My mother died when I was six years old. My father, completely absorbed in his grief, seemed to completely forget about my existence. Sometimes he caressed my little sister and took care of her in his own way, because she had her mother’s features. I grew up like a wild tree in a field - no one surrounded me with special care, but no one constrained my freedom.

The place where we lived was called Knyazhye-Veno, or, more simply, Knyazh-gorodok. It belonged to one seedy but proud Polish family and represented all the typical features of any of the small towns of the South-Western region, where, among the quietly flowing life of hard work and petty fussy Jewish gesheft, the pitiful remains of the proud lordly greatness live out their sad days.

If you approach the town from the east, the first thing that catches your eye is the prison, the best architectural decoration of the city. The city itself lies below sleepy, moldy ponds, and you have to go down to it along a sloping highway, blocked by a traditional “outpost”. A sleepy disabled person, a figure browned in the sun, the personification of a serene slumber, lazily raises the barrier, and - you are in the city, although, perhaps, you do not notice it right away. Gray fences, vacant lots with heaps of all sorts of rubbish are gradually interspersed with dim-sighted huts sunk into the ground. Further, the wide square gapes in different places with the dark gates of Jewish “visiting houses”; government institutions are depressing with their white walls and barracks-like lines. A wooden bridge spanning a narrow river groans, trembles under the wheels, and staggers like a decrepit old man. Beyond the bridge stretched a Jewish street with shops, benches, little shops, tables of Jewish money changers sitting under umbrellas on the sidewalks, and with awnings of kalachniki. The stench, the dirt, the heaps of kids crawling in the street dust. But another minute and you are already outside the city. The birch trees whisper quietly over the graves of the cemetery, and the wind stirs the grain in the fields and rings with a sad, endless song in the wires of the roadside telegraph.

The river over which the aforementioned bridge was thrown flowed from a pond and flowed into another. Thus, the town was fenced from the north and south by wide expanses of water and swamps. The ponds became shallower year by year, overgrown with greenery, and tall, dense reeds waved like the sea in the huge swamps. There is an island in the middle of one of the ponds. There is an old, dilapidated castle on the island.

I remember with what fear I always looked at this majestic decrepit building. There were legends and stories about him, each more terrible than the other. They said that the island was built artificially, by the hands of captured Turks. “The old castle stands on human bones,” the old-timers said, and my frightened childhood imagination pictured thousands of Turkish skeletons underground, supporting with their bony hands the island with its tall pyramidal poplars and the old castle. This, of course, made the castle seem even scarier, and even in clear days When, encouraged by the light and the loud voices of birds, we came closer to him, he often brought on us fits of panic horror - the black hollows of the long-broken windows looked so scary; There was a mysterious rustling in the empty halls: pebbles and plaster, breaking off, fell down, awakening a echo, and we ran without looking back, and behind us for a long time there was knocking, stomping, and cackling.

And on stormy autumn nights, when the giant poplar trees swayed and hummed from the wind blowing from behind the ponds, horror spread from the old castle and reigned over the entire city. “Oh-vey-peace!” - the Jews said timidly; God-fearing old bourgeois women were baptized, and even our closest neighbor, the blacksmith, who denied the very existence of demonic power, went out into his courtyard at these hours, made the sign of the cross and whispered to himself a prayer for the repose of the departed.

Old, gray-bearded Janusz, who, for lack of an apartment, took refuge in one of the basements of the castle, told us more than once that on such nights he clearly heard screams coming from underground. The Turks began to tinker under the island, rattling their bones and loudly reproaching the lords for their cruelty. Then, in the halls of the old castle and around it on the island, weapons rattled, and the lords called the haiduks with loud shouts. Janusz heard quite clearly, under the roar and howl of the storm, the tramp of horses, the clanking of sabers, the words of command. Once he even heard how the late great-grandfather of the current counts, glorified forever for his bloody exploits, rode out, clattering the hooves of his argamak, to the middle of the island and furiously swore: “Keep quiet there, laidaks, psya vyara!”

The descendants of this count left the home of their ancestors long ago. Most of the ducats and all sorts of treasures, from which the chests of the counts were previously bursting, went over the bridge, into the Jewish hovels, and the last representatives of the glorious family built themselves a prosaic white building on the mountain, away from the city. There their boring, but still solemn existence passed in contemptuously majestic solitude.

Occasionally only the old count, the same gloomy ruin as the castle on the island, appeared in the city on his old English nag. Next to him, in a black riding habit, stately and dry, his daughter rode through the city streets, and the horsemaster respectfully followed behind. The majestic countess was destined to remain a virgin forever. Suitors equal to her in origin, in pursuit of the money of merchant daughters abroad, cowardly scattered around the world, leaving their family castles or selling them for scrap to the Jews, and in the town spread out at the foot of her palace, there was no young man who would dare to look up at beautiful countess. Seeing these three horsemen, we little guys, like a flock of birds, took off from the soft street dust and, quickly scattering around the courtyards, watched with frightened and curious eyes the gloomy owners of the terrible castle.

Vladimir Galaktionovich Korolenko

"In Bad Society"

The hero's childhood took place in the small town of Knyazhye-Veno in the Southwestern Territory. Vasya - that was the boy's name - was the son of the city judge. The child grew up “like a wild tree in a field”: the mother died when the son was only six years old, and the father, consumed by his grief, paid little attention to the boy. Vasya wandered around the city all day long, and pictures of city life left a deep imprint on his soul.

The city was surrounded by ponds. In the middle of one of them, on the island, stood an ancient castle that once belonged to a count's family. There were legends that the island was filled with captured Turks, and the castle stood “on human bones.” The owners left this gloomy dwelling a long time ago, and it gradually collapsed. Its inhabitants were urban beggars who had no other shelter. But a split occurred among the poor. Old Janusz, one of the count's former servants, received some right to decide who can live in the castle and who cannot. He left only “aristocrats” there: Catholics and the former count’s servants. The exiles found refuge in a dungeon under an ancient crypt near an abandoned Uniate chapel that stood on the mountain. However, no one knew their whereabouts.

Old Janusz, meeting Vasya, invites him to come into the castle, because there is now “decent society” there. But the boy prefers the “bad company” of exiles from the castle: Vasya feels sorry for them.

Many members of the "bad society" are well known in the city. This is a half-mad elderly “professor” who always mutters something quietly and sadly; the ferocious and pugnacious bayonet-cadet Zausailov; a drunken retired official Lavrovsky, telling everyone incredible tragic stories about his life. And Turkevich, who calls himself General, is famous for “exposing” respectable townspeople (police officer, secretary of the district court and others) right under their windows. He does this in order to get money for vodka, and achieves his goal: those “accused” rush to pay him off.

The leader of the entire community of “dark personalities” is Tyburtsy Drab. His origins and past are unknown to anyone. Others assume that he is an aristocrat, but his appearance is common. He is known for his extraordinary learning. At fairs, Tyburtsy entertains the audience with lengthy speeches from ancient authors. He is considered a sorcerer.

One day Vasya and three friends come to the old chapel: he wants to look there. Friends help Vasya get inside through a high window. But seeing that there is someone else in the chapel, the friends run away in horror, leaving Vasya to the mercy of fate. It turns out that Tyburtsiya’s children are there: nine-year-old Valek and four-year-old Marusya. Vasya begins to often come to the mountain to visit his new friends, bringing them apples from his garden. But he only walks when Tyburtius cannot find him. Vasya does not tell anyone about this acquaintance. He tells his cowardly friends that he saw devils.

Vasya has a sister, four-year-old Sonya. She, like her brother, is a cheerful and playful child. Brother and sister love each other very much, but Sonya’s nanny prevents them from noisy games: she considers Vasya a bad, spoiled boy. My father shares the same view. He finds no place in his soul for love for a boy. Father loves Sonya more because she looks like her late mother.

One day, in a conversation, Valek and Marusya tell Vasya that Tyburtsy loves them very much. Vasya speaks of his father with resentment. But he unexpectedly learns from Valek that the judge is a very fair and honest person. Valek is a very serious and smart boy. Marusya is not at all like the playful Sonya; she is weak, thoughtful, and “cheerless.” Valek says that “the gray stone sucked the life out of her.”

Vasya learns that Valek is stealing food for his hungry sister. This discovery makes a difficult impression on Vasya, but still he does not condemn his friend.

Valek shows Vasya the dungeon where all the members of the “bad society” live. In the absence of adults, Vasya comes there and plays with his friends. During a game of blind man's buff, Tyburtsy unexpectedly appears. The children are scared - after all, they are friends without the knowledge of the formidable head of the “bad society”. But Tyburtsy allows Vasya to come, making him promise not to tell anyone where they all live. Tyburtsy brings food, prepares dinner - according to him, Vasya understands that the food is stolen. This, of course, confuses the boy, but he sees that Marusya is so happy about the food... Now Vasya comes to the mountain without hindrance, and the adult members of the “bad society” also get used to the boy and love him.

Autumn comes, and Marusya falls ill. In order to somehow entertain the sick girl, Vasya decides to ask Sonya for a while for a large beautiful doll, a gift from her late mother. Sonya agrees. Marusya is delighted with the doll, and she even feels better.

Old Janusz comes to the judge several times with denunciations against members of the “bad society.” He says that Vasya communicates with them. The nanny notices the doll is missing. Vasya is not allowed out of the house, and after a few days he runs away secretly.

Marusya is getting worse. The inhabitants of the dungeon decide that the doll needs to be returned, and the girl will not even notice. But seeing that they want to take the doll, Marusya cries bitterly... Vasya leaves her the doll.

And again Vasya is not allowed to leave the house. The father is trying to get his son to confess where he went and where the doll went. Vasya admits that he took the doll, but says nothing more. The father is angry... And at the most critical moment Tyburtsy appears. He is carrying a doll.

Tyburtsy tells the judge about Vasya’s friendship with his children. He is amazed. The father feels guilty before Vasya. It was as if the wall that had separated father and son for a long time had collapsed, and they felt like close people. Tyburtsy says that Marusya died. The father lets Vasya go to say goodbye to her, while he passes through Vasya money for Tyburtsy and a warning: it is better for the head of the “bad society” to hide from the city.

Soon almost all the “dark personalities” disappear somewhere. Only the old “professor” and Turkevich remain, to whom the judge sometimes gives work. Marusya is buried in the old cemetery near the collapsed chapel. Vasya and his sister are taking care of her grave. Sometimes they come to the cemetery with their father. When the time comes for Vasya and Sonya to leave their hometown, they pronounce their vows over this grave.

The main character of the work, Vasya, is the son of a city judge. The boy's mother died. They lived with their father in the small town of Knyazhye-Veno in the Southwestern region.

The father paid almost no attention to his son. Grief overshadowed everything for him. After the death of his mother, Vasya felt lonely. He spent time on the streets of the city, absorbing pictures of his life, listening to legends.

The city was surrounded by ponds. In the middle of one of them there was a castle. Once upon a time there lived a count's family. Legend says that the castle was built on the bones of their people, and the island itself was formed by captured Turks, with whom the island was covered.

The owners-counts have not been in this castle for a long time. The beggars of the city now live in this gloomy dwelling. Only over time did disagreements begin between them. The former count's servant began to divide the inhabitants into his people and strangers. Everyone who was expelled by Janusz moved to the dungeon under the old crypt on the mountain near the Uniate chapel. The chapel had long been abandoned, and no one knew about the inhabitants of this dungeon.

Vasya Yanush invited him to the castle, because all the decent people live there, but the boy prefers a different society, for which the boy feels pity.

The dungeon brought together well-known people: an elderly professor, a pugnacious bayonet cadet, a drunken retired official telling tragic stories. Turkevich called himself a general. All he does is denounce noble residents of the city under the windows of their houses in order to get money for vodka.

This society is headed by Tyburtsy Drab. Nobody knows anything about this man. In appearance, he comes from the common people, but due to his erudition, they see him as an aristocrat. Drab entertains the public at fairs with conversations about ancient authors, which is why he became known as a sorcerer.

Vasya and his three friends wanted to see the dungeon. The boy, with the help of his friends, gets inside through the window. Frightened, the friends run away. Vasya saw a four-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy in the dungeon. Marusya and Valek are children of Tyburtsiya. So Vasya made new friends. He often goes to them when no one is in this home. He told his friends that he had met the devils.

Vasya also has a sister, Sonya, whom the boy loves very much. Sonya's nanny prohibits children from noisy games. She believes that Vasya is a bad influence on his sister. My father has the same opinion. He loves the girl too much, because she looks like his late wife. There was no place left in his heart for his son.

One day Valek and Marusya spoke warmly about their father. They talked about his love for them. Vasya could not say this about his father, but the guys knew him as an honest and fair judge. Valek is a serious man beyond his years, and Marusya is pale and thoughtful. Valek said it was from a gray stone. Vasya found out that Valek was stealing food for his sister. No, he didn't blame him. It was just hard for him.

One day Tyburtsy found the children playing. Scared children are allowed to be friends as long as no one finds out about the dungeon. The head of the society brings food. Vasya understands that it was stolen, but Marusya’s joy dispelled all his embarrassment. The boy is treated well by all members of this society.

In the fall, Marusya fell ill. Vasya, in order to bring joy to the girl, asked Sonya for a large doll, which her late mother gave her. Sonya gave her the doll, and Marusya felt even better. Janusz informed the judge that Vasya was communicating with members of “bad society.” The nanny noticed the doll was missing. Vasya was locked at home, but one day the boy runs away. Marusya becomes very ill, but when they wanted to take the doll, the girl began to cry. She kept the doll.

