Here is an excerpt from the book.
About Yuri Kazakov
“The Old House” is the title of one of Yuri Kazakov’s unfinished stories. And although this story, due to its incompleteness, was not published in the book, it was he who gave the title to the entire collection. The point is probably that with his creativity the writer connected us with something from the past: very dear, reliable, beautiful.
In the mid-twentieth century, it was generally accepted that all this no longer existed, that all the foundations of the past had been swept away irrevocably. But then the stories of Yuri Kazakov appeared, and it became clear: the connection of times has not been interrupted, and all the people around us, like hundreds and thousands of years ago, are precious, first of all, for the movements of their souls, movements that are sometimes barely noticeable, or even completely elusive.
Yes, there is also the writer’s home - an old house on Old Arbat. Since time immemorial, it housed a famous pet store, which for a long time maintained a warm tradition: people often bought a siskin or a goldfinch here, so that when they went outside, they would immediately release the bird. And there was also an old house in Abramtsevo. So: “Old House”...
Yuri Kazakov literally burst into literature: his polished, sophisticated prose overturned ideas about how to write. People were chasing his stories, published in newspapers and magazines. Then books appeared. They were also being chased. It was obvious: Kazakov is a brilliant writer. And only criticism was confused: it was used to thinking in large-scale ideological categories, but suddenly something tremulous, piercingly intimate...
Once, while in the hospital, Kazakov met Archimandrite Kirill (Pavlov). They were in the same room, which, of course, was conducive to communication. Subsequently, the priest came to the writer’s dacha in Abramtsevo and consecrated the house. It is difficult to say how deep Kazakov’s religiosity was, however, when starting a new story, he asked the Lord for help and support: written prayer appeals were preserved on the first pages of some manuscripts.
His creativity still remains underestimated. Meanwhile, in the second half of the twentieth century, no one, perhaps, did more for Russian prose than Yuri Kazakov, whose collected works fit into one volume.
It lies on Vagankovo under a simple wooden cross. Pray: in baptism he is George...
Priest Yaroslav Shipov
Quiet morning
The sleepy roosters had just crowed, it was still dark in the hut, the mother had not milked the cow and the shepherd had not driven the flock out into the meadows, when Yashka woke up.
He sat up in bed and stared for a long time at the bluish sweaty windows and the dimly whitening stove. The pre-dawn sleep is sweet, and his head falls on the pillow, and his eyes are stuck together, but Yashka overcame himself, stumbling, clinging to benches and chairs, and began to wander around the hut, looking for old pants and a shirt.
After eating milk and bread, Yashka took fishing rods in the entryway and went out onto the porch. The village was covered with fog, like a big duvet. The nearby houses were still visible, the distant ones were barely visible as dark spots, and even further, towards the river, nothing was visible, and it seemed as if there had never been a windmill on the hill, no fire tower, no school, no forest on the horizon... Everything has disappeared, hidden now, and the center of the small closed world turned out to be Yashkin’s hut.
Someone woke up before Yashka and was hammering near the forge; pure metallic sounds, breaking through the veil of fog, reached a large invisible barn and returned from there already weakened. It seemed as if two people were knocking: one louder, the other quieter.
Yashka jumped off the porch, swung his fishing rods at a rooster that had turned up at his feet, and trotted cheerfully toward the barn. At the barn, he pulled out a rusty mower from under the board and began digging the ground. Almost immediately, red and purple cold worms began to appear. Thick and thin, they sank equally quickly into the loose soil, but Yashka still managed to grab them and soon filled up an almost full jar. Having sprinkled fresh earth on the worms, he ran down the path, tumbled over the fence and made his way backwards to the barn, where his new friend Volodya was sleeping in the hayloft.
Yashka put his soil-stained fingers in his mouth and whistled. Then he spat and listened. It was quiet.
Volodka! - he called. - Get up!
Volodya stirred in the hay, fidgeted and rustled there for a long time, and finally awkwardly climbed down, stepping on his untied shoelaces. His face, wrinkled after sleep, was senseless and motionless, like a blind man’s, hay dust was in his hair, and it apparently got into his shirt, because, standing below, next to Yashka, he kept jerking his thin neck, rolled his shoulders and scratched his back.
Isn't it early? - he asked hoarsely, yawned and, swaying, grabbed the stairs with his hand.
Yashka got angry: he got up a whole hour earlier, dug up worms, brought fishing rods... and to tell the truth, he got up today because of this runt, he wanted to show him the fishing spots - and so instead of gratitude and admiration - "early"!
For some it’s too early, and for some it’s not too early! - he answered angrily and looked Volodya from head to toe with disdain.
Volodya looked out into the street, his face became animated, his eyes sparkled, and he began hastily lacing up his shoes. But for Yashka, all the charm of the morning was already poisoned.
Are you going to wear boots? - he asked contemptuously and looked at the protruding toe of his bare foot. - Will you wear galoshes?
Volodya remained silent, blushed and began working on the other shoe.
Well, yes... - Yashka continued melancholy, putting the fishing rods against the wall. - Over there, in Moscow, they probably don’t walk barefoot...
So what? - Volodya looked down into Yashka’s wide, mockingly angry face.
Nothing... Run home, grab your coat...
Well, I'll run! - Volodya answered through clenched teeth and blushed even more.
Yashka got bored. He shouldn't have gotten involved with this whole thing. Why should Kolka and Zhenka Voronkovs be fishermen, and they even admit that there is no better fisherman in the entire collective farm than him. Just take me to the place and show me - they’ll cover you with apples! And this one... came yesterday, polite... “Please, please...” Should I hit him in the neck, or what? It was necessary to contact this Muscovite, who, probably, has never even seen a fish, goes fishing in boots!..
“And put on a tie,” Yashka said sarcastically and laughed hoarsely. “Our fish get offended when you approach them without a tie.”
Volodya finally managed to take off his boots and, his nostrils twitching with resentment, looking straight ahead with an unseeing gaze, left the barn. He was ready to give up fishing and immediately burst into tears, but he was so looking forward to this morning! Yashka reluctantly followed him, and the guys silently, without looking at each other, walked down the street. They walked through the village, and the fog receded before them, revealing more and more houses, and barns, and a school, and long rows of milky-white farm buildings... Like a stingy owner, he showed all this only for a minute and then again tightly closed in from behind.
