Ordinary land
There are no special beauties and riches in the Meshchora region, except for forests, meadows and clear air. But still this region has great attractive power. He is very modest - just like Levitan’s paintings. But in it, as in these paintings, lies all the charm and all the diversity of Russian nature, imperceptible at first glance.
What can you see in the Meshchora region? Flowering or mown meadows, pine forests, floodplains and forest lakes overgrown with black brush, haystacks smelling of dry and warm hay. Hay in stacks keeps you warm all winter.
I have had to spend the night in haystacks in October, when the grass at dawn is covered with frost, like salt. I dug a deep hole in the hay, climbed into it and slept all night in a haystack, as if in a locked room. And over the meadows there was cold rain and the wind came at oblique blows.
In the Meshchora region you can see pine forests, where it is so solemn and quiet that the bell of a lost cow can be heard far away.
almost a kilometer away. But such silence exists in the forests only on windless days. In the wind, the forests rustle with a great ocean roar and the tops of the pine trees bend after the passing clouds.
In the Meshchora region you can see forest lakes with dark water, vast swamps covered with alder and aspen, lonely foresters' huts charred from old age, sand, juniper, heather, schools of cranes and stars familiar to us at all latitudes.
What can you hear in the Meshchora region except the hum of pine forests? The cries of quails and hawks, the whistle of orioles, the fussy knocking of woodpeckers, the howl of wolves, the rustle of rain in the red needles, the evening cry of an accordion in the village, and at night - the multi-voiced crowing of roosters and the clapper of the village watchman.
But you can see and hear so little only in the first days. Then every day this region becomes richer, more diverse, dearer to the heart. And finally, the time comes when each willow tree above the dead river seems like its own, very familiar, when amazing stories can be told about it.
I broke the custom of geographers. Almost all geographical books begin with the same phrase: “This region lies between such and such degrees of eastern longitude and northern latitude and is bordered in the south by such and such a region, and in the north by such and such.” I will not name the latitudes and longitudes of the Meshchora region. Suffice it to say that it lies between Vladimir and Ryazan, not far from Moscow, and is one of the few surviving forest islands, a remnant of the “great belt of coniferous forests.” It once stretched from Polesie to the Urals. It included forests: Chernigov, Bryansk, Kaluga, Meshchora, Mordovian and Kerzhensky. Ancient Rus' hid in these forests from Tatar raids.
Text of the book “Collection of dictations in the Russian language for grades 5-11”
51
Under the light blow of the sultry wind, the sea shuddered and, covered with small ripples that brilliantly reflected the sun, smiled at the blue sky with thousands of silver smiles.
In the space between the sea and the sky there was a cheerful splash of waves running up onto the gentle shore of the sand spit. Everything was full of living joy: the sound and shine of the sun, the wind and the salty aroma of water, the hot air and yellow sand. A narrow long spit, piercing a sharp spire into the boundless desert of water sparkling with the sun, was lost somewhere in the distance, where a sultry haze hid the earth. Hooks, oars, baskets and barrels were scattered randomly on the spit. On this day, even the seagulls are exhausted by the heat. They sit in rows on the sand, with their beaks open and their wings down, or they swing lazily on the waves. When the sun began to descend into the sea, the restless waves either played cheerfully and noisily, or dreamily and affectionately splashed against the shore. Through their noise, either sighs or quiet, tenderly calling cries reached the shore. The sun was setting, and the pinkish reflection of its rays lay on the hot yellow sand. And the pitiful willow bushes, and the mother-of-pearl clouds, and the waves running up the shore - everything was preparing for the night's peace. Lonely, as if lost in the dark depths of the sea, the fire of the fire flared brightly, then died out, as if exhausted. Night shadows fell not only on the sea, but also on the shore. All around was only the immense, solemn sea, silvered by the moon, and the blue sky, strewn with stars.