Vasya had to confess where he goes and where the doll is. And at that very moment Tybutsky brought a doll and talked about the friendship of the children. The line of misunderstanding between father and son disappeared. They become close friends. The father lets his son go to Marusya’s funeral, and at the same time gives money to Tyburtsy, and also says that he should leave the city for a while.

Vladimir Galaktionovich Korolenko /July 15 (27), 1853 - December 25, 1921/ - Russian writer of Ukrainian-Polish origin, journalist, publicist, public figure.

From my friend's childhood memories

Preparation of text and notes: S.L. KOROLENKO and N.V. KOROLENKO-LYAKHOVICH

I. RUINS

My mother died when I was six years old. Father, completely devoted to his

I’m burning, as if I had completely forgotten about my existence. Sometimes he caressed my

little sister and took care of her in his own way, because she had traits

mother. I grew up like a wild tree in a field - no one surrounded me with anything special.

caring, but no one constrained my freedom.

The place where we lived was called Knyazhye-Veno, or, more simply,

Prince-town. It belonged to a seedy but proud Polish family

and represented all the typical features of any of the small towns of the Southwestern

lands where, among the quietly flowing life of hard work and petty fuss

Jewish gesheft, the pitiful remains of the proud are living out their sad days

master's greatness.

If you approach the town from the east, the first thing you see is

eyes prison, the best architectural decoration of the city. The city itself is spread out

below the sleepy, moldy ponds, and you have to go down to it

sloping highway, blocked by a traditional "outpost". Sleepy disabled person,

a figure rusty in the sun, the personification of a serene slumber, lazily

raises the barrier, and - you are in the city, although perhaps you don’t notice it

straightaway. Gray fences, vacant lots with heaps of all sorts of rubbish are gradually interspersed with

weak-sighted huts sunk into the ground. Further on, a wide area gapes in

different places by the dark gates of Jewish “visiting houses”, government

institutions are depressing with their white walls and barracks-like

lines. A wooden bridge spanning a narrow river groans,

trembling under the wheels and staggering like a decrepit old man. Over the bridge

stretched a Jewish street with shops, benches, stalls, tables

Jewish money changers sitting under umbrellas on the sidewalks and with awnings. The stench

dirt, heaps of guys crawling in the street dust. But one more minute and - you're already behind

city. Birch trees whisper quietly over the graves of the cemetery, and the wind stirs the bread

in the fields and rings with a sad, endless song in the wires of the roadside

telegraph.

The river over which the said bridge is thrown flowed from the pond and

flowed into another. Thus, the town was fenced from the north and south by wide

water surfaces and swamps. The ponds became shallower year by year, overgrown with greenery, and

tall, dense reeds waved like the sea in the huge swamps. In the middle

There is an island in one of the ponds. On the island - old, dilapidated

I remember with what fear I always looked at this majestic decrepit

building. There were legends and stories about him, each more terrible than the other. They said

that the island was built artificially, by the hands of captured Turks. "On the bones

human worth the old castle, - the old-timers said, and my childhood

the frightened imagination pictured thousands of Turkish skeletons underground,

supporting the island with its high pyramidal

poplars and an old castle. This, of course, made the castle seem even scarier, and

even on clear days, when, encouraged by the light and loud voices of birds,

we came closer to him, he often gave us panic attacks

horror - the black hollows of the long-broken windows looked so scary; in empty

There was a mysterious rustling in the halls: pebbles and plaster, coming off, falling

down, awakening a booming echo, and we ran without looking back, and they stood behind us for a long time

knocking, and stomping, and cackling.

And on stormy autumn nights, when the giant poplars swayed and hummed with

the wind blowing from behind the ponds, horror spread from the old castle and reigned over

the whole city. "Oh-vey-peace!" [Oh woe is me (Heb.)] - the Jews said fearfully;

God-fearing old bourgeois women were baptized, and even our nearest neighbor,

the blacksmith, who denied the very existence of demonic power, going out at these hours to

his courtyard, made the sign of the cross and whispered to himself a prayer for repose

Old, gray-bearded Janusz, who, for lack of an apartment, took refuge in one of the

basements of the castle, told us more than once that on such nights he clearly

I heard screams coming from underground. The Turks began to tinker under

island, rattled bones and loudly reproached the lords for cruelty. Then in the halls

old castle and around it on the island weapons were rattling, and the lords loudly

they called the haiduks with shouts. Janusz heard quite clearly, amidst the roars and howls

storms, the tramp of horses, the clanking of sabers, words of command. Once he even heard

like the late great-grandfather of the current counts, glorified forever for his

bloody deeds, rode out, clattering the hooves of his argamak, into the middle

islands and cursed furiously:

“Keep quiet there, laidaks [Idlers (Polish)], psya vyara!”

The descendants of this count left the home of their ancestors long ago. Most of

ducats and all sorts of treasures, from which the chests of the counts were previously bursting,

crossed the bridge into the Jewish shacks, and the last representatives of the glorious family

They built themselves a prosaic white building on the mountain, away from the city. There

their boring, but still solemn existence passed in

contemptuously majestic solitude.

Occasionally only the old count, the same gloomy ruin as the castle on

island, appeared in the city on his old English nag. Next to him, in

a black Amazon, stately and dry, rode through the city streets, his daughter,

and the horsemaster followed respectfully behind. The majestic countess is destined

was to remain a virgin forever. Suitors equal in origin to her, in pursuit of

money from merchants' daughters abroad, cowardly scattered around the world,

leaving the family castles or selling them for scrap to the Jews, and in the town,

spread out at the foot of her palace, there was no youth who would dare

look up at the beautiful countess. Seeing these three horsemen, we little ones

the guys, like a flock of birds, took off from the soft street dust and quickly dispersed

through the yards, with frightened, curious eyes watching the gloomy owners

scary castle.

On the western side, on the mountain, among decaying crosses and fallen

graves, there was a long-abandoned Uniate chapel. It was own daughter

spread out in the valley of the philistine city itself. No time in it

At the sound of a bell, the townspeople gathered in clean, although not luxurious,

kuntushahs, with sticks in their hands instead of sabers with which the small gentry rattled,

also appearing at the call of the ringing Uniate bell from the surrounding villages and

From here the island and its dark huge poplars were visible, but the castle angrily

and contemptuously closed himself off from the chapel with thick greenery, and only in those moments

when the southwest wind broke out from behind the reeds and flew onto the island, the poplars

swayed loudly, and because of them the windows gleamed, and the castle seemed to be throwing

chapel gloomy looks. Now both he and she were corpses. He has eyes

went out, and the reflections of the evening sun did not sparkle in them; she has somewhere

the roof collapsed, the walls crumbled, and, instead of a booming, high-pitched

copper bell, owls began to sing their ominous songs in it at night.

But the old, historical strife that divided the once proud master's castle

and the bourgeois Uniate chapel, continued after their death: her

supported by the worms swarming in these decrepit corpses, occupying the surviving

dungeon corners, basements. These grave worms of dead buildings were people.

There was a time when the old castle served as a free refuge for every poor person.

without the slightest restrictions. Everything that did not find a place in the city, all sorts of

an existence that has jumped out of the rut, lost, for one reason or another,

the opportunity to pay even a pittance for shelter and shelter for the night and

bad weather - all this was drawn to the island and there, among the ruins, bowed their

victorious little heads, paying for hospitality only with the risk of being buried

under piles of old garbage. “Lives in a castle” - this phrase has become an expression

extreme poverty and civil decline. The old castle welcomed

and covered the rolling snow, and the temporarily impoverished scribe, and the lonely

old women and homeless tramps. All these creatures tormented the insides of the decrepit

buildings, breaking off ceilings and floors, stoked stoves, cooked something,

ate - in general, carried out their vital functions in an unknown way.

However, the days came when among this society, huddled under the roof

gray ruins, division arose, discord began. Then old Janusz, former

once one of the small count "officials" (Note p. 11), procured

himself something like a sovereign charter and seized the reins of government. He

began the transformation, and for several days there was such a noise on the island,

such screams were heard that at times it seemed as if the Turks had broken out

from underground dungeons to take revenge on the oppressors. It was Janusz who sorted

population of ruins, separating the sheep from the goats. The sheep still left

castle, helped Janusz drive out the unfortunate goats who resisted,

showing desperate but futile resistance. When, finally, at

silent, but, nevertheless, quite significant assistance of the guard,

order was restored on the island again, it turned out that the coup had

decidedly aristocratic in character. Janusz left only “good people” in the castle

Christians", that is, Catholics, and, moreover, mainly former servants or

descendants of servants of the count's family. They were all some old men in shabby

frock coats and "chamarkas" (Note p. 11), with huge blue noses and

with gnarled sticks, old women, loud and ugly, but retaining

in the last stages of impoverishment, their bonnets and cloaks. All of them were

homogeneous, closely united aristocratic circle, which took, as it were,

monopoly of recognized beggary. On weekdays these old men and women walked, with

prayer on the lips, in the homes of the more prosperous townspeople and the middle class,

spreading gossip, complaining about fate, shedding tears and begging, and

on Sundays, they also constituted the most respectable persons from the public that for long

lined up in rows near churches and majestically accepted handouts in the name of

"Pan Jesus" and "Pan Our Lady".

Attracted by the noise and shouts that rushed from the

islands, I and several of my comrades made our way there and, hiding behind

thick trunks of poplars, watched as Janusz, at the head of an entire army

red-nosed elders and ugly vixens, drove the latter out of the castle,

residents subject to expulsion. Evening was coming. A cloud hanging over the high

the tops of poplars, it was already raining. Some unfortunate dark personalities,

wrapped in extremely torn rags, frightened, pitiful and

Confused, they scurried around the island like moles driven out of their holes.

boys, trying again to sneak unnoticed into one of the holes

castle But Janusz and the vixens, shouting and cursing, drove them away from everywhere,

threatening with pokers and sticks, and standing aside stood a silent watchman, also with

with a heavy club in his hands, maintaining armed neutrality, obviously

friendly to the triumphant party. And unfortunate dark personalities involuntarily,

dejectedly, they disappeared behind the bridge, leaving the island forever, and one after another

drowned in the slushy twilight of the rapidly descending evening.

From this memorable evening both Janusz and the old castle, from which

breathed on me some kind of vague greatness, lost all their

attractiveness. It used to be that I loved to come to the island and although from afar

admire its gray walls and old mossy roof. When in the morning

at dawn, various figures crawled out of it, yawning, coughing and

baptized in the sun, I looked at them with some kind of respect, as if

creatures clothed in the same mystery that shrouded the entire castle.

They sleep there at night, they hear everything that happens there, when in huge

the moon looks into the halls through the broken windows or when it bursts into them during a storm

wind. I loved to listen when Janusz used to sit down under the poplars and

with the loquacity of a seventy-year-old man, he began to talk about the glorious

past of the deceased building. Images came to life before children's imaginations

past, and a majestic sadness and vague sympathy for that

what once lived the drooping walls, and the romantic shadows of alien antiquity ran

in a young soul, as light shadows of clouds run across a bright day on a windy day

green open field.

But from that evening both the castle and its bard appeared before me in a new light.

Having met me the next day near the island, Janusz began to invite me to his place,

assuring with a pleased look that now “the son of such respectable parents” boldly

can visit the castle, as he will find quite decent society in it. He

even led me by the hand to the castle itself, but then I tearfully snatched it from him

his hand and started to run. The castle became disgusting to me. Windows on the top floor

were boarded up, and the bottom was in the possession of bonnets and cloaks. Old women

crawled out of there in such an unattractive form, flattered me so cloyingly,

argued among themselves so loudly that I was sincerely surprised how strict

the dead man who pacified the Turks on stormy nights could tolerate these old women in his

neighborhood. But most importantly, I could not forget the cold cruelty with which

the triumphant residents of the castle drove away their unfortunate roommates, and when

memories of dark personalities left homeless made me cringe

Be that as it may, from the example of the old castle I learned for the first time the truth that

from the great to the ridiculous there is only one step. The great thing in the castle is overgrown with ivy,

dodder and mosses, but the funny seemed disgusting to me, it cut too much

childish sensitivity, since the irony of these contrasts was still

not available.

II. PROBLEMATIC NATURES

The city spent several nights after the described coup on the island

very restless: dogs were barking, house doors were creaking, and the townsfolk, every now and then

going out into the street, they banged on the fences with sticks, letting someone know that they

on guard. The city knew that along its streets in the stormy darkness of a rainy night

people wander around who are hungry and cold, who are shivering and getting wet; understanding

that cruel feelings must be born in the hearts of these people, the city

became wary and sent his threats towards these feelings. And the night is like

deliberately, descended to the ground in the middle of a cold downpour and left, leaving above

low running clouds on the ground. And the wind raged among the bad weather, shaking the tops

trees, knocking shutters and singing to me in my bed about dozens of people,

deprived of warmth and shelter.

But spring has finally triumphed over the last impulses

winter, the sun dried up the earth, and at the same time homeless wanderers somewhere

subsided. The barking of dogs at night calmed down, the townsfolk stopped knocking on

fences, and the life of the city, sleepy and monotonous, went its own way. Hot

the sun, rolling into the sky, burned the dusty streets, driving the nimble

the children of Israel who traded in the city shops; "factors" lazily lay on

in the sun, vigilantly looking out for those passing by; the creak of official feathers was heard

into open windows of public places; in the mornings the city ladies scurried about with

baskets around the market, and in the evening they walked solemnly arm in arm with their

the faithful, raising the street dust in lush plumes. Old men and women from

the castle, they walked decorously through the houses of their patrons, without disturbing the general harmony.

The average person willingly recognized their right to exist, finding it completely

thorough, so that someone receives alms on Saturdays, and the inhabitants

the old castle received it quite respectably.