Volodya suffered severely. He was angry with himself for his rude answers to Yashka, he was angry with Yashka, and at that moment he seemed awkward and pathetic to himself. He was ashamed of his awkwardness, and in order to somehow drown out this unpleasant feeling, he thought, becoming embittered: “Okay, let him... Let him mock me, they will still recognize me, I won’t let them laugh! Just think, the importance of going barefoot is great! Imagine what! But at the same time, he looked with open envy and even admiration at Yashka’s bare feet, and at the canvas fish bag, and at the patched trousers and gray shirt worn especially for fishing. He envied Yashka’s tan and his gait, in which his shoulders and shoulder blades and even his ears move, and which many village children consider to be especially chic.
We passed by a well with an old log house overgrown with greenery.
Stop! - Yashka said gloomily. - Let's have a drink!
He went up to the well, rattled his chain, pulled out a heavy tub of water and greedily leaned into it. He didn’t want to drink, but he believed that there was nowhere better than this water, and therefore every time he passed by the well, he drank it with great pleasure. The water, overflowing over the edge of the tub, splashed on his bare feet, he tucked them in, but kept drinking and drinking, occasionally breaking away and breathing noisily.
Come on, drink! - he finally said to Volodya, wiping his lips with his sleeve.
Volodya also didn’t want to drink, but in order not to anger Yashka even more, he obediently fell down to the tub and began to take small sips of water until the back of his head ached from the cold.
Well, how's the water? - Yashka inquired smugly when Volodya walked away from the well.
Legitimate! - Volodya responded and shivered.
I suppose there isn’t one like this in Moscow? - Yashka squinted venomously.
Volodya didn’t answer, he just sucked in air through clenched teeth and smiled reconcilingly.
Have you caught fish? - Yashka asked.
No... Only on the Moscow River I saw how they were caught,” Volodya confessed in a fallen voice and timidly looked at Yashka.
This confession softened Yashka somewhat, and he, touching the can of worms, said casually:
Yesterday our manager of the club in the Pleshansky Bochag saw catfish...
Volodya's eyes sparkled.
Big?
What did you think? About two meters... Or maybe all three - it was impossible to make out in the darkness. Our club manager was already scared, he thought it was a crocodile. Don't believe me?
You're lying! - Volodya exhaled enthusiastically and shrugged his shoulders; it was clear from his eyes that he believed everything unconditionally.
Am I lying? - Yashka was amazed. - If you want, let's go fishing this evening! Well?
Is it possible? - Volodya asked hopefully, and his ears turned pink.
Why... - Yashka spat and wiped his nose with his sleeve. - I have the tackle. We'll catch frogs, loaches... We'll capture the crawlies - there are still chubs there - and it'll be two dawns! We'll light a fire at night... Will you go?
Volodya felt incredibly cheerful, and only now did he feel how good it was to leave the house in the morning. How nice and easy it is to breathe, how you want to run along this soft road, rush at full speed, jumping and squealing with delight!
Why was that strange sound back there? Who was it that suddenly, as if striking a tight string over and over again, screamed clearly and melodiously in the meadows? Where was it with him? Or maybe it wasn’t? But why then is this feeling of delight and happiness so familiar?
What was that crackling so loudly in the field? Motorbike? Volodya looked questioningly at Yashka.
Tractor! - Yashka answered importantly.
Tractor? But why does it crack?
It's starting... It'll start soon... Listen. Whoa... Did you hear that? Buzzed! Well, now he’ll go... This is Fedya Kostylev - he plowed all night with headlights, slept a little and went again...
Volodya looked in the direction from which the roar of the tractor was heard, and immediately asked:
Are your fogs always like this?
Not... when it's clean. And when it’s later, closer to September, you’ll see that it will hit you with frost. In general, the fish takes it in the fog - have time to carry it!
What kind of fish do you have?
Fish? All kinds of fish... And there are crucian carp on the reaches, pike, well, then these... perch, roach, bream... And tench. Do you know tench? Like a pig. That's fat! The first time I caught it, my mouth was agape.
How many can you catch?
Hm... Anything can happen. Another time about five kilos, and another time only... for a cat.
What's that whistle? - Volodya stopped and raised his head.
This? These are ducks flying... Teals.
Yeah... I know. What is this?
The blackbirds are ringing... They flew to the rowan tree to visit Aunt Nastya in the garden. When did you catch blackbirds?
Never caught...
Mishka Kayunenka has a net, just wait, let's go catch it. They, blackbirds, are greedy... They fly through the fields in flocks, taking worms from under the tractor. Stretch the net, throw in rowan berries, hide and wait. As soon as they swoop in, about five of them will immediately crawl under the net... They are funny... Not all of them, really, but there are smart ones... I had one all winter, he could do it in every way: both as a steam locomotive and as a saw.
The village was soon left behind, low-growing oats stretched endlessly, and a dark strip of forest was barely visible ahead.
How much longer to go? - asked Volodya.
“Soon... It’s nearby, let’s go,” Yashka answered every time.
They came out onto a hillock, turned right, went down a ravine, followed a path through a flax field, and then, quite unexpectedly, a river opened up in front of them. It was small, densely overgrown with broom, with willow along the banks, clearly rang in the riffles and often spilled into deep, dark pools.
The sun has finally risen; a horse neighed subtly in the meadows, and somehow unusually quickly everything around became brighter and pinker; The gray dew on the fir trees and bushes became even more clearly visible, and the fog began to move, thinned out and began to reluctantly reveal haystacks, dark against the smoky background of the now nearby forest. The fish were walking. Occasional heavy splashes were heard in the pools, the water was agitated, and the coastal cougar gently swayed.
