.
1909 - stories “The Town of Okurov”, “The Life of Matvey Kozhemyakin”.
1913 - A.M. Gorky edits the Bolshevik newspapers Zvezda and Pravda, the art department of the Bolshevik magazine Prosveshchenie, and published the first collection of proletarian writers. Writes "Tales of Italy".

1900 Yasnaya Polyana
Leo Tolstoy and Maxim Gorky1912-1916 - A. M. Gorky creates a series of stories and essays that made up the collection “Across Rus'”, autobiographical stories “Childhood”, “In People”. The last part of the trilogy, “My Universities,” was written in 1923.
1917-1919 - A. M. Gorky does a lot of social and political work, criticizes the “methods” of the Bolsheviks, condemns their attitude towards the old intelligentsia, saves many of its representatives from Bolshevik repression and famine. In 1917, having disagreed with the Bolsheviks on the issue of the timeliness of the socialist revolution in Russia, he did not undergo re-registration of party members and formally dropped out of it. [source not specified 85 days]
1921 - A. M. Gorky’s departure abroad. In Soviet literature, there was a myth that the reason for his departure was the resumption of his illness and the need, at Lenin’s insistence, for treatment abroad. In fact, A. M. Gorky was forced to leave due to worsening ideological differences with the established government.
From 1924 he lived in Italy, in Sorrento. Published memoirs about Lenin.
1925 - novel “The Artamonov Case.”
1928 - at the invitation of the Soviet government and Stalin personally, he tours the country, during which Gorky is shown the achievements of the USSR, which are reflected in the series of essays “Around the Soviet Union.”
1932 - Gorky returns to the Soviet Union. Here he receives Stalin’s order - to prepare the ground for the 1st Congress of Soviet Writers, and for this to carry out preparatory work among them. Gorky created many newspapers and magazines: the publishing house “Academia”, the book series “History of Factories”, “History of the Civil War”, the magazine “Literary Studies”, he wrote the plays “Yegor Bulychev and others” (1932), “Dostigaev and others "(1933).

Maxim Gorky and Genrikh Yagoda. Not earlier than November 1935, 1934 - Gorky “conducts” the 1st Congress of Soviet Writers, giving the main report at it.
In 1925-1936 he wrote the novel “The Life of Klim Samgin,” which was never finished.
On May 11, 1934, Gorky’s son, Maxim Peshkov, unexpectedly dies. A.M. Gorky died on June 18, 1936 in Moscow, outliving his son by just over two years. After his death, he was cremated and his ashes were placed in an urn in the Kremlin wall on Red Square in Moscow. Before cremation, A. M. Gorky's brain was removed and taken to the Moscow Brain Institute for further study.

The circumstances of the death of Gorky and his son are considered “suspicious” by many; there were rumors of poisoning, which, however, were not confirmed. At the funeral, among others, Molotov and Stalin carried Gorky’s coffin. It is interesting that among other accusations against Genrikh Yagoda at the so-called Third Moscow Trial of 1938 was the accusation of poisoning Gorky’s son. Some publications blame Stalin for Gorky's death [source not specified 85 days]. An important precedent for the medical side of the accusations in the “Doctors’ Case” was the Third Moscow Trial (1938), where among the defendants were three doctors (Kazakov, Levin and Pletnev), accused of the murders of Gorky and others.

Gorky Maxim (pseudonym, real name - Peshkov Alexey Maksimovich) (1868-1936). The future writer's childhood and adolescence were spent in Nizhny Novgorod, in the house of his grandfather V.V. Kashirin, who by that time had failed in his “dying business” and was completely bankrupt. Maxim Gorky went through the harsh school of being “among people”, and then the no less cruel “universities”. The most important role in his formation as a writer was played by books, primarily the works of Russian classics.

Briefly about Gorky's work

The literary path of Maxim Gorky began with the publication in the fall of 1892 of the story “Makar Chudra”. In the 90s, Gorky’s stories about tramps (“Two Tramps,” “Chelkash,” “The Orlov Spouses,” “Konovalov,” etc.) and revolutionary romantic works (“Old Woman Izergil,” “Song of Falcon”, “Song of the Petrel”).

At the turn of XIX - XX centuries Maxim Gorky acted as a novelist (“Foma Gordeev”, “Three”) and playwright (“Bourgeois”, “At the Lower Depths”) in the first two decades of the 20th century. stories appeared (“Okurov Town”, “Summer”, etc.), novels (“Mother”, “Confession”, “The Life of Matvey Kozhemyakin”, an autobiographical trilogy), collections of stories, a number of plays (“Summer Residents”, “Children of the Sun” ”, “Barbarians”, “Enemies”, “The Last”, “Zykovs”, etc.), many journalistic and literary critical articles. The result of Maxim Gorky’s creative activity was the four-volume novel “The Life of Klim Samgin.” This is a wide panorama of the forty-year history of Russia at the end XIX - early XX centuries

Stories by Maxim Gorky about children

At the very beginning of his creative career, Maxim Gorky came up with works on children's themes. The first in their series was the story “The Beggar Woman” (1893). It clearly reflected Gorky’s creative principles in revealing the world of childhood. Creating artistic images of children in the works of the 90s of the last century (“Grandfather Arkhip and Lenka”, “Kolyusha”, “Thief”, “Girl”, “Orphan”, etc.), the writer sought to depict children's destinies in a specific social and everyday life. situation, in direct connection with the lives of adults, who most often become the culprits of the moral and even physical death of children.

So the unnamed “girl of six or seven years old” in the story “The Beggar Woman” found shelter for just a few hours with a “talented speaker and a good lawyer,” who expected “an appointment to the prosecutor’s office in the near future.” The successful lawyer very soon came to his senses and “condemned” his own philanthropic act and decided to put the girl out on the street. In this case, turning to the children's topic, the author strikes at that part of the Russian intelligentsia who willingly and a lot talked about the people's troubles, including children, but did not go beyond vanity.

The death of the beggar Lenka, who did not live even eleven years, is perceived as a severe indictment of the social order of that time (from the story “Grandfather Arkhip and Lenka,” 1894) and the no less tragic fate of the twelve-year-old hero of the story “Kolyusha” (1895), who “threw himself under the horses,” in the hospital, he admitted to his mother: “And I saw her... the stroller... yes... I didn’t want to leave. I thought that if they crushed me, they would give me money. And they gave...” The price of his life was expressed in a modest amount - forty-seven rubles. The story “The Thief” (1896) has the subtitle “From Life,” with which the author emphasizes the ordinariness of the events described. This time the “thief” turned out to be Mitka, “a boy of about seven” with an already crippled childhood (his father left home, his mother was a bitter drunkard), he tried to steal a piece of soap from the tray, but was captured by a merchant who, having mocked the boy considerably, then sent him to the police station.

In stories written in the 90s on a children's theme, Maxim Gorky persistently made an important judgment for him that the “lead abominations of life”, which had a detrimental effect on the fate of many, many children, still could not completely eradicate in them kindness and interest in the reality around them, to the unbridled flight of children's imagination. Following the traditions of Russian classical literature, Gorky, in his early stories about children, sought to artistically embody the complex process of the formation of human characters. And this process often takes place in a contrasting comparison of a gloomy and depressing reality with a colorful and noble world created by a child’s imagination. In the story “Shake” (1898), the author reproduced, as the subtitle says, “A Page from Mishka’s Life.” It consists of two parts: first, the boy’s most joyful impressions are conveyed, caused by his presence “one day on a holiday” at a circus performance. But already on the way back to the icon-painting workshop where Mishka worked, the boy had “something that spoiled his mood... his memory stubbornly restored the tomorrow to him.” The second part describes this difficult day with physical labor that was too much for the boy and endless kicks and beatings. According to the author’s assessment, “he lived a boring and difficult life...”.

The story “Shake” had a noticeable autobiographical element, because the author himself worked as a teenager in an icon-painting workshop, which was reflected in his trilogy. At the same time, in “The Shake,” Maxim Gorky continued to expand on the important theme of the backbreaking labor of children and adolescents; he had previously written about this in the story “The Wretched Pavel” (1894), in the stories “Roman” (1896), “Chimney Sweep” (1896) ), and later in the story “Three” (1900) and other works.

To a certain extent, the story “Girl” (1905) is also autobiographical in nature: the sad and terrible story of an eleven-year-old girl forced to sell herself was, according to Gorky, “one of the episodes of my youth.” Reader success of the story “Girl”, only in 1905-1906. published in three editions, undoubtedly stimulated the appearance of a number of remarkable works on children's themes by Maxim Gorky in the 1910s. Among them, first of all, the story “Pepe” (1913) from “Tales of Italy” and the stories “Spectators” (1917) and “Passion-face” (1917) from the cycle “Across Rus'” should be mentioned. Each of these works was in its own way key in the author’s artistic solution to the children’s theme. In the poetic narrative about Pepe, Maxim Gorky creates a bright, subtly psychologically illuminated image of an Italian boy with his love of life, self-esteem, clearly expressed features of national character and, at the same time, childishly spontaneous. Pepe firmly believes in his future and the future of his people, which he sings about everywhere: “Italy is beautiful, my Italy!” This ten-year-old “fragile, thin” citizen of his homeland, in his own, childish way, but persistently leading the fight against social injustice, was a counterbalance to all those characters in Russian and foreign literature who could evoke compassion and pity for themselves and could not grow up to become fighters for the true spiritual and social freedom of his people.

Pepe had predecessors in Maxim Gorky's children's stories at the very beginning of his creative career. At the end of 1894, he came out with a “Yuletide Story” under the remarkable title “About a boy and a girl who did not freeze.” Having started it with the remark: “In Christmas stories it has long been customary to freeze several poor boys and girls every year...”, the author categorically stated that he decided to do otherwise. His heroes, “poor children, a boy - Mishka Pimple and a girl - Katka Ryabaya,” having collected an unusually large alms on Christmas Eve, decided not to give it completely to their “guardian,” the always drunken aunt Anfisa, but at least once a year to eat their fill at tavern. Gorky concluded: “They - believe me - will not freeze anymore. They are in their place...” Being polemically pointed against the traditional sentimental “Yuletide story,” Gorky’s story about poor, disadvantaged children was associated with a severe condemnation of everything that was destroying and crippling children’s souls, preventing children from showing their characteristic kindness and love for people, interest in everything earthly, thirst for creativity, for active work.

The appearance in the cycle “Across Rus'” of two stories on a children's theme was natural, since, deciding the most important question for himself about the historical fate of Russia in the coming 20th century, Maxim Gorky directly connected the future of his Motherland with the position of children and adolescents in society. The story “Spectators” describes an absurd incident that led to the orphan teenager Koska Klyucharev working in a bookbinding workshop being crushed by a horse with an “iron hoof” and his toes crushed. Instead of providing medical assistance to the victim, the gathered crowd indifferently “contemplated,” the “spectators” showed indifference to the suffering of the teenager, they soon “dispersed, and again the street became quiet, as if at the bottom of a deep ravine.” The collective image of the “spectators” created by Gorky embraced the very environment of ordinary people who, in essence, became the culprit of all the troubles that befell Lenka, the hero of the story “Passion-face”, bedridden by a serious illness. With all its content, “Passion-face” objectively appealed not so much to pity and compassion for the little cripple, but to the restructuring of the social foundations of Russian reality.

Fairy tales of Maxim Gorky for children

In the works of Maxim Gorky for children, fairy tales occupied a special place, on which the writer worked in parallel with the cycles “Tales of Italy” and “Across Rus'”. The fairy tales clearly expressed ideological and aesthetic principles, the same as in stories on the theme of childhood and adolescence. Already in the first fairy tale - “Morning” (1910) - the problematic-thematic and artistic-style originality of Gorky’s children’s fairy tales was revealed, when everyday life comes to the fore, the details of everyday life are emphasized, and modern social and even spiritual and moral problems.

The hymn to nature and the sun in the fairy tale “Morning” is combined with a hymn to work and “the great work people have done all around us.” And then the author found it necessary to remind the children that working people “beautify and enrich the earth all their lives, but from birth to death they remain poor.” Following this, the author poses the question: “Why? You will find out about this later, when you become big, if, of course, you want to find out...” So the fundamentally lyrical fairy tale acquired “foreign”, journalistic, philosophical material, and acquired additional genre characteristics.

In the fairy tales following “Morning” “Sparrow” (1912), “The Case of Yevseyka” (1912), “Samovar” (1913), “About Ivanushka the Fool” (1918), “Yashka” (1919) Maxim Gorky continued his work over a new type of children's fairy tale, in the content of which a special role belonged to the cognitive element. The very small yellow-throated sparrow Pudik (“Sparrow”), who, due to his curiosity and indefatigable desire to become more familiar with the world around him, almost turned out to be easy prey for the cat; then the “little boy”, aka the “good man” Evseika (“The Case of Evseika”), who found himself (albeit in a dream) in the underwater kingdom in the vicinity of the predators that lived there and managed, thanks to his ingenuity and determination, to return to earth unharmed; then the well-known hero of Russian folk tales, Ivanushka the Fool (“About Ivanushka the Fool”), who in fact turned out to be not stupid at all, and his “eccentricities” were a means of condemning philistine prudence, practicality and stinginess.

The hero of the fairy tale “Yashka” also owes his origin to Russian folklore. This time Maxim Gorky used a folk fairy tale about a soldier who finds himself in paradise. Gorky’s character quickly became disillusioned with “heavenly life”; the author managed to satirically depict one of the oldest myths about the afterlife in world culture in a form accessible to children.

The fairy tale “Samovar” is presented in satirical tones, the heroes of which were “humanized” objects: a sugar bowl, a creamer, a teapot, cups. The leading role belonged to the “little samovar,” who “really loved to show off” and wanted “the moon to be taken from the sky and made into a tray for him.” Alternating between prosaic and poetic texts, forcing subjects so familiar to children to sing songs and have lively conversations, Maxim Gorky achieved the main thing - to write interestingly, but not to allow excessive moralizing. It was in connection with “Samovar” that Gorky remarked: “I don’t want there to be a sermon instead of a fairy tale.” Based on his creative principles, the writer initiated the creation of a special type of literary fairy tale in children's literature, characterized by the presence of significant scientific and educational potential in it.

Stories by Maxim Gorky about children

The origin and development of the genres of great prose in the work of Maxim Gorky is directly connected with the artistic embodiment of the theme of childhood. This process began with the story “Poor Pavel” (1894), followed by the stories “Foma Gordeev” (1898), “Three” (1900). Already at this, relatively speaking, initial stage of his literary career, the writer paid special attention to a thorough analysis of the complex process of formation of the characters of his heroes from early childhood. To a lesser or greater extent, material of this kind is present in the stories “Mother” (1906), “The Life of an Useless Person” (1908), “The Life of Matvey Kozhemyakin” (1911), “The Life of Klim Samgin” (1925-1936). The very desire of Maxim Gorky to tell the story of the “life” of this or that hero from the day of his birth and childhood was caused by the desire to artistically embody the evolution of a literary hero, image, type as fully and authentically as possible. Gorky’s autobiographical trilogy - primarily the first two stories (“Childhood”, 1913, and “In People”, 1916) - is a generally recognized classic example of a creative solution to the theme of childhood in Russian and world literature of the 20th century.

