Choral and vocal works

Novelist, publicist

Born on July 15, 1853 in Zhitomir in the family of a district judge. Mother is the daughter of a Polish landowner. He spent his childhood in Zhitomir, then in Rivne, where he graduated from high school in 1871.

1871 – 74 – studied at the St. Petersburg Institute of Technology.

1874 - 76 - studied at the Petrovsky Agricultural Academy.

1876 ​​- expelled from the academy for participation in student unrest, exiled to the Vologda province, but returned en route and settled under police supervision in Kronstadt.

1877 – admission to the St. Petersburg Mining Institute.

1879 - Korolenko was arrested on suspicion of connections with revolutionary figures. Until 1881 he was in prison and exile.

Korolenko began his literary activity back in the late 70s, but he was not noticed by the general public. His first story, Episodes from the Life of a Seeker, was published in 1879. After 5 years of silence, interrupted only by small essays and correspondence, Korolenko made his second debut in “Russian Thought” in 1885 with the story “Makar’s Dream.”

1881-1884 - exiled to the Yakut region for refusing the oath to Alexander III.

1885-96 - lives under police supervision in Nizhny Novgorod, where he actively participates in the liberal opposition, collaborates in the liberal periodicals "Russian Vedomosti", "Severny Vestnik", "Nizhny Novgorod Vedomosti". At the same time, Korolenko wrote works of art: “The Blind Musician” (1887), “At Night” (1888), “In Bad Society,” “The River Plays” (1891), etc.

1886 – Korolenko’s first book, “Essays and Stories,” is published.

1893 – Korolenko’s second book is published.

1894 – Korolenko visits England and America. He expressed some of his impressions in the story “Without Language”

1896 - moves to St. Petersburg.

1895-1904 – Korolenko – one of the official publishers of the populist magazine “Russian Wealth”.

1900 - The Academy of Sciences elects Korolenko an honorary academician in the category of fine literature. In 1902, together with A.P. Chekhov, Korolenko renounced his title in protest against the illegal cancellation of M. Gorky’s election to the Academy.

Since 1900, Korolenko has lived in Poltava.

1903 – Korolenko’s third book is published.

1904-1917 – Korolenko heads the magazine “Russian Wealth”. His essays “In a Hungry Year” (1892), “Pavlovsk Sketches” (1890), articles “Sorochinskaya Tragedy” (1907), “Everyday Phenomenon” (1910) and many others were published here. etc. In total, Korolenko is the author of about 700 articles, correspondence, essays, and notes.

1906 - Korolenko begins to publish in separate chapters the most extensive of his works: the autobiographical “The History of My Contemporary.”

1914 – The First World War finds Korolenko in France. The attitude towards her is reflected in the story “Prisoners” (1917). In the article “War, Fatherland and Humanity” (1917), Korolenko speaks out in favor of continuing the war.

Korolenko responded to the February Revolution of 1917 with the article “The Fall of royal power. (Speech for ordinary people about events in Russia)". In it, Korolenko points out that "tsarist power no longer has a place" in future Russia, and the Constituent Assembly, like the once Zemsky Sobor, “will establish the future form of government of the Russian state,” emphasizes that “a lot of wisdom is needed to stop disagreements within the country, dangerous disputes about power and civil strife,” “while the homeland is threatened by invasion and the death of its young freedom"

Calling himself a non-party socialist, Korolenko does not share the ideas of the Bolsheviks and the principles of the proletarian dictatorship. He calls for “putting the interests of the entire population above party struggle.” In the article “The Triumph of the Winners,” Korolenko, addressing A.V. Lunacharsky, writes: “You are celebrating victory, but this victory is disastrous for the part of the people who won with you, disastrous, perhaps, for the entire Russian people as a whole,” because “ power based on a false idea is doomed to destruction from its own arbitrariness" (Russian Vedomosti, 1917, December 3).

1917 - deputies from the People's Socialist Party at the congress of peasants held in Poltava on April 17 offer Korolenko to nominate him as a deputy to the Constituent Assembly, he refuses, citing ill health. On November 22, Korolenko was elected honorary chairman of the Poltava Committee of the Political Red Cross.

During the occupation of Poltava by the troops of the Ukrainian Central Rada and A.I. Denikin, Korolenko spoke out against terror and revenge.

In 1919-21, unable to appear in print, Korolenko addressed a series of letters to Lunacharsky and Kh.G. Rakovsky, the main content of which was a protest against the extrajudicial executions of the Cheka.

Main works:

Stories from the “Siberian” cycle:

“Wonderful” (1880, distributed in lists, published 1905)

“The Killer”, “Makar’s Dream”, “Sokolinets” (all - 1885), “On the Way” (1888, 2nd ed. 1914)

"At-Davan" (1885, 2nd ed. 1892)

“Marusya’s Zaimka” (1889, published 1899)

"Lights" (1901)

Stories:

"In Bad Society" (1885)

"The Forest is Noisy" (1886)

"The River Plays" (1892)

"Without Tongue" (1894)

“Not scary” (1903), etc.

The story “The Blind Musician” (1886, 2nd ed. 1898).

Essays, including:

"In Deserted Places" (1890, 2nd ed. 1914)

"Pavlovian Sketches" (1890)

"In the Hungry Year" (1892-93)

"At the Cossacks" (1901)

"Ours on the Danube" (1909)

Journalism, including:

“Multan Sacrifice” (series of essays, articles and notes, 1895-98)

"Celebrity at the end of the century" (1898, Dreyfus affair)

CHORAL AND VOCAL WORKS BY G.V. SVIRIDOVA: CHOICE OF TEXTS, GENRES

G.V. Sviridov entered the history of Russian musical art as a classic of the 20th century. He is an outstanding Russian composer, one of the most brilliant and original artists who made a significant contribution to Russian art. The origins and foundations of Sviridov’s creativity are in the centuries-old musical culture, and, above all, in Russian music of different eras. He is often called the most consistent follower and continuer of classical traditions.

Sviridov's vocal works constitute the main part of his work. The composer's creative heritage includes over 300 romances and songs, existing both separately and in the form of vocal cycles and poems. As A. Belonenko notes: “His favorite form is song. He took this from the romantics he adored, from the cult of lyric poetry, from Russian romance, from the German Lied " . In his vocal work, the composer managed to combine the everyday intonation of urban song, folklore and speech intonation. He saw the development of modern music in the revival of the Russian national tradition. In his diary entries, Georgy Vasilyevich notes: “Great art is only possible by relying on a great tradition.” . Therefore, Sviridov is one of the few composers of the 20th century who preserved the song-romance genre. The composer argued that music should return to melody and continued to defend mode, tonality, and classical harmony as the main foundations of music.

Sviridov’s contribution to Russian choral music is no less significant. He wrote both large oratorio-epic works and small cantatas, poems, cycles, and individual miniatures for a cappella choir. In all genres, the composer managed to embody a rich figurative world. Images of folk life, nature, human feelings and moods, historical and social themes - all this is reflected in Sviridov’s choral work.

A. Belonenko identifies several ideological and figurative lines in the composer’s work. The first and main line is the theme of the historical fate of Russia, the central event of which is the Russian revolution of the early 20th century. Sviridov's attention is focused on two events to which he constantly returned in his work - the revolution and the civil war. At the same time, revolutionary themes unite works of different genres, among them “Poem in Memory of S. Yesenin”, some songs with lyrics by A. Prokofiev, Yesenin’s cantatas “Wooden Rus'” and “The Bright Guest”. The theme of the fate of the Russian peasantry is closely connected with the theme of revolution. Sviridov came to this topic through an appeal to Yesenin’s poetry (“Poem in memory of S. Yesenin”, vocal cycle “My father is a peasant”). Belonenko writes that the reason the composer turned to this theme was “... an acute sense of anxiety for the fate of man, alienation from his land - this is the main motivating motive underlying Sviridov’s attitude to the theme of the peasantry.”

The second line is lyrical. It includes reflections on the meaning of existence (spiritual, philosophical lyrics), love lyrics. Belonenko notes: “The world in its pristine beauty, revealed to man as perfect harmony, is the fundamental principle of Sviridov’s choral landscapes and paintings of nature. Nature - permanent place habitats of Sviridov's muse".

The composer turned, as a rule, to the peaks of world poetry, most of all Russian - A. Pushkin, M. Lermontov, N. Nekrasov, but also F. Sologub, A. Blok, S. Yesenin, M. Isakovsky, A. Prokofiev, B Pasternak.

In his work, the composer assigned a large role to the word. In his diaries, he writes: “I am partial to the word (.), as to the beginning of beginnings, the innermost essence of life and the world. The most effective of the arts seems to me to be the synthesis of words and music. This is what I do." Sviridov knew well and appreciated Russian literature from the 19th century. and the 20th century. He was, first of all, attracted by the poetic word, as A. Belonenko notes: “... as a rule, the impulse of Sviridov’s creativity came from it.” Sviridov was sensitive to the content and style of poetry. Contemporaries noted that he had an absolute ear for poetry. “He is a brilliant poet, Sviridov. We have wonderful composers - tragedians, playwrights, novelists, but I think there is only one poet,” composer V. Gavrilin wrote about him.

Sviridov, even before studying at the Leningrad Conservatory, clearly declared himself as a vocal composer . In 1935, the composer turned to the poetry of A. Pushkin and conceived a vocal cycle of six romances. Work on it took place throughout the year. Immediately after completion, the romances were published and were a great success; Since 1937, in connection with the celebration of the 100th anniversary of Pushkin’s death, they have been included in the repertoire of outstanding performers. It was this vocal cycle that brought fame to the young composer.

The cycle “Eight Romances to the Words of M. Yu. Lermontov,” created in 1937–1938, had a different fate. Unlike Pushkin's cycle, these romances were not very popular. One of the reasons for this was war time, which accounted for the execution of the loop. In addition, Sviridov himself believed that the cycle was far from perfect. Therefore, in 1956, when the composer decided to publish the first collection of his romances and songs, he returned to the cycle and rewrote it again.

The cycle of songs “Sloboda Lyrics” based on poems by A. Prokofiev and M. Isakovsky was started by Sviridov in 1938, also during his years of study at the Leningrad Conservatory. An interesting fact is that this work caused negative criticism from his teacher, D. Shostakovich. He accused Sviridov of the fact that in this work he “sinks to the base, falls into philistinism, common people.” But it was in this cycle that the composer began his search own style, the search for that very “simplicity” that will be characteristic of Sviridov’s future work. The composer turned to this work several times, constantly refining it. So, initially the composer added a song to the poems of M. Isakovsky and gave the cycle the name “Village Lyrics”. Later, in 1958, he made the final edition: rearranged the numbers, made changes and approved the final name “Slobodskaya Lyrics”. This work became a milestone in the composer’s work.

The cycle differs significantly from Pushkin’s and Lermontov’s not only in musical language and style, but also in figurative content. In the first cycles, the lyrical mood prevails, the main theme is Sviridov’s favorite image of the Poet. In “Slobodskaya Lyrics” there is a different figurative sphere. The cycle is united thematically: love, separation, wedding. The poems chosen by the composer are closely related to folklore - ditties, “suffering”. According to A. Belonenko: “Here are given folk characters, sketches of peasant post-revolutionary life, the psychology of another, another I - a simple person." As noted earlier, Sviridov continued the tradition of Russian everyday romance, which was very clearly manifested in the “Slobodskaya Lyrics” cycle, in the composer’s use of typical everyday intonations. The cycle “Slobodskaya Lyrics” can be called a landmark composition in Sviridov’s work. According to Belonenko, the features of the composer’s “mature Russian style”, which would be formed by the mid-50s, are felt in it.

The composer himself considered the end of the 40s and 50s to be a new stage in his work. It was during these years that Sviridov’s style took shape, which, first of all, manifested itself in the vocal cycle “My Father is a Peasant” and “Poem in Memory of Sergei Yesenin.” The premiere of “Poem in Memory of Sergei Yesenin” in 1956 revealed to the world, as A. Belonenko writes, new Russian composer .

Sviridov's favorite poet was Sergei Yesenin. Yesenin and Sviridov are two outstanding creators of the 20th century, a poet and composer, whose work was connected by love for Russia. Sviridov’s appeal to Yesenin’s poetry became a kind of revival of the poet’s legacy. Before the composer, the poet's work was poorly represented in music. Immediately after Yesenin’s death, isolated romances and songs based on his poems appeared. And then came the period of oblivion of the poet, and not only in music. For many years, his works were not republished, were not performed on the stage, and were only occasionally mentioned in the history of Soviet literature from a negative point of view. And only in the 50s composers again turned to his work. But before Sviridov, musicians did not see anything in Yesenin’s poetry except love lyrics, rural landscapes and sketches of village life. The composer approached his work from new positions. A. Sokhor wrote: “He revealed to musicians and listeners a different Yesenin - a national artist of large scale.”

The main theme of the works of this period was Russia, the Poet, the glorified native land of the Poet. Very in an important way for Sviridov is the image of the Poet, who embodies lyrical hero. According to A. Belonenko: “The composer trusts him with his most intimate thoughts, through the prism of his imagination and soul, Sviridov’s picture of the world is revealed to us, so to speak, the artist’s worldview.” .

“Poem in Memory of Sergei Yesenin” is one of the most large-scale works of Sviridov associated with Yesenin’s poetry. The composer's original intention was to write a cycle of romances for voice and piano. But soon Sviridov realized that the composition he was creating went beyond the chamber. The final edition, created in 1956, is intended for tenor soloist, choir and orchestra. The work remained to exist in two versions - vocal-symphonic and vocal-piano. The appearance of “Poem…” was in many ways important for the name of the poet, since it became a kind of “rehabilitation” of Yesenin, who had not been published in our country for many years.

L. Polyakova’s “Poem…”, consisting of 10 parts, is divided into three large sections. The first (parts 1 - 4) is dedicated to old peasant Rus'. The second (parts 5 and 6) are pictures of the night (analogous to the slow part of a symphonic cycle). The last section is dedicated to the arrival of something new in the life of Rus'.

M. Elik notes that the origins of Sviridov’s melody can be found in Russian ritual songs (“Threshing”, “Night under Ivan Kupala”), lyrical lingering songs (“Night under Ivan Kupala”), the influence of folk lamentation and lamentation (“You are my land) is noticeable abandoned...", "I am the last poet of the village..."), ditties ("Peasant Boys"), as well as everyday romance XIX century (“In that land...”, “I am the last poet of the village...”). The last song (“The sky is like a bell”) summarizes the range of intonations that go back to ritual chants and are associated with the embodiment of the epic principle, pictures of nature, people's labor, customs.

After working in the cantata-oratorio genre, Sviridov again turns to chamber music vocal genres. In 1956, the composer created a cycle of songs for tenor and baritone with piano, “My Father is a Peasant.” V. Vasina-Grossman notes that this cycle “can be considered as a return to the sphere of images of “Slobodskaya Lyrics”, but presented in a more generalized form, cleared of unnecessary “everydayism” and “dialectisms”, which is largely determined by the choice of poetic material » . The unifying principle of this vocal cycle is the theme of the Motherland, Russia - the favorite theme of Yesenin’s poetry. The poet is also characterized by bitter regrets about his wasted youth, premonitions of an imminent end - all this is reflected in Sviridov’s cycle. For the work, the composer chose seven poems, among which there are landscape sketches and sketches of the life of an old village, there are also lyrics in which the intonations are heard lyrical songs and ditties. According to L. Polyakova, the cycle can be divided into two large sections and an epilogue. The first section is formed by the songs “Sleigh”, “Birch”, “Rus Shines in the Heart” - these are a kind of three lyrical statements of the Poet. The second section of the cycle is formed by the songs “Recruit”, “Song for the Tallyanka”, “In the Evening” - these are three genre sketches of folk peasant life. V. Vasina-Grossman writes that all the songs in the cycle are united “... by the correctly found Russian song intonation.” Hence the closeness of the songs in the cycle to Russian folk songs. In his intonation structure one can hear the intonations of a lyrical drawn-out song, ditty, and harmonica playing.

According to A. Belonenko, after “Poem...” and the vocal cycle “My father is a peasant” in 1956-1958, Sviridov finds himself in a crisis situation. During these years, he turns to his previously created works and reworks them. Sviridov is in search of something new in his work: he experiments with tonality, even trying to master the twelve-tone technique. However, the composer is not satisfied with all this; he understands that he is not on the same path with the young composers of this period. It was during these years that Sviridov became convinced that only the synthesis of music and words could give him the opportunity to express his most intimate thoughts and experiences. He comes to the conclusion that his genre is song. The composer himself wrote in his diaries: “The time has come for spiritual, symbolic, static and simple art. Song is the basis of something new, qualitatively new in art. Song and mass."

