I. S. Shmelev is a talented Russian writer of the 20th century. Shmelev's hobbies were varied. In addition to studying at the Faculty of Law of Moscow University, he was interested in the botanical discoveries of K. Timiryazev. His first literary work- sketch from folk life“At the Mill”, then there were stories, novellas. Correspondence began with Gorky. The main merit and innovation of the writer was his transformation into his hero. In addition, it is distinguished by the thematic diversity of its works: the noble estate and the artistic intelligentsia,
Quiet living for servants, etc.
The story of I. S. Shmelev “How I became a writer” can be attributed to diary entries or memories. This work is also completely autobiographical. It was written in 1895 and published in the Russian Review magazine. It tells about the history of the creation and publication of the author’s very first work – sketches from folk life “At the Mill”. The story “How I Became a Writer” well conveys the time and life of a person within society. Shmelev shows how his journey began, how the writer approached his first story, how literature lessons and work on his essay helped him.
It begins with a direct explanation from the author; he explains his becoming a writer like this: “It turned out so simply and unceremoniously that I didn’t even notice. You could say it was unintentional. Now that this has actually come out, it sometimes seems to me that I did not become a writer, but as if I had always been one, only a writer “without a press.”
Next, the writer delves into childhood memories. He recalls the nanny’s words: “Why are you such a babble? Melet-melet who knows what. as soon as your tongue doesn’t get tired, balabolka. " He remembers childhood toys, a cube with a torn picture, a folding alphabet book with a letter, a ray of sunshine on the wall, a trembling bunny. Also emerging in the writer’s memory is a branch of a live birch tree that suddenly grew in the crib near the icon, so green and wonderful, the paint on a tin pipe painted with bright roses, its smell and taste mixed with the taste of blood from a sponge scratched with a sharp edge, black cockroaches on the floor , who were about to climb in on me, the smell of a saucepan with porridge. God in the corner with a lamp, the babbling of an incomprehensible prayer, in which “rejoice” glows.
The author talks about talking to toys that smelled like a “forest” in which there were “wolves.” But both the “forest” and the “wolves” were special to him, his own. Everything was alive for little Shmelev: boards, saws, a broom and even a doormat, which the boy consoled because it stood in the corner “punished.” Everything seemed alive to him, everything told stories! For his constant chatter, Shmelev was nicknamed “the Roman orator” in the first grade of the gymnasium, and this nickname lasted for quite a long time.
All this was the “pre-literate” period of the writer’s life, which was soon followed by the “written” period.
In the third grade, fascinated by the novels of Jules Verne, the boy wrote his first “poem” about the journey of all his teachers to the moon on hot-air balloon, made from the immense trousers of his Latinist Behemoth. The “poem” was even a success, and then fell into the hands of the inspector. Of course, the inspector did not praise Shmelev for his work, he led the boy into a deserted room where there was an iconostasis near the windows and began to speak through his teeth in a terrible, whistling voice, sucking in air through his nose, like the coldest Englishman: “And ss-so-so. and ss. such years, and ss. such a disrespectful review from Essa, ss. so disdainful of old people. about mentors, about teachers. you allow yourself to call our venerable Mikhail Sergeevich, the son of such a great historian of ours. Martysskaya. By decision pedagogical council. “Of course, these words were followed by punishment: six hours on “Sunday.”
Little Shmelev blossomed so quickly and magnificently in his writings that he somehow brought in the poet and mourner Nadson to the description of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. The words of this poet were remembered by the boy when she wanted to express the feeling of spiritual uplift that you experience when you stand under the deep arches: “My friend, my brother. tired, suffering brother, / Whoever you are, don’t lose heart: / Let untruth and evil reign supreme / Over the land washed with tears...” After this, the young writer was called to the pulpit and began to nag: “So-so. It’s in vain that you’re sitting around reading books that aren’t included in the Uenise library! We have a network of Puskin, Lermontov, Derzavin. but none of your Nadson. No! Who is this and who is this? Na-dson. You have been given a topic about the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, according to plan. and you bring some “suffering brother” to either the village or the city. some nonsense poetry! It would be a B; but I give you a three minus. And why is there some “philosopher” here? with a “v” at the end! - “philosophers-in-Smals”! You don’t know how to write the word “philosopher”, do you write with “into” philosophy? And secondly, there was Smice, not Smals, which means - lard! And he, like your Nadson, had nothing to do with the Cathedral of Christ the Savior! Three minus! Go and think." But Shmelev decided to defend his own and said that it was his lyrical digression, for example, like Gogol. In response, Nikolai Ivanovich made a grimace, which he called a “smile,” and said: “Oh, wow. Gogol. or maybe eggnog? Here's how. Give me your notebook. “And Nikolai Ivanovich with a ruthless hand corrected the three with a minus to the count. After such a remarkable incident, Shmelev began to hate Nadson and philosophy. This ill-fated stake ruined the boy’s grades; he was not allowed to take the exams and remained in the second year. But, nevertheless, Shmelev did not despair.