Volodya was ready to start fishing right now, but Yashka walked further and further along the river bank. They were almost waist-deep in dew when Yashka finally said in a whisper: “Here!” - and began to go down to the water. He accidentally stumbled, wet clods of earth fell from under his feet, and immediately, invisible, the ducks quacked, flapped their wings, took off and flew over the river, disappearing in the fog. Yashka cowered and hissed like a goose. Volodya licked his dry lips and jumped down after Yashka. Looking around, he was amazed at the gloom that reigned in this pool. It smelled of dampness, clay and mud, the water was black, the willows in their wild growth almost covered the entire sky, and, despite the fact that their tops were already pink from the sun, and the blue sky was visible through the fog, here, by the water, it was damp, gloomy and cold.
Do you know how deep it is? - Yashka rolled his eyes. - There’s no bottom here...
Volodya moved a little away from the water and shuddered when a fish struck loudly on the opposite shore.
No one bathes in this barrel...
It sucks you in... As soon as you put your legs down, that’s it... The water is like ice and pulls you down. Mishka Kayunenok said that there are octopuses at the bottom.
“Octopuses are only... in the sea,” Volodya said hesitantly and moved further away.
At sea... I know it myself! And Mishka saw it! He went fishing, he walks by, he looks at a probe coming out of the water and then it’s rummaging along the shore... Well? The bear runs all the way to the village! Although, he’s probably lying, I know him,” Yashka concluded somewhat unexpectedly and began to unwind the fishing rods.
Volodya perked up, and Yashka, having already forgotten about the octopuses, looked impatiently at the water, and every time a fish splashed noisily, his face took on a tense, suffering expression.
Having unwound the fishing rods, he handed one of them to Volodya, poured worms into a matchbox and showed him with his eyes the place where to fish.
Having thrown the nozzle, Yashka, without letting go of the rod, impatiently stared at the float. Almost immediately Volodya also threw his bait, but in doing so he caught the willow with his rod. Yashka looked at Volodya terribly, cursed in a whisper, and when he turned his gaze back to the float, instead he saw only light diverging circles. Yashka immediately hooked with force, smoothly moved his hand to the right, and with pleasure felt the fish springing elastically into the depths, but the tension of the fishing line suddenly weakened, and an empty hook jumped out of the water with a smack. Yashka trembled with rage.
Gone, huh? Gone... - he whispered, putting a new worm on the hook with wet hands.
I cast the bait again and again, without letting go of the rod, kept my eyes on the float, waiting for a bite. But there was no bite, and even no splashes were heard. Yashka’s hand soon got tired, and he carefully stuck the rod into the soft bank. Volodya looked at Yashka and also stuck his rod in.
The sun, rising higher and higher, finally peered into this gloomy pool. The water immediately sparkled dazzlingly, and drops of dew lit up on the leaves, on the grass and on the flowers.
Volodya, squinting his eyes, looked at his float, then looked back and asked uncertainly:
What if the fish goes to another tank?
Of course! - Yashka answered angrily. - She lost her temper and scared everyone away. And she was probably healthy... As soon as I pulled, my hand was immediately dragged down! Maybe it would have lifted by a kilo.
Yashka was a little ashamed that he had missed the fish, but, as often happens, he was inclined to attribute his guilt to Volodya. “I’m also a fisherman! - he thought. “He’s sitting like a bark... You fish alone or with a real fisherman, just have time to carry it...” He wanted to prick Volodya with something, but suddenly he grabbed the fishing rod: the float moved slightly. Straining, as if uprooting a tree, he slowly pulled the fishing rod out of the ground and, holding it suspended, slightly lifted it up. The float swayed again, lay on its side, stayed in that position for a bit, and straightened up again. Yashka took a breath, squinted his eyes and saw Volodya, turning pale, slowly getting up. Yashka felt hot, sweat appeared in small droplets on his nose and upper lip. The float shuddered again, moved to the side, sank halfway and finally disappeared, leaving behind a barely noticeable curl of water. Yashka, like last time, gently hooked and immediately leaned forward, trying to straighten the rod. The fishing line with the float trembling on it drew a curve, Yashka stood up, grabbed the fishing rod with his other hand and, feeling strong and frequent jerks, again smoothly moved his hands to the right. Volodya jumped up to Yashka and, his desperate round eyes shining, shouted in a thin voice:
Come on, come on, come on!
Go away! - Yashka wheezed, backing away, often stepping on his feet.
For an instant, the fish burst out of the water, showed its sparkling wide side, struck tightly with its tail, raised a fountain of pink spray and again rushed into the cold depths. But Yashka, resting the butt of the rod on his stomach, kept backing away and shouting:
You're lying, you won't leave!..
Finally, he brought the struggling fish to the shore, threw it onto the grass with a jerk and immediately fell on his stomach. Volodya’s throat was dry, his heart was pounding furiously...
What do you have? - he asked, squatting down. - Show me what you have?
Le-yet! - Yashka said enthusiastically.
He carefully pulled out a large, cold bream from under his belly, turned his happy, wide face to Volodya, started to laugh hoarsely, but his smile suddenly disappeared, his eyes fearfully stared at something behind Volodya’s back, he cringed and gasped:
A fishing rod... Look!
Volodya turned around and saw that his fishing rod, having fallen off a lump of earth, was slowly sliding into the water and something was strongly tugging on the line. He jumped up, stumbled and, on his knees, pulled himself up to the fishing rod and managed to grab it. The rod was severely bent. Volodya turned his round pale face to Yashka.
Hold it! - Yashka shouted.
But at that moment the ground under Volodya’s feet began to move, gave way, he lost his balance, released the fishing rod, absurdly, as if catching a ball, clasped his hands, shouted loudly: “Ahh...” - and fell into the water.
Fool! - Yashka shouted, contorting his face angrily and painfully. - Damn klutz!..
He jumped up, grabbed a clod of earth and grass, preparing to throw it in Volodya’s face as soon as he emerged. But, looking at the water, he froze, and he had that languid feeling that you experience in a dream: Volodya, three meters from the shore, beat, splashed the water with his hands, threw back his white face with bulging eyes to the sky, choked and, plunging into the water , he kept trying to shout something, but his throat was bubbling and it came out: “Waa... Waa...”