Only the unfortunate exiles did not find their own track in the city.

True, they did not wander the streets at night; they said they found shelter

somewhere on the mountain, near the Uniate chapel, but how did they manage to settle down

there, no one could say for sure. Everyone only saw that on the other side,

from the mountains and ravines surrounding the chapel, the most

incredible and suspicious figures who disappeared at dusk in the same

direction. With their appearance they disturbed the quiet and dormant current

city ​​life, standing out as dark spots against the gray background. Everyday people

looked sideways at them with hostile alarm, they, in turn, glanced

philistine existence with restless, attentive glances, from which

many felt terrified. These figures did not at all resemble

aristocratic beggars from the castle - the city did not recognize them, and they did not ask

recognition; their relationship to the city was purely combative in nature: they

preferred to scold the average person than to flatter him, to take it themselves rather than

beg. They either suffered severely from persecution if they were weak, or

forced ordinary people to suffer if they had the power necessary for this.

Moreover, as often happens, among this ragged and dark crowd

unlucky people met people who, based on their intelligence and talents, could do

honor to the most select society of the castle, but did not get along in it and preferred

democratic society of the Uniate chapel. Some of these figures were

marked by features of deep tragedy.

I still remember how cheerfully the street rumbled when I passed through it.

the bent, sad figure of the old "professor". It was quiet, depressed

an idiocy creature, in an old frieze overcoat, in a hat with a huge visor

and a blackened cockade. The academic title seems to have been awarded to him

due to a vague legend that somewhere and once he was a tutor.

It is difficult to imagine a more harmless and peaceful creature. Usually he

quietly wandered the streets, invisible, without any definite purpose, with a dim

with a look and a drooping head. Idle townsfolk knew two qualities about him:

which were used in forms of cruel entertainment. "Professor" forever

muttered something to himself, but not a single person could make out in these speeches

not a word. They flowed like the murmuring of a muddy stream, and at the same time dim

eyes looked at the listener, as if trying to put an elusive

meaning of a long speech. It could be started like a car; for this any of

factor, who was tired of dozing on the streets, should have called to him

old man and ask a question. The "Professor" shook his head,

thoughtfully staring at the listener with his faded eyes and began to mutter something

infinitely sad. In this case, the listener could calmly leave, or at least

fall asleep, and yet, when he woke up, he would see a sad dark

a figure still quietly muttering incomprehensible speeches. But, in itself, this

the circumstance was not yet anything particularly interesting. Main effect

street bruisers was based on another trait of the professor's character:

the unfortunate man could not indifferently hear mentions of cutting and piercing weapons.

Therefore, usually in the midst of an incomprehensible eloquence, the listener suddenly

pins!" Poor old man, so suddenly awakened from his dreams,

waved his arms like a shot bird, looked around in fear and grabbed

by the chest.

Oh, how much suffering remains incomprehensible to lanky factors only

because the sufferer cannot instill ideas about them through

healthy fist bump! And the poor “professor” just looked around with deep

longing, and inexpressible torment was heard in his voice when, turning to the tormentor

his dull eyes, he said, frantically scratching his fingers on his chest:

For the heart... for the heart with a crochet!.. for the very heart!..

He probably wanted to say that his heart was tormented by these screams,

but, apparently, it was precisely this circumstance that was capable of somewhat

entertain the idle and bored average person. And the poor "professor" hastily

he walked away, lowering his head even lower, as if fearing a blow; and behind him they thundered

peals of contented laughter in the air, like blows of a whip, lashed the same

Knives, scissors, needles, pins!

We must give justice to the exiles from the castle: they stood strong

for a friend, and if the crowd chasing the “professor” flew at that time

with two or three ragamuffins, Pan Turkevich, or especially the retired

bayonet cadet Zausailov, then many of this crowd suffered cruel punishment.

Bayonet cadet Zausailov, who had enormous growth, a bluish-purple nose and

with fiercely bulging eyes, has long declared open war on everything

living without recognizing either truces or neutralities. Every time after

the moment he stumbled upon the pursued “professor”, he was not silent for a long time

screams of abuse; he then rushed through the streets, like Tamerlane, destroying everything,

caught in the path of a formidable procession; this is how he practiced

Jewish pogroms, long before their occurrence, on a large scale;

He tortured the Jews he captured in every possible way, and over the Jewish ladies

committed heinous acts, until, finally, the expedition of the gallant bayonet-cadet

ended at the exit, where he invariably settled after fierce fights with

Butari (Note p. 16). Both sides showed a lot of heroism.

Another figure who provided entertainment to the townsfolk with the spectacle of his

misfortunes and falls, represented by a retired and completely drunk official

Lavrovsky. The inhabitants remembered the recent time when Lavrovsky was called

none other than "Mr. Clerk" when he walked around in uniform with copper

buttons, tied his neck with delightful colored scarves. This

the circumstance added even more piquancy to the spectacle of his present

falls. The revolution in the life of Pan Lavrovsky took place quickly: for this

one had only to arrive in Knyazhye-Veno for a brilliant dragoon officer who

lived in the city for only two weeks, but during that time he managed to win and take away with

the blond daughter of a rich innkeeper. Since then, ordinary people have done nothing

They heard about the beautiful Anna, since she disappeared from their horizon forever. A

Lavrovsky was left with all his colored handkerchiefs, but without hope,

which brightened up earlier life minor official. Now he has not been for a long time

serves. Somewhere in a small place his family remained, for whom he was

once hope and support; but now he didn't care about anything. In rare

During the sober moments of his life, he quickly walked through the streets, looking down and not looking at anyone.

looking as if overwhelmed by the shame of his own existence; he walked

tattered, dirty, overgrown with long, unkempt hair, standing out immediately

from the crowd and attracting everyone's attention; but he himself didn’t seem to notice

I didn’t hear anyone or anything. Occasionally he cast dull glances around,

which reflected bewilderment: what do these strangers and strangers want from him?

People? What did he do to them, why are they pursuing him so persistently? Sometimes, in minutes

these glimpses of consciousness, when the name of the lady with the blond hair reached his ears

scythe, a violent rage rose in his heart; Lavrovsky's eyes

lit up with a dark fire on his pale face, and he rushed at the crowd with all his might,

which quickly ran away. Such outbreaks, although very rare, are strange

stimulated the curiosity of bored idleness; no wonder therefore that when

Lavrovsky, with his eyes down, walked through the streets, followed by a small group of

the idlers who tried in vain to bring him out of his apathy, began with annoyance

throw dirt and stones at him.

When Lavrovsky was drunk, he somehow stubbornly chose dark corners

under fences, puddles that never dried out and similar extraordinary

places where he could count on not being noticed. There he sat down, stretching out

long legs and hanging his victorious little head on his chest. Solitude and vodka

evoked in him a surge of frankness, a desire to pour out his heavy grief, depressing

soul, and he began an endless story about his young ruined life.

At the same time, he turned to the gray pillars of the old fence, to the birch tree,

condescendingly whispering something over his head, to the magpies, who with a woman's

They jumped up with curiosity towards this dark, slightly fidgeting figure.

If any of us little guys managed to track him down in this

position, we quietly surrounded him and listened with bated breath for long and

terrifying stories. Our hair stood on end, and we looked with fear

on pale man accusing himself of all sorts of crimes. If

believe Lavrovsky’s own words, he killed his own father, drove him into the grave

mother, killed his sisters and brothers. We had no reason not to believe these terrible

confessions; we were only surprised by the fact that Lavrovsky had,

apparently, several fathers, since he pierced the heart of one with a sword, another

tormented with slow poison, drowned the third in some kind of abyss. We listened with

horror and sympathy, until Lavrovsky’s language, becoming more and more tangled,

finally refused to utter articulate sounds and beneficial sleep

did not stop his repentant outpourings. The adults laughed at us, saying that everything

It’s a lie that Lavrovsky’s parents died of natural causes, from hunger and

diseases. But we, with sensitive childish hearts, heard sincere

heartache and, taking the allegories literally, were still closer to

true understanding of a tragically crazy life.

When Lavrovsky’s head sank even lower and snoring was heard from his throat,

interrupted by nervous sobs, little children's heads bowed

then over the unfortunate one. We looked closely at his face, followed

by the way the shadows of criminal deeds ran across him in his sleep, how nervously

eyebrows shifted and lips compressed into a pitiful, almost childish cry

Ubbyu! - he suddenly cried out, feeling a pointless

anxiety from our presence, and then we rushed in a frightened flock

It happened that in such a sleepy position he was drenched in rain and fell asleep

dust, and several times in the fall it was even literally covered with snow; and if he doesn't

died a premature death, then this, without a doubt, was due to concerns about

to his sad person, others like him, unlucky people and, mainly,

to the cares of the cheerful Mr. Turkevich, who, staggering greatly, was himself looking for

He shook him, put him on his feet and took him away with him.

Pan Turkevich belonged to the number of people who, as he himself put it,

do not allow themselves to spit into the porridge, and while the “professor” and Lavrovsky

suffered passively, Turkevich presented himself as a cheerful and prosperous person in

in many ways. To begin with, without asking anyone about

statement, he immediately promoted himself to general and demanded from the townsfolk

honors corresponding to this title. Since no one dared to challenge him

rights to this title, soon Pan Turkevich was completely imbued with the faith

into its greatness. He always spoke very importantly, with his eyebrows furrowed menacingly and

revealing at any time a complete readiness to crush someone’s cheekbones,

which, apparently, he considered the most necessary prerogative of the rank of general.

If, from time to time, his carefree head was visited by any

doubts, then, having caught the first inhabitant he met on the street, he threateningly

asked:

Who am I in this place? A?

General Turkevich! - the man in the street humbly answered, feeling himself in

difficult situation. Turkevich immediately released him, majestically

twirling his mustache.

That's the same!

And since at the same time he was able to move in a very special way

with his cockroach mustache and was inexhaustible in jokes and witticisms, then

it is surprising that he was constantly surrounded by a crowd of idle listeners and they

the doors of the best “restaurant” where people gathered for billiards were even open

visiting landowners. To tell the truth, there were often cases when Mr.

Turkevich flew out of there with the speed of a man who is not being pushed from behind.

especially ceremoniously; but these cases, explained by lack of respect

landowners to wit, did not influence the general mood of Turkevich:

cheerful self-confidence was his normal state, just like

constant intoxication.

The latter circumstance constituted the second source of his well-being, -

one drink was enough for him to recharge for the whole day. It was explained

this is the huge amount of vodka Turkevich has already drunk, which turned

his blood into some kind of vodka wort; the general had enough now

maintain this wort at a certain degree of concentration so that it plays and

seethed within him, painting the world for him in rainbow colors.

But if, for some reason, the general did not have any

One glass, he experienced unbearable torment. At first he fell into melancholy and

cowardice; everyone knew that at such moments the formidable general became

more helpless than a child, and many were in a hurry to take out their grievances on him. They beat him

they spat on him, threw mud at him, and he didn’t even try to avoid being reproached; He

drooping mustache. The poor fellow appealed to everyone with a request to kill him, citing this

desire by the fact that he will still have to die "like a dog"

death under the fence." Then everyone retreated from him. At such a degree it was

pursuers quickly move away so as not to see this face, not to hear

situation... A change was happening to the general again; he was becoming terrible

eyes lit up feverishly, cheeks sunken, short hair rose

on end on end. Quickly rising to his feet, he struck his chest and

solemnly walked through the streets, announcing in a loud voice:

I’m coming!.. Like the prophet Jeremiah... I’m coming to reprove the wicked!

This promised a most interesting spectacle. It can be said with confidence that

Pan Turkevich at such moments with great success performed the functions of an unknown

our town of glasnost; therefore it is not surprising if the most

respectable and busy citizens abandoned everyday activities and joined the crowd,

accompanying the newly-minted prophet, or at least watched him from afar

adventures. Usually he first of all went to the secretary's house

district court and opened before its windows something like a court hearing,

choosing from the crowd suitable actors to portray plaintiffs and defendants; himself

spoke for them and answered them himself, imitating with great skill

the performance is of modern interest, hinting at some well-known

case, and since, in addition, he was a great expert in judicial procedure, then

no wonder that very soon the cook ran out of the secretary’s house,

she shoved something into Turkevich’s hand and quickly disappeared, fending off pleasantries

general's retinue. The general, having received the donation, laughed evilly and, triumphantly

waving a coin, he went to the nearest tavern.

From there, having quenched his thirst somewhat, he led his listeners to their homes.

"subjudice", modifying the repertoire according to the circumstances. And since

each time he received payment for the performance, it was natural that the menacing tone

gradually softened, the eyes of the frenzied prophet became buttery, his mustache

twisted upward, and the performance moved from an accusatory drama to

fun vaudeville. It usually ended in front of the house of police chief Kots.

He was the most good-natured of city governors, possessing two small

weaknesses: firstly, he dyed his gray hair with black dye and,

secondly, he had a passion for fat cooks, relying on everything else

to the will of God and to voluntary philistine “gratitude.” Approaching

Turkevich winked cheerfully at the police station's house, which faced the street

to his companions, threw his cap in the air and loudly announced that he lived here

not a boss, but his own, Turkevich’s, father and benefactor.

Then he fixed his gaze on the windows and waited for the consequences. Consequences

these were of two kinds: either immediately a fat woman ran out of the front door

and rosy Matryona with a gracious gift from her father and benefactor, or a door

remained closed, an angry old woman flashed in the office window

face framed by jet-black hair, and Matryona quietly

sneaked backwards onto the exit ramp. On the move-out he had permanent residence

Butar Mikita, who has become remarkably skilled in dealing with Turkevich.

