Folklore and mythological basis of M. Karim's story "Pardon"

So, in front of Gulzifa, whom he had not even seen in his eyes, he felt guilty. Then he once saw her from the side. But he did not dare to approach.
When they were leaving Terekhta and a reconnaissance platoon was sent to help the medical battalion load their belongings into the car, Yantimer saw Gulzifa already close. Round-faced, with a radiant look of narrowish eyes, a friendly girl touched the guy's heart. No, it didn't drive me crazy, it just hurt me. Yantimer did not pretend to be a commander, he did not issue orders, he took the largest boxes and dragged them to the wagon allocated for the medical battalion. The soldiers, looking at the lieutenant, tried even harder. When loading began, Bainazarov climbed into the car himself, the soldiers served, he received. Gulzifa said only "this is there", "this is here", showed where which box, where which bag, where which bundle to put. Everything has its place - it will be needed, so that any thing can be found immediately. Carefully laid all the beating. And, when the loading was already finished, Gulzifa in a soft ringing voice said to the guy in Bashkir:
- It turns out that I was lucky with my fellow countryman. - "Drove-evil-o", - silver rang in her voice. - It is not for nothing that they say that the water in the Deme River is healing, it has gone to good use, - "benefit-zu-y."
Yantimer, sensitive to hearing, marveled at the beauty and sonority of the iridescent, as if in patterns, voice. Here is her bewitching power - her voice! And Lenya Lastochkin was delighted with a pink millet grain on her left cheek.
“Where are you from?” Yantimer pretended to be ignorant.
- From Davlekanov. Didn't Lieutenant Lastochkin say? He enthusiastically praised you, buzzed all ears,
- He said something, but somehow stupidly, I didn’t understand, - and he didn’t notice how Yantimer drove about about his friend. But he immediately regretted it.
- It is difficult to understand a talkative person, - Gulzifa agreed. - He likes to talk a lot.
So, for no reason at all, Lena Lastochkina was hit on both sides. And what is his fault, besides the fact that he wanted good for everyone? Maybe that's the sin?
- Lastochkin, he is good, - the guy decided to atone for his guilt. But the girl ignored his words.
- You look like an artist who played in the movie Salavat Yulaev.
Ytimer blushed, as if a secret of his heart had been revealed for a long time. The girl, of course, in the dark carriage did not notice anything. Both Salavat Yulaev and the artist who played him were Bainazarov's ideal.
“They say…” he muttered. - It's not enough that it looks like
- It's still better good man look like bad.
Having laid out all the cargo, Yantimer jumped down to the ground and offered his hand to Gulzifa. Her palm was soft and warm. Even when Gulzifa stood next to him, he did not let go of her warm palm. She did not withdraw either, but her soft, tightly closed fingers remained calm and unanswered. It can be seen that the big strong hand of Jantimer could not transfer a spark into her blood.
- Thank you, lieutenant... Lastochkin told me everything - where you were born, what kind of water you drank. Only I didn't mention your name.
- Yantimer. Baynazarov Yantimer.
- Yantimer... And you have a beautiful name, - only then she released her hand from his palm.
- And yours - especially! .. What should I call you? Zypha?
- Gulzifa...
Not knowing what to talk about next, the guy said:
- So, you and I drank the same water, you are at the source, I am in the lower reaches, in Chishmakh, in Karaguzh. You probably know the song: "I was born on Dema, I grew up on Dema ..."?
- Well, if so, - the girl laughed, - I still know: "There is money - we are walking in Ufa, there is no money - we are sitting Chishma."
Where can you not hear this joke? And in Siberia, and in the Carpathians, and on the White Sea, and on the Black. They learn about someone that he comes from Ufa or Chishma, and immediately: "Ah, there is money - Ufa are walking? .." The origin of this proverb, which has run around the whole country, is not hidden in the darkness of centuries. She is only four years older than Yantimer. In the eighteenth year, when Kolchak's troops were advancing on Ufa, they began to forcibly take the Chishma people, along with the carts, into the convoy. The Chishmins, however, rested: "We have money Ufa, we walk, there is no money - Chishma is sitting," - they say, pay - we'll go, don't pay - and we won't take a step. Apparently, for such stubbornness, the lash on the Chishma scruffs looked good, but by dawn the entire horse population, right down to the mangy shearing, was driven into the depths of the forest. From here it went: "... there is no money - we are sitting Chishma."
- Well, goodbye, Yantimer. Gulzifa held out her hand. It was a hint that it was time for the horseman to leave. He understood. He firmly shook the outstretched hand and left.
Their next meeting, quite fleeting, was in Podlipki, when Jantimer, after reading a poem, ran away from the stage. Gulzifa appeared from somewhere and shook Yntimer's hand. He, in his still unresolved excitement, did not have time to feel anything, he did not even feel her palm.
- Congratulations, countryman... Yantimer... very cool. She said and then disappeared. Only the light of her radiant gaze still remained in the air.
* * *
Now she is there, behind the ravine, in the middle of the birch forest, in the big tent of the medical battalion. Probably sleeping. Of course, she is sleeping, what grief does she have to suffer from insomnia? Where to go, to whom to lean against the troubled soul of Yantimer Bainazarov? Don't even lean, it would be enough to touch. Suddenly Gulzifa's sonorous voice sounded in his ears, a radiant glance flashed from under his eyelashes. The horseman could not stand it and, ankle-deep in dry foliage, walked to the other side of the ravine. All he needs is one warm word and one lively look. He walks with his head down, looking down at his feet, and the moon follows him warily. All night long she, obsessive, tormented him. And you won’t get rid of it in any way - you won’t grab it and you won’t throw it to the edge of the night. So it remains - to walk, bowing his head.
Having reached the tent, Bainazarov stopped and listened. There is silence, young nurses and nurses sleep carefree. How can he see Gulzifa now? Yantimer somehow did not think about this. Night, after midnight to break into a tent where young women sleep, he, of course, did not even think about it. Calling her by name, calling her out into the street is also not enough courage. So resolutely walked here, and came - and lost all courage. With a rustle of leaves, he walked around the tent once, another time, a third time. Then he got up and thought... Even if Gul-zifa suddenly comes out, what will he say to her, how will he explain his appearance here? Will you have the courage to tell about your torments? What advice, what help will he ask? He already wanted to turn back. But again he changed his mind ... For consolation - even for the smallest, he came here. The clear voice of Gulzifa, her voice alone would be medicine for him.
Suddenly, the corner of the tarpaulin covering the entrance folded back.
- Who is there? A familiar soft voice.
- I. Baynazarov.
In a greatcoat thrown over her shoulders, she approached him and, taking him by the arm, led him to the side, to the birches standing in a bunch.
- What happened? At such an hour came...
- Why are you not sleeping? - Ytimer answered the question with a question.
“I don’t know myself, I can’t sleep, that’s all,” Gulzifa said with unexpected longing.
Suddenly she poked her forehead into Jantimer's chest and wept softly. The guy was confused. What is it - asks for help, or maybe blames him for something? How should one proceed in such cases? Caress, stroke your back and hair, try to console? Or wait until it pays off? What to do, how to act in such cases, not like the twenty-year-old Yantimer, not even every mature man knows.
In women's tears, in every tear - a thousand secrets, a thousand meanings. Because the guy both stood and froze. The overcoat slowly slid off her shoulder and fell to the ground, dry leaves rustling. To bend down, get an overcoat - her head will have to be disturbed, so left - it seems to be inattention. And in the head of the indecisive lieutenant, the same question - what about her?
Gulzifa immediately untied all the knots herself. First, she lifted her overcoat, threw it over her shoulders. She took a deep breath. And, only calming down, she spoke:
- It's good that you came. I thought and thought, went over forty frets, so I didn’t think of anything. I'm afraid to grieve and I'm afraid to rejoice. Okay, you've come.
- You'll come if your feet brought you, - Yantimer perked up.
He didn't bother asking. It will be necessary, she will say. She said it didn't take long. Only her sadness was not in the unlucky lieutenant, whom "the legs themselves brought."
- I received a letter from home, - said Gulzifa, - well ... not quite from home, the guy wrote, my betrothed, we made a promise to each other. My fiance.
- Well, if I wrote it, - muttered Yantimer and thought to himself: "What do I need, what did I write?" For the second time in his life, he felt jealous. The first time was when Anna Sergeevna called him "swan" in Terekhta, the second time - now.
- Well, it's good, but not all of it ... - the girl drawled. She did not notice the resentment that slipped in the countryman's voice. - His leg was torn off, above the knee. There was no news for four months. Now she writes: I am a cripple, my leg, she says, will not grow, and I, she says, are no match for you ... Eh, Khabirian, you fool! - her voice trembled again, she sobbed. - If, he says, you fall out of love, then let it be right away, I won’t blame a bit, if only then we both don’t repent together. So that your soul does not toil. Either decide this way, or that way, I’m waiting, he says, for an answer, but out of pity, just for my consolation, don’t write, my leg was torn off - I endured it, my hope is cut short - I’ll endure it too, don’t feel sorry for me, feel sorry for yourself. That's how I wrote it.
- Well, everything is fine.
- What's good?
- He fulfilled his duty, returned home alive, that's good. And the legs - they are all sorts. One of them is barely dragging on two legs, the other is dancing on one. We have a hare in our village, Aznabai-agai. I returned from the civilian one, and one trouser leg was empty up to the knees. And well - the beauty of the village, it ripens everywhere, any business is in the hands of the argument, even goes hunting, I say, the first hare in the village. The lane is full of children with his wife gave birth. Their house is near the alley, so the children are swarming there all the time. - Baynazarov told the real truth.
“I don’t need to be comforted, Yantimer. I do love him. But why did he write me such a letter, such ... ruthless? As soon as the hand went up? And humiliated. What for? That's what's embarrassing...
- Not humiliated at all. A real man speaks openly with fate.
- If this were the case with you, would you write?
- Wrote. Only there is no one to write to, there is no such person ... Gulzifa felt bitterness in these words, but she considered it not the time to talk about it.
- Thank you, Yantimer, you consoled me. And your words, and you yourself ... Otherwise, I already began to feel sorry for Khabiryan. She was afraid that this pity would not capture her whole soul, and she lay there almost the whole night. I will take and write a letter now, I will embroider each letter with beads: “Do not lower your wings, let my love be your support. You are mine anyway. And I will not give you to anyone else,” and I will write.
- So write it down. And don't be afraid... You'll be happy, - said the horseman. And to himself from the bottom of his heart he regretted his distant peer. He imagined that he himself had lost a leg, and his heart went cold. Don't come! A picture passed before my eyes: two people are descending the slope of the mountain - a young woman is walking smoothly beautiful woman, and next to it, throwing a wooden leg to the side, a man hobbles. These are Gulzifa and Khabiryan. Ytimer closed his eyes and opened his eyes again - it was gone.
You don't say it yourself, so I didn't ask. Why aren't you sleeping? Also, probably, it’s not in vain that the dream runs?
- No, I just walked by. Today my soldiers are on guard, so I go around, I found a lieutenant. - Okay, I'll go.
- Farewell, good night. The girl held out her hand. The guy shook quickly and then let go. Her soft fingers were cold this time.
- Good night, sweet sleep, pleasant dreams, - the horseman suddenly said grandly. Someone else's sadness touched his soul and for a moment muffled his own.
Not really understanding why he came here, but feeling that he had come for a reason, Yantimer left. Dispelling Gulzifa's doubts, breaking off his dreams that had just been born, extinguishing sparks somewhere in the depths of his soul that were about to flare up, he walked where his legs took him. And as if it is not crushing dry leaves, but the buds of their hopes that have not yet blossomed.
So Lieutenant Bainazarov stumbled upon a large tent. A dim yellowish light squeezes through a narrow gap, but does not go far, immediately mixing with moonlight, it is lost in the foliage. Quiet as muttering, the conversation comes from the tent. Raised among the forests, Yantimer was sensitive to voices from childhood. Dozens of species of birds could distinguish not only by singing, but even by chirping. He was lucky that with this gift of his he landed in intelligence.
Lucky ... But tomorrow, on the orders of Lieutenant Yantimer Bai Nazarov, mortal bullets will hit not in the vile heart of the fascist, but in the heart of his, Yantimerov, compatriot. Or maybe there is a way out, is there a way to get rid of this terrible duty? Aren't there other soldiers in the whole brigade besides the reconnaissance platoon?
