Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov (May 11 (May 24), 1905, Don Army region - February 21, 1984) - Russian Soviet writer, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature (1965 - for the novel “Quiet Don”), a classic of Russian literature.
Born in the village of Kruzhilina, Veshenskaya Region, Don Army. Mother, a Ukrainian peasant, served as a maid. She was forcibly married to a Don Cossack-Ataman* Kuznetsov, but left him for a “non-resident”, rich clerk A. M. Sholokhov. Their illegitimate son At first he bore the surname of his mother’s first husband and was considered a “Cossack son” with all the privileges and land share. However, after Kuznetsov’s death (in 1912) and adoption by his own father, he began to be considered a “son of a tradesman,” a “nonresident,” and lost all privileges.
Education was limited to four classes at the gymnasium - then there was war. “Poets are born in different ways,” he would say later. “For example, I was born from the civil war on the Don.” At the age of 15 he begins to be independent labor activity. He changed many professions: educational school teacher, employee of the village revolutionary committee, accountant, journalist... Since 1921 - “commissar for bread”, on the surplus appropriation system. For “exceeding authority in grain procurements” he was sentenced by the tribunal to death (replaced with a suspended sentence) ...
In the fall of 1922, M. Sholokhov came to Moscow, tried to enter the workers' school, but was not accepted: he was not a member of the Komsomol. Lives on odd jobs. He attends the literary circle "Young Guard", tries to write, publishes feuilletons and essays in the capital's newspapers and magazines. These experiences prompted the creation of " Don stories" (1926), which immediately attracted attention.
In 1925, M. Sholokhov returned to his homeland and began the main work of his life - the novel "Quiet Don". The first two books of the novel were published in 1928. The publication was accompanied by heated controversy: a novel about the civil war, written by a very young writer with “anathemically talented” (according to M. Gorky), puzzled with its epic scope, skill, and author's position. The publication of the third book of the novel was suspended due to its apparently sympathetic portrayal of the 1919 Upper Don Cossack uprising. In the pause that arose, M. Sholokhov took up a novel about collectivization on the Don - “Virgin Soil Upturned.” There were no complaints about the content of this book. It came out in 1932. And in the same year, publication resumed" Quiet Don" - after Stalin's intervention in the fate of the book. In 1940, the last parts of this unique epic of the 20th century were published.
For "Quiet Don" M. Sholokhov was awarded the Order of Lenin, and in 1941 he was awarded the Stalin Prize, 1st degree. However, the party activity of the first person in Soviet literature (especially in post-war years) was noticeably superior to the writer’s: neither during the war years (military correspondent of Pravda and Red Star), nor after, almost nothing came from his pen reminiscent of the author of Quiet Don (except, perhaps, the story “The Fate of a Man” , 1957).
In 1960, M. Sholokhov was awarded the Lenin Prize for his second book, “Virgin Soil Upturned,” and in 1965, the Nobel Prize for “Quiet Don.”
Twice Hero of Socialist Labor, holder of six Orders of Lenin, honorary doctor of several European universities, Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov died and was buried in the village of Veshenskaya, on the steep bank of the Don.
Alexey Sholokhov
Dedicated to my wife and son
Part one
“Earth,” Alexey carefully typed in the search engine window. I pressed the Enter key and Google returned one hundred and eight million options. No, that's wrong. So he won’t find a suitable option until the end of time. He didn't know how to work on the Internet. Colleagues advised me to type in Google or Yandex what you need and... As they say, let the seeker find. Lesha didn’t know where it was said, but these words perfectly characterized his actions. He had a million (rubles, of course), and he knew what to do with it. There wasn't enough for an apartment. He doesn’t need a room in a two-story building with a toilet on the street in some Mukhosransk. He wanted his own home, which, quite naturally, he also didn’t have enough for. Therefore, he decided to buy land, mortgage it to the bank and build a house with this money. Simple as two and two.
He only looked at three options. Already on the third site he found what he was looking for.
The site was located in a residential village. Shops, kindergarten and school. What else does? True, a little further than he expected. The site was located in Tula region, forty kilometers from Tula, in close proximity to Donskoy and Novomoskovsk. That is, there was no need to worry about work. But he wasn't worried. Bye.
Twelve color photographs showed the site in all its glory. Alexei’s wife, when he showed her these pictures, was horrified. There was something eerie in this area, something that made you freeze and then your heart beat faster. That is why Lesha liked him. What did he like there, he was in love with him.
For some reason the pictures were taken in winter, which made them even more creepy. A round well, like a set for the film “The Ring,” is hidden under the clawed paw of a faceless bush. A gray building - either a garage or an outbuilding - stretched along a collapsed fence. And finally, what attracted Alexey’s attention most of all: the ruins of a burnt house were located in the thirteenth (?) photo. He remembered well that when he entered the page of this advertisement, there were twelve photographs. Six on top and six on bottom. One under the other. Alyosha left the ad and returned again. Twelve. I started scrolling through the photographs in enlarged form. First, second... The photos were in order - not a single one was missed. Twelfth, thirteenth. Some kind of damn thing.
“Why am I attached to these photographs?! Maybe it’s designed this way to attract buyers.”
Alexey looked through the pictures again and stopped at the ruins of a burnt house. He could not explain even to himself what attracted him to this skeleton of a house that once breathed life. He was simply in love with these ruins, and the decision immediately came. Whatever it costs him, Alexey will buy this plot.
* * *
Alexey agreed to meet with the manager at ten in the morning. Lesha arrived at the place at nine. He walked up to the rusty gate and pulled the handle. The door creaked and opened. He decided to look at the site without the manager's colorful praise. Walk around, and then listen to the outpourings of a person interested in selling.
The asphalt path was riddled with cracks, and last year's leaves mixed with dirt lay underfoot. Everything was here, just like in the photos from the site. Everything is just as dead, as if he never went anywhere, but stayed in his apartment and looked at the photos. If you like, in 3D. But Lesha was not repelled by this; on the contrary, he was so attracted that he was ready to agree to any price. He will buy this plot for any money, just to breathe life into this piece of land.
About five meters from the gate there is a rickety box of either a garage or the remnant of an old house. As far as Strakhov could judge, while still there, in a warm Moscow apartment, he realized that there had once been two houses on the site. Not necessarily at the same time, but they were definitely there. He walked up to a three by five building. Alyosha examined the walls - the plaster was crumbling in some places, and the lathing nailed to the logs was clearly visible through the bald spots. At the right corner he noticed an uneven cut from a chainsaw. Yes, the verdict is final: this building definitely had a continuation. And it was demolished in order to build a new building.
Strakhov quickly got his bearings and went to where, as he remembered from pictures from the site, the foundation was located former home. Lesha approached the bushes with yellowed foliage, parted the branches - the leaves flew to his feet. The nine by nine square (or so the website said) was right in front of him. Lesha climbed onto it and examined all (he already thought it was his) possessions. And only now, from a meter high, Strakhov noticed the well.