“It’s drowning! - Yashka thought with horror. - It’s pulling you in!” He threw a lump of earth and, wiping his sticky hand on his pants, feeling weak in his legs, backed up, away from the water. Mishka's story about huge octopuses at the bottom of the barrel immediately came to his mind, his chest and stomach became cold with horror: he realized that Volodya had been grabbed by an octopus... The earth crumbled from under his feet, he resisted with shaking hands and, just like in a dream, clumsily and heavily climbed up.
Finally, urged on by the terrible sounds that Volodya made, Yashka jumped out into the meadow and rushed towards the village, but, without running even ten steps, he stopped, as if he had stumbled, feeling that there was no way to escape. There was no one nearby, and there was no one to shout for help... Yashka frantically rummaged in his pockets and bag in search of at least some kind of string and, not finding anything, pale, began to creep up to the barrel. Approaching the cliff, he looked down, expecting to see something terrible and at the same time hoping that everything would somehow work out, and again he saw Volodya. Volodya was no longer struggling; he had almost completely disappeared under the water, only the top of his head with his hair sticking out was still visible. She hid and showed up again, hid and showed up... Yashka, without taking his eyes off the top of his head, began to unbutton his pants, then screamed and rolled down. Having freed himself from his pants, he, as he was, in his shirt, with a bag over his shoulder, jumped into the water, swam up to Volodya in two strokes, and grabbed his hand.
Volodya immediately grabbed onto Yashka, quickly, quickly began to move his hands, clinging to his shirt and bag, leaning on him and still squeezed out inhumanly terrible sounds: “Waa... Whaa...” Water poured into Yashka’s mouth. Feeling a death grip on his neck, he tried to put his face out of the water, but Volodya, trembling, kept climbing on him, leaning on him with all his weight, trying to climb onto his shoulders. Yashka choked, coughed, choking, swallowing water, and then horror seized him, red and yellow circles flashed in his eyes with blinding force. He realized that Volodya would drown him, that his death had come, he jerked with all his strength, floundered, screamed as inhumanly as Volodya had screamed a minute ago, kicked him in the stomach, emerged, and saw through the water running from his hair a bright flattened ball of the sun , still feeling Volodya’s weight on himself, he tore him off, threw him off of him, thrashed him through the water with his hands and feet and, raising breakers of foam, rushed to the shore in horror. And only grabbing the coastal sedge with his hand, he came to his senses and looked back. The troubled water in the pool calmed down, and no one was on its surface anymore. Several air bubbles cheerfully jumped out of the depths, and Yashka’s teeth began to chatter. He looked around: the sun was shining brightly, and the leaves of the bushes and willows were shining, the cobwebs between the flowers were glowing rainbow-colored, and the wagtail was sitting above, on a log, swinging its tail and looking at Yashka with a shining eye, and everything was the same as always, everything was breathing peace. and silence, and there was a quiet morning above the earth, and yet just now, very recently, a terrible thing happened - a man had just drowned, and it was he, Yashka, who hit and drowned him.
Yashka blinked, let go of the sedge, moved his shoulders under his wet shirt, took a deep breath of air intermittently and dived. Opening his eyes under water, at first he could not make out anything: vague yellowish and greenish reflections and some grass illuminated by the sun were trembling all around. But the light of the sun did not penetrate there, into the depths... Yashka sank even lower, swam a little, touching the grass with his hands and face, and then he saw Volodya. Volodya kept on his side, one of his legs was tangled in the grass, and he himself slowly turned, swaying, exposing his round pale face to the sunlight and moving his left hand, as if testing the water by touch. It seemed to Yashka that Volodya was pretending and deliberately shaking his hand, that he was watching him in order to grab him as soon as he touched him.
Feeling that he was about to suffocate, Yashka rushed to Volodya, grabbed his hand, closed his eyes, hastily pulled Volodya’s body up and was surprised at how easily and obediently it followed him. Having emerged, he breathed greedily, and now he didn’t need or care about anything except to breathe and feel his chest being filled with clean and sweet air over and over again.
Without letting go of Volodya's shirt, he began to push him towards the shore. It was hard to swim. Feeling the bottom under his feet, Yashka climbed out himself and pulled Volodya out. He shuddered, touching the cold body, looking at the dead, motionless face, was in a hurry and felt so tired, so unhappy...
Turning Volodya onto his back, he began to spread his arms, press on his stomach, and blow into his nose. He was out of breath and weak, and Volodya was still the same white and cold. “He’s dead,” Yashka thought with fear, and he became very scared. I wish I could run away somewhere, hide, just so as not to see this indifferent, cold face!
Yashka sobbed in horror, jumped up, grabbed Volodya by the legs, pulled him up as far as he could and, turning purple from the strain, began to shake him. Volodya’s head was beating on the ground, his hair was matted with dirt. And at that very moment when Yashka, completely exhausted and discouraged, wanted to give up everything and run wherever his eyes looked - at that very moment water gushed from Volodya’s mouth, he groaned and a spasm passed through his body. Yashka released Volodin’s legs, closed his eyes and sat down on the ground.
Volodya leaned on his weak hands and stood up, as if he was about to run somewhere, but he fell down again, started coughing convulsively again, splashing water and writhing on the damp grass. Yashka crawled to the side and looked at Volodya relaxed. Now he loved no one more than Volodya; nothing in the world was dearer to him than that pale, frightened and suffering face. A timid, loving smile shone in Yashka’s eyes; he looked at Volodya with tenderness and asked senselessly:
So how? A? Well, how?..
Volodya recovered a little, wiped his face with his hand, looked at the water and in an unfamiliar, hoarse voice, with noticeable effort, stuttering:
How did I... then...
Then Yashka suddenly wrinkled his face, closed his eyes, tears flowed from his eyes, and he roared, roared bitterly, inconsolably, shaking with his whole body, choking and ashamed of his tears. He cried from joy, from the fear he experienced, from the fact that everything ended well, that Mishka Kayunenok lied and there were no octopuses in this barrel.
Volodya’s eyes darkened, his mouth opened slightly, and he looked at Yashka with fear and bewilderment.
You... what? - he squeezed out.