Yantimer recognized one of the speakers in the tent at once. This is Commissar Zubkov - Arseniy Danilovich! This is where his willful feet led him by themselves. Why hadn't this thought crossed his mind before? The lieutenant should appear at once and say: "Comrade commissar, I can't, my hand won't rise, save me!" And now it's not too late. No wonder, it turns out, his legs themselves brought him here.
There are two people in the tent. The second voice is not familiar to Bainazarov. It became embarrassing: he was standing, eavesdropping, as if some kind of spy. He stepped aside.
The voices fell silent, and soon a fit, quick-moving man stepped out of the tent. Yantimer did not see his face, but in the moonlight he immediately recognized him by his walk. It was the commander of the mekhbat Ruslan Sergeevich Kazarin. The captain also noticed Bainazarov, but only, sharply turning his head, cast a glance at him and quickly passed by.
The fate of Lubomir Zukh made Captain Kazarin forget about his own illness and his own grief. Twice Ruslan Sergeevich could save this unlucky sergeant from trouble. First time - in Podlipki. It cost him nothing to accept one girl as a nurse or a telephone operator. He took out his sore on others, for his misfortune he grinned at the whole world, for the sin of one Rosalina he hated the whole female race. The second time - already here, yesterday. However, here the honor of the commander, military duty, loyalty to the oath, and most of all, the merciless law of wartime became an obstacle. And it was still not too late to save ... The captain blundered twice. Although look - so neither this time nor this time he made a mistake. Nobody can blame him for anything. And for an emergency in the unit, he is ready to answer and be punished. But it was not the impending punishment that tormented the captain.
All night Ruslan Sergeevich wasted himself without sleep, he felt: he was about to seize an attack of the liver ... but whether he was frightened, whether he regretted it, he did not seize it. It's gone. A faint spark of hope led him to the commissar as well. It seemed to him that if he told everything in detail, from beginning to end, then by doing so he would share the guilt of the sergeant, take responsibility for himself and change the fate of Zukh, avert trouble from him. If he divides, then the trouble will be easier. But he was faced with a misfortune that could not be shared, she did not share, and he was confused.
The commissar in a white undershirt, in an overcoat thrown over his shoulders, sat, clasping his knees, on low bunks, hastily knocked together from unplaned boards, and as if indifferently, without interrupting or assenting, listened to the captain's lamentations. His double-bent body shrunk, became even smaller. Nearby stood an oil burner made from a forty-five-millimeter shell casing, a stingy yellow tinge of light fell on his gray hair. Clever eyes sunk, completely hidden in the shadows. He does not seem to notice Kazarin sitting on a thick block of wood, lowered his head and is silent. Maybe dozed off. No, Arseny Danilovich has no sleep in one eye. Captain Kazarin - an exemplary commander, always smart, always carefully dressed, precise in gestures and words, giving orders in a metallic voice and clearly, abruptly reporting to his superiors in the same metallic voice - a battalion commander who was always the first in military exercises and in night throws, Zubkov listened now carefully. But, listening, I thought about Ruslan Sergeevich himself. The commissar despised the sloppy, but was wary of the overly neat. But people do not always fit into the framework prepared by you. Dry, dapper battalion commander and lived, it seemed, from team to team, from order to order - and here you are ... A naive soul, hopes for a miracle!
The captain spoke with special force: - How can I get along with my conscience now, Arseniy Danilovich? I have to save Zuha. Advise, help! He can't die! Let them punish me, let them demote me to the rank and file, send me to the penal battalion, only let them leave him alive. Help... - the captain suddenly fell silent.
There was a short heavy silence.
- I'll tell you in no uncertain terms, Ruslan Sergeevich, - still not moving, the commissar spoke, - what you ask for ... This can only happen in books. If the book ended with the miracle you ask for, the reader would breathe a sigh of relief. A book, if there is no miracle in it, is a dead book. And here ... - He suddenly threw up his head, listened to the distinct artillery rumbles and nodded around. - And here is life. Here is a war. And their harsh laws. I sent a cipher upstairs, asking to change the verdict. The answer should come within twelve hours. At seven thirty the deadline. Now, he looked at wrist watch, four. Will wait. If the answer comes favorable - we can assume that a miracle happened. Who knows...
Realizing that the conversation was over, the battalion commander said goodbye and left. Commissar Zubkov remained sitting on the bunk, still clasping his knees with his hands, and only swayed a few times. The flame of the oil lamp stretched out after the captain, fluttered as if it wanted to follow him. Some shadows ran across the tent. It must have been the commissar's shadow, breaking, flitted across the tarpaulin.
“Permission?” a timid voice was heard. Arseniy Danilovich, who sat vacantly, shuddered.
- Allow me? Lieutenant Baynazarov.
Anxiety surged again, and the commissar said irritably:
- Why are you all reaching out to me after midnight, like a fortune teller? One must sleep at night. Tomorrow is not a holiday.
Yes, it's not a holiday.
- So what? - Zubkov, turning sharply, lowered his legs from the bunk. White woolen socks are on the feet. I wonder who connected them to him?
- Comrade Commissar! Tomorrow I have to command the execution of Sergeant Zukh. I cannot give such an order.
- Why?
“I haven’t killed a single fascist yet, I haven’t even shot at him yet. Why should I kill mine from the very beginning? I can't do it. Assign someone else. "Where did Jantimer come from with such determination?" The voice sounds firm, commanding even.
- So, is it hard for you? - Zubkov said the words "you" and "this" with pressure.
- Hard. The tongue will not turn, the hand will not rise.
- So, for you, this business is shameful, dirty? - the commissar said angrily. The lieutenant's rightness, his own impotence, pissed him off.
"Shameful, dirty, bloody," Ytimer repeated stubbornly.
- Who are you, lieutenant Baynazarov?
- I? I...
- You are the commander of the reconnaissance platoon! You have received a task, and you want to shove this shameful, dirty, bloody onto another. Others, in your opinion, ruthless and soulless? So, or what? - The commissioner paused and said, already quieter: - And what about me? Do you think it's easy for me? The verdict has been passed. And you are not alone in executing it - and I, and the brigade commander, and the commander. Understand! He is a de-zer-tir - for good reason it is considered as such! If everyone who wants to take military equipment and rushed headlong to a love date? And without that, the brigade is in a fever, chepe after chepe, - he must have said the last words to assure and console himself. After a pause, he raised his voice again:
Are you afraid to get your white gloves dirty, lieutenant?
“I don’t know what I’m afraid of, Comrade Commissar, but I’m afraid ...” And Yantimer suddenly brought up an argument that was not even in his thoughts, a strange argument that looked like a trick. If this argument came out of the mouth of, say, Leni Lastochkin, it would be understandable. But the fact that these words came out of Lieutenant Bainazarov's tongue did not fit into any gates. Without batting an eye, he declared: - After all, Comrade Commissar, when I return, I need to become an artist. And then my conscience will torment me all my life.
The Commissioner was silent. Either he suddenly thought, or he was amazed at such stupidity. But then, with the same categoricalness, he drew a line:
- Before you become an artist, Lieutenant Bainazarov, you need to become a soldier. Soldier! We have no tomorrow - today in battle. In a merciless battle with the Nazis! Go, and there is nothing to drool, - And this was said by a man who, in Podlipki, after a concert in front of all the people, called him "a fiery tribune." Yantimer did not expect such a cruel rebuff. And immediately sank.
“So let’s go?” he said, lowering his head.
- Go ... - Bitterness and pity involuntarily slipped into the commissar's voice.
The lieutenant, having gathered all his strength, tried to turn around and go out clearly, in a military way.
He was right, and not only right, the lieutenant was ten times right, but still it was impossible to talk to him otherwise. And the fact that he had to say that upset Zubkov even more. Indeed, a lieutenant must begin his military career with a difficult task. Cruel test. Ruthless. But otherwise it is impossible. A military order is not changed without a reason. To whom it is given, to fulfill it. You can understand the guy, but you can’t console him. It's hard for him. And who is easy? Combat Kazarin? Himself, Commissar Zubkov? What about Maria Teresa and Yefimiy Lukich? They are also not easy.
A large stone fell off the mountain, rolls down, sparing no one, and no one can stop it or knock it aside. It will crush, cripple, and crush someone outright and fall into the abyss. Only a rumble will remain in the ears and flour in the soul. Little by little they will subside. A sharp, hidden pain for many years from the depths pierced the commissar's heart. This pain arose every time the commissar felt worthless, helpless, offended in vain.
In the soul of Arseny Danilovich, somewhere at its very bottom, the last ember of hope was still breathing. He himself still tried to believe in the "possible miracle" about which he spoke to Kazarin, but he could not convince others, he did not dare. That is why he spoke to Bainazarov sternly, without hesitation. "Words, maybe only words will remain," a thought flashed through her mind. Baynazarov came out of the tent stunned. Such a conversation, the stern tone of the commissar, who, with his benevolence, restraint, and attention, earned the respect of the entire brigade, knocked the lieutenant down. "Here's a fiery tribune for you," he thought, "tribune!.." Suddenly, in his mind, next to this word, another word arose, from the same root, but ominous, full of terrible meaning: TRIBUNAL.
Yantimer was in no hurry to return to his hut. However, he would not have found it so soon. The moon, covered with a thin film of clouds, dimmed, subdued. Now she will not lead astray, and she will not show the way. Bainazarov remembered that he had to go through a shallow ravine. No, he had already passed the ravine when he left Gulzifa. So his hut is somewhere nearby. There, as luck would have it, Lenya Lastochkin is sleeping carelessly, he doesn’t even want to see. Turning the loose layer of foliage, Yantimer went aimlessly. When he passed the dugout of the brigade commander, he was stopped by a sentry, but, having recognized the commander of the reconnaissance platoon, let him go further. And he even said: "Excuse me, Comrade Lieutenant!" This soldier was also a bit of an artist and remembered with what delight he listened to the "Left March" in Podlipki. And Bainazarov, having already moved away a little, suddenly caught his foot on a stump hidden under the foliage, could not immediately straighten his large body and ran a few steps, but still held on, did not fall. "Fool!" - with anger he scolded either himself or the stump. In the rotten aspen stump, the mind, of course, is not tightly stuffed. He is no stranger to being known as fools, that's why he is a stump. But if someone has enough spirit, he will reproach himself, and it’s also not the case to blame only the rotten stump under your feet for all the troubles ... Not knowing where to go next, Yantimer stood still. Here, very close by, the same, boring words were heard, over and over again raising the alarm. But now they have lost their usual depressing meaning for the lieutenant. Just familiar voices. Turns out he didn't get lost.
- Stop! Who goes?
- Breeding.
- Password?
Changing the guard in front of the guardhouse. The thin, trembling voice of Demyanov, who was divorcing him, brought Yantimer back to reality, gave way to a toothache. In the same way, the gnashing of iron sometimes pierces a tooth, passes through the heart with emery. Bai-nazarov, frowning hard, looked in the direction of the guardhouse. And at that moment an unexpected thought came into his head, or rather the question: "There, in the dugout - what kind of person is sitting? Who is he? .." The desire to see him right now, at that very moment, seized Yantimer. It grabs tight and doesn't let go. And it pushes harder and harder. Demyanov and the sentry who had taken over went back from the post, which was about thirty or forty meters away. The sound of footsteps echoed nearby. They did not notice their commander, who was standing in the shade of a large birch.
- Demyanov, - quietly called Baynazarov, He, on the alert, immediately stopped. The soldier kept walking. "It must have been a fantasy," thought the one who led the way, but before he had time to take two steps, the call was repeated: Demyanov ...
Sensitive, quick-witted Demyanov, having figured out where the name came from, hurried to a familiar voice. Running up to the commander, he began to report, as it should be according to the charter:
- Comrade commander, breeding sergeant Demyanov ...
- I know, - the lieutenant interrupted him, - how is he there? ..
- Who, comrade lieutenant?
- There ... that man, - Baynazarov nodded towards the guardhouse, arrested,
- Asleep. No matter how you look - sleeping. At least roll over from side to side.
- Do you have a flashlight?
- Here, pocket. Shines well.
- Can I visit him?
- Why not? Can. You are my direct commander. We take out the stick from the heck, and that's it.

