Kasyan with beautiful swords plot plan. Read online “Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword”

"Notes of a Hunter - Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword"

I was returning from hunting in a shaking cart and, depressed by the stifling heat of the summer cloudy day(it is known that on such days the heat is sometimes even more unbearable than on clear days, especially when there is no wind), dozed and swayed, with gloomy patience abandoning all of himself to be devoured by the fine white dust, constantly rising from the broken road from under the cracked and rattling wheels - when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary restlessness and alarming movements of my coachman, who until that moment had been dozing even more deeply than me. He twitched the reins, fidgeted on the harness and began shouting at the horses, every now and then glancing somewhere to the side. I looked around. We rode across a wide, plowed plain; Low hills, also plowed, ran down into it with extremely gentle, wave-like rolls; the gaze embraced only some five miles of deserted space; in the distance, small birch groves with their rounded-toothed tops alone violated the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across fields, disappeared into hollows, wound along hills, and on one of them, which five hundred steps ahead of us had to cross our road, I made out some kind of train. My coachman was looking at him.

It was a funeral. Ahead, in a cart drawn by one horse, a priest rode at a pace; the sexton sat next to him and ruled; behind the cart, four men, with bare heads, carried a coffin covered with white linen; two women walked behind the coffin. The thin, plaintive voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened: she was crying. This iridescent, monotonous, hopelessly mournful tune sounded sadly among the empty fields. The coachman drove the horses: he wanted to warn this train. Meet a dead person on the road - bad omen. He actually managed to gallop along the road before the dead man could reach it; but we hadn’t even gone a hundred steps when suddenly our cart was pushed hard, it tilted and almost fell over. The coachman stopped the scattering horses, bent down from the driver, looked, waved his hand and spat.

What is it? - I asked.

My coachman climbed down silently and slowly.

What is it?

The axle broke... burned out,” he answered gloomily and with such indignation he suddenly adjusted the harness on the harness that it completely swayed to one side, but stood firm, snorted, shook itself and calmly began scratching with its tooth below the knee of its front leg.

I got down and stood on the road for some time, vaguely indulging in a feeling of unpleasant bewilderment. The right wheel was almost completely tucked under the cart and seemed to be lifting its hub upward with mute despair.

What to do now? - I asked finally.

Look who's to blame! - said my coachman, pointing with his whip at the train, which had already turned onto the road and was approaching us, - I’ve always noticed this, - he continued, - this is a sure sign - to meet a dead person... Yes.

And he again disturbed the companion, who, seeing his reluctance and severity, decided to remain motionless and only occasionally and modestly waved her tail. I walked back and forth a little and again stopped in front of the wheel.

Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. Quietly turning off the road onto the grass, a sad procession stretched past our cart. The coachman and I took off our hats, bowed to the priest, and exchanged glances with the porters. They performed with difficulty; their broad chests rose high. Of the two women walking behind the coffin, one was very old and pale; her motionless features, cruelly distorted by grief, preserved an expression of stern, solemn importance. She walked in silence, occasionally raising her thin hand to her thin, sunken lips. Another woman, a young woman of about twenty-five, had red and wet eyes, and her whole face was swollen from crying; Having caught up with us, she stopped wailing and covered herself with her sleeve... But then the dead man passed us, got out onto the road again, and again her plaintive, soul-wrenching singing was heard. Silently following the rhythmically swaying coffin with his eyes, my coachman turned to me.

“They’re burying Martyn the carpenter,” he said, “what’s wrong with Ryaba.”

Why do you know?

I learned from the women. The old one is his mother, and the young one is his wife.

Was he sick, or what?

Yes... fever... The day before yesterday the manager sent for the doctor, but the doctor was not found at home... But the carpenter was a good one; he made a lot of money, but he was a good carpenter. Look, the woman is killing him... Well, it’s well known: women’s tears are not bought. Woman's tears are the same water... Yes.

And he bent down, crawled under the reins and grabbed the arc with both hands.

However,” I remarked, “what should we do?

My coachman first rested his knee on the main shoulder, shook it twice with an arc, straightened the saddle, then again crawled under the reins of the harness and, casually pushing it in the muzzle, walked up to the wheel - walked up and, without taking his eyes off it, slowly pulled it out from under the floor caftan tavlinka, slowly pulled out the lid by the strap, slowly stuck his two thick fingers into the tavlinka (and two barely fit in it), crushed and crushed the tobacco, twisted his nose in advance, sniffed in space, accompanying each step with a long groan, and, painfully Squinting and blinking his teary eyes, he plunged into deep thought.

Well? - I finally said.

My coachman carefully put the tavlinka in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyebrows, without using his hands, with one movement of his head, and thoughtfully climbed onto the bench.

Where are you going? - I asked him, not without amazement.

Please sit down,” he answered calmly and picked up the reins.

How are we going to go?

Let's go, sir.

Yes axis...

Please sit down.

Yes, the axle broke...

She broke, she broke; Well, we’ll get to the settlements... at a walk, that is. Here, behind the grove to the right, there are settlements called Yudins.

And do you think we'll get there?

My coachman did not deign to answer me.

“I’d better go on foot,” I said.

Whatever, sir...

And he waved his whip. The horses started moving.

We actually made it to the settlements, although the right front wheel could barely hold on and was spinning unusually strangely. On one hill it almost fell off; but my coachman shouted at him in an angry voice, and we descended safely.

Yudin's settlements consisted of six low and small huts, already lopsided, although they were probably erected recently: not all of their yards were surrounded by fences. Entering these settlements, we did not meet a single living soul; not even chickens were visible on the street, not even dogs; only one, black, with a short tail, hastily jumped out in front of us from a completely dry trough, where thirst must have driven her, and immediately, without barking, rushed headlong under the gate. I went into the first hut, opened the door to the hallway, called out to the owners - no one answered me. I clicked again: a hungry meow came from behind the other door. I pushed her with my foot: a thin cat darted past me, green eyes sparkling in the darkness. I stuck my head into the room and looked: dark, smoky and empty. I went to the yard, and there was no one there... In the fence, the calf mooed; lame gray goose hobbled a little to the side. I moved to the second hut - and there was not a soul in the second hut. I'm in the yard...

In the very middle of the brightly lit courtyard, in the very heat, as they say, there lay, with his face to the ground and his head covered with an overcoat, what seemed to me to be a boy. A few steps from him, near a poor cart, stood under a thatched canopy, a thin horse in tattered harness. Sunlight, falling in streams through the narrow holes of the dilapidated tent, dotted her shaggy red-bay fur with small light spots. Right there, in a tall birdhouse, starlings were chatting, looking down from their airy house with calm curiosity. I approached the sleeping man and began to wake him up...

He raised his head, saw me and immediately jumped to his feet... “What, what do you need? What is it?” - he muttered sleepily.

I didn’t answer him right away: I was so amazed by his appearance. Imagine a dwarf of about fifty with a small, dark and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly, thick black hair, which, like the cap on a mushroom, sat widely on his tiny head. His whole body was extremely frail and thin, and it is absolutely impossible to convey in words how unusual and strange his gaze was.

What do you need? - he asked me again.

I explained to him what was the matter, he listened to me, not taking his slowly blinking eyes off me.

So, can't we get a new axle? - I finally said, “I would gladly pay.”

Who are you? Hunters, or what? - he asked, looking me over from head to toe.

Hunters.

Are you shooting birds of the sky?.. animals of the forest?.. And isn’t it a sin for you to kill God’s birds, to shed innocent blood?

The strange old man spoke very drawlingly. The sound of his voice also amazed me. Not only was there nothing decrepit about him, he was surprisingly sweet, young and almost femininely tender.

“I don’t have an axle,” he added after a short silence, “this one won’t do” (he pointed to his cart), you, tea, have a big cart.

Can you find it in the village?

What a village this is!.. No one here has... And there is no one at home: everyone is at work. “Go,” he said suddenly and lay down again on the ground.

I never expected this conclusion.

Listen, old man,” I spoke, touching his shoulder, “do me a favor, help me.”

Go with God! “I’m tired: I went to the city,” he told me and pulled the army coat over his head.

Do me a favor,” I continued, “I... I’ll pay.”

I don't need your payment.

Yes please, old man...

He rose halfway and sat down, crossing his thin legs.

I would probably take you to a cutting session (A felled place in the forest.). Here merchants bought a grove from us, - God is their judge, they are building a grove, and they built an office, God is their judge. There you could order an axle from them or buy a ready-made one.

And great! - I exclaimed joyfully. - Great!.. let's go.

An oak axle, a good one,” he continued, without rising from his seat.

How far is it to those cuts?

Three miles.

Well then! We can get there in your cart.

Not really...

Well, let's go, - I said, - let's go, old man! The coachman is waiting for us on the street.

The old man reluctantly stood up and followed me outside. My coachman was in an irritated state of mind: he was about to water the horses, but there was extremely little water in the well, and its taste was not good, and this, as coachmen say, is the first thing... However, when he saw the old man, he grinned, nodded his head and exclaimed:

Ah, Kasyanushka! Great!

Hello, Erofey, a fair man! - Kasyan answered in a sad voice.

I immediately informed the coachman of his proposal; Erofey announced his consent and entered the courtyard. While he was unharnessing the horses with deliberate fuss, the old man stood leaning his shoulder against the gate, looking sadly first at him and then at me. He seemed perplexed: as far as I could see, he was not too pleased with our sudden visit.

Were you resettled too? - Erofey suddenly asked him, removing the arc.