He walked along the foundation of the future (his future) house, jumped onto the frozen gravel and slowly walked to a round well made of stone. He liked that kind of thing. Cuckoo clocks, carved shutters, wells. Hell yes! If it were up to him, he would have hung the yoke in his Moscow apartment. Approaching the edge of the well, Lesha stopped. For the first time since he found himself at the station, Strakhov felt uneasy. Before that, he had easily looked into a small coal shed, then into a larger shed, and through the cloudy glass of the windows of the rest of the building he tried to see something, but here he seemed to feel some kind of threat.
Lesha took hold (I must admit, he forced himself to take hold of it) by the handle of the lid and began to slowly lift it.
I see you have already looked around here?
Strakhov jerked and with a noisy exhalation lowered the lid back.
* * *
In front of him stood a tall guy in a coat and a scarf around his neck a la Ostap Bender. He kept shifting a small purse from his hands to his arm and vice versa.
Yegor Spitsyn,” the guy extended his hand to Alexei, dressed in a black glove. - Sales Manager. We called you on the phone.
Yes, yes,” Lesha shook the manager’s hand and barely restrained himself from shouting: “I’m buying!” I’m buying!”
Well, then let’s go to the… - The manager laughed. - What's left of the house.
Spitsyn opened the padlock and they entered a dark room. Lesha looked into the room, then looked at the window from the street. That's why he couldn't see anything through the glass. There was no window in the room. Someone planted it from the inside.
What? - The manager raised his eyebrows in surprise.
What about him?
He's not inside.
Egor did the same thing as Lesha a minute ago. Then he looked at Strakhov and shrugged his shoulders.
You never know. Maybe the old owner decided that there was too much light for him.
“Or he was hiding from someone,” thought Lesha and followed the seller.
Egor pressed two buttons of the electric plugs located above the meter just outside the door. Lesha, I must admit, did not immediately understand that these things were from the category of switching equipment. Now such devices can only be seen in disarray.
Spitsyn, in his own way, as if he had been here several times a day, turned on the light, sat down at the table and took out a laptop from his bag. And only when he opened it, he invited Lesha to sit down.
So, Alexey Petrovich. You have already seen wealth that costs everything... - Yegor clicked on the keyboard, looked into the monitor and said: - Only three hundred thousand rubles.
Strakhov almost fell out of his chair with delight. He could have expected anything, any figure instead of the one indicated on the website, which was doubled, tripled. He was ready for any high price. But like this? Yes, these real estate sellers may surprise you. Reducing the price three times, that’s... What if?..
Sorry? Did you say three hundred?
Egor once again ran his fingers over the keys, turned the laptop towards Strakhov and, smiling, said:
Do you see? There is no mistake.
Indeed, now under the photographs of the site there was a figure equal to that just announced by the manager. Three hundred thousand rubles.
“Where was I looking? Well, so much the better..."
Until today, the price was indeed somewhat higher,” Spitsyn said, as if reading Alexei’s thoughts. - But yesterday, literally after your call to me, it was decided to reduce it.
Better. Strakhov was not a seller and somehow did not gravitate toward commerce, but even he understood that if a product sits for a long time and no one takes it, the price needs to be reduced. So? Exactly. But not in this case. They get a call from a person who is ready to look at the plot, and perhaps (in this case, even very possible) and buy it. You just need to listen to what a potential buyer expects from them, and then reduce the price. Only then, and nothing else. Something's wrong here.
Why such a gap?
“I don’t understand you,” said Yegor and began to assemble the laptop.
Alexey was afraid that now this sales manager would be offended and raise the price. Damn the price! Alexey knew that no price would scare him. Within reason, of course. He can simply collect his junk from the table, close the kitchen shed and leave for his managerial business.
“Well, why are you wandering around? Take it while they give it."
No no. Nothing. Where do I need to sign?
* * *
Well, the Moor has done his job, the Moor can leave,” Yegor whispered and pressed the gas pedal.
Where did he get this phrase from? The devil knows. No matter where it came from, it perfectly characterized the completion of the transaction. This fucking deal. A year ago, when he foolishly bought this plot for fifty thousand rubles, Yegor was happy. Still would! He could earn at least a million from it. Could. And so he thought for three months, until... He remembered with horror the nightmares that had tormented him for more than six months.
Egor turned on the radio to distract himself. He was pleased with the station he caught. Retro FM was his favorite. And only here, on this eighty-kilometer stretch of the M4 from the turn to Tula and to the Korni nursery, could he enjoy the songs of yesteryear. Songs that were created long before he was born.
Yegor himself was a villager. That is why he could not tolerate his own kind. He hated the dirt, the smell of manure and the noise made by livestock. Yegor fled from this. He didn’t even give a damn about the fact that his father was a senile drunkard and his mother was a disabled person of the first group. No, he helped them, but only financially. But how can you help a drunk? And to hell with them. Let them drink, they will die faster. Yegor wasn’t even sure that he would go to bury them. Spitsyn knew one thing: that parents' house he will sell for at least half a million rubles.
He was embarrassed by his origins, and not only because of his parents’ addiction to alcohol. Egor came up with a story. Born in Moscow, at the age of ten he moved to Kaluga. There he studied at the College of Economics and Management and came to work in his small homeland. Vo bent. Go check it out. In general, there was little benefit from the nonsense about being born in the capital, moreover, there was no benefit from it, but Spitsyn felt better, more confident. If he had told everyone the truth that before entering Kaluga college he mixed manure in a village of thirty households, and on weekends he went to discos in Duminichi - a village slightly larger than his Palik - nothing would have changed for an outsider. Well, a person works as a sales manager, what difference does it make where he was born? But Spitsyn didn’t think so. If it happens that he spills the beans, his self-confidence will immediately leave him - and that’s it, screw it. He will not be able to sell huts at inflated prices, he will not be able to sell them at all at any prices anymore.
He has already seen Moscow skyscrapers. To be honest, Yegor still didn’t know whether it was Moscow or Vidnoye, but he was pleased to think that he had already arrived. No more than five kilometers to the Moscow Ring Road, turn right, sixteen along the Ring Road to the east - and he’s home. Home, damn it! At home! Where there are no these annoying parents, always complaining about their health. Where all this country crap isn't there.
Egor was distracted for a second to look in the rearview mirror. He was overtaken by a Chinese crane with its boom raised.
What a moron,” Spitsyn smiled.
His smile fell from his lips as soon as the crane's boom crashed into the elevated pedestrian crossing. The plates parted, and, swaying, one of them went down. Egor realized too late that he would be buried along with the careless driver of this Chinese garbage. Before he died, the sales manager saw in the rearview mirror the person he had been dreaming about every night for the last six months.
The Moor has done his job, the Moor can leave,” the dead man whispered and allowed Yegor to enjoy the last second of his life.
* * *
Alexey did not want to leave the site for a long time. He was drawn to the well. How small child breaking a toy to see what's inside. The insides of the well frightened and attracted Strakhov at the same time. Then, nevertheless, mentally punching himself, Lesha went out the gate and looked at HIS site once again. He was happy. There are some formalities left that Alexey will forget about in a month. He was HIS now.
Strakhov got into the car. He started the engine and the car slowly rolled towards the city. His thoughts were entirely about the foundation, the well and the bricked-up window of the kitchen-garage, when he noticed a man on the side of the road waving his hand. Lesha slowed down and moved to the side. He looked in the mirror - there was no one on the side of the road. It might seem so. He thought too much about the few buildings on own plot(or rather, he unreasonably introduced them to the rank of mystery), which might not have been a dream.
