Answer from GALINA[guru]
The story describes a situation of acute conflict in
sphere of production and in the personal life of the heroes.
The action takes place in the steppe, in a small group of virgin lands,
detached from big life.
An inquisitive, modest teenager, peering lovingly
into life, into nature, a dreamy romantic who recently left
school bench, Kemal falls under the supervision of a tractor driver
Abakir, a rude and embittered man, selfish and selfish
to the core.
Abakir, with some pleasure, tries to spit on the bright
dreams and good intentions of Kemal, to break, humiliate a teenager,
throw his pure soul into prosaicness and cruelty
everyday life.
"... I froze. I listened. Actually, my name is Kemel, but here
called "academic".
So it is: the tractor on the other side is ominously silent. The one who promises
to fill my face - this is Abakir. Again he will yell at me, scold me,
and then he swings his fist.
There are two tractors, and I - one.
And I have to deliver for them on this one-horse cart and water,
and fuel, and lubricant, and all sorts of things.
Tractors are moving further and further away from
the only spring in the whole district.
Farther and farther they go from our only
all over the world of the field camp, where fuel is stored in a tank.
They tried to move it, but where is it - it is also tied to the water.
Source:

Answer from Captain Cake[guru]

Answer from Yldar Sabitov[newbie]
In the story "Camel's Eye" Aitmatov speaks of the beauty of truth, goodness, and their all-conquering power. The action takes place in the steppe, in a small group of virgin lands, cut off from big life. But here, too, burning, urgent problems are resolved. In the center of the events of the story is an honest, truthful and pure young man - Kemal, one of the first to respond to the call of the party to raise the virgin lands. An inquisitive, modest teenager, lovingly peering into life, into nature, a dreamy romantic who recently left the school bench, Kemal falls under the command of the tractor driver Abakir, a rude and embittered man, a selfish person and an egoist to the marrow of his bones.

Chingiz Aitmatov

"Tales of mountains and steppes"

Ch. Aitmatov's book "Tales of the Mountains and Steppes" includes the works: "The First Teacher", "Jamilya", "My Poplar in a Red Scarf", "Mother's Field" and "Camel's Eye".

The image of a woman in the story "Jamilya" was not so revealed by anyone before Aitmatov in Eastern literature. The heroine was born from the very land of Kyrgyzstan. She lived before the appearance of her husband and mother-in-law like a stream, bound by ice. They could not even imagine that this brook could wake up and gurgle, seethe and go in search of a way out to a free life. Ch. Aitmatov shows the problem of the collision of the new and the old way of life and everyday life. This is a complex and common problem. When the characters tried to solve it straightforwardly, they lacked psychological persuasiveness. However, Ch. Aitmatov avoided this shortcoming.

The heroine of the story "Mother's Field" tells about her difficult life. The land listens to her, before which you can’t lie and you can’t fake. The reader understands the author's position, which is that the fate of one person is an inseparable part of the nation's fate.

In the story "The First Teacher" Ch. Aitmatov tries to create a powerful realistic image of a communist. It shows his feat, as well as the ideological and moral connection between him and the new generation. Master Duisheng was the son of a poor man. He passionately carried out his work as a teacher in the village. His feat lies not only in the fact that he accustoms aul children to knowledge, but also has a positive effect on the entire adult population of the aul. He is supported by his fellow villagers.

In the early 1960s, Aitmatov's novels Poplar in a Red Scarf and Camel's Eye appeared. In both stories, the writer describes situations of acute conflict in the sphere of production and in the personal lives of the characters. Verbosity is always alien to them. Through deeds and subtle details, the author shows the unity of loving hearts, for which a declaration of love does not mean love itself at all.

In his stories, Ch. Aitmatov proves to himself and to his readers that for any plot and any topic he can find his own unique Aitmat solution.

Chingiz Aitmatov

camel eye

I managed to scoop up only half a bucket of water from the spring, when a heart-rending cry swept over the steppe:

Hey! Academician, I'll beat my face!

I froze. I listened. Actually, my name is Kemel, but here they called me "academician." So it is: the tractor on the other side is ominously silent. The one who promises to stuff my face is Abakir. Again he will yell at me, scold me, or even wave his fist. There are two tractors, and I - one. And I have to deliver for them on this one-horse cart and water, and fuel, and lubricants, and all sorts of things. Tractors every day go further and further away from the only spring in the whole district. Farther and farther they go from our only field camp in the whole wide world, where fuel is stored in a tank. They tried to move it, but where is it - it is also tied to the water. But such an Abakir does not want to know anything: “I’ll beat my face for a simple one, and nothing more! I’m not hanging around here to waste time on some slobbering student!”