Ek! - my coachman said through his teeth. - You know, Martyn, the carpenter... you know Ryabov’s Martyn, don’t you?

Well, he died. We have now met his coffin.

Kasyan shuddered.

Died? - he said and looked down.

Yes, he died. Why didn't you cure him, huh? After all, they say you heal, you are a doctor.

My coachman apparently had fun and mocked the old man.

Is this your cart, or what? - he added, pointing his shoulder at her.

Well, a cart... a cart! - he repeated and, taking it by the shafts, almost turned it upside down... - A cart! ?

“I don’t know,” answered Kasyan, “what you will go on; perhaps on this tummy,” he added with a sigh.

On this? - Erofey picked up and, going up to Kasyanova’s nag, contemptuously poked her with a third finger right hand in the neck. “Look,” he added reproachfully, “you’ve fallen asleep, you crow!”

I asked Erofey to pawn it as soon as possible. I myself wanted to go with Kasyan to the cuttings: black grouse are often found there. When the cart was completely ready, and I somehow, together with my dog, had already fit on its warped popular print bottom, and Kasyan, curled up into a ball and with the same sad expression on his face, was also sitting on the front bed, Erofey came up to me and whispered with a mysterious look:

And they did well, father, to go with him. After all, he is like that, after all, he is a holy fool, and his nickname is: Flea. I don’t know how you could understand him...

I wanted to notice to Erofey that until now Kasyan seemed to me a very reasonable person, but my coachman immediately continued in the same voice:

You just see if he will take you there. Yes, if you please, choose the axle yourself: if you please, take the healthier axle... And what, Flea,” he added loudly, “is it possible to get hold of some bread from you?”

Look, maybe you’ll find it,” Kasyan answered, pulled the reins, and we drove off.

His horse, to my true surprise, ran very well. Throughout the entire journey, Kasyan maintained a stubborn silence and answered my questions abruptly and reluctantly. We soon reached the cuttings, and there we reached the office, a tall hut standing alone over a small ravine, on a quick fix intercepted by a dam and turned into a pond. I found in this office two young merchant clerks, with teeth as white as snow, sweet eyes, sweet and lively speech and a sweetly roguish smile, I bargained for an axle from them and went to the cutting. I thought that Kasyan would stay with the horse and wait for me, but he suddenly came up to me.

What, are you going to shoot birds? - he spoke, - huh?

Yes, if I find it.

I'll go with you... May I?

It's possible, it's possible.

And off we went. The cleared area was only about a mile away. I admit, I looked more at Kasyan than at my dog. No wonder they called him Flea. His black, uncovered head (however, his hair could replace any hat) flashed in the bushes. He walked unusually quickly and seemed to be jumping up and down as he walked, constantly bending down, picking up some herbs, putting them in his bosom, muttering something under his breath and kept looking at me and my dog ​​with such an inquisitive, strange look. In low bushes, “in small things,” and on misfires, small gray birds often hang around, which every now and then move from tree to tree and whistle, suddenly diving in flight. Kasyan mimicked them, echoed them; The little quail (Young quail) flew, chirping, from under his feet - he chirped after him; The lark began to descend above him, fluttering its wings and singing loudly - Kasyan picked up his song. He still didn't talk to me...

The weather was beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the heat did not subside. High and sparse clouds barely rushed across the clear sky, yellow-white, like late spring snow, flat and oblong, like lowered sails. Their patterned edges, fluffy and light, like cotton paper, slowly but visibly changed with every moment; they melted, these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. Kasyan and I wandered around the clearings for a long time. The young shoots, which had not yet managed to stretch above an arshin, surrounded the blackened, low stumps with their thin, smooth stems; round, spongy growths with gray edges, the very growths from which tinder is boiled, clung to these stumps; strawberries sprouted their pink tendrils over them; the mushrooms were sitting closely together in families. My legs were constantly getting tangled and clinging in the long grass, saturated with the hot sun; everywhere the sharp metallic sparkle of young, reddish leaves on the trees dazzled the eyes; everywhere were blue clusters of crane peas, golden cups of night blindness, half purple, half yellow flowers Ivana da Marya; here and there, near abandoned paths, on which wheel tracks were marked by stripes of small red grass, there were piles of firewood, darkened by wind and rain, stacked in fathoms; a faint shadow fell from them in oblique quadrangles - there was no other shadow anywhere. A light breeze would wake up and then die down: it would suddenly blow right in your face and seem to play out - everything would make a cheerful noise, nod and move around, the flexible ends of the ferns would sway gracefully - you would be glad to see it... but then it froze again, and everything again it became quiet. Some grasshoppers chatter together, as if embittered, and this incessant, sour and dry sound is tiresome. He walks towards the relentless heat of midday; it is as if he was born by him, as if summoned by him from the hot earth.

Without stumbling upon a single brood, we finally reached new cuttings. There, recently felled aspen trees sadly stretched along the ground, crushing both grass and small bushes; on others the leaves are still green, but already dead, hung sluggishly from motionless branches; on others they have already dried out and become warped. Fresh golden-white chips, lying in piles near the brightly damp stumps, emanated a special, extremely pleasant, bitter smell. In the distance, closer to the grove, axes clattered dully, and from time to time, solemnly and quietly, as if bowing and extending its arms, a curly tree descended...

For a long time I did not find any game; Finally, from a wide oak bush, completely overgrown with wormwood, a corncrake flew. I hit; he turned over in the air and fell. Hearing the shot, Kasyan quickly covered his eyes with his hand and did not move until I loaded the gun and raised the crake. When I went further, he approached the place where the dead bird had fallen, bent down to the grass, on which a few drops of blood splashed, shook his head, looked fearfully at me... I later heard him whisper: “Sin!.. Oh, what a sin!"

The heat forced us to finally enter the grove. I threw myself under a tall hazel bush, over which a young, slender maple beautifully spread its light branches. Kasyan sat down on the thick end of a felled birch tree. I looked at him. The leaves swayed faintly in the heights, and their liquid-greenish shadows quietly slid back and forth over his frail body, somehow wrapped in a dark overcoat, over his small face. He didn't raise his head. Bored with his silence, I lay down on my back and began to admire the peaceful play of tangled leaves in the distant bright sky. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience to lie on your back in the forest and look up! It seems to you that you are looking into a bottomless sea, that it spreads widely beneath you, that the trees do not rise from the ground, but, like the roots of huge plants, descend and fall vertically into those glassy-clear waves; the leaves on the trees alternately show emeralds and then thicken into golden, almost black green. Somewhere far, far away, ending in a thin branch, a separate leaf stands motionless on a blue patch of transparent sky, and another one sways next to it, reminiscent of the play of a fish bank, as if the movement is unauthorized and not caused by the wind. Like magical underwater islands, white round clouds quietly float and quietly pass, and suddenly this whole sea, this radiant air, these branches and leaves drenched in the sun - everything will flow, tremble with a fugitive shine, and a fresh, trembling babble will rise, similar to an endless small the splash of a sudden swell. You don’t move - you look: and you can’t express in words how joyful, and quiet, and sweet it becomes in your heart. You look: that deep, pure azure awakens a smile on your lips, as innocent as itself, like clouds in the sky, and as if along with them happy memories pass through your soul in a slow line, and it all seems to you that your gaze goes further and further further and pulls you along with you into that calm, shining abyss, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from this height, from this depth...

Master, oh master! - Kasyan suddenly said in his sonorous voice.

I stood up in surprise; Until now he had barely answered my questions, otherwise he suddenly spoke.

What do you want? - I asked.

Well, why did you kill the bird? - he began, looking me straight in the face.

How for what? Crake is game: you can eat it.

That's not why you killed him, master: you'll eat him! You killed him for your amusement.

But you yourself probably eat geese or chicken, for example?

That bird is designated by God for man, and the corncrake is a free, forest bird. And he is not alone: ​​there is a lot of it, every forest creature, and field and river creature, and swamp, and meadow, and upland, and downstream - and it is a sin to kill it, and let it live on earth to its limit... And for man the food is different: the food is different for him and the drink is different: bread is God’s grace, and the waters of heaven, and hand-made creatures from the ancient fathers.

I looked at Kasyan in surprise. His words flowed freely; he did not look for them, he spoke with quiet animation and meek gravity, occasionally closing his eyes.

So, in your opinion, is it a sin to kill fish? - I asked.

“Fish have cold blood,” he objected with confidence, “fish are dumb creatures.” She is not afraid, she does not have fun: the fish is a dumb creature. The fish does not feel, and the blood in it is not living... Blood,” he continued after a pause, “blood is a holy thing!” The blood does not see God's sun, the blood hides from the light... it is a great sin to show blood to the light, a great sin and fear... Oh, great!

He sighed and looked down. I admit, I looked at the strange old man with complete amazement. His speech did not sound like a peasant's speech: common people don't talk like that, and talkers don't talk like that. This language, deliberately solemn and strange... I have never heard anything like it.

Tell me, please, Kasyan,” I began, without taking my eyes off his slightly flushed face, “what do you do for a living?”

He did not immediately answer my question. His gaze moved restlessly for a moment.

“I live as the Lord commands,” he finally said, “but in order, that is, to earn a living - no, I don’t earn anything. I have been painfully unreasonable since childhood; I’m working while it’s wet, - I’m a bad worker... where am I! There is no health, and my hands are stupid. Well, in the spring I catch nightingales.

Do you catch nightingales?.. But how did you say that every forest, field, and other creature should not be touched?