Articles and notes about children's literature

Maxim Gorky devoted about thirty articles and notes to children's literature, not counting the many statements scattered in letters, reviews and reviews, reports and public speeches. He perceived children's literature as an integral part of all Russian literature and at the same time as a “sovereign power” with its own laws and ideological and aesthetic originality. Of great interest are the opinions of Maxim Gorky about the artistic specificity of works on children's themes. First of all, according to the author, a children’s writer “must take into account all the characteristics of the reading age,” be able to “speak funny,” and “build” children’s literature on a completely new principle that opens up broad prospects for imaginative scientific and artistic thinking.”

Maxim Gorky advocated the constant expansion of the range of reading for a huge children's audience, which allows children to enrich their real knowledge and more actively show creativity, as well as increase their interest in modernity, in everything that surrounds children in everyday life.

RUSSIAN TALES

Being ugly and knowing it, the young man said to himself:

I'm smart. I will become a sage. For us it is very simple.

And having read as many wise books as it takes to become short-sighted, he proudly raised his nose, reddened by the weight of his glasses, and declared to all that existed:

Well, no, you can't fool me! I see that life is a trap set for me by nature!

And love? - asked the Spirit of Life.

Thank you, thank God I’m not a poet! I will not enter the iron cage of inevitable duties for the sake of a piece of cheese!

But still, he was not a particularly gifted person and therefore decided to take the position of professor of philosophy.

He comes to the Minister of Public Education and says:

Your Excellency, here - I can preach that life is meaningless and that the suggestions of nature should not be obeyed!

The minister thought: “Is this good or not?”

Then he asked:

Should you obey the orders of your superiors?

Definitely a must! - said the philosopher, respectfully bowing his book-wipe head. - Because human passions...

Well, that's it! Climb onto the pulpit. Salary - sixteen rubles. Only - if I prescribe that even the laws of nature should be taken into account, look - without freethinking! I won't tolerate it!

And, after thinking, he said melancholy:

We live in such a time that for the sake of the interests of the integrity of the state, perhaps the laws of nature will have to be recognized not only as existing, but also useful - in part!

“The hell with it!” the philosopher exclaimed mentally. “You’ll get to this point, how on earth...”

And he didn’t say anything out loud.

So he settled down: he climbed into the pulpit every week and said to different curly-haired young men for an hour at a time:

Dear sirs! Man is limited from the outside, limited from the inside, nature is hostile to him, woman is a blind instrument of nature, and for all this our life is completely meaningless!

He was used to thinking like this and often, carried away, spoke beautifully and sincerely; the young students clapped enthusiastically for him, and he, pleased, affectionately nodded his bald head to them, his red nose sparkled with affection, and everything went very well.

Dining in restaurants was bad for him - like all pessimists, he suffered from indigestion - so he got married and dined at home for twenty-nine years; in between, unbeknownst to himself, he fathered four children, and after that he died.

Behind his coffin walked respectfully and sadly three daughters with their young husbands and a son, a poet in love with all the beautiful women in the world. The students sang “Eternal Memory” - they sang very loudly and cheerfully, but poorly; over the grave, the professor’s comrades spoke flowery speeches about how harmonious the deceased’s metaphysics was; everything was quite decent, solemn and even touching at moments.

So the old man died! - one student said to his comrades when they left the cemetery.

“He was a pessimist,” said another.

And the third asked:

Well? Really?

Pessimist and conservative.

Look, bald! And I didn't even notice...

The fourth student was a poor man, he inquired worriedly:

Will they invite us to the wake?

Yes, they were called.

Since the late professor wrote good books during his lifetime, in which he passionately and beautifully proved the purposelessness of life, the books were bought well and read with pleasure - after all, no matter what you say, people love beautiful things!

The family was well provided for - and pessimism can provide! - the funeral was organized by the rich, the poor student ate unusually well and, when he went home, he thought, smiling good-naturedly:

"No - and pessimism is useful..."

And there was another case.

Someone, considering himself a poet, wrote poems, but for some reason they were all bad, and this made him very angry.

One day, he was walking down the street and saw a whip lying on the road - the driver had lost it.

Inspiration struck the poet, and an image immediately formed in his mind:

Like a black scourge, in the dust of the road lies - crushed - the corpse of a snake. Above him is a swarm of flies buzzing alarmingly, Around him are beetles and ants. The links of thin ribs turn white through the torn scales... Snake! You remind me of my lost love...

And the whip stood on the end of the whip and said, swaying:

Well, why are you lying? A married man, you know how to read and write, but you’re lying! After all, your love has not died out, you both love your wife and are afraid of her...

The poet got angry:

It's none of your business!..

And the poems are bad...

And you can’t invent such things! You can only whistle, and even then not by yourself.

But why are you lying anyway? After all, love hasn’t died out?

You never know what happened, but it needed to be...

Oh, your wife will beat you! Take me to her...

Well, just wait!

Well, God be with you! - said the whip, curling up like a corkscrew, lay down on the road and thought about people, and the poet went to the tavern, asked for a bottle of beer and also began to think, but about himself.

“Although the whip is rubbish, the poems are again rather bad, that’s true! It’s a strange thing! One always writes bad poems, while the other sometimes succeeds in good ones - how wrong everything is in this world! Stupid world!”

So he sat, drank and, delving deeper and deeper into understanding the world, finally came to a firm decision: “We must tell the truth: this world is absolutely no good, and it’s even offensive for a person to live in it!” He thought in this direction for an hour and a half, and then composed:

The motley scourge of our passionate desires Drives us into the coils of Death the Snake, We wander in the deep fog. Ah - kill your desires! They deceitfully lure us into the distance, We drag ourselves through the thorns of insults, Along the way they hurt our hearts of sorrow, And at the end of it, everyone is killed...

And so on in this spirit - twenty-eight lines.

This is clever! - the poet exclaimed and went home, very pleased with himself.

At home, he read the poems to his wife - she also liked it.

Only,” she said, “the first quatrain seems to be wrong...

They'll devour you! Pushkin also started the “wrong” thing... But what is the size? Memorial service!

Then he began to play with his son: sitting him on his knee and throwing him up, he sang in tenor:

Jump-hop onto someone else's bridge! Oh, I’ll be rich - I’ll wash mine, I won’t let anyone in!

We had a very fun evening, and in the morning the poet took his poems to the editor, and the editor said thoughtfully - they are all thoughtful, editors, that’s why magazines are boring.

Hm? - said the editor, touching his nose. - This, you know, is not bad, and most importantly, it is very in tune with the mood of the time, very much so! Hmmm, you may have found yourself. Well, continue in the same spirit... Sixteen kopecks line... four forty-eight... Congratulations!

Then the poems were published, and the poet felt like a birthday boy, and his wife kissed him diligently, languidly saying:

M-my poet, oh...

Have a great time!

And one young man - a very good young man, painfully searching for the meaning of life - read these poems and shot himself. He, you see, was sure that the author of the poems, before rejecting life, was looking for meaning in it just as long and painfully as he himself, the young man, was looking for, and he did not know that these gloomy thoughts were sold for sixteen kopecks a line. He was serious.

Let the reader not think that I want to say that sometimes even a whip can be used to benefit people.

Evstigney Zakivakin lived for a long time in quiet modesty, in timid envy, and suddenly unexpectedly became famous.

And it happened like this: one day, after a luxurious feast, he spent his last six hryvnias and, waking up the next morning with a severe hangover, very dejected, sat down to his usual work: writing advertisements in verse for the “Anonymous Bureau of Funeral Processions.”

He sat down and, sweating profusely, wrote convincingly:

They hit you on the neck or in the forehead, - It doesn’t matter, you will lie in a dark coffin... Are you an honest man or a scoundrel, - Still, they will drag you to the graveyard... Whether you tell the truth or lie, - It’s all the same: you will die !..

I took the work to the “bureau”, but they wouldn’t accept it:

Sorry, they say, there is no way to publish this: many dead people may be offended and even shudder in their graves. There is no point in admonishing the living to death; they will die of their own accord, God willing...

Zakivakin was upset:

Damn you! Take care of the dead, erect monuments, serve memorial services, but the living die of hunger...

In a disastrous mood of spirit, he walks the streets and suddenly sees a sign, and on it - in black letters on a white field - it says:

"Harvest of Death"

Also a funeral home, and I didn’t even know it! - Evstigney was delighted.

But it turned out that this was not a bureau, but the editorial office of a new non-partisan and progressive magazine for youth and self-education. Zakivakin was kindly received by the editor-publisher Mokei Govorukhin himself, the son of the famous lard maker and soap maker Antipa Govorukhin, a lively, albeit skinny guy.

Mokey looked at the poems and approved:

“Your,” he says, “inspiration is precisely that very, unspoken word of new poetry, in search of which I have equipped myself, like the Argonaut Herostratus...

Of course, he lied all this at the suggestion of the traveling critic Lazar Serum, who also always lied, which is how he created a big name for himself. Mokey looks at Evstigney with buying eyes and repeats:

The material is just right for us, but keep in mind that we don’t publish poems for nothing!

“I want to be paid,” Evstigneika admitted.

Wa-am? For poetry? You're kidding! - Mokey laughs. - We, sir, only hung up the sign the day before yesterday, and during this time seventy-nine fathoms of poetry were sent to us! And everyone's name is signed!

But Evstigney does not give in, and they agreed on a nickel per line.

Only because you have done it really well! - Mokey explained. - You should choose a pseudonym, otherwise Zakivakin is not very good. Now, if... for example, - Smertyashkin, huh? Stylish!

“It’s all the same,” said Evstigney. - I just want to get a fee: I really want to eat...

He was a simple-minded guy.

And after some time the poems were published on the first page of the first book of the magazine, under the heading:

From that day glory befell Evstigneika: the inhabitants read his poems and rejoiced:

That's right, mother's son! And we live, try somehow, this and that, and it was imperceptible to us that in our life, by the way, there is no meaning! Well done Smertyashkin!

And they began to invite him to evenings, to weddings, to funerals and wakes, and his poems were published in all fashion magazines in half a line, and already at literary evenings, full-breasted ladies, smiling charmingly, read “Smertyashkin’s poetry”:

Life strikes us every day, Death threatens us from everywhere! From every point of view, We are only victims of decay!

Bravo-oh! Thank you! - the residents shout.

“But perhaps I really am a poet?” - Evstigneika thought and began - little by little - to become arrogant: he put on black and variegated socks and ties, put on black trousers with a white stripe across them and began to speak languidly, spreading his eyes in different directions:

Oh, how life-changing it is!

He read the funeral liturgy and used gloomy words in his speech: paki, dondezhe, in vain...

Various critics walk around him, depleting Evstigneikin’s fees, and inspire him:

Go deeper, Evstigney, and we will support you!

And indeed, when the book “Obituaries of Desires, Poems of Evstigney Smertyashkin” was published, critics very favorably noted the deep graveness of the author’s moods. Evstigneika, to celebrate, decided to get married: he went to his familiar modern girl Nymphodora Zavalyashkina and told her:

Oh, ugly, inglorious, without form!

She had been waiting for this for a long time and, falling on his chest, coos, decomposing with happiness:

I agree to go to death hand in hand with you!

Doomed to destruction! - exclaimed Evstigney.

Nymphodora, mortally wounded by passion, responds:

My vanishing without a trace!

But immediately, fully returning to life, she suggested:

We definitely need to arrange a stylish life!

Smertyashkin was already used to a lot of things and immediately understood.

“I,” he says, “of course, am unattainably above all prejudices, but if you want, let’s get married in the cemetery church!”

Do I want to? Oh yeah! And let all the best men shoot themselves immediately after the wedding!

Everyone, perhaps, will not agree to this, but Kukin can - he has already shot himself seven times.

And so that the priest was old, you know, like... on the eve of death.

So, dreaming stylishly, they sat until the mournful face of the moon appeared from the cold grave of space, where myriads of extinct suns were buried and frozen planets swirled in a dead dance - until in this desert of the bottomless cemetery of departed worlds the mournful face of the moon appeared, gloomily illuminating the earth that was devouring everything is alive... Ah, this eerie glow of the dead moon, similar to the glow of rotten things, always reminds sensitive hearts that the meaning of existence is decay, decay...

Smertyashkin was so inspired that even without much difficulty he composed poems and whispered them in a black whisper into the ear of the future skeleton of his beloved:

Look, death is knocking with an honest hand On the lid of the coffin, like a tambourine!.. I hear its call so clearly Through the vulgar chaos of boring everyday life. Life argues with her, - with a false cry Calls people to its deceptions; But you and I will not increase the number of slaves captured by her! You cannot bribe us with sweet lies, After all, you and I both know, Life is only a moment, painful and short, And its meaning is under the lid of the coffin!

How dead! - Nymphodora admired. - How stupid and grave!

She understood all these things perfectly.

On the fortieth day after that, they got married at Nikola’s on Tychka, in an old church, closely surrounded by the complacent graves of an overcrowded cemetery. For the sake of style, two gravediggers signed up to witness the marriage; the groomsmen were notorious candidates for suicide; The bride chose three hysterical women as her friends, one of whom had already tasted vinegar essence, others were preparing for this, and one gave her word of honor to commit suicide on the ninth day after the wedding.

And when they came out to the porch, the best man, a pimply guy who had studied the effects of salvarsan on himself (a drug for the treatment of syphilis, based on arsenic - Ed.), opening the carriage door, said gloomily:

Here's a hearse!

The newlywed, in a white dress with black ribbons and under a black veil, was dying of delight, and Smertyashkin, looking around the audience with wet eyes, asked the best man:

Are there any reporters?

And the photographer...

Don't move, Nymphochka...

The reporters, out of respect for the poet, dressed up as torchbearers, and the photographer as an executioner, but the residents - they don’t care what they look at, it would be funny! - residents approved:

Quel chic! (how chic - Ed.)

And even some eternally starving man agreed with them:

Charmant! (charming - Ed.)

Yes, - Smertyashkin said to the newlywed over dinner in a restaurant opposite the cemetery, - we buried our youth perfectly! This is exactly what is called victory over life!

Do you remember that these are all my ideas? - Nymphodora asked tenderly.

Yours? Really?

Certainly.

Well does not matter:

You and I are one soul and body! You and I are now forever merged. This death so wisely commanded, We are its slaves and satellites.

But still, I will not allow you to absorb my personality! – she warned charmingly. - And then, satellites, I think you need to pronounce two “t” and two “l”! However, the satellites, in general, seem out of place to me...

Smertyashkin once again tried to overcome her with poetry:

What is our “I”, my mortal? Whether it doesn’t exist or it exists, it’s all the same! Be active, be inert, - It doesn’t matter - you are not immortal!

No, this should be left for others,” she said meekly.

After a long series of such and similar clashes, Smertyashkin accidentally gave birth to a child - a girl, and Nymphodora commanded:

Order a cradle in the shape of a coffin!

Isn't this too much, Nymphochka?