And I'm not a student at all. I didn't even try to get into college. I came here right after school, to Anarchay. When we were sent away, at the meeting they said that we, and therefore myself included, were “glorious conquerors of virgin lands, fearless pioneers of renewed lands.” That's who I was at the beginning. And now? I am ashamed to admit: "academician". That's what Abakir called me. I myself am to blame. I don’t know how to hide my thoughts, I dream aloud like a boy, and then people laugh at me. But if anyone knew that it was not so much my own fault for this as our history teacher Aldiyarov. Local historian! I listened to our local historian, and now I'm paying ...

So without filling the barrel to the top, I drove out of the hollow onto the road. In fact, there has never been a road here. It was I who rolled her with my chaise.

The tractor stands at the end of a huge black field. And above - on the cabin - Abakir. Shaking his fists in the air, he still vilifies me, swears at what the world stands on.

I urged on the horse. The water in the barrel splashes on my back, but I drive with might and main.

I asked myself to come here. Nobody forced me. Others went to Kazakhstan, to the real virgin lands, which are written about in the newspapers. And I went to Anarchay alone. Only two tractors work here during the first spring. Last year, the agronomist Sorokin - he is in charge of all of us here - was testing rain-fed barley in a small field. They say he was born well. If it continues like this, then the problem of fodder in the Anarchay steppe may be resolved.

But for now, we have to act with caution. Anarchay is very dry and sultry in summer: even stone thorns - tash-tiken - and then, it happens, dry on the vine. Those collective farms that have been bringing cattle here for the winter since autumn do not dare to sow, they are waiting: let's see what others can do ... Therefore, we can only be counted on the fingers here: two tractor drivers, two trailers, a cook, I am a water carrier - and agronomist Sorokin. That's the whole army of virgin lands conquerors. It is unlikely that anyone knows about us, and we do not know what is happening in the world. Sometimes only Sorokin will bring some news. He rides to the neighboring tract to the shepherds, swears from there on the radio with the authorities and reports reports for reporting.

Yes, but I thought - virgin land, scale! However, this is all our historian Aldiyarov. This is what he painted for us, schoolchildren, Anarchay: “Untouched for centuries, luxurious wormwood steppe, stretching from the Kurdai Highlands up to the reed thickets of Balkhash! According to legend, in the old days, lost in the hills of Anarchay, entire herds disappeared without a trace, and then shoals of feral horses roamed there for a long time. Anarchay is a silent witness of past eras, an arena of grandiose battles, a cradle of nomadic tribes. And today, the Anarchai Plateau is destined to become the richest land of transhumant animal husbandry ... "And so on in the same vein ...

It was good then to look at Anarchay on the map, there he is the size of a palm. And now? I've been driving this stupid water cart back and forth since dawn. In the evening, with difficulty, I unharness the horse and give it pressed hay brought here by car. Then I eat without any appetite what our Aldey gives me, fall asleep in the yurt and sleep like a dead sleep.

But that Anarchay is a luxurious wormwood steppe - this is indeed so. It would be possible to wander here for hours and admire its beauty, but there is no time.

Everything would be fine, but I don’t understand one thing: why didn’t Abakir like me, why does he hate me so much? If I knew what awaits me here ... I was ready for all sorts of, so to speak, spontaneous difficulties. I didn't come here to visit. But for some reason I did not think at all about the people with whom I was to live and work. Everywhere people are people...

I managed to scoop up only half a bucket of water from the spring, when a heart-rending cry swept over the steppe:

Hey! Academician, I'll beat my face!

I froze. I listened. Actually, my name is Kemel, but here they called me "academician." So it is: the tractor on the other side is ominously silent. The one who promises to stuff my face is Abakir. Again he will yell at me, scold me, or even wave his fist. There are two tractors, and I - one. And I have to deliver for them on this one-horse cart and water, and fuel, and lubricants, and all sorts of things. Tractors every day go further and further away from the only spring in the whole district. Farther and farther they go from our only field camp in the whole wide world, where fuel is stored in a tank. They tried to move it, but where is it - it is also tied to the water. But such an Abakir does not want to know anything: “I’ll beat my face for a simple one, and nothing more! I’m not hanging around here to waste time on some slobbering student!”

And I'm not a student at all. I didn't even try to get into college. I came here right after school, to Anarchay. When we were sent away, at the meeting they said that we, and therefore myself included, were “glorious conquerors of virgin lands, fearless pioneers of renewed lands.” That's who I was at the beginning. And now? I am ashamed to admit: "academician". That's what Abakir called me. I myself am to blame. I don’t know how to hide my thoughts, I dream aloud like a boy, and then people laugh at me. But if anyone knew that it was not so much my own fault for this as our history teacher Aldiyarov. Local historian! I listened to our local historian, and now I'm paying ...