(According to M. Gorky)
52 Ordinary land
There are no special beauties and riches in the Meshchera region, except for forests, meadows and clear air. And yet, this land of untrodden paths and unafraid animals and birds has great attractive power. It is as modest as Levitan’s paintings, but in it, as in these paintings, lies all the charm and all the diversity of Russian nature, imperceptible at first glance. What can you see in the Meshchersky region? Blooming, never-mown meadows, creeping fogs, pine forests, forest lakes, tall haystacks smelling of dry and warm hay. Hay in stacks remains warm throughout the winter. I have had to sleep in haystacks in October, when frost covers the grass at dawn, and I have dug a deep hole in the hay. When you climb into it, you immediately warm up and sleep throughout the night, as if in a heated room. And over the meadows the wind drives lead clouds. In the Meshchersky region you can see, or rather, hear such solemn silence that the bell of a lost cow can be heard from afar, almost kilometers away, unless, of course, it is a windless day. In summer, on windy days, the forests rustle with a great ocean roar and the tops of giant pine trees bend after the passing clouds.
Suddenly, not far away, lightning flashed. It's time to look for shelter to escape the unexpected rain. I hope I can hide in time under that oak tree over there. Under this natural tent, created by the generous nature, you will never get wet. But then the lightning flashed, and hordes of clouds flew off into the distance. Having made our way through wet ferns and some creeping vegetation, we emerge onto a barely noticeable path. How beautiful Meshchera is when you get used to it! Everything becomes familiar: the cries of quails, the fussy knock of woodpeckers, and the rustle of rain in the red needles, and the cry of a willow over a sleeping river.
(According to K. Paustovsky)
53
Nowadays they no longer carry bears around the villages. Yes, and the gypsies began to rarely wander, for the most part they live in the places where they are assigned, and only sometimes, paying tribute to their age-old habit, they go out somewhere to the pasture, stretch out the smoky linen and live with whole families, shoeing horses, farriery and bartering . I even happened to see that tents gave way to hastily put together wooden booths. It was in a provincial town: not far from the hospital and the market square, on a piece of undeveloped land, next to the post road.
The clanging of iron was heard from the booths; I looked into one of them: some old man was forging horseshoes. I looked at his work and saw that he was no longer the former gypsy blacksmith, but a simple artisan; Walking quite late in the evening, I approached the booth and saw an old man doing the same thing. It was strange to see a gypsy camp almost inside the city: plank booths, fires with cast-iron pots, in which gypsy women wrapped in colorful scarves were cooking some kind of food.
The gypsies walked through the villages, giving their performances for the last time. For the last time, the bears showed their art: they danced, fought, and showed how the boys stole peas. For the last time, old men and women came to receive treatment with a reliable, proven remedy: to lie on the ground under the bear, which lay on its belly on the patient, spreading its four paws widely in all directions on the ground. The last time they were led into the huts, and if the bear voluntarily agreed to enter, he was taken to the front corner and sat there, and his consent was rejoiced as a good sign.
(According to V. Garshin)
54
Over the past summer, I had to live in an old estate near Moscow, where several small dachas were built and rented out. I never expected this: a dacha near Moscow; I had never lived as a summer resident without some kind of business on an estate so different from our steppe estates, and in such a climate.
In the park of the estate, the trees were so large that the dachas built in some places in it seemed small underneath, having the appearance of native dwellings under the trees in tropical countries. The pond in the park, half covered with green duckweed, stood like a huge black mirror.
I lived on the outskirts of a park adjacent to a sparse mixed forest; My plank dacha was unfinished, the walls were not caulked, the floors were not planed, there was almost no furniture. Due to the dampness, which apparently never disappeared, my boots, lying under the bed, were overgrown with the velvet of mold.
It rained almost constantly all summer. It happened that every now and then white clouds would accumulate in the bright blue and thunder would roll in the distance, then brilliant rain would begin to fall through the sun, quickly turning from the heat into fragrant pine steam. Somehow, unexpectedly, the rain stopped, and from the park, from the forest, from the neighboring pastures - the joyful discord of birds was again heard from everywhere.
Before sunset it was still clear, and on my plank walls the crystal-golden net of the low sun trembled, falling into the windows through the foliage.
It got dark in the evenings only at midnight: the half-light of the west stands and stands through completely motionless, silent forests. On moonlit nights, this half-light somehow strangely mixed with the moonlight, also motionless and enchanted. And from the calm that reigned everywhere, from the purity of the sky and air, it seemed that there would be no more rain. But as I was falling asleep, I suddenly heard: a downpour with thunderclaps was falling on the roof again, there was boundless darkness all around and lightning was falling vertically.