He immediately phlegmatically put aside his shoe last and stood up

from your seat.

Meanwhile, Turkevich, not seeing the benefit of praises, little by little and carefully

began to move on to satire. He usually began with regret that

for some reason his benefactor considers it necessary to dye his venerable gray hair

shoe polish. Then, upset by the complete lack of attention to his eloquence,

the example set to citizens by illegal cohabitation with Matryona. Having reached this

sensitive subject, the general was already losing all hope of reconciliation with

benefactor and therefore inspired by true eloquence. Unfortunately,

usually at this very point in speech an unexpected extraneous thing happened

intervention; Kots’s yellow and angry face was sticking out of the window, and behind him

Turkevich was picked up with remarkable dexterity by Mikita, who had crept up to him.

None of the listeners even tried to warn the speaker about the threat

danger, because Mikita’s artistic techniques aroused everyone’s admiration.

The general, interrupted in mid-sentence, suddenly flashed strangely in the air,

tipped his back onto Mikita's back - and after a few seconds the hefty

butar, slightly bent under his burden, amid deafening screams

crowd, calmly headed to the jail. Another minute, the black door is moving out

opened like a gloomy mouth, and the general, helplessly dangling his legs,

solemnly disappeared behind the prison door. The ungrateful crowd shouted at Mikita

"Hurray" and slowly dispersed.

In addition to these individuals who stood out from the crowd, there was another group huddled around the chapel.

a dark mass of pitiful ragamuffins, whose appearance at the market produced

there was always great anxiety among the traders who were in a hurry to cover their goods with their hands,

just as hens cover their chickens when a kite appears in the sky.

There were rumors that these pathetic individuals, completely deprived of all resources

from the time of expulsion from the castle, they formed a friendly community and engaged in

among other things, petty theft in the city and surrounding areas. These were based

rumors are mainly based on the indisputable premise that a person cannot

exist without food; and since almost all of these dark personalities, one way or another

otherwise, they strayed from the usual methods of obtaining it and were wiped out by the lucky ones

from the castle from the benefits of local philanthropy, then the inevitable followed

the conclusion was that they had to steal or die. They didn't die

that means... the very fact of their existence was turned into proof of their

criminal behavior.

If only this were true, then it was no longer subject to dispute that

the organizer and leader of the community could not be anyone other than Mr.

Tyburtsy Drab, the most remarkable personality of all problematic natures,

who did not get along in the old castle.

The origin of Drab was shrouded in the most mysterious darkness

unknown. People gifted with a strong imagination attributed to him

an aristocratic name, which he covered with shame and therefore was forced

to hide, and allegedly participated in the exploits of the famous Karmelyuk. But,

firstly, he was not yet old enough for this, and secondly, his appearance

Pan Tyburtsy did not have a single aristocratic trait in herself. He was tall

high; a strong stoop seemed to speak of the burden endured

Tyburtsy of misfortunes; the large facial features were crudely expressive. Short,

slightly reddish hair stuck out apart; low forehead, somewhat prominent

forward lower jaw and strong mobility of the personal muscles gave the entire

the physiognomy is something of a monkey; but the eyes, sparkling from under overhanging eyebrows,

looked stubbornly and gloomily, and in them shone, along with slyness, a sharp

insight, energy and remarkable intelligence. While on his face

a whole kaleidoscope of grimaces alternated, these eyes always retained one

an expression that always made me feel unaccountably creepy to look at

the bullshit of this strange man. It was as if a deep

relentless sadness.

Pan Tyburtsy's hands were rough and covered with calluses, his large feet walked

like a man. In view of this, most ordinary people did not recognize him

of aristocratic origin, and at most that agreed

Let us assume that this is the title of a servant of one of the noble lords.

But then again a difficulty was encountered: how to explain his phenomenal

learning that was obvious to everyone. There was no tavern in the whole city, in

which Pan Tyburtsy, for the edification of the crests who gathered on market days, would not

made, standing on a barrel, entire speeches from

Cicero, entire chapters from Xenophon. crests opened their mouths and pushed

each other with their elbows, and Pan Tyburtsy, towering in his rags above everyone

crowd, smashed Catiline or described the exploits of Caesar or the treachery of Mithridates.

crests, generally endowed by nature with a rich imagination, knew how to somehow invest

your own meaning into these animated, albeit incomprehensible speeches... And

when, beating himself on the chest and flashing his eyes, he addressed them with the words:

“Patros conscripti” [Fathers Senators (lat.)] - they also frowned and said

each other:

That's how the enemy's son barks!

When then Pan Tyburtsi, raising his eyes to the ceiling, began

recite the longest Latin periods, - mustachioed listeners followed him

with fearful and pitiful participation. It seemed to them then that the soul of the reciter

hovers somewhere in an unknown country, where they speak not Christian, but

from the speaker's desperate gestures they concluded that she was experiencing

some sad adventures. But the greatest tension was achieved by this

sympathetic attention when Pan Tyburtsy, rolling his eyes and moving some

squirrels, pestered the audience with a long chant of Virgil or Homer.

corners and the listeners who were most susceptible to the influence of the Jewish vodka lowered

heads, hung their long “chuprins” trimmed in front and began

sob:

Oh-oh, mother, that’s pitiful, give him an encore! - And tears dripped from my eyes

and flowed down his long mustache.

It is therefore not surprising that when the speaker suddenly jumped down

from the barrel and burst into cheerful laughter, the gloomy faces of the crests suddenly

cleared up, and hands reached out to the pockets of their wide pants for coppers.

Delighted by the successful end of the tragic excursions of Pan Tyburtsy,

crests gave him vodka, hugged him, and fell into his cap, ringing,

In view of such amazing scholarship, it was necessary to construct a new hypothesis about

the origin of this eccentric, which would be more consistent with the stated

facts" They made peace on the fact that Mr. Tyburtsy was once a yard boy

some count who sent him and his son to school

Jesuit fathers, actually on the subject of cleaning the boots of the young panic.

It turned out, however, that while the young count perceived

mainly the blows of the three-tailed "discipline" of the holy fathers, his lackey

intercepted all the wisdom that was assigned to the head of the barchuk.

Due to the secrecy surrounding Tyburtsy, among other professions, he

They also attributed excellent information on the art of witchcraft. If on

fields adjoining the last shacks of the suburbs like a wavering sea,

suddenly witchcraft “twists” appeared (Note p. 25), then no one could

snatch them out with greater safety for yourself and the reapers, like Pan Tyburtsy. If

the ominous "scarecrow" [Filin] flew in the evenings onto someone's roof and made loud noises

screamed death there, they again invited Tyburtsy, and he with great

successfully drove away the ominous bird with teachings from Titus Livy.

No one could also say where Mr. Tyburtsy’s children came from, but

Meanwhile, the fact, although not explained by anyone, was obvious... even two

fact: a boy of about seven years old, but tall and developed beyond his years, and small

three year old girl. Pan Tyburtsy brought the boy, or rather, brought him with

himself from the first days, when he appeared on the horizon of our city. What

concerns the girl, then, apparently, he went away to acquire her, for

several months to completely unknown countries.

A boy named Valek, tall, thin, black-haired, staggered gloomily

sometimes around the city without much business, putting his hands in his pockets and throwing

looks on both sides that confused the hearts of the kalachnitsa. The girl was seen only by one or

twice in the arms of Pan Tyburtsy, and then she disappeared somewhere, and where

was located - no one knew.

There was talk about some dungeons on the Uniate mountain near the chapel, and

since in those regions where the Tatars so often took place with fire and sword, where

once upon a time the master's "svavolya" (self-will) raged and a bloody massacre reigned

Daredevil Haidamaks, such dungeons are very common, then everyone believed it

rumors, especially since this whole horde of dark vagabonds lived somewhere. A

they usually disappeared in the evening in the direction of the chapel. There

the “professor” hobbled with his sleepy gait, walked decisively and quickly

Tyburtsy; there Turkevich, staggering, accompanied the ferocious and helpless

Lavrovsky; they went there in the evening, drowning in twilight, other dark

personality, and there was no brave person who would dare to follow them

along clay cliffs. The mountain, pitted with graves, enjoyed a bad reputation. On

blue lights lit up in the old cemetery on damp autumn nights, and owls in the chapel

screamed so piercingly and loudly that from the screams of the damned bird even

The fearless blacksmith's heart sank.

III. ME AND MY FATHER

Bad, young man, bad! - old Janusz from

castle, meeting me on the streets of the city in the retinue of Pan Turkevich or among

Mr. Drab's listeners.

And the old man shook his gray beard at the same time.

It’s bad, young man - you’re in bad company!.. It’s a pity, it’s a pity

the son of respectable parents, who does not spare family honor.

Indeed, since my mother died and my father's stern face became

even more gloomy, I was very rarely seen at home. On late summer evenings I

sneaked through the garden like a young wolf cub, avoiding meeting his father,

opened his window, half-closed by thick

green lilacs, and quietly went to bed. If little sister hasn't yet

she was sleeping in her rocking chair in the next room, I went up to her, and we quietly

caressed each other and played, trying not to wake up the grumpy old nanny.

And in the morning, just before it was light, when everyone in the house was still sleeping, I was already laying

a dewy trail in the thick, tall grass of the garden, climbed over the fence and walked towards

the pond, where the same tomboyish comrades were waiting for me with fishing rods, or to the mill,

where the sleepy miller had just pulled back the sluices and the water, shuddering sensitively

mirror surface, threw herself into the “streams” (Note p. 27) and cheerfully

took up the day's work.

Large mill wheels, awakened by noisy shocks of water, also

shuddered, somehow reluctantly gave in, as if too lazy to wake up, but after

They were already spinning for a few seconds, splashing foam and bathing in cold streams.

Behind them the thick shafts began to move slowly and steadily, and inside the mill they began

gears rumbled, millstones rustled, and white flour dust rose in clouds

from the cracks of an old, old mill building.

glad when I managed to scare away a sleepy lark or drive him out of

furrows of the cowardly hare. Drops of dew fell from the tops of the shaker, from the heads

meadow flowers as I made my way through the fields to the country grove. Trees

greeted me with whispers of lazy drowsiness. Haven't looked out of the prison windows yet

pale, gloomy faces of the prisoners, and only the guards, loudly clanking their guns,

walked around the wall, replacing tired night guards.

I managed to make a long detour, and yet in the city every now and then

I met sleepy figures opening the shutters of houses. But here's the sun

has already risen above the mountain, from behind the ponds a loud bell can be heard calling

high school students, and hunger calls me home for morning tea.

In general, everyone called me a tramp, a worthless boy, and so often reproached me

in various bad inclinations, that I finally became imbued with it myself

conviction. My father also believed this and sometimes made attempts to take care of my

education, but these attempts always ended in failure. At the sight of a strict and

gloomy face, on which lay the stern stamp of incurable grief, I was timid and

closed in on himself. I stood in front of him, shifting, fiddling with my panties, and

looked around. At times something seemed to rise in my chest;

I wanted him to hug me, sit me on his lap and caress me.

Then I would cling to his chest, and perhaps we would cry together -

a child and a stern man - about our common loss. But he looked at me

with hazy eyes, as if on top of my head, and I shrank all under

with this look that is incomprehensible to me.

Do you remember mother?

Did I remember her? Oh yes, I remembered her! I remembered how it used to be when I woke up

at night, I looked for her tender hands in the darkness and pressed tightly to them, covering

their kisses. I remembered her when she sat sick in front of the open window and

sadly looked at the wonderful spring picture, saying goodbye to it for the last year

own life.

Oh yes, I remembered her!.. When she, all covered with flowers, was young and

beautiful, lay with the mark of death on her pale face, I, like an animal, writhed

into the corner and looked at her with burning eyes, before which he first opened

all the horror of a riddle about life and death. And then, when she was carried away in the crowd

strangers, was it not my sobs that sounded like a muffled groan in the dusk?

the first night of my orphanhood?

Oh yes, I remembered her!.. And now often, in the dead of midnight, I woke up,

full of love, which was crowded in the chest, overflowing the childish

heart, woke up with a smile of happiness, in blissful ignorance inspired

pink dreams of childhood. And again, as before, it seemed to me that she was with me,

that I will now meet her loving sweet caress. But my hands reached out

empty darkness, and the consciousness of bitter loneliness penetrated into the soul. Then I

I squeezed my small, painfully beating heart with my hands, and tears burned through

hot streams on my cheeks.

Oh yes, I remembered her!.. But to the question of the tall, gloomy man,

which I desired, but could not feel my soulmate, I shrank even more

and quietly pulled his little hand out of his hand.

And he turned away from me with annoyance and pain. He felt that he was not

has not the slightest influence on me, that between us there is some kind of irresistible

wall. He loved her too much when she was alive, not noticing me because

your happiness. Now I was blocked from him by severe grief.

And little by little the abyss that separated us became wider and deeper.

He became more and more convinced that I was a bad, spoiled boy, with a callous,

egoistic heart, and the consciousness that he should, but cannot, take care of me,

should love me, but does not find a corner for this love in his heart, yet

increased his dislike. And I felt it. Sometimes, hiding in

bushes, I watched him; I saw him walking along the alleys, speeding up everything

gait, and groaned dully from unbearable mental anguish. Then my heart

lit up with pity and sympathy. One time, when, squeezing his head with his hands, he

I sat down on a bench and started sobbing, I couldn’t stand it and ran out of the bushes onto the path,

obeying a vague impulse that pushed me towards this man. But

he, awakening from his gloomy and hopeless contemplation, looked sternly at me

and besieged with a cold question:

What do you need?