In the second year, the boy came to another dictionary, Fyodor Vladimirovich Tsvetaev, who gave the boy the freedom to write the way he wanted. It gave him great pleasure to write great essays on poetic themes: “Morning in the Forest”, “Russian Winter”, “Autumn according to Pushkin”, “ Fishing", "Thunderstorm in the forest." This was hundreds of times better than Nikolai Ivanovich asked: “Work and love for one’s neighbor as the basis of moral improvement”, “What is remarkable about Lomonosov’s message to Shuvalov “On the benefits of glass” and “What is the difference between conjunctions and adverbs.”
Shmelev fell in love with the new teacher. Tsvetaev loved to read Pushkin out of the blue, so much so that even the most callous children were imbued with the feeling. Fyodor Vladimirovich gave Shmelev high marks for his “stories,” saying: “That’s it, man. You have something. a certain “bump,” as they say. Parable of the Talents. remember!
He was the only one of the mentors with whom the boy exchanged cards; when the teacher was buried, he cried. And Tsvetaev remained in the boy’s heart for the rest of his life.
And finally, the third period is “printed”.
Imperceptibly, Shmelev moved from class essays on poetic themes to his own. This happened when he graduated from high school. In the summer, while fishing on a remote river, the boy came across a pool, near an old mill, where a deaf old man lived. This picture reminded him of Pushkin’s “Rusalka”, and something in this landscape struck him. And - it passed. That fall, because of cholera, all classes were canceled, and some did not come. And only during preparation for the matriculation certificate, something appeared again! The boy immediately remembered the pool, the mill, the dam, the cliffs, the mountain ash... He threw away all the books and that same evening wrote big story. The title came to the author itself - “At the Mill”.
The story was creepy and filled with everyday drama. Shmelev made himself a witness to the denouement so vividly that he believed his own invention. But then a problem arose: how to publish this story? And the writer remembered that he saw on Tverskaya a sign “Russian Review”, a monthly magazine. But he knew nothing at all about this magazine and finally went to Tverskaya to look for it.
Shmelev came there straight after school, wearing a heavy padded coat. The doorman told him: “You're welcome. they want to see you for themselves.” The boy jumped off the sofa and entered the sanctuary. Everything in the editor-in-chief's office seemed huge to the boy: the walls, the closet, the desk, and the palm tree. The editor was Anatoly Alexandrov, private associate professor at Moscow University. He told the boy to come back in two months.
Shmelev looked there in the midst of exams, but it turned out that he had to look “in two months.” But he didn’t look in, he had already become a student, and he was drawn into something completely different.
Surprisingly, after some time an envelope arrived from the publishing house, where student Shmelev was asked to look into it. He came and the editor told him: “Congratulations, I liked your story. You have a pretty good dialogue, lively Russian speech. You feel Russian nature. E-mail me". These words did not make much of an impression on Shmelev; after a couple of days he forgot about them and did not realize that he had become a writer.
After some time, the magazine “Russian Review” fell into Shmelev’s hands, where he found his story, without a single omission or correction. The joy knew no bounds, but only for a few days. After little writer I forgot about it again.
Then a new invitation from the editor. He came without knowing why. And the editor gave the boy a fee of eighty rubles, which became a real shock for the young writer. Then the editor began asking questions about the magazine, but the boy was a little ashamed, because apart from the July issue he had not seen anything else. The editor also recommended Konstantin Leontyev to Shmelev as a writer.
Shmelev left the publishing house intoxicated by the feeling that behind all this randomness there was something great and extremely important. He was literally overwhelmed by a wave of new emotions: “he looked at his last name under the story - as if it wasn’t mine! There was something new, completely different about her. And I am different. For the first time then I felt that I was different. Writer? I didn’t feel it, I didn’t believe it, I was afraid to think. I felt only one thing: I had to do something, learn a lot, read, peer and think. - get ready. I am different, different."
This work by Shmelev can be called autobiographical. In it, the author tells readers about how his gift as a writer originated. Moreover, all this information is presented completely unobtrusively in the form of a story, which makes the study of this material even more interesting.