In the morning, in the damp alleys, on the lilac ground, motley shadows and dazzling spots of the sun were spread, birds called flycatchers were clattering, and thrushes were croaking hoarsely. And by noon it was floating again, clouds appeared and rain began to fall.
(According to I. Bunin)
55
He angrily threw the cigarette butt that had hissed in the puddle, thrust his hands into the pockets of his unbuttoned, wind-blown coat and, bowing his head, which had not yet cleared up from his pre-lunch lessons and feeling the weight of a bad lunch in his stomach, began to walk with concentration and energy. But no matter how he walked, everything that was around him went with him: the slanting rain that wet his face, and the threadbare student uniform, and the huge houses, alien and silently crowded on both sides of the narrow street, and passers-by, wet, gloomy, who seemed all as one in the rain. All this familiarity, repeated day after day, went annoyingly along with him, not lagging behind for a minute or an instant.
And the whole atmosphere of his present life, all the same, repeated day after day, seemed to go along with him: in the morning a few sips of hot tea, then endless running around in classes.
And all the houses of his clients were in the same style, and life in them was in the same manner, and the relationships towards him and his towards them were the same. It seemed that he only changed streets during the day, but he entered the same people, the same family, despite the difference in physiognomies, ages and social status.
He called. They didn't open it for a long time. Zagrivov stood frowning. The rain still flickered slantingly, the cleanly washed sidewalks glistened damply. The cab drivers, ruffled, pulled the reins in the same way as always. This humility felt its own special life, inaccessible to others.
In an empty, bare room, without even a stove, there were three chairs. On the table lay two unfolded notebooks with pencils placed on them. Usually, when Zagrivov entered, he was met at the table, looking from under his brows, by two broad-shouldered, gloomy realists.
The eldest, the spitting image of his father, was in the fifth grade. Looking at that low forehead overgrown with coarse hair, at that heavy, irregular head cut back, it seemed that there was very little room left in the thick skull for the brain.
Zagrivov had never seen their mother, but for some reason it seemed that in the youngest, through the heavy shell of his father, the soft, feminine features of his mother were visible, alive, thirsting for light and life. It seemed that he was making vain efforts and attempts to get out of some difficult, oppressive situation, he was struggling gloomily, unable and without anyone to share, to relieve his soul.
Zagrivov never talked about anything extraneous with his students. There was always a wall of alienation between him and his students. A strict, stern silence reigned in the house, as if no one was walking, talking, or laughing.
(According to A. Serafimovich)
56 Blizzard
We drove for a long time, but the snowstorm did not weaken, but, on the contrary, seemed to intensify. It was a windy day, and even on the leeward side one could feel the incessant buzzing of some well below. My feet began to freeze, and I tried in vain to throw something on top of them. The coachman kept turning his weather-beaten face to me with reddened eyes and faded eyelashes and shouted something, but I couldn’t make out anything. He probably tried to cheer me up, since he was counting on the end of the journey soon, but his calculations did not come true, and we were lost in the darkness for a long time. Even at the station, he assured me that one can always get used to the winds, but I, a southerner and a homebody, endured these inconveniences of my journey, frankly, with difficulty. I could not shake the feeling that the trip I had undertaken was not at all safe.
The coachman had not sung his artless song for a long time; there was complete silence in the field, white, frozen; not a pillar, not a haystack, not a windmill - nothing is visible. By evening the snowstorm had subsided, but the impenetrable darkness in the field was also a gloomy picture. The horses seemed to be in a hurry, and the silver bells rang on the arc.
It was impossible to get out of the sleigh: half an arshin of snow had piled up, and the sleigh was constantly driving into a snowdrift. I could hardly wait until we finally arrived at the inn.