There is no need to kill her, for sure; death will take its toll anyway. For example, Martyn the carpenter: Martyn the carpenter lived, and he did not live long and died; His wife is now worried about her husband and her little children... Neither man nor creature can lie against death. Death does not run, and you cannot run away from it; Yes, she shouldn’t be helped... But I don’t kill nightingales, God forbid! I do not catch them for torment, not for the destruction of their belly, but for human pleasure, for consolation and fun.

Do you go to Kursk to catch them?

I go to and from Kursk, as it happens. I spend the night in swamps and woodlands, in fields I spend the night alone, in the wilderness: here the sandpipers whistle, here the hares scream, here the drakes chirp... In the evenings I notice, at mornings I listen, at dawn I sprinkle nets on the bushes... Another nightingale sings so pitifully , sweet... pitiful even.

And do you sell them?

I give it away good people.

What else are you doing?

How do I do it?

What are you doing?

The old man was silent.

I'm not busy with anything... I'm a bad worker. Literacy, however, I mean.

Are you literate?

I mean literacy. The Lord and good people helped.

What, are you a family man?

Netuti, without family.

What is it?.. They died, or what?

No, but this: the task in life did not work out. Yes, it’s all under God, we all walk under God; But a person must be just - that’s what! God pleases, that is.

And you don't have any relatives?

Yes... yes... yes...

The old man hesitated.

Tell me, please,” I began, “I heard my coachman ask you, why didn’t you cure Martyn?” Do you know how to heal?

“Your coachman is a fair man,” Kasyan answered me thoughtfully, “but also not without sin.” They call me a healer... What kind of healer am I!.. and who can heal? It's all from God. And there are... there are herbs, there are flowers: they help, for sure. Here is a series, for example, grass that is good for humans; here is the plantain too; There’s no shame in talking about them: pure herbs are God’s. Well, others are not like that: they help, but it’s sin; and it’s a sin to talk about them. Maybe even with prayer. Well, of course, there are words like that... And whoever believes will be saved,” he added, lowering his voice.

You didn't give anything to Martin? - I asked.

“I found out too late,” answered the old man. - What! Who is destined for it? The carpenter Martyn was not a dweller, not a dweller on the land: that’s so true. No, for any person who does not live on earth, the sun does not warm him like another, and bread is of no use to him, as if something is calling him away... Yes; God rest his soul!

How long ago did you move in with us? - I asked after a short silence.

Kasyan perked up.

No, recently: about four years. Under the old master, we all lived in our previous places, but the guardianship moved us. Our old master was a meek soul, a humble man - may he rest in heaven! Well, the guardianship, of course, judged fairly; Apparently, it just had to be that way.

Where did you live before?

We are with Beautiful Swords.

How far is it from here?

One hundred versts.

Well, was it better there?

Better... better. There are free places, riverside, our nest; and here it’s cramped, dry... Here we are orphaned. There, on Krasivaya on Swords, you will climb a hill, you will climb - and, Lord my God, what is it? huh?.. And the river, and the meadows, and the forest; and there is a church, and there again there are meadows. You can see far away, far away. That's how far you can see... Look, look, oh, really! Well, the land is definitely better here; loam, good loam, the peasants say; Yes, from me there will be plenty of bread everywhere.

Well, old man, tell the truth, do you really want to visit your homeland?

Yes, I would look, but it’s good everywhere. I am a person without a family, a restless person. So what! Are you staying at home for a long time? But as you go, as you go,” he picked up, raising his voice, “and you’ll feel better, really.” And the sun shines on you, and God knows better, and you sing better. Here, look, what kind of grass grows; Well, if you notice, you'll rip it off. Water flows here, for example, spring, spring, holy water; Well, if you get drunk, you'll notice too. The birds of heaven are singing... Otherwise the steppes will follow Kursk, such steppe places, here is surprise, here is pleasure for man, here is freedom, here is God’s grace! And they go, people say, to the very warm seas, where the sweet-voiced bird Gamayun lives, and leaves do not fall from the trees either in winter or in autumn, and golden apples grow on silver branches, and every person lives in contentment and justice... And so I would go there... After all, I you never know where to go! And I went to Romen, and to Simbirsk - the glorious city, and to Moscow itself - the golden domes; I went to Oka the Nurse, and Tsnu the Dove, and Mother Volga, and saw a lot of people, good peasants, and visited honest cities... Well, I would go there... and so... and already... And I’m not the only sinner... there are many other peasants walking around in bast shoes, wandering around the world, looking for the truth... yes!.. And what about at home, huh? There is no justice in man, that's what it is...

These last words Kasyan spoke quickly, almost inaudibly; then he said something else that I couldn’t even hear, and his face took on such a strange expression that I involuntarily remembered the name “holy fool” given to him by Erofey. He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to his senses.

He shrugged his shoulders, paused, looked absentmindedly, and began to sing quietly. I could not catch all the words of his drawling song; I heard the following:

And my name is Kasyan,

And nicknamed Flea...

“Eh!” I thought, “he’s writing…”

Suddenly he shuddered and fell silent, peering intently into the thicket of the forest. I turned around and saw a little peasant girl, about eight years old, in a blue sundress, with a checkered scarf on her head and a wicker body on her tanned bare arm. She probably never expected to meet us; as they say, she came across us and stood motionless in the green hazel thicket, on a shady lawn, fearfully looking at me with her black eyes. I barely had time to see her: she immediately dived behind a tree.

Annushka! Annushka! “Come here, don’t be afraid,” the old man called affectionately.

Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, come to me.

Annushka silently left her ambush, quietly walked around - her childish feet barely made a noise in the thick grass - and came out of the thicket next to the old man himself. This was a girl not eight years old, as it seemed to me at first, judging by her small stature, but thirteen or fourteen. Her whole body was small and thin, but very slender and agile, and her beautiful face was strikingly similar to the face of Kasyan himself, although Kasyan was not handsome. The same sharp features, the same strange look, sly and trusting, thoughtful and insightful, and the same movements... Kasyan looked over her with his eyes; she stood sideways to him.

What, were you picking mushrooms? - he asked.

Yes, mushrooms,” she answered with a timid smile.

And did you find a lot?

Many. (She glanced quickly at him and smiled again.)

Are there any white ones?

There are also white ones.

Show me, show me... (She lowered the body from her hand and lifted the wide burdock leaf with which the mushrooms were covered halfway.) Eh! - said Kasyan, bending over the body, - how nice they are! Oh yes Annushka!

Is this your daughter, Kasyan, or what? - I asked. (Annushka’s face flushed faintly.)

No, that’s right, relative,” Kasyan said with feigned nonchalance. “Well, Annushka, go,” he added immediately, “go with God.” Look...

Why should she go on foot? - I interrupted him. - We would have taken her...

Annushka lit up like a poppy, grabbed the rope of the box with both hands and looked anxiously at the old man.

No, it will come,” he objected in the same indifferently lazy voice. - What does she need?.. It will come to that... Go.

Annushka quickly went into the forest. Kasyan looked after her, then looked down and grinned. In that long smile, in the few words he said to Annushka, in the very sound of his voice when he spoke to her, there was inexplicable, passionate love and tenderness. He again looked in the direction where she had gone, smiled again and, rubbing his face, shook his head several times.

Why did you send her away so soon? - I asked him. - I would buy mushrooms from her...

“Yes, you can buy houses there whenever you want,” he answered me, using the word “you” for the first time.

And she is very pretty.

No... what... so... - he answered, as if reluctantly, and from that very moment fell back into his former silence.

Seeing that all my efforts to get him to talk again remained in vain, I went to the cutting. Moreover, the heat subsided a little; but my failure, or, as we say, my misfortune continued, and I returned to the settlement with only one corncrake and a new axle. Already approaching the yard, Kasyan suddenly turned to me.

“Master, master,” he said, “I’m to blame for you; After all, it was I who gave you all the game.

How so?

Yes, I know that much. But you have a learned dog, and a good one, but he couldn’t do anything. Just think, people are people, huh? Here is the beast, but what did they make of it?

It would have been in vain for me to try to convince Kasyan of the impossibility of “talking” the game and therefore did not answer him. Moreover, we immediately turned through the gate.

Annushka was not in the hut; she had already come and left the cart with mushrooms. Erofey fitted the new axis, first subjecting it to a strict and unfair assessment; and an hour later I left, leaving Kasyan some money, which at first he did not accept, but then, after thinking and holding it in the palm of his hand, he put it in his bosom. During this hour he spoke almost not a single word; he still stood leaning against the gate, did not respond to the reproaches of my coachman, and said goodbye to me very coldly.

As soon as I returned, I managed to notice that my Erofei was again in a gloomy mood... And in fact, he did not find anything edible in the village; the watering place for the horses was poor. We left. With displeasure expressed even on the back of his head, he sat on the box and fearfully wanted to speak to me, but, waiting for my first question, he limited himself to a slight grumble in an undertone and instructive, and sometimes sarcastic, speeches addressed to the horses. “Village!” he muttered, “and also a village! I asked if he wanted kvass, and there was no kvass... Oh, Lord! And the water - just ugh! (He spat out loud.) No cucumbers, no kvass - nothing. Well, you, - he added loudly, turning to the right harness, - I know you, such a conniver, I suppose you like to indulge yourself... (And he hit her with a whip.) The horse completely lost his temper, but what a willing belly it was before... Well, well. , look around!..”

Tell me, please, Erofey,” I spoke, “what kind of person is this Kasyan?”

Erofey did not answer me quickly: he was generally a thoughtful and unhurried person; but I could immediately guess that my question amused and calmed him.