Current page: 1 (total book has 9 pages)

Karim Mustai
Pardon

Mustai Karim

"Pardon"

Translation from Bashkir by Ilgiz Karimov

And what a thought, well, whether to think about it ... At such a terrible hour, I became attached - more terrible than the hour of waiting for death. And a thought is not a thought, a memory is one. There, above the hut, Moonlight night- the heart throbs. With a rustle, dry leaves fall - the leaves of the twentieth autumn of Yantimer. Another will hit the ground and ring out louder. It's probably an aspen leaf. Birch does not ring like that, it is softer. Or, along with the leaves, ringing, the moonlight crumbles? The moon is full, and also from that night it went to the scree. And the full moon from childhood drove Jantimer into melancholy and anxiety. Now too. An endless clear night lies ahead. If it were dark, with rain and wind, maybe it would pass easier and faster, but here it froze, like a quiet lake, it doesn’t flow and doesn’t even splash.

And the memory is busy with its own - it sorts out losses, large and small. Why not finds, not acquisitions, but losses? Jantimer himself could not answer this. And really, why? What kind of losses does he, twenty-year-old Lieutenant Yantimer Bainazarov, have, so that before he commits a terrible deed at dawn, he fulfills his merciless duty, sorting them out like this? Apparently there is. The time before the war is not included in this account. There is a different life, a different world. Even another loss of that time now seems to be a find.

And strangely - this account began with a spoon.

The first misfortune that happened to him on the military path - he lost a spoon. The wide pewter spoon that his mother put into his sack disappeared the very first night they got into the red carriage. But how did it disappear? Not herself, frightened by the front, jumped out of the car, leaned back. No, his spoon was not cowardly. She and Yantimer's father, Yanbirde-soldier, went through that German one, tempered in battles and campaigns, life, with its bitterness and sweetness, drank plenty, gained worldly wisdom. Porridge-soup from a pot, a pot, a cast-iron, a plate straight into your mouth, without dropping a drop, dragged countless, pulled well, such was a spoon - even harness it with a root! On the right edge, like a knife blade, it was worn off. Yantimer's mother, the left-hander Gulgai-sha-enge, turned it so that she scraped the bottom of the cauldron every day. It was not just a spoon - a military weapon. Such people don’t leave their service by their own will - unless they burn out or break down. My son will have a reliable companion, thought Gulgaisha-enge. And this is how it turned out...

For a soldier to be left without a spoon is the same as being left without food. And heartbreak. Especially on such a journey: it seems that you have already eaten the food assigned to you in this world. Lost a knife, it would not be so alarming.

In the soldier's carriage on both sides there are bunks in two tiers. There were thirty people. Everyone is in the same uniform, everyone has the same shaven heads, and you can’t immediately tell them from the face. In addition, there is not enough light only from the ajar door. Some from the evening, as soon as they got into the car, got to know each other, while others keep aloof, do not join the company, these, apparently, still do not tear themselves away from home. A thin boy is standing near the door, singing a sad song. He doesn't care about those in the car. He is his song through open door there, to the rest, with whom he is separated, he sends.

I went on the road, and the path goes on and on,

And I lost my way to Ufa.

Afraid to shed a soft soul,

I didn’t give you a hand, saying goodbye.

Tears roll down the boy's cheeks. And indeed "the soul is soft." In love, apparently. Love, until it passes through the melancholy of separation, like this, a little tearful, happens. The singer suddenly fell silent. Small head, sharp nose - at that moment he looked like a woodpecker. In addition, the tunic tied with a belt protruded from behind, just like a tail. He is about to pound the door jamb with his beak in his hearts. No, he didn't poke.

And over there, legs dangling, another one sits on the top shelf - about twenty-five years old, blue-black hair, sunken cheeks, a hooked, slightly twisted nose to one side. Growth has not gone far, but each fist is like a good sledgehammer. You can see by eye how heavy they are. A day had not passed, and this hammer fighter stood in the carriage for the ataman.

“I am Mardan Gardanov, I ask you to love and favor,” he said yesterday, as soon as the train set off. - I'm like this: you love me - and I love, but you don't love ... I beat! - And, pleased that he said it so smoothly, he laughed just as well. - I think you will love me. So don't be afraid.

At first, his antics seemed strange, alerted. However, his smiling impudence, simple-hearted arrogance, boasting recklessly amused. And then all this even fell to their liking. He only talks about one thing, about horses. He speaks with inspiration, forgetting everything, even getting tipsy. It turns out that in the Trans-Urals, at the state farm, he was a "tamer rider" - he rode under the saddle of half-wild horses that walked in a herd, they did not know the bridle and saddle. And his "I love" and "hit" he probably said so, out of arrogance.

“If all the horses that have passed through my hands are gathered together, you can put a full division in the saddle,” he boasted, “and there will still be horses left. And if you drain all the vodka that I drank! .. However, why drain it, who needs it, drunk vodka? But the horse ... yes, the horse ... You give me any devil ... you won’t have time to blink, but the devil already, that angel of heaven, is on the line! Only one threw off the ridge and twisted my nose with his hoof - he felt his nose. - The redhead was a stallion. The red-haired suit is stubborn, bad, and savrasaya or buckskin is obedient, patient; the black suit is completely secretive and cunning, but the white one is sensitive and sensitive, especially mares. Do you think that batyrs rode Akbuzaty* in vain in the old days?

* Akbuzat is a mythical white horse.

Whether it is true, whether all these arguments of his about the customs and habits of horse suits are not known. But listeners believe. And if they believe it, then it is so.

Yantimer was tickled by a horse demon as a child, and he listened to Gardanov's story in such a way that his heart skipped a beat. Even before entering the theater college, he helped herd the collective farm herd for four summers, and then, when he was studying, every summer, returning home, he took on the same job. It seemed, not only habits - he even knew the thoughts of every horse in the herd. But in order to distinguish tempers by suit, he does not remember this. "Probably, the tamer knows more. But it's interesting ..." he said to himself and went up to Mardan Gardanov. I stood in front of him ... and froze. What's this? Seems in the eyes? ..

If only it seemed!

From the left pocket of Gardanov's tunic protruded the handle of a pewter spoon - his, Yantimer's, spoons! She is the best! At the end of it, the generic Bainazarov tamga is scratched - "hare's footprint". The tamer of wild horses has already started a new fable. The audience laughed again. Ytimer did not hear anything, but stood and watched. I wanted to say something ... Where is it! Only - knock-knock, knock-knock - the clatter of wheels beat in my ears. It's not like saying a word ... Just the clatter of wheels in my ears.

Or maybe it’s not the wheels - the blood is pounding in the ears? Before him is a thief. I stole the spoon. Yes, even a needle is still a thief. Right now, Yantimer will grab the thief by the scruff of the neck, scream, shame him to the whole car. "You thief! Shameless! You worthless comrade!" he will scream. It’s just that he will gather his courage a little ... and say: “I would ask, I would give it myself. It’s not about the spoon. It’s about yourself.”

I didn’t gather my courage, I didn’t turn my tongue. No, he was not afraid of Gardanov's weighty fists. Saved before human shamelessness. “Oh, Yantimer!*,” consciousness suddenly jumped up. “Your spirit is not iron, but dough, wax, jelly! It wasn’t enough to catch a thief in theft. "To show heroism! An unfortunate comedian!" - "Comedian" - it was he who pricked himself with the fact that he was studying to be an artist.

* Yantimer - iron in spirit (Bashk.).

The mind is raging, but the tongue is silent.

And this is what Jantimer clearly felt: then he not only lost the spoon he had taken from home, but also lost some part of his dignity. This is how it comes out - if your thing is stolen, then your soul will not be left without damage.

In a grove where birch and aspen mingled, the motorized rifle brigade spent its last night on the eve of leaving for the front line. At dawn, she will line up ... Then everything will end, and at ... hours zero-zero minutes she will start moving. In the meantime, between the successfully passed "yesterday" and the unknown "tomorrow" thousands of people sleep, softened. Who is in a dugout, who is in a tent, who is in a hut. Only sentries are awake. And three more ... One of them is brigade commissar Arseniy Danilovich Zubkov, the other is the commander of the mech battalion, captain Kazarin, and the third is the commander of the reconnaissance platoon, Yantimer Baynazarov. And in the tent of the medical battalion, one girl does not sleep. But her sadness is different - her longing is not yet on the death line.

Single explosions in the distance cannot shake the peace of this night. And the night is not only for people to love and villainy, it is also given for reflection. Without it, a person would not know any doubts or repentance, he would not be able to judge himself.

In a hut covered with grass and leaves, next to Yantimer, sleeps, snoring like a child, the head of the equipment of the artillery division, technician-lieutenant Leonid Lastochkin. He buried his nose under his left elbow, as if he hid his beak under the wing, and sleeps. Lenya is two years older than Yantimer, but next to him he looks like a teenager. And by his nature he has not yet left his childhood, all the time some unrealizable plans, dreams, hopes are swarming in his head. There is no such work that he cannot do, there is no such assignment that he would not undertake with all diligence. Tell him: "Lenya, pull out this peg with your teeth," and he will immediately grab the peg with his teeth sticking out like a chisel, loosened on a two-month-old millet gruel. He does not think, it will work out - it will not work out, he also does not bother himself with an estimate of which side to take. What they say will do, what they will instruct - will execute. He will cut one, he will nail the heel to the boot of the other, he will replace the cracked shank of the shovel for the third. He carries it back and forth, takes it for one thing, for another. And if something doesn’t work out, he doesn’t kill himself, he looks for other care, he dives into new turmoil. And all this without the slightest self-interest. Everyone is trying to do a good deed, to bring benefit to someone. And at the very tunic it was already greasy, the cap was hardened from sweat and dirt, the buttons on the overcoat remained through one. Wash, mend, sew hands do not reach. The division commander is a military man. Can't stand slovenliness. As soon as he sees an officer or a soldier whose clothes are somehow not according to the charter, he will smash to smithereens, then he will also impose a penalty. But he waved his hand at Lastochkin: they say, there must be one klutz per division, let him go.

Lastochkin, who knew no sorrow, smacked his lips in his sleep. Apparently, some kind of treat rolled over. Him what? He will get up in the morning and, waving the skirts of his greatcoat, will run there, rush here, cannons, mortars, machine guns, motor vehicles in the division will check, inspect everything, look into the kitchen, bring a pot of liquid millet gruel for two with Yantimer and, when they sip it, stare at let his blue eyes promise a friend: "I'll give you, my friend, God willing, I'll feed you like that - to satiety, to belching." - "What, when?" - asks the lover. The answer will come fast and clear: "Something, sometime," the hospitable will say.

Moonlight cautiously tiptoed through the hole into the hut. He touched his gray forehead, which was lying with his head towards Lastochkin's exit. Jantimer jumped up and sat down. Moved away involuntarily. As if not Lenya Lastochkin lies nearby, but a dried-up ossified frog. Why such hostility all of a sudden? And to whom - to a friend who has always been by your side for so many months, to put his head, is he ready to give his soul for you? What hurt so much, what offended? Nothing like offended, nothing hurt. Only once has he been the cause of Yantimer's humiliation.

Then Jantimer was not particularly worried and then did not remember, did not chew in his soul. Well, it has been and gone. But now, on this painful night, that humiliation, that loss, pushed into my memory.

Bainazarov came out of the hut, sat down, leaning his back against the birch. The moonlight has thickened, it does not let go of the falling leaves immediately, but seems to be holding on weight, and the leaves now fall more slowly, more smoothly. And only after falling to the ground, they will whisper about something. From the generous light, the mind is clouded, it takes its breath away.

A sharp dry cry was heard very close:

- Stop! Who goes?

- Breeder!

- Password?

It's near the guardhouse. Changing of the Guard. The convict is guarded.

And Lastochkin, you know, is sleeping ... In the morning he will get up, rub his blue eyes with his fists and smile broadly, as if there is no trouble or war in the whole world. Then he will slightly tilt the helmet with water lying behind the hut, splash two or three drops on his eyes - and wash. (For the time being, Lastochkin's helmet serves as a washstand for both of them.) He will dry his hands with the hem of his tunic. And the face itself will dry out in the breeze. In the meantime, he, smacking his lips, chases sweet dreams. "That's for whom no troubles or worries," thought Yantimer again.