No, please! You must maintain your style strictly if you do not want critics and the public to reproach you for duality and insincerity...

She turned out to be a very thrifty lady: she salted the cucumbers herself, carefully collected all the reviews about her husband’s poems and, destroying the disapproving ones, published the laudable ones in separate volumes at the expense of the poet’s fans.

From good food she became a stout woman, her eyes were always clouded with dreams, arousing in male people a passionate desire to submit to fate. She brought in the home critic, a wiry, red-haired man, sat him down next to her, and, piercing her misty gaze straight into his heart, she read her husband’s poems in a deliberate nasal voice, asking with conviction:

Deep? Strongly?

At first he only mumbled, and then began to write monthly fiery articles about Smertyashkin, who “with incomprehensible depth penetrated into the bottomlessness of that black secret that we, pathetic ones, call Death, and he fell in love with the pure love of a transparent child. His amber soul did not darken knowledge of the horror of the purposelessness of existence, but she transformed this horror into quiet joy, into a sweet call for the destruction of that continuous vulgarity that we, blind souls, call Life."

With the supportive help of the red-haired man - by conviction he was a mystic and an esthete, by name Prokharchuk, by profession - a hairdresser - Nymphodora brought Evstigneika to a public reading of poetry: he would go out on the stage, turn his knees right and left, look at the residents with white sheep's eyes and, shaking his angular head, on which various varieties of basal color grew, broadcasts indifferently:

In life, we are as if at a train station, Before leaving for the dark world of the afterlife... The fewer suitcases you take, the easier and more convenient it is for you! Let's live meaninglessly and simply! Be empty, then you will be pure. The path from the cradle to the graveyard is short! Death serves as a driver for life!..

Bravo-oh! - shout the completely satisfied residents - Thank you!

And they say to each other:

Cleverly, the rogue, he proves, for nothing, that he’s such a sucker!..

Those who knew that Smertyashkin had previously written poetry for the “Anonymous Bureau of Funeral Processions” were, of course, still confident that he sang all his songs to advertise the “bureau,” but, being equally indifferent to everything, they remained silent, keeping one thing firmly in mind:

"Everyone needs to eat!"

“Or maybe I really am a genius!” thought Smertyashkin, listening to the approving roar of the residents. “After all, no one knows what a genius is; some argued that geniuses are crazy... And if so...”

And when meeting with acquaintances, he began to ask them not about their health, but:

When will you die?

This has made it even more popular among residents.

And the wife arranged the living room in the form of a crypt; I installed green sofas, in the style of grave mounds, and on the walls I hung photographs from Goya, Callot, and even Wurtz!

Boasts:

Even in our nursery, the spirit of Death is palpable: the children sleep in coffins, the nanny is dressed as a schema-woman - you know, such a black sundress, with white embroidery - skulls, bones and so on, very interesting! Evstigney, show the ladies the nursery! And we, gentlemen, let's go to the bedroom...

And, smiling charmingly, she showed the bedroom decoration: above the bed like a sarcophagus - a black canopy with silver fringe; it was supported by skulls carved from oak; ornament - small skeletons gently play with grave worms.

Evstigney,” she explained, “is so absorbed in his idea that he even sleeps in a shroud...

Some residents were amazed:

She smiled sadly.

But Evstigneika was an honest guy at heart and sometimes involuntarily thought: “If I’m a genius, then what then? Criticism writes about influence, about Smertyashkin’s school, but I... I don’t believe in it!”

Prokharchuk came, flexing his muscles, looked at him and asked in a deep voice:

Did you write? You, brother, write more. Your wife and I will quickly do the rest... She is a good woman, and I love her...

Smertyashkin himself saw this a long time ago, but due to lack of time and love for peace, he did nothing against it.

Otherwise, Prokharchuk will sit down in a more comfortable chair and tell in detail:

If only you knew, brother, how many calluses I have and what they are! Napoleon himself did not have such...

My poor! - Nymphodora sighed, and Smertyashkin drank coffee and thought:

“How correctly it is said that there are no great people for women and lackeys!”

Of course, he, like any man, was wrong in his judgment of his wife - she very diligently aroused his energy:

Stegnyshko! - she said lovingly. - It seems like you didn’t write anything yesterday? You are increasingly skimping on your talent, dear! Go work and I'll send you coffee...

He walked, sat down at the table and unexpectedly composed completely new poems:

How much vulgarity and nonsense I wrote, Nymphodora, For the sake of rags, for the sake of fur coats, For the sake of hats, lace, skirts!

This scared him, and he reminded himself:

There were three children. They had to be dressed in black velvet; every day, at ten o’clock in the morning, an elegant hearse was delivered to the porch, and they went for a walk to the cemetery - all this required money.

And Smertyashkin sadly wrote out line after line:

Everywhere the greasy cadaverous smell of Death has spilled over the world. Life is in her bony paws, Like a sheep in the claws of an eagle.

“You see, Stegnyshko,” Nymphodora said lovingly. - This is not quite... how can I tell you? How should I say it, Masya?

This is not yours, Evstigney! - Prokharchuk spoke in a deep voice and with full knowledge of the matter. - You are the author of “Hymns of Death”, and write hymns...

But this is a new stage of my experiences! - Smertyashkin objected.

Well, honey, well, what experiences? - the wife convinced. - We need to go to Yalta, but you’re being weird!

Remember,” Prokharchuk inspired in a grave tone, “what you promised:

Glorify the power of death without malice and obedience... - And then pay attention: “like a sheep in” involuntarily recalls the name of the minister - Kokovtsev, and this can be mistaken for a political prank! The public is stupid, politics is vulgar!

Well, okay, I won’t,” said Evstigney, “I won’t!” Everything is one - nonsense!

Keep in mind that your poems have recently caused bewilderment in more than one of your wives! - Prokharchuk warned.

One day Smertyashkin, watching his five-year-old daughter Lisa walk in the garden, wrote:

A little girl walks in the middle of the garden, A little white hand boldly picks flowers... Little girl, there is no need to pick flowers, After all, they are as good as you! Little girl! Black, dumb, Death quietly follows you, You bend down to the ground, raising your scythe, Death bares its teeth and laughs, waits... Little girl! Death and you are like sisters; You are unnecessarily destroying bright flowers, And she is a sharp scythe, forever sharp! - Kills children like you...

But this is sentimental, Evstigney,” Nymphodora shouted indignantly. - For mercy, where are you going? What do you do with your talent?

“I don’t want it anymore,” Smertyashkin said gloomily.

What don't you want?

This. Death, death, enough! The word itself disgusts me!

Excuse me, but you are a fool!

Let it go! Nobody knows what a genius is! But I can’t do it anymore... To hell with the grave and all this... I am a man...

Oh, that's how it is? - Nymphodora exclaimed ironically. -Are you only human?

Yes. And I love all living things...

But modern criticism has proven that a poet should not take life into account and vulgarity in general!

Criticism? - Smertyashkin yelled. - Shut up, shameless woman! I saw how modern criticism kissed you behind the closet!

This is out of admiration for your own poetry!

Are our children red-haired - also out of admiration?

Vulgar! This may be the result of purely intellectual influence!

And suddenly, falling into a chair, she said:

Oh, I can't live with you anymore!

Evstigneika was both delighted and at the same time frightened.

Can not? - he asked with hope and fear. - What about children?

In half!

Three?

But she stood her ground. Then Prokharchuk came.

Having learned what was the matter, he was upset and said to Evstigneika:

I thought you were a big man, but you are just a small man!

And he went to collect Nymphodora’s hats. And while he was grimly busy with this, she told her husband the truth:

You're exhausted, pathetic man. You have no more talent, nothing! Do you hear: nothing!

She was choked with the pathos of honest indignation and finished:

You never had anything! If it weren’t for me and Prokharchuk, you would have been writing advertisements in poetry all your life, you slug! Scoundrel, thief of my youth and beauty...

She always became eloquent in moments of excitement.

So she left, and soon, under the leadership and with the actual participation of Prokharchuk, she opened the “Beauty Institute of Madame Gizan from Paris. Specialty - radical destruction of calluses.”

Prokharchuk, of course, published a scathing article “Gloomy Mirage”, proving in detail that Evstigney not only had no talent, but that one can even doubt whether such a poet existed. If he existed and the public recognized him, then this is the fault of hasty, careless and imprudent criticism.

But Evstigneika grieved and grieved, and the Russian man quickly consoled himself! - sees: children need to be fed! He gave up on the past, on all the deadly poetry, and went about the old, familiar business: he writes cheerful advertisements for the “New Funeral Home”, convincing residents:

Long, sweet and bright We love to live on earth, But one day Parka will come And cut the thread of life! Having discussed this case, Slowly, from all sides, We offer the best Material for the funeral! Everything with us is quite brilliant, not worn out, not old: Come to our “New Bureau” more often! Mogilnaya, 16

So everyone returned to their own paths.

Once upon a time there lived an aspiring writer.

When they scolded him, it seemed to him that they scolded him excessively and unfairly, and when they praised him, he thought that they praised him little and stupidly, and so, in constant displeasure, he lived until the time when he had to die.

The writer lay down in bed and began to swear:

Well, here you go, wouldn’t you? Two novels have not been written. And in general there is another ten years of material. Damn this law of nature and all the others along with it! What stupidity! There could be good novels. And they came up with such an idiotic universal conscription. As if it couldn't be otherwise! And it always comes at the wrong time - the story is not over...

He is angry, and illnesses drill into his bones and whisper in his ears:

You were in awe, huh? Why did you tremble? You haven't slept at night, huh? Why didn't you sleep? You drank out of grief, huh? And with joy too?

He winced and winced, and finally he saw that there was nothing to do! He gave up on all his novels and died. It was very unpleasant, but he died.

Fine. They washed him, dressed him decently, combed his hair smoothly, and laid him on the table; he stretched out like a soldier - heels together, toes apart - his nose lowered, he lies quietly, feels nothing, only is surprised:

“How strange - I don’t feel anything at all! This is the first time in my life. My wife is crying. Okay, now you’re crying, but sometimes I almost climbed the wall. My little son is whining. He’ll probably be a slacker - the children of writers are always slackers, as much as I am I’ve never seen them... It must also be some kind of law of nature. There are so many of these laws!”

So he lay there and thought and thought, and was still surprised at his indifference - he was not used to it.

And so they carried him to the cemetery, but suddenly he felt: not enough people were coming for the coffin.

“No, these are pipes!” he said to himself. “Even though I’m a small writer, literature must be respected!”

He looked out of the coffin - indeed: he was seen off - not counting his relatives - by nine people, including two beggars and a lamplighter, with a ladder on his shoulder.

Well, here he became completely indignant:

"What pigs!"

And he was so inspired by the insult that he immediately resurrected, unnoticedly jumped out of the coffin - he was a small man - ran into the barbershop, shaved off his mustache and beard, took a black jacket from the barber, with a patch under the arm, left his suit for him, and respectfully made it for himself sad face and became just like alive - it’s impossible to recognize!

And even, out of curiosity characteristic of his occupation, he asked the hairdresser:

Does this strange incident surprise you?

He just straightened his mustache condescendingly.

“For goodness’ sake,” he says, “we live in Russia and are quite accustomed to everything...

After all, he’s a dead man and suddenly changes clothes...

Fashion of the times! And what kind of dead man are you? Only in appearance, but in general, if you take it, God forbid everyone! Nowadays the living are much more motionless!

Am I not very yellowish?

Quite in the spirit of the era, sir, the way it should be! Russia, sir - everyone lives a yellow life...

It is known that hairdressers are the first flatterers and the most amiable people on earth.

The writer said goodbye to him and ran to catch up with the coffin, driven by a living desire to express his respect for literature for the last time; caught up - there were ten guides, the writer's honor increased. The people you meet are surprised:

Look how they bury the writer, ah-ah!

And understanding people, going about their business, think, not without pride:

“It is noticeable that the country understands the importance of literature more and more deeply!”

The writer walks behind his coffin, as if he were a fan of literature and a friend of the deceased, talking with the lamplighter.

Did you know the deceased?

Why! I used something from him.

Nice to hear!

Yes. Our business is a cheap, sparrow business, where it falls, there it pecks!

How should this be understood?

Just understand, sir.

Well, yes. Of course, if you look at it from the point of view, it is a sin, however, you can’t live without cheating.

Hm? Are you sure?

Definitely so! The lantern is just opposite his window, and every night he sat until dawn, well, I didn’t light the lantern, because the light from his window is quite enough - therefore, one lamp is pure income for me! He was a useful man!

So, peacefully talking with one or the other, the writer reached the cemetery, and there he had to talk about himself, because all those who accompanied him that day had toothaches - after all, it was in Russia, and there everyone always has something It aches and hurts.

He made a good speech; one newspaper even praised him:

“Someone from the audience, who reminded us of the man of the stage by his appearance, made a warm and touching speech over the grave. Although in it, in our opinion, he undoubtedly overestimated and exaggerated the more than modest merits of the deceased, a writer of the old school, who made no effort to get rid of from its annoying shortcomings - naive didacticism and the notorious “civic spirit” - nevertheless, the speech was spoken with a feeling of undoubted love for the word.”

And when everything - honor by honor - was over, the writer lay down in the house and thought, completely satisfied:

“Well, it’s ready, and everything turned out very well, worthy, as it should be!”

Here he completely died.

This is how you should respect your work, even if it was literature!

And then - there was one gentleman, he lived more than half his life and suddenly felt that he was missing something - he became very alarmed.

He feels himself - as if everything is intact and in place, and his stomach is even in excess; looks in the mirror - the nose, eyes, ears and everything else that a serious person is supposed to have is there; Counts the fingers on his hands - ten, on his toes - also ten, but still something is missing!

What kind of opportunity?

Asks his wife:

What do you think, Mitrodora, am I okay?

She says confidently:

And sometimes it seems to me...

As a religious woman, she advises:

If it seems, read mentally “May God rise again and his enemies be scattered”...

He gradually tortures his friends about the same thing, his friends answer inarticulately, and they look suspiciously, as if suggesting in him something quite worthy of strict condemnation.

"What's happened?" - the master thinks in despondency.

He began to remember the past - as if everything was in order: he was a socialist, and he outraged the youth, and then he renounced everything and has long been diligently trampling his own crops with his own feet. In general, he lived like everyone else, in accordance with the mood of the time and its suggestions.

I thought and thought and suddenly I found it:

“Lord! I don’t have a national face!”

He rushed to the mirror - indeed, the face was unclear, it seemed like a blindly printed page of a translation from a foreign language without commas, and the translator was carefree and illiterate, so it was completely impossible to understand what this page was talking about: otherwise it was demanding the soul be brought to the freedom of the people as a gift, or else it asserts the need for full recognition of statehood.

“Hm, what a confusion, however!” thought the master and immediately decided: “No, it’s inconvenient to live with such a face...”

I started washing my face every day with expensive soaps - it didn’t help: the skin was shiny, but the confusion remained. He began to lick his face with his tongue - his tongue was long and hung deftly, the master was involved in journalism - and his tongue did not do him any good. I used Japanese massage - the bumps popped out, as if after a good fight, but there was no definiteness of expression!