I didn't need anything. I quickly turned away, ashamed of my impulse,

afraid that my father would read it in my embarrassed face. Having run away into the thicket of the garden, I

He fell face down into the grass and cried bitterly from frustration and pain.

From the age of six I already experienced the horror of loneliness. Sister Sonya was four

of the year. I loved her passionately, and she repaid me with the same love; But

an established look at me as if I were an inveterate little robber,

erected a high wall between us. Whenever I started playing with

her, in her own noisy and playful way, the old nanny, always sleepy and always fighting, with

eyes closed, chicken feathers for pillows, immediately woke up, quickly

she grabbed my Sonya and carried her away, throwing angry glances at me; V

On such occasions she always reminded me of a disheveled hen, myself

compared him to a predatory kite, and Sonya to a little chicken. I felt

very sad and annoying. No wonder, therefore, that I soon stopped all sorts of

attempts to keep Sonya busy with my criminal games, and after some time

I felt cramped in the house and in the kindergarten, where I did not meet anyone’s greetings and

caresses. I started wandering. My whole being then trembled with some strange

premonition, anticipation of life. It seemed to me that somewhere there, in this

in a large and unknown world, behind the old garden fence, I will find something; it seemed

that I had to do something and could do something, but I just didn’t know what

exactly; and meanwhile, towards this unknown and mysterious, in me from

Something rose from the depths of my heart, teasing and challenging. I've been waiting

resolution of these issues and instinctively ran away from the nanny with her feathers, and from

the familiar lazy whisper of the apple trees in our small garden, and from the stupid

the sound of knives chopping cutlets in the kitchen. Since then, to my other unflattering

the names of street urchin and tramp were added to the epithets; but I didn't pay

pay attention to this. I got used to reproaches and endured them as if I had suddenly endured them.

falling rain or sunny heat. I listened gloomily to the comments and acted

in my own way. Staggering through the streets, I peered with childishly curious eyes at

the simple life of the town with its shacks, listened to the hum of wires on

highway, away from the city noise, trying to catch what news is rushing along

him from distant big cities, or in the rustle of ears of corn, or in the whisper of the wind on

high Haidamak graves. More than once my eyes opened wide, more than once

I stopped with painful fear before the pictures of life. Image for

Thus, impression after impression fell on the soul as bright spots; I

I learned and saw a lot of things that children much older than me had not seen, and

Meanwhile, the unknown that rose from the depths of the child’s soul, as before

sounded in it with an incessant, mysterious, eroding, defiant rumble.

When the old women from the castle deprived him of respect in my eyes and

attractiveness, when all the corners of the city became known to me to the last

dirty corners, then I began to look at what was visible in the distance, at

Uniate mountain, chapel. At first, like a timid animal, I approached her with

different sides, still not daring to climb the mountain, which was

glory. But as I became acquainted with the area, people spoke to me

only quiet graves and destroyed crosses. There were no signs to be seen anywhere

any habitation or human presence. Everything was somehow humble,

quiet, abandoned, empty. Only the chapel itself looked, frowning, empty

windows, as if she was thinking some sad thought. I wanted to examine her

all, look inside to make sure that there is nothing there,

except dust. But since it would be both scary and inconvenient to undertake

such an excursion, I recruited a small detachment of three

tomboys attracted to the enterprise by the promise of buns and apples from our

Chapter 1. Ruins.
The first chapter tells the story of the ruins of an old castle and chapel on an island not far from Prince Town, where he lived main character, a boy named Vasya. His mother died when the boy was only six years old. The grief-stricken father did not pay any attention to his son. He only occasionally caressed younger sister Vasya, because she looked like her mother. And Vasya was left to his own devices. He spent almost all his time outside. The ruins of the old castle attracted him with its mystery, as terrible stories were told about it.

This castle belonged to a wealthy Polish landowner. But the family became poor, and the castle fell into disrepair. Time has destroyed him. They said about the castle that it stood on the bones of the captured Turks who built it. Not far from the castle there was an abandoned Uniate chapel. Townspeople and residents of neighboring villages once gathered there for prayer. Now the chapel was falling apart just like the castle. For a long time, the ruins of the castle served as a refuge for poor people who came there in search of a roof over their heads, because they could live here for free. The phrase “Lives in a castle!” denoted the extreme need of an impoverished person.

But the time has come, and changes began in the castle. Janusz, who long ago served the old count, the owner of the castle, somehow managed to obtain a so-called sovereign charter for himself. He began to manage the ruins and made changes there. That is, old men and women, Catholics, remained living in the castle; they expelled everyone who was not a “good Christian.” Screams and screams of people being driven away echoed across the island. Vasya, who observed these changes, was deeply struck by human cruelty. Since then, the ruins have lost their appeal to him. One day Janusz led him by the hand to the ruins. But Vasya broke free and, bursting into tears, ran away.

Chapter 2. Problematic natures.
For several nights after the expulsion of the beggars from the castle, the city was very restless. Homeless people wandered the city streets in the rain. And when spring fully came into its own, these people disappeared somewhere. At night there were no more dogs barking, and there was no knocking on fences. Life has returned to its normal course. The inhabitants of the castle again began to go door to door for alms, as the locals believed that someone should receive alms on Saturdays.

But the beggars expelled from the castle did not find sympathy among the townspeople. They stopped wandering around the city at night. In the evening these dark figures disappeared near the ruins of the chapel, and in the morning they crawled out from the same side. People in the city said that there were dungeons in the chapel. It was there that the exiles settled. Appearing in the city, they caused indignation and hostility among local residents, as their behavior differed from the inhabitants of the castle. They did not ask for alms, but preferred to take what they needed themselves. For this they were subjected to severe persecution if they were weak, or they themselves made the townspeople suffer if they were strong. They treated ordinary people with contempt and wariness.

Among these people there were remarkable personalities. For example, "professor". He suffered from idiocy. He was nicknamed “Professor” because, as they said, he was once a tutor. He was harmless and quiet, walking along the streets and constantly muttering something. The townsfolk took advantage of this habit of his for entertainment. Having stopped the “professor” with some question, they were amused by the fact that he could talk for hours without a break. The average person could fall asleep to this muttering, wake up, and the “professor” would still be standing over him. And for some unknown reason, the “professor” was terribly afraid of any piercing or cutting objects. When the average person got tired of muttering, he shouted: “Knives, scissors, needles, pins!” The “professor” grabbed his chest, scratched it and said that a hook had been hooked to his heart, to his very heart. And he left hastily.

The beggars expelled from the castle always stood for each other. When the bullying of the “professor” began, Pan Turkevich or the bayonet cadet Zausailov flew into the crowd of ordinary people. The latter was huge with a blue-purple nose and bulging eyes. Zausailov had been openly fighting with the inhabitants of the town for a long time. If he found himself next to the pursued “professor,” then his screams could be heard through the streets for a long time, because he rushed around the town, destroying everything that came to hand. It was especially hard on the Jews. The bayonet cadet carried out pogroms against Jews.

The townsfolk also often had fun with the drunken former official Lavrovsky. Everyone still remembers the time when Lavrovsky was addressed as “Mr. Clerk.” Now he was a rather pathetic sight. Lavrovsky's downfall began after the innkeeper's daughter Anna, with whom the official was in love, fled with a dragoon officer. Gradually he drank himself to death, and he could often be seen somewhere under a fence or in a puddle. He made himself comfortable, stretched out his legs and poured out his grief to the old fence or birch tree, that is, he talked about his youth, which was completely ruined.

Vasya and his comrades often witnessed the revelations of Lavrovsky, who accused himself of various crimes. He said that he killed his father, killed his mother and sisters and brothers. The children believed his words, and were only surprised that Lavrovsky had several fathers, since he pierced the heart of one with a sword, poisoned another, and drowned a third in the abyss. Adults refuted these words, saying that the official’s parents died of hunger and disease.

So, mumbling, Lavrovsky fell asleep. Very often it was wet with rain and covered with dust. Several times he almost froze to death under the snow. But he was always pulled out by the cheerful Pan Turkevich, who took care of the drunken official as best he could. Unlike the “professor” and Lavrovsky, Turkevich was not an unrequited victim of the townspeople. On the contrary, he called himself a general, and forced everyone around him to call himself that with his fists. Therefore, he always walked importantly, his eyebrows were sternly frowned, and his fists were ready for a fight. The general was always drunk.

If there was no money for vodka, then Turkevich was sent to local officials. He first approached the house of the secretary of the district court and, in front of a crowd of onlookers, put on a whole performance on some well-known case in the town, portraying both the plaintiff and the defendant. He knew court proceedings very well, so soon the cook came out of the house and gave the general money. This happened at every house where Turkevich came with his retinue. He ended his hike at the house of the city governor Kots, whom he often called father and benefactor. Here he was presented with a gift or the butler was called Mikita, who quickly dealt with the general, carrying him on his shoulder to the prison.

In addition to these people, the chapel was home to many different dark personalities who traded in petty theft. They were united, and they were led by a certain Tyburtsy Drab. No one knew who he was or where he came from. It was a man tall, stooped, facial features large and expressive. With a low forehead and protruding lower jaw, he resembled a monkey. But Tyburtsy’s eyes were extraordinary: they sparkled from under his overhanging eyebrows, glowing with extraordinary intelligence and insight.

Everyone was amazed by the erudition of Pan Tyburtsy. He could recite Cicero, Xenophon, and Virgil by heart for hours. There were different rumors about the origin of Tyburtsy and his education. But this remained a secret. Another mystery was the appearance of Drab’s children, a boy about seven years old and a girl three years old. Valek (that was the boy’s name) sometimes wandered around the city idle, and the girl was seen only once, and no one knew where she was.

Chapter 3. Me and my father.
This chapter talks about the relationship between father and son. Old Janusz often told Vasya that he was in bad company, since he could be seen either in the retinue of General Turkevich or among Drab's listeners. Since Vasya’s mother died and his father stopped paying attention to him, the boy was almost never at home. He avoided meeting his father because his face was always stern. Therefore, early in the morning he went into the city, climbing out of the window, and returned late in the evening, again through the window. If little sister Sonya was not yet asleep, then the boy would sneak into her room and play with her.

Early in the morning Vasya went out of town. He loved to watch the awakening of nature, wandered in a country grove, near the city prison. When the sun rose, he went home, as hunger made itself felt. Everyone called the boy a tramp, a worthless boy. My father believed this too. He tried to raise his son, but all his attempts ended in failure. Seeing his father’s stern face with traces of enormous grief from loss, Vasya became timid, lowered his eyes and closed himself off. If the father had caressed the boy, then everything would have been completely different. But the man looked at him with eyes clouded with grief.

Sometimes his father asked if Vasya remembered his mother. Yes, he remembered her. How he snuggled into her arms at night, how she sat sick. And now he often woke up at night with a smile of happiness on his lips from the love that was crowded in his child’s chest. He stretched out his hands to receive his mother’s caresses, but remembered that she was no longer there, and cried bitterly from pain and grief. But the boy could not tell his father all this because of his constant gloominess. And he only shrank even more.

The gap between father and son grew wider. The father decided that Vasya was completely spoiled and had a selfish heart. One day the boy saw his father in the garden. He walked along the alleys, and there was such agony on his face that Vasya wanted to throw himself on his neck. But the father met his son sternly and coldly, asking only what he needed. From the age of six, Vasya learned all the “horror of loneliness.” He loved his sister very much, and she responded in kind. But as soon as they started playing, the old nanny took Sonya and took her to her room. And Vasya began to play less often with his sister. He became a tramp.

All day long he wandered around the city, observing the life of the townspeople. Sometimes certain pictures of life made him stop with painful fear. Impressions filled his soul like bright spots. When there were no unexplored places left in the city, and the ruins of the castle lost their attractiveness for Vasya after the beggars were expelled from there, he often began to walk around the chapel, trying to detect a human presence there. The idea occurred to him to examine the chapel from the inside.

Chapter 4. I make a new acquaintance.
This chapter tells how Vasya met the children of Tyburtsiy Drab. Gathering a team of three tomboys, he went to the chapel. The sun was setting. There was no one around. Silence. The boys were scared. The chapel door was boarded up. Vasya hoped to climb with the help of his comrades through a window that was high above the ground. First he looked inside, hanging on the window frame. It seemed to him that in front of him deep hole. There was no sign of human presence. The second boy, who was tired of standing below, also hung on the window frame and looked into the chapel. Vasya invited him to go down to the room on his belt. But he refused. Then Vasya himself went down there, tying two belts together and hooking them onto the window frame.

He was terrified. When there was a rumble of collapsing plaster and the sound of the wings of an awakening owl, and in a dark corner some object disappeared under the throne, Vasya’s friends ran away headlong, leaving him alone. Vasya’s feelings cannot be described; he felt as if he had entered the next world. Until he heard a quiet conversation between two children: one very young and the other Vasya’s age. Soon a figure appeared from under the throne.

He was a dark-haired boy of about nine, thin in a dirty shirt, with dark curly hair. Seeing the boy, Vasya perked up. He became even calmer when he saw a girl with blond hair and blue eyes, who was also trying to get out of the hatch in the floor of the chapel. The boys were ready to fight, but the girl got out, walked up to the dark-haired one and pressed herself against him. That settled everything. The children met. Vasya found out that the boy’s name was Valek, and the girl’s name was Marusya. They are brother and sister. Vasya pulled apples out of his pocket and treated them to his new acquaintances.

Valek helped Vasya get out back through the window, and he and Marusya went out the other way. They saw off the uninvited guest, and Marusya asked if he would come again. Vasya promised to come. Valek allowed him to come only when the adults were not in the chapel. He also made Vasya promise not to tell anyone about his new acquaintance.