They met with Lastochkin seven months ago. There were fierce February days. Three lieutenants - Leonid Lastochkin, Yantimer Bainazarov and Zinoviy Zaslavsky - had just graduated from different schools and on the same night arrived in Terekhta, where a motorized rifle brigade was being formed. All three of them agreed in the district military registration and enlistment office. Here, the brigade has not yet been heard of. The lame captain, an employee of the military registration and enlistment office, gave such good advice:

- You can rest for now. If anything, I'll send a messenger.

- Where are we going to rest? And How? asked the inquisitive Lastochkin.

“And you didn’t get settled, did you?”

“Look like…” The captain pulled out a drawer for some reason. And again, already more drawn out: - There, then, ka-ak ... - And he sighed: - And even after all, we don’t have a gossip-widow with a milking cow, be it wrong! Not a city, but some kind of misunderstanding ...

The captain, it seems, is an experienced person, he pronounced “a widow with a cow” as if he had tasted it.

- Guys! And here's what ... - he suddenly perked up. - There is a house at the end of this street - cabs stopped there. The first hotel in Terechta. So I'm in the hotel and define you! He slammed the drawer shut. As if he also put three lieutenants there, and that was the end of the matter.

– And where will it be possible to get products according to the certificate? - again, Lastochkin could not appease his curiosity.

- It won't be possible.

- Like this?

We don't have such a place. Until the brigade is formed, you will be grazing, - the captain explained.

- How is it?

- And as it should. Like the birds of God.

So, with open arms Terechta met three lieutenants. "Hotel" really turned out to be a hit. There are six bare iron beds in the large room. There is a table at the back of the room. There are even stools. True, the blankets, pillows, sheets were only recently given to the kids who were taken out of the besieged Leningrad across the Ladoga ice, they were placed across the street in the post office. So in terms of decoration, the "hotel" is a bit empty. But his beauty, his flaming soul, is a large cast-iron stove in the middle of the room. She burns all the time. Firewood - full canopy. Looks like the zealous owner prepared them ahead of time, in the spring, even before the war. Folded and went to the front. Now Polya rules here, a gypsy of about fifty - a honey tongue, a friendly soul. The high rank of the guests does not leave her tongue, all you can hear is: "Killer whale lieutenants, sweep the floor", "Killer whale lieutenants, go for water ..." Little by little the lieutenants also began to call each other "killer whales". The gypsy herself, with her arms folded, does not sit in the seat, does not look at someone else's work from the side. He gives out orders to his "military forces" and runs across the road to the post office to the Leningrad children. Day-to-day with them. "Even after all, the poor things do not have the strength to lift a spoon," she is killed.

Kasatiki do not shy away from business. Especially Lastochkin. From the very first hour he showed himself to be an agile, caring comrade. He comes from the same places, However, the talkative Lenya does not like to talk about home, about relatives. Once he only dropped: "I grew up in someone else's nest, forever pecked."

In the twenty-first, when hunger wiped out their entire family, two-year-old Lenya was taken in by his uncle, who lived in neighboring village. So I grew up in a strange house with an extra mouth, I heard only reproaches. The cool heartless aunt had only one word for him: "Dead". He really was bare bones. And he got older - he didn’t walk much. Yes, and on what to walk something? It happened that they offended him quite painfully, he would sit down and cry bitterly: “Why didn’t they bury me together with my father and mother? When he grew up a little and what kind of work was already on hand, the attitude towards him changed. Obedient, diligent, he was zealous both at home and in the field, what they say and what they don’t have time to say, he will do everything in an instant. In school, too, God did not offend with a mark. He studied for four years in Yaroslavl and returned with a document that now he is a "technician railway". He just showed up at home and left for his destination in Siberia.

The oldest among them is Zinovy ​​Davidovich Zaslavsky. Before the war, he taught philosophy at Kiev University. His family - his wife and two small children - remained there, in the territory occupied by the enemy. At night he lies awake for a long time. Just take a deep breath sometimes. But he keeps his grief in himself, does not share with his comrades: is he, they say, the only one like that now? He arrived here after graduating from cryptographer courses.

Well, Yantimer Bainazarov is an actor. He had just turned twenty. An artist who has never had time to enter the professional stage, as he himself says, is a comedian. Tall, stately, strong-bodied horseman, broad-cheeked, with a slightly flattened nose, thick black eyebrows. He dreamed of playing the role of the poet and commander Salavat Yulaev on stage, but fate had prepared for him another role in life for the time being - the commander of a reconnaissance platoon.

There are no locks in the "hotel", it is open to everyone, they do not ask for documents, they do not take money. Sometimes five or six people come running, spend the night and leave. There is enough space for everyone, the floor is wide. And other night no one is only themselves.

They folded the crumbs from three duffel bags and, with a sin in half, stretched out for three days. Zaslavsky brought an armful of books from the library. They wanted to take away hunger by reading, but it didn’t hurt, he was now also cunning. On the fourth day it became completely unbearable. And you won't go anywhere, you won't think of anything. But still, the nimble Lastochkin disappeared somewhere for a long time and returned with a loaf of bread in his bosom. And he himself is shaking, chilled through and through. But when he entered, he did not immediately go to the oven, but laid the bread on the table with both hands. To the question: "Where?" He did not consider it necessary to give a full answer, he threw out only: "Legal way." And in truth, he begged for this loaf in a bread shop on the outskirts - so, without a card, he simply begged. “Not for myself, I can’t eat on my own, my friend is sick, except for bread, he doesn’t take anything to the soul,” he assured the saleswoman. And in order to look into his ingenuous blue eyes and not believe his every word - this does not happen. A mere mortal can't do it.

Here it is, on the table - with a shiny black top, with yellow sides, a golden brick. With boiling water, full prosperity. A large tin kettle draws songs all day long on a cast-iron stove - so it leads, as if calling to a feast that is bursting with treats.

Only Lieutenant Lastochkin divided the bread into four pieces in fairness (another "God's bird" was nailed to them the other day), when someone in an old unsheathed sheepskin coat, in hemmed felt boots with cut tops, his head was wrapped in waffle, tumbled through the door sideways, when something white, a towel. Huge and ungainly, it dragged with it a cloud of cold vapor.

“They say happiness comes in backwards, but this one got in sideways,” Lastochkin noted. - It would be good.

The big man, without lowering the collar of his sheepskin coat, looked around the room, noticing a chair near the stove, walked silently and sat down.

- Wow! It twisted like a cow cake on the base. I thought I wouldn't loosen up. He coughed raggedly. I coughed for a long time. Zaslavsky poured boiling water into a mug and served it to him. He swallowed twice and let go of the cough.

- Hello, guys! I am Pe Pe Kisel. Prokopiy Prokopyevich Kisel. Veterinary paramedic. A horse-dresser, that means, a regimental one ... - He lowered the collar of his sheepskin coat, unwound the towel - and the well-rounded head of a thirty-five-year-old man with a wide forehead and round eyes appeared. His face was shaved so clean that Jantimer thought: "He has a sharp razor - he really is a horseman."

- It, of course, my uniform does not fit under the charter ... Moreover, last night they stole my hat in the car. I drove from Kovrov.

"So you're probably hungry too," said the soft-hearted Lastochkin.

- Yes, I forgot how they eat ... That's why I was numb. And it's warm here. It was not in vain that the lame captain in the military registration and enlistment office praised: "wanted", they say. Well, here it is, where it was appointed, it arrived. Now everything will go smoothly.

Lastochkin thrust one of the four slices to Kisel. He said "thank you" and, lowering his head, sipping from a mug, slowly began to eat. He didn’t cut off pieces from a slice, he bit off little by little, as if he only slightly touched his lips. A gentle horse eats like that. Baynazarov looked with surprise at this large, heroic build of a man. He introduced him among the horses. Horses love these, they walk on their heels. But the frail, clumsy horse can not stand. Such a frail one sits on horseback, and the horse begins to balk from shame, so, they say, to what day it has lived, under whom you have to walk. And if the bogatyr is in the saddle, she doesn’t feel heavy, out of pride, out of excitement, she doesn’t know where to step, she dances on the spot. And that must be said, the short man, from lack of growth or strength, also happens to be picky and vengeful towards the horse. Here is a neighbor of Jantimer, nicknamed Skalka, even before joining the collective farm, every day he thrashed his piebald mare on the head with a whip. In the end, the piebald mare took her own, put her front hoof in the owner's groin - which stopped Skalkino's further reproduction. This is known to the whole village. For ... in four years, having brought three, Marfuga-enga, faithful to her husband, with childbearing, cut off at once. Amen!

Bainazarov also remembered Mardan Gardanov, the "tamer-tamer", the same one who both "loves" and "beats". Probably a cruel person too. And his generous laughter cannot be trusted. But Kissel is completely different.

Prokopiy Prokopyevich, meanwhile, finished chewing the last piece of bread and, throwing back his mug, drank the boiling water down to a drop.

- Thank you, lads, the soul returned home, - he said. He took off his sheepskin coat and hung it next to his overcoats. Under the sheepskin coat was a pair of black cloth, albeit rather worn, but without holes, without patches.

What Prokopy Prokopievich did not know until he got to Terekhta! From July to September 1941, together with three comrades, he drove a herd of cows from Chernigov to Saratov. Three times they came under bombardment, two times the retreating troops overtook them, leaving them behind the front line. Being left behind was the worst thing. But even in these hardships, he did not get lost, he did not abandon the herd, he bandaged the wounds of the wounded cow, soldered the one who fell ill with medicines, and asked for forgiveness from the one that fell, with tears: "Do not seek, soul tortured! I did not have the strength to save you." I didn’t drive my herd too much, and I would have driven it, all the same, you won’t steal a helluva lot on a cow trot. But he didn't stop. They went on and on. All four drivers were exhausted, emaciated, skin and bones. The legs of overweight Kisel were swollen, blackened ... But even when last hopes were ready to collapse, did not lose faith. “You still won’t catch up, adversary! Not with you the truth, but with my innocent cows,” he said.

And, when the matinees were already bleaching the grass, all the surviving cows were delivered to their destination, to Saratov. To the man who received the herd, Kisel also thrust a bundle of receipts for cattle handed over to military units, and said: "They fulfilled their duty before the deadline." And the veterinarian himself and his three comrades were no longer on their feet, they were sent to the infirmary. After lying down for three weeks, gaining a little weight, rounding his face, Prokopiy Prokopievich left the hospital. He felled wood in the Tambov region, then was a loader at a railway station, dug anti-tank ditches near Moscow, worked as a hospital attendant in a hospital. But all the time he hoped to get into the cavalry unit. "One demon strays without hope," he thought. And his hope is always with him, and therefore he finally received the due paper in the proper place and set off from Moscow to Murom, from Murom to Kovrov, from Kovrov here. And so he arrived in Terekhta. On the hands of the document: "He is sent to ... that cavalry artillery division as a veterinary assistant."

Prokopiy Prokopyevich took a rag pouch from his breast pocket, took out a piece of paper and handed it to Zaslavsky, apparently counting among them the elder.

- Here ... So, now they will put it on the register and give out the clothes that are supposed to be.

“They will give out clothes ...” thin lips Zaslavsky. - Only part is not yours. Here the motorized rifle brigade will be formed.

- No! Here "horse-drawn artillery" is written. Here, read ... and read everything. Here is the seal. There is no error in printing. With such agony I got ... there should not be a mistake. - Kissel immediately wilted.

Baynazarov felt sorry for Prokopy Prokopyevich from the bottom of his heart.

“For one of you, there is a place in the brigade,” he tried to console him. - They won't send it back.

- I don’t need a place, guys, I need a horse, alive soul Kissel sighed.

Someone stomped loudly in the passage and began to pull, unable to open the tightly seated door. Yantimer kicked the door. Smiling, the hunchback entered, he had already spent two nights in a row in the hotel.

- Well, it's fierce, huh? Spit - immediately ice. Spat three times, and three times a bale!

He almost sat down in his tarpaulin boots with wide tops. A quilt with a burnt right hem reaches him just below the waist, pulling the hump back. The two ears of the rag cap stick out in both directions, and besides, the chest is wide open.

- And today is not lucky! he announced briskly. And in the voice of the gypsy Poli, who gives orders in the morning, he continued: “You, lieutenants-killers, do not lose heart, spring will come anyway, we will not see it, so others will see it. Civilized hello! He nodded to Kisel.