“Five unaccompanied choirs to the words of Russian poets” was the composer’s first attempt at turning to the genre of a cappella choir. Work on this cycle was completed in 1958. The idea did not come together right away. The initial core of the work was the first two choruses to the words of N. Gogol and S. Yesenin. In the composer's archive there is information about the existence of this cycle for tenor, mixed choir and a symphony orchestra. The final version was intended for a mixed choir a cappella. Two cross-cutting themes can be found in the work. The first - the theme of youth, lost youth is embodied in the choruses “About Lost Youth”, “In the Blue Evening”, “The Son Met His Father”, “How the Song Was Born”. The second theme, characteristic of all of Sviridov’s work, the theme of the Motherland, is most clearly expressed in the last three choruses (“The son met his father”, “How the song was born”, “Herd”).

During 1961 – 1963, Sviridov worked on the vocal cycle “Petersburg Songs” for four singers (soprano, mezzo-soprano, baritone, bass), piano, violin and cello to the words of A. Blok. The composer first turned to his poems during his student years. Sviridov was especially attracted to Blok’s poems related to St. Petersburg, a city that the composer himself loved very much. In the poetic composition of the cycle there is no specific plot, no permanent characters, but there is a single main image associated with St. Petersburg. Here is a picture of city life in different times years with characters of different ages and social status. M. Elik also highlights in the cycle the theme of “... “little people,” “humiliated and insulted,” driven by life into attics and basements, dying from hopelessness and reaching out to the light...”. A. Sokhor highlights the unity of time as a unifying principle in “Petersburg Songs”: “... the action in the cycle begins at dawn (“Ring-Suffering”), covers the morning (“Verbochki”), day (“On Easter”), twilight ( “In the attic”, “In October”) and ends late in the evening, almost at night (“We met you in the temple”).”

In the 60s, the principles of neo-folklorism clearly emerged in Sviridov’s work. The cantata “Kursk Songs” (1964) belongs to the folklore line. V. Shchurov recalls the composer’s preparation for the creation of “Kursk Songs”: “I had the opportunity to come into contact with the initial process of creating “Kursk Songs” by Georgy Sviridov. During this period I was a laboratory assistant in the Office folk music at the Moscow Conservatory and helped A.V. Rudneva during her significant meeting with the composer. Sviridov came to our office, having become acquainted with the recently published collection of Kursk songs by A.V. Rudneva, many of which made a strong impression on him... He was looking for an idea for a future composition. Anna Vasilievna suggested him a topic: seasons. However, the composer did not accept this offer, saying that it was more attractive for him to reveal a person’s feelings. And most of all he cares about the topic female destiny"[cit. from: 12, p. IX]. The cantata included various historical and stylistic layers of folk art, both ancient genres (calendar-ritual songs) and later ones (lyrical). The composer creates a cycle on a folk song basis, according to Yu. Paisov: “... having managed to individually rethink the samples used and at the same time preserve the original flavor of the songs of the southern Russian region in their original charm and integrity.” Sviridov himself was very sensitive to national traditions, in particular to Russian folk songs. In his notebooks he wrote: “In essence, the ideal combination of words and music is a folk song. I mean a genuine folk song, and not numerous fakes, bourgeois romance, etc.” .

“Three Ancient Songs of the Kursk Province” for mixed choir, solo violas accompanied by two pianos, an ocarina and percussion instruments are also based on song samples of Kursk folklore from Rudneva’s collection. In the process of creating “Kursk Songs”, Sviridov had more than seven songs in his work that were included in the cantata. The composer said that he was going to make a suite or even two from the remaining samples of folklore. He polished the work for a long time, often put it aside, and then returned to the plan again. Therefore, “Three Ancient Songs of the Kursk Province” were published only in 1990.

Both works are connected not only by the fact that they are based on Kursk folklore, but also by their theme. In “Three Ancient Songs of the Kursk Province” the composer continues the theme of the female lot, fate, begun in the cantata. When comparing the two cycles, common features in compositional technique (melody, harmony, texture) are also revealed.

In the same period (60s), another work based on S. Yesenin’s poems appeared - the vocal cycle “Wooden Rus'”. Initially, a small cantata was composed for tenor, male choir and piano. And later, in 1965, the composer himself remade the cantata into a vocal cycle. This work touches on a different range of images of Yesenin’s poetry. Sviridov’s constant theme “The Poet and the Motherland” is considered in another aspect: this is a kind of lyrical confession of a young man realizing his calling in life. The composer took the name of the vocal cycle from the poet himself, Yesenin’s exclamation “My Rus', wooden Rus'!” set as the epigraph to the cycle.

After Yesenin’s “Wooden Rus',” Sviridov turns to the poetry of B. Pasternak. In 1965 he created a small cantata “It's Snowing”. The composer turned to the poetry of Pasternak, as well as to Blok and Yesenin, more than once in his work. The very first romances were written based on his poems, which Sviridov himself considered imperfect and did not even include in the list of works. It is interesting that earlier Pasternak’s poetry did not attract the attention of composers; it was Sviridov who introduced the poet’s work into music and was, in this regard, a kind of pioneer (as with Yesenin). For his little cantata, the composer selected three poems from the last period of Pasternak’s work. L. Polyakova defines the plot of the work as follows: “The theme of inexorably moving time, unchanging celestial bodies, carefree childhood and the poor, not recognized by anyone, observing everything, but understanding everything and remembering everything (for eternity!) artist, hiding in his lonely attic, - this is the content of the cantata “It’s snowing.”

The work “Twenty-five songs for bass” based on texts by different poets is not a single whole, although it has signs of a vocal cycle. Belonenko notes that this is an example of a multi-part composite composition (very characteristic of Sviridov’s late work), which the musicologist calls a song collection. He explains that a song collection is a conditionally cyclical form, because as a whole, songs exist only on paper in written form, and are never performed in their entirety. The collection includes a large number of miniatures (at least 15), which inside form independent mini-cycles, united by a common ideological and figurative content.

“Twenty-five songs for bass” did not come together as a whole right away. Belonenko, in the introductory article to volume 13 of the “Complete Works,” describes for the first time the entire history of the formation of this collection. At the end of the 1950s, the composer was faced with the task of publishing individual songs under a common cover. Thus, in 1960, twenty-five songs were published for different voices and texts by different poets, which did not form a single composition. It was a random selection of songs that were never subsequently put together in that order. Subsequently, the song collection was transformed more than once: in 1971, the collection “15 Songs for Bass” was published; in 1972 - “16 songs for bass accompanied by piano”; in 1975 – another edition of “16 Songs for Bass”; in 1978 - “20 songs for bass accompanied by piano”; in the early 80s, a new and final edition of “Twenty-five songs for bass” was published. This collection of songs includes vocal miniatures composed by the composer mainly in mature period creativity. It included the mini-cycles “Two songs about the Civil War”, “Three songs to the words of A. Isaakyan”, “Four songs to the words of A. Blok”, as well as individual songs to the words of A. Pushkin, F. Tyutchev, B. Kornilov, S. Yesenin, R. Burns, P.-J. Beranger.

In the 70s, Sviridov created the vocal cycle “Nine Songs to the Words of A. Blok” for mezzo-soprano. The peculiarity of the cycle is that it was created for a specific voice timbre - E. Obraztsova. According to Belonenko, the composer and singer were connected for many years of creative collaboration. Sviridov knew the capabilities and features of her timbre, her artistic abilities, therefore he created his vocal works for a low female voice under the unconscious influence of Obraztsova’s timbre. The vocal cycle includes poems by Blok, taken from various books. There is no logical, figurative and thematic connection between the songs; there is no plot or specific idea. The combination of different poems acquires integrity thanks to music. This is facilitated by the predominance of lyrics in the figurative sphere of songs, stylistic, intonation and harmonic unity (mode, rhythm, harmony).

Like the collection “Twenty-Five Songs for Bass,” the vocal cycle “Nine Songs to Lyrics by A. Blok” also developed gradually. The initial basis was a mini-cycle of three songs (“Weather vane”, “Beyond the mountains, forests...”, “Morning in Moscow”), published in 1974; in 1975 “Four Songs to the Words of A. Blok” were published; in 1979, the cycle “Seven Songs to the Words of A. Blok” was published in a collection of romances; the final edition was published for the first and last time during the composer’s lifetime in 1981 under the title “Nine Songs to the Words of A. Blok.”

The period of the 1970s - early 1980s was creatively very important and fruitful. As the composer himself wrote: “It was an era of deep forebodings. A great national thought matured in it, finding strong creative expression...” The composer came up with the idea of ​​​​turning to religious themes as a poetic source of creativity. He creates works that are deeply spiritual, but based on a mixture of church and secular genres.

“Spring Cantata” was written by the composer in 1972. The work is based on three fragments from N. Nekrasov’s poem “Who Lives Well in Rus'.” “Spring Cantata” is dedicated to the memory of A. Tvardovsky. With this dedication, the composer connects the past and the present. The form of the cantata is extremely compressed, there are only four parts: “Spring Beginning”, “Song”, “Bells and Horns”, “Mother Rus'”. The first part is kind of spring landscape Homeland; the second part is connected with the traditions of Russian life, it is based on wedding song; the third part can conditionally be called an instrumental “intermezzo”; the cantata is crowned by the mighty national glory of Rus'.

Sviridov again turns to his beloved poet Yesenin. In works based on his poems, the image of Russia does not disappear, only now it is an ideal, invisible, heavenly Russia. As the composer himself admitted in his diaries: “I am writing a myth about Russia.” Throughout 1976 – 1977, he worked on one of his most significant works - the poem “The Rus' Set Away” for voice and piano based on the verses of S. Yesenin. The poem is dedicated to a major researcher of Sviridov’s work and his great friend, musicologist A. Sokhor, who died while the composer was working on this work.

Most of the poems selected by Sviridov for the poem were written by the poet during the years of the revolution and civil war. In addition, the cycle includes excerpts from Yesenin’s short poems, the so-called “Yesenin Bible”. As V. Veselov notes, “... the whole action is raised to cosmic heights, to the “legendary”. Hence the legendary nature of the images of good and evil, Christ and Judas, who appear in direct conflict.” In structure, this work is a vocal cycle, but Sviridov called it a poem. He clearly distinguished for himself the framework of the vocal cycle and the poem. The first genre included works that were narrower in content, the second - cyclical vocal compositions with a deeper philosophical basis. The poem “Rus' Set Away” is a philosophical, dramatic reflection on the unknown destinies of Russia. The poetic quality of a work is associated with its integrity, unity of concept. The unifying principle is the image of Russia.

In 1978, the triptych “Hymns to the Motherland” based on the words of F. Sologub was completed. During the work, the composer repeatedly changed the order of the parts and did not give a name for a long time. The final version was formed only after the concert performance of the work. Sviridov was perhaps the first composer to turn to Sologub’s poetry. What attracted him to Sologubov’s lyrics was his sincere love for the Motherland, a theme that deeply concerned the composer throughout his entire career. The dramaturgy of “Hymns to the Motherland” is characterized by the unity of this theme. T. Maslovskaya writes about the triptych: “Having seen and sprouted the grain of epicism underlying Sologubov’s hymns, Sviridov built a triptych, distinguished by monumentality, significance and some staticism characteristic of the hymn genre.”

The idea of ​​the cantata “The Bright Guest” for a mixed choir and orchestra based on the text by S. Yesenin dates back to 1962. Composition plan and musical material formed immediately. The clavier was already in the mid-60s, and published only in 1979. By this time, an orchestral version of the cantata had also been developed, but the composer never chose the final edition, and work on orchestrating the work continued over the next decades. But Sviridov never managed to complete the work on the score himself. After his death, the manuscripts were transferred to the composer R. Ledenev, who studied them and established several options for the author's orchestration. One of these editions was used as the basis for the orchestration of the cantata.

The work is based on fragments of small biblical poems by S. Yesenin. In the composer’s diary entries there is a note about the cantata “The Bright Guest”, in which he writes: “The poems on which this work is based were written by Yesenin in 1918. They are a direct response to the events of the revolution, which is understood (interpreted, considered) by Yesenin as the beginning of renewal, the spiritual transformation of the Motherland, Russia.” The cantata has a light mood, the form is concentrated, the parts are short, and there is no bright contrast between them. The work consists of six parts. In the musical language, the stylistics characteristic of previous works based on S. Yesenin’s poems are noticeable.

In the late 80s - 90s, Sviridov’s consciousness was influenced by the socio-political changes taking place in our country. The composer had a hard time with the collapse of the USSR; it gave him complex, contradictory feelings. The works of these years reflect the mood of the composer in the last years of his life. First of all, the music of this time reflects the inevitable approach of death. In addition, during this period the role of religious ideas in his works was great. In his diaries, the composer defines the goals of his work: “Art is not only art. It is part of the religious (spiritual) consciousness of the People."

To summarize, it should be noted that in the choice of texts and genres in his work, Sviridov relied on three sources. First - folk songs, primarily in the Kursk region, since he was originally from the city of Fatezh (Kursk region). The second source is Russian poetry XIX– beginning of the 20th century. As a rule, the composer turned to the lyrical poetry of A. Pushkin, M. Lermontov, N. Nekrasov, A. Blok, S. Yesenin, M. Isakovsky, A. Prokofiev, etc. The third source is spiritual texts, the words of which are taken mainly from Russian Orthodox liturgical books, from folk spiritual songs. For the composer, the texts to which he turned were important as exponents of the national, spiritual, and moral principles. The texts chosen by Sviridov required, according to the composer’s ideas, an appropriate embodiment in music. One of these means was anhemitonic intonation, so characteristic of his melodic style.

1. Belonenko A. “My form is a song...”. About Sviridov’s chamber vocal creativity // Georgy Sviridov. Full composition of writings. Volume 10. Romances and songs. M. St. Petersburg. 2003. – P. V – XXXII.

2. Belonenko A. Choral beginning of the music of Georgy Sviridov // Georgy Sviridov. Full composition of writings. Volume 18. Works for choir without accompaniment. M. St. Petersburg. 2003. – P. V – XVIII.

3. Vasina-Grossman V. G. Sviridov // Masters of Soviet Romance: 2nd edition, revised and expanded. M. 1980. – P. 255 – 289.

4. Veselov V. Romance of the stars // Musical world of Georgy Sviridov. M. 1990. – S. 19 – 31.

5. Georgy Sviridov. Music as fate: Library of memoirs / Comp. A. Belonenko. M. 2002. – 785 p.

6. Book about Sviridov: Reflections. Statements. Articles. Notes / Comp. A. Zolotov. M. 1983. – 282 p.

7. Maslovskaya T. “The structure of life and the lights of eternity...” // Musical world of Georgy Sviridov. M. 1990. S. – 78 – 91.

8. Paisov Yu. Blok in Sviridov’s reading // Musical life, 1980 No. 21. – P. 20.

9. Polyakova L. Notes on the works of the 60s // Georgy Sviridov. Digest of articles. M. 1971. – P. 272 ​​– 319.

10. Sokhor A. Georgy Sviridov. M. 1972. – 320 p.

11. Sokhor A. Musical dramaturgy of Sviridov’s vocal and symphonic works // Musical contemporary. M. 1979. Issue. 3. – pp. 146 – 171.

12. Tokmakova O. “It’s best to leave a song as a song.” Kursk folklore in the works of Sviridov // Complete Works. Volume 3. Kursk songs. Three ancient songs of the Kursk province. M. St. Petersburg. 2003. – pp. IX – XIII.

13. Elik M. Sviridov and poetry // Georgy Sviridov. Digest of articles. M. 1971. – P. 58 – 124.

Information about the history of the creation of the vocal cycle is taken from the introductory article by A. Belonenko to the 13th volume of the publication “Georgy Sviridov. Full composition of writings".

Back in the mid-1890s, Korolenko was planning, together with his closest friend and co-editor of “Russian Wealth” N. Fannensky, a memoir and journalistic book “Ten Years in the Province,” which was not yet connected with the history of an entire generation of the 1870s. The epic plan was outlined in the fall of 1896 in Korolenko’s correspondence with P.F. Yakubovich. The latter sent the story “Youth” from Kurgan exile to the editorial office of “Russian Wealth” and expressed his dream of a “novel of our time.” Korolenko, in a response letter, supported the idea of ​​“our novel,” which “played out with greater or less intensity among a whole generation,” when “the scene was filled with active populism,” and the epilogue of which is “remote places.” He believed, however, that on the path to such a novel there are not only insurmountable external obstacles in the form of censorship: we “ourselves cannot yet look back with sufficient calm and<...>"objectivity" Yakubovich, in turn, expressed hope that the person who will be able to “cope with all the difficulties” will be Korolenko himself: “You, exactly You You’ll write “our novel” after all.”

In 1905, when the censorship climate had softened significantly, Korolenko began artistic chronicle of his generation. “I wanted, paying tribute to the topic of the day, to start with exile,” he wrote to his brother, but he overcame the temptation and started from childhood. However, the “first impression of existence” turned out to be a fire: “reflections of a crimson flame” “against the deep background of night darkness.” A picture that echoes the Russian reality of the “burning year”.