Chapter 5. The acquaintance continues.
This chapter tells how Vasya became more and more attached to his new acquaintances, visiting them every day. He wandered the streets of the city with only one purpose - to see if the adults had left the chapel. As soon as he saw them in the city, he immediately went to the mountain. Valek greeted the boy with restraint. But Marusya happily threw up her hands at the sight of the gifts that Vasya brought for her. Marusya was very pale and small for her age. She walked poorly, staggering like a blade of grass. Thin, thin, she sometimes looked very sad, not like a child. Vasya Marusya reminded her of her mother in the last days of her illness.

The boy compared Marusya with his sister Sonya. They were the same age. But Sonya was a plump, very lively girl, always dressed in beautiful dresses. And Marusya almost never frolicked, she also laughed very rarely and quietly, like a silver bell ringing. Her dress was dirty and old, and her hair had never been braided. But the hair was more luxurious than Sonya's.

At first, Vasya tried to stir up Marusya, started noisy games, involving Valek and Marusya in them. But the girl was afraid of such games and was ready to cry. Her favorite pastime was sitting on the grass and sorting through the flowers that Vasya and Valek picked for her. When Vasya asked why Marusya was like this, Valek replied that it was because of the gray stone sucking the life out of her. That's what Tyburtsy told them. Vasya didn’t understand anything, but looking at Marusya, he realized that Tyburtsy was right.

He became quieter around the children, and they could lie on the grass and talk for hours. From Valek, Vasya learned that Tyburtsy was their father and that he loved them. Talking with Valek, he began to look at his father differently, because he learned that everyone in the city respected him for his crystal honesty and justice. Filial pride awoke in the boy’s soul, and at the same time, bitterness from the knowledge that his father would never love him the way Tyburtius loves his children.

Chapter 6. Among the “gray stones”.
In this chapter, Vasya learns that Valek and Marusya belong to “bad society”; they are beggars. For several days he could not go to the mountain because he did not see any of the adult inhabitants of the chapel in the city. He wandered around the city, looking out for them and getting bored. One day he met Valek. He asked why he didn’t come anymore. Vasya told the reason. The boy was happy, because he decided that he was already bored with the new society. he invited Vasya to his place, but he himself fell behind a little.

Valek only caught up with Vasya on the mountain. He held a bun in his hand. He led the guest through the passage used by the inhabitants of the chapel, into the dungeon where these strange people lived. Vasya saw the “professor” and Marusya. The girl, in the light reflecting from the old tombs, almost merged with the gray walls. Vasya remembered Valek’s words about the stone sucking the life out of Marusya. He gave Marusa the apples, and Valek broke off a piece of bread for her. Vasya felt uncomfortable in the dungeon, and he suggested that Valek take Marusya out of there.

When the children went upstairs, a conversation took place between the boys, which greatly shocked Vasya. The boy found out that Valek did not buy the bun, as he thought, but stole it because he did not have money to buy it. Vasya said that stealing is bad. But Valek objected that there were no adults, and Marusya wanted to eat. Vasya, who never knew what hunger was, looked at his friends in a new way. He said that Valek could have told him, and he would have brought some rolls from home. But Valek objected that you can’t save enough for all the beggars. Struck to the core, Vasya left his friends because he could not play with them that day. The realization that his friends were beggars aroused in the boy’s soul a regret that reached the point of heartache. At night he cried a lot.

Chapter 7 Pan Tyburtsy appears on stage.
This chapter tells how Vasya meets Pan Tyburtsy. When he came to the ruins the next day, Valek said that he no longer hoped to see him again. But Vasya resolutely replied that he would always come to them. The boys began to make a trap for sparrows. They gave the thread to Marusya. She pulled it when a sparrow, attracted by the grain, flew into the trap. But soon the sky frowned, rain began to gather, and the children went into the dungeon.

Here they began to play blind man's buff. Vasya was blindfolded, and he pretended that he couldn’t catch Marusya until he came across someone’s wet figure. It was Tyburtsy, who lifted Vasya by the leg above his head and frightened him, terribly rotating his pupils. The boy tried to break free and demanded to let him go. Tyburtsy sternly asked Valek what it was. But he had nothing to say. Finally the man recognized the boy as the judge's son. He began to ask him how he got into the dungeon, how long he had been coming here, and who he had already told about them.

Vasya said that he had been visiting them for six days and had not told anyone about the dungeon and its inhabitants. Tyburtsiy praised him for this and allowed him to continue to come to his children. Then father and son began to prepare dinner from the products brought by Tyburtsy. At the same time, Vasya noticed that Mr. Drab was very tired. This became another of the revelations of life, which the boy learned a lot from communicating with the children of the dungeon.

During dinner, Vasya noticed that Valek and Marusya were eating meat dish with greed. The girl even licked her greasy fingers. Apparently they didn't see such luxury very often. From the conversation between Tyburtsy and the “professor,” Vasya realized that the products were obtained dishonestly, that is, stolen. But hunger drove these people to steal. Marusya confirmed her father’s words that she was hungry, and meat is good.

Returning home, Vasya reflected on what he had learned new about life. His friends are beggars, thieves who have no home. And these words are always associated with the contemptuous attitude of others. But at the same time, he felt very sorry for Valek and Marusya. Therefore, his attachment to these poor children only intensified as a result of the “mental process.” But the consciousness that stealing is wrong also remains.

In the garden, Vasya came across his father, whom he had always been afraid of, and now that he had a secret, he was even more afraid. When asked by his father where he had been, the boy lied for the first time in his life, answering that he was walking. Vasya was frightened by the thought that his father would find out about his connection with “bad society” and forbid him to meet with friends.

Chapter 8. In autumn.
This chapter says that with the approach of autumn, Marusya’s illness worsened. Vasya could now freely come to the dungeon, without waiting for the adult inhabitants to leave. He soon became his own man among them. All the inhabitants of the dungeon occupied one larger room, and Tyburtsy and the children occupied another smaller one. But in this room there was more sun and less dampness.

In the large room there was a workbench on which the inhabitants made various crafts. There were shavings and scraps lying on the floor here. There was dirt and disorder everywhere. Tyburtsy sometimes forced residents to clean everything up. Vasya did not often enter this room, since the air was musty there and the gloomy Lavrovsky lived there. One day the boy watched as a drunken Lavrovsky was brought into the dungeon. His head was hanging, his feet were pounding on the steps, and tears were flowing down his cheeks. If on the street Vasya would have been amused by such a spectacle, here, “behind the scenes”, the life of beggars without embellishment oppressed the boy.

In the fall, it became more difficult for Vasya to escape from the house. Coming to his friends, he noticed that Marusya was getting worse and worse. She stayed in bed more. The girl became dear to Vasya, just like her sister Sonya. Moreover, no one here grumbled at him, did not reproach him for his depravity, and Marusya was still happy about the appearance of the boy. Valek hugged him like a brother, even Tyburtsy sometimes looked at all three with strange eyes in which a tear shone.

When the weather was good again for several days, Vasya and Valek carried Marusya upstairs every day. Here she seemed to come to life. But this did not last long. Clouds were also gathering over Vasya. One day he saw old Janusz talking about something with his father. From what he heard, Vasya realized that this concerned his friends from the dungeon, and maybe himself. Tyburtsy, to whom the boy told about what he had heard, said that Mr. Judge was very good man, he acts according to the law. Vasya, after Pan Drab’s words, saw his father formidable and strong hero. But this feeling was again mixed with bitterness from the consciousness that his father did not love him.

Chapter 9. Doll.
This chapter tells how Vasya brought Marusa his sister’s doll. The last fine days have passed. Marusya got worse. She no longer got out of bed, she was indifferent. Vasya first brought her his toys. But they did not entertain her for long. Then he decided to ask his sister Sonya for help. She had a doll, a gift from her mother, with beautiful hair. The boy told Sonya about the sick girl and asked for a doll to borrow for her. Sonya agreed.

The doll really had an amazing effect on Marusya. She seemed to come to life, hugging Vasya, laughing and talking to the doll. She got out of bed and walked her little daughter around the room, sometimes even running. But the doll caused Vasya a lot of anxiety. When he carried her up the mountain, he met old Janusz. Then Sonya's nanny discovered the doll was missing. The girl tried to calm down her nanny, saying that the doll had gone for a walk and would return soon. Vasya expected that his act would soon be revealed, and then his father would find out everything. He already suspected something. Janusz came to him again. Vasya’s father forbade him to leave home.

On the fifth day, the boy managed to sneak away before his father woke up. He came to the dungeon and found out that Marusa felt even worse. She didn't recognize anyone. Vasya told Valek about his fears and the boys decided to take the doll from Marusya and return it to Sonya. But as soon as the doll was taken from the sick girl’s hand, she began to cry very quietly, and an expression of such grief appeared on her face that Vasya immediately put the doll in its place. He realized that he wanted to deprive his little friend of the only joy in life.

At home, Vasya was met by his father, an angry nanny and a tearful Sonya. The father again forbade the boy to leave home. For four days he languished in anticipation of the inevitable retribution. And this day has come. He was called into his father's office. He sat in front of the portrait of his wife. Then he turned to his son and asked if he had taken the doll from his sister. Vasya admitted that he took her, that Sonya allowed him to do this. Then the father demanded to know where he had taken the doll. But the boy flatly refused to do this.

It is not known how all this would have ended, but then Tyburtsy appeared in the office. He brought the doll, then asked the judge to come out with him to tell everything about the incident. the father was very surprised, but obeyed. They left, and Vasya was left alone in the office. When the father returned to the office again, his face was confused. He put his hand on his son's shoulder. But now it was not the same heavy hand that had been forcefully squeezing the boy’s shoulder a few minutes ago. The father stroked his son's head.

Tyburtsy put Vasya on his lap and told him to come to the dungeon, that his father would allow him to do this, because Marusya had died. Pan Drab left, and Vasya was surprised to see the changes that had happened to his father. his gaze expressed love and kindness. Vasya realized that now his father would always look at him with such eyes. Then he asked his father to let him go to the mountain to say goodbye to Marusya. The father immediately agreed. And he also gave Vasya money for Tyburtsy, but not from the judge, but on behalf of him, Vasya.

Conclusion
After Marusya’s funeral, Tyburtsy and Valek disappeared somewhere. The old chapel fell apart even more over time. And only one grave remained green every spring. This was Marusya's grave. Vasya, his father and Sonya often visited her. Vasya and Sonya read together there, thought, and shared their thoughts. Here they, leaving their hometown, made their vows.