The age of the hunchback is incomprehensible. Thirty give, fifty give - everything will be accepted. He was on the trading side, here from near Smolensk, he fled from the occupation. When asked for a name and patronymic, he said to be called Timosha. He wheezes, wheezes, and the smelly self-smoking smokes non-stop. The only, apparently, the peasant's joy. That's why they endure, they won't say a word. He is waiting for an appointment in a general store in the village of Vertushino, four kilometers from here. Only the district authorities are pulling something. It can be seen, Timoshino origin, fathers-grandfathers are checked. And why check, all his wealth-property is a pouch of samosada, a hump in the back and a pure smile that will melt any heart.

Lastochkin told fortunes for a long time, dividing the remaining three pieces into four. He poured boiling water into four glasses.

- Come on, iris lieutenants, and you, Timosha the merchant, welcome to the table!

Timosha, who was standing behind Kisel, pointed at him with his chin: what about him, they say?

- Prokopy Prokopyevich just dined! – loudly explained Lenya.

“Yes, yes, don’t be shy, get started,” Kissel said.

Always dull Zaslavsky, apparently, does not even notice hunger. Or reading, or, stretched out, silently lying on the bed. Only sigh at times: "Hurry up to the front!" Even now, he approached the table only later, when those three had already wiped away their share.

- Oh, guys, I would feed you - to satiety, to belching! Yes, not those times! - Leonid Lastochkin complained. Could he - indeed, like a swallow carrying midges to its chicks in its beak, would drag food to its comrades.

It got dark. Prokopiy Prokopievich, exhausted by the long journey, lay down on the bed indicated by Lastochkin, covered himself with a sheepskin coat, and fell asleep. Zaslavsky again buried himself in the book. Timofey and Lastochkin sat down to play "fool", slap and slap with all the fluff, put the card lightly - not the sweetness. And Yantimer has been unable to tear himself away from the "Cathedral Notre Dame of Paris". Fell in love with Esmeralda - in spite of both Captain Phoebus and Quasimodo. Yantimer lived to these years and was not seriously carried away by a single living girl. If he wanted to fall in love with anyone, they did not pay attention to him, and he was immediately disappointed in "Young girls don't really like tall, ungainly guys. And Yantimer used to go like that until he was eighteen. He even had a nickname - Longshanks. However, the horseman himself did not show much briskness, he was shy. When others were dancing, he was afraid to move away away from the wall, so that they would not see the pants patched at the back. recent years he resounded in the bones, gained weight, but the shyness did not go away. His older brother, a tractor driver, who is now left in the village, brought him a worn, but not yet lost, single-breasted blue suit from a push last year. And even the blue suit of courage did not add. It seemed to Ytimer that the girls were still looking at him with a grin. Is there any greater shame? Esmeralda will not reject his love. Love all you want. And Captain Phoebus and the freak Quasimodo are not a barrier to him. And yet the hunchback Timosha, who is now slapping cards, does not take a little soul. Regrets, but does not accept. Here he enthusiastically slammed the card on the table and stuck the remaining two sixes on Lena's shoulders:

- You are no longer a lieutenant-kasatik, but your high nobility colonel! Ha-ha-ha!

His hoarse, smoky laugh comes from somewhere inside, rises with a roar from the depths.

“Well, Timosha, if you hadn’t smoked with your tobacco, you wouldn’t have been worth it, pure gold,” said Lenya.

- You are pure gold, he is pure gold, I am pure gold - then what price will remain for gold? .. But to myself, as I already am, I go at a good price. I won't change for anyone. That's right, brother!

They were silent. Timothy the merchant said quietly:

- People probably look at me and think: why does this unfortunate man live in the world? Indeed, war, famine, frost forty degrees, and he knows his hump drags. Where does he go, why does he go? I will answer: his soul is not humpbacked, then he lives, then he walks. The light of day and the heat of the earth, we, cripples, are more palpable than yours, and therefore if we cling to life, you will not pull it off. We don’t lay hands on ourselves, because we haven’t eaten our lives, we don’t freak out with fat.

- So you, Timosha, are also a philosopher with us! Where is Zaslavsky!

- Each person will justify his life in his own way, brother. It's not that scary... Last words he said so that everyone heard. And there was sadness in his voice.

They didn't talk anymore. Prokopy Prokopyevich coughed all night long, the hunchback smoked near the stove, Zaslavsky lay with his eyes on the ceiling and sighed. Only Lenya and Yantimer gave away that the nights were due, they slept carefree. Timothy occasionally threw firewood, only before dawn, sitting by the stove, and dozed off.

It got a little warmer in the morning. There was nothing to eat, so there was no fuss with breakfast. "Merchant", not being lazy, immediately went about his business, to catch his luck. Lastochkin went into deep reconnaissance on the food front. Prokopiy Prokopyevich ran his razor across his trouser belt for a long time, whipped up soapy lather in a can, and shaved thoroughly. It seemed that he would put down the razor and someone's voice would be heard: "And now for morning tea, please!" Bainazarov, without getting out of bed, took up a book about Esmeralda. Zaslavsky turned his face to the wall, only now he can take a little nap.

Karim Mustai

Pardon

Mustai Karim

"Pardon"

Translation from Bashkir by Ilgiz Karimov

And what a thought, well, whether to think about it ... In such a terrible hour, I became attached - more terrible than the hour of waiting for death. And a thought is not a thought, a memory is one. There, above the hut, a moonlit night - the heart is oppressed. With a rustle, dry leaves fall - the leaves of the twentieth autumn of Yantimer. Another will hit the ground and ring out louder. It's probably an aspen leaf. Birch does not ring like that, it is softer. Or, along with the leaves, ringing, the moonlight crumbles? The moon is full, and also from that night it went to the scree. And the full moon from childhood drove Jantimer into melancholy and anxiety. Now too. An endless clear night lies ahead. If it were dark, with rain and wind, maybe it would pass easier and faster, but here it froze, like a quiet lake, it doesn’t flow and doesn’t even splash.

And the memory is busy with its own - it sorts out losses, large and small. Why not finds, not acquisitions, but losses? Jantimer himself could not answer this. And really, why? What kind of losses does he, twenty-year-old Lieutenant Yantimer Bainazarov, have, so that before he commits a terrible deed at dawn, he fulfills his merciless duty, sorting them out like this? Apparently there is. The time before the war is not included in this account. There is a different life, a different world. Even another loss of that time now seems to be a find.

And strangely - this account began with a spoon.

The first misfortune that happened to him on the military path - he lost a spoon. The wide pewter spoon that his mother put into his sack disappeared the very first night they got into the red carriage. Although, how did it disappear? Not herself, frightened by the front, jumped out of the car, leaned back. No, his spoon was not cowardly. She and Yantimer's father, Yanbirde-soldier, went through that German one, tempered in battles and campaigns, life, with its bitterness and sweetness, drank plenty, gained worldly wisdom. Porridge-soup from a pot, a pot, a cast-iron, a plate straight into your mouth, without dropping a drop, dragged countless, pulled well, such was a spoon - even harness it with a root! On the right edge, like a knife blade, it was worn off. Yantimer's mother, the left-hander Gulgai-sha-enge, turned it so that she scraped the bottom of the cauldron not a day. It was not just a spoon - a military weapon. Such people do not quit their service by their own will - unless they burn out or break down. My son will have a reliable companion, thought Gulgaisha-enge. And this is how it turned out...

For a soldier to be left without a spoon is the same as being left without food. And heartbreak. Especially on such a journey: it seems that you have already eaten the food assigned to you in this world. Lost a knife, it would not be so alarming.

In the soldier's carriage on both sides there are bunks in two tiers. There were thirty people. Everyone is in the same uniform, everyone has the same shaven heads, and you can’t immediately tell them from the face. In addition, there is not enough light only from the ajar door. Some from the evening, as soon as they got into the car, got to know each other, while others keep aloof, do not join the company, these, apparently, still do not tear themselves away from home. A thin boy is standing near the door, singing a sad song. He doesn't care about those in the car. He sends his song through the open door there, to the rest, with whom he is separated, he sends.

I went on the road, and the path goes on and on,

And I lost my way to Ufa.

Afraid to shed a soft soul,

I didn’t give you a hand, saying goodbye.

Tears roll down the boy's cheeks. And indeed "the soul is soft." In love, apparently. Love, until it passes through the melancholy of separation, like this, a little tearful, happens. The singer suddenly fell silent. Small head, sharp nose - at that moment he looked like a woodpecker. In addition, the tunic tied with a belt protruded from behind, just like a tail. He is about to pound the door jamb with his beak in his hearts. No, he didn't poke.

And over there, dangling his legs, another one sits on the top shelf - about twenty-five years old, blue-black hair, sunken cheeks, a hooked, slightly twisted nose to one side. Growth has not gone far, but each fist is like a good sledgehammer. You can see by eye how heavy they are. A day had not passed, and this hammer fighter stood in the carriage for the ataman.

I am Mardan Gardanov, I ask you to love and favor, - he said yesterday, as soon as the train set off. - I'm like this: you love me - and I love, but you don't love ... I beat! - And, pleased that he said it so smoothly, he laughed just as well. - I think you will love me. So don't be afraid.

At first, his antics seemed strange, alerted. However, his smiling impudence, simple-hearted arrogance, boasting recklessly amused. And then all this even fell to their liking. He only talks about one thing, about horses. He speaks with inspiration, forgetting everything, even getting tipsy. It turns out that in the Trans-Urals, at the state farm, he was a "tamer rider" - he rode under the saddle of semi-wild horses that walked in a herd, they did not know the bridle and saddle. And his "I love" and "hit" he probably said so, out of arrogance.

If all the horses that have passed through my hands are gathered together, you can put a full division in the saddle, - he boasted, - and there will still be horses left. And if you drain all the vodka that I drank! .. However, why drain it, who needs it, drunk vodka? But the horse ... yes, the horse ... You give me any devil ... you won’t have time to blink, but the devil already, that angel of heaven, is on the line! Only one threw off the ridge and twisted my nose with his hoof, - he felt his nose. - Red was a stallion. The red-haired suit is stubborn, bad, and savrasaya or buckskin is obedient, patient; the black suit is completely secretive and cunning, but the white one is sensitive and sensitive, especially mares. Do you think that batyrs rode Akbuzaty* in vain in the old days?

* Akbuzat is a mythical white horse.

Whether it is true, whether all these arguments of his about the customs and habits of horse suits are not known. But listeners believe. And if they believe it, then it is so.

Yantimer was tickled by a horse demon as a child, and he listened to Gardanov's story in such a way that his heart skipped a beat. Even before entering the theater college, he helped herd the collective farm herd for four summers, and then, when he was studying, every summer, returning home, he took on the same job. It seemed, not only habits - he even knew the thoughts of every horse in the herd. But in order to distinguish tempers by suit, he does not remember this. "Probably, the tamer knows more. But it's interesting ..." - he said to himself and went up to Mardan Gardanov. I stood in front of him ... and froze. What's this? Seems in the eyes? ..

If only it seemed!

From the left pocket of Gardanov's tunic protruded the handle of a tin spoon - his, Yantimer's, spoons! She is the best! At the end of it, the generic Bainazarov tamga is scratched - "hare's footprint". The tamer of wild horses has already started a new fable. The audience laughed again. Ytimer did not hear anything, but stood and watched. I wanted to say something ... Where is it! Only - knock-knock, knock-knock - the clatter of wheels beat in my ears. It's not like saying a word ... Just the clatter of wheels in my ears.

Or maybe it's not the wheels - the blood is knocking in the ears? Before him is a thief. I stole the spoon. Yes, even a needle is still a thief. Right now, Yantimer will grab the thief by the scruff of the neck, scream, shame him to the whole car. "You thief! Shameless! You worthless comrade!" he will scream. It’s just that he will gather his courage a little ... and say: “I would ask, I would give it myself. It’s not about the spoon. It’s about yourself.”

I didn’t gather my courage, I didn’t turn my tongue. No, he was not afraid of Gardanov's weighty fists. Saved before human shamelessness. "Oh, Yantimer! * - suddenly jumped up consciousness. - Your spirit is not iron - but dough, wax, jelly! It was not enough to catch a thief in theft. You were embarrassed, scared ... Smear! And you are going to fight the enemy. To defend your homeland "To show heroism! An unfortunate comedian!" - "Comedian" - it was he who pricked himself with the fact that he was studying to be an artist.

* Yantimer - iron in spirit (Bashk.).

The mind is raging, but the tongue is silent.

