K. Stanyukovich, Stories. Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich Maksimka From the series Sea Stories. Konstantin Stanyukovich. Sea stories (collection)

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Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich
Sea stories

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K. M. Stanyukovich

More than a hundred years have passed since the first sea stories of Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich appeared in print. More and more generations of children read them and imagined the splash of ocean waves, the whistle of the wind in the rigging, the bosun's flooded pipes, the flapping of huge sails above their heads, and dreamed of long sea roads.

Many wonderful sailors first felt a pull towards the sea while reading the books of this writer. And the one who, having matured, became a completely land-based man, retained in his memory from his childhood the images of his stories: simple-minded selfless sailors, stern boatswains, experienced officers - sometimes sincere and friendly, sometimes arrogant and cruel...

Meanwhile, the story of the appearance of Stanyukovich’s first sea stories is no less amazing than many of his other stories.

Reading descriptions of warm seas, distant harbors, where caimans swim past the sides of Russian ships, their ruby-red eyes shining in the dark, where during the day the rays of the scorching sun dry out a freshly washed deck in a matter of minutes, where merciless hurricanes of ocean waves rise - reading these pages, it’s easy to imagine imagine that somewhere there, at distant latitudes and meridians, Stanyukovich wrote his stories, hot on the heels of events - the sailor’s way of life, everyday life was so clearly, so clearly captured in them sailing ship. It’s easy to imagine this manuscript laid out on a table in an officer’s cabin, where through the ajar porthole the alluring aroma of unknown flowers can be heard from the shores of a foreign land... But no, in reality it was not like that. And in order to imagine the situation in which the first of the sea stories were created, we need to travel many thousands of miles from the ocean shores, to Asia, where the ancient Russian city of Tomsk rises on the steep banks of a wide river.

Along its dusty streets, past squat houses built from centuries-old Siberian larch, walked a short, gracefully built man with curly hair. brown hair. He was either in a hurry to the editorial office of the local Sibirskaya Gazeta, or to the post office to receive news from the capital, or to the police department to check in, since he lived here as an exile.

How did fate bring him to this distant city?

Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich was born in 1843 in the city of Sevastopol. This city is located in Crimea, on the shore of a deep bay, convenient for ships, and in those years it was the main base of the Russian Black Sea Fleet. Konstantin Stanyukovich’s father was a famous sailor; during the childhood of the future writer, he served as commander of the Sevastopol port and military governor of Sevastopol. The character of the father and the entire household life were described many years later in the story “Escape,” included in this collection.

Kostya was eleven years old when the Crimean War began. England, France and their allies attacked Russia and landed troops in Crimea. The heroic defense of Sevastopol began, which lasted almost a year. The boy not only witnessed terrible military events, but also took part in them: he prepared dressings for the wounded and himself delivered them to positions. For his participation in the war he was awarded two medals.

Soon after the end of the war, Kostya was sent to the Corps of Pages, and at the end of 1857 he was transferred to the Naval Cadet Corps, which trained future naval officers. It would seem that the sailor’s fate was predetermined for young Stanyukovich. But the fact is that Stanyukovich was a man of ideas. Even as a child, he felt that a decent person cannot exist in peace when people nearby live in suffering and torment. And everyone has their own face, their own name, their own essence. From a young age, he remembered the cruelty that reigned in the navy and army, and learned about the severe punishments that sailors were subjected to for the slightest offense. Today's staunch warrior, brave defender of the Fatherland, tomorrow had to meekly endure the bullying of some scoundrel in uniform!.. The boy lived with a mental wound and dreamed of doing something good, something useful for people. And so - he ends up in a school where rough barracks rules reign, where, it seems, everything is done in order to erase the bright beginning from the souls of the students, turn them into cruel, insensitive military officials, executors of other people's orders. All this was unbearable for Stanyukovich. The training voyage on the ship “Eagle” in the Baltic made a particularly difficult impression on him. The handsome white-sailed ship turned out, upon closer examination, to be almost a prison for hundreds of sailors: cruel serf-like morals reigned there and not a day passed without harsh abuse, fist reprisals, and cruel punishments.

Stanyukovich conceived a daring step: he decided by breaking family tradition, not to go to the navy, as his father demanded of him, but to go to university. When the father learned about this plan, he was beside himself with anger. Taking advantage of his connections, he arranged for his son, without completing the course, to be assigned to a circumnavigation of the world on the corvette Kalevala and in October 1860 he set off to sea. The corvette flew half the world around the Russian flag and arrived in Vladivostok nine months later. This journey was subsequently described by Stanyukovich in the famous book “Around the World on the Kite” - perhaps the best of all his works.

