An old house. Stories. I. Kuzmichev About this book

Such melancholy suddenly took me away that evening that I didn’t know where to go - even hang myself!

You and I were alone in our big, bright and warm house. And outside the windows the November darkness had long been standing, the wind often blew in gusts, and then the forest around the house began to rustle with a sad, bare noise.

I went out onto the porch to see if it was raining...

There was no rain.

Then you and I dressed warmly and went for a walk.

But first I want to tell you about your passion. And then you had only one passion: cars! You couldn't think about anything in those days except cars. You had about two dozen of them - from the largest wooden dump truck, which you liked to sit in with your legs tucked up, and I would take you from room to room in it - to a tiny plastic car, the size of a matchbox. You went to bed with the car and rolled it on the blanket and pillow for a long time until you fell asleep...

So, when we entered the slate blackness of the November evening, you, of course, were tightly holding a small plastic car in your hand.

Slowly, barely discerning the path in the darkness, we walked towards the gate. The bushes on both sides, bent heavily under the weight of the recent snow, which then melted, touched our faces and hands, and these touches reminded us of the time that was forever irrevocable for you and me, when they bloomed and were wet with dew in the morning.

Having reached our other house, which had a garage, you suddenly ran to the garage and grabbed the lock.

– Do you want to ride in a real car! - you said.

- What are you talking about, dear! – I objected. - It’s late now, soon to go to bed... And then where will we go?

“Let’s go... let’s go...” you faltered, turning over in your mind the places where we could go. - To Moscow!

- Well - to Moscow! - I said. – Why do we need Moscow? It’s noisy, damp, and then it’s so far away!

- Do you want to go far? – you stubbornly objected.

“Okay,” I agreed, “we’ll go, but only in three days.” But I promise you: tomorrow we will go to the store with you, but now we just went out for a walk? Give me your hand...

You sighed obediently and put your small warm palm in my hand.

Having left the gate and having thought a little, we went to the right. You walked ahead, completely focused on your little car, and from your movements, vaguely visible in the darkness, I guessed that you were rolling it along one side or the other. Sometimes, unable to bear it, you squatted down and rolled your little car along the road.

Where, to what beautiful lands were you traveling in your imagination? I stopped waiting for your distant road, unknown to me, to end, for you to arrive somewhere and for us to move on.

- Listen, do you like late autumn? – I asked you.

- You love! – you answered automatically.

- But I do not love! - I said. - Oh, how I don’t like this darkness, these early twilights, late dawns and gray days! Having taken everything away like grass, buried everything... Do you understand what I'm talking about?

- Understand! – you responded immediately.

- Eh, baby, you don’t understand anything... How long has it been summer, how long has it been since the dawn burned greenish all night, and the sun rose almost at three o’clock in the morning? And the summer, it seemed, would last forever, but it kept decreasing and decreasing... It passed like an instant, like one heartbeat. However, it was immediate only for me. After all, the older you are, the shorter the days and the more terrible the darkness. And for you, maybe this summer was like a whole life?

But early autumn is also good: the sun shines quietly, there is fog in the mornings, the windows in the house fog up - and how the maples near our house burned, what huge crimson leaves you and I collected!

And now the earth is black, and everything has died, and the light has gone, and how I want to pray: don’t leave me, for grief is close and there is no one to help me! Understand!

You were silent, rushing somewhere in your car, moving away from me like a star. You went so far that when we had to turn sideways along the road with you and I turned, but you didn’t turn. I caught up with you, took you by the shoulder, turned you around, and you obediently followed me: you didn’t care where to go, because you weren’t walking, you were driving!

“However,” I continued, “don’t pay attention, I’m just sad at nights like this.” But in fact, baby, everything on earth is beautiful - and November too! November is like a person who is sleeping. Well, it just seems dark, cold and dead, but in reality everything lives.

Someday you will know how wonderful it is to walk in the rain, in boots, in late autumn, how it smells then, and how wet the trunks of the trees are, and how busily the birds who are left to spend the winter fly through the bushes. Wait, we’ll make a feeder under your window, and different titmice, nuthatches, woodpeckers will start flying to you...

- Well, the fact that the trees seem dead today is just because of my melancholy, but in fact they are alive, they are sleeping.

And how do we know why we feel so sad in November? Why do we go to concerts and visit each other so greedily, why do we love lights and lamps so much? Maybe a million years ago people also fell asleep for the winter, just as bears, badgers and hedgehogs now fall asleep, but now we don’t sleep?

But in general, it doesn’t matter that it’s dark! After all, you and I have a warm home and light, and when we return, we will light the fireplace and begin to look into the fire...

Suddenly, as if a mouse ran along my sleeve, then along my back, then along the other sleeve - it was you who was already riding along my sheepskin coat and, having traveled some imaginary distance, ran ahead again.

“It’s okay,” I spoke again, “winter will soon fall, it will become lighter from the snow, and then you and I will have a nice sledding ride down the hill.” Here next to us there is a village called Glebovo, that’s where we’ll go, there are such good slides there - just for you! And you will begin to put on a fur coat and felt boots, and without mittens you will no longer be able to go out into the yard, and you will return covered in snow and enter the house ruddy from the frost...

I looked around: through the bare trees, only our house had windows shining in the impenetrable darkness. Everyone had moved out of the neighboring dachas long ago, and their glass windows sometimes reflected the light of rare, dim lanterns, lonely and dead.

“You are a lucky man, Alyosha, that you have a home!” – suddenly, unexpectedly for myself, I said. - It’s good, baby, you know, when you have a home in which you grew up. This is for life... No wonder there is such an expression: father's house! Although I don’t know why, for example, not “mother’s house”? How do you think? Maybe because from time immemorial houses have been built or bought by men, men, fathers?

So, darling, you have a house, but I... I never had my father’s house, baby! And where have I not lived? In what kind of houses did I spend my days - in the beacon keepers' lodges, and on forest cordons, and in those where the partitions were not up to the ceiling, and in those that were heated in a black way, and in good old houses in which there was porcelain, and pianos, and fireplaces, and just imagine! – I even had to live in a castle, in a real medieval castle, far away, in France, near San Rafael!

And there, my brother, in the corners and on the stairs there was knightly armor, on the walls hung swords and spears, with which the crusaders had gone on their campaigns, and instead of wooden floors there were stone slabs, and the fireplace in the hall was so large that a whole bull you could fry in it, and there were ditches all around, and a drawbridge on chains, and towers in the corners!..

And I had to leave everywhere, never to return there again... It’s bitter, son, it’s bitter when you don’t have your father’s home!