Yes... - Yashka said as hard as he could, trying not to cry and wiping his eyes with his pants. - You’re drowning... drowning... and I’m going to spa... save you...
And he roared even more desperately and louder.
Volodya blinked, grimaced, looked again at the water, and his heart trembled, he remembered everything...
Ka... how am I drowning!.. - as if in surprise, he said and also began to cry, twitching his thin shoulders, helplessly lowering his head and turning away from his savior.
The water in the pool had long since calmed down, the fish fell from Volodya’s fishing rod, and the fishing rod washed ashore. The sun was shining, the bushes were blazing, sprinkled with dew, and only the water in the pool remained the same black.
The air heated up, and the horizon trembled in its warm currents. From afar, from the fields on the other side of the river, the smells of hay and sweet clover flew along with gusts of warm wind. And these smells, mixing with the more distant but pungent smells of the forest, and this light warm wind were like the breath of an awakened earth, rejoicing at a new bright day.
Russian writer.
Kazakov's adolescence coincided with the years of the Great Patriotic War. Memories of this time, of the night bombings of Moscow, were embodied in the unfinished story Two Nights (other name: Separation of Souls), which he wrote in the 1960-1970s.
At the age of fifteen, Kazakov began studying music - first on the cello, then on the double bass.
In 1946 he entered the music school named after. Gnesins, from which he graduated in 1951. Finding a permanent place in the orchestra turned out to be difficult; Kazakov’s professional musical activity was episodic: he played in unknown jazz and symphony orchestras, and worked as a musician on dance floors. Difficult relationships between parents and the difficult financial situation of the family also did not contribute to the creative growth of Kazakov the musician.
At the end of the 1940s, Kazakov began writing poetry, incl. prose poems, plays that were rejected by editors, as well as essays for the newspaper “Soviet Sport”. Diary entries from those years indicate a passion for writing, which in 1953 led him to the Literary Institute. A.M. Gorky. While studying at the institute, the head of the seminar, according to Kazakov’s recollections, forever discouraged him from writing about what he did not know.
While still a student, Kazakov began publishing his first stories - Blue and Green (1956), Ugly (1956), etc. Soon his first book, Arcturus the Hound Dog (1957), was published. The story became his favorite genre; Kazakov’s skill as a storyteller was undeniable.
Among Kazakov's early works, a special place is occupied by the stories Teddy (1956) and Arcturus the Hound Dog (1957), the main characters of which are animals - Teddy the bear who escaped from the circus and the blind hunting dog Arcturus. Literary critics agreed that in modern literature Kazakov is one of the best continuers of the traditions of Russian classics, in particular I. Bunin, about whom he wanted to write a book and about which he talked with B. Zaitsev and G. Adamovich during a trip to Paris in 1967.
Kazakov's prose is characterized by subtle lyricism and musical rhythm. In 1964, in the sketches of his Autobiography, he wrote that during his years of study he “climbed, hunted, fished, walked a lot, spent the night wherever he had to, watched, listened and memorized all the time.” Already after graduating from the institute (1958), being the author of several prose collections, Kazakov did not lose interest in travel. I visited Pskov Pechory, the Novgorod region, Tarusa, which he called “a nice artistic place,” and other places. Impressions from the trips were embodied in travel essays and works of art - for example, in the stories Along the Road (1960), I Cry and Sob (1963), The Damned North (1964) and many others.
The Russian North occupied a special place in Kazakov’s work.
In the collection of stories and essays Northern Diary (1977), Kazakov wrote that he “always wanted to live not in temporary camps, not in polar wintering grounds and radio stations, but in villages - in places of original Russian settlements, in places where life does not go on quickly, but permanently, for a hundred years, where people are tied to home by family, children, farming, birth, habitual hereditary labor and crosses on the graves of fathers and grandfathers.” In the story about the life of fishermen Nestor and Kir (1961) and others, included in the Northern Diary, the combination of textural accuracy and artistic rethinking of the events described, characteristic of Kazakov’s prose, was revealed. The last chapter of the Northern Diary is dedicated to the Nenets artist Tyko Vylka. Subsequently, Kazakov wrote about him the story The Boy from the Snow Pit (1972-1976) and the script for the film The Great Samoyed (1980).
The hero of Kazakov's prose is an internally lonely man, with a refined perception of reality, and a heightened sense of guilt. The last stories Svechechka (1973) and In a Dream You Cried Bitterly (1977) are imbued with a feeling of guilt and farewell, the main character of which, in addition to the autobiographical narrator, is his little son.
During Kazakov's lifetime, about 10 collections of his stories were published: On the Road (1961), Blue and Green (1963), Two in December (1966), Autumn in the Oak Forests (1969), etc. Kazakov wrote essays and essays, including about Russian prose writers - Lermontov, Aksakov, the Pomeranian storyteller Pisakhov, etc. A special place in this series is occupied by memories of the teacher and friend K. Paustovsky Let's go to Lopshenga (1977). The novel by the Kazakh writer A. Nurpeisov was published in a translation into Russian, carried out by Kazakov interlinearly. In the last years of his life, Kazakov wrote little; most of his plans remained in sketches. Some of them, after the writer’s death, were published in the book Two Nights (1986).
Profession, vocation, hobby, hobby, illness, mania, pathology, entertainment, generally a way to think and suffer, hack work, second-third-fourth job, just self-expression, attractive writing, the only opportunity to speak out, writing for oneself, keeping a diary, memoirs, correspondence, notes with or without reason, provocative and proclamatory letter writing, scientific writing, poetry writing, versification of any kind, poetry and poetry, word creation and text creation - that’s a writer for you. Not a writer (a person who writes, often a journalist, PR person, etc.), not a textmaker and speechwriter (who writes for someone), but a writer. Writer. Just a writer. A writer as such. Yuri Pavlovich Kazakov has an essay “On the Courage of a Writer,” where my favorite prose writer creates a sad and partly terrible picture (and - happy, happy, happy! - for a text creator) of the social and everyday existence of a writer (mainly a prose writer) in the field of periodicals and publishing ( I almost said “deeds”) of arbitrariness. Moreover, Yu. Kazakov depicts the typical and typical state of talent in its psychological, and to a greater extent social, existence. The chain of writing-author-publishing (“publishing”) torment is as follows: author - idea - process of text creation - manuscript excerpt - author's editing - proposal of the manuscript to the journal - waiting - waiting - waiting - refusal / or not refusal - and “the manuscript goes” in six months / year / year and a half, etc. - waiting for publication (stagnation, creative stagnation, not being written!) - publication! - disappointment - waiting for reviews, criticism - the appearance of a review - horror / delight - fatigue - devastation - rest - a new idea - all-day work - manuscript, etc. How does it all end? It’s clear what: death. All this, apparently, makes the writer courageous. Courageous?..
old house
The composer built this house.