In Vladivostok, Stanyukovich was written off the ship due to illness and sent to the infirmary. Having recovered, he then continued to serve on several warships, a position he “assigned according to his rank,” as stated in the documents of that time. The young officer earned the favor of the head of the Russian Pacific squadron, who in 1863 sent Stanyukovich with urgent papers by land to St. Petersburg. Thus ended the three-year voyage of the future writer.

Over the years, a very young man visited different countries, saw a wide variety of ways of life, peace and war, endured storms and calms, communicated closely with ordinary sailors. Great value for the future writing work had the fact that Stanyukovich had to serve on different ships. He saw how the order, the whole ship life, differed, depending on who stood on the captain's bridge - an enlightened, humane person or a rude, cruel ignoramus.

Stanyukovich writes his first works - articles and travel sketches, which are published on the pages of the "Sea Collection".

Returning to St. Petersburg, he wants to retire and devote himself entirely to literary work. This decision caused an explosion of fatherly anger. My father saw in Konstantin a continuer of the traditions of the “sea family” of the Stanyukovichs. But now the formidable admiral was no longer confronted by a young man, but by a man who had seen a lot and had established convictions. The family conflict ended with the victory of the son: he left the service and from that moment had to earn his own living.

To find out more peasant Russia, Stanyukovich becomes a rural teacher in the Vladimir province. The life impressions of this time were described many years later in “Memoirs of a Rural Teacher of the Sixties.” The young man was literally shocked by the poverty, lack of rights, and downtrodden conditions of the peasants, who, after the abolition of serfdom, found themselves in bondage to the village rich, in humiliating dependence on officials.

How could he help these people? Stanyukovich becomes a journalist. In his essays and feuilletons, he strives to talk about the difficult lot common people, expose his oppressors. He changes many places of service, moves from city to city. A broad knowledge of life and accumulated experience push him to artistic creativity. On the pages of one of the most advanced magazines of that time, “Delo,” he published his first play, “That’s why the pike is in the sea, so that the crucian carp does not sleep,” and his first novel, “Without an Outcome.” This is how Stanyukovich’s work as a writer begins.

Stanyukovich has written a lot. These are entire cycles of articles and feuilletons responding to all major events public life. These are numerous stories and novels in which representatives of various strata of Russia act: capital officials and ordinary men, scientists and high-society rascals, landowners and students, merchants and lawyers... In many works the writer tried to create an image positive hero, a person of progressive views who is looking for ways to expose all fraud and actively help the suffering people.

The writer's fame became increasingly widespread, but at the same time the police began to take a closer look at him. Police investigators were able to establish that Stanyukovich, as one of the leaders of the magazine “Delo,” maintained contacts with Russian revolutionaries living abroad, published their works under pseudonyms, and helped them with money. At this time, fate dealt Stanyukovich a heavy blow: his beloved daughter became dangerously ill. The writer and his family went abroad in the hope that European doctors would save the girl. But alas, everything was in vain: she died. And at that moment, when the grief-stricken father was returning to Russia, he was arrested by gendarmes while crossing the border, taken to St. Petersburg and imprisoned without trial. Peter and Paul Fortress. Stanyukovich’s wife did not know about his fate for a long time: no one could explain to her where her husband had disappeared so suddenly and without a trace.

The imprisonment lasted for many months. During this time, a financial disaster occurred: Stanyukovich lost all his property, the Delo magazine passed into the wrong hands. Finally, the fate of the prisoner was decided: he was exiled for three years to Siberia, to Tomsk. The writer's family, wife and children, followed him...

A low-power paddle steamer was sailing downstream along a Siberian river. Among the passengers on it were Stanyukovich and his family: as a person of the “noble class,” he was entitled to some concessions here too. And on a rope the steamboat was pulling a huge barge, the hold of which was chock-full of exiles and convicts from the common people. Dirt, cramped conditions, strong bars blocking access to the deck... And then suddenly the ship runs aground. The barge, drawn by the river current, slowly approaches its stern. Another minute and the irreparable will happen: the ships will collide. And if the passengers of the ship still have some chance of salvation, then those floating on the barge are doomed to death: they will not get out of the barred belly of the barge.

And at this moment of general stupor, Stanyukovich’s loud voice was heard.

- Cut the rope! - he shouted to the stern sailor, shouted so that he, without hesitation, slashed the tow rope with an ax.

Now the barge was free. The currents caught her, and she slowly passed the stuck steamer. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief...