I suffered and suffered, all without success, I only lost a pound and a half. And suddenly, fortunately, he finds out that the police officer of his station, von Judenfresser, has a very remarkable understanding of national tasks - he went to him and said:

So and so, your honor, will you help me in this difficulty?

The bailiff, of course, is flattered that here is an educated person, who was recently suspected of illegal activities, and now he is trustingly giving advice on how to change his face. The bailiff laughs and, in great joy, shouts:

Nothing could be simpler, my dear! You are my American diamond, but if you rub yourself against a foreigner, it will immediately come to light, your true face...

Here the master was delighted - a weight off his shoulders! - he chuckles loyally and is surprised at himself:

I didn’t guess, did I?

Nonsense of the whole matter!

We parted as bosom friends, but the master immediately ran out into the street, stood around the corner and waited, and as soon as he saw a Jew walking past, he ran into him and began to instill:

“If you,” he says, “are a Jew, then you must be Russian, and if you don’t want to, then...

And the Jews, as we know from all the jokes, are a nervous and fearful nation, and this one was also of a capricious nature and could not stand pogroms,” he turned around and hit the master on the left cheek, and he went to his family. The master stands, leaning against the wall, rubbing his cheek and thinking:

“However, identifying a national figure is associated with sensations that are not entirely sweet! But so be it! Although Nekrasov is a bad poet, he still said correctly:

Nothing is given for free - fate asks for redemptive sacrifices..."

Suddenly a Caucasian walks, a man - as proven by all the jokes - is uncultured and passionate, walks and yells:

Mitskhales sakles mingrule-uh...

Master - at him:

No, he says, let me! If you are Georgian, then you are therefore Russian and should love not the saklya of a Mingrelian, but what is ordered to you, and the prison - even without an order...

The Georgian master left him in a horizontal position and went to drink Kakhetian wine, and the master lay there and thought:

“However? There are also Tatars, Armenians, Bashkirs, Kyrgyz, Mordovians, Lithuanians - God, how many! And that’s not all... And then there are our own, the Slavs...”

And then a Ukrainian comes along and, of course, sings seditiously:

It was good for our dads to live in Ukraine...

No,” said the master, rising to his feet, “be so kind as to use eras from now on, for by not using them, you are violating the integrity of the empire...

For a long time he told him different things, and he listened to everything, because - as is irrefutably proven by all the collections of Little Russian jokes - Ukrainians are a slow people and like to do things slowly, and the master was a very sticky person...

Compassionate people raised the master and asked:

Where do you live?

In Great Russia...

Well, of course, they took him to the police station.

They are driving, and he, feeling his face, not without pride, although with pain, feels that it has widened significantly, and thinks:

“I think I bought it...”

They introduced him to von Judenfresser, and he, being humane to his own people, sent for a police doctor, and when the doctor arrived, they began to whisper to each other in amazement, and they kept snorting, inappropriate to the event.

“This is the first case in my entire practice,” the doctor whispers. - I don’t know how to understand...

"What would that mean?" - the master thinks, and asked:

The old is all erased,” von Judenfresser answered.

Has your face changed in general?

Undoubtedly, just, you know...

The doctor says comfortingly:

Now, dear sir, you have such a face that you could even put trousers on it...

It remained that way for the rest of my life.

There is no morality here.

And another master liked to justify himself with a story - as soon as he wants to lie to something, he now orders the appropriate person:

Egorka, go pull out facts from history to prove that it does not repeat itself, and vice versa...

Egorka is dexterous, quick to pull, the master will decorate himself with facts, in accordance with the requirements of the circumstances, and proves everything he needs, and is invulnerable.

And he was, by the way, a seditious person - at one time everyone found that they needed to be seditious, and they boldly pointed out to each other:

The British have habeas corpus, and we have circulars!

They mocked this difference between nations very wittily.

They will indicate and, freed from civil sorrow, they will sit down and crow until the third roosters, and when they announce the arrival of morning, the master commands:

Egorka, pull something uplifting and appropriate for the moment!

Yegorka will strike a pose and, raising a finger, will meaningfully remind:

In Holy Rus' the roosters are crowing - Soon there will be a day in Holy Rus'!..

Right! - say the gentlemen. - Definitely, - there must be a day...

And they will go to rest.

Fine. But just suddenly the people began to get restless, the master noticed this and asked:

Egorka - why are people trembling?

And he, with pleasure, reports:

People want to live like human beings...

Here the master became proud:

Yeah! Who gave it to him? This is what I suggested! For fifty years, my ancestors and I have been instilling in us that it’s time for us to live like human beings, right?

And he began to get carried away, every now and then he chases Egorka:

Pull out facts from the history of the agrarian movement in Europe... from the Gospel texts, about equality... from the history of culture, about the origin of property - lively!

Egorka - glad! So he rushes about, even in a lather, he has torn apart all the books, only the bindings remain, he drags heaps of various exciting evidence to the master, and the master praises him:

Try! Under the constitution, I will make you the editor of a large liberal newspaper!

And, finally becoming bolder, he personally inspires the most intelligent men:

Also, he says, the Gracchi brothers are in Rome, and then in England, Germany, France... and all this is historically necessary! Egorka - facts!

And he will immediately prove with facts that every people is obliged to desire freedom, even if the authorities do not want it.

The men, of course, are happy - they shout:

We humbly thank you!

Everything went very well, amicably, in Christian love and mutual trust, only - suddenly the men ask:

When will you leave?

And away?

From the ground...

And they laugh - what an eccentric! He understands everything, but he no longer understands the simplest things.

They laugh, but the master gets angry...

Excuse me, he says, where will I go if the land is mine?

And the men don’t believe him:

How is it yours, if you yourself said that it is the Lord’s and that even before Jesus Christ some just people knew this?

He doesn’t understand them, and they don’t understand him, and again the master grabs Yegorka’s sides:

Egorka, go and pull out all the stories...

And he answers him quite independently:

All stories are torn apart for evidence to the contrary...

You're lying, seditious!

However, it’s true: he rushed into the library and saw that only the spines and empty bindings remained of the books; He even began to sweat from this surprise and sadly called out to his ancestors:

And who gave you the idea to create a story so one-sided! So we've done it... ehma! What the hell is this story?

And the men are pulling their weight:

So, they say, you’ve proven to us perfectly that you leave quickly, otherwise we’ll drive you away...

Yegorka finally gave in to the peasants, turned his nose to the side and even began to snort when meeting the master:

Habeas corpus, right there! Liberal, right there...

It got really bad. The men began to sing songs and, to celebrate, carried the master’s haystack around their yards.

And suddenly - the master remembered that he still had something in stock: his great-grandmother was sitting on the mezzanine, waiting for her inevitable death, and she was so old that she had forgotten all human words - she only remembers one thing:

Don't give...

Since sixty-one, I couldn’t speak anything but.

He rushed to her in a great excitement of feelings, fell kindly at her feet and called out:

Mother of mothers, you are living history...

And she, of course, mutters:

Don't give...

But - how?

Don't give...

And they set me free to plunder and plunder?

Don't give...

Should I give force to my reluctance to notify the governor?

You scared the old woman, and she sent for the soldiers - calm down, nothing will happen, I won’t let the soldiers get to you!

Well, formidable warriors galloped up on horses, it’s a winter thing, the horses got sweaty on the road, and then they trembled and were covered with frost - the master felt sorry for the horses, and he placed them in his estate - he placed them and said to the peasants:

The sentso that you took away from me not quite rightly - return it to these horses, because the cattle are not guilty of anything, right?

The army was hungry, they ate all the roosters in the village, and it became quiet around the master. Egorka, of course, again switched to the master’s side, and the master still uses him for history: he bought a new copy and ordered to erase all the facts that could tempt him to liberalism, and ordered to fill those that could not be erased with new meaning.

Egorka - what? He is capable of everything, he even began to engage in pornography for the sake of reliability, but still there remains a bright spot in his soul and, staining history for fear, for his conscience he writes regretful verses and publishes them under the pseudonym: P.B., that means "defeated fighter."

O messenger of the morning, red loop! Why did your proud cry fall silent? Replaced you - as I noticed - a sullen owl. The master does not want the future, And again today we are all in the past... And you, oh petel, were fried and eaten all... When will we be lured back to life? And who will sing for us in the morning? Oh, if there are no roosters, we’ll oversleep!

And the men, of course, calmed down, live quietly and, having nothing to do, compose obscene ditties:

Eh, mother is honest! When spring comes, we'll groan a little and die of hunger!

The Russian people are cheerful people...

In a certain kingdom, in a certain state, there lived Jews - ordinary Jews for pogroms, for slander and other state needs.

The order was as follows: as soon as the indigenous population begins to reveal dissatisfaction with their existence, from the observation points of the order, from the side of their nobility, a call enchanting with hopes is heard:

People, come closer to the seat of power!

The people will be attracted, and they will seduce them:

Why the excitement?

Your honors - there is nothing to chew!

Do you still have teeth?

There is a little...

You see - you always manage to hide something from the hands of your superiors!

And if their nobles found that the excitement could be pacified by finally knocking out the teeth, then they immediately resorted to this means; if they saw that this could not create harmony in relations, then they seductively tried to get some sense:

What do you want?

Earthlings would...

Some, in the ferocity of their misunderstanding of the interests of the state, went further and begged:

There would be some kind of leforms, so that our teeth, ribs and entrails would seem to be considered our property and should not be touched in vain!

Here their nobility began to admonish them:

Eh, brothers! What are these dreams for? “It is not about bread alone,” it is said, and it is also said: “For the beaten, they give two unbeaten!”

Do they agree?

Unbeaten?

God! Certainly! In the third year, after the Dormition, the British asked us - that’s how! Send, they ask, all your people somewhere to Siberia, and put us in their place, we, they say, will pay you taxes accurately, and we will drink twelve buckets of vodka a year per brother, and in general. No, we say, why? Our people are good, meek, obedient, and we will get along with them too. That's it, guys, rather than worrying in vain, you'd better go and bash the Jews, eh? What are they for?

The indigenous population thinks and thinks, sees that they can’t expect any benefit other than what was ordained by the authorities, and decides:

Well, come on, guys, bless you!

They will destroy fifty houses, kill several Jewish people and, tired of their labors, will calm down in their desires, and order will triumph!..

In addition to their nobility, the indigenous population and the Jews, to divert unrest and extinguish passions, there were good people in this state, and after each pogrom, having gathered with their entire number - sixteen people - they declared a written protest to the world:

“Although Jews are also Russian subjects, we are convinced that they should not be completely exterminated, and hereby - from all points of view - we express our censure of the immoderate destruction of living people. Humanists. Fitoedov. Ivanov. Kusaygubin. Toropygin. Krikunovsky. Osip Troeukhov. Grokhalo. Kirill Mefodiev. Kapitolina Kolymskaya. Retired lieutenant colonel Narym.

And so after each pogrom, with the only difference that Grisha’s age changed, and for Narym - on the occasion of his unexpected departure to the city of the same name - Kolyma signed.

Sometimes the province responded to these protests:

“I sympathize and join,” Razdergaev telegraphed from Dremov; Zatorkanny from Myamlin also joined, and from Okurov - “Samogryzov and others,” and it was clear to everyone that “others.” - he made it up to make it even more threatening, because there are no “others” in Okurov. did not have.

Jews, reading the protests, cry even more, and then one day one of them - a very cunning man - suggested:

Do you know that? No? Well, then, before the future pogrom, let’s hide all the paper, and all the pens, and all the ink, and see what they will do then, these sixteen and with Grisha?

The people are friendly - said and done: they bought all the paper, all the feathers, hid it, and poured the ink into the Black Sea and - sit, wait.

Well, we didn’t have to wait long: permission was received, the pogrom was carried out, Jews were in hospitals, and humanists were running around St. Petersburg, looking for papers, feathers - there was no paper, no feathers, nowhere except in the offices of their nobles, and from there they didn’t give them!

Look, you! - They say. - We know for what purposes you need this! No, you can do without it!

Khlopotunsky begs:

Yes - how?

Well, they say, we’ve taught you enough about protests, guess for yourself...

Grisha, who is already forty-three years old, is crying.

I want to flesh out!

And - there’s nothing!

Figofobov gloomily guessed:

On the fence, or what?

But in St. Petersburg there are no fences, just bars.

However, they ran to the outskirts, somewhere behind the slaughterhouses, found an old fence, and just as Humanists had chalked out the first letter, suddenly - supposedly descending from heaven - a policeman came up and began to exhort:

What will this happen? Boys get bullied for writing something like that, but you are respectable gentlemen - ah-ah-ah!

Of course, he didn’t understand them, thinking that they were the kind of writers who write under Article 1001, but they were embarrassed and went - literally - home.

So one pogrom remained unprotested, and the humanists remained without pleasure.

People who understand the psychology of races rightly say that the Jews are a cunning people!

Here too - there lived two swindlers, one black and the other red, but both mediocre: they were ashamed to steal from the poor, the rich were inaccessible to them, and they lived somehow, caring, most importantly, about going to prison, to government bread to get.

And these slackers lived to see difficult days: the new governor, von der Pest, arrived in the city, looked around and ordered:

“From this date, all residents of the Russian faith, without distinction of gender, age and occupation, must, without hesitation, serve the fatherland.”

The comrades of the dark one and the red one hesitated, sighed, and everyone went their separate ways: some became detectives, some became patriots, and some were smarter - both here and there, and the red-haired one and the dark one were left completely alone, in everyone’s suspicion. They lived for a week after the reform, their stomachs let them down, the red-haired man couldn’t stand it any longer and said to his comrade:

Vanka, let us also serve our fatherland?

The little black one became embarrassed, lowered his eyes and said:

Ashamed...

You never know! Many people lived better than us, but let’s go for it!

All the same, their deadline for joining the prison companies was coming...

Give it up! Look: nowadays even writers teach: “Live as you like, you’ll die anyway”...

They argued and argued, but they never agreed.

No,” says the little black one, “you go ahead, but I’d rather remain a swindler...

And he went about his business: he would pull the roll off the tray and before he had time to eat it, he would be seized, beaten, and brought to the magistrate, who would honestly assign him to government food. The little black one will sit for two months, his stomach will improve, then he will be released and go to visit the red one.

What are you doing?

I destroy children.

Being ignorant in politics, the little black one is surprised:

To calm down. Everyone is ordered to “be calm,” explains the red-haired man, and there is despondency in his eyes.

The little black one shakes his head and goes back to his business, and he goes back to prison for food. It’s simple and your conscience is clear.

They let him out - he goes back to his comrade - they loved each other.

Are you exterminating?

But how can...

Not sorry?

I'm choosing which ones are more gilded...

But you can’t do it in a row?

The red-haired one is silent, only sighs heavily and sheds his hair and turns yellow.

How are you?

Yes, that’s all... They’ll catch them somewhere, bring them to me and tell me to get the truth out of them, but nothing can be achieved, because they’re dying... I don’t know how, apparently...

Tell me - why is this being done? - asks the little black one.