Well hello.
Lesha jerked and pressed the signal button.
“I thought you weren’t the timid type,” said the stranger, leaning towards the passenger window.
Why is this? - Alexey asked, barely catching his breath.
Instead of answering, the man straightened up, opened the door and plopped down in a chair. Strakhov, it must be admitted, was slightly offended by the customs of the aborigines, but he (by the way, this was not the first time he caught himself thinking about this) found its advantages in everything, especially here. In general, he liked everything here and even a little more.
“You’re buying a plot of land without water or gas,” the man said as if that explained everything. - By the way, lad, don’t you have a cigarette? Otherwise I left mine in my jacket.
Alexey pointed to the pack lying near the gear lever. And realizing that his “guest” probably left the lighter in his jacket, he pressed in the cigarette lighter.
What kind of problem is there with water? - Lesha asked and handed the heated cigarette lighter to his new acquaintance.
Not really. - The man took a drag. “Over there,” he pointed somewhere across the road, “there’s a pipe.” Central water supply.
Here you go. And you say...
Oh, kid, you don’t know that everything is not so simple. No one will let you break your road. - The man squinted and tilted his head, as if he was waiting for something.
Alexei was tired of this understatement, he could not stand it and asked:
So what should we do?
Ah-ah-ah. “I have a drill that will go under the entire road,” the man said with a smile.
Sly. There will be no job left.
And how much will this miracle of technology cost me?
Well, I’ll take it from mine,” the man smiled slyly, “three hundred and fifty.” Well, as for the visitors...
The pause dragged on. Lesha was already thinking about saying goodbye to this native when he spoke:
I charge a thousand from visitors. By the way, my name is Roma. - The man offered his hand.
“Alexey,” Strakhov said and responded to the handshake. - So, then I’m not one of them? - he still ventured to ask.
Nope, kid, you're a newcomer.
Roma said this as if Lesha was never destined to become one of his own.
Listen, Leshka, can I take a couple more from you? - He timidly pointed to the pack.
Strakhov took the pack in his hands, wanted to get a few cigarettes, but changed his mind and gave them all away.
I'll quit.
“Oh, boy, this is such an infection,” he took out a cigarette, twirled it in his fingers and put it on his lips. - Well, lad, when will you come to us again?
Lesha shrugged.
I think in the spring, when it gets warmer.
Come on. We'll carry out the water. - Roman got out of the car, closed the door and, leaning towards the window, said: - You, kid, are definitely not one of the timid ones.
* * *
Alexey could not work normally. The site and the upcoming construction gave me no rest. Damn planograms and their ilk didn’t even bother me. Strakhov closed the documents for accepting the new point of sale and pressed the Explorer button. He was interested in companies involved in building houses. He found the three most popular. “Zodchiy,” as stated on their website, was a leading company in Russia, but for some reason Alexey was sure that already beyond the Moscow Ring Road he would see puzzled faces at the mention of such a sonorous name. The company offered many projects from garden houses to luxury mansions. But Alexey didn’t like them. Some were repelled by excessive simplicity, some, on the contrary, by luxury. In some, the ceilings were lower than Strakhov was used to seeing. No, he will turn to Zodchy only as a last resort.
The next company, Terem-PRO, was on the house-building market for only two years, but, judging by the reviews found and written, most likely, by “their man,” it managed to make a contribution to the development of humanity. At home by appearance differed little from the houses in “Zodchy”, but the ceilings pleased with their height, and “Terem-PRO” clearly did not inflate the prices for its goods.
The site of the third company was unlikely to attract the developer. Gray tones, penciled title pages of subsections. Alexey decided to look through everything, because something interesting could be hidden under the gray veil. He opened the subsection “Two-story houses 9x9”. Simple and tasteful. People didn't bother with big names like "Canadian", "Florida" or "Chancellor". The very first house fascinated Lesha so much that he did not notice Sokolov entering the office. The boss hesitated at the door, and then came up and stood behind Strakhov.
Alexey Petrovich,” Sokolov said quietly.
Lesha jumped, the computer mouse bounced behind the monitor.
Well, well, Alexey Petrovich, don’t be alarmed. It’s worse to live in such a house.
“None of your damn business!” - Strakhov wanted to yell, and he would certainly have yelled if it weren’t for Lyudochka Shirokova from the accounting department.
Albert Sergeevich, can I see you for a minute?
Lyudochka, for you at least for the rest of your life,” Sokolov said and broke into a smile. He leaned over to Strakhov and whispered:
Well, don't relax. I'll be back.
As soon as Sokolov left and closed the door behind him, Alexei jumped up and began pacing back and forth in the office. He hated Sokolov almost as much as he hated his job. This man looked at other people as if he had fifty percent and one share to own everything in this world. And when he, arrogantly, so that everyone could hear, easily suggested that Alexei go bowling next weekend, and then, as if by chance, he added that, no, they wouldn’t go anywhere together, since Strakhov was already good at bowling balls in their own pockets. It was then that Alexey especially felt his insignificance. There's nothing to be done, Sokolov had money, and Alexei just had excellent brains. But nevertheless, Strakhov knew that soon all this would come to an end. A little more - that's all.
* * *
Zhanna thought a lot about her husband's desire to have something of his own. No, she had nothing against buying real estate. On the contrary, she was all in favor. But Zhanna dreamed of something a little different. Namely, about an apartment in Moscow. Even if it’s a one-room apartment on Vykhino, it’s your own apartment. They were afraid to get involved with a mortgage, and they were able to save up, at best, land plot in some Mukhosransk.
Is the creative path of a writer easy? After all, every great novelist started somewhere and experienced defeat. What is Mikhail Sholokhov famous for? The works, the list of which we will consider in the article, are all dedicated to the tragedy of war, the historical past.
Works of Sholokhov. Always about the eternal
The Civil War of 1917 found Mikhail Sholokhov still very young and left an unforgettable imprint on his work. He was born in 1905 into a family of Don Cossacks. But during the revolution he joined the Reds. And he later depicted all the military vicissitudes that his native village experienced in his main novel “Quiet Don”.
After young Mikhail came to study in the capital and met the writers of the Young Guard circle, he began to make his first attempts at writing, which were assessed as talented work. The first story was published in the Moscow newspaper in 1924. It was called "Mole". Several more stories about Cossack life were later included in the writer’s first collection - “ Don stories».
Sholokhov, taking on a new manuscript, was always guided by the rule - to write only the truth. Most of his books are an artistically meaningful story in detail. During the Patriotic War, the writer conveyed what he saw of the suffering of people in the unfinished novel “They Fought for the Motherland,” as well as in the story “The Fate of a Man.” This story became for Soviet Russia a real proclamation of goodness and humanity, despite all the hardships of everyday life in post-war life.
A novel recognized by the world. Nobel Prize
The writer began working on his most famous work, the four-volume novel Quiet Don, at the age of 22. And the first volume was already ready by 1927. He provided the second to printed publications by 1928. His talent touched the hearts of both Soviet and foreign readers.