In an effort to determine the genre of his work, Korolenko resorted to various formulas: the work is “almost fictional, not dry memories”, “life impressions”, “illuminated by memories”, but not a biography, not a “public confession”, not “ own portrait”, at the same time, the story of one life, where “historical truth” is given preference over “artistic truth”. In the end, “The History of My Contemporary” absorbed all the main principles of Korolenko’s work - artistic and visual, memoir, lyrical, essay and journalistic. At the same time, the weight of the last two elements gradually increased, which corresponded to general direction writer's path.

Portraying the high spiritual image of his contemporary, Korolenko shares with the reader many anxieties and doubts. In 1916, he called the “young and hot” time of his populism “the crushed ashes of still recent hopes”: “After that old sharp experience, I am skeptical about “ready-made formulas”,” be it the formula of “folk” or “class” wisdom. He chose for himself a “partisan line” of action “from his own mind.”

The generation of the 1860s-1870s, which Korolenko called “his own”, entered the historical arena with “boiling wine of denial” in their heads, with a tendency to act “very radically and very naively”, dealing with all “junk” using the “Knock on head” method and to hell! Korolenko treated all kinds of “nihilists” and “subverters” aloofly, believing that something new can only be introduced if it is based on a higher moral principle.

However, in the life of the “nihilistic generation” Korolenko overheard the motive of exhaustion of denial, fatigue from enmity, and caught the desire of the young for “something that could reconcile with life - if not with reality, then at least with its possibilities.”

The shortest and most succinct review of “The History of My Contemporary” belongs to A.V. Amphiteatrov: “A fragrant book!” History has prepared a cruel epilogue for Korolenkov’s generation: “the dictatorship of the bayonet,” as the writer defined it in the last years of his life, “immediately moved us centuries back,” surpassing “the craziest dreams of the Tsarist retrogrades.”

Children of nature

I am twenty one years old. I have a medium-sized farm: three horses, two cows, a dozen sheep. Last fall, I took a scaffolding from the landowner, renovated the hut, and replaced the rotten crowns. Next fall I’m thinking of buying a couple of oak posts, putting up new gates and adding a cage. Then you can think about the bathhouse. Never mind, God willing, there will be a bathhouse!
Our family is small - me and my mother. She is already old, she wants to marry me as soon as possible, all the talk is only about this. And old Jamali, a respectable man in the village, seemed to be wondering the other day: why is Hafiz still walking around single and living in abundance, and no matter who he wooed, they probably won’t refuse him. The old man himself also has a daughter of marriageable age, her name is Fahernisa. He gave the eldest one to a richer house, but he miscalculated, she ended up in a big family and is now suffering, the poor thing. And this one, they say, he wants to put in one where there are fewer people. The old man, of course, doesn’t talk about this directly, but it seems to me that if I sent him a better matchmaker, there would be no refusal.
And Fahernisa herself seems to be reaching out to me. I have an auntie, Farhi, who is full of laughter and always has her mouth wide open. Every autumn, before you have time to manage the grain, some bride comes and starts praising him. The other day she showed up again and started the old song from the doorway: why am I still not getting married, why is my mother growing old without a daughter-in-law.
“You,” she says, “are apparently afraid of girls?!” Your friends, look, they’ve had children a long time ago... How long will we have to wait?.. Here’s Grandfather Shahi’s daughter, like a fresh apple, and hard-working - the first in the village. She took her beauty and her article for everyone, don’t yawn, the girl is in her prime... And the dowry... apparently, invisibly, as they say, it won’t fit in the house... The other day we were at Karima’s get-together. Almost fifteen girls had gathered... They were telling fortunes all night... Jamaliyeva Fakhernisa has not an ounce of shame: how they began to guess who would get who as grooms, shouting: “Hafiza for me, yes Hafiza!”, well, whatever the hell Anna, right! But the poor thing was unlucky - you never came out to her. Three times the Shahiyeva Bibiasma got it. Fahernisa, poor thing, was very upset, all depressed. There is nothing to guess here - you will be with Bibiasma. Apparently this is fate... So you replace the gate, build a cage and get married. We'll have a fun wedding... You'll send my father-in-law as a matchmaker. If he takes it, the matter will definitely work out - you will be a sweetheart, your mother will be a daughter-in-law
Maybe Fahernisa loves me, but her heart is drawn to someone else. Bibiasma and I have been walking for a long time. The whole village knows about us, how many times we were almost caught. Every year I woo her, but no, the old man doesn’t give her away and that’s it. No matter who I send, he refuses. People heard him say that I’m a good guy, but he doesn’t want to give up his daughter for me. Without bragging, I’ll say that in the village, thank God, I’m not one of the last, not some rundown guy. I’m not offended by my height, I don’t complain about my health. Again, no one will complain about the drinking. Of course, sometimes you miss a little - on a holiday or when someone arranges to help - with someone else.
In the old days, they say, the order was completely different, but now the bride’s father is trying to extract more ransom for his daughter, and the mother is asking everything about what kind of family and what kind of character the future mother-in-law has. With this, thank God, I have no brothers or sisters, I’m on my own. And the mother will probably get along with her daughter-in-law.
They say that those who marry for love are the most unhappy people. There's Timerkai with Mahi, Kamalia's daughter. For how many years they walked and got married against the will of their parents - out of love, but they live like a cat and a dog. They fight. Timerkai’s wife beats him, and he stands like a heifer, with his head down, afraid to say a word... And sometimes you see - it’s the other way around: he grabs her by the hair and drags her, and she again - not a word in response, is silent and cries... But not even an hour has passed - they have already made peace, cooing like doves, hugging, kissing, crying... Why this is so - only Allah knows... They say that someone has cast a spell on them...
Would I really be able to raise my hand against Bibiasma!..
For some reason, I can’t get my first conversation with Asma out of my head (Asma is short for Bibiasma). It was a fruitful year then. A neighboring old lady at the mouth of Kuksu had a tithe of millet. The poor thing was lucky, the soil in those places was rich, the millet grew so big that in some places it was up to the chest. The panicles are large and bend from weight. The old woman alone in the field is of little use. Frosts became frequent, she was afraid that the millet would disappear, she slaughtered a goat and arranged to help.
It seems inconvenient not to help a lonely old woman. Yes, it’s time, we’re up to our necks, the bread hasn’t been delivered yet. It would have broken a little, scratched the back of my head, and even refused, but the old woman turned out to be wise. When I asked who would come, she named Asma first. How could one not agree!
The cattle have gotten into the habit of spelt - it’s high time to take the sheaves into the yard; there is an unfinished stack in the field. But when I heard about Asma, everything flew out of my head; now the haystack will probably continue to get wet in the rain.
Asma! Everyone has it on their tongue. The old ladies affectionately pat her on the back, call her darling, the guys only talk about her.
I arrived in the field later than the others. The guys there were already unharnessing the horses, the women were changing clothes behind a shock of oats. Before I could drive up, I immediately noticed Asma. Seeing me, she blushed all over.
Then Aunt Farha began to reap, and behind her, the girls got down to business, chatting cheerfully and jokingly. Scarves are tied at the back of the head, white sleeves extend to the elbows. Twenty people gathered to help - nine women, eleven men. It is known that men are the most unreliable people in such matters, and if there are women nearby, even more so. All hope here is for the girls. They are already over there, and we are all standing near the carts and chatting...
Aunt Farha could not stand it:
- Hey; “Guys,” she shouted, “why are you wasting your time sharpening your swords there!.. When we finish our share, look, there will be no help.” As if I didn't have to blush. There is nothing to do, we also picked up sickles. The millet is tall, you don’t have to bend over, your back is unlikely to hurt... It’s a pleasure to work.
However, helping cannot be called work - there is laughter and jokes all around... There are singers and masters of jokes here. Sometimes they sing a ditty - but it’s prickly, it takes the girls to the quick. Those, of course, do not remain in debt; they respond even more harshly. Happens. and draw out a long drawn out, all together...
There, in the very middle of the field, there is a small lake overgrown with dense willow grass. We expected to reach it by noon.
Boys' voices were heard:
- They're bringing lunch, lunch!
I raised my head and saw that the lake was just a stone's throw away. We pressed together, and in a few minutes the matter was over.
Soon a cart arrived, on which a boy and two women sat, holding dishes wrapped in a tablecloth. The girls, followed by us, ran through the thicket to the cart.
It so happened that I had just dived into the thickets when Asma appeared in front of me. I rushed towards her, but she deftly dodged me and ran. I shouted:
- Asma... I love you!..
Hearing my words, she stopped, looked at me furtively, and when I stepped towards her, she rushed to the side and disappeared among the trees. I repeated again:
- Love you!
Echo answered me:
- And I!..
From that day we began to meet. God knows how many embroidered scarves she gave me. Aunt Farha says that fate itself tied our hair together. I hope so myself. Just how to persuade her father!..
I’m alone with my mother, so I’m not in danger of becoming a soldier. Guys like me have been getting married here since they were seventeen. With Gilazhi, for example, we are the same age - so his son will soon travel at night.
Those who have a father are not even asked if they want to get married, if they don’t want to - when the time comes, they send matchmakers.
And I am my own head. We live in harmony with my mother, she consults with me on everything. She’s already old, she’s probably offended that she has to do everything herself, including heating the stove and washing the floors. It would be much easier with a daughter-in-law. And she’s uncomfortable in front of her relatives, it seems she’s even ashamed that she’s still single. Besides gossips They talk all sorts of things behind your back. Hafiz, they say, would have married a long time ago, but for him the bride has not yet grown up... Nothing. I’ll wait until autumn and send a matchmaker to the governors... If this time they refuse, then I don’t know what to do... But it all started with that help.
It's haymaking time. This year, although the summer is dry, it’s still a shame to complain - the grass is not bad: the flood was high and the water stayed on the floodplain for a long time.
On one of the floodplains, Grandfather Shahi decided to arrange help. Of course, there is too much to do... The hay is only half cut, the rye stands untouched, sways in the wind, golden waves run over it. At least start the harvest tomorrow. There’s no time for help here, if only I could remove my own in time, I’m ready to tear myself into forty pieces.
But be that as it may, twelve men gathered at Grandfather Shahi’s place. He is a good old man, his son Ibrai was taken as a soldier - now he is as if he has no arms. In addition, just before haymaking, two of his horses were taken away. The horses were a sight to behold, the whole village pitied him...
It is rare for anyone not to go to such a person. Besides, he has a beautiful daughter. The guys don't wait for an invitation, they stuff themselves.
- But if you think about it, helping is different from helping, especially if it comes at a post. At other times, in the morning you will have tea with pancakes, and at lunch, as expected, you will eat meat soup. What about the post?
Breakfast, whatever you say, was good! Bibiasma is not some kind of white-handed woman... She likes everything to shine... Sitting at such a table is a pleasure: the tablecloth is snow-white, the samovar is polished to a shine, the dishes are cleanly washed - in short, her hand is felt in everything.
After breakfast, the guys quickly harnessed four horses. We got on the carts and left the village. Dawn was barely breaking over the hills.
How wonderful it is at dawn in summer! It’s so easy to breathe... The nightingales are singing... And the meadow, here it is, stretches from edge to edge and greets us, shining with pearly dew.
When twelve mowers, one after another, passed the first swath, the sun rose... It became more cheerful, the soul sang, and an extraordinary lightness was felt throughout the body. How good it is to mow early in the morning, on wet grass!.. In the morning the guys mowed playfully. Everyone's sleeves are rolled up, their shirts are unbuttoned. But towards noon the conversations fell silent. The heat intensified every minute. The grass withered before our eyes, drooping to the ground. The sky turned into a huge red-hot brazier and sank lower and lower. There’s no time for mowing here, brother, I’m constantly thirsty. Oh! If only I could take a sip just once, I would immediately feel better... But fasting is fasting, if you take water in your mouth, everything is gone.
Old man Shahi's eyes are red from the heat and thirst.
“Well, guys,” he says, “start mowing at dawn, look
how much has been done. If you need to go home, go, I won’t be offended.
But Karim-abzy said:
- So that eleven such warriors are not finished off?!
Let's wait out the heat and finish... These guys can handle it without rest, nothing will happen to them!
We said nothing. They hid - some under a cart, some under bushes.
The heat intensified, the earth and air became so hot that it seemed as if the earth had opened up nearby and the flames of the underworld were burning at us. The shadow did not help, the heat took away the last of my strength, and the thirst tormented me unbearably. Lying under a bush, I heard Shayakhmet and Satkay arguing nearby. Both suddenly jumped up and grabbed their braids.
“They didn’t share something again,” I thought and approached them.
These guys are in an unenviable position!
Shayakhmet once wanted to get Maibadar, the daughter of grandfather Aptryash. On the other hand, through old man Safa, he found out that grandfather Aptryash was not against giving up his daughter for him, but he needed to agree on the bride price. Old Aptryash insisted that beshmet, a pound of tea, and half a pound of honey be added to what was promised. Satkay, having heard about all this, quickly sent old man Khairullu to Aptryash and punished him: not to miss Maibadar under any circumstances. Khairulla placed a twenty-five ruble deposit on the table. They shook hands, and the matchmaker brought Satkai a bride's gift.
Shayakhmet, of course, was not left without a wife; he took Gilminur for himself. But I was offended for life. For how many years now, no matter where they meet, they put a spoke in each other’s wheels. And today a quarrel broke out over a trifle. It turns out that Shayakhmet touched a nerve with Satkay, saying that he was completely exhausted during the last swathing.
Satkay jumped up and shouted:
- Yes, I can mow until sunset without rest!..
The giant was just waiting to add fuel to the fire:
“No,” he said, “you can’t stand it!”
We arrived in the midst of an argument.
“I won’t if I don’t leave you a hundred fathoms behind,”
Shayakhmet slapped himself in the chest.
To this Satkay replied:
- You will go around two steps - your own horse by the bridle
I’ll bring you to you,” and hit the cart with such force that
it crackled.
Guys looked out from under the cart, rubbing their eyes. And old Shahi said conciliatoryly:
- Guys, it’s a hot day, fast yourself, don’t get excited, so
After all, it won’t take long to burn.
But will they listen?
In terms of strength and dexterity, both rivals are perhaps equal. Only Satkai’s braid was worse - I was afraid that he would really get sick. Seventy fathoms went smoothly. Satkai, apparently, was saving his strength: when he passed the thicket of the willow grass, he walked faster. After some time, Shayakhmet finally caught up with him and must have demanded to give way. But Satkay didn’t let him in, and they rushed forward madly. Soon, however, Shayakhmet began to give up. Having reached the edge of the meadow, he stopped. And Satkay mowed on. He is a stubborn guy, he will burst, but he will do it his way.
At first their argument was fun for us, but when we saw that Satkai had fallen, we became worried.
- Eh, young people, you don’t care about everything, it was worth it because of a trifle
ruin yourself! - old Shahi reproached us and shook his head with displeasure
head.
We surrounded Satkai. His face was covered in purple spots, he was covered in sweat, and spoke with difficulty.
“Water,” he whispered, holding his chest. “Everything is burning... I’m dying...
They brought water, but he didn’t drink; he just wet his lips and face with his wet sleeve. This apparently helped, he looked around us with a dull look and asked in some kind of deathly voice:
- Who knows, can I swim?
The most knowledgeable among us turned out to be old Fattah:
“It would be better for you, son, not to swim,” he said. “I once heard from Khazret: you can’t swim during fasting... Still, if you, son, feel really bad, Allah will forgive your sin after
you'll pray.
We moved him to the shade, closer to the water and laid him on fresh hay, moistening his face and chest. He was breathing unevenly.
Old man Shahi was seriously alarmed.
“It’s hot here,” he advised, “you’d better take him home, let them lay matting in the cellar and lie there.”
We quickly harnessed the horse and Asma's brother took him to the village.
Meanwhile, the day became hotter and hotter. We hid from the sun again.
A light, light cloud appeared on the horizon. One more, second, third... They slowly began to gather together.
A breeze blew and the clouds moved towards us, gradually darkening and promising saving rain. It started dripping. We, shouting joyfully, began to catch drops in our mouths, danced, and jumped. But the rain passed away. However, the heat subsided and the mood lifted.
Someone started singing:
Full-flowing river, in it cold water. A wave crashes on the raft...
When they finished singing, Gilaji said:
- Let's have a little snack. - Apparently, I forgot about the post.
- Gilaji, you’re hungry, right?! - we raised it
to laugh.