When the series of his years had passed, when the circle of life had closed and he had learned everything that he, the happiest and most talented of mortals, was supposed to know, when his heart, tired of the applause of Vienna, London, Paris and St. Petersburg, the splendor of concert halls, love and adoration the best, most beautiful women in the world, when his tired heart burned with the steady fire of the greatest and most tender love for his homeland, for the distant years of childhood, for the endless sad plains - he became sad, and, amazed and rejoicing at this new love, he chose a place on the shore Okie began to build himself a house.
It is said in an old book: “Choose a place on earth for yourself - it’s okay if this place is not wondrous! Build yourself a home and work for the rest of your life to decorate the land. This is how the beauty of the world is created!”
The hill on the bank of the river was bare, sad and wild when they began to transport there white, sugary stone and orange, ringingly red-hot brick, yellow pine and fawn oak and cedar logs, flexible boards that spread the smell of turpentine and lavender, a light red, iridescent - the chocolate shimmer of the tiles, which for some reason smelled of the fine dry dust of the Arabian deserts.
The hill was bare and dry with barely noticeable remains of the ancient settlement, when carpenters, joiners, masons, stove makers, and many different working people from the surrounding villages came there, when they erected huts there and burned small economical fires in the evenings, and blue smoke , - as if deep antiquity had come to life again, - began to fall down in thin streams, towards the river, towards long sunsets, towards the beautiful bluish distances beyond the river.
And all the time he lived in a hut, went to a distant station, the owner of the future house got sunburned and turned red in the sun. He did not spend a single day in idleness, he completely forgot music, sending letters to all the provinces asking for seeds and seedlings, more stone, more wood, arguing with the contractor, drawing, sitting on his knees, shaking his head from the smoke of the fire, rubbing his reddened eyes. , more and more new sketches of rooms, facade and roof.
All spring they planted forests on the hill: alder, linden, pine, birch. They planted apple trees and planted hatched acorns. And in the fall, seedlings finally began to arrive, with roots tied with matting, with the last yellow leaves remaining on thin twigs. All autumn they were planting, finishing, decorating and heating a new, beautiful house, still smelling of boards, shavings, clay and smoke, still damp, unusually echoing, empty, uninhabited, but already looking into the crimson distances with its large windows, already temptingly turning white from afar, reddened by a steep tiled roof, already glowing with light well after midnight.
In the frost, along the crisp, hard road, the clergy arrived for the consecration, the choristers with blue noses, oily hair, with hungry and thirsty eyes arrived, the guests arrived, and all day in the morning the doors were opened, the odorous fur coats were taken off in the hall, the table was set in the dining room, the food was cooked. and fried in the kitchen. And then, in the early November twilight, lamps and candles were lit, the rooms smelled of sweet incense, a huge, bug-eyed deacon cleared his throat, grunted several times, testing the octave - and the splendor of the service began, wondrous ancient words poured out, a beautiful choir began to sound... And also Later, until deep into the night, almost until it was light, passionate speeches of love for the owner were heard in the house, music sounded, everyone ate a lot, drank even more, rejoicing in the warmth and light, the blackness outside the windows, the autumn flood on the Oka.
Thus began a long life at home. This life was calm and majestic, every year it became more and more established, enriched, made more and more efficient and beautiful. Artists came to the house, stayed for a long time, drew a lot, argued a lot, and when they left, each time they left a lot of paintings and sketches for the owner.
And sometimes, tired of his music, he went to the park and did not return soon, inhaling the alcoholic smell of fallen leaves, having looked at the gloomy, deserted Oka. The house received him joyfully, he knew that something wonderful would begin now. And the composer, rubbing his hands, called the guests into the living room, sat down at the harmonium, somewhat sideways, lit a hot cigar and began to play. He played Bach's Passacaglia. One theme was repeated all the time in the left hand, and in the right, new and new variations alternated endlessly, and the listeners sat with bated breath, feeling their hands getting cold and their throats sore.
Yes... - said the composer, having finished playing and resting. - Yes! So many names, my God! There is so much music, but no one, no one else is there - they are all, eternal, the same: Bach, Mozart, Beethoven...
Guests came to see him. A famous, black, languid and always preening artist arrived. He ate little, was capricious, left home for a long time, but when he brought sketches and everyone came to look, a solemn silence fell: his paintings were permeated with such a wondrous, piercing and Russian sadness.
Sometimes a great singer came. He entered the house freely, freely - huge, with a small head thrown back, in a fur coat open on his chest, with an impudent, silky, well-fed boxer dog. How casually and gracefully he bowed, how he kissed the ladies’ hands, how he spoke, slightly turning his wolfish neck.
Just no music! - he asked capriciously. - I'm so tired, well, to hell with it! Misha, let's go fishing!
And in the evening he suddenly went down to the living room, where guests usually gathered. He used to turn pale at such moments. In a black jacket, in a dazzling shirt with an open collar, he approached the piano, leaning on the lacquer lid with a heavy, ringed hand. A deathly pallor filled his face, the nostrils of his short nose quivered, a golden lock of hair fell on his forehead...
Everyone gathered in the living room, sat in the shade and froze in a languid premonition of the great, unprecedented and stunningly sublime. The owner with a wry smile approached the piano, opened the lid, put his fingers flattened at the ends on the keys, struck a few chords, listening in bewilderment to the sonority of the piano, as if he was touching the instrument for the first time. The singer looked around the room with darkened eyes, the paintings on the walls, the amazing icons in the corner, and glanced at the lamp.