– You know, one fine day we were traveling on a steamboat with a friend along the wonderful Oka River (just wait, my dear, when you grow up, I’ll take you to the Oka, and then you will see for yourself what kind of river it is!). So, my friend and I were driving to his house, but he had not been home for more than a year. There were still fifteen kilometers to his house, and my friend was already standing at the bow, worried and showing me everything, saying everything: here my father and I were fishing, and over there is such and such a hill, and over there, you see, the river flows in, and over there such and such a ravine...

an old house

The composer built this house.

When the series of his years had passed, when the circle of life had closed and he had learned everything that he, the happiest and most talented of mortals, was supposed to know, when his heart, tired of the applause of Vienna, London, Paris and St. Petersburg, the splendor of concert halls, love and adoration the best, most beautiful women in the world, when his tired heart burned with the steady fire of the greatest and most tender love for his homeland, for the distant years of childhood, for the endless sad plains - he became sad, and, amazed and rejoicing at this new love, he chose a place on the shore Okie began to build himself a house.

It is said in an old book: “Choose a place on earth for yourself - it’s okay if this place is not wondrous! Build yourself a home and work for the rest of your life to decorate the land. This is how the beauty of the world is created!”

The hill on the river bank was bare, sad and wild when they began to transport there white, sugary stone and orange, ringing-hot brick, yellow pine and fawn oak and cedar logs, flexible boards that spread the smell of turpentine and lavender, a light red, iridescent - the chocolate shimmer of the tiles, which for some reason smelled of the fine dry dust of the Arabian deserts.

The hill was bare and dry with barely noticeable remains of the ancient settlement, when carpenters, joiners, masons, stove makers, and many different working people from the surrounding villages came there, when they erected huts there and burned small economical fires in the evenings, and blue smoke , - as if deep antiquity had come to life again, - began to fall down in thin streams, towards the river, towards long sunsets, towards the beautiful bluish distances beyond the river.

And all the time he lived in a hut, went to a distant station, the owner of the future house got sunburned and turned red in the sun. He did not spend a single day in idleness, he completely forgot music, sending letters to all the provinces asking for seeds and seedlings, more stone, more wood, arguing with the contractor, drawing, sitting on his knees, shaking his head from the smoke of the fire, rubbing his reddened eyes. , more and more new sketches of rooms, facade and roof.

All spring they planted forests on the hill: alder, linden, pine, birch. They planted apple trees and planted hatched acorns. And in the fall, seedlings finally began to arrive, with roots tied with matting, with the last yellow leaves remaining on thin twigs. All autumn they were planting, finishing, decorating and heating a new, beautiful house, still smelling of boards, shavings, clay and smoke, still damp, unusually echoing, empty, uninhabited, but already looking into the crimson distances with its large windows, already temptingly turning white from afar, reddened by a steep tiled roof, already glowing with light well after midnight.

In the frost, along the crisp, hard road, the clergy arrived for the consecration, the choristers with blue noses, oily hair, with hungry and thirsty eyes arrived, the guests arrived, and all day in the morning the doors were opened, smelly fur coats were taken off in the hall, the table was set in the dining room, cooking and fried in the kitchen. And then, in the early November twilight, lamps and candles were lit, the rooms smelled of sweet incense, a huge, bug-eyed deacon cleared his throat, grunted several times, testing the octave - and the splendor of the service began, wondrous ancient words poured out, a beautiful choir began to sound... And also Later, until deep into the night, almost until it was light, passionate speeches of love for the owner were heard in the house, music sounded, everyone ate a lot, drank even more, rejoicing in the warmth and light, the blackness outside the windows, the autumn flood on the Oka.

Thus began a long life at home. This life was calm and majestic, every year it became more and more established, enriched, made more and more efficient and beautiful. Artists came to the house, stayed for a long time, drew a lot, argued a lot, and when they left, each time they left a lot of paintings and sketches for the owner.

And sometimes, tired of his music, he went to the park and did not return soon, inhaling the alcoholic smell of fallen leaves, having looked at the gloomy, deserted Oka. The house received him joyfully, he knew that something wonderful would begin now. And the composer, rubbing his hands, called the guests into the living room, sat down at the harmonium, somewhat sideways, lit a hot cigar and began to play. He played Bach's Passacaglia. One theme was repeated all the time in the left hand, and in the right, new and new variations alternated endlessly, and the listeners sat with bated breath, feeling their hands getting cold and their throats sore.

Yes... - said the composer, having finished playing and resting. - Yes! So many names, my God! There is so much music, but no one, no one else is there - they are all, eternal, the same: Bach, Mozart, Beethoven...

Guests came to see him. A famous, black, languid and always preening artist arrived. He ate little, was capricious, and left home for a long time, but when he brought sketches and everyone came to look, a solemn silence fell: his paintings were permeated with such a wondrous, piercing and Russian sadness.

Sometimes a great singer came. He entered the house freely, freely - huge, with a small head thrown back, in a fur coat open on his chest, with an impudent, silky, well-fed boxer dog. How casually and gracefully he bowed, how he kissed the ladies’ hands, how he spoke, slightly turning his wolfish neck.

Just no music! - he asked capriciously. - I'm so tired, well, to hell with it! Misha, let's go fishing!

And in the evening he suddenly went down to the living room, where guests usually gathered. He used to turn pale at such moments. In a black jacket, in a dazzling shirt with an open collar, he approached the piano, leaning on the lacquer lid with a heavy, ringed hand. A deathly pallor filled his face, the nostrils of his short nose quivered, a golden lock of hair fell on his forehead...

Everyone gathered in the living room, sat in the shade and froze in a languid premonition of the great, unprecedented and stunningly sublime. The owner with a wry smile approached the piano, opened the lid, put his fingers flattened at the ends on the keys, struck a few chords, listening in bewilderment to the sonority of the piano, as if he was touching the instrument for the first time. The singer looked around the room with darkened eyes, the paintings on the walls, the amazing icons in the corner, and glanced at the lamp.

And it began... “In my sleep, I cried bitterly,” he sang, and everyone felt stuffy, scared, and dizzyingly wonderful. And after a short time no one was hiding their tears, and the singer kept singing, sang something ancient Russian, riotous and sweetly sad, for a long time, he sang, now widening, now lowering his crazy eyes, sang as if for the last time, as if never again, He would never have to sing, and he was now in a hurry to get enough, to sing, to be imbued with the extraordinary timbre of his voice.