What a talker this Gilazhi is, by God! He himself can’t really mow, but he can’t wag his tongue - he has no equal, as if the devil spat in his mouth!
When we once again sat down to rest, Gilazhi asked Karim-abza:
- Look, Karim-abzy, our Hafiz is right before our eyes
dries. What's going on with this guy? Don't know how to help him?
Karim-abzy only grinned in response.
“If grandfather Shahi gives Asma for him, he’ll stop drying up,” Shayakhmet joked.
Where did they get the idea that I was drying up? I have health - God forbid everyone, with one blow I can knock any of them off their feet. And they chat just like that, because they have nothing to do. I silently glanced sideways at Gilaji.
- Look how Hafiz glares with his eyes! - he did not let up.
I said nothing again.
“Listen, grandfather Shahi,” continued Gilazhi, “and
maybe I'll be suitable for your Asma, huh?.. Count to three hundred if
During this time I will cross the river, will you give up your daughter for me?
This Gilaji gets away with anything, he can blurt out anything, the old man didn’t even get angry. Either jokingly or seriously, he said, standing up:
- My Asma is on everyone’s mind! You don’t know how many of you there are,
to whom to marry him off! Let's compete with Karim, who is two
the circle gets ahead, he will get it!
I jumped up and grabbed my grandfather’s hand:
- Will you keep your word?.. Will you give it back?
Everything happened so quickly that the old man was even confused, apparently, he sensed that he had started something wrong, but he did not go back on his word.
“A spoken word is like a fired arrow,” our ancestors used to say. “Come on, take the scythe!”
The old people say that until now no one has managed to beat Karim-abzy in mowing.
There was a landowner who lived not far from us. Previously, he used to hire day laborers every summer. At that time, about a hundred hefty guys flocked to him from all over the area. He paid the others fifty kopecks per day - a ruble each, and Karim - two rubles, because he always walked ahead, pulling the rest with him. And they treated him differently. True, that was a long time ago. Now Karim-abzy is no longer the same fellow. However, in the area he is still considered the best mower. I have never heard of him ever giving in to anyone.
After grandfather Shahi’s words, guys surrounded me. Some grinned incredulously: who, poor fellow, did he decide to compete with, and one of them said just that to me:
- Don’t go crazy, is it possible to overtake Karim-abzy?
I stood my ground, my heart pounding wildly with excitement.
So Karim-abzy took the scythe, which was probably the same age as him, stuck its handle into the ground, and ran the bar along the blade.
- Well, guys... Godspeed! - he exclaimed. His voice sounded
strong and confident.
He walked forward surprisingly easily, it seemed as if an unknown force was carrying him. I followed. The guys started watching us. We went through the first swath equally. Either Karim-batyr was starting to get overwhelmed by the years, or I really wanted to get ahead of him, only on the second run the old man began to clearly give up. I stepped on his heels. Having caught up with Karim-abzy, I struck my scythe at his very feet and shouted:
- Watch out, I'll hook you!
However, he did not want to give up so soon, straining his last strength, he tried to break away. This spurred me on even more. I again passed the scythe at his feet and shouted angrily:
- Move away! Give way!
The scream increased my strength; I didn’t know what to do with the power that was bubbling inside me.
“What a good fellow...” Karim-abzy finally squeezed out and let him go ahead. Without looking back, not even knowing whether he was following me or not, I waved and waved my scythe, and each of my swings seemed to be able to destroy any barrier. When I finished, the guys picked me up in their arms and carried me to grandfather Shahi.
“A real man won’t repeat himself twice,” said the old man, “apparently, that’s what Allah wants,” and he agreed to marry Asma to me.
When the harvest was over, the wedding took place. Fellow villagers later said that such a fun wedding had not happened for a long time. And they say you are a very successful couple - beautiful and hard-working.
We live really well. In the village we are used as an example to others. Our mother is not overjoyed at our happiness. The little one should appear soon. Yesterday, Asma and I didn’t sleep a wink all night, everyone was talking about the child. I myself want a daughter and someone who is like Asma. And she says: “Let it be a boy and let him be just like you. And we’ll call him Timerbulat.”
What is destined will happen. If only he grew up healthy and happy.

The sun is going down, evening is approaching. The sky is clear.
Silence. Raising sails like the wings of a large bird,
our ship slowly lifts off from the shore and takes
direction towards the setting sun.
Farewell, reliable, safe shore!
And the city, and the estuary, and the ships on it, and the minarets, and multi-colored flags - everything decreases in size as we move away, as if sinking into the ground; The further we go, the more densely the coast is shrouded in haze and the city with the towers loses its outline.
Now they are no longer visible at all. Nothing around except the sky and the endless sea.
The sun is hiding behind the horizon. The sea, which shimmered so beautifully during the day, begins to darken, the crimson of the sunset acquires darkish yellow tones, and after a while it becomes dark gray. Bright colors and poetic pictures are gradually replaced by dark, gloomy tones, they give rise to anxiety in the soul and pull me into the mysterious depths of the spirit.
There are about two dozen people on the ship. They begin to settle down for the night, and soon one after another they fall asleep in a sweet sleep. Such silence, as if nature itself had fallen asleep. Under the cover of night, the silence seems mysterious and alarming.
Sailors are happy when there is such calm. They appreciate good weather and, following the passengers, hurry to lie down. Only one helmsman is awake, he guides the ship by the stars.
I also went to bed, but felt that I would not fall asleep. Something became agitated in me, some kind of anxiety awoke, my soul sensitively caught the secret sighs of nature. We continue on our way.
Distant stars light up in the sky; the closer the night, the larger and brighter they are; finally, they fill the entire sky and shine like diamonds. Looking at them, you forget everything in the world, and dreams take you to the divine world, where beauty, poetry and mercy reign. Earthly sorrows, big and small worries, worries miraculously leave you, and you plunge into the inexplicable bliss of peace.
Beautiful nature and a starry sky - aren’t they the same everywhere? Or did I see all this for the first time? Why do I not have such peace of feelings when I am in a huge city - there, among tall buildings and noisy streets, where, in the hope of finding at least some consolation, I turn my gaze to the sky? Why do I feel so good now when I look at this sea, which has absorbed so many stars! Why can’t I find peace and balance there, in the city, like on this night?
The ship glides lazily forward. The night is still quiet, people are sleeping, the helmsman, looking at the twinkling stars, froze at the helm. Apparently, he forgot himself, listening to this silence, and his thoughts were somewhere in the heavens.
The whole world at this moment is immersed in silence and is its embodiment. It feels as if our ship is not sliding on the water at all, but is standing motionless. The sea is calm and smooth. Myriads of stars, reflected in it as in a mirror, seem like precious stones scattered across its surface.
On a high mast, like a big star, a lantern hangs motionless.
Here from the bottom. The sad moon slowly emerges from the sea. At first it is reddish-yellow, rising higher, it begins to turn pale and after a while it becomes silvery. We bathe in its gentle, transparent rays.
With the appearance of the moon, the darkness recedes, the sea changes color, from alarmingly dark it turns into thoughtful leaden. The sky drops lower, merges with the sea, and we are now sailing along a huge mirror, decorated with a lunar road and diamond stars... But recently everything was different, and nothing existed except night and silence.
When the moon rose and the dark curtain rose, there was some movement on the sea. Behind the stern the water was not as calm as it seemed, the waves shimmered under the light of the moon, the stars swayed overboard and dived. It seemed that on this night the sea and the sky were celebrating their first love, that the sky, looking from above with a loving gaze, received thousands of smiles in response and, forgetting about everything, the two elements threw themselves at each other
into a hug. Once you find yourself on the open sea, you begin to feel an extraordinary liberation from earthly burdens, and quiet joy and pleasure are instilled in you. A bright feeling is born in the soul, a kind of detachment and peace covers it, the anxieties of the world recede somewhere. I want to sit motionless, listening to this silence; if a talkative companion were nearby, he would only interfere with your bliss.
Your affairs, your native land and the rest of the world - everything in these hours loses its former meaning, and you do not feel the passage of time. Where, from where, and why you are sailing - everything is forgotten and you don’t want to remember.
The joys and sorrows of the world no longer exist for you, in front of you there is only the endless sea and the high sky that looks down in love - and you see their blissful merging and oblivion.
Feelings take you to unattainable heights, to distant luminaries, to the great and mysterious kingdom of the spirit, where human flesh has no access.
Your soul hovers in the blue expanses, you are full of mercy, love and happiness, the devil in you is killed and trampled, and Dzhabrail himself is your companion. At these moments I want to fall on my face, repent, confess to someone with all the fervor of love.
A spark of hope ignites in a despairing soul; one wants to live for thousands and thousands of years. But not the miserable life of the flesh, but another - sublime, beautiful and great.
But does such a life exist? If yes, where? Does it exist in the sky, among the stars? Maybe this is just a hoax? In the depths of the Universe, perhaps, there is also grief, sadness, tears and the meaninglessness of life?

I'm not very talkative, but I can get someone else to talk
not difficult. It was apparently a joy for the old man to meet a Muslim on the way. He called himself Nuretdin, but people, it turns out, call him farrash Nuri. Although he is originally from Kazan, he has been serving in one of the large mosques in Astrakhan for many years; now he is going to visit his son Khairi, who works in the Caspian fisheries.
“I only have one son,” he admitted, “how can you not go... He’s getting old, anything can happen... I want to visit him one last time...
The old man turned out to be talkative, and soon I became aware of
the story of his whole life.
“From an early age, I grew up an orphan, without supervision... I lived on handouts, begged,” he began. “In a hungry year, when there was nothing to feed in the village, relying on God, I went with one person to the city. After much ordeal, he contracted to serve as a guide for food to a blind man.
Finally, fate smiled on him - he joined the Khazret as a worker. Khazret was a kind man and, having kept the boy for several years until he grew up, he assigned him to serve in a madrasah.
Nuri served well here too, doing everything that was ordered. The rooms and dining room were kept in order. He became a common favorite, and the shakirds began to teach him to read and write. A little time passed, and Nuri learned to read prayers and verses from the Koran freely. Long years He worked in the madrasah and left only after the death of Khazret, when the madrasah was empty.
Unaccustomed to hard work, Nuri began to look for a place at the mosque, as he had managed to get used to the clergy. After a long and unsuccessful search, he went with one of the Shakirds to Astrakhan. It was autumn, the Shakirds were just returning to the madrasah, and Nuri without much difficulty found a position in one of them.
Here too he won the respect of the Shakirds, and here they willingly helped him study religious books. From time to time, Nuri managed to earn a little money by binding books and doing small errands. Having saved some money, he married a widow and soon became a respected person in the parish. Taking time away from service, he increasingly appeared in the mosque in a turban and robe...
Fortunately for him, Safa’s grandfather, a mosque minister, died unexpectedly. Nuri was unanimously elected to replace the deceased. Since then it has been called farrash Nuri. It turned out that he still holds this position and leads a pleasant, quiet life. He considers himself incredibly lucky.
- Glory to Allah, son!.. In this world, God gave me everything I wanted, but may not deprive me of his mercy in the next world...
It turned out that the lively old man managed to become Ishan’s murid and was favored by him. (Ishan is the head of the Muslim religious community, who has his own adherents and followers - murids)
Ishan distinguishes him with special attention. How many times did Nuri receive the honor of washing his benefactor’s hands before prayer, how many times did he lean on his shoulder while putting on his shoes. Sometimes he inquires about Nuri’s health, asks about his wife
and children. Once he handed over an unfinished cup. And this doesn’t often happen to murids. One of the mentors closest to Ishan gave him an expensive rosary. Doesn't all this speak about their location?..

The old man is at sea for the first time. Our ship is not a reliable steamer, but just a sailboat, and, feeling this, the old man behaves uncertainly, there is fear in his eyes, and his face is pale.
In moments of danger, people turn to otherworldly forces for help. So did Nuri: not limiting himself to reading the prescribed five prayers, he repeated everything he knew by heart, and did it sincerely. As soon as the sea got rough and began to rock the ship, the old man began to tremble; He was very worried that he would become food for the fish.
We walked hard, at the risk of our lives; sometimes the ship spun like a splinter. At these moments the old man looked terrible. With loud prayers he asked Allah for help and mercy, as if death had already grabbed him by the throat and he was losing his last strength.
I tried to calm him down, convinced him that fear would not help - but this only offended him! Pointing to the women who were crossing themselves, he angrily exclaimed:
- You see, Russians pray to their god, but what are you doing?!
I looked at him and was surprised: it would seem that a man is seventy years old, his life can be considered lived, but he is so afraid of death. Why am I not scared? Why don’t we young people have such a thirst for life?
The next night was especially difficult. At sunset it blew strong wind, clouds appeared from the north and soon covered the sky. It became difficult to distinguish the sea from the sky; suddenly night came. The wind was getting stronger. The sky suddenly flared up and split overhead, as if huge mountains were collapsing: Lightning, like long peaks, pierced the sea, endlessly rushing between the clouds.
It became eerie, the wind roared, huge waves rushed madly at the ship, and it tilted so that it seemed like we were about to sink. The situation was hopeless. No one expected to survive.
There were four women among the passengers. At first, on their knees, they whispered prayers, fervently crossed themselves and cried out at every lightning strike. Soon, unable to bear it, they fainted and, pale, stretched out on the floor. Alive, no - no one knew.
My old man repeated his prayers, but after a while I noticed that something strange was happening to him: the greater the danger and the closer his death, the calmer and more detached he became. Then I realized: in despair, he believed in imminent death. .
Having completed his ablution with great difficulty, he unrolled his prayer mat, sat on his knees and began to finger his rosary. At first he wanted to give me his will, but after thinking about it, he decided that no one would survive anyway, and said:
- If with God's help If you save yourself, tell my people there how it all happened... Tell your son to quickly go to Astrakhan and pick up his things. My old woman died, and besides my son, I now have no heirs.
The wind blew even stronger, the sea roared furiously, the ship jumped up and tossed about in the waves. The ominous sound of the waves and the deafening peals of thunder attacked the ship even more, as if they wanted to devour and destroy us all.
- Is there hope for salvation or not? - I turned to the captain. And he answered openly: “The danger is great, this doesn’t happen often.”
My old man still said prayers. I didn't go near him.
So the night passed. I still wonder how we survived.

One of the crew members later told me that if it weren’t for the helmsman, who kept the ship’s nose to the wave all the time, we would not have survived.
Before dawn the sea calmed down a little, and I went to bed. The difficult night apparently tired me out, because I slept for a long time. When I opened my eyes, the weather was already clear, the clouds had parted, and a light haze hung over the bright expanse of the sea. The sea, disturbed by the previous hurricane, was still rocking, but the waves were already weak. After the hell of the night, this clear, sparkling day seemed unusually beautiful.
Seeing me on the deck, the old man quickly approached me. He was still pale, his face showed traces of the horror he had experienced, but there was genuine joy and surprise in his voice. - Here it is, God's mercy, the blessing of our teachers... If I tell you, no one will believe what horror we experienced, what misfortune we got rid of... I made a lot of vows to myself here last night. I will do it, I will do it all, if I stay alive... If only I can get to the shore...
Last night he experienced such fear that, remembering, his face changed and began to whisper prayers. All the laziness, the old man walked around depressed.
By evening, the rough seas had subsided, and last night already seemed like a disturbing dream to us. We continued on our way.
Finally, the old man found peace of mind and spoke again. Almost all the old man’s stories were related to the sea - probably under the impression of his experience. He remembered different stories 6 the treachery of the sea, told mysterious incidents that happened in the old days. His ancestor Gabdullah Haji made pilgrimage to Mecca many times. The old man remembered his grandfather's stories well.
For the first time, Gabdulla visited holy places at his own expense. The rest of the visits were at the expense of the rich, who sent him in their place in order to receive the honorary title of “haji-pilgrim” in this way. So Gabdulla spent many days of his life between Mecca, Medina and Kazan. That’s why he was called Gabdulla-haji.
Of the stories of his ancestor, old man Nuri remembered best the sea stories that happened on the way to the holy places. Most of them were about giant fish.
One story happened on the way back, when Gabdulla-haji, having visited the grave of the prophet, sailed back to Russia. There were other pilgrims with him on the ship. One morning people woke up and noticed a moving island in the sea. This seemed strange and scared them. The island was rocky and covered with small bushes. Everyone was perplexed: what could it be? Is it really the end of the world0 Maybe an earthquake? In a word, there was a commotion on the ship...
Fortunately, among them was an experienced old man who had visited the Kaaba many times*.
(* Kaaba is a Muslim temple in Mecca, where the sacred black stone revered by Muslims is located.)
He explained that this was not an island at all, but a giant fish, on whose back all sorts of things had grown over thousands of years. In order to somehow reassure his companions and convince them that such cases happen at sea, he told them the following story: one day the fishermen caught a lot of fish and decided to land on an island to eat and rest. Having gone ashore, they began to dry their clothes, someone dug a small hole and lit a fire. They sit by the fire, warm themselves and get ready to drink tea. Suddenly the island swayed and moved, as if during an earthquake.
It turns out that the island was not real, but one that they had just encountered - in a word, it was a huge fish. The fish felt the heat of the fire and became worried.
The death of Gabdulla Haji, like his life, was unusual. At one time, there were a lot of different rumors about this among the people. Some said that he was robbed and killed in the desert by the Arabs, and some spread a rumor that, they say, he visited the Kaaba, but was too lazy to go to the grave of the prophet and, as punishment for this, his arms and legs were lost in the desert .
Old man Nuri says it's all a lie. The son of a classmate of Gabdulla-haji Ishan Karim told him exactly what happened. His ancestor died as Prophet Yunus. And it was like that.
Gabdulla-haji, together with other pilgrims, was returning to their homeland. One dark night, their ship suddenly stopped. The passengers began to worry. Nobody knew the reason for the stop. The people traveling on the ship were gripped by fear and panic, many cried and prayed. Some of the pilgrims, repenting of their sins, began to confess loudly. The captain, trying to hide his excitement, announced in a changed voice:
- The ship is detained by fish. Such disasters sometimes happen at sea. Fish demands sacrifice from us. Apparently there are among you
a person who is destined to die. If we don't make a sacrifice,
We'll die.
Hearing these words, everyone on the ship became numb. There is confusion and fear on their faces. Then began general crying, pleas for mercy, prayers of repentance and groans. But there is no other way out.
However, no one voluntarily wanted to be a victim, so they decided to cast lots.
- Oh my God!.. What will happen?.. Who will be on top, who will sacrifice his life and save the rest!
The lot fell on Gabdulla-haji. Turning pale, he knelt down and silently, without resistance, decided to surrender himself into the hands of fate, for such was his destiny! Then a sigh of relief was heard throughout the ship, because everyone understood that this time Azrael was calling on the other. However, people felt sorry for Gabdullah Haji. They thought about why their comrade, instead of happily and joyfully going to his homeland, where his family and friends were waiting for him, should die such a terrible death.
One old man began to exhort Gabdulla-haji:
- There is no need to grieve, you have had an honorable death, you will be numbered among the apostles of the faith, you will rise in the next world, overshadowed by divine light, and your place will be next to the prophets and saints.
He even recalled that Prophet Yunus suffered the same death.
But Gabdulla-haji no longer heard anything: having lost consciousness, he fell.
He was wrapped in a shroud and lowered into the water alive.
The sea accepted its victim.
The ship set off.
Let's swim further. The day is approaching evening, the weather begins to deteriorate again, and the wind rises. Clouds appear here and there in the sky. Again you can feel the approach of a thunderstorm. The old man's stories are already quite boring, there is a heaviness in my whole body.
Leaving the old man, I went to bed. The ship rocks slightly
and cradles me. I look at the clouds, my eyelids gradually get heavier,
makes me feel sleepy, and soon I fall sound asleep.