The writing work of Mikhail Sholokhov was appreciated in 1965; he was awarded the most coveted prize for the novel “Quiet Don” - the writer became a Nobel Prize laureate. The novel received recognition not only as literary work, with lively characters and an exciting multi-faceted plot, but also as a historical work based on a deep study of real chronicles.
Mikhail Sholokhov: works. List of the most famous
But his other novels are also worthy of recognition. All of Sholokhov’s works, the list of which is not small, deserve high status, since a man of a strong, enlightened soul and great mind worked on them. In the midst of the disastrous events of the past, he managed to highlight the main thing - the strength and beauty of the individual, and the variability of fate.
While working on Quiet Don, Sholokhov began writing his second novel. Also big and with several storylines. The book “Virgin Soil Upturned” is a novel about the events of collectivization. It highlights times of conspiracies and deaths associated with differences of opinion.
Next big historical novel the book “They Fought for the Motherland” was supposed to be. But, unfortunately, the writer did not have time to finish it; he died in 1984 in the same village of Veshenskaya where he was born.
on years
The writer’s enormous diligence was manifested in the fact that his books were published regularly, and no difficulties of fate, not even the war, forced him to quit working on prose. What other works by Sholokhov are there? A list of them is presented below. All of them have become classics of both Russian and world literature.
- 1923 - feuilletons in newspapers.
- 1924 - collection “Don Stories”.
- 1924 - collection “Lazarus Steppe”. It included the following stories: “Kolovert”, “Food Commissioner”.
- 1928 - 2 volumes of “Quiet Don” were published at once.
- 1932 - 3 volume “Quiet Don” and 1 volume “Virgin Soil Upturned”.
- 1940 - last 4th volume. The entire novel “Quiet Don” was then translated into many European and Oriental languages.
- 1942 - several chapters from the book “They Fought for the Motherland” were published.
- “The Word about the Motherland” is a story.
- "The Science of Hate" is a story published in July 1942.
- 1956 - “The Fate of Man.”
- 1956 - Volume 2 of the novel “Virgin Soil Upturned”.
As you can see, Sholokhov’s works, the list of which is not so small, are all historical. But at the same time, they reflect the thoughts and feelings of the heroes, the way of life of the Cossacks of that time, and the philosophy of both opposing sides of the conflict. Sholokhov was truly talented. Monuments have been erected to him in many cities of Russia and in his native village, which is now located in the Rostov region.
In addition to the Nobel, he received the Lenin Prize (in 1960) and 1st degree in 1941. He was also awarded the international Sophia Prize, intended to reward Asian writers - Lotus, and the World Peace Council Prize in the field of culture.
Filmed works of Sholokhov: list
Books are wonderful! But life goes on as usual. With the development of cinema, many of Sholokhov’s works were staged and filmed; the list of films based on the writer’s books is also large. The film based on 4 volumes of the novel “Quiet Flows the Flow” was most fully shot by director Sergei Gerasimovich in 1958, receiving several awards for this work.
"Mosfilm" made a film based on the story "The Fate of a Man", in 1961 the story "Nakhalenok" was filmed, in 1963 the film "When the Cossacks Cry" was made, and in 2005 - short film The colt. Perhaps in the future other works of Sholokhov will be filmed. His list of works inspires new writers. All his works comprise 8 full volumes.
Current page: 1 (book has 15 pages total) [available reading passage: 4 pages]
Mikhail Sholokhov
Don stories. The fate of man. Stories and novella
Artists I. Godin, O. Vereisky
Introductory article
Fate's high gift
The genealogy of Sholokhov goes back centuries and is lost in the haze of legends and semi-reliable tales.
The ancestors of Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov are natives of the Zaraisky district of the Ryazan province - the Russian land from which the path to the Don has emerged since ancient times. The first mention of the Sholokhovs dates back to 1715. In the Pushkarskaya settlement of the Zaraisky Kremlin lived the Zenovyevs, Kobyzevs, Bocharovs, Maksins, Lezhnevs, Dremins, Fedorovs, Nefedovs, Shcherbakovs and Sholokhovs: Osip Firsovich, Ivan Firsovich, Sergei Firsovich and Vasily Firsovich. According to the plan for the reconstruction of the settlement for 1715, drawn up by V.I. Polyanchev, the writer’s ancestors settled here around 1687.
There were twelve courtyards in Pushkarskaya Sloboda. If you face north, you can determine the location of the residence of Mikhail Alexandrovich’s ancestors. So, right in front of us there will be a staircase to the fortress wall, on the left is Streletskaya Sloboda (the place of residence of the archers), on the right is Pushkarskaya Sloboda. Here in the outermost house lived the gunners Sergei Firsovich and Vasily Firsovich Sholokhov, the great-great-grandfathers of Mikhail Alexandrovich. And opposite and slightly to the left of their house is the Svinushka grove with the Holy Well, next to it there is an Old Believer cemetery, where the ashes of the Zaraisk Sholokhovs and the Edinoverie church rest.
Here are the roots of the writer's family tree.
Zaraysk has changed along with its inhabitants. The family of Sholokhov-gunners was replenished with merchants, prasols, poor townspeople and entrepreneurs mediocre. The descendants of the valiant gunners scattered across the world, among whom were warriors, bitter losers, craftsmen, wild heads, and talented dreamers. Mikhail Ivanovich, the writer’s great-grandfather, was not distinguished by either health or luck. His only son, Mikhail Mikhailovich, rushed about in search of income from a young age. Need drove him from one place to another. So he ended up on the Don, where he found work, and soon moved his family here: his wife and two sons - Nikolai and Alexander. The writer's grandfather settled on the Kruzhlin farm. And life began in the Don region.
Mikhail Alexandrovich himself spoke little about his ancestors. It is known about the writer’s father, Alexander Mikhailovich, that he was born in the Zaraisky district of the Ryazan province, came from a philistine background, was Russian, and graduated from a parish school. In 1931, Sholokhov wrote: “My father was a commoner, a native of the Ryazan province, and until his death (1925) he changed professions. He was successively a “shibai” (livestock buyer), sowed grain on purchased Cossack land, served as a clerk in commercial enterprise farm scale, manager of a steam mill, etc.”
Sholokhov forever connected his life with the village of Veshenskaya. He was proud that he was born, raised and lived on the Don, among the Cossacks, to whom the legendary Stepan Razin, the favorite of all, owed his origin Slavic world. Sholokhov was proud of the traditions, military exploits and love of freedom of his fellow countrymen. And there is something to be proud of. The history of the Don Cossacks goes back five centuries, full of glorious and tragic events. In the old days, the Cossacks were a reliable stronghold of the Russian state borders on the Wild Field, in the Caucasian gorges, in the Siberian spaces and the conductor of Russian power there. The Cossack freemen caused a lot of trouble to Moscow (the central government) and even entered into armed clashes with it. But this internal strife, caused in addition to socio-economic reasons by excessive centralization from above and sometimes excessive love of freedom from below, does not, however, detract from the important historical role played by the Cossacks in the formation of the Russian state.
Sholokhov, to whom historical events, associated with the Cossacks were well known, much needed to be rethought. He realized early on that social struggle is more fierce and merciless than war between states. For class struggle knows no peace... And Sholokhov was not only an artist, but also an analyst.