Shmelev has always been a writer, only at first he did not publish. Even in early childhood, the nanny called him an inventor. In every object, in every inanimate thing, he saw life. The boy could talk to boards, toys, wood shavings, and everything he saw. It was for this that, while studying at the gymnasium, he received the nickname “Roman orator.” When little Shmelev was in third grade, he was fond of reading novels by J. Verne. It was during this period of time that his first poem was written. For this act, he was punished by a teacher - a literature teacher, who was of a rather strict disposition.
The author made similar attempts while studying in the fifth grade, but again was not understood by the teachers. But soon, the strict teacher was replaced by another teacher, who allowed the boy to reveal his talent and write. For this he even gave good marks to Shmelev. Fyodor Vladimirovich Tsvetaev became such a mentor. He was quite free-spirited. He could suddenly start reading Pushkin at any moment, and he did it in such a way that even children indifferent to literature listened to him with their mouths open. Tsvetaev took a special place in little Shmelev’s heart. He maintained a relationship only with this teacher, and when he was buried, the boy cried bitterly.
After graduating from high school, the author took his first official work, “At the Mill,” to the publishing house. Editor Anatoly Alexandrov asked Shmelev to come in two months. During this time, the boy became a student, and he was occupied with completely different concerns. However, after some time an envelope arrived with a request to appear at the editorial office. The story that the novice writer proposed turned out to be difficult to perceive and read. Nevertheless, it was accepted for publication, and the author was paid a fee. It was then, after the release of the work, that Shmelev realized that he had begun to completely new life- the life of a writer. But for a long time he could not get used to the fact that his name appeared on the cover of the book.
In the work “How I Became a Writer,” Shmelev managed to restore the events of past years. The author allowed himself such weakness as to again succumb to the feelings that he then experienced. This time became decisive in his life. This story is intended to show readers that difficult crucial moment when the key purpose of the individual has undergone significant changes.
Picture or drawing How I became a writer
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This was 5 years ago. Back then I was a naive and stupid boy who believed in fairy tales. The people whom he considered friends were hypocritical hyenas who were ready to do anything to save their skins. And my own mother didn’t care about me. Regardless of my mistakes, she punished me to the fullest extent. One of her favorite punishments was to be kicked out of the house. During each such punishment or when I felt really bad, I ran out of town to my own place. There was a small river with an oak tree near a ravine. Due to the steep cliff and heavily overgrown road, no one went there. A large, luxurious oak tree growing nearby hid with its branches all the ugliness of human nature, leaving a small gap in the middle of this river. It was December. The snow swept everything around, as if covering it with a blanket of snowflakes. In one of wonderful days, in math class, I got a bad grade. After class I went up to the teacher to ask:
Why did they give me this bad grade? I received only wild disgust in response. catchphrase: “So that life doesn’t seem like raspberries.”
During the rest of the lessons, I couldn’t get this phrase out of my head. Afterwards I went home, threw my briefcase at the wall with obscenities, continuing to think about it. Textbooks scattered throughout the room from the impact. A couple of hours later my mother returned from work. She was very tired. Therefore, without much hesitation, she said:
Give me the diary here. Continuing to think about how the idol gave her his diary lying at her feet. With a tired face, she looked at me, sighing and asked:
Couldn't you solve a couple of examples?
Screaming like Small child I answer her:
I did everything right. The mother said with a calm voice:
Don't yell. And you still haven't answered why?
No matter what life seems like raspberries, she told me.
I'm tired of your lies. Therefore, you will live on the street for three days.
After these words, I ran to my place to think. I didn’t care about the cold and my worthless life. Then I had only one thought in my head: If I die, I will die where they won’t send me to my death. The pleasant chill only warmed my heart. The closer I got to that place, the more I wanted to sleep. This is not surprising. Wearing holey pants and a T-shirt at -30 is normal. Having run there in a half-asleep state, I saw scattered bottles, an extinguished fire and a pile of garbage. In a dying state, leaning my back against an oak tree, I looked at the river. In the middle stood a small and very beautiful girl. She was like a little angel. White hair, a dress and bare feet. I was already ready to die. Walking on the water, she constantly said my name. Coming almost right next to me, she took a green bottle of wine from the pile of garbage that lay around me. Then she held it out with both hands with a sincere smile.
Drink this if you want to heal your soul.
Fine. Every sip of this drink seemed to change my view of the world.
It's like someone is giving me back my eyes. All the memories from the age of 3 began to fly over my eyes.
Fulfill your destiny as a writer. Turning to her, I asked the most logical question:
And who are you?
And at that moment she smiled again and disappeared into thin air. After that I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was hard to recognize me. Outwardly, I looked as usual, but inside I felt like a broken old man who had lived dozens of lives. It was already dark, so I decided to return home. My mother was standing in the corridor outside the door. She was angry. Through clenched teeth she asked me:
Where have I been for three days?