And this is what Jantimer clearly felt: then he not only lost the spoon he had taken from home, but also lost some part of his dignity. This is how it comes out - if your thing is stolen, then your soul will not be left without damage.

In a grove where birch and aspen mingled, the motorized rifle brigade spent its last night on the eve of leaving for the front line. At dawn, she will line up ... Then everything will end, and at ... hours zero-zero minutes she will start moving. In the meantime, between the successfully passed "yesterday" and the unknown "tomorrow" thousands of people sleep, softened. Who is in a dugout, who is in a tent, who is in a hut. Only sentries are awake. And three more ... One of them is brigade commissar Arseniy Danilovich Zubkov, the other is the commander of the mechbattalion, captain Kazarin, and the third is the commander of the reconnaissance platoon, Yantimer Baynazarov. And in the tent of the medical battalion, one girl does not sleep. But her sadness is different - her longing is not yet on the death line.

Single explosions in the distance cannot shake the peace of this night. And the night is not only for people to love and villainy, it is also given for reflection. Without it, a person would not know any doubts or repentance, he would not be able to judge himself.

In a hut covered with grass and leaves, next to Yantimer, sleeps, snoring like a child, the head of the equipment of the artillery division, technician-lieutenant Leonid Lastochkin. He buried his nose under his left elbow, as if he hid his beak under the wing, and sleeps. Lenya is two years older than Yantimer, but next to him he looks like a teenager. And by his nature he has not yet left his childhood, all the time some unrealizable plans, dreams, hopes are swarming in his head. There is no such work that he cannot do, there is no such assignment that he would not undertake with all diligence. Tell him: "Lenya, pull out this peg with your teeth," and he will immediately grab the peg with his teeth sticking out like a chisel, loosened on a two-month-old millet gruel. He does not think, it will work out - it will not work out, he also does not bother himself with an estimate of which side to take. What they say will do, what they will instruct - will execute. He will cut one, he will nail the heel to the boot of the other, he will replace the cracked shank of the shovel for the third. He carries it back and forth, takes it for one thing, for another. And if something doesn’t work out, he doesn’t kill himself, he looks for other care, he dives into new turmoil. And all this without the slightest self-interest. Everyone is trying to do a good deed, to bring benefit to someone. And at the very tunic it was already greasy, the cap was hardened from sweat and dirt, the buttons on the overcoat remained through one. Wash, mend, sew hands do not reach. The division commander is a regular soldier. Can't stand slovenliness. As soon as he sees an officer or a soldier whose clothes are somehow not according to the charter, he will smash to smithereens, then he will also impose a penalty. But he waved his hand at Lastochkin: they say, there must be one klutz per division, let him go.

There are individuals who forever leave a good mark on history, whose creative heritage is timeless.

For people of all generations, Mustai Karim has become a cultural symbol, the patriarch of spirituality, an era in the literature of Bashkiria.

The golden fund of literature included the stories of Mustai Karim “Long, long childhood”, “Pardon” and other works of the writer. Mustai Karim leads a discussion with life, or rather, a heated argument with its dark, unrighteous sides.

"Pardon" - a small work in terms of volume - is truly a monument to humanism. The war is relevant already because it was. Every day it becomes more and more difficult to say your own, unique word about the war, about which great works have been created. But a real artist is real because he sees the world in his own way. In "Pardon" we constantly feel the presence of the author. He suffers, doubts, rejoices with us, the readers.

Turning to the story of M. Karim "Pardon", we became interested in the question, thanks to which it feels lyrical beginning and what the Bashkirs call the untranslatable word “mon” is both sincerity and melodiousness, which creates a special beauty of the language of the work, brings the experiences of the characters closer to the heart of the reader.

The purpose of our work is to explore the role of the folklore-mythological basis in the artistic structure of the work in order to solve the ideological concept of the story.

Based on this goal, we set ourselves the following tasks:

Determine the main idea of ​​the story.

2. Conduct a comparative analysis of M. Karim's story "Pardon" with the work of S.A. Yesenin. Reveal the purpose of folklore elements.

To reveal the connection of folklore and mythology with ideological content works.

Object of research: the text of the story from the folklore-mythological point of view.

The following methods were used to solve the tasks:

analytical;

comparative;

comparative.

In the research project, we relied on the work of M. Lomunova "Mustai Karim". According to the literary critic, the unique imagery of the work is created with the help of folklore and mythological images that connect the past and the present. Therefore, the story acquires a special philosophical meaning.

Chapter 1. New understanding of the theme of war in the story of M. Karim "Pardon"

1.1 Problems of the story

“I, like any other person,” Mustai Karim said, “is worried about the danger of war. I have often thought about Archimedes, who was killed by a soldier. The philosophy of a soldier is unambiguous. After all, he probably had no remorse. He is a weapon, a tool. A given force is often stronger than good. Archimedes cannot be killed. It is dangerous for human life. I do not want people to lose faith in the future, so that hopelessness and indifference enter their souls. Literature is designed to protect people from these dangers. Archimedes must not be killed."

This feeling brought to life the story of Mustai Karim "Pardon".

Criticism immediately noted a new word about the war, said by the author of the story. Not the heroic in the center of the author's attention, the war, as such, does not seem to be shown in the story. But the bitter, terrible event was born by her and only by her. It does not take into account the feelings of people, even the purest, the most sublime. She has no right to mercy. This is an indisputable fact. This is a formidable reality. And this is scary: the heart is ready to justify, but the mind tells to punish.

The idea of ​​this story haunted the writer for many years. At first, it was not even an idea, but a fact. The fact of front-line life, firmly engraved in the memory.

A similar incident really happened in the unit where the writer served. To shoot a guy who, humanly speaking, was not a deserter - he returned to the unit himself - was ordered to a platoon commanded by Mustai Karim. And there were ... sleepless nights, painful thoughts ... The commissar understood the young poet, the order was given to another platoon, but how could everything connected with this event be forgotten?

The story itself has changed. Soldier Lubomir Zukh, violating military discipline, rides at night in an armored personnel carrier to a nearby village to say goodbye to his girlfriend, Maria Teresa.

But the writer is attracted not so much by the fact itself, but by the question: who is guilty? Who is responsible for Zukh's death? Lubomir Zukh is not a deserter. Rather - just careless. Love pushed him to this step. Reckless, all-consuming. It also comes into conflict with the establishment of wartime.

Many acquaintances and those unfamiliar with Zukh understand - with their hearts - the discrepancy between the punishment and the deed. Here the conscience is already giving a voice: after all, a terrible, irreparable must happen. Talking about life...

But the sentence is not just only according to human laws. But can there be others? Yes. And these are the laws of war. Special. According to them, Lubomir Zukh is a criminal.

The whole story is a discussion with life. Dispute. “And big,” said M. Karim. - There is a need and a law, and the inviolable right of a person to life and happiness, to love. But all these rights come into conflict in the story with the harsh reality of war. This thought led the writer's pen.

In the center of the “Pardon” is not Lubomyr Zukh, not his experiences, but the one who is entrusted with commanding the execution. And this is Yantimer Bainazarov, a twenty-year-old lieutenant from Bashkiria. Mustai Karim admitted that Yantimer was dear to him. This is his hero. A man of complex spiritual life. He has a hard life. Everything passes through the heart.

The mood created by the writer is such that anxiety and tension grow with each page.

... The night before the execution. That's where the story begins. It begins with the mental anguish of Yantimer Bainazarov, whose platoon will shoot Lubomir Zukh at dawn. They will shoot their own. Yantimer has not yet fired a single shot at the enemy, and his first order to open fire will be given to his own boyfriend.

War takes its toll on everything. Time for her is not included in this account. There is a different life, a different world.

Yantimer until his last hour will not be able to forget that night and the dawn, just as neither Captain Kazarin, nor Commissar Zubkov, nor Yefimiy Lukich can forget.

Yes, this night is hard for many, especially for Captain Kazarin. His conscience does not give him rest. Here he is, supreme court for everyone ... If Yantimer is tormented by the injustice of the sentence - according to high human standards, Kazarin is tormented by remorse. He is busy with himself. Can he be reproached for the death of Zukh, for having transgressed what was permitted? Not according to the laws of war. But something prevents us from completely agreeing with this. Kazarin, in the fatal moments for Zukh, did not want to enter into his position. I gave free rein to the mood. Yes, and later Kazarin could not move the case, and again did not. Twice I had the opportunity to save Lubomir from a terrible death - a bullet from his own. Efimy Lukich Burenkin, whose barn was inadvertently destroyed by the car of Lubomir Zukh, will also suffer a terrible outcome - he filed a complaint against the driver with Kazarin, who started the whole thing. And it does not occur to him that now life goes according to other laws - the laws of war. And the terrible law of war is execution.

Lubomir is not a criminal, of course. Not a traitor. Our guy. He dreams of reaching Berlin, and now, having fallen in love with Maria Teresa, he will free Madrid from the Nazis. In part - a common favorite. That's why it hurts more.

It is impossible not to pay attention to such amazing fact: the horror that happened to him, Lubomir Zukh did not realize, in fact, until the very execution. Even on the night before the execution of the sentence, he sleeps peacefully in the guardhouse, which shocked the guards a lot. For the life of Zukh soaring in the sky, everyone around experiences. Burenkin curses himself for his hasty complaint, repents of making an official decision, Captain Kazarin, suffers, regimental commissar Zubkov does not sleep, foreman Khomichuk swears from impotence to change anything, Maria Teresa suffers in unbearable anxiety and uncertainty.

The image of Mary is somewhat abstract, conditional. She seems to dissolve, goes into the unknown towards the end of the story. The reader will not meet her again after that terrible scene in the silent clearing, at the fresh grave of the executed Zukh. Mary goes into the unknown in order to return to people at any time, for Love is eternal, alive.

The story "Pardon", despite its laconicism, is very complex in design and ambiguous, despite its organicity, in style.

1.2 Genre originality of the story

If you think about its genre affiliation, then the first thing that comes to mind is a romantic story, or a lyrical one. And indeed, the signs of this genre are obvious: an enthusiastic poetic intonation of the description of the awakening feelings of Lubomir and Maria Theresa, sometimes a tale style, epic repetitions. The origin of the heroine herself is romantic. Romantic is also the description of the anxiety that arises in the heart of Maria Theresa for the fate of Lubomir, after she is visited by a major and a lieutenant, who are investigating the case of Zukh.

However, we remember classical works, romantic stories usually make an impression, almost fairy tales. Why, then, does the feeling of reality, almost the horror of what is happening, not leave us? Because the author of this story has a warm heart, he endlessly loves his heroes, puts his own pain into the act of each of them. He really looks at them with "a sensitive eye of the soul."

Heroes suffer - the reader also experiences. But by what means does the writer achieve the necessary feeling of empathy? The author knows how to tell the story in such a way that the characters come to life, heal own life. Military people - it seems, all in one form, and each with his own fate, biography, sharply defined personality: suffering from a liver and offended by the whole weaker sex because his wife left him, at the same time, Captain Kazarin, just and understanding everything; the only one who dared to appeal the verdict of the tribunal, the embodiment of military honor, Commissar Zubkov; a virtuoso in terms of swearing, foreman Khomichuk; the naive son of the steppes sentry Kaltai Dusenbaev; "History connoisseur ancient rome» and interpreter prophetic dreams Lieutenant Leonid Lastochkin.

Circumstances look tragic, the imperfection of the human life order, in which love becomes the cause of death and suffering for lovers, a “victim of war”: “Of course, if you do not take into account love, it is amazing bungling. And who cares about your love? She will not be called as a witness for the defense. She cannot be an intercessor. They judge themselves." Is it, "if you do not take into account love"? What if you take it? Under normal circumstances, we don't take it into account. But war is what it is, that abnormal state of human society, in which love, mercy, the right to make a mistake, and forgiveness are often not taken into account. The story of Mustai Karim "Pardon" is just about such a case. Its main idea is a protest against the anti-human essence of war. And another call to remember both its heroes and innocent victims.

It seems to me that the story of Lubomir Zukh and Maria Teresa for others - both the heroes of the story and its readers - is something like a special book: look, this happens. Or - this is what can happen if we ignore real life, forget about them, live only with love... Commissar Zubkov, answering Captain Kazarin's request to save Zukh, says: “This can only happen in books. If the book ended with the miracle you ask for, the reader would breathe a sigh of relief. A book, if there is no miracle in it, is a dead book.