Here it’s time to talk about his rare talent.
It is hardly an accident that we know almost nothing about the inner, spiritual life of young Sholokhov. Born on May 24, 1905 in the Kruzhilinsky village of the village of Vyoshenskaya, Don District. My childhood years were spent in the Kruzhilinsky farm. He graduated from four classes of the gymnasium. In December 1924 he published the first piece of art- the story “Birthmark”, and two years later he begins to write a big novel. And to such an extent he rapidly masters the heights of artistic mastery and inimitable art historical analysis, that by September 1927 the first book was completed, and by March 1928 the second book of the immortal “Quiet Don” was completed. It was as if Sholokhov had never been anything else in his life other than a great writer.
For many generations, the Sholokhov phenomenon will long be a mystery. For more than half a century, his work has evoked admiration, shock and surprise: how, how did he, a commoner without a systematic education, manage to comprehend the dialectics of nature and the deep meaning of the tragic contradictions of the century; how could he convey the subtlest movements of the human soul and reveal such truths that, it seemed, could be achieved by a host of historians, philosophers, psychologists, and not by one person. For the multitude of envious people and certified smart people, everything here is clear and simple: a person with a primary education cannot do this. It can’t – that’s all! Why do they need to know that the essence is not in formal education, but in that mysterious power of artistic talent, which gives a feeling of life to every event, every person, every phenomenon that the master touches. It’s as if enormous wealth is compressed in it creative imagination, intellectual abilities and intuition. Sholokhov in highest degree possessed this gift: he saw internal connections between things and instantly comprehended what others were given through years of hard work, and even then not fully. This is a special property of talent: his eyes and mind with early childhood absorb the world as a whole; the integrity of life is realized by him without much effort - and comes to life on the pages, in musical notation, on canvas, in stone.
* * *
Who had a great influence on the formation of the consciousness of the future writer? In his 1931 autobiography, Mikhail Alexandrovich dropped the phrase: “Mother... learned to read and write... in order to... write me letters on her own.” Many writers and critics took this recognition very simplistically and began to repeat in unison: the main influence on the formation of Sholokhov’s character, personality, interests and tastes was his mother. It's a delusion. Of course, the son inherited many traits from his mother, but the fact is that in his character Mikhail Alexandrovich was little like his mother. For all her kindness and homeliness, Anastasia Danilovna was a strict and domineering woman. Her son is a man of cheerful disposition, cheerful, very gentle, sensitive to people and surprisingly tactful. And he loved his mother selflessly... Still, everything spiritually enlightened and intellectual came from his father, this was his influence. Alexander Mikhailovich was just as responsive, modest, shy, and also witty, smart and a bookworm. This is how he was known and respected throughout the area. He was well versed in philosophy and loved Russian classic literature. In the house of Alexander Mikhailovich there were always fresh newspapers and magazines, a well-chosen library. There is every reason to assert that the thirst for knowledge, interest in art, that is, inner world writer, were formed under the influence of his father.
Already at the age of twelve, Mikhail loved to reason in philosophical topics. In the pre-war library of Mikhail Sholokhov there were collections of works by Kant, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Spinoza in paperbacks (supplements to the Niva magazine) and books by Hegel - in calico binding with gold embossing. Often he would retire to the philosopher’s volume, immersing himself in conversation with him.
Mikhail Alexandrovich learned to read at the age of five and was friends with books all his life. He read a lot, his interests were extremely wide - from space research to books on agriculture. Naturally, he knew Russian very well and foreign classics. Memory (and Sholokhov’s memory was phenomenal and remained so until last days!) has firmly preserved a lot of emotions, facts, realities of life, poems of the most different poets. If he wanted, he could spend hours reading Bunin, Tyutchev, Pushkin, Lermontov, Koltsov, Byron, Shelley. But he never tried to show off his knowledge, although he loved to read some poem or an appropriate excerpt from the work of his favorite author.
Sholokhov was seventeen years old when the whirlpool of events pulled him into its frantic whirlpool. In the first months of 1922, the situation became more complicated; the Cossacks began to resist the tax policy of the authorities. The district is receiving reports of concealment of grain, failure to submit taxes and the death of tax inspectors... Having completed the preparatory courses, Mikhail Sholokhov began on May 17 to fulfill the duties of the industrial inspector of the village of Bukanovskaya. On August 31, 1922, the village tax inspector Mikhail Sholokhov was removed from his position, in which he remained for three and a half months. This ended his career as a civil servant forever. Subsequently, he was unable to reach such responsible administrative heights. The period of searching for one’s path in the field of life began, strewn, among other things, with the fragments of illusions, plans and dreams...
Where did this young man get his strength from, breaking through a thick layer of material shortcomings? disabilities and the arrogance of the capital's intellectuals? Is anyone, after the chilling shocks caused by two death sentences, able to maintain presence of mind, not lose the love of life, a sense of kindness and admiration for the beauty of the universe? It’s time to think about all this. Not everything here lies on the surface, but without this it is impossible to truly understand the charm and philosophical depth of his creations. And what internal torment and pain a person must overcome, seeing the triumph of evil and injustice in the world around him! How to resist them and not allow them to drown out a natural gift capable of creating at the unattainable heights of poetic inspiration?
God forbid such a person be born in a time of turmoil and not meet a kindred spirit, a devoted heart... Fortunately, fate endowed Sholokhov with great joy for the rest of his life. In the village of Bukanovskaya, where his life almost ended, he met Masha Gromoslavskaya in 1922, and that was the end of his bachelorhood.
* * *
The literary and social reality of the first post-revolutionary years is a complex and contradictory process. Major events in world history are reflected in the multi-layered structure of social life. Influenced socialist revolution There have been fundamental changes throughout the world, and, naturally, in the sphere of culture. History develops according to its own laws. It was possible to defend the new system or fight against it, curse, slander, or try to take a contemplative, neutral position, but no one could pretend that nothing had happened. The events of 1917 exposed all ends and beginnings, pitted the old and the new, progressive and reactionary, and confronted society (including artists and writers) with an inevitable choice: “for” or “against.” A deep split occurred in the literary and artistic community: yesterday's friends found themselves on opposite sides of the barricades.
Young literature was noticeably gaining height. True, during this period she had not yet gotten rid of the one-sided view: in the revolution, writers saw only heroism, in its bloody font - courage, in cruelty - a manifestation of proletarian humanism. Often the individual, with his suffering, pain and despair, remained outside the field of their interest, and the misfortunes of the people were presented under the sign of the triumph of class interests. Fyodor Gladkov’s story “The Fire Horse” (1922) is one example of such literature. Destruction, death - this is the subject of her romantic pathos. Bolshevik Nikifor Gmyra, chairman of the revolutionary committee, sees the goal of the revolution this way: “... We are not going to death along this path, but to life... To life through death... Through suffering and torment - to human joy... Good!.. It’s good to bear the cross of struggle... the torment of the revolution ... to power over the whole earth... Our power... the power of labor! In fire is the power of the earth... in fire-breathing blood... And our great rebellion is in fire and blood...” He does just that. Like the commissioner of the armored train, sailor Globa: “...Get to the point, earth-born! We will follow the paths laid out by a power higher than us... through blood... through death... through tragedy... To poison every cell of the brain with bloody dirt. To suffer, to shake the earth... and to die..."