The interests of the state demand it,” says the red-haired man, while his voice trembles and there are tears in his eyes.

The little black one was thinking - he really felt sorry for his comrade - what kind of independent activity could he open for him?

And suddenly it burst into flames!

Listen - did you steal money?

But how can that be? Habit...

Well, that's it - publish a newspaper!

You will print advertisements about rubber products...

The redhead liked this and grinned.

So that there are no children?

Of course! Why bother giving birth to them?

It's right! Just why a newspaper?

To cover up trade, weirdo!

The employees probably won’t agree?

The little black one even whistled.

Won! Nowadays employees offer themselves as living bonuses to subscribers...

That’s what they decided: the red-haired man began to publish a newspaper, “with the participation of the best literary forces,” opened a permanent exhibition of Parisian products at the office, and above the editorial premises, for the sake of maintaining decency, he established a meeting house for high-ranking officials.

Things went well, the red-haired man lives, gets fat, his bosses are happy with him, and on his business cards it is printed:

"Along Across

Editor-publisher of the newspaper "Tuda-Syuda", founding director

"Sweet rest for administrators, tired of the pursuit of the rule of law." There is also wholesale and retail sale of condoms."

The little black one will come out of prison, go to his friend’s house to drink tea, and the red-haired one will treat him to champagne and boast:

Brother, now I even began to wash my face with nothing other than champagne, by God!

And, closing his eyes in delight, he says touchingly:

Well, you've got me thinking! This is service to the fatherland! Everyone is happy!

And the little black one is happy too:

Well, live now! Our fatherland is not demanding.

The red-haired man is moved and invites his friend:

Van, come join me as a reporter!

The little black one laughs:

No, brother, I must be a conservative, I’ll remain a swindler, in the old way...

There is no morality here. Not a grain.

One day, the authorities, tired of fighting dissidents and wanting to finally rest on their laurels, ordered most sternly:

“It is hereby ordered to bring to the surface all dissidents, without hesitation removing them from under all sorts of covers, and upon discovery, to completely eradicate them by various suitable measures.”

The execution of this order was entrusted to the civilian exterminator of living beings of both sexes and all ages, Orontius Stervenko, a former captain in the service of His Highness the King of the Fuegians and the ruler of Tierra del Fuego, for which Orontius was allocated sixteen thousand rubles.

It was not because Orontius was called to this task that his survivors would not be found, but because he was unnaturally fearful, was distinguished by his hairiness, which allowed him to walk naked in all climates, and he had two rows of teeth - sixty-four in total, which he deserved special trust from superiors.

But, despite all these qualities, he thought cruelly:

“How do you find them? They are silent!”

But indeed, the resident in this city was trained - everyone was afraid of each other, considering them provocateurs, and did not assert anything at all, even speaking to their mothers in a conventional form and in a foreign language:

N'est-ce pas? (Isn't it - Ed.)

Maman, it’s time for dinner, n’est-ce pas?

Maman, shouldn’t we go to the cinema today, n’est-ce pas?

However, having thought enough, Stervenko finally found a way to reveal his secret thoughts: he washed his hair with hydrogen peroxide, shaved in the right places and became a dull-looking blond, and then put on a sad-colored suit, and - you wouldn’t recognize him!

He goes out into the street in the evening and walks thoughtfully, and when he sees that a resident, obedient to the voice of nature, is sneaking somewhere, he will attack him from the left side and whisper defiantly:

Comrade, are you really happy with this existence?

At first, the resident slows down his steps, as if remembering something, but a guard will appear a little in the distance - then the resident will immediately find himself:

Policeman, grab him...

Stervenko jumped over the fence like a tiger and, sitting in the nettles, thought:

“You can’t take them like that, they act naturally, the devils!”

Meanwhile, the allocation is melting.

He changed his clothes more cheerfully and began to catch him with a different technique: he boldly approached the resident and asked:

Mister, do you want to become a provocateur?

And the resident calmly inquires:

How much is the salary?

Others politely decline:

Thank you, I'm already engaged!

“Well,” thinks Orontius, “go ahead and catch him!”

Meanwhile, the allocation somehow decreases by itself.

I looked into the “Society for the Comprehensive Recycling of Eaten Eggs,” but it turned out that it is under high pressure from three bishops and a gendarmerie general, and meets once a year, but each time with a special permit from St. Petersburg.

Orontius is bored, and from this the appropriation seems to have fallen ill with fleeting consumption.

Then he got angry.

Okay!

And he began to act directly: he approached the resident and, without preamble, asked him:

Are you satisfied with your existence?

Well, the bosses are unhappy! Please...

And whoever says he’s dissatisfied, of course:

Let me...

Yes, I am unhappy that it is not firm enough.

Yes, sir? Whoa...

In this way, over the course of three weeks, he collected ten thousand different creatures and first planted them wherever possible, and then began to hang them, but - to save money - at the expense of the inhabitants themselves.

And everything went very well. Only once the main authorities went hunting for hares, and upon leaving the city, they saw in the fields an extraordinary revival and a picture of peaceful activity of citizens - they were covering each other with evidence of guilt, hanging, burying, and Stervenko walking among them with a rod in his hands and encouraging:

Tor-painting! You, brunette, are more fun! Hey, sir, why are you dumbfounded? The loop is ready - well, climb, there is no point in delaying others! Boy, hey boy, why are you trying to get in front of your dad? Gentlemen, don’t rush, you’ll have time... You’ve been patient for years, waiting for calm, but you can be patient for a few minutes! Man, where?.. Ignorant...

The authorities look, sitting on the back of a zealous horse, and think:

“However, he collected a lot of them, well done! That’s why all the windows in the city are tightly boarded up...”

And suddenly he sees his own aunt hanging without her feet touching the firmament of the earth - he was very surprised.

Who gave the orders?

Stervenko is right there.

I, Your Excellency!

Then the boss said:

Well, brother, it seems that you are a fool and are almost wasting government funds! Give me the report.

Stervenko presented a report, and it said:

“In pursuance of the order to exterminate dissidents of both sexes, I discovered and imprisoned 10.107.

due........................................................ . 729 v.p.

hanged........................................................ 541 » »

irreparably damaged........................ 937 » »

didn't make it................................................... . 317 » »

themselves................................................ .63 ""

Total eradicated................................................... ...1876 v.p.

For the amount................................................... ............16.884 rub.,

counting seven rubles apiece with everything.

And overspent................................................... .884 rub.”

The authorities were horrified, shaking and muttering:

Over-expenditure? Oh, you Fuegian! Yes, your whole Tierra del Fuego with the king and you together is not worth 800 rubles! Just think - if you steal such pieces, then I am a person ten times higher than you - what then? But with such appetites, Russia won’t last for three years, and yet you don’t want to live alone - can you understand that? And besides, 380 extra people were assigned, because those who “did not survive” and those who “made themselves” are clearly superfluous! And you, robber, think for them too?..

Your Excellency! - Orontius justifies himself, - but it was I who brought them to disgust with life.

And for this, seven rubles? Moreover, there are probably so many people who were not involved in anything! There were twelve thousand of all the inhabitants in the city - no, my dear, I will bring you to justice!

Indeed, a strict investigation was ordered into the actions of the Fuegian, and it was discovered that he was guilty of embezzlement of 916 government rubles.

They gave Orontius a fair trial, sentenced him to three months in prison, ruined his career, and - the Fuegian disappeared for three months!

It's not an easy task to please your boss...

One good-natured man thought and thought - what to do?

“I will not resist evil with violence, I will overcome it with patience!”

He was not a man without character; he decided to sit and endure.

And Igemonov’s spies, having learned about this, immediately reported:

“Among the residents subject to discretion, one suddenly began to behave motionless and speechless, clearly intending to mislead the authorities that he was not there at all.”

The Hegemon became furious.

How? Who is absent? No management? Introduce! And when they presented him, he commanded:

Search!

They searched them, stripped them of their valuables, like this: they took a watch and a red gold engagement ring, they picked out gold fillings from their teeth, they took off their brand new suspenders, they tore off their buttons, and they reported:

Done, Hegemon!

Well, what - nothing?

Nothing, and what was superfluous was taken away!

What about in your head?

And it’s like there’s nothing in my head.

Allow it!

A resident entered the Hegemon, and just by the way he held up his pants, the Hegemon saw and understood his complete readiness for all the contingencies of life, but, wanting to make a soul-crushing impression, he still roared menacingly:

Yeah, the resident has arrived?!

And the resident meekly confesses:

Everyone has arrived.

What are you doing, huh?

I, Igemone, nothing! I just decided to win with patience...

The Hegemon bristled and growled:

Again? Win again?

Yes I am evil...

Be silent!

Yes, I don't mean you...

The hegemon does not believe:

Not me? Who?

Hegemon was surprised.

Stop! What is evil?

In resistance to it.

By God...

Hegemon even broke out in a sweat.

"What about him?" - he thinks, looking at the resident, and after thinking, asks:

What do you want?

I do not want anything.

So - nothing?

Nothing! Allow me to teach the people patience by my personal example.

Hegemon thought again, biting his mustache. He had a dreamy soul, loved to steam in the bathhouse, and cackled voluptuously, was generally inclined to constantly experience the joys of life, but the only thing he could not tolerate was resistance and obstinacy, against which he acted with softening agents, turning the cartilage and bones of obstinates into mush . But in the hours free from the trial of joy and softening of the inhabitants, he loved to dream about the peace of the whole world and the salvation of our souls.

He looks at the resident and is perplexed.

How long has it been? And so!

Then, having come to a softer feeling, he asked, sighing:

How did this happen to you, huh?

And the resident answered:

Evolution...

Well, brother, this is our life! This is this, that is another... Everything is lacking. We sway and sway, but we don’t know which side to lie on... we can’t choose, yeah...

And the Hegemon sighed again: after all, the man pitied the fatherland and fed from it. The Hegemon is overwhelmed by various dangerous thoughts:

“It’s nice to see a resident soft and tamed - so! But, however, if everyone stops resisting, wouldn’t this lead to a reduction in daily allowances and permissible allowances? And also the rewards may suffer... No, it cannot be that he has completely dried up - he is pretending, the rogue! We need to try it out. How will I use it? Provocateurs? The expression on his face is loose, no mask can hide this impersonality, and his eloquence, apparently, is dull. To the executioners? Weak..."

Finally he came up with an idea and said to the servants:

Send this blessed one to the third fire station to clean the stables!

Determined. The resident of the stable cleans fearlessly, and the Hegemon watches, is touched by his hard work, and his trust in the resident grows.

“If everything would be okay?”

After a short period of testing, he promoted him to himself and gave him the opportunity to rewrite in his own hand a falsely compiled report on the income and expenditure of various amounts, - the resident copied it and remained silent.

Hegemon was completely moved, even to the point of tears.

“No, this creature is useful, although literate!..”

He calls the resident before his face and says:

I believe! Go and preach your truth, but keep your eyes open!

The resident went through the bazaars, through fairs, through big cities, through small ones, and everywhere he exclaimed:

What are you doing?

People see a person who is disposed to trust and extraordinary meekness, they confess to him who is to blame for what, and even their cherished dreams are revealed: one - how to steal with impunity, another - how to cheat, a third - how to slander someone, and all together - like primordially Russian people - want to evade all obligations to life and forget the responsibility.

He tells them:

And you - drop everything! Therefore it is said: “Every existence is suffering, but it turns into suffering thanks to desires, therefore, in order to destroy suffering, it is necessary to destroy desires.” Here! Stop wishing, and everything will be destroyed by itself - by God!

People, of course, are happy: both correctly and simply. Now, where someone stood, he lay down there. It became free, quiet...

Whether for a long time or for a short time, the Hegemon only notices that it is very humble around and seems even creepy, but he is brave.

“Fake it, you rascals!”

Some insects, continuing to fulfill their natural duties, multiply unnaturally, becoming more and more daring in their actions.

“However - what lack of verbosity!” - Hegemon thinks, shivering and scratching himself everywhere.

Calls a serving gentleman from among the residents.

Come on, free me from unnecessary...

And he told him:

I can not.

I just can’t, because although they bother me, they are alive, and...

But I’ll make you a dead man yourself!

Your will.

And so - in everything. Everyone unanimously says - your will, but as soon as he orders his will to be fulfilled, mortal boredom begins. The Hegemon's palace is falling apart, rats have filled it, they eat the deeds and, being poisoned, die. Hegemon himself sinks deeper and deeper into inactivity, lies on the sofa and dreams of the past - life was good then!

Residents resisted the circulars in various ways, some should have been executed, hence the wake with pancakes and good food! Then a resident is trying to do something, you need to go and prohibit the action, hence the bans! If you report to the right place that “in the area entrusted to me, all the inhabitants have been eradicated,” - from here the rewards will be sent, and fresh inhabitants will be sent!

The Hegemon dreams of the past, and the neighbors, the Hegemons of other tribes, live as they lived, on their own foundations, their inhabitants resist each other with whatever they can and where necessary, they have noise, stupidity, all sorts of movement, but nothing, and it’s useful they, and in general, are interested.

And suddenly the Igemon realized:

“Fathers! But the resident tricked me!”

He jumped up, ran across his country, pushing everyone, shaking them, ordering:

Get up, wake up, rise up! At least that's it!

He grabs them by the collar, but the collar has rotted and can’t hold them.

Damn it! - Hegemon shouts in complete concern. - What do you? Look at the neighbors!.. Even China over there...

The residents are silent, clinging to the ground. "God! - Igemon yearned. - What to do?" And he resorted to deception: he leaned over to the resident and whispered into his ear:

Hey citizen! The Fatherland is in danger, by God, those crosses are in grave danger! Get up - you have to resist... Hear that all amateur activities will be allowed... citizen!

And the citizen, decaying, mutters:

My fatherland is in God...

Others simply remain silent, like offended dead people.

Damned fatalists! - Hegemon shouts in despair. - Get up! All resistance is allowed...

Some former merry fellow and scuffle-fighter stood up a little, looked and said:

Why resist? There is nothing at all...

Yes, insects...

We're used to them!

The mind of the Hegemons was completely distorted, he stood in the navel of his land and yelled in a heart-rending voice:

I allow everything, fathers! Save yourself! Do it! I allow everything! Eat each other!

Peace and quiet is pleasant.

The Hegemon sees - the matter is over!

He began to sob, shed burning tears, tearing out his hair, crying out:

Residents! Darlings! What now - should I make a revolution myself? Come to your senses, it’s historically necessary, nationally inevitable... After all, I can’t make a revolution on my own, I don’t even have a police force for this, the insects have devoured everything...

But they just bat their eyes and - even if you impale them - they won’t give up!

So everyone tried it on in silence, and the desperate Hegemon came last.

From which it follows that even in patience moderation must be observed.

Finally, the wisest of the inhabitants thought about all this:

"What's happened? Everywhere you look there are sixteen around!”

And, after thinking seriously, we decided:

All this is because we have no personality. We need to create a central thinking organ, completely free from any dependencies and fully capable of rising above everyone and standing in front of everything - just like, for example, a goat is in a herd of rams...

Someone objected:

Brothers, haven’t we already suffered enough from the central personalities?..