So, Stanyukovich ended up in Tomsk. He makes acquaintances with political exiles, of whom there were many in this provincial town, looks for ways to somehow support his family: gets a job, collaborates in a local newspaper... And at this very time a happy thought occurs to him: to turn to the memories of more than twenty years ago, to the time of his youth, to the events of his naval service. This is how the first sea stories were created.

They were an immediate success. They were reprinted by magazines, they were published in separate collections, the author began to receive thank you letters, including from experienced sailors.

By 1888, when the period of exile ended and Stanyukovich and his family returned to the capital, his reputation as maritime writer has already been established. From that time until the end of his life (he died in 1903) nautical theme remains the main one in his work, the writer found himself in it, and remained with it in the history of literature.

The time that Stanyukovich describes in his works is the time of decline of the centuries-old history of the sailing fleet.

The service of a sailor in those years was difficult and dangerous. Sailors were recruited from serfs by conscription. Often they had never even seen the sea before. It is difficult to even imagine what they experienced when, for the first time, on command, they climbed a high mast, so that, running along the yards, at a terrible height, with strong pitching, they fastened huge sails. And there was only one method of training - fist. Swearing, punching, and flogging were commonplace. Stanyukovich emphasizes that he writes about times gone by (corporal punishment was abolished in the navy simultaneously with the abolition of serfdom); it is not for nothing that many of his stories are subtitled “From the Distant Past.” And such a simple sailor, illiterate, often downtrodden, becomes the main character of Stanyukovich’s prose. Looking closely at him, the writer reveals the best qualities of his soul: self-esteem, affection for comrades, responsiveness to goodness, selflessness and courage, patience, a wise, simple-minded, clear outlook on life. A sailor is a hard worker, accustomed to hard work, performing it with courage, despite the mortal risk.

Of course, as they say, every family has its black sheep, and among the sailors there are greedy, cruel people, the master’s lackeys. But no matter how they dodge, the team still sees right through them and will never reward them with their favor. Bonded together by hard work, close life together, and common dangers, the sailors know well what each one is worth. A miser and a scoundrel have no place in their working family.

Sailors judge their superiors accurately and insightfully. Tough, even cruel, ship discipline does not allow them to directly express their attitude towards the officers. But a moral assessment is given to everyone. And how humane, how benevolent, how condescending this assessment is! It seems not only good deed, just a kind word from an officer is enough for the sailors to follow him through thick and thin! To different people fate entrusted the command of the sailor masses: among them there are worthy officers who care about the glory of the Russian fleet, there are also notorious scoundrels, careerists and swindlers. Such gross injustice! Doesn't it reflect the injustice that reigned throughout Russian society in those days? Stanyukovich gradually leads the reader to this idea.

One can be amazed at the power of the writer's memory. Through the decades he carried with youth many features and traits of marine life, showed maritime service in all its diversity. It’s as if we see with our own eyes the white-sailed ship, the low-slung cockpit, the cabins with oilcloth-covered floors, and the wardroom where off-duty officers have endless conversations...

Service and life, storms and calms, work and study, rush jobs and rest - all this was reflected by Stanyukovich in his works. But still, it is not the marine flavor of the stories that makes them so attractive to the reader. The image of a powerful and formidable element, in front of which, it would seem, it is especially noticeable how small and weak a person is, is opposed by the greatness of the people's soul, the courage and valor of the sailors, their selfless service to the Motherland.

Leonid Asanov

Sea stories

"Man overboard!"

I

The heat of the tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun slowly rolled towards the horizon.

Driven by the gentle trade wind 1
Explanations of marine terms are given in the dictionary on p. 281.

The clipper carried all the canvas and glided silently along Atlantic Ocean, seven knots each. Empty all around: no sail, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, there is the same boundless water plain, slightly agitated and rumbling with some mysterious roar, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue of a cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; the ocean carries a healthy sea scent.

Empty all around.

Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a flying fish will flash with bright scales, like gold; a white albatross will soar high in the air; a small loop will quickly fly over the water 2
Petrel is a sea bird.

Hurrying to the distant African shore; the sound of a stream of water released by a whale will be heard - and again not a single living creature around. The ocean and the sky, the sky and the ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.

- Allow me, your honor, to sing songs to the songwriters? – asked the non-commissioned officer on duty, approaching the officer lazily walking along the bridge.