And there were many such works. The point, however, is not the quantity, but the trend, which was growing alarmingly stronger. Undoubtedly, it was a difficult time, engulfed in the flames of revolution on all sides. It was not easy for the writer to understand the tangle of devilishly complicated events. The most talented emerged from the crucible of the revolution pure and honest, but they lost something from their warmth, from a deep look at reality. And it would be wrong to judge too harshly their sincere delusions and slow perception of new beginnings in life.
Gradually, a change in the artistic method of literature was outlined. The first significant changes occur after “The Forty-First” by Boris Lavrenev, the novel by Alexander Serafimovich “The Iron Stream” and the stories of Mikhail Sholokhov (“Alien Blood”, “Azure Steppe”). They not only reflect the complex contradictions of their time, but also seem to break the vicious circle of everyone’s personal guilt for the violence and tyranny reigning around them and consider a person in a broad sense: in connections with society, in dreams of peaceful work, in intimate settings, sorrows, etc. exists in those forms of being that form consciousness and determine the actions of the individual. They are imbued with life affirmation and full of intense quests. Man, they show, is fed up with all this protracted bloody game into “revolutionary romance,” and he reached out to the dream and the land, to the machine, to the book.
Moscow helped Sholokhov finally believe in his own strength, in his own path in literature, in his talent. Thanks to the capital for science! In his service record, Sholokhov wrote: “From 10.1922 to 3.1923 - Moscow, artel of masons; from August 1923 to May 1924 - accountant of the Moscow Housing Administration No. 803...” In May 1924, having celebrated his birthday in the capital, he returned with Masha to the Don, to the village of Veshenskaya. At first they live with their parents in Bukanovskaya and Karginskaya.
So the desire inherited from my father to constantly change professions ended. Mikhail Sholokhov chooses literature.
Nature generously endowed him with poetic talent; moreover, he early realized how complex and difficult people’s lives were, and he wanted to make their fate easier with his creativity. Upon his arrival on the Don in 1924, he no longer thought about anything else. A strict working schedule was established: he wrote until late at night, woke up early like a peasant - along with the sun. On days of fishing or hunting trips - earlier. At seven in the morning - breakfast, at thirteen - lunch, at seventeen - tea and at nineteen - dinner. If I sat at my desk until four or five o’clock in the morning, I was still on my feet by seven and sitting down to breakfast. (After shell shock during the war, the regime changed.) In short term he is writing a book of stories, hatching a plan for a great novel.
In 1924–1925 (before the start of work on “The Quiet Don”), Sholokhov would write twenty-one (out of a total of 25) stories and novels (“The Little Road”).
The stories are published in the newspaper “Young Leninist”, the almanac “Molodost”, in the magazines “Ogonyok”, “Prozhektor”, “Peasant Magazine”, “Smena”, “Komsomoliya”, “Peasant Youth Magazine”. Let us add that the stories are also published in separate publications in the State Publishing House, “New Moscow”, “Moscow Association of Writers”, “Land and Factory”, “Young Guard”, “Don” (Stalingrad), in the “Labor Laborer’s Library” (supplement to the newspaper “ Laborer"), etc. In 1926, two collections were published - “Don Stories” and “Azure Steppe”. It is interesting that of the twenty stories included in these collections, fourteen were published in 1925 and only six at the beginning of 1926. “The Foal”, “About Kolchak, Nettles and Others” were not included in the collections “Don Stories” and “Azure Steppe”. “Wind”, “Soft-Bodied”, “One Language” were published only in magazines, and the story “Resentment”, written in 1925-1926, was first published in 1962. After the publication in 1931 of the book “Azure Steppe. Don stories. 1923–1925” Sholokhov’s early works were not republished. And only twenty-five years later they were included in the first volume of the first collected works.
Sholokhov's first stories seem to belong to two spheres at once, to two principles - imaginary, fictitious and real. Sometimes it seems that the young author is lingering on the borderland. Memory calls to the cradle of harsh reality with its cruel laws, and anticipation - to human essence: kindness, sympathy, sincerity. Isn’t that why in the entire appearance of the heroes of the stories one can feel an internal contradiction, which at that time seemed even absurd, a kind of understatement. The writer's pen outlined the main thing, avoiding the secondary - details and details. Therefore, much seems to have been put together hastily and fragilely.
The human simplicity of the heroes captivates with its freshness and vitality. The pen glides easily and quickly. Hence - such simple, but such convincing images, and some seem to be sculpted with pagan courage. One would like to call them a piece of pristine nature, or rather, its test model.
It was as if the principle of art had been realized for the first time. For the first time, that says it all and justifies everything. That is why in some images of stories it is not always possible to find inner depth, refinement and completeness. The main thing is to express the essence, while the essence, the born thought and memory are important.
But here’s what’s significant: these stories declare a new view - the main thing in life: humanity, kindness, and not class cruelty and hatred. At that time, this was a clear retreat, a departure from the emerging literary tradition. In Sholokhov's stories (especially 1925–1926) one can feel the breath healthy life, from their pages rises real man and declares his right to create, do good, feel and love.
Of course, the author of the stories could not (and did not want to!) avoid showing a fierce confrontation between two forces, depicting a revolution that is destroying and a revolution that is defending itself, and people in this terrible chaos, where it was no longer possible to determine who was right and who was wrong. However, the poeticization of the cruelest and unprecedented struggle for life and death, which - alas! - respectable, let's say, writers paid tribute. It is characteristic that Sholokhov's characters base their actions on specific circumstances, and not on an abstract idea, even if these actions are directed against human life. Bodyagin sentences his father to death for sabotage and goes to his death, saving the little boy (“Food Commissar”); Shibalok executes his front-line girlfriend, who is responsible for the death of the detachment, and saves the child; the farmhand Alyoshka, merciless to the bandits, lay down with his stomach on a grenade, when a woman with a child came out of the besieged house where the enemies were holed up... People are exhausted by troubles and bitter (blood seems to be dripping from the pages of stories), but there, in the depths of their hearts, it burns with an azure color tenderness and faith does not fade.
Undoubtedly, such a deep and fearless outlook on life is largely due to the personal fate of the narrator himself.
We should not forget that the beginning of Sholokhov’s work coincided with the transition period, with the era of the departure from the historical arena of one political system and the establishment of another, which had an undeniable impact on the entire further course of world development. The transition period in Russia was exceptionally rich in threatening and unpredictable events and provided a wealth of material for thought and artistic analysis. Sholokhov was one of the few who understood and felt with the artist’s heart the full depth of the tragedy of Russia. Where is the exit? There was no definite answer, and there couldn’t be one. The writer pinned his hopes primarily on the instinct of self-preservation of the people, on the creative principle as the main sign of the health of the nation. This is the pathos of his new work. The story “Alien Blood” (1926) is not inferior to the famous “The Fate of Man” (1956) either in the expression of unprecedented emotional tension, or in the high impulses of the spirit and the preservation of an epic attitude towards the surrounding world, but in the strength of internal energy and the freshness of perception of nature, which breathed bitter the smell of wormwood seems to surpass it. But such is the fate of a talented piece (“Alien Blood”), overshadowed by a work of genius (“Quiet Don”). Like any masterpiece, “Alien Blood” contains a certain secret, a high tension of feelings and thoughts that cannot be directly interpreted or commented on. Even after entering the holy of holies creative laboratory artist, a serious researcher stops shocked and puzzled: the artist himself turns out to be powerless to explain many of his creative secrets... In the story there is a struggle between life and death, light and darkness, and the bright human principle, like a spring flood, sweeps away ideological dogmas and rigid class installations. But how dearly a person has to pay for everything in this world!