Funny. You yourself kicked me out for three days. And now you are surprised.
Don't be rude to your mother. After these words, she raised her right hand to slap her in the face, but by chance I caught her with the words:
If you try to raise your hand against me again, I will break it. Then she swung her left hand, but hit my block.
In vain. Dislocating it right hand, I said.
Her terrible cry of pain meant nothing to me. As if this is how it should be.
I told you so.
Cattle. Call an ambulance.
Now I’ll just drink it and set your hand.
I’ll call an ambulance now and set the cops on you, you little idiot. Taking a cherry tree from the kitchen that was standing under the table, I saw how she called the ambulance.
Hello, my hand is quick... .
After these words, I walked up close to her, took hold of her dislocated arm and skillfully set it.
Ay. Taking the phone from her he said:
Sorry to bother you. My mom just had a slight sprain and she was really worried.
Taking me by the shoulders, my mother began to look into my eyes, as if she had seen a miracle.
How did you do it? She asked with wild fear in her eyes.
How should I know?
After that, she started walking in the corridor from side to side, wondering what happened to me.
This is impossible.
Maybe. Just sit down and have a drink with me first.
I definitely need a drink.
Sitting down in the kitchen, she put the glasses on the table, poured herself a whole glass of cherry and immediately drank it in one gulp.
Who are you?
I don't know myself.
OK. Let's do this. You will live here for now, and then we will decide what to do with you.
The next day I ran back to my place and saw that same girl sitting next to yesterday’s charred firewood.
I waited for you.
What the hell is going on here?
I healed your soul so that you could fulfill your destiny.
What the hell is the purpose?
Be a writer. The girl answered with a giggle.
What kind of writer am I?
Great.
It was not a question.
I know. You will write three books that will change the world, and then you will die.
How will I write these books if I don’t know how to write them?
A teacher who will teach you to be in Magadan.
After these words she disappeared and never appeared again. At school they started to consider me a weirdo. This is not surprising. Seeing through everyone, I began to reject people who were dear to me. The result was not long in coming. Three months later I decided to go to Magadan in search of a teacher. Before saying goodbye to his mother, he said two words:
I have to go.
Good luck. I didn’t have money for a plane, so I had to go by train. A reserved seat for vodka and a fool can turn a blind eye to everything. A week later I was already in Magadan. There was good sunshine then. A strong premonition told me that I had to go to the port. Approaching the policeman at the station, I asked:
Where is the port?
To which he answered me:
Walk straight without turning.
Thank you.
Arriving at the port, I looked at the sea at the pier and saw that same girl. Being at the beginning of the port, she pointed with her hand to the other end of the port. I walked there slowly. Giant ships and unfriendly, gloomy people surrounded me. Suddenly some grimy boy pushes me on the shoulder and says:
From the road.
A smart policeman with a leather folder was chasing him, shouting:
Stop. I will shoot.
Approaching almost the middle of this port, among the giant cruisers stood a small fishing boat with the strange name "Admiral". On an old plastic lounger lay an old man very similar to old Hemingway in sunglasses, a fisherman's suit and a black bandit cap. This mysterious girl appeared next to him and started pointing at him. Coming close to him, he slowly turned his head towards her and sharply shouted:
Get out of here.
Do you see her?
Yeah. Sitting down, he took a bottle of port from under the sun lounger and looked at me with a disgusted face. After which, he said.