The hospitable hosts looked after us for a long time: they scrubbed us, warmed us up, treated us to tea, which, by the way, they drink here so hot that I burned my tongue, however, this did not in the least prevent us from talking in a friendly way, as if we had known each other for centuries. An irresistible drowsiness, inspired by warmth and satiety, naturally made us sleepy, and I, putting my felted boots on the heated stove, lay down and heard nothing: neither the bickering of the coachmen, nor the whispering of the owners - I fell asleep like the dead. The next morning, the owners fed the uninvited guests dried venison, shot hares, potatoes baked in ash, and gave them warm milk to drink.
(According to I. Golub, V. Shein)
57 Night in Balaclava
At the end of October, when the days are still tender in autumn, Balaklava begins to live a unique life. The last holidaymakers, who spent the long summer here enjoying the sun and sea, leave, burdened with suitcases and trunks, and it immediately becomes spacious, fresh and homely, businesslike, as if after the departure of sensational uninvited guests.
Fishing nets are spread across the embankment, and on the polished cobblestones they appear delicate and thin, like a spider's web. The fishermen, these workers of the sea, as they are called, crawl along the spread nets, like gray-black spiders mending a torn, airy veil. The captains of the fishing boats sharpen worn-out beluga hooks, and at the stone wells, where the water babbles in a continuous silver stream, dark-faced women - local residents - chatter, gathering here in their free moments.
Descending over the sea, the sun sets, and soon the starry night, replacing the short evening dawn, envelops the earth. The whole city falls into a deep sleep, and the hour comes when not a sound comes from anywhere. Only occasionally does the water squelch against the coastal stone, and this lonely sound further emphasizes the undisturbed silence. You feel how night and silence merged in one black embrace.
Nowhere, in my opinion, will you hear such perfect, such ideal silence as in the night Balaclava.
(According to A. Kuprin)
58 In the hayfield
The grass in the unmown meadow, short but thick, turned out to be not softer, but even tougher, but I did not give up and, trying to mow as best as possible, kept up.
Vladimir, the son of a former serf, was constantly swinging his scythe, cutting the grass in vain, without showing the slightest effort. Despite extreme fatigue, I did not dare ask Vladimir to stop, but I felt that I could not stand it: I was so tired.
At this time, Vladimir himself stopped and, bending down, took the herbs, slowly wiped his scythe and began to silently sharpen. I slowly lowered my scythe and sighed with relief, looking around.
A nondescript little man, walking with a limp behind and, apparently, also tired, immediately, before reaching me, stopped and began to sharpen, crossing himself.
Having sharpened his scythe, Vladimir did the same with my scythe, and we moved on without hesitation. Vladimir walked step by step, without stopping, and did not seem to feel any fatigue. I mowed with all my might, trying to keep up, and became increasingly weaker. Swinging my scythe with feigned indifference, I became more and more convinced that I did not have enough strength even for the few swings of the scythe needed to complete the row.
Finally, the row was completed, and, throwing his scythe over his shoulder, Vladimir walked along the already well-trodden mowing, walking in the tracks left by his heels. The sweat rolled off my face without letting up, and my whole shirt was wet, as if it had been soaked in water, but I felt good: I survived.
59
Twilight may have been the reason why the procurator's appearance changed dramatically. He seemed to have aged before our eyes, hunched over and, moreover, became anxious. Once he looked around and for some reason shuddered, glancing at the empty chair, on the back of which lay a cloak. A clear night was approaching, the evening shadows were playing their game, and, probably, the tired procurator imagined that someone was sitting in an empty chair. Having admitted cowardice, moving the abandoned cloak, the procurator, leaving him, ran along the balcony, now running up to the table and grabbing the bowl, now stopping and starting to look senselessly at the mosaic of the floor.
This is the second time today that sadness has fallen upon him. Rubbing his temple, in which only a nagging memory remained from the morning pain, the procurator kept trying to understand the reason for his mental torment, and, realizing this, he tried to deceive himself. It was clear to him that, having irretrievably missed something this morning, he now wants to correct what he missed with some small and insignificant, and most importantly, belated actions. But the procurator did this very poorly. At one of the turns, stopping abruptly, the procurator whistled, and a giant pointy-eared dog in a collar with gilded plaques jumped out of the garden onto the balcony.