But there were also dark times when no one came to him for months. Then, day by day, he became more silent, his face more transparent, he lowered his eyelashes more and more often over his eyes, more and more often he went into the forest for a long time, sat there alone, or went around the villages to visit peasants he knew, of whom he already had many. He always returned thinner, with a new expression on his face and even in his figure, hastily greeting and kissing his family, went to his office, lit a cigarette and thought, thought and wrote in hasty crooked hooks on music paper.

Winters and springs passed unnoticed, the composer grew old, his hands withered, his back stooped, and in the mornings in his bedroom he coughed like an old man’s cough. The house was losing the brightness of its newness, it was not striking as before, and it was not visible now as before: wild young growth was growing on all sides, stretching with their tops up, blocking the house, only the dark tiled roof was visible above the forest, only two clearings had to be cut to the river.

But it’s strange, the older the composer became, the longer he lived among poor villages, among smoky forests, vast expanses of plains, the more keenly he felt the charm of Russian life, the more majestic and poignant his music became, the more beautiful wild romances he wrote, preludes, concerts and symphonic poems. Probably only now did he begin to understand his people, their history, their life, their poetry, probably only now did he understand that if anything in the world is worth admiration, worth great, eternal, bitter and sweet love to the point of tears, then only these are only these meadows, only these villages, arable lands, forests, ravines, only these people, working hard all their lives and dying such a beautiful, calm death that he had never seen anywhere else.

The house is old now and looks sick and dying. It's not like it was falling apart, no! - its walls are still strong, the floors are hard, cold and shiny, the beams are dry and loudly tight, the windows are clean, the furniture is varnished, beautiful and impeccably wiped, dry and new - only one staircase, oak, with railings carved by a Moscow cabinetmaker, slightly creaks, groans under the steps. And it’s not because he’s old now, because his tiles have turned black, because on the wide stone porch, on the side, young birch shoots have already sprouted in the cracks.

If you enter the house, there will be a library-living room immediately on the left. Everything in it is the same as before: oak panels, a checkered ceiling made of beams of stained black oak, cabinets along the walls, and in the cabinets - a long row of books, shining with gold bindings, above the cabinets there are paintings - gifts from famous artists, in the corner there are several icons by the same artists . The fireplace is painted with the signs of the Zodiac and lined with ancient Roman copper utensils. In the corner, by the window, there is a beautiful piano, and on the left, near the wall, there is a harmonium.

And the room to the left is a completely different world. There is a dining room here, and the shelves in it, and the sideboards are lined with amazing tueskas made in Vologda, salt cellars of Olonets carving, Veliky Ustyug supplies, golden spoons from Sergiev Posad...

Profession, vocation, hobby, hobby, disease, mania, pathology, entertainment, generally a way to think and suffer, hack work, second-third-fourth job, just self-expression, attractive writing, the only opportunity to speak out, writing for oneself, keeping a diary, memoirs, correspondence, notes with or without reason, provocative and proclamatory letter writing, scientific writing, poetry writing, versification of any kind, poetry and poetry, word creation and text creation - that’s a writer for you. Not a writer (a person who writes, often a journalist, PR person, etc.), not a textmaker and speechwriter (who writes for someone), but a writer. Writer. Just a writer. A writer as such. Yuri Pavlovich Kazakov has an essay “On the Courage of a Writer,” where my favorite prose writer creates a sad and partly terrible picture (and - happy, happy, happy! - for a text creator) of the social and everyday existence of a writer (mainly a prose writer) in the field of periodicals and publishing ( I almost said “deeds”) of arbitrariness. Moreover, Yu. Kazakov depicts the typical and typical state of talent in its psychological, and to a greater extent social, existence. The chain of writing-author-publishing (“publishing”) torment is as follows: author - idea - process of text creation - manuscript excerpt - author's editing - proposal of the manuscript to the journal - waiting - waiting - waiting - refusal / or not refusal - and “the manuscript goes” in six months / year / year and a half, etc. - waiting for publication (stagnation, creative stagnation, not being written!) - publication! - disappointment - waiting for reviews, criticism - the appearance of a review - horror / delight - fatigue - devastation - rest - a new idea - all-day work - manuscript, etc. How does it all end? It’s clear what: death. All this, apparently, makes the writer courageous. Courageous?..

The book includes selected works by Yuri Kazakov (1927–1982), a remarkable artist of words, one of the best Russian writers of the twentieth century, whose work is imbued with an understanding of the high meaning of long-suffering human destinies, filial love for his native land, its nature and shrines, and faith in spiritual powers our people.

Here is an excerpt from the book.

About Yuri Kazakov

“The Old House” is the title of one of Yuri Kazakov’s unfinished stories. And although this story, due to its incompleteness, was not published in the book, it was he who gave the name to the entire collection. The point is probably that with his creativity the writer connected us with something from the past: very dear, reliable, beautiful.

In the mid-twentieth century, it was generally accepted that all this no longer existed, that all the foundations of the past had been swept away irrevocably. But then the stories of Yuri Kazakov appeared, and it became clear: the connection of times has not been interrupted, and all the people around us, like hundreds and thousands of years ago, are precious, first of all, for the movements of their souls, movements that are sometimes barely noticeable, or even completely elusive.

Yes, there is also the writer’s home - an old house on Old Arbat. From time immemorial, it housed a famous pet store, which for a long time maintained a warm tradition: people often bought a siskin or a goldfinch here, so that when they went outside, they would immediately release the bird. And there was also an old house in Abramtsevo. So: “Old House”...

Yuri Kazakov literally burst into literature: his polished, sophisticated prose overturned ideas about how to write. People were chasing his stories, published in newspapers and magazines. Then books appeared. They were also being chased. It was obvious: Kazakov is a brilliant writer. And only criticism was confused: it was used to thinking in large-scale ideological categories, but suddenly something tremulous, piercingly intimate...

Once, while in the hospital, Kazakov met Archimandrite Kirill (Pavlov). They were in the same room, which, of course, was conducive to communication. Subsequently, the priest came to the writer’s dacha in Abramtsevo and consecrated the house. It is difficult to say how deep Kazakov’s religiosity was, however, when starting a new story, he asked the Lord for help and support: written prayer appeals were preserved on the first pages of some manuscripts.

His creativity still remains underestimated. Meanwhile, in the second half of the twentieth century, no one, perhaps, did more for Russian prose than Yuri Kazakov, whose collected works fit into one volume.

It lies on Vagankovo ​​under a simple wooden cross. Pray: in baptism he is George...

Priest Yaroslav Shipov

Quiet morning

The sleepy roosters had just crowed, it was still dark in the hut, the mother had not milked the cow and the shepherd had not driven the flock out into the meadows, when Yashka woke up.