A flea? - he finally spoke, shaking the reins. - A wonderful man: just as there is a holy fool, you won’t soon find another such a wonderful man. After all, for example, he is like our savras: he got away from the hands too... from work, that is. Well, of course, what kind of worker is he, what kind of soul holds him in, well, but still... After all, he’s been like that since childhood. At first, he and his uncles went as a cab driver: he had three grades; Well, and then, you know, I got bored and quit. He began to live at home, but he couldn’t sit at home either: he was so restless - he was definitely a flea. He got the master, thank you, he was kind - he didn’t force him. Since then he has been hanging around like this, like a boundless sheep. And he’s so amazing, God knows: he’s silent as a tree stump, then he suddenly speaks, and what he speaks, God knows. Is this manners? This is not manners. An incongruous person, as he is. However, he sings well. It’s so important - nothing, nothing.

What exactly is he healing?

What a cure!.. Well, where is he! That's the kind of person he is. However, he cured me of scrofula... Where is he! a stupid man, as he is,” he added after a pause.

Have you known him for a long time?

For a long time. We are their neighbors on Sychovka, on Krasivaya, on Mechi.

What about this girl we came across in the forest, Annushka, is she related to him?

Erofey looked at me over his shoulder and grinned from ear to ear.

Heh!.. yes, similar. She is an orphan; She doesn’t have a mother, and it’s not known who her mother was. Well, it must be a relative: she looks a lot like him... Well, she lives with him. Hot girl, nothing to say; she’s a good girl, and he, the old man, dotes on her: she’s a good girl. Why, you won’t believe it, but he probably wants to teach Annushka how to read and write. Hey, he’ll do it: he’s such a wicked person. So fickle, disproportionate even... Uh-uh! - My coachman suddenly interrupted himself and, stopping the horses, bent over to the side and began to sniff the air. - No, does it smell like burning? This is true! These are new axles for me... And, it seems, what did I smear... Go get some water: by the way, here’s a pond.

And Erofey slowly got off the bench, untied the bucket, went to the pond and, returning, listened, not without pleasure, to the hissing of the wheel hub, suddenly engulfed in water... About six times he had to douse the hot axle on some ten miles, and then it was completely It was evening when we returned home.

Ivan Turgenev - Notes of a Hunter - Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword, read the text

See also Turgenev Ivan - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Notes of a Hunter - The End of Tchertopkhanov
I Two years after my visit, Pantelei Eremeich began...

Notes of a Hunter - Office
It was autumn. I had been wandering through the fields with a gun for several hours and...