And I wake up from excited voices.
I think I've completely fallen in love with the sea. Its clear, transparent distances beckon me, scarlet sunrises and crimson sunsets, dark stormy nights - everything evokes surprise in me. I find special meaning and charm in them.
Looking at the sea, I feel a trembling feeling within me, as if my soul is spreading its wings. Oh my God! How clean and transparent the air is, what beauty around!
The wind that had risen towards night died down, the sky cleared and shone with blueness and infinity. The mirror sea stretched as far as the eye could see. The distance is shrouded in a pinkish haze. There is a feeling of joyful peace in everything!
The edge of the sun appears from the sea, and a yellowish-red flash illuminates the surface of the water. Both the distance and the vast expanse of the sea immediately change their color, painted in rainbow tones.
Under a light wind, the ship quietly glides forward, we continue on our way...
Mountains are visible in the east. As we approach, they seem to grow, increase in size. At the foot of the mountain we already notice bluish forests, high minarets, towers and white temples of the city.
The ship begins to move. On people's faces is the joy of getting rid of; dangers, impatience to step on solid ground. Passengers are excited, cheerful voices and laughter are heard. My old man is also fussing, thanking Allah for his salvation, hastily collecting his belongings, and preparing to go ashore.
Only I, a sinner, am sad. I do not feel joy and do not understand the excitement of the passengers. Hearing the sharp whistles of a steam locomotive on the shore and looking at the smoky chimneys of the factories, I again indulge in melancholy and anxiety, everything in me shrinks. At that moment, something in my soul dies, collapses and becomes dead, as if its best part is being taken away. The former peace and tranquility leave me. But what to do?..
The ship stops. The passengers who escaped death hastily leave the ship. I, too, reluctantly take my things and go ashore. 1911

The beginning of spring

I was probably eleven years old when I returned from my studies.
“Son, bring me your certificate of merit,” said my mother.
I have been looking forward to these words for a long time. Without remembering himself, he jumped up from his seat and rushed to the table, where books and notebooks lay in disarray, and on them, sparkling in gold letters, was a certificate of commendation. I carefully took the piece of paper, as if it were a hero’s reward for valor, and gave it to my mother.
This was my certificate of merit, recently received at school. There is no need to blush with such assessments. I was sure not only that my mother would be completely satisfied, but also that it would pleasantly surprise her. Her request made me endlessly happy.
From the time this letter fell into my hands, I re-read it many times and knew everything that was written there by heart. And still, I really wanted to hear how my dear, dear mother would read it.
“Well, mom? Is everything okay?” - I said to myself, looking into her eyes.
I'm looking forward to your answer. And my mother looked around the sheet of paper several times, and then out loud, so that I could hear, she began to read: five, five plus...
A hot flame flared up in my chest, began to rise to my throat, then rushed to my face. Apparently, my mother noticed this. She patted me on the back with her thin, powerless hands, then with deep tenderness and love she hugged me and pressed me to her heart.
I remember this very well even now.
Her heartfelt words: “Thank you, son, thank you, the light of my eyes, you did a good job!” - were said with such an expression and such a voice that it seemed that every sound was full of deep inner meaning and love. These words seem to still ring in my ears. Then mom kissed me
in the eyes and forehead. I perceived this tenderness of hers with such a feeling that cannot be erased from my memory until my death. A kind of pleasant and sweet silence reigned between us. No other words were said. But in my mother’s large and deep eyes, full of hope and love, tears sparkled. How is she
Even though she tried to hide them, tears rolled down from her eyelashes and ran down her pale face one after another. Although I could not understand with my mind why these tears appeared, I felt and understood everything in my heart. I did not have the strength to resist these burning tears that rose from the depths of my soul. I, too, was overcome with great excitement, tears flowed from my eyes and wet my cheeks. I was content, I had everything I wanted, all my desires were fulfilled, and it seemed that I needed nothing more. Only child and mother's companion, I had everything. She, as they say, doted on me and considered me the closest and dearest
being in the world. ?
Her caress warmed and touched.
Meanwhile, the tea was already ripe, and one after another the delicacies that I had missed so much appeared on the table. We drank tea for a long time and with appetite. Mom began asking about my school life, delving into the smallest details - about my studies, my comrades, about exams, about what the teacher said about me. I told all this in detail and retold it to her more than once.
After tea, my mother carefully looked at the textbooks I studied from, leafed through the notebooks and looking pleased said: “Now go play outside!”
Joyful and in a great mood, I went out into the yard. I've been away from home for nine months, I just returned last night. Because I was so bored, I wanted to look at everything, and it was interesting to look at everything in a new way. I walked around the garden, welcoming it, the vegetable garden with beds, the yard, the barn, the cage, the stable and the barn. The day was clear, the sky was clear and bright, and the sun was slowly approaching noon. On such a wonderful day, I was pleased to meet my former acquaintances, with whom I was parting for the first time in my life. Everything seems beautiful and sweet to me, my joy cannot fit in my chest, it is bursting out, ready to overflow. These are the feelings that worried me.
Meanwhile, friends and neighboring boys, having learned about my return, had already come running to our house. At first there was a slight hiccup. They were shy about something and looked at me as if I were an elder. But after a few minutes the tension disappeared. We became the same boys again - Aptryay, Salikh - and started playing.
I don’t remember all the games we played. We played all the famous games: ball, roof, horses. It came to the point of “hares across the street.” During this game you had to say a rhyme:
Knife, knife, knife, Who cleaned the bench with it? Magpie, little dove, you should drive, little one!
. But all this entertainment could not cheer me up - I dreamed about games all winter. We began to come up with something even more interesting, even more lively. Suddenly one of the boys said:
- There is no wind, it would be nice to go fishing now.
I supported him. Fishing with a fishing rod has been my favorite pastime since childhood.
On long, hot days, I used to go to distant rivers and wander there until exhaustion. Therefore, when I heard about fishing, I could not resist shouting:
- Well done, what a good thing I remembered! Let's go, guys, let's definitely go!
Some tried to object, but I persuaded them. I ran home and said:
- Mom, I'm going fishing!
It was easy to guess from the expression on my mother’s face and her voice that she didn’t want to let me go, but after listening to my insistent request, she agreed:
- Okay, go, just watch, be careful, don’t swim
far.
I grabbed last year’s fishing rod and, not feeling the ground under my feet, ran to the boys.
- Well, guys! They crawl like turtles and can barely move their legs. Timerkai and Aptryay have not arrived yet!
And I want to run and jump. I forgot what it was like to walk, as if an indomitable force was raging in my body that couldn’t fit inside: I wanted to jump, spin, climb somewhere high, high, fall... So I’m angry with the boys! They still don't exist! It’s not entirely convenient for me to follow them or shout loudly and call them. And I tease my neighbor Ibray, making him shout: “Hurry up!”
Finally they showed up! So, let's go. But here’s the challenge: where to go?
The lazier boys are persuaded to go to a small river near the village. But I resist this with all my might. Firstly, this river is dirty and shallow. Secondly, except for small fish, nothing is caught there. The boys divided into two groups and began to argue. But still, our side won, and we headed to the lake, which was located among forests and fields, away from the village.
As soon as we left the village, it became easier to breathe. To me, who spent the whole winter among books and desks, in a cramped school room, it seemed that all these fields, meadows, mountains, where I had run so much since childhood, greeted me with special warmth. This made me happy.
It is now mid-May, the sun is high and pleasantly warm. The whole earth is covered in the charm of spring, a kind of quiet joy reigns everywhere. The willows on both banks of the river are dressed in thick green foliage and rustle quietly, carefully. A wide green meadow stretches along the river. The river flows through the very middle of this wide sea of ​​wavy grass and makes unexpected turns. The silver shine of its flow enhances the beauty of the entire surrounding area.
There are the distant mountains, the forests, the waving winter field, the meadows where we picked strawberries - all this seemed to be dressed up, everything was dressed in green velvet grass and decorated with yellow, red, pink flowers. The flowers were a little tired from the heat. On flowers and willows, wonderful birds sing their joyful and sad songs brought from overseas. Everywhere you look, there are beautiful pictures of nature, everywhere there are songs that lift your spirits.
Everyone, when they say “spring,” feels it with their heart and soul. Everyone bows their heads before its endless beauty and sonorous song, the whole earth has plunged into its tender splendor and is immersed in mysterious and joyful happiness.
...We walk among this beauty, as if along the very breast of the mighty earth. On our way, between a wide green field and a high wooded mountain, a large mysterious lake sparkles.
How nice it is all around! big lake, which is located three kilometers from the village, I had to run from an early age.
The beautiful nature and convenient shore for swimming and fishing have always attracted people. To the north and west there are wide fields of grain; one of our strips of land also abuts the lake. During the hot, lean season, when we were working in our field, I got great pleasure from swimming in the lake.
From the east and south, the lake splashes against a high mountain covered with dense forest. Ever since I can remember, the mighty trees on the mountain and the meadows where I picked berries seemed like old acquaintances to me. Everything around the lake is cute and beautiful, only one side of it, facing the village, seems a little ominous. There
there is a long swamp covered with reeds. No one can get to the middle of it.
People tell terrible and strange tales about this swamp. That's why the areas around the lake cause me concern. Not only to get close, it becomes somehow creepy to even talk about it, an inexplicable timidity appears in my soul.
But the passion for fishing overcame the fear. Among the rivers and lakes known to us, there was no other place so rich in fish. Suppressing our fear, we headed there.
Here is the lake.
We were lucky: there were no waves, the lake was completely calm, the clear and smooth water sparkled like a mirror. Only the side facing the fields ripples a little. But we still won’t go there.
The lake, the old trees surrounding it, the green, quietly rustling winter seem especially close to me today; I want to say hello to everyone, everything excites the soul, evoking memories.
My comrades rejoice not so much in familiar places, the beauty of the lake and its surroundings, but in the calm weather. After all, when it’s windy, the lake gets agitated, fishing loses its charm, because the fish don’t bite.
On the eastern side, under a high wooded mountain, the shore of the lake is very steep. It looks like the stones are about to fall on your head. We knew that the fish were biting best there, so we decided to start there. If someone had sent us, we would hardly have agreed to go there. But because of the fish, we forgot about fear.
When we reached the lake, the sun was approaching noon and it was quite hot. But we didn't feel it. The sun's rays did not reach here, under the steep bank, and the coolness here was especially pleasant.
Silently settling down in different places, we began to prepare our fishing rods. Everyone was silent and in a hurry. We put the best bait on the hooks and with the words: “Fly at the bait, shine on the sand!” - threw the fishing rods into the water.
Before my hook had time to disappear into the water, I felt that my whole body was filled with some kind of hot wave. There is a special charm in being the first to pull out a fish. Therefore, everyone wants to catch her before their comrades.
The boys became quiet; no noise or rustle was heard. Everyone has an expression on their face, as if they were preparing to snatch a fish out of the water and with my own hand place it on the hook.
Once at school, one student copied a prayer that supposedly helps to catch fish. I laughed at him then, assuring him that all this was nonsense. And now he repented that he had not learned the prayer himself. Who knows, maybe it would actually help and I would be the first to pull out a fish, and even a big one. How great that would be! But for some reason I already feel like I’m about to get a bite and I’ll be the first to pull out the fish. I don’t take my eyes off the float and wait for this joyful moment. The slightest movement of the float gives me hope. It seems that the fish has already arrived... here she is playing with the hook... I start spitting superstitiously: pah!.., pah!.., just so as not to jinx it...
Here it is! The float is moving! Now he’s swaying and moving stronger, now he’s lying on his side! Oh, how my heart beats and my head is noisy! I can’t understand: either the fish is actually eating the bait, or is being mischievous, deceiving me. No, apparently it really is biting!
While I was thinking this way, my float instantly disappeared into the water. Then he jumped out and immediately dived again, went down very quickly and energetically. The line was very stretched. There was no doubt - a healthy fish was caught.
Without remembering myself, I pulled the fishing rod and threw it onto the shore with a flourish. And what? There was a bare hook sticking out of the line; there was no bait on it. O Allah, how terrible this is, how distressing! What is it like to see an empty hook when you were expecting to see a big fish! It seemed to me that some kind of hot fire had gone out in me and there was a whiff of coldness. Without the same excitement, I baited a new bait and cast the fishing rod again. However, for some reason my hands were shaking. As soon as the hook disappeared into the water, the unpleasant trembling subsided. I again stared impatiently at the float and began to wait for the big, beautiful fish.
I glanced sideways at my comrades - I wanted to know about their successes. Having made sure that they too had no catch yet, he calmed down a little. But then one of them pulled out a sparkling fish. And what fish! As soon as a large, beautiful, rarely hooked rudd sparkled on the shore, we all threw down our fishing rods and rushed to the lucky one. He was trying to pull the fish out of the grass, shaking as if with a fever and fussing. When we saw his catch, a feeling of regret, and perhaps envy, awoke in us that we were not lucky enough to catch such a fish. We are despondent. A thought occurred to me: if I were a fish, I would only get caught by myself. At such moments I always have strange thoughts.
Although each one privately envied his comrade, we did not show it and did not say anything out loud. Only with hidden secret pain did someone say:
- Well, brother Aptryay, you’ve done the initiative. If your hand turns out to be heavy, oh, we’ll give you a hard time! Having said that, we returned to our fishing rods. Our lucky friend was still small and did not know how to handle fish. Looking admiringly, he held it in his hands and did not know what to do with it.
Suddenly a strong splash was heard, and we saw how our comrade’s face turned pale, and he himself began to fumble in the water with both hands.
Oh, poor thing, he missed his wonderful fish!.. Goodbye!
There is no point in hiding: although we sympathized out loud, everyone was pleased within themselves. We praised the fish that swam away with all our might, remembering how beautiful and big it was, almost as big as the pike that old Shagi caught.
I pulled out the second fish, but it was a very small, inconspicuous grayling. The boys laughed and said:
- Look, Salih caught a fish bigger than himself.
little finger!
- Well, you have strength, Salih! How did you manage to pull out such a fish? - they mocked me.
Although I was annoyed, I did not show my disappointment and said:
- Ah well? They're envious! You don’t even come across one like this!