He sat up in bed and stared for a long time at the bluish sweaty windows and the dimly whitening stove. The pre-dawn sleep is sweet, and his head falls on the pillow, and his eyes stick together, but Yashka overcame himself, stumbling, clinging to benches and chairs, and began to wander around the hut, looking for old pants and a shirt.

After eating milk and bread, Yashka took fishing rods in the entryway and went out onto the porch. The village was covered with fog, like a big duvet. The nearby houses were still visible, the distant ones were barely visible as dark spots, and even further, towards the river, nothing was visible, and it seemed as if there had never been a windmill on the hill, no fire tower, no school, no forest on the horizon... Everything has disappeared, hidden now, and the center of the small closed world turned out to be Yashka’s hut.

Someone woke up before Yashka and was hammering near the forge; pure metallic sounds, breaking through the veil of fog, reached a large invisible barn and returned from there already weakened. It seemed as if two people were knocking: one louder, the other quieter.

Yashka jumped off the porch, swung his fishing rods at a rooster that had turned up at his feet, and trotted cheerfully toward the barn. At the barn, he pulled out a rusty mower from under the board and began digging the ground. Almost immediately, red and purple cold worms began to appear. Thick and thin, they sank equally quickly into the loose soil, but Yashka still managed to grab them and soon filled up an almost full jar. Having sprinkled fresh earth on the worms, he ran down the path, tumbled over the fence and made his way backwards to the barn, where his new friend Volodya was sleeping in the hayloft.

Yashka put his soil-stained fingers in his mouth and whistled. Then he spat and listened. It was quiet.

Volodka! - he called. - Get up!

Volodya stirred in the hay, fidgeted and rustled there for a long time, and finally awkwardly climbed down, stepping on his untied shoelaces. His face, wrinkled after sleep, was senseless and motionless, like a blind man’s, hay dust was in his hair, and it apparently got into his shirt, because, standing below, next to Yashka, he kept jerking his thin neck, rolled his shoulders and scratched his back.

Isn't it early? - he asked hoarsely, yawned and, swaying, grabbed the stairs with his hand.

Yashka got angry: he got up an hour earlier, dug up worms, brought fishing rods... and to tell the truth, he got up today because of this runt, he wanted to show him the fishing spots - and so instead of gratitude and admiration - "early"!

For some it’s too early, and for some it’s not too early! - he answered angrily and looked Volodya from head to toe with disdain.

Volodya looked out into the street, his face became animated, his eyes sparkled, and he began hastily lacing up his shoes. But for Yashka, all the charm of the morning was already poisoned.

Are you going to wear boots? - he asked contemptuously and looked at the protruding toe of his bare foot. - Will you wear galoshes?

Volodya remained silent, blushed and began working on the other shoe.

Well, yes... - Yashka continued melancholy, putting the fishing rods against the wall. - Over there, in Moscow, they probably don’t walk barefoot...

So what? - Volodya looked down into Yashka’s wide, mockingly angry face.

Nothing... Run home, grab your coat...

Well, I'll run! - Volodya answered through clenched teeth and blushed even more.

Yashka got bored. He shouldn't have gotten involved with this whole thing. Why should Kolka and Zhenka Voronkovs be fishermen, and they even admit that there is no better fisherman in the entire collective farm than him. Just take me to the place and show me - they’ll cover you with apples! And this one... came yesterday, polite... “Please, please...” Should I hit him in the neck, or what? It was necessary to contact this Muscovite, who, probably, has never even seen a fish, goes fishing in boots!..

“And put on a tie,” Yashka said sarcastically and laughed hoarsely. “Our fish get offended when you approach them without a tie.”

Volodya finally managed to take off his boots and, his nostrils quivering with resentment, looking straight ahead with an unseeing gaze, left the barn. He was ready to give up fishing and immediately burst into tears, but he was so looking forward to this morning! Yashka reluctantly followed him, and the guys silently, without looking at each other, walked down the street. They walked through the village, and the fog receded before them, revealing more and more houses, and barns, and a school, and long rows of milky-white farm buildings... Like a stingy owner, he showed all this only for a minute and then again tightly closed in from behind.

Volodya suffered severely. He was angry with himself for his rude answers to Yashka, he was angry with Yashka, and at that moment he seemed awkward and pathetic to himself. He was ashamed of his awkwardness, and in order to somehow drown out this unpleasant feeling, he thought, becoming embittered: “Okay, let him... Let him mock me, they will still recognize me, I won’t let them laugh! Just think, the importance of going barefoot is great! Imagine what! But at the same time, he looked with open envy and even admiration at Yashka’s bare feet, and at the canvas fish bag, and at the patched trousers and gray shirt worn especially for fishing. He envied Yashka’s tan and his gait, in which his shoulders and shoulder blades and even his ears move, and which many village children consider to be especially chic.

We passed by a well with an old log house overgrown with greenery.

Stop! - Yashka said gloomily. - Let's have a drink!

He went up to the well, rattled his chain, pulled out a heavy tub of water and greedily leaned into it. He didn’t want to drink, but he believed that there was nowhere better than this water, and therefore every time he passed by the well, he drank it with great pleasure. The water, overflowing over the edge of the tub, splashed on his bare feet, he tucked them in, but he drank and drank, occasionally breaking away and breathing noisily.

Come on, drink! - he finally said to Volodya, wiping his lips with his sleeve.

Volodya also didn’t want to drink, but in order not to anger Yashka even more, he obediently fell down to the tub and began to take small sips of water until the back of his head ached from the cold.

Well, how's the water? - Yashka inquired smugly when Volodya walked away from the well.

Legitimate! - Volodya responded and shivered.

I suppose there isn’t one like this in Moscow? - Yashka squinted venomously.

Volodya didn’t answer, he just sucked in air through clenched teeth and smiled reconcilingly.

Have you caught fish? - asked Yashka.

No... Only on the Moscow River I saw how they were caught,” Volodya confessed in a fallen voice and timidly looked at Yashka.

This confession softened Yashka somewhat, and he, touching the can of worms, said casually:

Yesterday our manager of the club in the Pleshansky Bochag saw catfish...

Volodya's eyes sparkled.

Big?

What did you think? Two meters... Or maybe all three - it was impossible to make out in the darkness. Our club manager was already scared, he thought it was a crocodile. Do not believe?

You're lying! - Volodya exhaled enthusiastically and shrugged his shoulders; it was clear from his eyes that he believed everything unconditionally.

I'm lying? - Yashka was amazed. - If you want, let's go fishing this evening! Well?