So without filling the barrel to the top, I drove out of the hollow onto the road. In fact, there has never been a road here. It was I who rolled her with my chaise.

The tractor stands at the end of a huge black field. And above - on the cabin - Abakir. Shaking his fists in the air, he still vilifies me, swears at what the world stands on.

I urged on the horse. The water in the barrel splashes on my back, but I drive with might and main.

I asked myself to come here. Nobody forced me. Others went to Kazakhstan, to the real virgin lands, which are written about in the newspapers. And I went to Anarchay alone. Only two tractors work here during the first spring. Last year, the agronomist Sorokin - he is in charge of all of us here - was testing rain-fed barley in a small field. They say he was born well. If it continues like this, then the problem of fodder in the Anarchay steppe may be resolved.

But for now, we have to act with caution. Anarchay is very dry and sultry in summer: even stone thorns - tash-tiken - and then, it happens, dry on the vine. Those collective farms that have been bringing cattle here for the winter since autumn do not dare to sow, they are waiting: let's see what others can do ... Therefore, we can only be counted on the fingers here: two tractor drivers, two trailers, a cook, I am a water carrier - and agronomist Sorokin. That's the whole army of virgin lands conquerors. It is unlikely that anyone knows about us, and we do not know what is happening in the world. Sometimes only Sorokin will bring some news. He rides to the neighboring tract to the shepherds, swears from there on the radio with the authorities and reports reports for reporting.

Yes, but I thought - virgin land, scale! However, this is all our historian Aldiyarov. This is what he painted for us, schoolchildren, Anarchay: “Untouched for centuries, luxurious wormwood steppe, stretching from the Kurdai Highlands up to the reed thickets of Balkhash! According to legend, in the old days, lost in the hills of Anarchay, entire herds disappeared without a trace, and then shoals of feral horses roamed there for a long time. Anarchay is a silent witness of past eras, an arena of grandiose battles, a cradle of nomadic tribes. And today, the Anarchai Plateau is destined to become the richest land of transhumant animal husbandry ... "And so on in the same vein ...

It was good then to look at Anarchay on the map, there he is the size of a palm. And now? I've been driving this stupid water cart back and forth since dawn. In the evening, with difficulty, I unharness the horse and give it pressed hay brought here by car. Then I eat without any appetite what our Aldey gives me, fall asleep in the yurt and sleep like a dead sleep.

But that Anarchay is a luxurious wormwood steppe - this is indeed so. It would be possible to wander here for hours and admire its beauty, but there is no time.

Everything would be fine, but I don’t understand one thing: why didn’t Abakir like me, why does he hate me so much? If I knew what awaits me here ... I was ready for all sorts of, so to speak, spontaneous difficulties. I didn't come here to visit. But for some reason I did not think at all about the people with whom I was to live and work. Everywhere people are people...

I drove here for two days. Together with me, this four-wheeled water cart was being transported in the back, and I did not even suspect then that it was because of it that I would sip so much grief here.

After all, I was driving here as a trailer. I thought I would work in the spring near the tractor, I would learn and become a tractor driver myself. That's what they told me in the area. With this dream, I went to Anarchay. And when I arrived at the place, it turned out that there were already trailers, and I, they say, had been sent by a water carrier. It was necessary, of course, to immediately refuse and return home. Moreover, I have never dealt with clamps and shafts. And in fact, he hadn’t worked anywhere yet, only on subbotniks he helped his mother at the sugar factory. My father died at the front. I do not remember him. So I decided to start an independent life ... But still, I had to return right away. Ashamed. So much noise was then at the meeting! And my mother would not let go, she dreamed of seeing me as a doctor. But I insisted, persuaded - to help, they say, I will. I was torn myself, I could not wait to leave as soon as possible. How would I look people in the eye if I immediately returned? I had to get on a water carrier. However, my troubles did not begin with her.

Even on the way here, standing in the back, I looked with all my eyes: here it is, the ancient, legendary Anarchay! The car raced along a barely noticeable road, lost among the slightly hilly green steppe, slightly veiled in the distance by a bluish fog. The earth was still breathing melted snow. But in the damp air one could already discern the young, bitter smell of smoky Anarchan wormwood, the sprouts of which made their way near the rhizomes of last year's broken dead wood. The headwind carried with it the ringing sound of the steppe expanse and spring purity. We were chasing the horizon, and it kept moving away from us along the soft, blurred ridges of distant ridges, opening up more and more anarchic distances behind the hillocks.