Everything written by Ivan Shmelev serves to deeply understand Russia, its root system, and awaken love for our forefathers. Until the end of his days, he felt a stinging pain from memories of his Motherland, its nature, its people. IN latest books the great writer - the strongest infusion of original Russian words, the very face of Russia, which he sees in its meekness and poetry. “This spring splash remained in my eyes - with festive shirts, boots, horses neighing, with the smells of spring chill, warmth and sun. Remained alive in my soul, with thousands of Mikhails and Ivanovs, with all the spiritual world of the Russian peasant, sophisticated to the point of simplicity and beauty, with his slyly cheerful eyes, sometimes clear like water, sometimes darkened to a black haze, with laughter and lively words, with affection and wild rudeness. I know that I am connected with him for a century. Nothing will splash out of me this spring splash, the bright spring of life... It entered and will leave with me” (“Spring splash”), About Shmelev, especially him late creativity, wrote a lot and thoroughly. Only two fundamental works were published in German, there are serious studies in other languages, the number of articles and reviews is large. And yet, among this extensive list, the works of the Russian philosopher and publicist I. A. Ilyin stand out, to whom Shmelev was especially close spiritually and who found his own key to Shmelev’s creativity as deeply national creativity. About “The Summer of the Lord,” he wrote, in particular: “A great master of word and image, Shmelev created here in the greatest simplicity a refined and unforgettable fabric of Russian life, in precise, rich and graphic words: here is the “tartbne of the March drop”; here in sunbeam“golden coins are fussing,” “axes are grunting,” “watermelons with a bang” are being bought, “a black mess of jackdaws in the sky” is visible. And so everything is sketched: from the spilled Lenten market to the smells and prayers Apple Spas, from “breaking up” to Epiphany swimming in an ice hole. Everything is seen and shown with intense vision, with trembling of the heart; everything is taken lovingly, tenderly, intoxicated and intoxicatingly; here everything radiates from the restrained, unshed tears of tender and grateful memory. Russia and the Orthodox structure of her soul are shown here by the power of clairvoyant love.” And indeed, “Phygomatism,” “The Summer of the Lord,” “Native,” as well as the stories “An Unprecedented Lunch,” “Martyn and Kinga” are united not only by the biography of a child, little Vanya . Through the material world, densely saturated with everyday and psychological details, something larger is revealed to the reader. It seems that all of Russia, Rus' appears here “in the legends of deep antiquity,” in a magical combination of naive seriousness, strict good nature and sly humor. This is truly lost heaven” Shmelev the emigrant. That is why the power of piercing love for native land That’s why the successive pictures are so vivid and unforgettable.
“How I became a writer” is a story by Ivan Sergeevich Shmelev, dated 1895. The work is autobiographical in nature, the narration is told in the first person. The narrator opens the door to his creative laboratory. He shares his own experience, which may be useful to those who want to devote their lives to literary creativity.
The storyteller's development as a writer is divided into three stages. The first is the “preliterate” century of history” of his writing. From the early childhood he showed Creative skills and was very talkative, so much so that he received the nickname “balabolka” from his nanny and “Roman orator” in class. Moreover, the narrator often talked with inanimate objects - for example, he calmed a broom standing in the corner, imagining that it was being punished.
The second stage is “written”. While in third grade, the narrator became interested in the novels of Jules Verne and composed a long “poem” that described the teachers’ journey to the moon. At the same time, they went there in a hot air balloon made from the teacher’s huge pants Latin language. "Poem" was used great success among high school students, it was read even in high school. True, as a fee for her, the narrator received only a punishment from the gymnasium inspector. The “written” stage also included the period of writing essays.
The third stage is “printing”. In 1894 the narrator wrote the first small piece, called "At the Mill". He took it to the editorial office of the monthly magazine Russian Review. In 1895, the story was published and they even paid a fee of 80 rubles. After the first publication, the narrator realized that he had become different. In addition, he felt that “he had to do something, learn a lot, read, peer and think... - prepare.”
The images of teachers in the story “How I Became a Writer” are interesting. The first is the inspector of the Batalin gymnasium. Shmelev describes him as a “dry, tall” man with red sideburns, with a “thin, bony finger with a sharply sharpened nail.” He speaks “through clenched teeth,” and his voice is “terrible, whistling.” Batalin does not like children and has no talent for teaching. It is generally better not to let such teachers near children. He is not only uninterested in the creative searches of high school students, he opposes them. Batalin's essay topics are boring. For example, “Work and love for one’s neighbor as the basis of moral improvement” and “What is the difference between conjunctions and adverbs.”
The second teacher is literature teacher Fedor Vladimirovich Tsvetaev. He played a very important role in the fate of the narrator. Tsvetaev is a good teacher who asked him to write “essays on poetic themes.” Shmelev describes the “unforgettable” Fyodor Vladimirovich as follows: “Dense, slow, as if half asleep, speaking slightly with an “o”, chuckling slightly with his eyes.” Perhaps Tsvetaev’s main advantage is that he was able to discern talent in the storyteller. Fyodor Vladimirovich encouraged him, giving him A’s “with sometimes three C’s” and thereby inspiring further creativity.
To create the images of Tsvetaev and Batalin, Shmelev used the technique of opposition. These teachers are radically different from each other. They have different approaches to work and to students. It is quite obvious whose approach is better and whom schoolchildren love more. The narrator admits that he cried at Tsvetaev’s funeral and that to this day this teacher remains in his heart.
The key idea of the work is stated at the very beginning: “... it sometimes seems to me that I did not become a writer, but as if I had always been one, only a writer “without a press.” This is true - as mentioned above, the narrator has shown creative inclinations since childhood. Only at first no one appreciated them. If it were not for the meeting with Tsvetaev, there is a high probability that the narrator would never have become a published writer.