In the story "Pardon" a miracle did not happen. Rather, it happened, but on a thorny, long journey to people, it lost its saving magic power. The decision to pardon Lubomyr Zukh was made at the top, but it was several hours late. As is often the case in life, good triumphs not for those who need it most.

Many years after the war, the mechanic-driver Lubomir Zuh was acquitted by the writer Mustai Karim.

After analyzing the problematic and genre content of the story, we came to the conclusion that the most poetic pages are devoted to feelings, pure and sublime, which war cannot destroy.

Chapter 2. The role of folklore and mythological images in the story (research part)

Our project sets the following research objectives:

Consider the traditional nature of the appeal of Russian writers - classics to the works of oral folk art.

Select material for comparison from M. Karim's story "Pardon" and lyrics by S.A. Yesenin.

Find parallels in the use of folklore - mythological images.

Correlate folklore and mythological images with the system of characters.

2.1 From the background

Oral folk art is an inexhaustible source from which, from century to century, our culture draws the treasures of folk poetry, wisdom, and aesthetic perfection. It can be represented as the historical roots and origins of Russian literature.

The appeal of this or that writer to folklore is a rather frequent phenomenon. By itself, it doesn't say anything. It is important here what caused this interest, what dictated it. After all, folklore, in particular Russian, includes many contradictory elements. The materialistic interpretation of life phenomena is very tangible in it, and at the same time traces of an idealistic perception of the world are visible; here is a sober, business-like attitude to life and various kinds of religious and mystical views; real dreams of a better life for the people are intertwined with clearly fantastic ideas of happiness. Hence - the possibility of various uses of folklore.

Many writers and poets of the 19th century turned to oral folk art and mythology.

Pushkin enters the life of every person from the very early years- enters with its mysterious Lukomorye with all its fairy tale characters and, as if with a golden chain, it connects each of us with our thousand-year history, with our ancient myths, fairy tales, beliefs - with all our ancient Slavic roots, with the entire Russian Christian civilization, the unsurpassed spokesman and peak of which he himself was and remains.

Near the seaside, the oak is green,

Golden chain on an oak tree...

The fabulous Lukomorye, the mighty oak tree with the bayun cat is not only Pushkin. This is the whole world of oral poetry of the Russian people, absorbed by them from childhood from Arina Rodionovna Yakovleva (1758 - 1828) - “my mother”, as Alexander Sergeevich called her, a “simple” Russian peasant woman who owned the gift of a storyteller and songwriter and had a major influence on the formation Pushkin as a Russian national poet.

Pushkin's interest in oral folk poetry was so deep and comprehensive that in his work he embraced all genres of Russian folklore: fairy tales and songs, proverbs and sayings, traditions and legends, rural poems and popular prints.

A direct continuation of the search in the field of Russian nationality was the work on the poem "Ruslan and Lyudmila", which completes the first era

Pushkin's creativity. In Pushkin's poem, much, one way or another, correlated with Russian history, and the images of the poem are the first attempt to express Russian national characters.

The soul of the Russian people is the song. The song is widely included in the works of writers.

“A song about Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich, a young guardsman and a daring merchant Kalashnikov” M.Yu. Lermontov is focused on folk historical song and epic. From a literary work, we learn a lot about the everyday traditions of our ancestors. The song tells the reader about the hierarchy of family relationships. Comparing the present and the historical past, the author expresses the idea of ​​the moral superiority of the past over the present in its integrity and unity.

Heroes of stories by I.S. Turgenev are carriers of the folk element. Kasyan, Kalinich are merged with nature. They can possess, like heroes of fairy-tale folklore, various miraculous skills, they know medicinal herbs, various signs, they can speak blood.

As in folklore poetics, Kasyan merges with nature: he picks some herbs, puts them in his bosom, mutters something under his breath, calls to birds.

The world of Kasyan's dreams is colored with folklore images. “... and they go, people say, to the very warm seas where the sweet-voiced Gamayun bird lives, and the leaves do not fall from the trees either in winter or in autumn, and golden apples grow on silver branches ... "

The hero picks up the lark's song. He himself sings a song composed by him: "And they call me Kasyan, but by the nickname of a flea." Here, in a folk-poetic vein, Turgenev gives a nickname to the peasants. Kasyan knows medicinal herbs: “There are herbs, flowers help too,” he says to the narrator. He believes in saving prayer.

In poetic light, deep folk traditions Turgenev also draws the image of the peasant Kalinych (the story "Khor and Kalinych"). Kalinich stands closer to nature. The folk hero of Turgenev is a continuation of the natural elements. He entered Khory's hut with a bunch of wild strawberries in his hands, sang rather pleasantly and played along on the balalaika, knew folk signs:

when it rains - “the ducks are splashing, and the grass smells painfully strongly.” Could speak blood and expel worms. Turgenev emphasized the special enlightenment of the appearance of Kalinych as a bearer of moral and aesthetic principles. folk life: "Kalinich's face was meek, clear, like the evening sky ... He himself kept looking and looking at the dawn."

The world of dreams of the hero Turgenev (Kasyan) is colored with folklore images. The hero's dream takes on a poetic character, reveals his poetic world, colored with ethnographic and folklore images.

“...” steppes will follow Kursk, such steppe places, here is surprise, here is pleasure for a person, here is expanse

good to give! And they go, people say, to the warmest

Kasyan's story bears the features of a tale. Turgenev's hero is a dreamer, his image is covered with a romantic halo.

Proverbs and sayings are a necessary artistic element of the language of literary works. They are used by the writer to characterize the characters, express the author's attitude to events, emphasize the development of the action, and contribute to the creation of a national color.

Folklore is the roots and origins of Russian literature, that inexhaustible source from which, from century to century, our culture draws the treasures of folk poetry, wisdom, and aesthetic perfection. Merging with literature, saturating it with folklore genres, folk poetic images, folklore is an expression of folk national tradition, the spirit of the people, its moral and aesthetic values.

In addition to folklore, myths also formed the basis of modern culture. Without a good knowledge of myths, many remain incomprehensible famous works literature, painting, sculpture. Myths exist in children's sayings, in our customs and holidays, they have passed into folk tales and into works of Russian literature.

For centuries, myths and folklore images have been accumulated by the experience of peoples, their ideas about good and evil, about worthy and unworthy behavior. Once, passed down from generation to generation, they taught people how to live. These ideas are part of the spiritual treasures accumulated by mankind, acquaintance with which enriches everyone who comes into contact with them.

Many writers and poets of the 19th and 20th centuries turned to folklore and mythology. Mustai Karim continues the traditions of Russian classical literature.

2.2 The place of folklore and mythological images in the works of M. Karim and S. Yesenin

For comparison, we chose the work of the "singer of Russian nature" Sergei Yesenin - the most "peaceful" poet of the 20th century - and the romantic writer of the 20th century Mustai Karim, who develops military themes.

The subject of comparison will be the folklore images of S. Yesenin, a singer of Russian nature, and the folklore images of M. Karim, a Bashkir writer. Having examined the content of the selected works, we found that the images of trees are present both in S. Yesenin and M. Karim.

Ancient man almost did not know inanimate objects, everywhere he found reason, and feeling, and will. Animation of images is observed both in Yesenin and in M. Karim.

Birch image.

In Yesenin, the creator of a one-of-a-kind “woody novel”, whose lyrical hero is a maple, and the heroines are birches, humanized images of trees are overgrown with portrait “details”: a birch has a “stand”, “hips”, “breasts”, “leg ”, “hairstyle”. Birch, largely thanks to Yesenin, "became a national poetic symbol of Russia" (M. Epstein). In ancient pagan rituals, birch served as a symbol of spring. The “country of birch calico” is also the “country” of childhood, the time of the most beautiful.

... And the country of birch chintz

Not tempted to wander around barefoot.

In Bashkir mythology, birch symbolizes the "axis of the world", life, death, spring, love, family, kindness, purity, sadness, crying. In the story "Pardon", the image of a birch is found 4 times.

For example, when the hero thinks, when he is faced with a choice, he always leans against a birch, as if looking for a tree vitality to find answers to difficult questions. “Bainazarov left the hut, sat down, leaning his back against the birch.”

The image of an apple tree.

S. Yesenin

“I don’t regret; I don’t call, I don’t cry, everything will pass like smoke from white apple trees ... “Apple smoke” is the flowering of trees in the spring, when everything around is reborn to a new life. “Apple tree”, “apples” - in folk poetry it is a symbol of youth , - " rejuvenating apples”, and “smoke” is a symbol of fragility, fleetingness, ghostliness.

M. Karim

The image of an apple and an apple tree in "Pardon" does not appear by chance at the moment of meeting Lubomir Zukh and Maria Teresa, because an apple and an apple tree are a symbol of Eternity, wholeness, life, eternal youth, spring, love, transient joy, unity.

“In a garden burned to the ground with a single apple tree that miraculously jumped out of the fire seventeen days ago, an apple would not fall with a soft knock, and if this apple had not been picked up by a seventeen-year-old girl. An apple hit Zukh's chest, rolled down and lay down nearby. He was not at all surprised, lying still on his back, felt for an apple and took a bite out of it with a crunch.

Luminary images.

In Yesenin, of the luminaries, in the first place is the image of the moon - the month, which is found in approximately every third of his works (in 41 out of 127 - a very high coefficient). At the same time, until 1920, the month also prevails (18 out of 20), and in the later period, the moon (16 out of 21). After examining the content \ of the story "Pardon", we found that the author uses the image of the moon, month, leaves 9 times.

In Yesenin's poems, the metaphor "month-kolob" is consistently developed. This image expresses the naive perception of the world, which is equally characteristic of both the primitive and the child's view of the world.

The month emphasizes, first of all, the external form, figure, silhouette, convenient for all kinds of associations - “lamb”, “horn”, “kolob”, “boat”. The moon is, first of all, light and the mood caused by it - “lunar reflection, blue”, the moon laughed like a clown, and “uncomfortable liquid moonlight. The month is closer to folklore, it is a fairy-tale character.

In our opinion, the use of images of the moon, moonlight in M. Karim's story "Pardon" indicates a connection with Bashkir mythology. Like many other peoples, the ancient ancestors of the Bashkirs deified the Sky and revered its luminaries: the Sun, the Moon, and some stars. Echoes of these views are reflected in folk art, rituals. Belief in the magical power of the moon, in its power, is embodied in rituals. At each new moon, they turned to the Month with words of prayer and well-being, and in case of death this month they asked for God's blessing. At the heart of these rites is the motive of honoring the moon. Apparently, the distant ancestors of the Bashkirs considered the Moon to be a good deity. The moon acts as a living being, relieving a person from the burden of life. In the primitive mythology of the peoples of the whole world, the sun and moon are invariably endowed with life and appear as human beings. However, in the myths they differ with respect to gender. So, according to E. Taylor, among the Mbokobi tribe in South America, the moon acts as a wife, and the sun, on the contrary, as her husband. In Bashkir folklore, the sun, as a rule, is a female image, while the moon can act as both a female and a male principle.

Our observations on the text of the story, where the images of the moon - the month are found, we have drawn up in the form of the following table:

A parallel can be drawn between the images of the moon, leaves, month and human life: the nascent month is a symbol of nascent love, the cloud is a sign of impending trouble, leaves fall before being shot, but this is not just leaf fall - it is leaf fall of trouble.

The image of a bird.

AT folk tale an important place is occupied by the image of a bird, associated with the concepts of the creation of the world and its end. The rooster, in the ancient beliefs of many peoples, is a symbol of the sun and luminaries. In the story of M. Karim, the image of a swan is found only once.

“You are my swan, oh, swan, don’t tremble, don’t tremble ... don’t be afraid,” Anna whispered.

Suddenly jealousy pricked Jantimer. Swan, who is this? Probably a swan chick. Who else did she call that, whom did she caress? On the same bed, under the same blanket?! And in vain I thought so. Yesterday, as we were walking along the street, this word came to Anna's mind for the first time. No, not because Jantimer reminded her of a chick that was just learning to fly, trying to fly. So she could not think, it would not be in her mind. So white, clean, soft - a swan ... It flew off the tongue itself.

In mythology, the swan is a symbol of beauty, perfection, purity, dignity, nobility, fidelity. S.A. Yesenin, in our opinion, was guided by this understanding when he wrote:

I don't know, is it light or darkness?