And it seemed to me that I heard the voices of past times. The earth trembled and hummed from the clatter of thousands of hooves. An ocean wave, with a wild whooping and roaring, rushed the cavalry of the nomads with peaks and banners at the ready. Terrible battles passed before my eyes. Metal rang, people shouted, horses squabbled, beat their hooves. And I myself was somewhere in this ebullient battle... But the fighting subsided, and then white yurts scattered over the spring Anarchay, dung smoke smoked over the camps, flocks of sheep and herds of horses grazed around, camel caravans went to the sound of bells, no one knows where and don't know where...

The long, rolling whistle of the locomotive brought me back to reality. Throwing thick clouds of smoke onto the cars, the locomotive left like a galloping horse with a fluttering mane and an outstretched tail. So it seemed to me from afar. And the train is getting smaller and smaller, it turned into a dark dash, and then completely disappeared from sight.

We crossed the railway at a siding lost in the steppe and moved on…

Chingiz Aitmatov

camel eye

I managed to scoop up only half a bucket of water from the spring, when a heart-rending cry swept over the steppe:

Hey! Academician, I'll beat my face!

I froze. I listened. Actually, my name is Kemel, but here they called me "academician." So it is: the tractor on the other side is ominously silent. The one who promises to stuff my face is Abakir. Again he will yell at me, scold me, or even wave his fist. There are two tractors, and I - one. And I have to deliver for them on this one-horse cart and water, and fuel, and lubricants, and all sorts of things. Tractors every day go further and further away from the only spring in the whole district. Farther and farther they go from our only field camp in the whole wide world, where fuel is stored in a tank. They tried to move it, but where is it - it is also tied to the water. But such an Abakir does not want to know anything: “I’ll beat my face for a simple one, and nothing more! I’m not hanging around here to waste time on some slobbering student!”

And I'm not a student at all. I didn't even try to get into college. I came here right after school, to Anarchay. When we were sent away, at the meeting they said that we, and therefore myself included, were “glorious conquerors of virgin lands, fearless pioneers of renewed lands.” That's who I was at the beginning. And now? I am ashamed to admit: "academician". That's what Abakir called me. I myself am to blame. I don’t know how to hide my thoughts, I dream aloud like a boy, and then people laugh at me. But if anyone knew that it was not so much my own fault for this as our history teacher Aldiyarov. Local historian! I listened to our local historian, and now I'm paying ...

So without filling the barrel to the top, I drove out of the hollow onto the road. In fact, there has never been a road here. It was I who rolled her with my chaise.

The tractor stands at the end of a huge black field. And above - on the cabin - Abakir. Shaking his fists in the air, he still vilifies me, swears at what the world stands on.

I urged on the horse. The water in the barrel splashes on my back, but I drive with might and main.

I asked myself to come here. Nobody forced me. Others went to Kazakhstan, to the real virgin lands, which are written about in the newspapers. And I went to Anarchay alone. Only two tractors work here during the first spring. Last year, the agronomist Sorokin - he is in charge of all of us here - was testing rain-fed barley in a small field. They say he was born well. If it continues like this, then the problem of fodder in the Anarchay steppe may be resolved.

But for now, we have to act with caution. Anarchay is very dry and sultry in summer: even stone thorns - tash-tiken - and then, it happens, dry on the vine. Those collective farms that have been bringing cattle here for the winter since autumn do not dare to sow, they are waiting: let's see what others can do ... Therefore, we can only be counted on the fingers here: two tractor drivers, two trailers, a cook, I am a water carrier - and agronomist Sorokin. That's the whole army of virgin lands conquerors. It is unlikely that anyone knows about us, and we do not know what is happening in the world. Sometimes only Sorokin will bring some news. He rides to the neighboring tract to the shepherds, swears from there on the radio with the authorities and reports reports for reporting.

Yes, but I thought - virgin land, scale! However, this is all our historian Aldiyarov. This is what he painted for us, schoolchildren, Anarchay: “Untouched for centuries, luxurious wormwood steppe, stretching from the Kurdai Highlands up to the reed thickets of Balkhash! According to legend, in the old days, lost in the hills of Anarchay, entire herds disappeared without a trace, and then shoals of feral horses roamed there for a long time. Anarchay is a silent witness of past eras, an arena of grandiose battles, a cradle of nomadic tribes. And today, the Anarchai Plateau is destined to become the richest land of transhumant animal husbandry ... "And so on in the same vein ...