And it began... “In my sleep I cried bitterly,” he sang, and everyone felt stuffy, scared and dizzyingly wonderful. And after a short time no one was hiding their tears, and the singer kept singing, sang something ancient Russian, riotous and sweetly sad, for a long time, he sang, now widening, now lowering his crazy eyes, sang as if for the last time, as if never again, He would never have to sing, and he was now in a hurry to get enough, to sing, to be imbued with the extraordinary timbre of his voice.
But there were also dark times when no one came to him for months. Then, day by day, he became more silent, his face more transparent, more and more often he lowered his eyelashes over his eyes, more and more often he went into the forest for a long time, sat there alone, or went around the villages to visit peasants he knew, of whom he already had many. He always returned thinner, with a new expression on his face and even in his figure, hastily greeting and kissing his family, went to his office, lit a cigarette and thought, thought and wrote in hasty crooked hooks on music paper.
Winters and springs passed unnoticed, the composer grew old, his hands withered, his back stooped, and in the mornings in his bedroom he coughed like an old man’s cough. The house was losing the brightness of its newness, it was not striking as before, and it was not visible now as before: wild young growth was growing on all sides, stretching with their tops up, blocking the house, only the dark tiled roof was visible above the forest, only two clearings had to be cut to the river.
But it’s strange, the older the composer became, the longer he lived among poor villages, among smoky forests, vast expanses of plains, the more keenly he felt the charm of Russian life, the more majestic and poignant his music became, the more beautiful wild romances he wrote, preludes, concerts and symphonic poems. Probably only now did he begin to understand his people, their history, their life, their poetry, probably only now did he understand that if anything in the world is worth admiration, worth great, eternal, bitter and sweet love to the point of tears, then only these are only these meadows, only these villages, arable lands, forests, ravines, only these people, working hard all their lives and dying such a beautiful, calm death that he had never seen anywhere else.
The house is old now and looks sick and dying. It's not like it was falling apart, no! - its walls are still strong, the floors are hard, cold and shiny, the beams are dry and loudly tight, the windows are clean, the furniture is varnished, beautiful and impeccably wiped, dry and new - only one staircase, oak, with railings carved by a Moscow cabinetmaker, slightly creaks, groans under the steps. And it’s not because he’s old now, because his tiles have turned black, because on the wide stone porch, on the side, young birch shoots have already sprouted in the cracks.
If you enter the house, there will be a library-living room immediately on the left. Everything in it is the same as before: oak panels, a checkered ceiling made of beams of stained black oak, cabinets along the walls, and in the cabinets - a long row of books, shining with gold bindings, above the cabinets there are paintings - gifts from famous artists, in the corner there are several icons by the same artists . The fireplace is painted with the signs of the Zodiac and lined with ancient Roman copper utensils. In the corner, by the window, there is a beautiful piano, and on the left, near the wall, there is a harmonium.
And the room to the left is a completely different world. There is a dining room here, and the shelves in it, and the sideboards are lined with amazing tueskas made in Vologda, salt cellars of Olonets carving, Veliky Ustyug supplies, golden spoons from Sergiev Posad...
The book of stories by Yuri Kazakov “The Old House” was published in the series “Modern Orthodox Prose”; On the title page there is a blessing from His Holiness Patriarch Alexy II. Why is this?.. The writer Kazakov died in 1982, and there seems to be no information about this writer’s commitment to the Church...
“It smelled of jackdaw droppings and dry wood, it was dark, but the higher you went, the lighter it became and the cleaner the air. Finally Ageev got out onto the bell tower platform. His heart sank slightly, his legs weakened from the sensation of height. At first he saw the sky in the spans when he climbed out of the hatch onto the platform - the sky above, with rare fluffy clouds, with the first large stars, with light in the depths, with the blue rays of a long-hidden sun. When he looked down, he saw another sky, as huge and bright as the one above: an immeasurable mass of water around, right up to the horizon, in all directions, shone with reflected light, and the islands on it were like clouds. Ageev sat down on the railing, clasping the post with his hand, and did not move again until darkness...
- Where were you in the evening? - asked Vika.
“There,” Ageev waved his hand vaguely, “up there.” With God."
Yuri Kazakov's story “Adam and Eve” is about a man who understands that he is perishing. He dies, plunging into hopeless melancholy, dislike, bitterness, contempt for people, falsehood and inevitable drunkenness. Does he want to be saved, does he at least have some faith in salvation?..
Here he goes up - along the ancient creaky stairs, to the bell tower of an abandoned temple on a small northern island. Here he is there, above - with the One who is not equal to anything in his life and cannot be reduced to anything in it. But here he is walking down the same stairs. The sky sighs with light, the northern lights begin, the artist sees the temple against its background. Something is changing. The soul tries to wake up, gain strength, but cannot. The main thing is missing - love. This, it seems to me, is the author’s thought. I would say more - there is not enough faith. The word “God” in Kazakov’s pre-perestroika publications was written with a lowercase letter.
The hero of the story “Long Screams” is an avid hunter, just like the author himself. The dream of hunting capercaillie displaying leads him to the northern forest wilderness, to the site of a destroyed monastery. And he has no time for prey. He tries, but cannot unravel the feeling that has taken possession of him. His whole previous life is moving somewhere far away; it seems like an eternity separates him from yesterday.
“Turning around, I... looked at the place where the monastery once stood, at the dark quadrangles in the moss, at some rotten heaps, even beds of pink boulders. What a wall of fireweed, it probably drowns out all this in the summer! Then again I began to wander my eyes around the lake... How wonderful and sublime it must have been in the heart of the pilgrim when, after a tiring journey, the path led him to Long Shouts (the name of the place where he had to shout for a long time across the lake, calling the ferryman.- M.B.), he saw the monastery cells and the bell overturned into the lake, heard its ringing, was baptized and thought: “God has brought!” Shrine...
Although - what kind of shrine is this?..”
A person's heart is smarter than his mind. Consciousness has fragmentary information in common use: the life of the monks was in fact not holy at all, and, of course, there were ascetic hermits, they “lived in stinking caves,” but why is this - “even if you think about God?”