Our first friend's hand turned out to be light. It was not in vain that we climbed into such a distance. Among the fish we caught were large perch, pike, burbot, and tench, which are rarely caught on a fishing rod.
Despite the good catch, the guys, not satisfied with the catch, stole several pikes from the top of old man Yunus.
Several hours passed since we arrived at the shore of the lake. Sitting on the shore and intensely watching the floats began to tire.
We cast our fishing rods deeper to catch bigger fish, and we ourselves climbed the mountain. There was plenty of fun here. We examined bird's nests, gopher burrows, looked for snakes, feasted on wild onions and young hogweed, then went to the winter fields - for sverbiga.
We had bread with us, and we ate it with great appetite. Then, to freshen up, we swam in the lake. The day was hot, there was a stuffiness in the air, it was pleasant to swim in the warm, gentle water. At the foot of the mountain we collected flat pebbles and began throwing them into the lake. Before launching a pebble, they always asked: “How many pancakes will you get?” I did not have any special abilities for this activity, and therefore it did not bring me pleasure.
The long summer day passed like a holiday, unnoticed. The sun was setting to the west and it was getting dark. The air became softer and softer, it was impossible to breathe in it. The moist air, which emanated from the foliage of the old forest, from the winter crops on the opposite bank, mixed with the aroma of flowers, smelled fragrant.
The boys began to often look back towards the village and scratch their heads. It was felt that they were tired.
One of the comrades, named Gali, who was less happy about our journey than others, said:
- It’s getting dark, it’s time to go home.
Many joined his wish. Only Timerkai and Aptryay were against it. These two possessed some kind of power that could subdue the boys. They were always stubborn, inventing something, arguing and reasoning.
Who leaves when it's time for the real bite? After all, in the evening the fish bite especially well... Because... - and we went, and we went...
We understand what keeps them here. If they come home early, they will be forced to work. So they are trying. We failed to convince the stubborn people, and we started fishing again.
However, the former ardent desire was no longer there, the mood dropped. Now we paid little attention to our fishing rods, every now and then we counted the fish and scratched our heads.
But then a thick black cloud rose from the west, and we became worried. Gali, who was the first to suggest going home, again said that before it’s too late, we need to get going. Others supported him:
- Let's go quickly! Let's go!
But it was impossible to argue with the stubborn ones; they continued to repeat their point:
- So what if it rains! Probably not sugar
you won't melt! And lunch probably isn’t waiting for you on the table.
And the cloud kept growing, thickening and turning black. The rising wind gave her strength, and she began to move straight towards us. Within a few minutes the entire sky became clouded.
The wind increased. The surface of the lake suddenly changed. Quiet and smooth, it was covered with large raging waves that rose to the sky with an ominous noise. The sun disappeared behind the clouds, the bright, clear day plunged into unpleasant darkness. In addition, thunder rumbled as if spewing stones. Enveloping the whole world in ribbons of fire, terrible lightning flashed. We were all gripped by indescribable fear and excitement.
The ominous darkness, strong wind and lightning seemed to seriously frighten even our stubborn ones. Now they themselves began to hurry us, saying:
- Let's hurry up! Well, why are you delaying! Let's run!
Like all children, we were afraid of thunderstorms with lightning and thunder. Therefore, grabbing the fishing rods in one hand and the fish with the fish in the other, we set off home along the lake. You had to run a mile along the shore, and then pass by a mysterious swamp overgrown with reeds.
The wind increased. The waves raged furiously, the dark lake made an ominous noise and rushed upward, creating a terrible picture of a violent storm. The lake, from which just recently it was difficult to take my enchanted gaze away, now gave rise to a terrible chill in my soul.
The clouds in the sky became thicker and darker, they mixed with black darkness, thunder and lightning were more fierce than ever. This filled us with such fear that we waited: the mountains were about to rain down stones on us, lightning would strike and scorch our entire body. We were approaching a terrible place - a swamp, and fear grew with inexpressible force.
All this, apparently, was not enough for us. One of the boys, who stubbornly insisted that we weren’t sugar and wouldn’t melt, was now more worried than anyone else,” and constantly retold some scary stories.
“Let’s run quickly, quickly!” he hurried. “Nothing yet.”
it happened, we need to get through this overgrown place. My elder brother
I saw a dragon in these reeds. They say that during such a storm he rises to the clouds! How not to meet him.
Dragon!.. Oh, how scary it is!
Just the mere mention of him increases my fear a hundredfold. Of all the evil and scary creatures that I could imagine, this was the cruelest and the most powerful. I feared the dragon more than devils, evil spirits, mermaids and bottomless pools. At the mention of him, a shiver ran through my body; I wanted to quickly find some safe place and hide there. I still remember the stories of old Fakhri, who knew a lot of fairy tales and was famous for his ability to tell them well. He spoke:
- Do you know small lizards living in the mountains?
These same lizards, having reached a hundred years, turn
into big dragons. Therefore, they should not be pitied, but killed.
There will be no sin from this. If you leave them alive -
So, wait for the dragons.
Dragons live in swampy places overgrown with reeds, where humans can never get through. My grandfather saw the monster with his own eyes. It is fifteen girths long and no less thick than a horse. He has so much strength that, by absorbing air, he can attract huge bulls from afar. When he lies peacefully in the reeds, no one touches him. If the dragon begins to rob, seize people and animals, then a black cloud descends and raises a strong storm on the earth. However, the cloud does not immediately manage to tear the dragon off the ground; it resists, wraps itself around the trees, clinging to the rocky cliffs. Therefore, when a cloud fights with a dragon, large trees are torn out by their roots, huge stones are moved from their places. In the end, the cloud wins and lifts the dragon into the air. She carries him over seven great seas, over seven wide rivers, and when she reaches the magical mountain Kaf, she throws him into a bottomless abyss, where hissing snakes and dragons swarm.
They say that after living in the world for several hundred years, a dragon becomes a basilisk and then it can turn into a devil, a diva or some other magical creature.
...A long time ago there lived an old man in our village. Once upon a time in severe thunderstorm he was returning from the forest and met a young beautiful girl on the road.
The girl approached him and began to ask: “Dear grandfather, let me sit in your cart.” The old man took pity on the girl and sat her down. As soon as she climbed into the cart, the old man’s horse began to breathe heavily and sweat. And the girl asks: “I’m completely chilled, let me warm up next to you.” The old man obeyed: he sat her down next to him and covered her with the hollow of his beshmet. The girl began to cry and said: “Oh, how cold I am! Let me into your mouth.” Before she had time to utter these words, thunder rumbled with terrible force, lightning flashed and struck the girl. At that very moment she was gone. They say it was not a real girl, but a terrible basilisk. If he had managed to get into the old man's mouth, he too would have been killed by lightning...
There were even more stories about how the dragon flies. I believed that they were told by people who were completely incapable of deception. They indicated exactly when and where this happened, and claimed that they saw with their own eyes what kind of people and horses, lifted up, carried away by the dragon, and then, torn into pieces, thrown twenty kilometers away.
And it was impossible not to believe all this: after all, they even named the length of the dragon’s tail and the thickness of the trees that it entwined.
I remembered how, when I was little, I lay on my mother’s lap and listened to fairy tales and legends about how Saint Gali fearlessly exterminated dragons with forty heads that breathed fire.
All these stories made such a strong impression on me that when I heard the word “dragon,” stunning pictures appeared before my eyes.
When I heard my comrade’s words about the thickets of reeds, such terrible pictures appeared before my eyes that I don’t remember if I have ever been so scared in my life. My head was filled with terrible visions, it seemed to me that now a huge dragon with ten heads, with eyes the size of a basin, would appear in front of me and swallow me in an instant.
The wind and storm grew stronger, thunder rumbled as if stone mountains were collapsing, lightning flashed, the darkness that enveloped the world thickened, and the lake, with its furious, angry waves, seemed to be rushing towards the sky. We were still walking past a swamp overgrown with reeds, and I began to lose my composure. My thoughts were confused, went into some kind of alien, scary world, and the eyes closed by themselves.
Now we are approaching the most terrible place. Oh, how creepy! My heart is about to jump out of my chest... At that moment, in front of me, very close, a thick column of dust swirled and rose. It seemed to me that a black cloud was reaching out from the sky towards him, I even heard some kind of ominous hissing, and then something large, thick, like a log, parting the reeds, came towards me
My heart stopped with fear, my legs gave way. And the dark creature, it seemed, began to rise up noisily and, just as the people said, rush from side to side.
I don’t remember clearly what happened after, I only remember how I shouted in despair:
- Mom mom! The dragon... the dragon is flying!
Everything went dark before my eyes, the whole world began to spin, and I vaguely remember how my head touched the ground.

Quite a lot of time passed like this. When I came to my senses I opened my eyes, the first person I saw was my mother. Her reddened eyes are full of tears, her ashen-pale face is deeply moved. Several other people stood next to her, one of them, who looked like a Russian, gave me something to drink and, shaking his head, said:
- These are the troubles that imagination can bring a person to!.. And the world was still beautiful: the mountains, fields, forests were green; and everywhere the nightingales sang incessantly.
I didn't lie in bed for long. As soon as I got to my feet, I ran to play again.
1910

Chubary
(One love story)

Finally, my cherished wish seems to be coming true!
In songs they say that there are no spotted stallions. These are empty words!
A stallion can be spotted, but it turns out there is no such thing as a spotted foal. Old people who have seen a lot in life are able to distinguish a future spotted foal, although at birth it is of a completely different color.
Foals that are born bay-roan, after a while begin to become covered with motley spots, similar to flowers or moles on the face.
I was at most seven or eight years old when some scary, black-faced Bashkir with sparkling evil eyes completely unexpectedly gave us his beautiful, plump bay roan mare, and he himself brought her to our yard. I remember how he sat down on a large stone that lay at the gate, read a prayer, received a blessing and, in front of everyone, gave us the mare.
People were surprised by the Bashkir’s act: for what reason does this fighter Alimgul, known throughout the district for his anger, greed, and treachery, for no apparent reason present his blood enemy Hafiz (my father) with such a gift and demand a blessing? It would be a different matter if the mare were an ordinary one! After all, what a mare! She is the mother of two brown horses, famous throughout the area. On top of that, she's due to foal soon!
Such an act of the Bashkir could not fit into people’s heads.
Our neighbor, grandmother Fatiha, right there, in the presence of the Bashkir hero himself, said:
- Children, this is not good! There's probably some
trick.
Our relative, grandfather Safa, stroking his white beard, also joined the opinion of grandmother Fatiha:
- If we speak in the book, then I’ll tell you: made of stone
the water will flow, apples will grow on the aspen, Abujakhil will turn
into a Muslim, but Alimgul-bai will not give so easily
Hafiz such a famous mare, and even with a foal.
Is there some kind of deceit hidden here, my children?
Bashkir calmly listened to all this, smiled slightly and, sparkling with his already brilliant black eyes, told what happened to him after the long-standing struggle with Hafiz on Sabantuy.
When he finished his story, surprised people began to bless him.
My father's name is Muhamedhafiz. Behind high growth he was nicknamed "Long Hafiz". In his youth, they say, he was as healthy as an oak, vigilant as a falcon, and brave as a lion. Whether in battle or in struggle, there was no man equal to him in the entire district. Even at the biggest Sabantuys, my father would jokingly throw up famous wrestlers who had come from unknown distant places.
And then one day a big Sabantuy was held in Chishmy.
Horses of excellent blood, famous wrestlers in their area, unsurpassed runners-horsemen came to this Sabantuy from hundreds of miles away to test their strength, show themselves to the people and win glory.
The fight begins.
Everyone has known everything for a long time: who can resist Hafiz?
My father jokingly throws away every wrestler who comes out to compete with him.
At the end, a lean, lanky black Bashkir emerges.
The heroes, as if testing their strength, first try to grab their belts, and then, placing their hands on each other’s backs, under the gaze of thousands of eyes, they begin to walk around the round field.
- Oh my God! What it is?
The famous Hafiz suddenly rolled on the ground and fell over on his back!
The square is noisy and thundering. The father's friends could not bear such shame and shouted:
- Bashkir cheated, tripped him up!
They made a fuss and demanded that the wrestlers come out again. Both sides agreed. Here the wrestlers are again on the round field, all the people, looking at this fight, froze.
Like a lion and a tiger with their front paws on each other’s back, these two heroes have been walking in a circle for half an hour.
Suddenly, again, quite unexpectedly, the Bashkir hero pressed Hafiz to himself, fell with him to the ground and threw him over his head with such force that he flew far away and fell with all his weight on left hand.
The people were noisy, the square was buzzing.
The father stood up and quickly moved to the side. He showed his hand to Zarif, who understood this, and asked:
- Broken or dislocated?
“It’s okay, my arm is just dislocated,” he answered.
I was still small then, but everything that happened is still before my eyes.
Sabantuy was still noisy, and the father threw over his shoulder a towel with a red border and a green chapan, which he had won in single combat with the strongest wrestlers, tied his left hand with a red sash and slowly walked home.
I was afraid to utter a word; Whether from recent tension, or because his father was angry, his face was dark purple.
Apparently he was very annoyed and ashamed.
“Enough: we fought in due time, let this be the last time!” he said.
And he kept his word. After that, I never went to any Sabantui. His heroic strength and victories can only be told in fairy tales.

A lot of time passed, but the events of those days were remembered throughout the village. Therefore, when the Bashkir began to talk about how he fought with my father and how he defeated him, people said:
- We all know this... we remember...
Alimgul angrily looked around at those gathered and asked:
- Ah well? And you Tatars know all this? But you never even dreamed of what was happening after this struggle in the soul of the victorious Bashkir... Uncle Hafiz,” he said after a pause, “when I threw you over, I was cheating.” Unbeknownst to both you and the audience, he tripped you up. Even then I had doubts. But I thought: come what may, maybe this time God will forgive me. After all, it was only thanks to this trick that I threw you over my head... They say that a person’s heart anticipates everything. It turns out that this is true. Before I had time to return from the sabantuy, I went to bed: my stomach was cramping, something began to prick and scratch under my left rib. Nothing gets into my throat, I don’t eat,
I do not drink. I lay like that, non-stop screaming, for three months. It was then that he made a vow. I decided that I got sick because I had cheated and deceived Hafiz and offended him. If I recover, I’ll give him my bay mare and ask for his blessing.
Recovered. But greed took its toll and led me astray, like Satan. “Eh, can that Tatar’s insult turn into trouble for me?” - I thought. I felt sorry for the mare.
A few years later, the illness recurred: my stomach was cramping, something was stabbing, something was scratching under my left rib... It became completely unbearable. I didn't know what to do. At this time, I dreamed of my long-dead grandfather with a long white beard, in a white shroud and something. with a large green staff in his hands. He looked at me reproachfully and said in an angry voice: “Madman,
What is more valuable to you - your life or a bay roan mare?" And then he disappeared.
“If I get better, I won’t hesitate a single day - I’ll take it,” I repeated my vow. As you can see, I have recovered and am fulfilling my vow.
The old people were quite surprised. Grandfather Safa patted the Bashkir on the back and said:
“You speak like in the book: your mind, it turns out, is suitable not only for plotting intrigues, but also for good deeds.”
After him, everyone considered it necessary to thank the Bashkir, they squatted down again and blessed him.
“These years were very difficult for Hafiz. He was separated from both his son and daughter. May the bay mare's tread be light, and may she bring happiness to this house! - everyone wished.
Bashkir left, the old people dispersed.