In more often the wind sings or a rooster?

Maybe instead of winter in the fields

The swans sat on the meadow.

So, the folklore and mythological basis of S.A. Yesenina is directed to the image captivating beauty the nature of Russia, which Yesenin sang with deep and reverent love, like a living being.

The folklore-mythological basis of M. Karim resists death, and the love of Lubomir Zukh and Maria Teresa acquires eternity.

Chapter 3. Folklore-mythological images of M. Karim and traditional folk-poetic images

3.1 The image of a horse.

The image of a horse, "the main totem Bashkir people» perform various functions, finding amazing embodiment in the poetry of M. Karim. dozens of various associative lines begin with it.

The horse is an image of holiness, nobility for the Bashkir people. In the story "Pardon", the image of a horse occurs several times. Mardan Gardanov says about the horse:

“If all the horses that have passed through my hands are gathered together, you can put a full division in the saddle,” he boasted, “and there will still be horses left. And if you drain all the vodka that I drank! ... However, why drain it, who needs it, drunk vodka? But the horse ... yes, a horse ... Give me any devil ... you won’t have time to blink, but the devil is already, that an angel of heaven is on the line! Only one threw off the ridge and twisted my nose with his hoof, - he felt his nose. - Red was a stallion. The red suit is stubborn. Bad A savrasaya or bulan - obedient, patient; the black suit is completely secretive and cunning. But the white one is sensitive and sensitive, especially mares.”

And Ya. Baynazarov also thinks about horses: “Even in childhood, Yantimer was tickled by a horse demon, and he listened to Gardanov’s story so that his heart skipped a beat.”

The image of the horse speaks of the national identity of the heroes, of their connection with the past of the Bashkir people.

So, the folklore and mythological basis of S.A. Yesenin is aimed at depicting the captivating beauty of the nature of Russia, which Yesenin sang with deep and reverent love, like a living being.

The folklore-mythological basis of M. Karim resists death, and the love of Lubomir Zukh and Maria Teresa acquires eternity.

3.2 Fairy-tale images in M. Karim's story "Pardon"

We have found fairy fragments in the story.

3.3 Magic numbers

In the mythopoetic notions of the ancients, there were so-called sacred numbers, which played an important role in cult rites, in folklore and ancient Russian texts. Each number had multiple meanings. In the text of "Pardon" we met a lot of numbers. Our observations are presented in the following table:

In our opinion, the magic of the number has a certain meaning in the fate of the heroes. Maria-Teresa lived for twelve years in parental home, and the number twelve is considered lucky. At twelve o'clock the meeting began, at which the fate of Lubomyr Zukh was decided, and the number 12 is considered fateful. The same can be said about the numbers 3, 1.7.

Magic numbers determine the life of heroes. When the characters are happy, the numbers 1,3,7 are used. When something happens in the life of the characters, the number 2 is sure to intervene.

For M. Karim, love is a miracle, a fairy tale, a divine gift.

The most poetic, the most beautiful pages in the story they are devoted to the feelings of people, the purest sublime, which war cannot kill, which was facilitated by folklore and mythological images.

In Pardon, we constantly feel the presence of the author. He suffers, doubts, rejoices with us, the readers. In this story, the lyrical beginning is tangible, which creates a special beauty in the language of the work, brings the experiences of the characters closer to the heart of the reader.

Conclusion.

After studying the special literature on the topic, conducting our own research, we came to the following conclusions

In the story, the most poetic pages are devoted to feelings, pure and sublime, which war cannot destroy.

Mustai Karim continues the traditions of Russian classical literature. Many writers and poets turned to folklore and mythology 19 - 20 Vienna

For centuries, myths and folklore images have been accumulated by the experience of peoples, their ideas about good and evil, about worthy and unworthy behavior. Once, passed down from generation to generation, they taught people how to live. These ideas are part of the spiritual treasures accumulated by mankind, acquaintance with which enriches everyone who comes into contact with them.

The story has a strong romantic jet, despite the harshness of the situation itself. For M. Karim, love is a miracle, a fairy tale, a divine gift.

Romantic start in art canvas The stories include fairy-tale fragments. Mustai Karim used folklore and mythological images of nature in his work, magic numbers, proverbs.

All these elements more clearly reveal the inadmissibility of what is happening. Unpermissibility - not within the limits of a specific event, but in a global sense - a war that destroys millions of destinies.

The story is based on the folklore method of opposition (antithesis). This incompatibility of war and human nature will be emphasized by Mustai Karim and nature

The role of folklore and mythological images in the implementation of the author's intention of the story is emphasized even brighter in the course of comparing his work with the work of S.A. Yesenin

Folklore and mythological basis of S.A. Yesenin is aimed at depicting the captivating beauty of the nature of Russia, which Yesenin sang with deep and reverent love, like a living being.

The folklore-mythological basis of M. Karim resists death, and the love of Lubomir Zukh and Maria Teresa acquires eternity.

Folklore and mythology are organically included in the narrative of the story "Pardon" by Mustai Karim and are an expression of the folk national tradition, the spirit of the people, their moral and aesthetic values.

List of used literature

1. "Bashkir folk art" (volume 2) legends and legends - Ufa "Bashkir book publishing house", 1987

2. "Village lawyers" M. Karim - publishing house "Contemporary", 1989

3. "Small genres of Russian folklore" - Moscow " graduate School", 1979

4. "Mythological symbolism of words and images" A. Rogalev - Moscow "Literature at school No. 8", 2002

5. "Mustai Karim" - Ufa "Kitap", 2000

6. "Mustai Karim" M. Lomunov - Moscow " Fiction", 1988

7. "Pardon" M. Karim - Moscow "Sovremennik", 1987

8. "Russian folk mythological creativity" - Moscow "Enlightenment", 1971

9. "Dictionary of Symbols" V. Kopalinsky - FGUIPPP "Amber Tale", 2002

10. "Inexhaustible source" A.L. Fokeev - publishing house "Lyceum", 2005.

Karim Mustai

Pardon

Mustai Karim

"Pardon"

Translation from Bashkir by Ilgiz Karimov

And what a thought, well, whether to think about it ... In such a terrible hour, I became attached - more terrible than the hour of waiting for death. And a thought is not a thought, a memory is one. There, above the hut, a moonlit night - the heart is oppressed. With a rustle, dry leaves fall - the leaves of the twentieth autumn of Yantimer. Another will hit the ground and ring out louder. It's probably an aspen leaf. Birch does not ring like that, it is softer. Or, along with the leaves, ringing, the moonlight crumbles? The moon is full, and also from that night it went to the scree. And the full moon from childhood drove Jantimer into melancholy and anxiety. Now too. An endless clear night lies ahead. If it were dark, with rain and wind, maybe it would pass easier and faster, but here it froze, like a quiet lake, it doesn’t flow and doesn’t even splash.

And the memory is busy with its own - it sorts out losses, large and small. Why not finds, not acquisitions, but losses? Jantimer himself could not answer this. And really, why? What kind of losses does he, twenty-year-old Lieutenant Yantimer Bainazarov, have, so that before he commits a terrible deed at dawn, he fulfills his merciless duty, sorting them out like this? Apparently there is. The time before the war is not included in this account. There is a different life, a different world. Even another loss of that time now seems to be a find.

And strangely - this account began with a spoon.

The first misfortune that happened to him on the military path - he lost a spoon. The wide pewter spoon that his mother put into his sack disappeared the very first night they got into the red carriage. Although, how did it disappear? Not herself, frightened by the front, jumped out of the car, leaned back. No, his spoon was not cowardly. She and Yantimer's father, Yanbirde-soldier, went through that German one, tempered in battles and campaigns, life, with its bitterness and sweetness, drank plenty, gained worldly wisdom. Porridge-soup from a pot, a pot, a cast-iron, a plate straight into your mouth, without dropping a drop, dragged countless, pulled well, such was a spoon - even harness it with a root! On the right edge, like a knife blade, it was worn off. Yantimer's mother, the left-hander Gulgai-sha-enge, turned it so that she scraped the bottom of the cauldron not a day. It was not just a spoon - a military weapon. Such people do not quit their service by their own will - unless they burn out or break down. My son will have a reliable companion, thought Gulgaisha-enge. And this is how it turned out...

For a soldier to be left without a spoon is the same as being left without food. And heartbreak. Especially on such a journey: it seems that you have already eaten the food assigned to you in this world. Lost a knife, it would not be so alarming.

In the soldier's carriage on both sides there are bunks in two tiers. There were thirty people. Everyone is in the same uniform, everyone has the same shaven heads, and you can’t immediately tell them from the face. In addition, there is not enough light only from the ajar door. Some from the evening, as soon as they got into the car, got to know each other, while others keep aloof, do not join the company, these, apparently, still do not tear themselves away from home. A thin boy is standing near the door, singing a sad song. He doesn't care about those in the car. He sends his song through the open door there, to the rest, with whom he is separated, he sends.

I went on the road, and the path goes on and on,

And I lost my way to Ufa.

Afraid to shed a soft soul,

I didn’t give you a hand, saying goodbye.

Tears roll down the boy's cheeks. And indeed "the soul is soft." In love, apparently. Love, until it passes through the melancholy of separation, like this, a little tearful, happens. The singer suddenly fell silent. Small head, sharp nose - at that moment he looked like a woodpecker. In addition, the tunic tied with a belt protruded from behind, just like a tail. He is about to pound the door jamb with his beak in his hearts. No, he didn't poke.

And over there, dangling his legs, another one sits on the top shelf - about twenty-five years old, blue-black hair, sunken cheeks, a hooked, slightly twisted nose to one side. Growth has not gone far, but each fist is like a good sledgehammer. You can see by eye how heavy they are. A day had not passed, and this hammer fighter stood in the carriage for the ataman.

I am Mardan Gardanov, I ask you to love and favor, - he said yesterday, as soon as the train set off. - I'm like this: you love me - and I love, but you don't love ... I beat! - And, pleased that he said it so smoothly, he laughed just as well. - I think you will love me. So don't be afraid.

At first, his antics seemed strange, alerted. However, his smiling impudence, simple-hearted arrogance, boasting recklessly amused. And then all this even fell to their liking. He only talks about one thing, about horses. He speaks with inspiration, forgetting everything, even getting tipsy. It turns out that in the Trans-Urals, at the state farm, he was a "tamer rider" - he rode under the saddle of semi-wild horses that walked in a herd, they did not know the bridle and saddle. And his "I love" and "hit" he probably said so, out of arrogance.

If all the horses that have passed through my hands are gathered together, you can put a full division in the saddle, - he boasted, - and there will still be horses left. And if you drain all the vodka that I drank! .. However, why drain it, who needs it, drunk vodka? But the horse ... yes, the horse ... You give me any devil ... you won’t have time to blink, but the devil already, that angel of heaven, is on the line! Only one threw off the ridge and twisted my nose with his hoof, - he felt his nose. - Red was a stallion. The red-haired suit is stubborn, bad, and savrasaya or buckskin is obedient, patient; the black suit is completely secretive and cunning, but the white one is sensitive and sensitive, especially mares. Do you think that batyrs rode Akbuzaty* in vain in the old days?

* Akbuzat is a mythical white horse.

Whether it is true, whether all these arguments of his about the customs and habits of horse suits are not known. But listeners believe. And if they believe it, then it is so.

Yantimer was tickled by a horse demon as a child, and he listened to Gardanov's story in such a way that his heart skipped a beat. Even before entering the theater college, he helped herd the collective farm herd for four summers, and then, when he was studying, every summer, returning home, he took on the same job. It seemed, not only habits - he even knew the thoughts of every horse in the herd. But in order to distinguish tempers by suit, he does not remember this. "Probably, the tamer knows more. But it's interesting ..." - he said to himself and went up to Mardan Gardanov. I stood in front of him ... and froze. What's this? Seems in the eyes? ..

If only it seemed!

From the left pocket of Gardanov's tunic protruded the handle of a tin spoon - his, Yantimer's, spoons! She is the best! At the end of it, the generic Bainazarov tamga is scratched - "hare's footprint". The tamer of wild horses has already started a new fable. The audience laughed again. Ytimer did not hear anything, but stood and watched. I wanted to say something ... Where is it! Only - knock-knock, knock-knock - the clatter of wheels beat in my ears. It's not like saying a word ... Just the clatter of wheels in my ears.