V.G.KOROLENKO
IN BAD SOCIETY
From my friend's childhood memories
Notes and preparation of the text of the work: S.L. KOROLENKO and N.V. KOROLENKO-LYAKHOVICH
I. RUINS
My mother died when I was six years old. My father, completely absorbed in his grief, seemed to completely forget about my existence. Sometimes he caressed my little sister and took care of her in his own way, because she had her mother’s features. I grew up like a wild tree in a field - no one surrounded me with special care, but no one constrained my freedom.
The place where we lived was called Knyazhye-Veno, or, more simply, Knyazh-gorodok. It belonged to one seedy but proud Polish family and represented all the typical features of any of the small towns of the South-Western region, where, among the quietly flowing life of hard work and petty fussy Jewish gesheft, the pitiful remains of the proud lordly greatness live out their sad days.
If you approach the town from the east, the first thing that catches your eye is the prison, the best architectural decoration of the city. The city itself lies below sleepy, moldy ponds, and you have to go down to it along a sloping highway, blocked by a traditional “outpost”. A sleepy disabled person, a figure browned in the sun, the personification of a serene slumber, lazily raises the barrier, and - you are in the city, although, perhaps, you do not notice it right away. Gray fences, vacant lots with heaps of all sorts of rubbish are gradually interspersed with dim-sighted huts sunk into the ground. Further, the wide square gapes in different places with the dark gates of Jewish “visiting houses”; government institutions are depressing with their white walls and barracks-like lines. A wooden bridge spanning a narrow river groans, trembles under the wheels, and staggers like a decrepit old man. Beyond the bridge stretched a Jewish street with shops, benches, little shops, tables of Jewish money changers sitting under umbrellas on the sidewalks, and with awnings of kalachniki. The stench, the dirt, the heaps of kids crawling in the street dust. But another minute and you are already outside the city. The birch trees whisper quietly over the graves of the cemetery, and the wind stirs the grain in the fields and rings with a sad, endless song in the wires of the roadside telegraph.
The river over which the aforementioned bridge was thrown flowed from a pond and flowed into another. Thus, the town was fenced from the north and south by wide expanses of water and swamps. The ponds became shallower year by year, overgrown with greenery, and tall, dense reeds waved like the sea in the huge swamps. There is an island in the middle of one of the ponds. There is an old, dilapidated castle on the island.
I remember with what fear I always looked at this majestic decrepit building. There were legends and stories about him, each more terrible than the other. They said that the island was built artificially, by the hands of captured Turks. “On human bones stands an old castle,” the old-timers said, and my frightened childhood imagination pictured thousands of Turkish skeletons underground, supporting with their bony hands the island with its tall pyramidal poplars and the old castle. This, of course, made the castle seem even more terrible, and even on clear days, when, sometimes, encouraged by the light and loud voices of birds, we came closer to it, it often brought on us fits of panic horror - the black hollows of the long-dug out windows; There was a mysterious rustling in the empty halls: pebbles and plaster, breaking off, fell down, awakening a echo, and we ran without looking back, and behind us for a long time there was knocking, stomping, and cackling.
And on stormy autumn nights, when the giant poplar trees swayed and hummed from the wind blowing from behind the ponds, horror spread from the old castle and reigned over the entire city. "Oh-vey-peace!" [Oh woe is me (Heb.)] - the Jews said fearfully; God-fearing old bourgeois women were baptized, and even our closest neighbor, the blacksmith, who denied the very existence of demonic power, went out into his courtyard at these hours, made the sign of the cross and whispered to himself a prayer for the repose of the departed.
Old, gray-bearded Janusz, who, for lack of an apartment, took refuge in one of the basements of the castle, told us more than once that on such nights he clearly heard screams coming from underground. The Turks began to tinker under the island, rattling their bones and loudly reproaching the lords for their cruelty. Then, in the halls of the old castle and around it on the island, weapons rattled, and the lords called the haiduks with loud shouts. Janusz heard quite clearly, under the roar and howl of the storm, the tramp of horses, the clanking of sabers, the words of command. Once he even heard how the late great-grandfather of the current counts, glorified forever for his bloody exploits, rode out, clattering the hooves of his argamak, to the middle of the island and furiously swore:
“Keep quiet there, laidaks [Idlers (Polish)], psya vyara!”
The descendants of this count left the home of their ancestors long ago. Most of the ducats and all sorts of treasures, from which the chests of the counts were previously bursting, went over the bridge, into the Jewish hovels, and the last representatives of the glorious family built themselves a prosaic white building on the mountain, away from the city. There their boring, but still solemn existence passed in contemptuously majestic solitude.
Occasionally only the old count, the same gloomy ruin as the castle on the island, appeared in the city on his old English nag. Next to him, in a black riding habit, stately and dry, his daughter rode through the city streets, and the horsemaster respectfully followed behind. The majestic countess was destined to remain a virgin forever. Suitors equal to her in origin, in pursuit of the money of merchant daughters abroad, cowardly scattered around the world, leaving their family castles or selling them for scrap to the Jews, and in the town spread out at the foot of her palace, there was no young man who would dare to look up at beautiful countess. Seeing these three horsemen, we little guys, like a flock of birds, took off from the soft street dust and, quickly scattering around the courtyards, watched with frightened and curious eyes the gloomy owners of the terrible castle.
On the western side, on the mountain, among decaying crosses and sunken graves, stood a long-abandoned Uniate chapel. This was the native daughter of the philistine city itself, which was spread out in the valley. Once upon a time, at the sound of a bell, townspeople in clean, although not luxurious, kuntushas gathered in it, with sticks in their hands instead of sabers, which rattled the small gentry, who also came to the call of the ringing Uniate bell from the surrounding villages and farmsteads.
From here the island and its dark, huge poplars were visible, but the castle was angrily and contemptuously closed off from the chapel by thick greenery, and only in those moments when the southwest wind broke out from behind the reeds and flew at the islands, the poplars swayed loudly, and because The windows glimmered through them, and the castle seemed to cast gloomy glances at the chapel. Now both he and she were corpses. His eyes were dull, and the reflections of the evening sun did not sparkle in them; its roof had collapsed in some places, the walls were crumbling, and, instead of a loud, high-pitched copper bell, the owls started playing their ominous songs in it at night.
But the old, historical strife that separated the once proud master's castle and the bourgeois Uniate chapel continued even after their death: it was supported by the worms swarming in these decrepit corpses, occupying the surviving corners of the dungeon and basements. These grave worms of dead buildings were people.
There was a time when the old castle served as a free refuge for every poor person without the slightest restrictions. Everything that did not find a place for itself in the city, every existence that had jumped out of the rut, which, for one reason or another, had lost the opportunity to pay even measly pennies for shelter and a place to stay at night and in bad weather - all this was drawn to the islands and there, among the ruins, bowed their victorious heads, paying for hospitality only with the risk of being buried under piles of old garbage. “Lives in a castle” - this phrase has become an expression of extreme poverty and civil decline. The old castle cordially received and covered the rolling snow, the temporarily impoverished scribe, the lonely old women, and the rootless vagabonds. All these creatures tormented the insides of the decrepit building, breaking off the ceilings and floors, heating the stoves, cooking something, eating something - in general, they carried out their vital functions in an unknown way.
However, the days came when divisions arose among this society, huddled under the roof of gray ruins, and discord arose. Then old Janusz, who was once one of the small count “officials” Note. page 11, procured for himself something like a sovereign charter and seized the reins of government. He began the reforms, and for several days there was such a noise on the base, such screams were heard that at times it seemed that the Turks had broken out of the underground dungeons to take revenge on the oppressors. It was Janusz who sorted the population of the ruins, separating the sheep from the goats. The sheep that remained in the castle helped Janusz drive out the unfortunate goats, who resisted, showing desperate but useless resistance. When, finally, with the silent, but nevertheless quite significant assistance of the guard, order was again established on the ground, it turned out that the revolution had a decidedly aristocratic character. Janusz left in the castle only “good Christians,” that is, Catholics, and, moreover, mainly former servants or descendants of servants of the count’s family. These were all some old men in shabby frock coats and “chamarkas” Approx. page 11, with huge blue noses and gnarled sticks, old women, loud and ugly, but who retained their bonnets and cloaks in the last stages of impoverishment. All of them constituted a homogeneous, closely knit aristocratic circle, which took, as it were, a monopoly of recognized beggary. On weekdays, these old men and women walked, with prayer on their lips, to the houses of the wealthier townspeople and middle-class people, spreading gossip, complaining about fate, shedding tears and begging, and on Sundays they made up the most respectable persons from the public that in long rows lined up near the churches and majestically accepted handouts in the name of “Mr. Jesus” and “Mr. Our Lady.”
Attracted by the noise and shouts that rushed from the island during this revolution, I and several of my comrades made our way there and, hiding behind the thick trunks of poplars, watched as Janusz, at the head of a whole army of red-nosed elders and ugly shrews, drove out of the castle the last people who were to be expulsion, residents. Evening was coming. The cloud hanging over the high tops of the poplars was already pouring rain. Some unfortunate dark personalities, wrapped in extremely torn rags, frightened, pitiful and embarrassed, poked around the base, like moles driven out of their holes by boys, trying again to sneak unnoticed into one of the openings of the castle. But Janusz and the vigilantes, shouting and cursing, drove them from everywhere, threatening them with pokers and sticks, and a silent watchman stood aside, also with a heavy club in his hands, maintaining armed neutrality, obviously friendly to the triumphant party. And the unfortunate dark personalities involuntarily, dejectedly, disappeared behind the bridge, leaving their foundations forever, and one after another they drowned in the slushy twilight of the quickly descending evening.
Since that memorable evening, both Janusz and the old castle, which had previously emanated some vague grandeur from me, lost all their attractiveness in my eyes. It used to be that I loved to come to Osovov and admire its gray walls and mossy old roof from afar. When, at dawn, various figures crawled out of it, yawning, coughing and crossing themselves in the sun, I was able to look at them with some kind of respect, as if they were creatures clothed in the same mystery that shrouded the whole castle. They sleep there at night, they hear everything that happens there, when the moon peers into the huge halls through the broken windows or when the wind rushes into them during a storm. I loved to listen when Janusz used to sit down under the poplars and, with the loquacity of a seventy-year-old man, begin to talk about the glorious past of the deceased building. Before the children's imagination, images of the past arose, coming to life, and the soul was filled with majestic sadness and vague sympathy for what once lived on the dull walls, and the romantic shadows of someone else's antiquity ran through the young soul, as the light shadows of clouds run on a spring day across the light greenery of the pure fields.
But from that evening both the castle and its bard appeared before me in a new light. Having met me the next day near the island, Janusz began to invite me to his place, assuring me with a pleased look that now “the son of such respectable parents” could safely visit the castle, since he would find quite decent society in it. He even led me by the hand to the castle itself, but then I tearfully snatched my hand from him and started to run. The castle became disgusting to me. The windows on the upper floor were boarded up, and the lower floor was in the possession of bonnets and cloaks. The old women crawled out of there in such an unattractive form, flattered me so cloyingly, cursed among themselves so loudly that I was sincerely surprised how this rich dead man, who pacified the Turks on stormy nights, could tolerate these old women in his neighborhood. But most importantly, I could not forget the cold cruelty with which the triumphant residents of the castle drove away their unfortunate roommates, and when I remembered the dark personalities left homeless, my heart sank.
Be that as it may, from the example of the old castle I learned for the first time the truth that from the great to the ridiculous there is only one step. The great things in the castle were overgrown with ivy, dodder and mosses, and the funny things seemed disgusting to me, too cutting to a child’s sensibility, since the irony of these contrasts was still inaccessible to me.
II. PROBLEMATIC NATURES
The city spent several nights after the described coup on the island very restlessly: dogs barked, house doors creaked, and the townsfolk, every now and then going out into the street, knocked on the fences with sticks, letting someone know that they were on guard. The city knew that people were wandering along its streets in the stormy darkness of a rainy night, hungry and cold, shivering and wet; Realizing that cruel feelings must be born in the hearts of these people, the city became wary and sent its threats to these feelings forever. And night, as if on purpose, descended to the ground amid a cold downpour and left, leaving low running clouds above the ground. And the wind raged amid the bad weather, shaking the tops of the trees, knocking the shutters and singing to me in my bed about dozens of people deprived of warmth and shelter.
But then spring finally triumphed over the last gusts of winter, the sun dried up the earth, and at the same time the homeless wanderers disappeared somewhere. The barking of dogs at night calmed down, the townsfolk stopped knocking on fences, and the life of the city, sleepy and monotonous, went on its way. The hot sun, rolling into the sky, burned the dusty streets, driving the nimble children of Israel, trading in the city shops, under the awnings; the “factors” lazily lay in the sun, vigilantly looking out for those passing by; the creaking of officials' pens was heard through the open windows of public offices; In the mornings, city ladies scurried around the bazaar with baskets, and in the evening they walked solemnly arm in arm with their betrothed, raising the street dust with their lush trains. The old men and women from the castle decorously walked around the houses of their patrons, without disturbing the general harmony. The common man readily recognized their right to exist, finding it entirely reasonable that someone should receive alms on Saturdays, and the inhabitants of the old castle received it quite respectably.
Only the unfortunate exiles did not find their own track in the city. True, they did not wander the streets at night; they said that they found shelter somewhere on the mountain, near the Uniate chapel, but how they managed to settle down there, no one could say for sure. Everyone only saw that from the other side, from the mountains and ravines surrounding the chapel, the most incredible and suspicious figures descended into the city in the morning, and disappeared at dusk in the same direction. With their appearance, they disturbed the quiet and dormant flow of city life, standing out as dark spots against the gray background. The townsfolk looked askance at them with hostility; they, in turn, surveyed the philistine existence with restless, attentive glances, which made many feel terrified. These figures did not at all resemble the aristocratic beggars from the castle - the city did not recognize them, and they did not ask for recognition; their relationship to the city was of a purely combative nature: they preferred to scold the average person than to flatter him, to take it themselves rather than beg for it. They either suffered severely from persecution if they were weak, or made ordinary people suffer if they had the strength necessary for this. Moreover, as often happens, among this ragged and dark crowd of unfortunates there were people who, in their intelligence and talents, could have done honor to the most chosen society of the castle, but did not get along in it and preferred the democratic society of the Uniate chapel. Some of these figures were marked by traits of deep tragedy.