Can i? - Volodya asked hopefully, and his ears turned pink.

Why... - Yashka spat and wiped his nose with his sleeve. - I have the tackle. We'll catch frogs and loaches... We'll capture the crawlies - there are still chubs there - and it'll be two dawns! We'll light a fire at night... Will you go?

Volodya felt incredibly cheerful, and only now did he feel how good it was to leave the house in the morning. How nice and easy it is to breathe, how you want to run along this soft road, rush at full speed, jumping and squealing with delight!

Why was that strange sound back there? Who was it that suddenly, as if striking a tight string over and over again, screamed clearly and melodiously in the meadows? Where was it with him? Or maybe it wasn’t? But why then is this feeling of delight and happiness so familiar?

What was that crackling so loudly in the field? Motorbike? Volodya looked questioningly at Yashka.

Tractor! - Yashka answered importantly.

Tractor? But why does it crack?

It's starting... It'll start soon... Listen. Whoa... Did you hear that? Buzzed! Well, now he’ll go... This is Fedya Kostylev - he plowed all night with headlights, slept a little and went again...

Volodya looked in the direction from which the roar of the tractor was heard, and immediately asked:

Are your fogs always like this?

Not... when it's clean. And when it’s later, closer to September, you’ll see that it will hit you with frost. In general, the fish takes it in the fog - have time to carry it!

What kind of fish do you have?

Fish? All kinds of fish... And there are crucian carp on the reaches, pike, well, then these... perch, roach, bream... And tench. Do you know tench? Like a pig. That's fat! The first time I caught it, my mouth was agape.

How many can you catch?

Hm... Anything can happen. Another time about five kilos, and another time only... for a cat.

What's that whistle? - Volodya stopped and raised his head.

This? These are ducks flying... Teals.

Yeah... I know. And what's that?

The blackbirds are ringing... They flew to the rowan tree to visit Aunt Nastya in the garden. When did you catch blackbirds?

Never caught...

Mishka Kayunenka has a net, just wait, let's go catch it. They, thrushes, are greedy... They fly through the fields in flocks, taking worms from under the tractor. Stretch the net, throw in rowan berries, hide and wait. As soon as they fly, about five of them will immediately crawl under the net... They are funny... Not all of them, really, but there are smart ones... I had one all winter, he could do it in every way: both as a steam locomotive and as a saw.

The village was soon left behind, low-growing oats stretched endlessly, and a dark strip of forest was barely visible ahead.

How much longer to go? - asked Volodya.

“Soon... It’s nearby, let’s go,” Yashka answered every time.

They came out onto a hillock, turned right, went down a ravine, followed a path through a flax field, and then, quite unexpectedly, a river opened up in front of them. It was small, densely overgrown with broom, with willow along the banks, clearly rang in the riffles and often spilled into deep, dark pools.

The sun has finally risen; a horse neighed subtly in the meadows, and somehow unusually quickly everything around became brighter and pinker; The gray dew on the fir trees and bushes became even more clearly visible, and the fog began to move, thinned out and began to reluctantly reveal haystacks, dark against the smoky background of the now nearby forest. The fish were walking. Occasional heavy splashes were heard in the pools, the water was agitated, and the coastal cougar gently swayed.

Volodya was ready to start fishing right now, but Yashka walked further and further along the river bank. They were almost waist-deep in dew when Yashka finally said in a whisper: “Here!” - and began to go down to the water. He accidentally stumbled, wet clods of earth fell from under his feet, and immediately, invisible, the ducks quacked, flapped their wings, took off and flew over the river, disappearing in the fog. Yashka cowered and hissed like a goose. Volodya licked his dry lips and jumped down after Yashka. Looking around, he was amazed at the gloom that reigned in this pool. It smelled of dampness, clay and mud, the water was black, the willows in their wild growth almost covered the entire sky, and, despite the fact that their tops were already pink from the sun, and the blue sky was visible through the fog, here, by the water, it was damp, gloomy and cold.

Do you know how deep it is? - Yashka rolled his eyes. - There’s no bottom here...

Volodya moved a little away from the water and shuddered when a fish struck loudly on the opposite shore.

No one bathes in this barrel...

It sucks you in... As soon as you put your legs down, that’s it... The water is like ice and pulls you down. Mishka Kayunenok said there are octopuses at the bottom.

“Octopuses are only... in the sea,” Volodya said hesitantly and moved further away.

At sea... I know it myself! And Mishka saw it! He went fishing, he walks by, he looks at a probe coming out of the water and then it’s rummaging along the shore... Well? The bear runs all the way to the village! Although, he’s probably lying, I know him,” Yashka concluded somewhat unexpectedly and began to unwind the fishing rods.

Volodya perked up, and Yashka, having already forgotten about the octopuses, looked impatiently at the water, and every time a fish splashed noisily, his face took on a tense, suffering expression.

Having unwound the fishing rods, he handed one of them to Volodya, poured worms into a matchbox and showed him with his eyes the place where to fish.

Having thrown the nozzle, Yashka, without letting go of the rod, impatiently stared at the float. Almost immediately Volodya also threw his bait, but in doing so he caught the willow with his rod. Yashka looked at Volodya terribly, swore in a whisper, and when he turned his gaze back to the float, instead he saw only light diverging circles. Yashka immediately hooked with force, smoothly moved his hand to the right, felt with pleasure how the fish elastically entered in the depths, but the tension of the fishing line suddenly weakened, and an empty hook jumped out of the water with a smack. Yashka trembled with rage.

Gone, huh? Gone... - he whispered, putting a new worm on the hook with wet hands.

I cast the bait again and again, without letting go of the rod, I kept my eyes fixed on the float, waiting for a bite. But there was no bite, and even no splashes were heard. Yashka’s hand soon got tired, and he carefully stuck the rod into the soft bank. Volodya looked at Yashka and also stuck his rod in.

The sun, rising higher and higher, finally peered into this gloomy pool. The water immediately sparkled dazzlingly, and drops of dew lit up on the leaves, on the grass and on the flowers.

Volodya, squinting his eyes, looked at his float, then looked back and asked uncertainly:

What if the fish goes to another tank?

Of course! - Yashka answered angrily. - She lost her temper and scared everyone away. And she was probably healthy... As soon as I pulled, my hand was immediately dragged down! Maybe it would have lifted by a kilo.