Did not like.

This seems to have something to do with politics and even with civil grief?

Someone is pulling everything:

But how can we live without politics if it permeates everywhere? I mean, of course, that in prisons it’s cramped, in hard labor there’s nowhere to turn, and that it’s necessary to expand rights...

But he was sternly remarked:

This, my sir, is an ideology, and it’s time to quit!.. A new person is needed and nothing more...

And after this they began to create a person according to the methods indicated in the patristic traditions: they spit on the ground and stir, they immediately got dirty up to their ears in mud, but the results were thin. In their convulsive zeal, all the rare flowers on earth were trampled and useful grains were also destroyed - they try, sweat, strain - nothing comes out except babble and mutual accusations of inability to be creative. Even the elements were brought out of patience by their zeal: whirlwinds blow, thunder roars, voluptuous heat scorches the sodden earth, for - the showers are pouring and the whole atmosphere is saturated with heavy odors - it is impossible to breathe!

However, from time to time this mess with the elements seems to be clarified, and behold, a new personality comes into the light of day!

A general rejoicing arises, but, alas, it is short-lived and quickly resolves into painful bewilderment.

For - if a new personality grows on peasant land, then he immediately becomes a seasoned merchant and, entering life, begins to sell off the fatherland to foreigners in pieces, from forty-five kopecks in price, up to a passionate desire to sell the whole region together with living inventory and with everyone who thinks organs.

A new person will be kneaded on the merchant's land - he will either be born a degenerate or want to become a bureaucrat; on the lands of the nobility - as has always been the case before - creatures grow with the intention of absorbing all the income of the state, and on the lands of the bourgeoisie and various small owners, provocateurs, nihilists, passivists and the like grow like lush thistles of various forms.

But we already have all this in quite sufficient quantities! - the wise residents confessed to each other and thought seriously:

“We made some mistake in the technique of creativity, but what?”

They sit and think, and the mud all around is lashing like a wave of the sea, oh, Lord!

They bicker:

You, Celery Lavrovich, spit too abundantly and comprehensively...

And you, Kornishon Lukich, don’t have the courage for this...

And the newborn nihilists, pretending to be Vaska Buslaevs, treat everything with contempt and shout:

Hey you vegetables! Think about what's best, and we... will help you, no matter what...

And they spit and they spit...

General boredom, mutual bitterness and dirt.

At that time, Mitya Korotyshkin, nicknamed Steel Claw, a second-grade student at the Myamlina gymnasium and a famous collector of foreign stamps, was passing by, shirking his lessons. He walked and saw: people sitting in a puddle, spitting in it and thinking deeply about something. .

“Grown-ups, let’s get dirty!” - thought Mitya with the insolence characteristic of small years.

He examined whether there was anything pedagogical among them, and, not noticing it, inquired:

Why did you, guys, get into a puddle?

One of the residents, offended, entered into an argument:

Where is the puddle? This is just a semblance of pre-temporal chaos!

What are you doing?

We want to create a new person! Tired of people like you...

Mitya became interested.

And in whose likeness?

So how? We wish you an incomparable... come on in!

Being a child, not yet initiated into the secrets of nature, Mitya, of course, was glad to have the opportunity to be present at such an important matter and innocently advises:

Make it about three legs!

What is this for?

He will run funny...

Go away, boy!

And then - with wings? That would be clever! Do it with the wings, by God! And even if he kidnapped teachers, like the condor in “The Children of Captain Grant” - there, let’s say, the condor didn’t kidnap the teacher, but rather the teacher...

Boy! You are talking nonsense and quite harmful! Remember the prayer before and after the teaching...

But Mitya was a fantastic boy and became more and more carried away:

The teacher goes to the gymnasium, and he would - hop! by the back of the collar and carried through the air somewhere - it’s all the same! - the teacher just dangles his legs, and the books just fall out, never to be found...

Boy! Go respect your elders!

And he shouts to his wife from above: “Farewell, I ascend into heaven, like Elijah and Enoch,” and she stands in the middle of the street on her knees and whines: “My teacher, teacher!..”

They were angry with him.

Let's go! There are people who can talk nonsense without you, but it’s too early for you!

And they drove away. And he, having run away a little, stopped, thought and asked:

Are you for real?

Of course...

Doesn't it work?

They sighed gloomily and said:

No. Leave me alone...

And I know why, and I know why!

They were behind him, he was away from them, but, accustomed to running from camp to camp, they caught up with him and began to chatter.

Oh, you... tease the elders?..

Mitya cries and begs:

Guys... I'll give you a Sudanese stamp... I have a duplicate... I'll give you a penknife...

And they scare him as a director.

Guys! By God, I will never tease again! And, really, I guessed why a new person is not created...

Let go a little!

They let him go, but they held him by both hands, and he said to them:

Guys! The earth is not the same! The land is no good, honestly, no matter how much you spit, nothing will come of it!.. After all, when God created Adam in his own image and likeness, the land was no one’s, but now it’s all someone else’s, that’s why man has always someone else's... and it's not a matter of spitting at all...

This stunned them so much that they dropped their hands, and Mitya fought and, running away from them, put his fist to his mouth and shouted:

Red-skinned Comanches! Ir-roquois!

And they again unanimously sat down in the puddle, and the wisest of them said:

Colleagues, let's continue our studies! Let's forget about this boy, because there is no doubt that he is a socialist in disguise...

Eh, Mitya, darling!

Once upon a time there lived the Ivanichs - wonderful people! No matter what you do with him, nothing is surprising!

They lived in a close environment of Circumstances, completely independent of the laws of nature, and Circumstances did to them whatever they wanted and could: they would tear off seven skins from Ivanovich and menacingly ask:

Where's the eighth?

The Ivanovichs, not at all surprised, answer obediently to the Circumstances:

Not grown up yet, Your Excellencies! Wait a little...

And Circumstances, impatiently awaiting the growth of the eighth skin, boasts to its neighbors, in writing and orally:

Our population is disposed towards obedience, do with it what you want - nothing is surprising! Not like yours, for example...

This is how the Ivanychs lived - they worked, they paid taxes, they gave bribes to whomever they needed, and in their free time from these activities they quietly complained to each other:

It's hard, brothers!

Those who are smarter predict:

It will be even more difficult!

Sometimes one of them would add two or three more words to these words, and they would respectfully say about such a person:

He dotted the i's!

The Ivanychs even went so far as to occupy a large house in the garden and put special people in it so that they would dot the i’s every day, practicing eloquence.

Four hundred people will gather in this house, and four of them will begin to plant dots like flies; They will plant as much as the local police officer, out of curiosity, will allow, and brag all over the land:

It's great we're making history!

And the police officer looks at this activity of theirs as if it were a scandal, and - as soon as they try to put a dot on the other letter - he decisively suggests to them:

I ask you not to spoil the alphabet, and go home!

They disperse them, and they - without being surprised - console themselves among themselves:

Never mind, they say, we will write all these outrages, for shame, onto the pages of history!

And the Ivanovichs, secretly gathering in their own apartments in twos and threes at a time, whisper, also without surprise:

Our chosen ones have again been deprived of the gift of speech!

Daredevils and desperate heads whisper to each other:

The law is not written by circumstances!

The Ivanovichs generally liked to console themselves with proverbs: if one of them is sent to prison for accidentally disagreeing with Circumstances, they meekly philosophize:

Don't get on your sleigh!

And some of them are gloating:

Know your cricket!

The Ivanychs lived in this order, lived and finally lived to the point where they dotted all the i’s, every single one! And the Ivanovichs have nothing else to do!

And then Circumstances saw that all this was useless, and ordered the publication of the strictest law throughout the country:

“From now on, dotting the i's is prohibited everywhere, and no dots, except censorship ones, should exist in the circulation of ordinary people. Those guilty of violating this are subject to punishment provided for by the most severe articles of the Criminal Code.”

The Ivanovichs were stunned! What to do?

They were not trained in anything else, they could only do one thing, and even that was forbidden!

And so, gathering secretly, two by two, in dark corners, they reason in whispers, like the Poshekhons in the joke:

Ivanovich! What if, God forbid, God forbid?

Well?

I’m not something, but still?..

Let God know what, and even then - for nothing! Not so much! And you say - what!

Is that me? I'm nothing!

And they can’t say any more words!

On one side of the land lived the Kuzmichi, on the other - the Lukichi, and between them there was a river.

The earth is a cramped place, people are greedy and envious, and that is why there are fights between people over every trifle; Almost no one liked it - now - hurray! and - in the face!

They'll fight, defeat each other, and let's count the profits and losses: count them - what a miracle?! - as if they fought well, completely mercilessly, but it turns out - unprofitable!

Kuzmichi argues:

For him, Lukich, the red price is seven kopecks, but it cost one ruble six hryvnia to kill him! What's happened?

The Lukichis also realize:

A living Kuzmich, even by personal assessment, is not worth a penny, but destroying him would cost ninety kopecks!

Like this?

And out of fear of each other they decide:

We need to get more weapons, then the war will break out sooner and murder will cost less.

And their merchants, filling their purses, shout:

Guys! Save the Fatherland! The Fatherland is worth a lot!

We prepared countless weapons, chose the right time and let’s kill each other from the world!

They fought, they fought, they defeated each other, they robbed each other, - again counting profits and losses - what kind of obsession is this?

However, say the Kuzmichi, something is wrong with us! The other day they killed Lukich for six rubles, but now for every soul killed, it came out to sixteen rubles!

They are despondent! And the Lukiches are also sad.

Damn it! War is so costly that at least give it up!

But, being stubborn people, they decided:

It is necessary, brothers, to develop lethal technology more than ever before!

And their merchants, filling their purses, shout:

Guys! The Fatherland is in danger!

And little by little the prices for bast shoes are rising and rising.

The Lukichis and the Kuzmichis developed a deadly technique, defeated each other, robbed each other, began to calculate profits and losses - you want to cry!

A living person is worth nothing, but killing him costs more and more!

On peaceful days they complain to each other:

This thing will ruin us! - say Lukichi.

It will completely ruin you! - Kuzmichi agrees.

However, when someone's duck dived into the water incorrectly, they got into trouble again.

And their merchants, filling their wallets, complain:

These banknotes are simply tormenting! No matter how much you grab them, it’s not enough!

The Kuzmichi and Lukichi fought for seven years, beating each other mercilessly, destroying cities, burning everything, even five-year-old babies were forced to fire machine guns. It got so bad that some only had bast shoes left, while others had nothing but ties; nations walk naked.

They defeated each other, robbed each other - they began to count profits and losses, and both of them were stupefied.

They blink their eyes and mutter:

However! No, guys, apparently, the murderous business is definitely not within our budget! Look, for each killed Kuzmich it cost a hundred rubles. No, we need to take other measures...

They consulted, and they all went ashore in a herd, and on the other bank the enemies stood, also in a herd.

Of course, they are shy, looking at each other, and as if they are ashamed. They hesitated, hesitated and shouted from shore to shore:

What's wrong?

We are nothing. And you?

And we are nothing.

We just went out to look at the river...

They stand there, itching, some feel ashamed, while others groan in sadness.

Then they shout again:

Do you have diplomats?

Eat. And you?

And we...

But what are we?

And we? And we too...

We understood each other, drowned the diplomats in the river and let’s talk plainly:

Do you know why we came?

As if we know!

And - for what?

You want to make peace.

The Kuzmichi were surprised.

How did you guess it?

And the Lukichi grin and say:

But we ourselves are behind this too! War is too expensive.

This is it!

Even though you are swindlers, let's live peacefully, huh?

Hosha, you are thieves too, but we agree!

Let's live like brothers, by God - it will be cheaper!

Everyone became joyful, they were dancing, jumping, as if possessed, they lit fires, they kidnapped each other’s girls, they stole horses and shouted to each other, hugging:

Dear brothers, everything is fine, huh? Although you... so to speak...

And Kuzmichi responded:

Dear ones! We are all one soul and one essence. Of course, you want that too... well, okay!

Since then, the Kuzmichi and Lukichi have been living quietly, peacefully, they have completely abandoned military affairs and rob each other lightly, in a civilian manner.

Well, the merchants, as always, live according to God’s law...

The stubborn man Vanka lies humbly under the povet, he has worked hard, he has mucked, and he is resting. The boyar came running to him and yelled:

Vanka, get up!

And for what?

Let's save Moscow!

Why is she?

The Pole offends!

Look, I got shot...

Vanka went and saved him, and the demon Bolotnikov shouted to him:

Fool's head, why are you wasting your strength on the boyars, think about it!

“I’m not used to thinking, the holy fathers-monks think very well for me,” said Vanka.

He saved Moscow, came home, and looked - there was no word.

Sighed:

What thieves!

He lay down on his right side for good dreams, lay there for two hundred years, and suddenly the mayor runs:

Vanka, get up!

What is it?

Let's save Russia!

And who is her?

Bonaparte about twelve languages!

Look at him like... anathema!

He went and saved, and the demon Bonaparte whispered to him:

Why are you, Vanya, trying to get rid of the masters? It’s time, Vanya, to come out of serfdom!

They’ll let you out on their own,” said Vanka.

He saved Russia, returned home, and looked - there was no roof on the hut.

Sighed:

These dogs are robbing everything!

He went to the master and asked:

So what, nothing will happen to me for saving Russia?

And the master asks him:

Do you want me to whip you?

No, don't! Thank you.

I worked and slept for another hundred years; I saw good dreams, but there was nothing to eat. If he has money, he drinks; if he has no money, he thinks:

“Ehma, it would be nice to have a drink!..”

A guard came running and yelled:

Vanka, get up!

What more?

Let's save Europe!

What is she doing?

The German offends!

And why are they worried, this one and that one? If only we could live...

He went and started saving him, but then the German tore off his leg. Vanka turned back on one leg, and lo and behold, there was no hut, the children had died of hunger, and the neighbor was carrying water on his wife.

Gee! - Vanka was surprised, raised his hand, scratched the back of his head, but he didn’t even have a head!

In the glorious city of Myamlin there lived a little man, Mikeshka, who lived incompetently, in the dirt, in poverty and squalor; Streams of abominations flow around him, every evil spirit is tormenting him, and he, a slacker, being in a state of stubborn indecision, does not itch, does not wash, grows wild hair and complains to the Lord:

Lord, Lord! And how badly I live, how dirty! Even the pigs laugh at me. You forgot me, Lord!

He complains, cries his fill, goes to bed and dreams:

“If only the evil spirits would give me some small reform for the sake of my humility and wretchedness! I wish I could wash myself, clean myself..."

And the evil spirit mocks him even more, postponed the implementation of all natural laws until the arrival of “better times” and daily acts according to Mikeshka with short circulars like this:

“Be silent. And those guilty of violating this circular are subject to administrative extermination even to the seventh generation.”

“You are required to sincerely love your superiors. And those guilty of failure to comply with this are subject to..."

Mikeshka reads the circulars, looks around, sees: in Myamlin they are silent, in Dremov the authorities love them, in Vorgorod the residents are stealing bast shoes from each other.