People were telling the truth: it really wasn't easy for us. My older brother, just like my father, tall, healthy, strong and handsome, was slandered.
There lived one very rich bai in our village. They said that he had a lot of money and he carried it with him, in a special bag on his chest. Because of a dispute over land, there had been enmity between this bai and my father for a long time.
One winter, when this bai went somewhere, unknown people dragged him into the forest in broad daylight and wounded him with a knife a mile from the village. But, unfortunately, they couldn’t finish it off completely. When they brought him home, he briefly came to his senses and before his death he uttered the following lies:
- One of them was the son of the long Hafiz, Shayakhmet. I didn't recognize the rest...
My brother was immediately put in shackles and taken away, condemned. To save him, his father worked day and night. Everyone in the village knew that the damned bei had slandered his brother only out of enmity. While the father, wanting to save his son, was busy, he lost his last horse and cow. The brother was sentenced to twenty years of hard labor. We were left in poverty.
But this grief, apparently, was not enough. My only sister, Gainia, secretly married the accordion player Fakhri from the lower end of the village. She was a mischief maker since childhood and grew up to be a desperate girl. At gatherings, she was the first to come out to dance and sing, play the harmonica, and make fun of the guys.
Thanks to all this, she gained notoriety, but this did not stop her. Her father tried to persuade her, explaining that this year was very difficult, and therefore she had to wait until she got married. Gainiya nevertheless did her own thing - she ran away with Fakhri to a neighboring village, and there a mullah, according to Sharia, sealed their marriage. She didn't listen to her father.
After this they came to their father and said:
- Bless us, we have already become husband and wife.
The mother cried and said:
- Sorry, this is our own child.
- I’m not offended by the horseman. If I were able,
“I would have married my daughter to him and had a wedding, but Gainia did not want to take me into account,” said the father and drove them out of the house.
But the mother still could not calm down. At every opportunity, she, wiping tears from her eyes, begged her father:
- If you, old man, weren’t angry, I would have called the children
to visit.
But the father was adamant.
- Call me when I die! - he snapped.
What the old people called " tough year", lay precisely in these troubles of the father. And good wishes old people's dreams come true.
The Bashkir mare appeared in good hour, brought prosperity to our home. The father, exhausted without a horse, in two days accustomed the mare, which had not previously known a collar, to the harness and began to work as if he was going to turn the world upside down. Prosperity has come to us. Thanks to tireless work, by the fall my father bought a second horse with the proceeds from the harvest. He also organized other business affairs. Thanks to the bay mare, we got back on our feet.
However, autumn also brought me great sorrow. During the autumn thaw, the father harnessed a bay roan mare and went into the forest. As he was crossing the river, the mare slipped, fell and threw her foal. According to the father, the foal was already covered with hair and was larger than a cat. Hearing this, I cried day and night. After all, before this, the mare gave birth to two brown horses. And I had already boasted to my comrades that the future foal must definitely be a dappled horse.
This damned muddy road and slippery road have robbed me of my foal.
My mother scolded me all the time for crying:
- How stupid you are! Do they cry because of the unborn?
foal?
My father was not angry with me. After everything he went through because of his two older children, he gave all his heartfelt affection to me.
“Don’t cry, son,” he said. “Next summer you will have a brown-haired foal.”
I count not only summer and winter, but weeks and days on my fingers.
Winter is already ending, but there is still a long wait... The long-awaited days are approaching.
Bay roan mare in foal. Now we don't harness it. If we harness it, then light work and at close distances. Mother is angry with father:
- After all, you have two horses!.. Why do you ride one all the time! - she says.
Her father stops her:
- Stop doing that! Why upset a child in vain?
This “child” is me.
Indeed, whenever they are going to harness a bay roan mare for some hard work or in long journey, I go to my father, spin around him, caress him. He sees my eyes, full of tears, ready to spill any moment, and, smiling from under his mustache, strokes my head:
- Well, well, Zakir, don’t cry over trifles. Okay, we won't harness your mare.
I can’t feel my feet under me from joy - no matter what they ask me to do, I immediately run to do it.
Some mares foaled as soon as the snow began to melt. When spring plowing began, foals could be seen in almost every yard in the village.
Now they are already frolicking. Slightly behind their mothers, they begin to neigh with young, silvery-ringing voices, resounding across the mountains and forests.
Eh, when will my foal be like this?
It seems that we don’t have long to wait: the mare’s belly is getting bigger every day. Uncle Safa says that the mare will foal soon and that now we can’t take our eyes off her.
The boys make fun of me all the time and ask:
- What will you give us, Zakir, to celebrate?
- Don’t worry, I have a gift prepared a long time ago. Only
I wish I was born sooner!
In recent days, my father and I have been at odds over the mare.
Wolves, it turns out, love foals very much. Fakhri had a good foal. They say he was injured by a wolf during the night. As soon as I heard this, I didn’t say anything to my father, took the bridle and ran into the field to look for the bay roan mare. You cannot leave the mare in the field: suddenly a wolf will meet and eat the foal.
The mare walked nearby. I found her quickly. To make it easier to catch, I took crusts of bread with me. Previously, it happened that if you beckoned a little, she would come to meet you halfway. Behind Lately The mare has somehow changed: if you come close, she gets angry for no reason, or comes straight at you.
Here it is now. I beckoned her with bread - how can you catch her? Snorts, rages for no reason, gets excited. I returned home in tears and began to beg my father:
- She will foal soon. Let's keep her at home!
I would look after her myself.
The father did not agree.
- There is nothing to feed her at home. Nothing will happen to her, let her
grazing in a meadow by the river.
I started crying, started talking about wolves... But my father still stood his ground:
- Don't be stupid! The wolf does not come to the meadows near the village, -
he says. “If we keep the mare at home, there will be nothing to eat.”
feed her, and the foal will be bad... If you are really afraid,
then you will guard her during the day with the boys, and in the evenings you will drive her home.
His words that if the mare is poorly fed, the foal will be frail convinced me.
I quietly stole the eggs from the chicken coop. I found the hidden matches.
The day was wonderful. The rays of the spring sun looked straight into my eyes, and it seemed that the sun was also rejoicing with me and even smiled at me a little.
As soon as the boys found out that I had eggs and matches, they happily agreed to go with me to guard the mare.

I decided to kill two birds with one stone: to guard the mare and to fish. As soon as the conversation turned to fish, the guys all at once began to pull towards Lake Kondyzly.
“There,” they say, “the fishing is good - large pikes and perches.”
come across.
Fakhri's son, his eyes sparkling, says:
- We went the third day, early in the morning, when we drove out the herd,
They fished until lunchtime... Galyavi pulled out thirty fish, and I
twenty-four... Among them were rudd as thick as an arm, and I caught a very big catfish, but he broke the line and left.
As soon as the boys heard this, everyone’s eyes lit up, and everyone was ready to run to Lake Kondyzly.
I, too, almost forgot and didn’t join them, but I remembered the mare in time and stopped.
- No, I can’t go there. Let's better go across the Uzan River, and
the bite is good there,” I say and pull them towards the river, where
my mare is grazing.
I was alone, but I still won: the guys remembered the eggs and matches that were in my white felt hat and agreed.
The same Apush now spoke differently:
- Well, let's go, let's try our luck on Uzan. In past years, I caught large carp and pike there. We took fishing rods, worms, bread, eggs, matches and ran across the field to the river Uzan, towards the bright sun.
I was of little interest whether we would catch a perch or a carp or whether we would return with nothing at all - there, in the meadow, near the Uzan River, my mare was grazing, which was due to foal today or tomorrow. Her father tied a large lasso to her neck and put on fetters. He tied a red arc to the other end of the lasso. My thoughts were occupied only by the bay roan mare, who at that time was walking among the bushes by the river with her long lasso and an arc tied to it.
When we left the village, the day was clear and windless. In the meadow we were greeted by bird voices. When we reached the Uzan River, the mother of my future foal stood with her head down on the bank of Chiletamak and did not eat anything. It seemed to me that she was thinking about something. My dear, what are you thinking about? The guys, seeing the mare, began to tease me again. Some said she would have a stallion, others said she would have a mare. But I don’t care, as long as I’m lucky enough to see the foal.

Not far from where our mare walked there is a large lowland. It is located at the bottom of the Chiletamak cliff. Three rivers flow here from three sides. All of them are connected, from this the Uzan River, which previously resembled a small lake, immediately increases in size and, having absorbed the waters of all these rivers, becomes wide, full-flowing and flows proudly, majestically.
I love my village! I love its mountains, which cover the village from the north. And even more I love the dense forest that has been growing and making noise for thousands of years on these mountains!
True, now the forest does not belong to us, it was somehow appropriated by one buy, and you cannot even cut a stick there for the handle of a whip. But still I was drawn to the forest. His spring sorrel, hogweed, its summer flowers, strawberries, dense thickets of raspberries, currants and especially autumn nuts made this forest always desirable, pleasant and sweet for me.
The deep, majestic Uzan River, which has absorbed the waters of three rivers, is also dear to me.
I would like to find out where these waters originate and where they flow! But I know very well that Uzan, passing through mountains and valleys, past our village, carries water into the Urshak River, Urshak flows into Dema, and Dema flows into Ak-Idel.
Only Allah knows where the Ak-Idel flows.
Only grandfather Safa, who traveled a lot in his lifetime.
sometimes he says: where birds fly away in autumn, there is a city called Astrakhan - the ancient city of the khans. Behind this city, he continues, there is a surprisingly large sea. Ak-Idel flows for months, years through many villages, cities, mountains, through dense forests and as if then flows into this big sea. If you throw a chip into the Uzan River, it will float along the Urshak, Dema, Ak-Idel rivers and end up in that very distant sea.
Eh! I wish I could see this sea!
When I was spinning around my mare, unable to take my eyes off her, and thinking my thoughts, the boys who were sitting and fishing suddenly began to call me:
- Zakir, Zakir! Bring the eggs, let's light a fire and bake
in ash!
They threw down their fishing rods, joked, played, fussed around the fire and waited for the eggs to bake.
The Uzan River flows very close to us. Everything flows and flows... I remembered the words of grandfather Safa and turned to Apush:
- Do you know, Apush, where this river flows?
He is a cunning man. Tells me:
- If you give me one extra egg, I’ll tell you.
“Okay,” I say, “I’ll give it.”
He took the wet clay, crumpled it and threw it up with such force that we immediately lost sight of it. Apush, bending his fingers, began to tell:
- Do you see the Uzan River? Once you see it, look at it. Twelve kilometers from here it flows into the Urshak River, Urshak
connects with Dema... And Dema flows through beautiful meadows, flows
yeah about big city Ufa, on the contrary high mountains, flows
in Ak-Idel.
Someone interrupts him and asks:
- Where does Ak-Idel flow?
Apush again took a lump of clay and, aiming at the cranes flying above us, threw it up...
- Ak-Idel, right? Ak-Idel flows through forests, mountains, cities,
then flows into the Astrakhan Sea.
The guys praise him:
- Well done to us, Apush! Take another egg.
Apush, without waiting for me to give it to him, snatches the egg from me
and starts eating.
There was a large piece of wood lying under my feet, I picked it up.
- Tell me, if you throw this chip at Uzan, it will hit
or not to that distant sea? - I asked and threw the sliver into the arms of the deep river.
The waves picked her up and hastily carried her downstream.
The guys began to argue: Apush says that the sliver will not stop and will not drown, it will definitely end up in the sea, others do not agree with him: it will not reach, it will get wet in the water and drown, or a wave will throw it ashore and it will get stuck in the reeds.
Noon has passed. They ate the eggs, took fishing rods and fish and set off home along the Uzan River. The guys were happy that they had come for a reason. Everyone caught ten to fifteen fish. Among them were large roach, perch and rudd.
I kept looking at my mare, looking until she disappeared from my eyes. She still stood slumped: she did not eat, did not move. What is she thinking about, my mare?

At home we cooked a large dish of potatoes. It turns out that I was very hungry and hastily began to eat large potatoes, the size of a goose egg, with salt and black bread.
Even though my mouth is full, I keep talking about the bay mare. The mother alternately laughs and gets angry:
- Some kind of illness has probably stuck to you or you have been bewitched by a genie! When you get up, you talk about the mare, when you lie down, you talk about her again. All you know is about her and her!
Just as I was about to object, Sapar, Fakhri’s eldest son from Lower Street, looked out the window and screamed as if in a fire:
- Zakir! Zakir! News! The bay has foaled!
The mother, confused, shouted:
- Oh, he will disappear because of the foal!
I jumped up from my seat, ran across the tablecloth spread on the bunk, on which the cups were placed, and jumped out into the yard. My father was repairing a cart near the garden.
I rushed to him.
- Father, father, let's go quickly, the mare has foaled! - I shouted.
My father wasn't angry with me at all. He stood up, took the bridle that was hanging on the fence, and asked: “Have you rewarded the one who said this for the good news?”
At this time, Sapar appeared at the gate. He was waiting for a gift.
I had six kopecks saved especially for this occasion, which I collected by selling rags and goose feathers to buyers. Without hesitation, I took the money out from where it was hidden and gave it to Fakhri’s son.
And my father and I went to get the foal.

Frisky animals, as they say, are born on their feet. And these are the right words.
When we arrived, the foal, with its not yet strong, thin legs, was already carefully stepping on the ground.
The poor thing must be very hungry: he approaches his mother first and then. on the other hand and diligently applied to her tight nipples.
Lately the bay roan has been too irritable, so I was afraid to approach her.
When the father approached to put on the bridle, she neighed wildly and subtly and was ready to pounce on him to bite or kick, protecting her cub.
But my father knew no fear. Even the animals seemed to understand this. He boldly approached the angry mare, and before she had time to come to her senses, she found herself in the bridle. I watched him in amazement and don’t remember whether I was happy at that moment or not.
I only came to my senses when we returned home and tied the mare to a well post.
And the foal was amazing: his legs walked very easily, his ankles were long and thin; They say that only horses have these.
The tail and mane, not yet completely dry, were short, curled on their own and looked like fluffy silk fringe. Along the rounded back, from the tail to the mane, the width of a finger, like a ribbon, stretched a strip of black wool. On wide forehead The oblong head had a white stripe that distinguished the foal from thousands of millions of its peers and made it unique. It seemed that he was all cast by the hand of Allah himself and the angels - he was born so beautiful, so noble...
I couldn't determine what color it was. Not black and one cannot say that it is gray, and not as pure bay roan as the mother. Some kind of bluish, sparkles like a light blue flower.
Even the samovar would not have had time to boil, so little time had passed, and the guys had already begun to gather in the yard. With their mouths open, everyone froze in surprise in front of this noble creature.
The news reached our grandfather Safa. With his white beard fluttering in the wind, he hurriedly entered the courtyard.
Grandfather was famous throughout the area as an expert on horses.
Oh God, what will he say now? I froze in anticipation. Seeing the foal, the grandfather brightened:
- O Allah, save him from the evil eye!..
Then grandfather Safa looked at the foal for a long time and said:
- Yes, yes, I'm not mistaken! And this one is like brothers!..
It turns out that my father had secretly kept a small silver bell from me for a long time. Mom gave me a red ribbon. Grandfather carefully approached the foal, hugged him and began to whisper a prayer.
- Bismillah, save him, Allah... Save him from the evil eye,

From the wolf and dogs,” he said, tying a ribbon with a bell to the neck of my horse.
Moving a little to the side, he again looked at the foal and said to his father:
- You know, Hafiz, he will be exactly like his brothers,
and the suit will soon become forelock... Good morning! You had grief
great grief caused by two older children, it will
aged... The mare entered your yard with a light foot, bringing prosperity and joy.
Usually, when reminded of a brother and sister, it is very difficult for the father. His voice changes and he speaks differently. I looked at him with concern to see if there were tears in my eyes.
- Don’t say anything, grandfather Safa! They are not ordinary people to me
were, but a falcon and a lioness. We ourselves became unhappy, and I
without time they turned their hair silver.
Having calmed down a little, the father said:
- Apparently, it’s destined... Now the only hope is for this younger one.
Grandfather Safa wished me many more good things, praised the foal and, jokingly patting my ears, said:
- Well, Zakir, great happiness has befallen you - the bay mare of the Bashkir raised your father to his feet, and gave you a brown foal. The foal, like his brothers, is from the breed of horses... If you don’t jinx it, this one will be a horse too,” he repeated and, muttering some more words, he left.
I was happy! It seemed like I had grown a lot in a day. It's no joke - I have a foal! Horse! He will be chubby, and I will call him "Chubary". He will become, like his famous brothers in the area, a horse! Listen to how loudly he neighs in his silvery voice! Look how beautifully it frolics!

From that day on, Chubary filled my life. All my joys and sorrows come from him and return to him. I dream about them. In the morning, before getting dressed and washing, I run to the stable to look at Chubary and find out if he is healthy. Healthy, very healthy! He, like a hero in a fairy tale, is growing by leaps and bounds, becoming more beautiful and stronger day by day.
Now there was not a person in the village who would not remember him with a kind word. Everyone admires and says: “God forbid, he’s so handsome! It’s immediately obvious that he’s from a good breed!”
In the surrounding area it is not seen or heard that not only in nobility and beauty, but also in voice, in the speed and lightness of the step, in the ability to frolic, there has been a foal equal to my Chubari.
Summer has passed, followed by autumn. The time has come for rain and slush. One day on the eve of the Intercession of the Day, I woke up earlier. usual, but was too lazy to get up.
The hurried voices of people could be heard from somewhere.
Suddenly, for some reason, my heart began to beat alarmingly.
I listened.
Father and mother whisper behind the curtain. There is anxiety in their voices - either they are afraid of something, or they are grieving. What do they want to hide? I don't understand anything.
- Try not to let him know anything! - said
father and, throwing the lasso he was holding in his hand over his shoulder,
quickly left.
I was even more scared.
- What happened, mom, what happened? - I ask,
clinging to her hem.
- Nothing happened, nothing, son... It’s too early for you to get up, lie down. Now I will light the stove, bake pancakes... As soon as the samovar boils, I will wake you up to hot pancakes.
My soul did not calm down. Even though I went to bed, sleep never came...
Mother stayed to fry something at the stove, and I somehow got dressed and went outside.
Apush walked towards him:
- Eh, brother! Happy you are still alive.
I was dumbfounded:
- What? What's happened? Who's alive?
Apush's eyes widened.
- Oh, you chicken head! Don't know anything? Today on
a whole pack of wolves appeared on the mountain. They strangled four foals and drank their blood... Your Chubary remained alive, only slightly wounded...
Something hit my head, my tongue was taken away, I froze in place and could not utter a word. And Apush says:
- Stupid, why are you standing there? Run quickly! “They’re taking them,” and pointed down towards the bridge.
Indeed, on the other side people were driving a large herd of horses.
Without remembering myself, I rushed there.
What is this?
Our brown horse is harnessed to a large cart, and a bay roan mare is tied to the shaft. She laughs continuously, wants to break free and go somewhere.
Father is next to the cart...
When I came closer, I saw an even sadder picture: my Chubary was lying on a cart with his legs tied.
- What it is?! - I'm confused. Petrified. - Dad, really?
Did they kill our foal too?..- And I sobbed loudly.
My father gently took my hand:
- Don’t cry, Zakir... Four foals were killed. Chubary
ours is alive. They just bit the back leg... To stop the bleeding,
We bandaged his wound and put him on the cart.