Yashka was a little ashamed that he had missed the fish, but, as often happens, he was inclined to attribute his guilt to Volodya. “I’m also a fisherman! - he thought. “He’s sitting with a bark... You fish alone or with a real fisherman, just have time to carry it...” He wanted to prick Volodya with something, but suddenly he grabbed the fishing rod: the float moved slightly. Straining, as if uprooting a tree, he slowly pulled the fishing rod out of the ground and, holding it suspended, slightly lifted it up. The float swayed again, lay on its side, stayed in that position for a bit and straightened up again. Yashka took a breath, squinted his eyes and saw Volodya, turning pale, slowly getting up. Yashka felt hot, sweat appeared in small droplets on his nose and upper lip. The float shuddered again, moved to the side, sank halfway and finally disappeared, leaving behind a barely noticeable curl of water. Yashka, like last time, gently hooked and immediately leaned forward, trying to straighten the rod. The fishing line with the float trembling on it drew a curve, Yashka stood up, grabbed the fishing rod with his other hand and, feeling strong and frequent jerks, again smoothly moved his hands to the right. Volodya jumped up to Yashka and, his desperate round eyes shining, shouted in a thin voice:

Come on, come on, come on!

Go away! - Yashka wheezed, backing away, often stepping on his feet.

For an instant, the fish burst out of the water, showed its sparkling wide side, struck tightly with its tail, raised a fountain of pink spray and again rushed into the cold depths. But Yashka, resting the butt of the rod on his stomach, kept backing away and shouting:

You're lying, you won't leave!..

Finally, he brought the struggling fish to the shore, threw it onto the grass with a jerk and immediately fell on his stomach. Volodya’s throat was dry, his heart was pounding furiously...

What do you have? - he asked, squatting down. - Show me what you have?

Le-yet! - Yashka said enthusiastically.

He carefully pulled out a large cold bream from under his belly, turned his happy wide face to Volodya, started to laugh hoarsely, but his smile suddenly disappeared, his eyes fearfully stared at something behind Volodya’s back, he cringed and gasped:

A fishing rod... Look!

Volodya turned around and saw that his fishing rod, having fallen off a lump of earth, was slowly sliding into the water and something was strongly tugging on the line. He jumped up, stumbled and, on his knees, pulled himself up to the fishing rod and managed to grab it. The rod was severely bent. Volodya turned his round pale face to Yashka.

Hold it! - Yashka shouted.

But at that moment the ground under Volodya’s feet began to move, gave way, he lost his balance, released the fishing rod, absurdly, as if catching a ball, clasped his hands, shouted loudly: “Ahh...” - and fell into the water.

Fool! - Yashka shouted, contorting his face angrily and painfully. - Damn klutz!..

He jumped up, grabbed a clod of earth and grass, preparing to throw it in Volodya’s face as soon as he emerged. But, looking at the water, he froze, and he had that languid feeling that you experience in a dream: Volodya, three meters from the shore, beat, splashed on the water with his hands, threw back his white face with bulging eyes to the sky, choked and, plunging into the water , he kept trying to shout something, but his throat was bubbling and it came out: “Waa... Waa...”

“It’s drowning! - Yashka thought with horror. - It’s pulling you in!” He threw a lump of earth and, wiping his sticky hand on his pants, feeling weak in his legs, backed up, away from the water. Mishka’s story about huge octopuses at the bottom of the barrel immediately came to his mind, his chest and stomach became cold with horror: he realized that Volodya had been grabbed by an octopus... The earth crumbled from under his feet, he resisted with shaking hands and, just like in a dream, clumsily and heavily climbed up.

Finally, urged on by the terrible sounds that Volodya made, Yashka jumped out into the meadow and rushed towards the village, but, without running even ten steps, he stopped, as if he had stumbled, feeling that there was no way to escape. There was no one nearby, and there was no one to shout for help... Yashka frantically rummaged in his pockets and bag in search of at least some kind of string and, finding nothing, pale, began to creep up to the barrel. Approaching the cliff, he looked down, expecting to see something terrible and at the same time hoping that everything would somehow work out, and again he saw Volodya. Volodya was no longer struggling; he had almost completely disappeared under the water, only the top of his head with his hair sticking out was still visible. She hid and showed up again, hid and showed up... Yashka, without taking his eyes off the top of his head, began to unbutton his pants, then screamed and rolled down. Having freed himself from his pants, he, as he was, in his shirt, with a bag over his shoulder, jumped into the water, swam up to Volodya in two strokes, and grabbed his hand.

Volodya immediately grabbed onto Yashka, quickly, quickly began to move his hands, clinging to his shirt and bag, leaning on him and still squeezed out inhumanly terrible sounds: “Waa... Whaa...” Water poured into Yashka’s mouth. Feeling a death grip on his neck, he tried to put his face out of the water, but Volodya, trembling, kept climbing on him, leaning on him with all his weight, trying to climb onto his shoulders. Yashka choked, coughed, choking, swallowing water, and then horror seized him, red and yellow circles flashed in his eyes with blinding force. He realized that Volodya would drown him, that his death had come, he jerked with all his strength, floundered, screamed as inhumanly as Volodya had screamed a minute ago, kicked him in the stomach, emerged, and saw through the water running from his hair a bright flattened ball of the sun , still feeling Volodya’s weight on himself, he tore him off, threw him off of him, thrashed him through the water with his hands and feet and, raising breakers of foam, rushed to the shore in horror. And only grabbing the coastal sedge with his hand, he came to his senses and looked back. The troubled water in the pool calmed down, and no one was on its surface anymore. Several air bubbles cheerfully jumped out of the depths, and Yashka’s teeth began to chatter. He looked around: the sun was shining brightly, and the leaves of the bushes and willows were shining, the cobwebs between the flowers were glowing rainbow-colored, and the wagtail was sitting above, on a log, swinging its tail and looking at Yashka with a shining eye, and everything was the same as always, everything was breathing peace. and silence, and there was a quiet morning above the earth, and yet just now, very recently, a terrible thing happened - a man had just drowned, and it was he, Yashka, who hit and drowned him.

Yashka blinked, let go of the sedge, moved his shoulders under his wet shirt, took a deep breath of air intermittently and dived. Opening his eyes under water, at first he could not make out anything: vague yellowish and greenish reflections and some grass illuminated by the sun were trembling all around. But the light of the sun did not penetrate there, into the depths... Yashka sank even lower, swam a little, touching the grass with his hands and face, and then he saw Volodya. Volodya kept on his side, one of his legs was tangled in the grass, and he himself slowly turned, swaying, exposing his round pale face to the sunlight and moving his left hand, as if testing the water by touch. It seemed to Yashka that Volodya was pretending and deliberately shaking his hand, that he was watching him in order to grab him as soon as he touched him.