Mikeshka groans:

God! What kind of life is this? If only something would happen...

And suddenly - a soldier came!

It is known that the soldier is not afraid of anything, - he dispersed the evil spirits, he stuffed them into dark cellars, into deep wells, drove them into river holes, put his hand in his bosom, - he pulled out a million rubles and - the soldier does not feel sorry for anything! - gives Mikeshka:

Here you go, you poor thing. Go to the bathhouse, wash yourself, tidy up, be human - it's time!

He gave the soldier a million and went home as if he had never existed!

Please don't forget that this is a fairy tale.

Mikeshka was left with a million in his hands - what should he do? He had long been weaned from any business by circulars; he only knew one thing - to complain. However, he went to the market in the red row, bought himself some calico for his shirt and, by the way, for his trousers, put on new clothes for his dirty skin, wanders the streets day and night, weekdays and holidays, shows off, boasts - hat on one side, brains too .

“I-a-sta,” he says, “I could have done this a long time ago, but I didn’t want to.” We are a hundred, Myamlinites, a great people, evil spirits are no worse for us than fleas. I wanted it, and it was over.

Mikeshka walked for a week, walked for a month, sang all the songs he knew, “Eternal Memory” and “Rest With the Saints” - he was tired of the holiday, and he was reluctant to work. And it became boring out of habit: everything is somehow wrong, everything is not right, there are no police officers, the bosses are not real, they were recruited from neighbors, there is no one to be in awe of - not good, unusual.

Mikeshka grumbles:

Previously, under evil spirits, there was more order. And the streets were cleaned on time, and there was a legitimate policeman at every intersection. It happened - you go somewhere, you drive, and he orders: keep to the right! And now - wherever you want to go, no one will say anything. So you can come to the very edge... Look, some have already reached...

And Mikeshka gets more and more boring, more and more sick. He looks like a million people, but he gets angry:

What do I need a million? Others have more! If only they gave me a billion right away, well, then... Otherwise - a million! Heh! What will I do with him, with a million? Now even a chicken walks like an eagle, because the price of a chicken is sixteen rubles! And I only have a million...

Then Mikeshka was glad that there was a reason for the usual complaints - he walks along the dirty streets, yelling:

Give me a billion! I can't do anything! What kind of life is this? The streets are not cleared, there is no police, there is chaos everywhere! Give me a billion, otherwise I don’t want to live!

An old mole crawled out of the ground and said to Mikeshka:

Fool, why are you yelling? Who are you asking? After all, you are asking from yourself!

And Mikeshka has his own:

I need a billion! The streets are not cleared, the roads are broken, there is no order...

Once upon a time there lived a woman, say Matryona, who worked for someone else’s uncle, say Nikita, with his relatives and many different servants.

The woman felt bad, Uncle Nikita did not pay any attention to her, although he boasted to the neighbors:

My Matryona loves me - whatever I want, I do with her! An exemplary animal, submissive, like a horse...

And Nikitin’s drunken, impudent servants offend Matryona every hour, sometimes they rob her, sometimes they beat her, and sometimes they simply, out of nothing to do, abuse her, but they also say to each other:

Well, our butterfly Matryona! Such that, sometimes, you even feel sorry for her!

But, although they were sorry in words, in reality they still continued to torture and rob.

In addition to these harmful ones, Matryona was surrounded by many who were useless, sympathizing with Matryonin’s long-suffering; they look at her from the side and are touched:

You are our long-suffering, wretched one!

Some, in complete admiration, exclaimed:

You, they say, cannot even be measured with an arshin, how big you are! And with the mind, they say, one cannot understand you; in you, they say, one can only believe!

And Matryona, like a bear, does all sorts of work, day after day, from century to century, and everything is to no avail: no matter how much she works, her uncle’s servants will take everything away. Drunkenness around, women, debauchery and all sorts of dirty tricks - it’s impossible to breathe!

So she lived, working and sleeping, and in her free moments she lamented to herself:

"God! Everyone loves me, everyone pities me, but there is no real man! If only some real one would come and take me in strong hands and love me, a woman, with all his might, I would give birth to such children for him, Lord!”

She's crying, but she can't do anything else!

A blacksmith approached her, but Matryona didn’t like him, he had an unreliable appearance, a smoky look all over, a daring character, and he spoke incomprehensibly, as if he was even bragging:

Only,” he says, “in ideological unity with me, you, Matryosha, can move to the next stage of culture...

And she told him:

Well, what are you doing, father, where are you going! I don’t even understand your words, besides, I am great and abundant, but I can barely see you!

That's how I lived. Everyone feels sorry for her, and she feels sorry for herself, but there is no sense in it.

And suddenly - the hero came. He came, drove away Uncle Nikita and his servants and announced to Matryona:

From now on you are completely free, and I am your savior, like St. George the Victorious from an old penny!

Matryona looks - she really is free! Of course I was happy.

However, the blacksmith also declares:

And I am the savior!

“He’s doing this out of jealousy,” Matryona realized, and said out loud:

Of course, you too, father!

And they lived, the three of them, with merry pleasures, every day there was a wedding, then a funeral, every day they shouted cheers. My uncle's servant Mokey felt like a republican - hurray! Yalutorovsk and Narym declared themselves the United States, too - hurray!

For two months we lived in perfect harmony, simply drowning in joy, like flies in a ladle of kvass, but suddenly - in Holy Rus' everything happens suddenly! - suddenly the hero got bored!

He sits opposite Matryona and asks:

Who freed you? I?

Well, of course, you, my dear!

And I? - says the blacksmith.

After some time, the hero tortures again:

Who freed you - me or not?

Lord,” says Matryona, “you are the one!”

Well, remember!

And I? - asks the blacksmith.

Well, you too... Both of you...

Both? - says the hero, smoothing his mustache. - Hmm... I-I don’t know...

Yes, and began to interrogate Matryona every hour:

Did I save you, you fool, or not?

And more and more strictly:

Am I your savior or who?

He sees Matryona - the blacksmith, frowning, walked away to the side, minding his own business, the thieves are stealing, the merchants are trading, everything is going on as before, as in his uncle’s times, and the hero is tormented, interrogated every day:

Who am I to you?

Yes, in her ear, and by her braids!

Matryona kisses him, pleases him, and speaks kindly to him:

My dear, you are my Italian Garibaldi, you are my English Cromwell, your French Bonaparte!

And at night she cries quietly:

Lord, Lord! I thought that something would actually happen, but this is what happened! ........................................................ ...............................

Let me remind you that this is a fairy tale.

NOTES
RUSSIAN TALES
ts i k l s k a z o k

First published under the general title “Fairy Tales”:

• I, II, IV-X - in the magazine “Modern World”, 1912, issue 9 for September;
• III - in the newspaper “Russian Word”, 1912, number 290 of December 16;
• XI - in the newspaper “Pravda”, 1912. number 131 of September 30;
• XII - in the newspaper “Svobodnaya Mysl”, 1917, number 1 of March 7;
• XIII - in the newspaper “New Life”, 1917, number 1 of April 18;
• XIV - in the newspaper “New Life”, 1917, number 5 of April 23;
• XV - in the newspaper “New Life”, 1917, number 7 of April 26;
• XVI - in the newspaper “New Life”, 1917, number 68 of July 7.

The first ten fairy tales (I, II, IV - XI according to the numbering of this publication) were written by M. Gorky in 1912 within one month: M. Gorky announced the start of work on fairy tales in mid-January 1912; On February 10, the fairy tales were already transferred to K.P. Pyatnitsky (Diary of K.P. Pyatnitsky).

At the same time, these fairy tales were sent to the editorial office of the magazine “Modern World” and at the same time to the publishing house of I.P. Ladyzhnikov for the preparation of a separate publication, and M. Gorky intended to publish ten more “Russian fairy tales” by the fall.

The editor of Sovremenny Mir informed M. Gorky that Russian Fairy Tales would be published only in the fall. In response to this, M. Gorky wrote to him:

“Sending the fairy tales that you call “charming,” I asked, if you liked them, to put them in spring books, and three months later I received an answer that it would be better to publish them in the fall.

These fairy tales are a new genre for me, it would be very useful for me to know to what extent they are successful - I am not proud, you can talk to me simply and frankly. It seems to me that if fairy tales turned out to be sufficiently convenient for the magazine and valuable from a socio-pedagogical point of view, they could be published twice a year, partly as a feuilleton on the topic of modern times, and partly “in general” on Russian themes” (Archive of A. M. Gorky).

Of the proposed ten new fairy tales, only one was written in 1912 (III according to the numbering of this edition); On December 5, 1912, it was sent by M. Gorky to the editorial office of the newspaper “Russian Word” (letter from M. Gorky to I.P. Ladyzhnikov dated December 5, 1912).

After the fairy tale appeared in print, the decadent poet F. Sologub, believing that the fairy tale was directed personally against him and his wife, A. Chebotarevskaya, wrote a letter of protest to M. Gorky. In a response letter on December 23, 1912, M. Gorky rejected the assumption that the fairy tale had in mind any specific persons. M. Gorky pointed out that the image of Smertyashkin absorbed features characteristic of decadents in general, including F. Sologub. In 1932 or 1933, in a letter to one of his correspondents, M. Gorky wrote:

“In the “fairy tale” the poems of Sologub are not parodied, but there is a parody of the poems of Z. Gippius - “Oh, do not believe the hour of the night.” Probably, when I wrote Smertyashkin, I also had in mind Sologub’s pessimism” (A.M. Gorky Archive).

The Diary of K.P. Pyatnitsky gives the names of the first ten fairy tales, obviously outlined by M. Gorky:

1. Philosopher,
2. Poet,
3. Death of a writer
4. National face
5. landowner,
6. Jews,
7. Two crooks
8. Orontius,
9. Non-resistance to evil
10. Personality.

In the manuscript and letters of M. Gorky, the works of this cycle were called “Russian Fairy Tales,” but this title was changed by the editor of the “Modern World” magazine, and all magazine publications were titled “Fairy Tales.” On September 13, 1912, the editor of the magazine “Modern World” wrote to M. Gorky:

“One of these days the somewhat belated September book of The Modern World will be published. In first place is your “Russian Fairy Tales”, which, frightened by fines and confiscations, at the last minute I allowed myself to be christened simply “Fairy Tales”. In accordance with this, in three cases where the action takes place “in a certain kingdom, in a certain state,” I replaced the words “Russia” and “Russian” interspersed in the text with country, fatherland, subject” (A.M. Gorky Archive).

In separate publications and collected works, the cycle was published under the general title “Russian Fairy Tales”.

Five fairy tales (XII - XVI) were written by M. Gorky in 1917. Tale XII, judging by the note of the editor who first published it, was written on February 25; the next four tales - in March - June 1917.

“Russian Fairy Tales” were included in all collected works.

Published according to the text prepared by M. Gorky for the collected works in the “Book” edition, with corrections based on authorized typewritten and first-printed texts.

Alexey Peshkov, better known as the writer Maxim Gorky, is a significant figure for Russian and Soviet literature. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize five times, was the most published Soviet author throughout the existence of the USSR and was considered on a par with Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin and Leo Tolstoy the main creator of Russian literary art.

Alexey Peshkov - the future Maxim Gorky was born in the town of Kanavino, which at that time was located in the Nizhny Novgorod province, and is now one of the districts of Nizhny Novgorod. His father Maxim Peshkov was a carpenter, and in the last years of his life he managed a shipping company. Mother Varvara Vasilievna died of consumption, so Alyosha Peshkova’s parents were replaced by grandmother Akulina Ivanovna. From the age of 11, the boy was forced to start working: Maxim Gorky was a messenger at a store, a barman on a ship, an assistant to a baker and an icon painter. The biography of Maxim Gorky is reflected by him personally in the stories “Childhood”, “In People” and “My Universities”.

After an unsuccessful attempt to become a student at Kazan University and arrest due to connections with a Marxist circle, the future writer became a watchman on the railway. And at the age of 23, the young man set off to wander around the country and managed to reach the Caucasus on foot. It was during this journey that Maxim Gorky briefly wrote down his thoughts, which would later become the basis for his future works. By the way, the first stories of Maxim Gorky also began to be published around that time.

Having already become a famous writer, Alexey Peshkov leaves for the United States, then moves to Italy. This did not happen at all because of problems with the authorities, as some sources sometimes present, but because of changes in family life. Although abroad, Gorky continues to write revolutionary books. He returned to Russia in 1913, settled in St. Petersburg and began working for various publishing houses.

The first published story by Maxim Gorky was the famous “Makar Chudra,” which was published in 1892. And the two-volume book “Essays and Stories” brought fame to the writer. Interestingly, the circulation of these volumes was almost three times higher than what was usually accepted in those years. Among the most popular works of that period, it is worth noting the stories “Old Woman Izergil”, “Former People”, “Chelkash”, “Twenty Six and One”, as well as the poem “Song of the Falcon”. Another poem, “Song of the Petrel,” has become a textbook. Maxim Gorky devoted a lot of time to children's literature. He wrote a number of fairy tales, for example, “Sparrow”, “Samovar”, “Tales of Italy”, published the first special children's magazine in the Soviet Union and organized holidays for children from poor families.

Very important for understanding the writer’s work are Maxim Gorky’s plays “At the Lower Depths,” “The Bourgeois” and “Yegor Bulychov and Others,” in which he reveals the playwright’s talent and shows how he sees the life around him. The stories “Childhood” and “In People”, the social novels “Mother” and “The Artamonov Case” are of great cultural significance for Russian literature. Gorky’s last work is considered to be the epic novel “The Life of Klim Samgin,” which has a second title “Forty Years.” The writer worked on this manuscript for 11 years, but never managed to finish it.

After his final return to his homeland in 1932, Maxim Gorky worked in newspaper and magazine publishing houses, created a series of books “History of Factories”, “Poet’s Library”, “History of the Civil War”, organized and conducted the First All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers. After the unexpected death of his son from pneumonia, the writer wilted. During his next visit to Maxim’s grave, he caught a bad cold. Gorky had a fever for three weeks, which led to his death on June 18, 1936. The body of the Soviet writer was cremated, and the ashes were placed in the Kremlin wall on Red Square. But first, Maxim Gorky’s brain was extracted and transferred to the Research Institute for further study.

For a more complete biography of Maxim Gorky, see here:

From the very beginning of his career, Maxim Gorky wrote works on children's themes. The writer A. M. Gorky is considered one of the founders of modern children's literature; he devoted a lot of effort to its creation, making sure that books were written by people who love children and understand their inner world.

Our virtual exhibition presents books for different age categories of readers.

Books by Maxim Gorky for preschool and primary school children.

Gorky, M. The case of Evseyka [Text] / M. Gorky; comp. V. Prikhodko; rice. Yu. Molokonov. – Moscow: Malysh, 1979. –80 s. : ill.