Critics initially assessed Sholokhov's stories positively. In general, the first collection, “Don Stories” (January 1926), as well as the second, “Azure Steppe” (late 1926), were received favorably.
But by the end of the 1920s, the attitude of literary criticism towards the young writer was changing dramatically: the tone and nature of reviews of his works were becoming more and more picky and harsh. Both the themes of the stories and creative method, and (which was by no means safe at that time) the ideological position of the author. Sholokhov was accused of “naturalism,” “schematicism,” “biologism,” and of deviating from proletarian literature, and moreover, he was declared a “vacillating middle peasant” and a “petty-bourgeois humanist.”
Undoubtedly, the nature of these attacks lies not only in the widespread instinctive rejection of a new bright talent, but also in the Russianness of the writer that irritates internationally-minded intellectuals. National and folk were his original features, the essence of his talent.
Sholokhov may have come closest to recreating folk life, for he not only had the intuition of a brilliant artist, but also came from the thick of the people and throughout his life he did not break with the language, thinking, feelings and worldview of his native environment. In addition, he is a representative and exponent of agricultural culture - that culture that underlies everything great that has been created by mankind in the field of art and fine literature.
The writer spoke on behalf of the people, through their mouths. Hence the mighty power of the word and the aesthetic multidimensionality of its images best works. Only by such signs can one confidently judge the writer’s belonging to the culture of a particular people. Only this gives him the right to the title of national artist.
* * *
It would be a stretch to consider Sholokhov’s work as established once and for all and devoid of development and change. The artist was alien to rapid transitions, sudden leaps and recognition of the duality of artistic truth. Historicism of thinking is inherent in him. Possessing a completely new artistic worldview, a new understanding of the role of literature in the life of society, Sholokhov reflected the transitional stages of society, historical destiny Russia.
While continuing to work on the novel “They Fought for the Motherland” and reflecting on the second book of “Virgin Soil Upturned,” the artist creates the story “The Fate of a Man” (1956), which is destined to occupy a special place in his creative biography. Here we are faced with a new shade of social emphasis and coverage of the military theme, which opened up a broad perspective for literature to comprehend reality, namely: what problems faced the country in days of peace and what does victory promise to the people, which cost them unheard of troubles, great suffering and innumerable victims?
It is noteworthy that the story almost completely lacks pathos and sublime heroism, so characteristic of literature about war. Sholokhov excludes common external plausibility in the name of the high truth, to which he was always faithful. Therefore, we are talking about a mature view of the state of the world, which needs sympathy and mercy. It is no coincidence that the artist’s entire attention is focused on revealing the image of a wonderful man who overcame a “military hurricane of unprecedented force,” but found himself doomed to restlessness and loneliness.
The very fact that the artist turned to the small genre in which he shone thirty years ago is worthy of attention. In addition, he deliberately (“to test himself”) used the most difficult form - a first-person story.
The short story is a difficult genre, the craft of storytelling is very difficult, and it requires careful, thoughtful and slow reading from the reader. As rightly noted, the story of a true master is not fun at leisure, but an “emergency incident” in the life of the reader” (B. Larin). There are many famous novelists in the history of world literature, but there are hardly a dozen major masters story.
Sholokhov's last story, while having a number of features inherent in the small genre, is distinguished by its undoubted innovative qualities. The classical rigor of the composition, harsh laconicism and tension of the plot are combined here with epicness and tragedy, previously unusual in the small form. The impression is enhanced by the author’s emotion and the integrity of the protagonist’s image. The story, it seems, was not composed, but seemed to grow out of a cruel reality, in the epicenter of which Andrei Sokolov found himself.
On the thirty-first of December 1956 and the first of January 1957, “The Fate of Man” was published on the pages of Pravda.
The beginning of the story is in an epic tone. The author dispassionately and calmly describes the muddy roads, the fatigue of the horses, the decrepit little boat on which the travelers cross the river, and finally, a spring day. “The first post-war spring on the Upper Don was unusually friendly and assertive. At the end of March, warm winds blew from the Azov region, and within two days the sands of the left bank of the Don were completely exposed, snow-filled ravines and gullies in the steppe swelled up, breaking the ice, steppe rivers leaped madly, and the roads became almost completely impassable.” And the crystal ice glistening in the sun, and the lilac haze of the fog, and the eternally young, barely perceptible aroma of the earth recently freed from under the snow - everything seemed to be conducive to serene contemplation and peace: “It was noon. The sun was shining hotly, like in May. I hoped that the cigarettes (laid out on a fallen fence. - N.F.) will dry out soon. The sun was shining so hotly that I already regretted wearing military cotton trousers and a quilted jacket for the journey. It was the first truly warm day after winter. It was good to sit on the fence like this, alone, completely submitting to silence and loneliness, and, having taken off the old soldier’s earflaps from his head, drying his hair, wet after heavy rowing, in the breeze, mindlessly watching the white busty clouds floating in the faded blue.” A man and a boy about five or six years old appeared from behind the outer courtyards of the farm. They wearily wandered towards the crossing, but, having caught up with the author, they headed towards him.
The calm tone of the story ends abruptly as soon as Andrei Sokolov approaches and starts talking about his life. The confession of this man is full of sorrow.
“Sometimes you don’t sleep at night, you look into the darkness with empty eyes and think: “Why have you, life, maimed me like that? Why did you distort it like that? “I don’t have an answer, either in the dark or in the clear sun... No, and I can’t wait!” And further: “I had a family, my own home, all this had been put together for years, and everything collapsed in a single moment, I was left alone. I think: “Didn’t I just dream about my awkward life?”
They beat you because you were Russian, because you White light you’re still looking... They beat you because you looked the wrong way, stepped the wrong way, turned the wrong way...<…>And they fed us everywhere the same way: one and a half hundred grams of ersatz bread, half and half with sawdust, and liquid rutabaga gruel. Boiling water – where they gave it and where they didn’t.<…>And give me work, and don’t say a word, but such work that a draft horse wouldn’t even fit.”
After escaping from captivity, a new misfortune came - news from Voronezh about the death of his wife and daughters from a German bomb, and soon the death of his son: “Exactly on the ninth of May, in the morning of Victory Day, a German sniper killed my Anatoly...<…>I buried my last joy and hope in a foreign, German land, my son’s battery struck, seeing off his commander on a long journey, and it was as if something broke in me...”