Feeling that he was about to suffocate, Yashka rushed to Volodya, grabbed his hand, closed his eyes, hastily pulled Volodya’s body up and was surprised at how easily and obediently it followed him. Having emerged, he breathed greedily, and now he didn’t need or care about anything except to breathe and feel how his chest was filled with clean and sweet air over and over again.

Without letting go of Volodya's shirt, he began to push him towards the shore. It was hard to swim. Feeling the bottom under his feet, Yashka climbed out himself and pulled Volodya out. He shuddered, touching the cold body, looking at the dead, motionless face, was in a hurry and felt so tired, so unhappy...

Turning Volodya onto his back, he began to spread his arms, press on his stomach, and blow into his nose. He was out of breath and weak, and Volodya was still the same white and cold. “He’s dead,” Yashka thought with fear, and he became very scared. I wish I could run away somewhere, hide, just so as not to see this indifferent, cold face!

Yashka sobbed in horror, jumped up, grabbed Volodya by the legs, pulled him up as far as he could and, turning purple from the strain, began to shake him. Volodya’s head was beating on the ground, his hair was matted with dirt. And at that very moment when Yashka, completely exhausted and discouraged, wanted to give up everything and run wherever his eyes looked, - at that very moment water gushed from Volodya’s mouth, he groaned and a spasm passed through his body. Yashka released Volodin’s legs, closed his eyes and sat down on the ground.

Volodya leaned on his weak hands and stood up, as if he was about to run somewhere, but he fell down again, started coughing convulsively again, splashing water and writhing on the damp grass. Yashka crawled to the side and looked at Volodya relaxed. Now he loved no one more than Volodya, nothing in the world was dearer to him than that pale, frightened and suffering face. A timid, loving smile shone in Yashka’s eyes; he looked at Volodya with tenderness and asked senselessly:

So how? A? Well, how?..

Volodya recovered a little, wiped his face with his hand, looked at the water and in an unfamiliar, hoarse voice, with noticeable effort, stuttering:

How did I... then...

Then Yashka suddenly wrinkled his face, closed his eyes, tears flowed from his eyes, and he roared, roared bitterly, inconsolably, shaking with his whole body, choking and ashamed of his tears. He cried from joy, from the fear he experienced, from the fact that everything ended well, that Mishka Kayunenok lied and there were no octopuses in this barrel.

Volodya’s eyes darkened, his mouth opened slightly, and he looked at Yashka with fear and bewilderment.

You... what? - he squeezed out.

Yes... - Yashka said as hard as he could, trying not to cry and wiping his eyes with his pants. - You’re drowning... drowning... and I’m going to save you... save you...

And he roared even more desperately and louder.

Volodya blinked, grimaced, looked again at the water, and his heart trembled, he remembered everything...

Ka... how am I drowning!.. - as if in surprise, he said and also began to cry, twitching his thin shoulders, helplessly lowering his head and turning away from his savior.

The water in the pool had long since calmed down, the fish fell from Volodya’s fishing rod, and the fishing rod washed ashore. The sun was shining, the bushes were blazing, sprinkled with dew, and only the water in the pool remained the same black.

The air heated up, and the horizon trembled in its warm currents. From afar, from the fields on the other side of the river, the smells of hay and sweet clover flew along with gusts of warm wind. And these smells, mixing with the more distant but pungent smells of the forest, and this light warm wind were like the breath of an awakened earth, rejoicing at a new bright day.

Author Kazakov Yuri Pavlovich

Two nights [Prose. Notes. Sketches]

I. Kuzmichev About this book

Autobiographical notes

Autobiography

Mr. Editor, thank you...

From diaries and notebooks

From the diary of 1949-1953[ 1 ]

From the diary of 1959-1966[ 4 ]

Abramtsevo. Phenological diary. 1972[5]

From a notebook from 1981[ 6 ]

From the story “Two Nights” (“Separation of Souls”)[ 7 ]

Night one

Arbat was littered with rubble...

And for five years now...

Envy[ 8 ]

Songs of the forest[ 9 ]

abyss

Story outlines

evening call, evening Bell

Heavenly angel

The young chemical engineer Sasha Skachkov was worried...

No, there is still happiness...

Ninth circle

Forever and ever

Death, where is your sting?

an old house

I remember everything...[ 11 ]

For the first time I came to Pechory...[ 12 ]

Transcarpathian problem[ 13 ]

“And all this for some two days...”[ 14 ]

Romanian impressions[ 15 ]

Four seasons (Ode to Arkhangelsk)[ 16 ]

Snow Pit Boy[ 17 ]

Articles, interviews

Northern wizard of words[ 19 ]

Inspirational singer of nature[ 20 ]

Generosity of soul[ 21 ]

Good talent[ 22 ]

Song to man and nature[ 23 ]

In memory of Hemingway[ 24 ]

Answers to the questionnaire from the journal “Questions of Literature” (1962, No. 9)[ 25 ]

About Lermontov[ 26 ]

Preface to A. Nurpeisov’s novel “Twilight”[ 27 ]

A few words about V. Likhonosov[ 28 ]

Narrator Oleg Kibitov[ 29 ]

About Vladimir Soloukhin[ 31 ]

Speech in the book “Writers Express Their Attitudes to the Vietnam War”[ 32 ]

Isn't that enough?[ 33 ]

About Bunin[ 34 ]

Villa Belvedere[ 35 ]

Let's go to Lopshenga[ 36 ]

F. Polenov and his stories[ 37 ]

Experience, observation, tone[ 38 ]

“Here comes the north again...”[ 39 ]

“The only native word”[ 40 ]

What is literature for and what am I myself for?[ 41 ]

Two nights [Prose. Notes. Sketches]

The collection “Two Nights” - the last, in fact, new book by Yuri Kazakov - along with completed works, includes drafts of novels and short stories, autobiographical and travel notes, excerpts from diaries and notebooks, literary critical speeches of the writer. Archival publications occupy a significant place in the book.

Yuri Kazakov

Prose. Notes. Sketches

Moscow

"Contemporary"

Series: New items from Sovremennik

I. Kuzmichev About this book

Yuri Kazakov died in November 1982.

If we remember that he began publishing in 1952, his literary activity spans thirty years: he energetically declared himself in the second half of the fifties, spoke most actively in the sixties, in the seventies there were long pauses in his work, but his presence in literature was vividly felt even when he did not publish anything for a long time.

Didn’t publish doesn’t mean didn’t work and didn’t write. The personal archive, which due to a number of circumstances suffered irreparable damage, nevertheless documents that Kazakov always had many unfulfilled plans; he left a fair number of sketches reflecting the richness of his creative searches; The Kazakovs wrote many letters - they have yet to be collected.