The procurator sat down in a chair; Bunga, sticking out his tongue and breathing rapidly, sat down at the feet of his owner, and the joy in the dog’s eyes meant that the storm was over and that he was here again, next to the man he loved, whom he considered the most powerful in the world, the ruler of all people, thanks to whom he himself The dog considered himself a privileged being, superior and special. But, lying down at the owner’s feet and not even eating at him, the dog immediately realized that trouble had befallen his owner, and so Banga, getting up and walking to the side, put his paws and head on the procurator’s knees, which was supposed to mean: he consoles his owner and ready to face misfortune with him. He tried to express this both in his eyes, squinting towards the owner, and in his wary, pricked ears. So both of them, the dog and the man, loving each other, celebrated the festive night.
(According to M. Bulgakov)
60
I woke up early in the morning. The room was filled with an even yellow light, as if from a kerosene lamp. The light came from below, from the window, and illuminated the log ceiling most brightly. The strange light - dim and motionless - was not at all like the sun. It was the autumn leaves shining.
During the windy and long night the garden shed its dry leaves. It lay in multi-colored piles on the ground and spread a dim glow, and from this radiance people’s faces seemed tanned. Autumn mixed all the pure colors that exist in the world and applied them, as if on a canvas, to the distant spaces of earth and sky.
I saw dry leaves, not only gold and purple, but also violet, and gray, and almost silver. The colors seemed to have softened due to the autumn haze and hung motionless in the air. And when the rains fell incessantly, the softness of the colors gave way to brilliance: the sky, covered with clouds, still gave enough light so that the wet forests could light up in the distance like majestic crimson and gold fires. Now it’s the end of September, and in the sky there is some strange combination of naive blue and dark terry clouds. From time to time the clear sun peeks through, and then the clouds become even blacker, the clear parts of the sky are even bluer, the narrow road is even blacker, and the ancient bell tower peeks out even whiter through the half-fallen linden trees.
If from this bell tower, climbing up the rickety wooden stairs, you look to the north-west, your horizons will immediately expand. From here you can especially clearly see the small river that winds around the foot of the hill on which the village is located. And in the distance you can see a forest that covers the entire horizon like a horseshoe.
It began to get dark, either low clouds or the smoke of a giant fire were blowing in from the east, and I returned home. Already late in the evening I went out into the garden, to the well. Having placed a thick lantern on the frame, he took out water. Yellow leaves were floating in the bucket. There was nowhere to hide from them - they were everywhere. It became difficult to walk along the paths of the garden: I had to walk on the leaves, as if on a real carpet. We found them in the house: on the floor, on the made bed, on the stove - everywhere. They were thoroughly saturated with their wine aroma.
61
In the afternoon it became so hot that passengers moved to the upper deck. Despite the calm, the entire surface of the river was seething with a trembling swell, in which the sun's rays were crushed unbearably brightly, giving the impression of a countless number of silver balls. Only in the shallows, where the shore crashed into the river with a long cape, did the water bend around it like a motionless ribbon, calmly blue among these brilliant ripples.
There was not a cloud in the sky, but here and there on the horizon there were thin white clouds, shimmering at the edges like strokes of molten metal. Black smoke, without rising above the chimney, trailed behind the steamer like a long, dirty tail.
From below, from the engine room, came a continuous hissing and some deep, regular sighs, in time with which the wooden deck of the Hawk trembled. Behind the stern, catching up with her, ran rows of long, wide waves; white curly waves suddenly boiled furiously at their dull green top and, smoothly falling down, suddenly melted, as if hiding under water. The waves tirelessly ran onto the shore and, crashing with noise on the slope, ran back, exposing the sandbank, all eaten away by the surf.
This monotony did not bore Vera Lvovna and did not tire her: she looked at the whole of God’s world through an iridescent veil of quiet charm. Everything seemed sweet and dear to her: the steamer, unusually white and clean, and the captain, a huge fat man in a pair of canvas, with a purple face and an animal voice, hoarse from the weather, and the pilot, a handsome black-bearded man who was turning the wheel of the helm in his glass booth. , while his sharp, narrowed eyes motionlessly looked into the distance.