The officer nodded his head affirmatively, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, echoed through the ocean. Satisfied that coolness has set in after the languor of the day, the sailors crowd on the forecastle, listening to the songwriters gathered at the forecastle gun. Inveterate lovers, especially old sailors, surround the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and seriousness, and silent delight shines on many tanned, weather-beaten faces. Leaning forward, the broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentyich, a “solid” sailor from the “Bakovshchina”, with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by the topsail halyard, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard, who is always brought from the shore insensibility and with a broken face (he likes to get into fights with foreign sailors because, in his opinion, they “don’t really drink, but only show off,” diluting the strongest rum with water, which he drinks with water), - this same Lavrentich , listening to the songs, seemed frozen in some kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray nose like a plum and a bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentyich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meekly, softened by an expression of quiet thoughtfulness. Some sailors quietly pull up; others, sitting in groups, talk in low voices, sometimes expressing approval with a smile or an exclamation.

Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clear and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted by the excellent velvety tenor voice of Shutikov. This voice stood out among the choir with its beauty, climbing into the very soul with its enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.

– It’s enough for the very gut, you scoundrel! - the sailors said about the echo.

Song flowed after song, reminding the sailors, amid the warmth and shine of the tropics, of their distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its dearth of land and squalor...

- Get dancing, guys!

The choir burst into a merry dance. Shutikov's tenor was now ringing with daring and merriment, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and causing even respectable sailors to roll their shoulders and stamp their feet.

Makarka, a small, lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if he had chosen it for himself, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sounds of a rollicking song, to the general pleasure of the audience.

Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to the tub to smoke, he was greeted with approving remarks.

- And you sing well, oh well, the dog eats you! - the touched Lavrentich noted, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.

- He should learn a little, but if, for example, he understands the general bass, then he’s off to the opera! – our young cantonist clerk, Pugovkin, who flaunted good manners and refined expressions, inserted with aplomb.

Lavrentyich, who did not tolerate and despised “officials” 3
Officials and sailors call all non-combatants: clerks, paramedics, battalioners, captains. ( Note auto)

As people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considering it as if it was a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, he scowled, cast an angry look at the blond, plump, handsome clerk and said:

- You are our opera! He grew a belly from idleness - and the opera came out!

There was giggling among the sailors.

– Do you understand what opera means? – noted the confused clerk. - Eh, uneducated people! – he said quietly and wisely hurried to hide.

- Look, what an educated mamzel! - Lavrentyich contemptuously followed him and added, as usual, a strong curse, but without an affectionate expression. “That’s what I’m saying,” he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov, “it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka!”

– There’s no need to interpret it. He's our go-to guy. One word – well done, Egorka!.. – someone remarked.

In response to approval, Shutikov only smiled, baring his even white teeth from under his good-natured, plump lips.

And this contented smile, clear and bright, like a child’s, stood in the soft features of the young man, fresh face, covered with tan paint; and those big dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like those of a puppy; and his neat, well-tailored, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not without, however, a peasant baggy fold - everything about him attracted and endeared him from the very first time, as did his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.

She was one of those rare, happy, cheerful natures, the sight of whom involuntarily makes your soul brighter and more joyful. Such people are some kind of born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, hearty laugh was often heard on the clipper. It happened that he would tell something and he would be the first to laugh with an infectious, delicious laugh. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, even though there was sometimes nothing particularly funny in Shutikov’s story. While sharpening some block, scraping paint on a boat, or while away the night watch, perched on Mars, out in the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along to some song, and he himself smiled his good smile, and everyone felt somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. It was rare to see Shutikov angry or sad. The cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was irreplaceable.

I remember how once we were stormy. The wind was roaring fiercely, a storm was raging all around, and the clipper under storm sails was tossed like a chip in the ocean waves, which seemed ready to swallow the fragile little vessel in its gray crests. The clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all its limbs, merging its complaints with the whistle of the wind howling in the inflated rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all sorts of things, were gloomily silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to have grown to the railing, vigilantly looking at the raging storm.

And at this time Shutikov, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, in side conversations. He was so calm and simple, talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the splashes of the waves hit him in the face, that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.

- And where are you, devil, you got so clever at tearing your throat? – Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on his nose warmer and shag. “One sailor sang on our Kostenkin, I must tell you the truth, he sang like a rogue... but it’s not all that flamboyant.

- So, self-taught, when he lived as a shepherd. It used to be that the herd would wander through the forest, and you yourself would lie under a birch tree and play songs... That’s what they called me in the village: the singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.

And for some reason everyone smiled back, and Lavrentich, in addition, patted Shutikov on the back and, as a sign of special affection, cursed in the most gentle tone of which his worn-out voice was capable.

II

At that moment, pushing aside the sailors, a stout elderly sailor Ignatov, who had just jumped out of the deck, hurriedly entered the circle.

Pale and confused, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he said in a voice intermittent with anger and excitement that his gold had been stolen.

- Twenty francs! Twenty francs, brothers! – he repeated plaintively, emphasizing the number.