I was lucky, the wound was shallow. Thanks to constant care, my Chubary recovered within a week and became just like before. Only on his right leg there was a white spot the width of one finger left from the mark of the wolf’s teeth.
Together with Chubary, I also fell ill, lost sleep, stopped eating, and when he recovered and began to frolic, I also began to move away.
So the winter passed.
XIV
In the spring, when the foal turns two years old, it is customary for us to trim his mane and cut off his tail: they make a “haircut.” I didn’t want to disfigure Chubary like that. I asked him to cut only his bangs so that they wouldn’t fall into his eyes.
It seemed to me that now he began to resemble the beautiful daughters of Russian boyars. And I did not allow the mane to be cut off at all, but to be trimmed so that it was lush and fluttering in waves.
I took tassels and ribbons from my mother and tied them to the mane on both sides. Others cut their foals' tails in a somewhat ugly manner, after which it looks like a head of cabbage or a bare arm. I did not allow this: the foal’s tail was cut off quite a bit, only the very end, and trimmed all around. Due to their haircut, stallions in the spring look like plucked crows. And my Chubary was like the smartly dressed son of a boyar who had come to visit. I only saw such a stallion from one rich man, Absalam, when my parents went to hire him to harvest. But when I told my father about this, he just shook his head.
- Eh, son, all these whims of yours wouldn’t have gone sideways and it wouldn’t have all ended sadly.
However, despite his fears, he did everything the way I wanted.
Seeing the beautiful haircut of my stallion, the boys were amazed... After that, everyone began to cut their foals according to our model.
Summer, autumn, winter have passed. Spring came. Chubarom is entering his third year. When a stallion is at this age, people in the village say that he has “stepped onto the furrow for the first time,” and they gradually begin to accustom him to harness.
I never agreed for Chubary to be harnessed. Besides Chubari, we had two more horses. The roan mare remained barren this year. It became wide, like a log house. One can work for five horses. And Savrasy is not far behind her. Therefore, my father never mentioned using Chubary at least for small transport. He apparently did not forget the words of grandfather Safa that this stallion would grow up to be a racer like his two brothers. However, there are no roses without thorns. To my great dismay, my father bought untouched virgin land from the Bashkir Kysylda, which had not yet seen a plow and a plow. He thought that if millet was sown on soft soil, the weeds would destroy it. Even an iron plow had difficulty taking this virgin soil, because in places there were stones and bushes. To plow it, they pulled out a long-forgotten heavy plow. Two horses couldn't pull it, it was so bulky. Four, or at least three, healthy horses were needed.
My parents talked among themselves and decided to harness Chubary third. Hearing this, I went to my father, almost crying.
- What's happened? Who hurt you?
- No one was offended! Why are you harnessing my Chubary?
to the plow? - I asked and couldn’t help myself, I started crying.
My mother came running at my voice. She seemed to be jealous of me for Chubaroy. Any time my foal was mentioned, she would become angry with me. And now - before my father had time to tell her what was wrong, she began to shame me:
- Ai, Allah! I thought some kind of trouble had happened...
How can you kill yourself like that over a foal!.. Don’t you think
Will you spend your entire life nurturing and nurturing him? That's crazy!
But my father is not angry, does not scold, but, wanting to calm me down, says:
- Stop it, Zakir, don’t cry over trifles. Nothing is
happens, we will harness him from the edge. You will drive it yourself and look after it.
But his words upset me even more - I began to cry even more. And I didn’t go to eat. I cried and cried continuously until, tired of tears, exhausted, I fell asleep on a board by the garden fence.
I woke up and looked - I was lying on a feather bed in the closet.
Noon has passed. The sun had already dropped very low. Everything around seemed quiet, pleasant, affectionate.
There is no one in the house. There is no cart or plow visible in the yard, and the gate is wide open.
I jumped up and ran to the barn.

I came running - and what do I see? My Chubary, tied with a long rein, walks around the barn from one end to the other. He probably missed me: when he saw me, he neighed.
Although we didn’t speak, we understood each other very well. When I appear, he rejoices, and when I scratch his mane and stroke his face, he neighs affectionately and softly. I took my Chubary to the well, gave him a drink and went home.
My father smiled at me and said with a barely noticeable reproach:
- Oh, you crybaby! It turned out your way! Turns out,
Uncle Vildan also bought virgin land next to us, so we decided
take turns plowing.
Joy filled my soul. It seemed as if everything was dancing around: the earth, the sky, the whole world.
And again I did not leave my mother: no matter what she ordered, I did everything. She ordered to bring firewood, and he carried the goslings to the river. She ordered to collect the eggs that the chickens had laid, and ran to the chicken coop.
When leaving for work, the father, it turns out, did not take food, because the sour milk had not yet settled, and the bread was not ready; I had to take him lunch.
“Call Mukhtar,” said the mother, “the two of you will carry it.”
I didn’t contradict her, I just said:
- I can do it alone!
- If you can't, you'll spill the milk. Go together.
I agreed to this too.
When we arrived at the field, we were met by Apush, who was plowing next to us. Laughing, he said:
- Oh, you son of a dog, after all, she took yours and didn’t let you harness it
your Chubary! Don't give in, Zakir! The future horse has no need to carry a plow!
This time I managed to insist on my own.
But victory sometimes came at a high price for me. As soon as I disobey, say a word contrary, I am immediately reminded of Chubar.
“Talk again! If you don’t listen, we’ll harness your Chubary into the forest,” they tell me, frightening me.
I immediately bite my tongue... It would be better if they harnessed me myself, I agree to that, as long as they don’t touch my Chubary.
After all, it was not for nothing that Grandfather Safa, a famous horse expert throughout the region, said that this foal looked like his two brothers, horses. And in general, everyone unanimously predicts a glorious future for him. If you harness it to fetch firewood or to a plow, what kind of horse will it make?! What will be left of the horse in it? Come what may, I won’t let him harness it, I’ll ride him, teach him to gallop, make him the first horse in the area.
Finally, what I have been waiting for has arrived.
Sabantuy today!
And not just any one, but one that is rarely found in the entire neighborhood - the largest, the most wonderful! Illustrious racers will gather. Famous wrestlers will come. Famous runners will compete in speed.
Today will probably be an unforgettable day for both me and my Chubary.
My proven stallion. Already in the third year I began to accustom him to the saddle. Since then there haven't been many horse races in our village. Needless to say, no one could compete with my Chubari: as soon as we set off, I fly forward, and the others remain far behind, disappearing from sight.
It happened to compete with neighboring villages. Among their horses there were those who came first or second at many sabantuys.
Chubary defeated them easily, just jokingly. But this Sabantuy is completely different. They say that the mountain Bashkirs came from afar with their famous horses. Among them, the gray mare was especially praised, which last year at the races in Ufa disgraced all the horses, leaving them far behind. I don’t even think about other horses. The only thing that scares me is this gray mare. Where did she come from? It’s crazy!
My father and grandfather Safa also understood my condition very well.
It turns out that a horse is prepared for racing in a completely different way. As soon as spring came, grandfather Safa, who had many horses, began to instruct his father on how to care for Chubar, what to feed, how to water, how to ride around - he taught him everything, everything. Not limiting himself to this, he came himself almost every day, watched and again instructed.
When there was a week left before Sabantuy, my father and grandfather got down to business especially diligently. Chubary was given in small portions only dry hay, oats, and a little bit of dough. The father was not lazy, he looked after the stallion day and night. I was always there. Already handsome, Chubary has become even better. The mane and tail are wavy and fluffy. The sunken belly feels like it's being pulled over by a belt. And he seemed to have grown taller... He walked so lightly, as if he were not walking on the ground, but was flying on wings invisible to the eye.
He had been a picky eater before, but now, probably sensing the approaching race, he began to eat even less...
I didn’t allow anyone to ride it, I always drove it myself. If, while walking along the road, another horse appeared and began to overtake my horse, then don’t even think about holding him back - he breaks the bit and flies as if on wings!
I had no doubt: Chubary knows that there will be a Sabantuy, he feels that he will have to compete at the races, and is preparing for this. I'm getting ready too.
< Отец и дедушка Сафа не то шутя, не то серьезно поговаривают о каком-то другом мальчике, который должен скакать на Чубаром.
“You’re still small,” they explain to me, “and Chubary is still
I'm not used to big jumps.
I don’t even think about anyone else riding Chubarom. When they start talking about this, my eyes immediately fill with tears.
Grandfather Safa calms me down.
“Okay, son, okay,” he says, “whatever happens: if you overtake or fall behind, blame yourself.” Everything depends on you.

And then the whole village seemed to turn upside down. Dzhigits on horseback collect towels from yards. They go into houses where there are young daughters-in-law. The guys, some on horseback and some on foot, went around the houses and collected eggs. There are eggs painted green or red there for them. The women were constantly fussing: dressing, preening, putting on makeup, running from house to house.
During the previous Sabantui, I was among the guys. This time they don't stir my soul. Chubary's heart is eager to fight, he cannot stand still. To warm up, I rode it around the village several times.
Grandfather Safa says that warm-up is necessary, without it even the best horses can fall behind.
We prepared the whip. My father made a loop for it so that he could put his hand through it. I put on a red cotton shirt. They say that the skullcap flies off the head during the races, so many guys don’t wear it, they tie a scarf or something else around their heads.
I also asked my mother for a handkerchief, and she, rummaging in the chest, took out a green handkerchief. I didn't like red scarves. My Chubary was the first in beauty, and the boy who sat on him should look no worse, I thought.

As soon as the muezzin climbed the minaret to call for morning prayer, grandfather Safa came to us.
“It’s already time, let’s go to the square,” he said. My heart is pounding, I am trembling, something is pressing in my chest. Chubary was even more worried than me.
My father took him by the bridle, I took off my shoes, took off my trousers, grabbed a whip and a green scarf, and the three of us walked along old man Zhamali’s lane towards the square.
On the western side of the village there is a wide hill. Sabantuy is always held there.
In one direction, quietly agitated, stretches a sea of ​​multi-colored clothes - these are women. On the other side, men were huddled tightly together. There is no other way than there is a struggle going on there. Nearby there are children, old people, traders with stalls, some carts, something else; all this covered the hill like a black cloud.
A little further, near the field fence, horses impatiently dug the ground with their hooves.
Some of the horses were ridden by boys with their heads tied in scarves; some were led by the bridle. Horses' bellies are sunken. All are slender, like gazelles. These are horses.
We turned left, towards the horses. And the closer we got to them, the more Chubari’s impatience grew.
Uncle Sadyk appeared on horseback. He has a pole in his hand and a towel with a red border at the end... He drove closer and shouted loudly:
- It's time, get moving! Wait by the lonely birch tree.
They put me on Chubary and tied a scarf around my head. I gave the skullcap to my father.
Everyone was silent. And grandfather Safa repeated again and again:
- Don’t rush too much at first, but when you pass the intersection,
Don't be sorry, whip harder! Look, leave the occasion free!
This little beast doesn't like to be tugged incessantly.
- Holding their horses by force, ready to take off, everyone rode to the birch tree.

It’s fifteen miles from us to the lonely birch tree.
In past years they rode seven or eight miles, but this year many famous horses gathered from all over, which is why they say they set such a long distance. I don’t remember how we got to the lonely birch tree. It wasn't easy. It was necessary to go only at a walk. But Chubary could not be restrained. He sees a horse in front or behind and begins to rush forward. When I arrived, many of the horses were already in place, walking back and forth.
When I saw the horses, I was completely confused: one was more beautiful and noble than the other. Even the hope of victory faded. After all, not one of them was worse than my Chubary!
The famous gray mare also arrived. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was amazing: her mane was short, her tail was thin, her body was thin. The pelvis is narrow, as if slightly curved in one direction. But the chest is like a lion's - wide, strong. Knees

Slightly set apart. When I saw her pasterns, I was even more surprised: they were so long that I had never seen in my life. The eyes are big, playful, sparkling. On it, holding a whip in his hands, sat a very black Bashkir boy with his head uncovered. Despite the fact that he was small, the boy was not at all worried - it was immediately obvious that he knew the habits of a horse.
Among the horses, this gray mare stood calmest of all."
Everyone has arrived. Uncle Sadri began to build us. This turned out to be not an easy task: as soon as he finishes equalizing, then one’s knight will take the lead, then another’s – they cannot stand still. Finally, Uncle Sadri lined everyone up and ordered:
- One two Three! Hey, let's move, folks!
Before he even had time to utter the first sound of the word “gay,” the horses flew off as if on wings. .
Where the others were, whether they had overtaken or fallen behind, I could not know. As soon as we rushed, we, three horses - mine, a gray mare and another red horse - colliding with each other's sides, flew side by side, all three of us.
Whether our horses walk on the ground or fly through the air on invisible wings, I could not determine. Ahead we can barely see forests, rivers, large, large swamps, but before we have time to flash in our eyes, we are already rushing past like lightning.
On the way is the swampy river Aerkul. They say that the worst thing on our way is this river.
Stomping, overtaking each other, all three of us entered this slippery and muddy river together, but only the gray mare and my Chubary, our third comrade - a boy on a red horse - rose to the bank - it seems that he flew head over heels into the water.
Now there are two of us...
The forces are equal: sometimes the mare lags behind a little, but the boy urges her on, and now my Chubary’s head is next to the tail of his horse.
Here's another quagmire.
I feel dizzy and feel like I'm falling. Doubt arises in my soul: I close my eyes and hold onto Chubari’s mane. When I open my eyes, I see that we have come out of the quagmire, but the gray mare is flying three or four fathoms ahead of me...
It looks like the end is coming: the minarets of the mosque are already visible. I sharply pull the bridle on the left, and hit the horse with my whip as hard as I can on the right. Chubary just sighed, and before I could blink an eye, I found myself in front of the gray mare.
Here is the village, the gate, now a hill is approaching like a black cloud, with a huge crowd of people. The owners of the horses rush towards us on horseback.
The father flashes among them. - Heidi, Zakir, strike again! Again!! More!!! - he shouts.
- Heidi, Chubary! Hey, gray mare!!!
- Heidi, Chubary!
They are pushing us from both sides, shouting, making noise, waving their arms.
However, Chubary and the gray mare are walking almost side by side.
Once again I pull the bridle, once again with all my strength I hit the horse from the left, from the right... Chubary sighed again, and we, ahead of the gray mare by some half an arshin, jumped out onto the Maidan.
The black cloud splits in two. The gray mare's head was at my Chubary's rib, but we had already passed the line.
Noise, din, crush! It's like the end of the world has come! In one hand the elder has a green chapan - this is for the one who came first, in the other there is a large towel, this is for the second.
Among the dust and noise, either by mistake or for some other reason, the headman handed the chapan to the gray mare, and threw a towel on my Chubary’s neck and said:
- You seem to have come second.
I didn’t remember what I was doing, my vision went dark, I waved my whip forcefully, hit the headman in the face, snatched the chapan from the dark-haired boy and rushed away from the crowd. Whether I hit the headman in the face with the whip or not, I didn’t know...
I didn’t have time to look at this, because everyone knows: you can’t immediately stop a galloping horse!
Soon grandfather Safa, father, and neighbors came up to me. They hugged me and took me off the horse. Everyone praised me, everyone said thank you. Grandfather Safa constantly stroked my head and said:
- Well done, son, I didn’t disgrace you.
The father took Chubary by the bridle and began to lead him. I took off the scarf from my head, put on my skullcap and entered the agitated stream of people.
The boys started to scare me:
- You broke the headman's face. That's what he'll ask you!
By this time the headman himself appeared. The face seems to be really broken: one eye is bandaged with a white handkerchief.
I wasn't afraid of him, I was surprised. He was not at all angry with me, but hugged me and stroked my head.
“I also jumped around a lot as a child,” he said. “When you come first, and they give you a gift intended for the second, it’s always very disappointing... I’m not angry with you.” You're tired, go home and rest! - And he gave me twenty kopecks in silver.
The whole world was mine. Chubary's victory over the gray mare, famous throughout the area, was unprecedented happiness.

However, this happiness soon turned into great misfortune. I don’t know whether I really pushed Chubariy and set him on fire, or whether it was the fact that upon arrival at the Maidan I stopped arguing with the headman who killed him, but something happened: on the second day of Sabantuy Chubariy could not stand on his feet, did not drink, did not eat. The poor thing looked at everyone with sadness with his humanly intelligent eyes full of tears and lay there for almost a week. And on Friday morning, at ten o'clock, he was gone.
IN last minutes Chubary, I stood at his head. I couldn't cry. My heart has turned to stone...
And for a long time it seemed to me that Chubary took with him my love for everything: for the earth, sky and people.
1922