The fairy tale “The Case of Yevseyka” was first published in 1912 in the newspaper “Den”. In 1919, it appeared with some changes in the Northern Lights magazine. It contains extensive educational material, presented poetically, in an entertaining and accessible form for children. Gorky sees nature through the eyes of the boy Evseika. This gives the writer the opportunity to introduce into the fairy tale comparisons that children can understand: sea anemones look like cherries scattered on stones; Evseyka saw a sea cucumber that “looked like a poorly drawn piglet,” a lobster moved “with its eyes on strings,” and sepia looked like a “wet handkerchief.” When Evseyka wanted to whistle, it turned out that this could not be done: “water gets into his mouth like a cork.”

Gorky, A. M. Sparrow : [Text] / Alexey Maksimovich Gorky; [art. A. Salimzyanova]. –Moscow: Meshcheryakov Publishing House, 2010. – 30, p. : color ill. – (Children's classics).

One of Gorky’s most striking children’s works can rightfully be called the fairy tale “Sparrow”. Sparrow Pudik did not yet know how to fly, but he was already looking out of the nest with curiosity: “I wanted to quickly find out what God’s world is and whether it is suitable for him.” Because of his excessive curiosity, Pudik gets into trouble - he falls out of the nest; and the cat “red, green eyes” is right there...

The fairy tale “Sparrow” is written in the style of oral folk art. The narration sounds leisurely and allegorical. As in a folk tale, the heroic and comic are present here, and sparrows are endowed with feelings, thoughts, and human experiences.

Gorky, M. Once upon a time there was a samovar [Text]: stories and fairy tales / M. Gorky; comp. Vladimir Prikhodko. - Moscow: Children's literature, 1986. -54, p. : ill. - (School library).

The fairy tale “Samovar” is presented in satirical tones, the heroes of which were “humanized” objects: a sugar bowl, a creamer, a teapot, cups. The leading role belongs to the “little samovar,” who “really loved to show off” and wanted “the moon to be taken from the sky and made into a tray for him.” Alternating between prosaic and poetic texts, forcing subjects so familiar to children to sing songs and have lively conversations, Maxim Gorky achieved the main thing - to write interestingly, but not to allow excessive moralizing. Based on his creative principles, the writer initiated the creation of a special type of literary fairy tale in children's literature, characterized by the presence of significant scientific and educational potential in it.

Gorky, M. About Ivanushka the Fool [Text]: Russian folk tale / Maxim Gorky; fig. Nikolai Kochergin. - Saint Petersburg; Moscow: Rech, 2015. - With. : color ill. – (Series “Mom’s Favorite Book”).

Full of playful and good humor, the Russian folk tale “About Ivanushka the Fool,” heard by Maxim Gorky as a child and later embodied in the author’s retelling, will not only amuse children, but will also help to instill in children a love of reading and artistic taste. After all, the illustrations for it were created by Nikolai Kochergin, an outstanding children's book artist and a real wizard of the brush.

Books by Maxim Gorky for children of primary and secondary school age.

Gorky, M. Danko's burning heart [Text] / M. Gorky; rice. V. Samoilova. - Saratov: Volga Book Publishing House, 1973. – 16 s. : ill.

Legends have been created by people since ancient times. In a bright, figurative form, they talked about heroes and events, conveying to the reader folk wisdom, people's aspirations and dreams. Gorky uses the genre of literary legend because it was perfectly suited to his plan: to briefly, excitedly, and vividly glorify all the best that can be in a person. The legend of Danko tells of a brave and handsome young man. He is happy that he lives among people, because he loves them more than himself. Danko is courageous and fearless, he sets himself a noble goal - to be useful to people. From deep compassion for his fellow tribesmen living without sun in the swamps, who had lost their will and courage, the fire of love for them was lit in Danko’s heart. This spark turned into a torch.

Gorky, M. Stories and fairy tales for children [Text] / Maxim Gorky; artist S.Babyuk. – Moscow: Dragonfly, 2010. –157, p. : ill. - (School library).

In the works of Maxim Gorky for children, fairy tales occupied a special place, in which ideological and aesthetic principles were clearly expressed, the same as in stories on the theme of childhood and adolescence.

In fairy tales, Maxim Gorky continued to work on a new type of children's fairy tale, in the content of which the cognitive element played a special role.

The hymn to nature and the sun in the fairy tale “Morning” is combined with a hymn to work and “the great work people have done all around us.” And then the author considered it necessary to remind the children that working people “beautify and enrich the earth all their lives, but from birth to death they remain poor.” Following this, the author poses the question: “Why? You will find out about this later, when you become big, if, of course, you want to know...”

By creating artistic images of children in his works (“Grandfather Arkhip and Lyonka,” “Misha,” “Shake,” “Ilya’s Childhood,” etc.), the writer sought to depict children’s destinies in a specific social and everyday situation.

The story “Shake” had a noticeable autobiographical element, because the author himself worked as a teenager in an icon-painting workshop, which was reflected in his trilogy. At the same time, in “Shake-Up” Maxim Gorky continued to expand on the theme of the backbreaking labor of children and adolescents, which was important to him.

Gorky, M. Tales of Italy [Text] / M. Gorky; engravings by K. Bezborodov. – Moscow: Children’s literature, 1980. –128 p. : ill.

“Tales of Italy,” written for adults, almost immediately during the period of revolutionary upsurge of the beginning of the 20th century. began to be published for children. “Tales of Italy” sang the joy of work, the equality of people, and affirmed the idea of ​​the unity of workers. Most of the heroes of “Fairy Tales” sacredly honor the bright experience of the past: “remembering is the same as understanding.”

One of the best tales of the cycle is the tale of Pepe. The boy loved nature: “Everything occupies him - flowers flowing in thick streams through the good earth, lizards among lilac stones, birds in the chased foliage of olive trees.” The image of Pepe is given in the perspective of the future - poets and leaders grow up from people like him. And at the same time, it embodies the characteristic features of the ordinary people of Italy with their kindness, openness, and love for the land.

Books by Maxim Gorky for children of middle and high school age.

Gorky, M. Childhood [Text] / M. Gorky; artist B. A. Dekhterev. – Moscow: Soviet Russia, 1982. –208 s. : ill.

The story “Childhood,” the first part of Gorky’s autobiographical trilogy, was written in 1913. The mature writer turned to the topic of his past. In “Childhood” he tries to comprehend this period of life, the origins of human character, the reasons for the happiness and unhappiness of an adult.

In the center of the story is the boy Alyosha, who, by the will of fate, was “abandoned” into his mother’s family. After the death of his father, Alyosha is raised by his grandfather and grandmother. Therefore, we can say that these people are the main ones in his destiny, those who raised the boy, laid all the foundations in him. But, besides them, there were many people in Alyosha’s life - numerous uncles and aunts who all lived under one roof, cousins, guests... They all raised the hero, influenced him, sometimes without wanting it themselves.

Gorky, M. My universities [Text] / M. Gorky; ill. B. A. Dekhtereva. – Moscow: Soviet Russia, 1984. –128 s. : ill.

The story “My Universities,” written in 1923, is the last part of Gorky’s autobiographical trilogy.

The plot of the story is centered on young Alyosha Peshkov, who goes to Kazan to go to university, but soon, due to lack of funds, realizes that studying there is not for him.

The young man gets several jobs, not disdaining hard physical labor. Alyosha lights up with a revolutionary spark and studies literature. So his life itself is a university - this is the main idea of ​​​​the work. A thirst for knowledge, continuous improvement, a mountain of necessary literature for one’s own education, meeting interesting people, as well as like-minded people - all this allows one to form one’s own vision of the world better than an educational institution.

Gorky, M. Stories. At the bottom [Text] / M. Gorky. –Moscow: Bustard, 2001. – 160 p. - (School program).

The book includes early romantic stories “Makar Chudra”, “Old Woman Izergil”, “Chelkash”, “Konovalov”, “Malva”, as well as “The Legend of Marko”, “Song of the Falcon”, “Song of the Petrel”.

In his works, Gorky sang a hymn to a wonderful and strong man. This is no coincidence. Gorky came to literature as an artist of the revolutionary masses rising to fight. And he became a great poet of the liberation of the people. He put forward a new measure of a person’s value: his will to fight, activity, ability to rebuild his life. “Makar Chudra” rightfully opens now all the collected works of the writer. The voice of new revolutionary art already sounds in it, which in the future, having strengthened and expanded, will enrich all Russian and world literature.

The play “At the Lower Depths,” created by the writer in 1902, was conceived by Gorky as one of four plays in a cycle showing the life and worldview of people from different walks of life. The deep meaning that the author put into it is an attempt to answer the main questions of human existence: what a person is and whether he will retain his personality, having fallen “to the bottom” of moral and social existence.

The play “At the Lower Depths” has been alive for more than a century and continues to remain one of the most powerful works of Russian classics. The play makes you think about the place of faith and love in a person’s life, about the nature of truth and lies, about a person’s ability to resist moral and social decline.

Gorky, Maxim. Book about Russian people [Text] / Maxim Gorky. – Moscow: Vagrius, 2000. –577 s. : ill. – (My 20th century).

Perhaps it was Gorky who managed to reflect in his work on a truly epic scale the history, life and culture of Russia in the first third of the twentieth century. This applies not only to his prose and drama, but also to his memoirs - primarily to “Notes from a Diary”, to the famous literary portraits of Anton Chekhov, Leo Tolstoy, Vladimir Korolenko, Leonid Andreev, Sergei Yesenin, Savva Morozov, as well as to “Untimely Thoughts” - a chronicle of the times of the October Revolution. “The Book of Russian People” (as Gorky originally thought to call his memoirs) is a unique series of characters - from intellectuals to philosophizing tramps, from revolutionaries to ardent monarchists. The essay about V.I. Lenin is published in the first edition - without the later layers of “textbook gloss”

Pedagogical views of Maxim Gorky.

Gorky, M. About children's literature [Text]: articles, statements, letters / M. Gorky; entry Art. comment N. B. Medvedeva. – Moscow: Publishing House “Children’s Literature”, 1968. –432 p.

The purpose of this collection is to present, as fully as possible, articles, letters, and statements by A. M. Gorky about children’s literature and children’s reading.

The collection consists of five sections. The first contains articles and statements by A. M. Gorky about children's literature and children's reading; in the second, his letters to relatives, writers, teachers, scientists; in the third, letters and appeals to children. The fourth section of the collection includes articles by A. M. Gorky on children's creativity.

The last section publishes (in alphabetical order of authors) the memoirs of A. S. Serafimovich, N. D. Teleshov, K. I. Chukovsky, S. Ya. Marshak, A. S. Makarenko and other writers who worked with Gorky on creating books for children, contributed to the development of Soviet children's literature. These articles and memoirs of Alexei Maksimovich's contemporaries help to more fully imagine Gorky's versatile activities in the field of children's literature.

Books about the life and work of Maxim Gorky.

Bykov, D. L. Was there Gorky? [Text] / Dmitry Bykov. – Moscow: AST: Astrel, 2008. – 348, p., l. ill., portrait : ill., portrait

Dmitry Bykov, a famous prose writer, poet, and brilliant publicist, in his book “Was there Gorky?” depicts the figure of a classic writer free from literary gloss and subsequent mythology.

Where does Alexey Peshkov end and Maxim Gorky begin? Who was he? A writer of everyday life, a singer of the city's bottom? "Petrel of the Revolution"? Incorrigible romantic? Or did his life and writing position sometimes border on cold calculation? Be that as it may, Bykov is sure: “Gorky is a great, monstrous, touching, strange and absolutely necessary writer today.”

“Maxim Gorky enriched Soviet colloquial speech with dozens of quotes: “We sing a song to the madness of the brave”; “Man – that sounds proud”; “Let the storm blow harder”; “Not a single flea is bad: all are black, all jump.” “The leaden abominations of life” - this is sometimes attributed to Chekhov, but Gorky said it in his story “Childhood”.

Vaksberg, A. I. Death of a petrel [Text]: M. Gorky: The last twenty years / A. I. Vaksberg. – Moscow: TERRA-Sport, 1999. – 391 p.

The author of the book, a famous writer, a master of documentary prose and journalism, vice-president of the Russian PEN Club, in his documentary novel explores the last 20 years of the life of M. Gorky, a historical figure unlike anyone else, expresses his purely subjective vision of the events that happened during this time.

The basis of this study is the many faces of Gorky, which was noted by many authors who wrote about him, and above all those who personally met him. They all noted the impossibility of showing Gorky’s image with any specific sign - positive or negative. The sign slipped away and came into irreconcilable conflict with reality. However, until now, books about Gorky, especially biographical ones, have been almost mythical stereotypes, squeezed into frameworks strictly defined by party ideologists. That is why in this book the author widely used his right as a creator to express his own point of view, without depriving the reader of his right to accept or reject.

Maxim Gorky in the memoirs of his contemporaries [Text]: in two volumes / comp. and preparation text by A. A. Krundyshev; artist V. Maxina. – Moscow: Fiction, 1981. – 445 p.

This volume includes memories of Gorky in the post-revolutionary period: about his life in Sorrento, about his triumphant trip through the Land of the Soviets, about his return to his homeland and about the last days of his life.

“He loved laughter and jokes, but he was irreconcilable, stern, and passionate about the calling of a writer, an artist, a creator.

Listening to some talented aspiring writer, he could burst into tears, get up and leave the table, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, grumbling: “They write well, you striped devils.”

This was all Anatoly Maksimovich...

A. N. Tolstoy

A. M. Gorky in portraits, illustrations, documents 1968- 1936 [Album]: manual for secondary school teachers / comp.: R. G. Weislehem; I. M. Kasatkina and others; edited by M. B. Kozmina and L. I. Ponomareva. –Moscow: State educational and pedagogical publishing house of the Ministry of Education of the RSFSR, 1962. – 520 s.

This publication is intended to tell about the life and work of Gorky with the help of visual, documentary and textual material.

The reader will see here reproductions of paintings and illustrations by such artists as I. Repin, V. Serov, S. Gerasimov, Kukryniksy, P. Korin and many others, who are the pride of our art. A large place in the album is occupied by rare documentary photographs taken from the personal archives of the writer or people close to him.

Gorky's activities, as is known, are unusually multifaceted. He is a great writer, the founder of the literature of socialist realism, and an outstanding publicist. An ardent revolutionary, a prominent public figure.

Naturally, all these aspects of Alexei Maksimovich’s varied activities are reflected in the album (of course, within the limits possible for this publication).

Books from the “Rare Book” collection of the State Budgetary Institution of the Russian Federation “Rostov Regional Children's Library named after. V.M. Velichkina:

Gorky, M. How I studied [Text] / Maxim Gorky. -Moscow; Leningrad: State Publishing House, 1929. – 22 s.

First published on May 29, 1918 in the newspaper “New Life” under the title "About books", and at the same time, with the subtitle “Story”, in the newspaper “Book and Life”.

The story is based on a speech that M. Gorky delivered on May 28, 1918 in Petrograd at a rally in the “Culture and Freedom” society. The speech began with the words: “I will tell you, citizens, what books have given to my mind and feelings. I learned to read consciously when I was fourteen years old...” The work was republished several times under the title “How I Learned” with the first phrase omitted and small additions at the end of the story.

In 1922, Maxim Gorky significantly expanded the story for a separate edition by Z. I. Grzhebin.

The story was not included in the collected works.