It was good then to look at Anarchay on the map, there he is the size of a palm. And now? I've been driving this stupid water cart back and forth since dawn. In the evening, with difficulty, I unharness the horse and give it pressed hay brought here by car. Then I eat without any appetite what our Aldey gives me, fall asleep in the yurt and sleep like a dead sleep.

But that Anarchay is a luxurious wormwood steppe - this is indeed so. It would be possible to wander here for hours and admire its beauty, but there is no time.

Everything would be fine, but I don’t understand one thing: why didn’t Abakir like me, why does he hate me so much? If I knew what awaits me here ... I was ready for all sorts of, so to speak, spontaneous difficulties. I didn't come here to visit. But for some reason I did not think at all about the people with whom I was to live and work. Everywhere people are people...

I drove here for two days. Together with me, this four-wheeled water cart was being transported in the back, and I did not even suspect then that it was because of it that I would sip so much grief here.

After all, I was driving here as a trailer. I thought I would work in the spring near the tractor, I would learn and become a tractor driver myself. That's what they told me in the area. With this dream, I went to Anarchay. And when I arrived at the place, it turned out that there were already trailers, and I, they say, had been sent by a water carrier. It was necessary, of course, to immediately refuse and return home. Moreover, I have never dealt with clamps and shafts. And in fact, he hadn’t worked anywhere yet, only on subbotniks he helped his mother at the sugar factory. My father died at the front. I do not remember him. So I decided to start an independent life ... But still, I had to return right away. Ashamed. So much noise was then at the meeting! And my mother would not let go, she dreamed of seeing me as a doctor. But I insisted, persuaded - to help, they say, I will. I was torn myself, I could not wait to leave as soon as possible. How would I look people in the eye if I immediately returned? I had to get on a water carrier. However, my troubles did not begin with her.

Even on the way here, standing in the back, I looked with all my eyes: here it is, the ancient, legendary Anarchay! The car raced along a barely noticeable road, lost among the slightly hilly green steppe, slightly veiled in the distance by a bluish fog. The earth was still breathing melted snow. But in the damp air one could already discern the young, bitter smell of smoky Anarchan wormwood, the sprouts of which made their way near the rhizomes of last year's broken dead wood. The headwind carried with it the ringing sound of the steppe expanse and spring purity. We were chasing the horizon, and it kept moving away from us along the soft, blurred ridges of distant ridges, opening up more and more anarchic distances behind the hillocks.

And it seemed to me that I heard the voices of past times. The earth trembled and hummed from the clatter of thousands of hooves. An ocean wave, with a wild whooping and roaring, rushed the cavalry of the nomads with peaks and banners at the ready. Terrible battles passed before my eyes. Metal rang, people shouted, horses squabbled, beat their hooves. And I myself was somewhere in this ebullient battle... But the fighting subsided, and then white yurts scattered over the spring Anarchay, dung smoke smoked over the camps, flocks of sheep and herds of horses grazed around, camel caravans went to the sound of bells, no one knows where and don't know where...

The long, rolling whistle of the locomotive brought me back to reality. Throwing thick clouds of smoke onto the cars, the locomotive left like a galloping horse with a fluttering mane and an outstretched tail. So it seemed to me from afar. And the train is getting smaller and smaller, it turned into a dark dash, and then completely disappeared from sight.

We crossed the railway at a siding lost in the steppe and moved on…

On the very first day upon arrival, I betrayed myself completely. I have not yet got rid of those visions that I fancied on the road. Not far from the field camp, an ancient stone woman stood on a hillock. A gray, rough-hewn granite block of the century stood here, as if on patrol, sinking deep into the ground and staring into the distance with a dull, lifeless look. Her right eye, slightly slanted, chipped by rain and wind, seemed leaky, empty, and frightened away with an evil squint under the heavy semblance of an eyelid. I looked at the woman for a long time, and then, going up to the yurt, I asked Sorokin:

What do you think, comrade agronomist, who could put this figure here?

Sorokin was going to go somewhere.

They must be Kalmyks,” he said, getting into the saddle and drove off.

What would I then calm down on this! Not! It was as if someone was pulling my tongue, and I turned to the tractor drivers and trailers, whom I had not yet had time to get to know properly:

No, that's not entirely accurate. Kalmyks were here in the seventeenth century. And this is a tombstone of the twelfth century. Babu, obviously, was placed by the Mongols at the time of the great invasion to the west. Together with them, we, the Kirghiz, came from the Yenisei here, to the Tien Shan region. Before us, the Kipchak tribes lived here, and before them, red-haired, light-eyed people.

Hey you little one! He shot me an annoyed look. - You're a scientist. Go get a syringe with grease from the yurt.