And the heart is free from all suggestions. It sees the truth. Contrary to disbelief, “I kept looking back at the place where the monastery had stood for so long, the vision of its gray chopped-up cells with windows, its wonderful church did not leave me, I kept hearing the ringing of bells so alive in this desert...”.
The action of the story “In the Fog” also takes place on a hunt: an unexpected discussion about happiness arises between two comrades. For one of them, happiness is prey, a shot duck. Another suddenly understands that happiness is not luck, not success. Its reason is not in the external world, it lies in the person himself, and in such depths, in which everything is not the same as here on the surface: “... in the darkest moment, in the very darkness - it will suddenly flash and beat heart, and you remember this day for a long time.”
Do you know who the cabias are? “If you fall into their clutches, then you will find out who they are,” this is how the hero of the story “Cabiasy,” the collective farm watchman Matvey, would answer this question. The head of the club, Zhukov, a young and ardent Komsomol member, having learned that Matvey is spreading reactionary mystical rumors about cabias throughout the village, immediately makes a self-critical conclusion: “I’m not good at atheistic propaganda, that’s what.” But then the Komsomol member has to return to his home at night through the forest. And there, on the forest road, cabias naturally lie in wait for him. “We need to cross ourselves,” thought Zhukov, feeling how they were trying to grab him with cold fingers from behind. “Lord, into Your hands...” A story helps you understand something important. The natural, inevitably embedded religious feeling in any person under conditions of artificial blindness degenerates into endless fears, beyond the control of consciousness: that is why some convinced atheist will never walk through a cemetery at night, but a believer, an Orthodox person will walk completely calmly. The night terror that takes possession of a seemingly completely conscious Komsomol member demonstrates to him all the instability of his ideological foundations. He is not inclined to think about it, he is young, healthy, in love, and now his night terrors are funny to him. But the question remains...
A hereditary Muscovite, who grew up on the Arbat and received a musical education, Yuri Pavlovich Kazakov walked throughout the Russian North and all the fishing Pomorie. What did he see in the people there, so different from Muscovites? The old truth, the eternal wisdom, which survived all the cataclysms of the era, but is doomed to fade away along with its last bearers. Original Russian talent, not yet completely degenerated, still living, like a spring underground, still breaking out to the surface from time to time - but also, apparently, doomed.
It is impossible to forget the drunkard Yegor, the hero of the story “Trali-vali”. The author talks about him and his dissolute life without any mercy. But then the next guests persuaded Yegor to sing: “And at the very first sounds of his voice, conversations instantly fall silent - it’s unclear, everyone looks at him with fear! He doesn’t sing ditties or modern songs, although he knows them all and hums constantly. He sings in the old Russian manner, stretched out, as if reluctantly, as if hoarsely, as he heard old men singing in childhood. He sings an old, long song... there is so much strength and shrillness in his quiet voice, so much real Russian, as if from an ancient epic, that in a minute everything is forgotten - Yegor’s rudeness and stupidity, his drunkenness and boasting...”
Yegor is young, and Marfa, the heroine of the story “The Pomeranian,” is very old. She is a righteous woman and a great worker. In her huge two-story hut (whoever has been to the Russian North has seen such huts), the white floors smell of soap and birch brooms. On the wall, among the collective farm certificates of honor, hangs an old schismatic icon in a silver frame. And in the appearance of Martha herself, the features of an icon appear, or better yet, of a northern temple wooden sculpture. The author, observing Martha, sees: “Some kind of solemn change is taking place deep in her soul. And she perceives this change as a sign, as an omen of imminent death. More and more often I dream about my husband, mother, father, and dead children. And I see how she climbs into the chest, looking at her mortal things: a clean shirt, already yellowed and smelling of the wood of the chest, a spacious white shroud, a dress, an embroidered bedspread... She examines, rearranges, straightens all this - alien and terrible to man - with with the same speed and attention as any other necessary thing in the household.” Death as a triumph, as a crown, as a long-awaited meeting with previously departed loved ones - is this easy for a modern person to understand?
Kazakov's contemporaries were the so-called country writers; They are remarkable, of course, not because they came from the countryside, but because their prose at once pushed aside all the dogmas of “socialist realism” and finally breathed freely - but how bitterly! And the prose of the Muscovite Kazakov sighed just as bitterly, and it was absolutely no coincidence that they called each other at that historical moment.
Yuri Kazakov's prose is religious through and through, only the Creator is present in it - unrecognized, unnamed, and if named, then with a small letter. A hand desperately extended into the dense autumn fog. The hope of finding refuge is in a cold and homeless world. The intonations of the Psalmist: “And now the earth is black, and everything has died, and the light has gone, and how I want to pray: do not leave me, for grief is close and there is no one to help me!” (story “Candle”).
Kazakov's prose is spiritual and therefore healing. The book “The Old House” ended up in my hands completely unexpectedly - during a rather dreary period of my life: due to the problems and conflicts that had piled up, I did not see either Lent (although I continued to observe it - out of a dry sense of duty) or Palm Sunday , not the approaching Holy Week, not even just spring. Reading Kazakov, I gradually came to life. Again I heard the noise of birds, inhaled the smell of sticky poplar branches, and felt the taste of prosphora. I felt the irreversibility of earthly time, the brevity of life here and the immensity of eternity.
From the preface written by priest Yaroslav Shipov, I learned that Yuri Kazakov knew Archimandrite Kirill (Pavlov) and that Father Kirill consecrated the writer’s house in Abramtsevo, the same “Old House”.
On the first pages of some of Yuri Pavlovich's manuscripts there were short appeals to God - requests for help.
“I remembered how I once sailed along the Volga, and no matter how much I swam, the bell towers of churches along the high banks all appeared on the horizon, and passed by, and disappeared behind another horizon, and how I imagined then the moment when all the churches, how many of them there were along the entire river, they begin to ring simultaneously on some holiday, as the sound of bells flies across the water from one church to another - and the whole great river from end to end sounds like a huge marvelous string stretched across the whole of Russia.”
Please note that this was written in the USSR no later than 1972.