I was returning from a hunt in a shaking cart and, depressed by the stifling heat of a cloudy summer day (it is known that on such days the heat is sometimes even more unbearable than on clear days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and swayed, with gloomy patience abandoning all of myself to be devoured fine white dust, constantly rising from the broken road from under the cracked and rattling wheels - when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary restlessness and alarming movements of my coachman, who until that moment had been dozing even more deeply than me. He twitched the reins, fidgeted on the harness and began shouting at the horses, every now and then glancing somewhere to the side. I looked around. We rode across a wide, plowed plain; Low hills, also plowed, ran down into it with extremely gentle, wave-like rolls; the gaze embraced only some five miles of deserted space; in the distance, small birch groves with their rounded-toothed tops alone violated the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across fields, disappeared into hollows, wound along hills, and on one of them, which five hundred steps ahead of us had to cross our road, I made out some kind of train. My coachman was looking at him. It was a funeral. Ahead, in a cart drawn by one horse, a priest rode at a pace; the sexton sat next to him and ruled; behind the cart, four men, with bare heads, carried a coffin covered with white linen; two women walked behind the coffin. The thin, plaintive voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened: she was crying. This iridescent, monotonous, hopelessly mournful tune sounded sadly among the empty fields. The coachman drove the horses: he wanted to warn this train. Meeting a dead person on the road is a bad omen. He actually managed to gallop along the road before the dead man could reach it; but we hadn’t even gone a hundred steps when suddenly our cart was pushed hard, it tilted and almost fell over. The coachman stopped the scattering horses, bent down from the driver, looked, waved his hand and spat. - What is it? - I asked. My coachman climbed down silently and slowly.- What is it? “The axle is broken... burnt out,” he answered gloomily, and with such indignation he suddenly adjusted the harness on the harness that it completely swayed to one side, but stood firm, snorted, shook itself and calmly began scratching with its tooth below the knee of its front leg. I got down and stood on the road for some time, vaguely indulging in a feeling of unpleasant bewilderment. The right wheel was almost completely tucked under the cart and seemed to be lifting its hub upward with mute despair. - What should we do now? - I asked finally. - Look who is to blame! - said my coachman, pointing with his whip at the train, which had already turned onto the road and was approaching us, - I’ve always noticed this, - he continued, - this is a sure sign - to meet a dead person... Yes. And he again disturbed the companion, who, seeing his reluctance and severity, decided to remain motionless and only occasionally and modestly waved her tail. I walked back and forth a little and again stopped in front of the wheel. Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. Quietly turning off the road onto the grass, a sad procession stretched past our cart. The coachman and I took off our hats, bowed to the priest, and exchanged glances with the porters. They performed with difficulty; their broad chests rose high. Of the two women walking behind the coffin, one was very old and pale; her motionless features, cruelly distorted by grief, preserved an expression of stern, solemn importance. She walked in silence, occasionally raising her thin hand to her swollen, sunken lips. Another woman, a young woman of about twenty-five, had red and wet eyes, and her whole face was swollen from crying; Having caught up with us, she stopped wailing and covered herself with her sleeve... But then the dead man passed us, got out onto the road again, and again her plaintive, soul-wrenching singing was heard. Silently following the rhythmically swaying coffin with his eyes, my coachman turned to me. “They’re burying Martyn the carpenter,” he said, “what’s wrong with Ryaba.” - Why do you know? - I learned from the women. The old one is his mother, and the young one is his wife. — Was he sick, or what? - Yes... fever... The manager sent for the doctor the day before, but they didn’t find the doctor at home... But the carpenter was a good one; he made a lot of money, but he was a good carpenter. Look, the woman is killing him... Well, it’s well known: women’s tears are not bought. Woman's tears are the same water... Yes. And he bent down, crawled under the reins and grabbed the arc with both hands. “However,” I remarked, “what should we do?” My coachman first rested his knee on the main shoulder, shook it twice in an arc, adjusted the saddle, then again crawled under the reins of the harness and, casually pushing it in the muzzle, walked up to the wheel - walked up and, without taking his eyes off it, slowly pulled it out from under the floor caftan tavlinka, slowly pulled out the lid by the strap, slowly stuck his two thick fingers into the tavlinka (and two barely fit in it), crushed and crushed the tobacco, twisted his nose in advance, sniffed in space, accompanying each step with a long groan, and, painfully Squinting and blinking his teary eyes, he plunged into deep thought. - Well? - I finally said. My coachman carefully put the tavlinka in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyebrows, without using his hands, with one movement of his head, and thoughtfully climbed onto the bench. -Where are you going? - I asked him, not without amazement. “Please sit down,” he answered calmly and picked up the reins. - How are we going to go?- Let's go, sir. - Yes, axis... - Please sit down. - Yes, the axle broke... - She broke, she broke; Well, we’ll get to the settlements... at a walk, that is. Here, behind the grove to the right, there are settlements called Yudins. - And you think we’ll get there? My coachman did not deign to answer me. “I’d better go on foot,” I said.- Whatever, sir... And he waved his whip. The horses started moving. We actually made it to the settlements, although the right front wheel could barely hold on and was spinning unusually strangely. On one hill it almost fell off; but my coachman shouted at him in an angry voice, and we descended safely. Yudin's settlements consisted of six low and small huts, already lopsided, although they were probably erected recently: not all of their yards were surrounded by fences. Entering these settlements, we did not meet a single living soul; not even chickens were visible on the street, not even dogs; only one, scooping, with a short tail, hastily jumped out in front of us from a completely dry trough, where thirst must have driven her, and immediately, without barking, rushed headlong under the gate. I went into the first hut, opened the door to the hallway, called out to the owners - no one answered me. I clicked again: a hungry meow came from behind the other door. I pushed her with my foot: a thin cat darted past me, green eyes sparkling in the darkness. I stuck my head into the room and looked: dark, smoky and empty. I went to the yard, and there was no one there... In the fence, the calf mooed; The lame gray goose hobbled a little to the side. I moved to the second hut - and there was not a soul in the second hut. I'm in the yard... In the very middle of the brightly lit courtyard, in the very heat, as they say, there lay, with his face to the ground and his head covered with an overcoat, what seemed to me to be a boy. A few steps from him, near a poor cart, stood under a thatched canopy, a thin horse in tattered harness. The sunlight, falling in streams through the narrow holes of the dilapidated tent, dappled her shaggy red-bay fur with small light spots. Right there, in a tall birdhouse, starlings were chatting, looking down from their airy house with calm curiosity. I approached the sleeping man and began to wake him up... He raised his head, saw me and immediately jumped to his feet... “What, what do you need? what's happened?" - he muttered sleepily. I didn’t answer him right away: I was so amazed by his appearance. Imagine a dwarf of about fifty with a small, dark and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly, thick black hair, which, like the cap on a mushroom, sat widely on his tiny head. His whole body was extremely frail and thin, and it is absolutely impossible to convey in words how unusual and strange his gaze was. - What do you need? - he asked me again. I explained to him what was the matter, he listened to me, not taking his slowly blinking eyes off me. - So, can’t we get a new axle? - I finally said, - I would gladly pay. -Who are you? Hunters, or what? - he asked, looking me up and down.- Hunters. - Are you shooting birds of heaven, I suppose?.. animals of the forest?.. And is it not a sin for you to kill God’s birds, to shed innocent blood? The strange old man spoke very drawlingly. The sound of his voice also amazed me. Not only was there nothing decrepit about him, he was surprisingly sweet, young and almost femininely tender. “I don’t have an axle,” he added after a short silence, “this one won’t do” (he pointed to his cart), you have a big cart. - Can you find it in the village? - What a village this is!.. No one here has... And there is no one at home: everyone is at work. “Go,” he said suddenly and lay down again on the ground. I never expected this conclusion. “Listen, old man,” I said, touching his shoulder, “do me a favor, help.” - Go with God! “I’m tired: I went to the city,” he told me and pulled the army coat over his head. “Do me a favor,” I continued, “I... I’ll pay.” “I don’t need your payment.” - Yes please, old man... He rose halfway and sat down, crossing his thin legs. “I would probably take you to a beating.” Here merchants bought a grove from us, God is their judge, they are building a grove, and they built an office, God is their judge. There you could order an axle from them or buy a ready-made one. - And wonderful! - I exclaimed joyfully. - Great!.. let's go. “A good oak axle,” he continued, without rising from his seat. - How far is it from those cuts?- Three miles. - Well then! We can get there in your cart.- Not really... “Well, let’s go,” I said, “let’s go, old man!” The coachman is waiting for us on the street. The old man reluctantly stood up and followed me outside. My coachman was in an irritated state of mind: he was about to water the horses, but there was extremely little water in the well, and its taste was not good, and this, as coachmen say, is the first thing... However, when he saw the old man, he grinned, nodded his head and exclaimed: - Ah, Kasyanushka! Great! - Hello, Erofey, a fair man! - Kasyan answered in a sad voice. I immediately informed the coachman of his proposal; Erofey announced his consent and entered the courtyard. While he was unharnessing the horses with deliberate fuss, the old man stood leaning his shoulder against the gate and looked sadly first at him and then at me. He seemed perplexed: as far as I could see, he was not too pleased with our sudden visit. - Were you relocated too? - Erofey suddenly asked him, removing the arc.- And me. - Ek! - my coachman said through his teeth. - You know, Martyn, the carpenter... you know Ryabovsky Martyn, don’t you?- I know. - Well, he died. We have now met his coffin. Kasyan shuddered. - Died? - he said and looked down. - Yes, he died. Why didn't you cure him, huh? After all, they say you heal, you are a doctor. My coachman apparently had fun and mocked the old man. - Is this your cart, or what? - he added, pointing his shoulder at her.- My. - Well, a cart... a cart! - he repeated and, taking it by the shafts, almost turned it upside down... - A cart! ? “I don’t know,” answered Kasyan, “what you will go on; perhaps on this tummy,” he added with a sigh. - On this? - Erofey picked up and, going up to Kasyanova’s nag, contemptuously poked her in the neck with the third finger of his right hand. “Look,” he added reproachfully, “you’ve fallen asleep, you crow!” I asked Erofey to pawn it as soon as possible. I myself wanted to go with Kasyan to the cuttings: black grouse are often found there. When the cart was completely ready, and I somehow, together with my dog, had already fit on its warped popular print bottom, and Kasyan, curled up into a ball and with the same sad expression on his face, was also sitting on the front bed, Erofey came up to me and whispered with a mysterious look: “And they did well, father, to go with him.” After all, he is like that, after all, he is a holy fool, and his nickname is: Flea. I don’t know how you could understand him... I wanted to notice to Erofey that until now Kasyan seemed to me a very reasonable person, but my coachman immediately continued in the same voice: - You just see if he will take you there. Yes, if you please, choose the axle yourself: if you please, take the healthier axle... And what, Flea,” he added loudly, “is it possible to get hold of some bread from you?” “Look, maybe you’ll find it,” answered Kasyan, pulled the reins, and we drove off. His horse, to my true surprise, ran very well. Throughout the entire journey, Kasyan maintained a stubborn silence and answered my questions abruptly and reluctantly. We soon reached the cuttings, and there we reached the office, a tall hut standing alone over a small ravine, hastily intercepted by a dam and turned into a pond. I found in this office two young merchant clerks with snow-white teeth, sweet eyes, sweet and lively speech and a sweetly roguish smile, I bargained for an axle from them and went to the cutting. I thought that Kasyan would stay with the horse and wait for me, but he suddenly came up to me. - What, are you going to shoot birds? - he spoke, - huh? - Yes, if I find it. - I'll go with you... May I?