Kazakov did not write any consistent autobiography. More than once he took on it, but did not complete it. By the way, one of the reasons here may be that he considered his biography to be mediocre, unremarkable. He generally adhered to the point of view that a life full of extraordinary events is not at all necessary for a writer, and he attached greater importance to “internal biography.” “A person with a rich internal biography,” stated Kazakov, “can rise to express the era in his work, while at the same time living a life poor in external events. This was, for example, A. Blok.”

Among the biographical materials presented in the collection “Two Nights” - information scattered across various notes and interviews, two biographical sketches - a special place is occupied by excerpts from a youthful diary of 1949-1953, shedding light on the most important milestone in Kazakov’s internal biography - that initial a period of spiritual formation, when the main question for him was being decided: to be or not to be a writer, when his true calling powerfully made itself known to him.

Yuri Kazakov was born in Moscow in 1927 and lived on Arbat for a long time, of which he was proud. He grew up in a low-income working-class family, and his home upbringing did not foreshadow his future passion for writing. His adolescence, which fell during the war years, and post-war youth were a dull, joyless period in his life, and the only thing that somehow brightened up this “saddest,” in his words, time, was music. Kazakov began studying music at the age of fifteen, first learning to play the cello, then the double bass, in 1946 he entered the Gnessin School and, graduating in 1951, became a professional musician.

Musical talent undoubtedly served Kazakov well, but studying music, as it later turned out, still did not bring him proper satisfaction and, having given him his first profession, did not contribute much to the education and spiritual maturity of the writer. “When I studied music,” Kazakov later admitted, “the main thing I considered was not the musician’s culture, but technique, that is, the better you play, the higher your price. And to play well, you need to practice six to eight hours. That’s why many wonderful musicians are childish, to say the least... In a word, my music studies also played such a role: I entered the Literary Institute, knowing artistic literature at a completely philistine level...”

In addition, the profession of an orchestrator did not in any way guarantee Kazakov a livelihood. It was not easy for a young musician to find a reliable place in Moscow then, and for Kazakov, given some family circumstances, in particular. The diary of 1949-1953, which clearly confirms what difficulties, not only material ones, the Kazakov family faced at that time, is full of desperate confessions on this matter. The naivety and ardor of a young romantic who decided to devote himself to art is combined in this diary with the persistence of a sober-minded person who earns his daily bread very dearly. Judgments about literature and music are interspersed here with constant complaints about the lack of work in the specialty, about the fact that it happens sporadically to collaborate with orchestras and therefore in the evenings you have to play “all these pas de graces” on the dance floors, by the sweat of your brow “fight for life, for money". Not getting into the conservatory, as he wanted, Kazakov was ready to take on anything: he tried to get a job as a loader at a confectionery factory, as a reporter for the TASS photo chronicle, and was thinking about working as a musician in the periphery. “There was a rumor,” he wrote in November 1952, “that double bass players were needed in Ulan-Ude. This is what I understand! The places are, as they say, “not so remote.”

With such obvious everyday ills, which is truthfully stated in the diary of 1949-1953, one cannot help but be surprised at the persistent craving for writing that awoke in Kazakov on the verge of the forties - fifties, and not rejoice at the determination that he showed in those years despite everything. “Today I again received negative reviews about my new play,” Kazakov complained in his diary in October 1951. - Again and again, anger and despair overwhelm me... But still I will write and I will write something very bright, fresh and talented. Let them refuse me. Let be! But victory will be mine...” Failures seemed to spur the aspiring writer’s self-esteem, strengthened his will and added faith in his calling.

The diary of 1949-1953 testifies: Kazakov wrote love poems in prose at that time and did not shy away from poetry; he composed, as he himself put it, a play “small in format and modest in talent” on the topic of the day, wandered around the editorial offices, where they neither accepted it nor refused it; I tried to write essays about nature and even, oddly enough, stories “from American life” - in short, I tried to test myself in different genres and on different materials.

The entries in this diary captivate with their sincere emotion and touching innocence; behind them one can feel perseverance, will, seriousness of goals, and at the same time - the awkwardness of a young man, and also an easy pose, natural in its own way: the inability to correctly correlate his literary pursuits with professional literary practice . In the notes there are doubts, if you will, of a “technological” order: “I don’t know how I will succeed,” “a very difficult story.” Kazakov is depressed by the fact that he writes slowly and heavily, “correcting what he has written many times.” But, despite this, he loves to “mix up words and remake phrases” and hopes that he will eventually master the literary craft: “not all at once.” It’s worse when crisis situations of a psychological nature arise, when Kazakov at moments seems to be “a person completely incapable of this task, and when lethargy of thought sets in and you don’t want to put pen to paper at all.” But he knew how to overcome such moods, forced himself to write “according to plan,” and drew long-term prospects.

In January 1953, Kazakov tried to sum up the results in his diary. “Almost four years have passed since I started this notebook,” he wrote. - At the rate I'm recording, it will probably last me a long time. Back in 1949, I dreamed of literature, I wanted to be a writer. It's the same today. But my affairs are getting worse... At times I like my creations, which, by the way, are very few, but at times I lose all hopes for any even the slightest success in the field of literature. Why is this happening? In my opinion, for two reasons. Firstly, of course, all my creations (many, most in sketches) are far from beautiful, to say the least. Well, since I still have some kind of critical sense and ability for introspection, it turns out as if I suddenly wake up and with horror and melancholy become convinced of the imperfection of my undertakings. The second reason is the inaccessibility, inaccessibility of the editorial offices...”

This is how Kazakov began his writing career.

And when, ten years later, he brilliantly established his name in literature, the long-standing failures were perceived much more calmly, and he already remembered kindly about the same editions in the draft of “Autobiography” (1965), which is published in the collection.

Autobiographical sketches and excerpts from the diary of 1949-1953, which open the collection, partly seem to make up for the initial chapter of the autobiography not written by Kazakov. Unfortunately, subsequently Kazakov did not keep any systematic, permanent diaries, although, when required, he took on them with enthusiasm. So, in July 1956, during the days of student practice, he started a “Diary of his stay in Rostov-Yaroslavsky and the surrounding area.” During his northern trips, he carefully recorded his travel impressions, which later served as the basis for the “Northern Diary”. While living in Abramtsevo, he kept a phenological diary. And besides all this, from time to time he wrote down in scattered notebooks thoughts about the plots that arose in his mind, made psychological sketches there, analyzed the reasons for his literary mistakes, etc. ...