Here he is, Andrei Sokolov, after everything he has experienced: “He put big dark hands, hunched over. I looked at him from the side, and I felt something uneasy... Have you ever seen eyes, as if sprinkled with ashes, filled with such an inescapable mortal melancholy that it is difficult to look into them? These were the eyes of my random interlocutor.” Elsewhere: “...but I didn’t see a single tear in his seemingly dead, extinct eyes. He sat with his head bowed down, only his large, limply lowered hands trembled slightly, his chin trembled, his hard lips trembled. as if the eyes had gone out. Throughout the entire story, Sokolov’s voice will be heard, muffled and sad.
To get a clearer idea of Sokolov’s image, we should touch on one more element of his biography. “And here’s another problem: almost every night I see my dear dead in my dreams. And it’s increasingly like I’m behind the barbed wire, and they’re free, on the other side... I talk about everything with Irina and the kids, but as soon as I want to push the wire with my hands, they walk away from me, as if they’re melting before my eyes...”
Mikhail Alexandrovich Sholokhov
Collected Works in eight volumes
Volume 1. Stories
From the publisher
Collected works of the outstanding Soviet writer Mikhail Alexandrovich Sholokhov is published by the State Publishing House fiction in eight volumes.
The first volume will include early stories, created by the writer in 1923–1926;
volumes two through five will comprise the epic “Quiet Don”;
the sixth and seventh books will include the first and second books of the novel “Virgin Soil Upturned”;
the eighth volume will include stories and essays different years, literary and journalistic articles, speeches and speeches of the writer.
Born in 1905 in the Kruzhilin farmstead, Veshenskaya village, former Don region. Father is Russian, mother is Ukrainian.
Until 1918, I studied at the gymnasium, but the civil war that began at that time interrupted my studies, and in 1918 I began to work. In five years I changed many professions. He began publishing in 1923. Since then literary activity became my main profession in life.
I reviewed the early stories, as well as the text of “The Quiet Don” and the first book of “Virgin Soil Upturned” for this edition.
M. Sholokhov.
Stories
On the table are cartridge cases that smell of burnt gunpowder, a lamb bone, a field map, a report, a bridle with the scent of horse sweat, a loaf of bread. All this is on the table, and on a hewn bench, moldy from the damp wall, with his back pressed tightly against the windowsill, Nikolka Koshevoy, the squadron commander, is sitting. The pencil is in his frozen, motionless fingers. Next to the old posters spread out on the table is a half-filled questionnaire. The rough leaf says sparingly: Koshevoy Nikolay. Squadron commander. Earth worker Member of the RKSM.
Against the “age” column, the pencil slowly writes: 18 years.
Nikolka is broad-shouldered and looks beyond his years. His eyes, lined with radiant wrinkles, and his back, stooped like an old man, make him look old.
The boy, the boy, is a green cougar, - they say jokingly in the squadron, - but look for someone else who could eliminate two gangs almost without damage and lead the squadron into battles and battles for six months no worse than any old commander!
Nikolka is ashamed of her eighteen years. The pencil always crawls against the hated “age” column, slowing down its run, and Nikolka’s cheekbones blaze with an annoying blush. Nikolkin’s father is a Cossack, and on his father’s side he is a Cossack. He remembers, as if half asleep, when he was five or six years old, his father put him on his service horse.
Hold on to your mane, son! - he shouted, and his mother smiled at Nikolka from the door of the cooking room, turning pale, and with wide-open eyes she looked at the little legs that circled the sharp spine of the horse, and at her father, who was holding the reins.
That was a long time ago. Nikolkin’s father disappeared during the German war, as if he sank into the water. Not a word of him, not a ghost. Mother died. From his father, Nikolka inherited a love of horses, immeasurable courage and a mole, the same as his father’s, the size of a pigeon’s egg, on his left leg, above the ankle. Until he was fifteen, he hung around among the workers, and then he begged for a long overcoat and, with the Red Regiment passing through the village, went to attack Wrangel. This summer Nikolka swam in the Don with the military commissar. He, stuttering and twisting his shell-shocked head, said, slapping Nikolka on her stooped and tanned back:
You are that... that... You are happy... happy! Well, yes, happy! A mole is, they say, happiness.
Nikolka bared his boiling teeth, dived and, snorting, shouted from the water:
You're lying, weirdo! I’ve been an orphan since childhood, I’ve spent my whole life working as a worker, but he’s a blessing!..
And he swam onto the yellow spit that hugged the Don.
The hut where Nikolka lives is located on a ravine above the Don. From the windows you can see the green splashing Obdonye and the blued steel of the water. At night, during a storm, the waves knock under the yar, the shutters yearn, choking, and it seems to Nikolka that water is creeping insinuatingly into the cracks of the floor and, as it arrives, shaking the hut.
He wanted to move to another apartment, but he never did, he stayed until the fall. On a frosty morning, Nikolka came out onto the porch, breaking the fragile silence with the chime of his shod boots. He went down to the cherry orchard and lay down on the grass, stained with tears and gray with dew. You can hear how in the barn the owner persuades the cow to stand still, the heifer moos demandingly and in a deep voice, and streams of milk are heard against the walls of the chicken barn.
A gate creaked in the yard and a dog began to bark. Platoon commander's voice:
Commander at home?
Nikolka rose up on his elbows.
Here I am! Well, what else is there?
A messenger arrived from the village. He says the gang made its way from the Salsk district, took over the Grushinsky state farm...
Bring him here.
A horse is pulled by a messenger to the stable, then doused with hot water. In the middle of the yard, she fell on her front legs, then on her side, wheezed abruptly and briefly and died, looking with glassy eyes at the chained dog, choking on an angry bark. Because she died because there were three crosses on the package brought by express, and with the package the express person rode forty miles without stopping.
Nikolka read that the chairman was asking him to come out with the squadron to help, and he went to the room, clutching his saber, thinking wearily: “I should study to go somewhere, but here is a gang... The military commissar is ashamed: they say, you can’t write the words correctly, and also a squadron... What does it have to do with me that I didn’t manage to graduate from parish school? He’s an eccentric... And here’s a gang... There’s blood again, and I’m tired of living like this... I’m sick of everything...”
He went out onto the porch, loading his carbine as he walked, and his thoughts, like horses on a well-trodden road, raced: “I should go to the city... I should study...”
He walked past a dead horse into the stable, looked at the black ribbon of blood running from his dusty nostrils, and turned away.
Along the hummocky summer grass, along the ruts licked by the winds, the mousey roadside plant curls up, the quinoa and puffballs burst thickly and terry. Once upon a time, hay was transported along the road to the threshing floors, frozen in the steppe with amber splashes, and the thorn road lay in a mound near the telegraph poles. The pillars run into the whitish autumn haze, they step over logs and beams, and past the pillars on a shiny path the ataman leads a gang - fifty Don and Kuban Cossacks, dissatisfied with the Soviet government. For three days, like a fed-up wolf from a flock of sheep, they leave on roads and virgin lands without roads, and behind him, in nazir, is Nikolka Koshevoy’s detachment.
Notorious people in the gang, service-minded, experienced, and yet the ataman is deeply thoughtful: he stands up in his stirrups, scans the steppe with his eyes, counts miles to the blue border of the forests stretching on the other side of the Don.