- It’s possible, it’s possible. And off we went. The cleared area was only about a mile away. I admit, I looked more at Kasyan than at my dog. No wonder they called him Flea. His black, uncovered head (however, his hair could replace any hat) flashed in the bushes. He walked unusually quickly and seemed to keep jumping up and down as he walked, constantly bending down, picking up some herbs, putting them in his bosom, muttering something under his breath and kept looking at me and my dog ​​with such an inquisitive, strange look. In low bushes, “in small things,” and in clearings, small gray birds often hang out, which constantly move from tree to tree and whistle, suddenly diving in flight. Kasyan mimicked them, echoed them; the powder flew, chirping, from under his feet - he chirped after him; The lark began to descend above him, fluttering its wings and singing loudly - Kasyan picked up his song. He still didn't talk to me... The weather was beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the heat did not subside. High and sparse clouds barely rushed across the clear sky, yellow-white, like late spring snow, flat and oblong, like lowered sails. Their patterned edges, fluffy and light, like cotton paper, slowly but visibly changed with every moment; they melted, these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. Kasyan and I wandered around the clearings for a long time. The young shoots, which had not yet managed to stretch above an arshin, surrounded the blackened, low stumps with their thin, smooth stems; round, spongy growths with gray edges, the very growths from which tinder is boiled, clung to these stumps; strawberries sprouted their pink tendrils over them; the mushrooms were sitting closely together in families. My legs were constantly getting tangled and clinging in the long grass, saturated with the hot sun; everywhere the sharp metallic sparkle of young, reddish leaves on the trees dazzled the eyes; everywhere were blue clusters of crane peas, golden cups of night blindness, half purple, half yellow flowers of Ivan da Marya; here and there, near abandoned paths, on which wheel tracks were marked by stripes of small red grass, there were piles of firewood, darkened by wind and rain, stacked in fathoms; a faint shadow fell from them in oblique quadrangles—there was no other shadow anywhere. A light breeze would wake up and then die down: it would suddenly blow right in your face and seem to play out—everything would make a cheerful noise, nod and move around, the flexible ends of the ferns would sway gracefully—you’d be glad to see it... but then it froze again, and that’s all again it became quiet. Some grasshoppers chatter together, as if embittered, and this incessant, sour and dry sound is tiresome. He walks towards the relentless heat of midday; it is as if he was born by him, as if summoned by him from the hot earth. Without stumbling upon a single brood, we finally reached new cuttings. There, recently felled aspen trees sadly stretched along the ground, crushing grass and small shrubs; on others, leaves, still green, but already dead, hung limply from motionless branches; on others they have already dried out and become warped. Fresh golden-white chips, lying in piles near the brightly damp stumps, emanated a special, extremely pleasant, bitter smell. In the distance, closer to the grove, axes clattered dully, and from time to time, solemnly and quietly, as if bowing and extending its arms, a curly tree descended... For a long time I did not find any game; Finally, from a wide oak bush, completely overgrown with wormwood, a corncrake flew. I hit; he turned over in the air and fell. Hearing the shot, Kasyan quickly covered his eyes with his hand and did not move until I loaded the gun and raised the crake. When I went further, he approached the place where the dead bird had fallen, bent down to the grass, on which a few drops of blood splashed, shook his head, looked fearfully at me... I later heard him whisper: “Sin!” Oh, what a sin! The heat forced us to finally enter the grove. I threw myself under a tall hazel bush, over which a young, slender maple beautifully spread its light branches. Kasyan sat down on the thick end of a felled birch tree. I looked at him. The leaves swayed faintly in the heights, and their liquid-greenish shadows quietly slid back and forth over his frail body, somehow wrapped in a dark overcoat, over his small face. He didn't raise his head. Bored with his silence, I lay down on my back and began to admire the peaceful play of tangled leaves in the distant bright sky. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience to lie on your back in the forest and look up! It seems to you that you are looking into a bottomless sea, that it spreads wide under you that the trees do not rise from the ground, but, like the roots of huge plants, descend, falling vertically into those glassy clear waves; the leaves on the trees alternately show emeralds and then thicken into golden, almost black green. Somewhere far, far away, ending in a thin branch, a single leaf stands motionless on a blue patch of transparent sky, and another one sways next to it, its movement reminiscent of the play of a fish reach, as if the movement is unauthorized and not caused by the wind. Like magical underwater islands, white round clouds quietly float and quietly pass, and suddenly this whole sea, this radiant air, these branches and leaves drenched in the sun - everything will flow, tremble with a fugitive shine, and a fresh, trembling babble will rise, similar to an endless small the splash of a sudden swell. You don’t move - you look: and you can’t express in words how joyful, and quiet, and sweet it becomes in your heart. You look: that deep, pure azure awakens a smile on your lips, as innocent as itself, like clouds in the sky, and as if along with them happy memories pass through your soul in a slow line, and it still seems to you that your gaze goes further and further further and pulls you along with you into that calm, shining abyss, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from this height, from this depth... - Master, oh master! - Kasyan suddenly said in his sonorous voice. I stood up in surprise; Until now he had barely answered my questions, otherwise he suddenly spoke. - What do you want? - I asked. - Well, why did you kill the bird? - he began, looking me straight in the face. - What for?.. Crake is game: you can eat it. “That’s not why you killed him, master: you’ll eat him!” You killed him for your amusement. - But you yourself probably eat geese or chicken, for example? - That bird is designated by God for man, and the corncrake is a free, forest bird. And he is not alone: ​​there is a lot of it, every forest creature, and field and river creature, and swamp and meadow, and upland and downstream - and it is a sin to kill it, and let it live on earth to its limit... But man is entitled to different food ; His food is different and his drink is different: bread is God’s grace, and the waters of heaven, and hand-made creatures from the ancient fathers. I looked at Kasyan in surprise. His words flowed freely; he did not look for them, he spoke with quiet animation and meek gravity, occasionally closing his eyes. - So, in your opinion, is it a sin to kill fish? - I asked. “Fish have cold blood,” he objected with confidence, “fish are dumb creatures.” She is not afraid, she does not have fun: the fish is a dumb creature. The fish does not feel, the blood in it is not living... Blood,” he continued after a pause, “blood is a holy thing!” The blood does not see God's sun, the blood hides from the light... it is a great sin to show blood to the light, a great sin and fear... Oh, great! He sighed and looked down. I admit, I looked at the strange old man with complete amazement. His speech did not sound like a peasant's speech: common people don't talk like that, and talkers don't talk like that. This language, deliberately solemn and strange... I have never heard anything like it. “Tell me, please, Kasyan,” I began, without taking my eyes off his slightly flushed face, “what do you do for a living?” He did not immediately answer my question. His gaze moved restlessly for a moment. “I live as the Lord commands,” he finally said, “but in order to earn a living, that is, no, I don’t earn anything.” I have been painfully unreasonable since childhood; I’m working while it’s wet, I’m a bad worker... where am I! There is no health, and my hands are stupid. Well, in the spring I catch nightingales. - Do you catch nightingales?.. But how did you say that every forest, and field, and other creature should not be touched? “There’s no need to kill her, that’s for sure; death will take its toll anyway. For example, Martyn the carpenter: Martyn the carpenter lived, and he did not live long and died; His wife is now worried about her husband and her little children... Neither man nor creature can lie against death. Death does not run, and you cannot run away from it; Yes, she shouldn’t be helped... But I don’t kill nightingales, God forbid! I do not catch them for torment, not for the destruction of their belly, but for human pleasure, for consolation and fun. — Do you go to Kursk to catch them? - I go to Kursk and go anywhere, as it happens. I spend the night in swamps and woodlands, in fields I spend the night alone, in the wilderness: here the sandpipers whistle, here the hares scream, here the drakes chirp... In the evenings I notice, at mornings I listen, at dawn I sprinkle nets on the bushes... Another nightingale sings so pitifully , sweet... pitiful even. - And do you sell them? - I give it to good people. - What else are you doing?- How do I do it? - What are you doing? The old man was silent. - I’m not busy with anything... I’m a bad worker. Literacy, however, I mean.-Are you literate? - I mean literacy. God helped and good people. - What, are you a family man? - Netuti, without family. - What is it?.. They died, or what? - No, but this: the task in life did not work out. Yes, it’s all under God, we all walk under God; But a person must be just - that’s what! God pleases, that is. - And you don’t have any relatives? - Yes... yes... so... The old man hesitated. “Tell me, please,” I began, “I thought I heard my coachman ask you, why didn’t you cure Martyn?” Do you know how to heal? Your coachman is a fair man,” Kasyan answered me thoughtfully, “but also not without sin.” They call me a healer... What kind of healer am I!.. and who can heal? It's all from God. And there are... there are herbs, there are flowers: they help, for sure. Here is a series, for example, grass that is good for humans; here is the plantain too; There’s no shame in talking about them: pure herbs are from God. Well, others are not like that: they help, but it’s sin; and it’s a sin to talk about them. Even with prayer, is it possible... Well, of course, there are words like that... And whoever believes will be saved,” he added, lowering his voice. “You didn’t give anything to Martin?” - I asked. “I found out too late,” answered the old man. - What! Who is destined for it? The carpenter Martyn was not a dweller, not a dweller on the land: that’s so true. No, for any person who does not live on earth, the sun does not warm him like another, and bread is of no use to him, as if something is calling him away... Yes; God rest his soul! — How long ago did you move in with us? - I asked after a short silence. Kasyan perked up. - No, recently: about four years. Under the old master, we all lived in our previous places, but the guardianship moved us. Our old master was a meek soul, a humble man - may he rest in heaven! Well, the guardianship, of course, judged fairly; Apparently, it just had to be that way. -Where did you live before? - We are with Beautiful Swords. - How far is it from here?- One hundred versts. - Well, was it better there? - Better... better. There are free places, riverside, our nest; and here it’s cramped, dry... Here we are orphaned. There, on Krasivaya on Mechi, you will climb a hill, you will climb - and, my God, what is it? huh?.. And the river, and the meadows, and the forest; and there is a church, and there again there are meadows. You can see far away, far away. That's how far you can see... Look, look, oh, really! Well, here the soil is definitely better: loam, good loam, the peasants say; Yes, from me there will be plenty of bread everywhere. - Well, old man, tell the truth, do you, tea, want to visit your homeland? - Yes, I would look. However, everywhere is good. I am a person without a family, a restless person. So what! Are you staying at home for a long time? But as you go, as you go,” he picked up, raising his voice, “and you’ll feel better, really.” And the sun is shining on you, and God knows better, and you sing better. Here, look, what kind of grass grows; Well, if you notice, you’ll pick it. Water flows here, for example, spring, spring, holy water; Well, if you get drunk, you’ll notice too. The birds of heaven are singing... Otherwise the steppes will follow Kursk, these kind of steppe places, this is surprise, this is pleasure for man, this is freedom, this is God’s grace! And they go, people say, to the warmest seas, where the sweet-voiced Gamayun bird lives, and leaves do not fall from the trees either in winter or in autumn, and golden apples grow on silver branches, and every person lives in contentment and justice... And Now I would go there... After all, you never know where I went! And I went to Romen, and to Sinbirsk - the glorious city, and to Moscow itself - the golden domes; I went to Oka the Nurse, and Tsnu the Dove, and Mother Volga, and saw a lot of people, good peasants, and visited honest cities... Well, I wish I had gone there... and so... and already... And I’m not the only sinner... there are many other peasants walking around in bast shoes, wandering around the world, looking for the truth... yes!.. And what about at home, huh? There is no justice in man - that's what it is... Kasyan pronounced these last words quickly, almost inaudibly; then he said something else that I couldn’t even hear, and his face took on such a strange expression that I involuntarily remembered the name “holy fool” given to him by Erofey. He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to his senses. - Eco sunshine! - he said in an undertone, - what grace, Lord! It's so warm in the forest! He shrugged his shoulders, paused, looked absentmindedly, and began to sing quietly. I could not catch all the words of his drawling song; I heard the following:

And my name is Kasyan,
And nicknamed Flea...

- “Eh! - I thought, - yes, he’s composing...” Suddenly he shuddered and fell silent, peering intently into the thicket of the forest. I turned around and saw a little peasant girl, about eight years old, in a blue sundress, with a checkered scarf on her head and a wicker body on her tanned bare arm. She probably never expected to meet us; as they say, she came across us, and stood motionless in the green hazel thicket, on a shady lawn, timidly looking at me with her black eyes. I barely had time to see her: she immediately dived behind a tree. - Annushka! Annushka! “Come here, don’t be afraid,” the old man called affectionately. “I’m afraid,” said a thin voice. - Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, come to me. Annushka silently left her ambush, quietly walked around - her childish feet barely made a noise in the thick grass - and came out of the thicket next to the old man himself. This was a girl not eight years old, as it seemed to me at first, judging by her small stature, but thirteen or fourteen. Her whole body was small and thin, but very slender and agile, and her beautiful face was strikingly similar to the face of Kasyan himself, although Kasyan was not handsome. The same sharp features, the same strange look, sly and trusting, thoughtful and insightful, and the same movements... Kasyan looked over her with his eyes; she stood sideways to him. - What, were you picking mushrooms? he asked. “Yes, mushrooms,” she answered with a timid smile.— And did you find a lot? - A lot. (She glanced quickly at him and smiled again.)- Are there any white ones? - There are also white ones. - Show me, show me... (She lowered the body from her hand and lifted the wide burdock leaf with which the mushrooms were covered halfway.) Eh! - said Kasyan, bending over the body, - how nice! Oh yes Annushka! - Is this your daughter, Kasyan, or what? - I asked. (Annushka’s face flushed faintly.) “No, that’s right, relative,” said Kasyan with feigned nonchalance. “Well, Annushka, go,” he added immediately, “go with God.” Look... - Why does she need to walk? - I interrupted him. - We would have taken her... Annushka lit up like a poppy, grabbed the rope of the box with both hands and looked anxiously at the old man. “No, it will come,” he objected in the same indifferently lazy voice. - What does she need?.. It will come to that... Go. Annushka quickly went into the forest. Kasyan looked after her, then looked down and grinned. In that long smile, in the few words he said to Annushka, in the very sound of his voice when he spoke to her, there was inexplicable, passionate love and tenderness. He again looked in the direction where she had gone, smiled again and, rubbing his face, shook his head several times. - Why did you send her away so soon? - I asked him. — I would buy mushrooms from her... “Yes, you’ll buy houses there anyway, whenever you want,” he answered me, using the word “you” for the first time. - And she’s very pretty. “No... what... so...” he answered, as if reluctantly, and from that very moment fell back into his former silence. Seeing that all my efforts to get him to talk again remained in vain, I went to the cutting. Moreover, the heat subsided a little; but my failure, or, as we say, my misfortune continued, and I returned to the settlement with only one corncrake and a new axle. Already approaching the yard, Kasyan suddenly turned to me. “Master, master,” he said, “I’m to blame for you; After all, it was I who gave you all the game.- How so? - Yes, I know that. But you have a learned and good dog, but he couldn’t do anything. Just think, people are people, huh? Here is the beast, but what did they make of it? It would have been in vain for me to try to convince Kasyan of the impossibility of “talking” the game and therefore did not answer him. Moreover, we immediately turned through the gate. Annushka was not in the hut; she had already come and left the cart with mushrooms. Erofey fitted the new axis, first subjecting it to a strict and unfair assessment; and an hour later I left, leaving Kasyan some money, which at first he did not accept, but then, after thinking and holding it in the palm of his hand, he put it in his bosom. During this hour he spoke almost not a single word; he still stood leaning against the gate, did not respond to the reproaches of my coachman, and said goodbye to me very coldly. As soon as I returned, I managed to notice that my Erofei was again in a gloomy mood... And in fact, he did not find anything edible in the village; the watering place for the horses was poor. We left. With displeasure expressed even on the back of his head, he sat on the box and fearfully wanted to speak to me, but, waiting for my first question, he limited himself to a slight grumble in an undertone and instructive, and sometimes sarcastic, speeches addressed to the horses. "Village! - he muttered, - and also a village! He asked if he wanted kvass, and there was no kvass... Oh, my God! And the water is just ugh! (He spat out loud.) No cucumbers, no kvass, nothing. “Well,” he added loudly, turning to the right-hand guard, “I know you, such a conniver!” You like to indulge yourself, I suppose... (And he hit her with the whip.) The horse was completely off-putting, but what a willing belly it used to be... Well, well, look around si!..» “Tell me, please, Erofey,” I said, “what kind of person is this Kasyan?” Erofey did not answer me quickly: he was generally a thoughtful and unhurried person; but I could immediately guess that my question amused and calmed him. - A flea? - he finally spoke, shaking the reins. - A wonderful man: just as there is a holy fool, such a wonderful man will not soon be found again. After all, for example, he is like our savras: he got away from the hands too... from work, that is. Well, of course, what kind of worker is he, what kind of soul holds him in, well, but not really... After all, he’s been like that since childhood. At first, he and his uncles went as a cab driver: he had three grades; well, and then, you know, I got bored and quit. He began to live at home, but he couldn’t sit at home either: he was so restless - he was definitely a flea. He got the master, thank you, he was kind - he didn’t force him. Since then he has been hanging around like this, like a boundless sheep. And he’s so amazing, God knows: sometimes he’s silent as a tree stump, then suddenly he’ll speak, and what he’ll speak, God knows. Is this manners? This is not manners. An incongruous person, as he is. However, he sings well. It’s so important - nothing, nothing. - What, he’s healing, right? - What kind of treatment!.. Well, where is he! That's the kind of person he is. However, he cured me of scrofula... Where is he! a stupid man, as he is,” he added after a pause. -Have you known him for a long time? - For a long time. We are their neighbors on Sychovka, on Krasivaya, on Mechi. - What about this girl, we came across this girl in the forest, Annushka, is she related to him? Erofey looked at me over his shoulder and grinned from ear to ear. - Heh!.. yes, similar. She is an orphan: she has no mother, and it is not known who her mother was. Well, it must be a relative: she looks a lot like him... Well, she lives with him. Hot girl, nothing to say; she’s a good girl, and he, the old man, dotes on her: she’s a good girl. Why, you won’t believe it, but he probably wants to teach Annushka how to read and write. Hey, he’ll do it: he’s such a wicked person. So fickle, disproportionate even... Uh-uh! - My coachman suddenly interrupted himself and, stopping the horses, bent over to the side and began to sniff the air. - Does it smell like burning? This is true! These are new axles for me... And, it seems, what did I smear... Go get some water: by the way, here’s a pond. And Erofey slowly got off the bench, untied the bucket, went to the pond and, returning, listened, not without pleasure, to the hissing of the wheel hub, suddenly engulfed in water... About six times he had to douse the hot axle on some ten miles, and then it was completely It was evening when we returned home.

Notes of a Hunter: Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword

After some time, the driver stops, informs the author that their cart’s axle has broken, and adds that from the women accompanying the coffin he recognized who was being buried (Martyn the carpenter). On a broken axis, the author and the driver somehow get to the Yudin settlements, consisting of six small, low huts. In two huts no one is found; finally, in the courtyard of the third house the author comes across a man sleeping in the sun. Waking him up, he discovers that he is “a dwarf of about fifty, small, with a small, dark and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly thick black hair.”

The dwarf was extremely thin and frail. The author asks where he can get a new axle, the dwarf answers by asking if they are hunters. Having received an affirmative answer, the dwarf says: “You shoot the birds of heaven, I suppose? And the animals of the forest? And is it not a sin for you to kill God’s birds, to shed innocent blood?” The author is surprised, but nevertheless repeats his request. The old man refuses, saying that there is no one, that there is no one to help, and he himself is tired, since he went to the city. The author offers to pay, but the old man refuses the payment. Finally, the dwarf agrees to take the travelers to the clearings, where, according to him, they can find a good oak axis. The driver, seeing the dwarf, greets him, calling him Kasyan, and reports about the funeral procession he met along the road, ....

Annotation

“Rarely have two difficultly combined elements been combined to such an extent, in such complete balance: sympathy for humanity and artistic feeling,” F.I. admired “Notes of a Hunter.” Tyutchev. The series of essays “Notes of a Hunter” basically took shape over five years (1847-1852), but Turgenev continued to work on the book. To the twenty-two early essays, Turgenev added three more in the early 1870s. About two dozen more plots remained in sketches, plans and testimonies of contemporaries.

Naturalistic descriptions of the life of pre-reform Russia in “Notes of a Hunter” develop into reflections on the mysteries of the Russian soul. The peasant world grows into myth and opens up into nature, which turns out to be a necessary background for almost every story. Poetry and prose, light and shadows intertwine here in unique, whimsical images.

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

KASSIAN WITH A BEAUTIFUL SWORD

I was returning from a hunt in a shaking cart and, depressed by the stifling heat of a cloudy summer day (it is known that on such days the heat is sometimes even more unbearable than on clear days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and swayed, with gloomy patience abandoning all of myself to be devoured fine white dust, constantly rising from the broken road from under the cracked and rattling wheels - when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary restlessness and alarming movements of my coachman, who until that moment had been dozing even more deeply than me. He twitched the reins, fidgeted on the harness and began shouting at the horses, every now and then glancing somewhere to the side. I looked around. We rode across a wide, plowed plain; Low hills, also plowed, ran down into it with extremely gentle, wave-like rolls; the gaze embraced only some five miles of deserted space; in the distance, small birch groves with their rounded-toothed tops alone violated the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across fields, disappeared into hollows, wound along hills, and on one of them, which five hundred steps ahead of us had to cross our road, I made out some kind of train. My coachman was looking at him.

It was a funeral. Ahead, in a cart drawn by one horse, a priest rode at a pace; the sexton sat next to him and ruled; behind the cart, four men, with bare heads, carried a coffin covered with white linen; two women walked behind the coffin. The thin, plaintive voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened: she was crying. This iridescent, monotonous, hopelessly mournful tune sounded sadly among the empty fields. The coachman drove the horses: he wanted to warn this train. Meeting a dead person on the road is a bad omen. He actually managed to gallop along the road before the dead man could reach it; but we hadn’t even gone a hundred steps when suddenly our cart was pushed hard, it tilted and almost fell over. The coachman stopped the scattering horses, bent down from the driver, looked, waved his hand and spat.

What is it? - I asked.

My coachman climbed down silently and slowly.

What is it?

The axle broke... burned out,” he answered gloomily and with such indignation he suddenly straightened the harness on the fastening one that it completely swayed to one side, but it stood, snorted, shook itself and calmly began to scratch with its tooth below the knee of its front leg.

I got down and stood on the road for some time, vaguely indulging in a feeling of unpleasant bewilderment. The right wheel was almost completely tucked under the cart and seemed to be lifting its hub upward with mute despair.

What to do now? - I asked finally.

Look who's to blame! - said my coachman, pointing with his whip at the train, which had already turned onto the road and was approaching us, - I’ve always noticed this, - he continued, - this is a sure sign - to meet a dead person... Yes.

And he again disturbed the companion, who, seeing his reluctance and severity, decided to remain motionless and only occasionally and modestly waved her tail. I walked back and forth a little and again stopped in front of the wheel.

Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. Quietly turning off the road onto the grass, a sad procession stretched past our cart. The coachman and I took off our hats, bowed to the priest, and exchanged glances with the porters. They performed with difficulty; their broad chests rose high. Of the two women walking behind the coffin, one was very old and pale; her motionless features, cruelly distorted by grief, preserved an expression of stern, solemn importance. She walked in silence, occasionally raising her thin hand to her thin, sunken lips. Another woman, a young woman of about twenty-five, had red and wet eyes, and her whole face was swollen from crying; Having caught up with us, she stopped wailing and covered herself with her sleeve... But then the dead man passed us, got out onto the road again, and again her plaintive, soul-wrenching singing was heard. Silently following the rhythmically swaying coffin with his eyes, my coachman turned to me.