I still remember how cheerfully the street rumbled when the bent, sad figure of the old “professor” walked along it. He was a quiet creature, oppressed by idiocy, in an old frieze overcoat, a hat with a huge visor and a blackened cockade. The academic title, it seems, was awarded to him as a result of a vague legend that somewhere and once he was a tutor. It is difficult to imagine a more harmless and peaceful creature. He usually wandered quietly through the streets, invisibly, without any definite purpose, with dull eyes and a drooping head. Idle townsfolk knew of him two qualities, which they used in forms of cruel entertainment. The “Professor” was always muttering something to himself, but not a single person could make out a word in these speeches. They flowed like the murmuring of a muddy stream, and at the same time dull eyes looked at the listener, as if trying to put into his soul the elusive meaning of a long speech. It could be started like a car; To do this, any of the factors who were tired of dozing on the streets had to call the old man over and propose a question. The “professor” shook his head, thoughtfully staring his faded eyes at the listener, and began to mutter something endlessly sad. At the same time, the listener could calmly leave or at least fall asleep, and yet, upon waking up, he would see a sad dark figure above him, still quietly muttering incomprehensible speeches. But, in itself, this circumstance was not yet anything particularly interesting. The main effect of the street bruisers was based on another trait of the professor's character: the unfortunate man could not indifferently hear references to cutting and piercing weapons. Therefore, usually in the midst of an incomprehensible eloquence, the listener, suddenly rising from the ground, cried out in a sharp voice: “Knives, scissors, needles, pins!” The poor old man, so suddenly awakened from his dreams, waved his arms like a wild bird, looked around in fear and clutched his chest.
Oh, how many sufferings remain incomprehensible to the lanky factors only because the sufferer cannot instill ideas about them through a healthy blow of the fist! And the poor “professor” just looked around with deep melancholy, and inexpressible torment was heard in his voice when, turning his dull eyes to the tormentor, he said, frantically scratching his fingers across his chest:
- For the heart... for the heart with a crochet!.. for the very heart!..
He probably wanted to say that his heart was tormented by these screams, but, apparently, this very circumstance was capable of somewhat entertaining the idle and bored average man. And the poor “professor” hurriedly walked away, lowering his head even lower, as if fearing a blow; and behind him peals of contented laughter thundered, in the air, like the blows of a whip, the same cries lashed:
- Knives, scissors, needles, pins!
We must give justice to the exiles from the castle: they stood firmly for each other, and if at that time Pan Turkevich, or especially the retired bayonet-cadet Zausailov, flew into the crowd pursuing the “professor”, then many of this crowd suffered cruel punishment. The bayonet cadet Zausailov, who had enormous height, a bluish-purple nose and fiercely bulging eyes, had long ago declared open war on all living things, recognizing neither truces nor neutralities. Every time after he came across the pursued “professor,” his screams of abuse did not cease for a long time; he then rushed through the streets, like Tamerlane, destroying everything that came in the way of the formidable procession; thus he practiced Jewish pogroms, long before their occurrence, on a large scale; He tortured the Jews he captured in every possible way, and committed abominations against Jewish ladies, until, finally, the expedition of the gallant bayonet cadet ended at the exit, where he invariably settled after cruel battles with Prim’s butlers. p. 16. Both sides showed a lot of heroism.
Another figure, who provided entertainment to the townsfolk with the spectacle of his misfortune and fall, was the retired and completely drunk official Lavrovsky. The townsfolk remembered the recent times when Lavrovsky was called nothing less than “Mr. Clerk,” when he wore a uniform with copper buttons and tied delightful colored scarves around his neck. This circumstance added even more poignancy to the spectacle of his actual fall. The revolution in the life of Pan Lavrovsky took place quickly: for this, a brilliant dragoon officer had only to come to Knyazhye-Veno, who lived in the city for only two weeks, but at that time managed to win and take with him the blond daughter of a rich innkeeper. Since then, ordinary people have not heard anything about the beautiful Anna, since she disappeared from their horizon forever. And Lavrovsky was left with all his colored handkerchiefs, but without the hope that previously brightened the life of a minor official. Now he has not served for a long time. Somewhere in a small place his family remained, for whom he was once hope and support; but now he didn't care about anything. In the rare moments of his life, he quickly walked through the streets, looking down and not looking at anyone, as if suppressed by the shame of his own existence; he walked around ragged, dirty, overgrown with long, unkempt hair, immediately standing out from the crowd and attracting everyone's attention; but he himself seemed not to notice anyone and hear nothing. Occasionally, only he cast dull glances around, which reflected bewilderment: what do these strangers and strangers? What did he do to them, why are they pursuing him so persistently? At times, in moments of these glimpses of consciousness, when the name of the lady with the blond braid reached his ears, a violent fury rose in his heart; Lavrovsky’s eyes lit up with a dark fire on his pale face, and he rushed with all his might at the crowd, which was quickly scattering. Such outbursts, although very rare, strangely aroused the curiosity of bored idleness; it is no wonder, therefore, that when Lavrovsky, with his eyes down, walked through the streets, the group of loafers following him, trying in vain to bring him out of his apathy, began to throw dirt and stones at him out of frustration.
When Lavrovsky was drunk, he somehow stubbornly chose dark corners under fences, puddles that never dried out, and similar extraordinary places where he could count on not being noticed. There he sat down, stretching out his long legs and hanging his victorious head over his chest. Solitude and vodka evoked in him a surge of frankness, a desire to pour out the heavy grief that oppressed his soul, and he began an endless story about his young, ruined life. At the same time, he turned to the gray pillars of the old fence, to the birch tree that was condescendingly whispering something above his head, to the magpies that, with womanly curiosity, jumped up to this dark, slightly scurrying figure.
If any of us little guys managed to track him down in this position, we quietly surrounded him and listened with bated breath to long and terrifying stories. Our hair stood on end, and we looked with fear at the pale man accusing himself of all sorts of crimes. If you believe Lavrovsky’s own words, he killed his own father, drove his mother to the grave, and killed his sisters and brothers. We had no reason not to believe these terrible confessions; We were only surprised by the fact that Lavrovsky apparently had several fathers, since he pierced one through the heart with a sword, tormented another with slow poison, and drowned another in some kind of abyss. We listened with horror and sympathy until Lavrovsky’s tongue, becoming more and more tangled, finally refused to utter articulate sounds and beneficent sleep stopped the repentant outpourings. The adults laughed at us, saying that it was all lies, that Lavrovsky’s parents died of natural causes, from hunger and disease. But we, with sensitive childish hearts, heard sincere emotional pain in his groans and, taking the allegories literally, were still closer to the true understanding of a tragically crazy life.
When Lavrovsky’s head sank even lower and snoring was heard from his throat, interrupted by nervous sobs, little children’s heads then bent over the unfortunate man. We carefully peered into his face, watched how the shadows of criminal deeds ran across him in his sleep, how his eyebrows moved nervously and his lips compressed into a pitiful, almost childishly crying grimace.
- Ubbyu! - he suddenly cried out, feeling in his sleep a pointless anxiety from our presence, and then we rushed apart in a frightened flock.
It happened that in this sleepy position he was drenched in rain, covered in dust, and several times in the fall he was even literally covered in snow; and if he did not die a premature death, then, without a doubt, he owed this to the concerns of other unlucky people like him about his sad person and, mainly, to the concerns of the cheerful Mr. Turkevich, who, staggering greatly, himself looked for him, bothered him, put him on legs and took him away with him.
Pan Turkevich belonged to the number of people who, as he himself put it, do not allow themselves to be spit into porridge, and while the “professor” and Lavrovsky suffered passively, Turkevich presented himself as a cheerful and prosperous person in many respects. To begin with, without asking anyone for confirmation, he immediately promoted himself to general and demanded from the townsfolk the honors corresponding to this rank. Since no one dared to challenge his right to this title, Pan Turkevich soon became completely imbued with faith in his greatness. He always spoke very importantly, with his eyebrows furrowed menacingly and at all times displaying complete readiness to crush someone’s cheekbones, which he apparently considered a necessary prerogative of the rank of general. If at times his carefree head was visited by any doubts on this score, then, catching the first ordinary person he met on the street, he would ask menacingly:
-Who am I in this place? A?
- General Turkevich! - the man in the street humbly answered, feeling himself in a difficult situation. Turkevich immediately released him, majestically twirling his mustache.
- That's the same!
And since at the same time he knew how to move his cockroach mustache in a very special way and was inexhaustible in jokes and witticisms, it is not surprising that he was constantly surrounded by a crowd of idle listeners and the doors of the best “restaurant” were even opened for him, where they gathered for billiards visiting landowners. To tell the truth, there were often cases when Pan Turkevich flew out of there with the speed of a man who was pushed from behind not particularly ceremoniously; but these cases, explained by the landowners’ lack of respect for wit, did not affect Turkevich’s general mood: cheerful self-confidence was his normal state, as well as constant intoxication.
The latter circumstance was the second source of his well-being; one glass was enough for him to recharge himself for the whole day. This was explained by the huge amount of vodka Turkevich had already drunk, which turned his blood into some kind of vodka wort; it was now enough for the general to maintain this wort at a certain degree of concentration so that it would play and bubble within him, painting the world for him in rainbow colors.
But if, for some reason, the general did not have a single drink for three days, he experienced unbearable torment. At first he fell into melancholy and cowardice; everyone knew that at such moments the formidable general became more helpless than a child, and many rushed to take out their grievances on him. They beat him, spat on him, threw mud at him, and he didn’t even try to avoid the insults; he just roared at the top of his voice, and tears rolled from his eyes in a hail of tears down his sadly drooping mustache. The poor fellow turned to everyone with a request to kill him, motivating this desire by the fact that he would still have to die “a dog’s death under the fence.” Then everyone abandoned him. In such a degree there was something in the voice and face of the general that forced the most courageous pursuers to quickly move away, so as not to see this face, not to hear the voice of the man who a short time coming to the realization of his terrible situation... A change was again taking place with the general; he became terrible, his eyes lit up feverishly, his cheeks sunken, his short hair stood on end on his head. Quickly rising to his feet, he struck his chest and solemnly walked through the streets, announcing in a loud voice:
- I’m coming!.. Like the prophet Jeremiah... I’m coming to reprove the wicked!
This promised a most interesting spectacle. We can say with confidence that Pan Turkevich at such moments with great success performed the functions of glasnost, unknown in our little town; therefore, it is not surprising if the most respectable and busy citizens abandoned everyday affairs and joined the crowd accompanying the newly-minted prophet, or at least followed his adventures from afar. Usually, he first of all went to the house of the secretary of the district court and opened something like a court hearing in front of his windows, choosing from the crowd suitable actors to portray plaintiffs and defendants; he himself spoke for them and answered them himself, imitating with great skill the voice and manner of the person being accused. Since at the same time he always knew how to give the performance the interest of modern times, hinting at some well-known case, and since, in addition, he was a great expert in judicial procedure, it is no wonder that very soon the cook ran out of the secretary’s house, that she thrust it into Turkevich’s hand and quickly disappeared, fending off the pleasantries of the general’s retinue. The general, having received the donation, laughed evilly and, triumphantly waving the coin, went to the nearest tavern.
From there, having quenched his thirst somewhat, he led his listeners to the houses of the “subordinates,” modifying the repertoire according to the circumstances. And since each time he received payment for the performance, it was natural that the menacing tone gradually softened, the eyes of the frenzied prophet buttered up, his mustache curled upward, and the performance turned from an accusatory drama to a cheerful vaudeville. It usually ended in front of the house of police chief Kots. He was the most good-natured of the city rulers, who had two small weaknesses: firstly, he dyed his gray hair with black dye and, secondly, he had a predilection for fat cooks, relying in everything else on the will of God and on voluntary philistine “gratitude”. Approaching the police officer's house, which faced the street, Turkevich cheerfully winked at his companions, threw his cap in the air and loudly announced that it was not the boss who lived here, but his own, Turkevich's, father and benefactor.
Then he fixed his gaze on the windows and waited for the consequences. These consequences were of two kinds: either the fat and ruddy Matryona immediately ran out of the front door with a gracious gift from her father and benefactor, or the door remained closed, an angry old face flashed in the office window, framed by jet-black hair, and Matryona quietly sneaked backwards onto the exit ramp. The worker Mikita, who became remarkably skilled in dealing with Turkevich, had a permanent residence at the congress. He immediately phlegmatically put aside his shoe last and rose from his seat.
Meanwhile, Turkevich, not seeing the benefit of praises, gradually and cautiously began to move on to satire. He usually began with regret that his benefactor considered it necessary for some reason to dye his venerable gray hair with shoe polish. Then, upset by the complete lack of attention to his eloquence, he raised his voice, raised his tone and began to criticize the benefactor for the deplorable example set to the citizens by his illegal cohabitation with Matryona. Having reached this delicate subject, the general lost all hope of reconciliation with his benefactor and therefore was inspired by true eloquence. Unfortunately, it was usually at this very point in speech that unexpected outside interference occurred; Kots’ yellow and angry face stuck out of the window, and Turkevich was picked up from behind by Mikita, who had crept up to him with remarkable dexterity. None of the listeners even tried to warn the speaker about the danger that threatened him, because Mikita’s artistic techniques aroused everyone’s delight. The general, interrupted mid-sentence, suddenly flashed somehow strangely in the air, fell over with his back on Mikita's back - and a few seconds later the hefty brute, slightly bent under his burden, amid the deafening screams of the crowd, calmly headed towards the jail. Another minute, the black exit door opened like a gloomy maw, and the general, helplessly swinging his legs, solemnly disappeared behind the prison door. The ungrateful crowd shouted “hurray” to Mikita and slowly dispersed.
In addition to these individuals who stood out from the crowd, there was also a dark mass of pitiful ragamuffins huddled around the chapel, whose appearance at the market always caused great alarm among the traders, who were in a hurry to cover their goods with their hands, just as hens cover their chickens when a kite appears in the sky. There were rumors that these pitiful individuals, completely deprived of all resources since their expulsion from the castle, formed a friendly community and, among other things, were engaged in petty theft in the city and the surrounding area. These rumors were based mainly on the indisputable premise that man cannot exist without food; and since almost all of these dark characters, one way or another, strayed from the usual methods of obtaining it and were wiped out by the lucky ones from the castle from the benefits of local philanthropy, the inevitable conclusion followed that they had to steal or die. They did not die, which means... the very fact of their existence was turned into proof of their criminal course of action.
If only this was true, then it was no longer subject to dispute that the organizer and leader of the community could not be anyone other than Pan Tyburtsy Drab, the most remarkable personality of all the problematic natures who did not get along in the old castle.
The origin of Drab was shrouded in the most mysterious obscurity. People gifted with a strong imagination attributed to him an aristocratic name, which he covered with shame and therefore was forced to hide, and allegedly participated in the exploits of the famous Karmelyuk. But, firstly, he was not yet old enough for this, and secondly, Pan Tyburtsy’s appearance did not have a single aristocratic feature. He was tall; the strong stoop seemed to speak of the burden of misfortunes endured by Tyburtsy; the large facial features were crudely expressive. Short, slightly reddish hair stuck out apart; the low forehead, somewhat protruding lower jaw and strong mobility of the personal muscles gave the whole physiognomy something ape-like; but the eyes, sparkling from under the overhanging eyebrows, looked persistently and gloomily, and in them shone, along with slyness, sharp insight, energy and remarkable intelligence. While a whole kaleidoscope of grimaces alternated on his face, these eyes constantly retained one expression, which is why I always felt somehow unaccountably terrified to look at the wickedness of this strange man. A deep, unremitting sadness seemed to flow beneath him.
Pan Tyburtsy's hands were rough and covered with calluses, his large feet walked like a man. In view of this, the majority of ordinary people did not recognize his aristocratic origin, and the most that they agreed to allow was the title of a servant of one of the noble lords. But then again a difficulty was encountered: how to explain his phenomenal learning, which was obvious to everyone. There was no tavern in the whole city, in