In the distance a pier appeared - a small red plank house built on a barge. The captain, putting his mouth to the horn carried into the engine room, shouted command words, and his voice seemed to come out of a deep barrel: “The smallest! Reverse!"
Women and girls crowded around the station; they offered passengers dried raspberries, bottles of boiled milk, salted fish, boiled and baked lamb.
The heat gradually subsided. Passengers noticed the sun setting in a conflagration of blood-purple flames and melted gold. When the bright colors died down, the entire horizon was illuminated with an even dusty pink glow. Finally, this radiance faded, and only not high above the ground, in the place where the sun had set, there remained an unclear long pink stripe, imperceptibly turning at the top of the sky into the soft bluish tint of the evening sky.
(According to A. Kuprin)
First meeting
For the first time I came to the Meshchora region from the north, from Vladimir.
Behind Gus-Khrustalny, at the quiet Tuma station, I changed to a narrow-gauge train. This was a train from Stephenson's time. The locomotive, similar to a samovar, whistled in a child's falsetto. The locomotive had an offensive nickname: “gelding.” He really looked like an old gelding. At the corners he groaned and stopped. Passengers got out to smoke. Forest silence stood around the gasping gelding. The smell of wild cloves, warmed by the sun, filled the carriages.
Passengers sat on the platforms with their belongings; their belongings did not fit into the carriage. Occasionally, along the way, bags, baskets, and carpenter's saws began to fly out from the platform onto the canvas, and their owner, often a rather ancient old woman, jumped out to get the things. Inexperienced passengers were frightened, but experienced ones, twisting their “goat legs” and spitting, explained that this was the most convenient way to get off the train closer to their village.
The narrow-gauge railway in the Mentor Forests is the slowest railway in the Union.
The stations are littered with resinous logs and smell of fresh felling and wild forest flowers.
At the Pilevo station, a shaggy grandfather climbed into the carriage. He crossed himself to the corner where the round cast-iron stove was rattling, sighed and complained into space.
“As soon as they grab me by the beard, go to town and tie up your bast shoes.” But there is no consideration that maybe this matter isn’t worth a penny to them. They send me to the museum, where the Soviet government collects cards, price lists, all that stuff. They send you a statement.
- Why are you lying?
- Look, there!
The grandfather pulled out the crumpled piece of paper, blew the terry off it and showed it to the neighbor woman.
“Manka, read it,” the woman said to the girl, who was rubbing her nose against the window. Manka pulled her dress over her scratched knees, tucked her legs up and began to read in a hoarse voice:
– “It turns out that unfamiliar birds live in the lake, huge striped ones, only three; It’s unknown where they came from, we should take them alive for the museum, so send catchers.”
“This,” said the grandfather sadly, “is why they break the bones of old people now.” And all Leshka is a Komsomol member. Ulcer is a passion! Ugh!
Grandfather spat. Baba wiped her round mouth with the end of her handkerchief and sighed. The locomotive whistled in fear, the forests hummed both to the right and to the left, raging like a lake. The west wind was in charge. The train struggled through its damp streams and was hopelessly late, panting at empty stops.
“This is our existence,” the grandfather repeated. “They drove me to the museum last summer, today is the year again!”
– What did you find this summer? - asked the woman.
- Junkie!
- Something?
- Torchak. Well, the bone is ancient. She was lying in the swamp. Looks like a deer. Horns - from this carriage. Straight passion. They dug it for a whole month. The people were completely exhausted.
– Why did he give in? - asked the woman.
- The guys will be taught it.
The following was reported about this find in “Research and Materials of the Regional Museum”:
“The skeleton went deep into the quagmire, not providing support for the diggers. I had to undress and go down into the quagmire, which was extremely difficult due to the icy temperature of the spring water. The huge horns, like the skull, were intact, but extremely fragile due to complete maceration (soaking) of the bones. The bones were broken right in the hands, but as they dried, the hardness of the bones was restored.”
The skeleton of a gigantic fossil Irish deer with an antlers span of two and a half meters was found.
My acquaintance with Meshchora began with this meeting with the shaggy grandfather. Then I heard many stories about mammoth teeth, and about treasures, and about mushrooms the size of a human head. But I remember this first story on the train especially sharply.