“They’re burying Martyn the carpenter,” he said, “what’s wrong with Ryaba.”

Why do you know?

I learned from the women. The old one is his mother, and the young one is his wife.

Was he sick, or what?

Yes... fever... The day before yesterday the manager sent for the doctor, but the doctor was not found at home... But the carpenter was a good one; he made a lot of money, but he was a good carpenter. Look, the woman is killing him... Well, it’s well known: women’s tears are not bought. Woman's tears are the same water... Yes.

And he bent down, crawled under the reins and grabbed the arc with both hands.

However,” I remarked, “what should we do?

My coachman first rested his knee on the main shoulder, shook it twice with an arc, straightened the saddle, then again crawled under the reins of the harness and, casually pushing it in the muzzle, walked up to the wheel - walked up and, without taking his eyes off it, slowly pulled it out from under the floor caftan tavlinka, slowly pulled out the lid by the strap, slowly stuck his two thick fingers into the tavlinka (and two barely fit in it), crushed and crushed the tobacco, twisted his nose in advance, sniffed in space, accompanying each step with a long groan, and, painfully Squinting and blinking his teary eyes, he plunged into deep thought.

Well? - I finally said.

My coachman carefully put the tavlinka in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyebrows, without using his hands, with one movement of his head, and thoughtfully climbed onto the bench.

Where are you going? - I asked him, not without amazement.

Please sit down,” he answered calmly and picked up the reins.

How are we going to go?

Let's go, sir.

Yes axis...

Please sit down.

Yes, the axle is broken...

She broke, she broke; Well, we’ll get to the settlements... at a walk, that is. Here, behind the grove to the right, there are settlements called Yudins.

And do you think we'll get there?

My coachman did not deign to answer me.

“I’d better go on foot,” I said.

Whatever, sir...

And he waved his whip. The horses started moving.

We actually made it to the settlements, although the right front wheel could barely hold on and was spinning unusually strangely. On one hill it almost fell off; but my coachman shouted at him in an angry voice, and we descended safely.

Yudin's settlements consisted of six low and small huts, already lopsided, although they were probably erected recently: not all of their yards were surrounded by fences. Entering these settlements, we did not meet a single living soul; not even chickens were visible on the street, not even dogs; only one, black, with a short tail, hastily jumped out in front of us from a completely dry trough, where thirst must have driven her, and immediately, without barking, rushed headlong under the gate. I went into the first hut, opened the door to the hallway, called out to the owners - no one answered me. I clicked again: a hungry meow came from behind the other door. I pushed her with my foot: a thin cat darted past me, green eyes sparkling in the darkness. I stuck my head into the room and looked: dark, smoky and empty. I went to the yard, and there was no one there... In the fence, the calf mooed; The lame gray goose hobbled a little to the side. I moved to the second hut - and there was not a soul in the second hut. I'm in the yard...

In the very middle of the brightly lit courtyard, in the very heat, as they say, there lay, with his face to the ground and his head covered with an overcoat, what seemed to me to be a boy. A few steps from him, near a poor cart, stood under a thatched canopy, a thin horse in tattered harness. The sunlight, falling in streams through the narrow holes of the dilapidated tent, dappled her shaggy red-bay fur with small light spots. Right there, in a tall birdhouse, starlings were chatting, looking down from their airy house with calm curiosity. I approached the sleeping man and began to wake him up...

He raised his head, saw me and immediately jumped to his feet... “What, what do you need? what's happened?" - he muttered sleepily.

I didn’t answer him right away: I was so amazed by his appearance. Imagine a dwarf of about fifty with a small, dark and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly, thick black hair, which, like the cap on a mushroom, sat widely on his tiny head. His whole body was extremely frail and thin, and it is absolutely impossible to convey in words how unusual and strange his gaze was.

What do you need? - he asked me again.

I explained to him what was the matter, he listened to me, not taking his slowly blinking eyes off me.

So, can't we get a new axle? - I finally said, “I would gladly pay.”

Who are you? Hunters, or what? - he asked, looking me over from head to toe.

Hunters.

Are you shooting birds of the sky?.. animals of the forest?.. And isn’t it a sin for you to kill God’s birds, to shed innocent blood?

The strange old man spoke very...

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The author returns in a cart from hunting. A funeral train crosses the path: a priest and men with naked heads carry the coffin. People believe that meeting a dead person on the road is a bad omen. After some time, the driver stops, informs the author that their cart’s axle has broken, and adds that from the women accompanying the coffin he recognized who was being buried (Martyn the carpenter).

On a broken axis, the author and the driver somehow get to the Yudin settlements, consisting of six small, low huts. In two huts no one is found; finally, in the courtyard of the third house the author comes across a man sleeping in the sun. Waking him up, he discovers that he is “a dwarf of about fifty, small, with a small, dark and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly thick black hair.” The dwarf was extremely thin and frail. The author asks where he can get a new axle, the dwarf answers by asking if they are hunters.

Having received an affirmative answer, the dwarf says: “You shoot the birds of heaven, I suppose? And the animals of the forest? And is it not a sin for you to kill God’s birds, to shed innocent blood?” The author is surprised, but nevertheless repeats his request. The old man refuses, saying that there is no one, that there is no one to help, and he himself is tired, since he went to the city. The author offers to pay, but the old man refuses the payment. Finally, the dwarf agrees to take the travelers to the clearings, where, according to him, they can find a good oak axis. The driver, seeing the dwarf, greets him, calling him Kasyan, and reports about the funeral procession he met along the road, reproaches Kasyan for not curing Martyn the carpenter (Kasyan the doctor). Kasyan accompanies the author and driver to the clearing, then asks the author where he is going, and, learning that he is hunting, asks to go with him.

On the way, the author watches Kasyan. Kasyan walks unusually quickly and jumps as he goes; it is no coincidence that his fellow villagers nicknamed him “flea.” Kasyan whistles to the birds, bends down, picks some herbs, puts them in his bosom, mutters something under his breath, and from time to time glances at the author with a strange, inquisitive look. They walk for a long time, but they don’t come across any game. Finally, the author notices a bird, shoots, and hits it.

At this time, Kasyan covers his eyes with his hand and does not move, then he approaches the place where the bird fell, shakes his head and mutters that it is a sin. What follows is a description of a beautiful day, inspired by Russian nature. Suddenly Kasyan asks why the “master” killed the bird. When the author replies that the corncrake is game and can be eaten, Kasyan objects that the author did not kill it because he was hungry, but for his own amusement. He says that “free birds” are not “allowed” for human food, that he is given other food and drink “bread, heavenly waters and tame creatures from the ancient fathers (chickens, ducks, etc.).” When the author asks whether, in Kasyan’s opinion, it is not a sin to kill fish, he replies that “a fish is a dumb creature, its blood is cold,” that it “does not feel,” and blood is “a holy thing.”

The author asks how Kasyan lives and what he does for a living. He replies that he lives “as the Lord commands,” and until spring he catches nightingales, but does not kill them, because “death will take its toll anyway.” He remembers Martyn the carpenter, who “lived for a short time and died, and his wife is now worried about her husband and little children.” Kasyan gives the captured nightingales to “good people.” The author is perplexed and asks what else Kasyan does. He replies that he is not busy with anything else, since he is a bad worker. However, he is literate. He has no family.

Then the author asks if Kasyan really heals. Having received an affirmative answer, the author wonders why Kasyan did not cure Martyn the carpenter. Kasyan says that he learned about the disease too late, and besides, everyone still dies when it’s destined for them. Kasyan goes on to say that he himself comes from Krasivaya Mechi, a village about a hundred miles away from here, and that they moved here four years ago. Kasyan recalls the beauty of his native places and says that he would not mind visiting his homeland. It turns out that Kasyan “went” a lot to Simbirsk, and to Moscow, and to “Oka the Breadwinner”, and to “Mother Volga”, “he saw a lot of people” and “he visited honest cities.” Despite this, he did not visit his native place, and now he regrets it. Kasyan begins to hum a song that he composes right there, on the go. This surprises the author.

Suddenly the author and Kasyan meet a girl of about eight, with whom Kasyan greets and towards whom the author notices an incomprehensible tenderness in his companion. The author asks if this is his daughter, but Kasyan avoids answering, calling the girl a “relative.” The author cannot get anything else out of Kasyan. After returning to the settlements. Kasyan suddenly admits that it was he who “took all the game to the master.”

The author is skeptical about this statement. Annushka (whom the author and Kasyan met in the forest) is not in the hut, but there is a box with mushrooms that she collected. Kasyan suddenly becomes silent and unfriendly, the food and drink for the guests' horses turn out to be bad. Having repaired the axle, the author and the driver leave with displeasure. The dear author is trying to ask the driver what kind of person Kasyan is. He replies that he is a “wonderful man”, complains that he does not work, but “hangs out like a boundless sheep.” The coachman scolds Kasyan, saying that he is an “incongruous and useless” person, although he admits that he sings well. When asked how Kasyan treats him, the driver replies that he treats him poorly, that all this is nonsense, although he mentions that Kasyan himself cured him of scrofula. When asked who the girl living in Kasyan’s house is, the driver replies that she is an orphan, that no one knows her mother, that perhaps Kasyan is her father, she looks too much like him, but no one knows anything about it. In the end, the driver assumes that Kasyan will still decide to teach Annushka to read and write, since he is such a “fickle, disproportionate” person.

References

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