This news confused everyone. Such things were rare on a clipper ship.

The old men frowned. The young sailors, dissatisfied that Ignatov had suddenly disrupted his cheerful mood, listened more with frightened curiosity than with sympathy as he, gasping for breath and desperately waving his neat hands, hurried to tell about all the circumstances surrounding the theft: how he, even this afternoon, when the team was resting, he went to his little chest, and, thank God, everything was intact, everything was in its place, and just like now he went to get some shoe goods - and... the lock, brothers, was broken. There are no twenty francs.

- How is this possible? Rob your own brother? – Ignatov finished, looking around the crowd with a wandering gaze.

His smooth, well-fed, clean-shaven face, covered with large freckles, with small round eyes and a sharp, curved nose, like a hawk’s, was always distinguished by calm restraint and a contented, sedate appearance. not a stupid person, who understood his worth, was now distorted by the despair of a miser who had lost all his property. The lower jaw trembled; His round eyes darted across their faces in confusion. It was clear that the theft completely upset him, revealing his kulak, stingy nature.

It was not for nothing that Ignatov, whom some sailors were beginning to honorably call Semenych, was a tight-fisted and money-greedy person. He went on a voyage around the world, volunteering as a hunter and leaving his wife, a market trader, and two children in Kronstadt, with the sole purpose of saving some money on the voyage and, upon retiring, doing some trading in Kronstadt. He led an extremely abstinent life, did not drink wine, and did not spend money on the shore. He saved money, saved it persistently, in pennies, knew where he could profitably exchange gold and silver, and, in great secrecy, lent small amounts for interest to reliable people. In general, Ignatov was a resourceful man and hoped to do a good job by bringing cigars and some Japanese and Chinese things to Russia for sale. He had done such things before when he was sailing in the Gulf of Finland during the summer: he used to buy sprats in Reval, cigars and mamurovkas in Helsingfors 4
M a m u r o vka - liqueur from knyazhenika berries. Other names for princesses are mamura, polyanika. The berry tastes and smells like strawberries.

And he will resell it at a profit in Kronstadt.

Ignatov was a helmsman, served regularly, trying to get along with everyone, was friends with the battalion and skipper, was literate and carefully hid the fact that he had money, and, moreover, decent money for a sailor.

- This is definitely the scoundrel Proshka, no one like him! – boiling with anger, Ignatov continued excitedly. - He was just spinning around on the deck when I went to the chest... What should we do with this scoundrel now, brothers? - he asked, turning mainly to the elderly and, as if seeking their support. - Am I really going to settle for money? After all, I have hard-earned money. You know, brothers, what kind of money a sailor has. I collected pennies... I don’t drink my own glasses... - he added in a humiliated, pitiful tone.

Although there was no other evidence other than the fact that Proshka “was just hanging around on deck,” nevertheless, both the victim himself and the listeners had no doubt that it was Proshka Zhitin, who had already been caught in petty thefts from his comrades more than once, who stole the money. Not a single voice was heard in his defense. On the contrary, many indignant sailors showered the alleged thief with abuse.

- What a bastard! It only disgraces the sailor’s rank...” Lavrentich said with his heart.

- Yes... We have a lousy dog too.

- Now we need to teach him a lesson so that he remembers, the dissolute lazybones!

- So how about it, brothers? – continued Ignatov. - What should we do with Proshka? If he does not give the goods, I will ask him to report to the senior officer. Let them sort it out according to the form.

But this thought, pleasant to Ignatov, did not find support on the tank. The forecastle had its own special, unwritten charter, the strict guardians of which, like ancient priests, were old sailors.

And Lavrentich was the first to energetically protest.

- This turns out to be a report to the authorities? – he drawled contemptuously. - Making slander? Apparently, out of fright, you forgot the sailor’s rule? Oh you... people! - And Lavrentyich, for relief, mentioned “people” in his usual word. “I made that up too, and you’re also considered a sailor!” – he added, casting a not particularly friendly glance at Ignatov.

- How do you think?

– But in our way, just as they taught before. Beat the dog's son Proshka to pieces so that he remembers, and take away the money. That's how it is in our opinion.

- You never know, they beat him, the scoundrel! What if he doesn't give it back? So, does that mean money is going to waste? What is this for? It would be better if they formally prosecute the thief... There is nothing to feel sorry for such a dog, brothers.

– You are very greedy for money, Ignatov. Probably Proshka didn’t steal everything... There’s still a little left? – Lavrentich said ironically.

– Did you count, or what?

- Well, I didn’t think so, but this is not a sailor’s business - slander. No good! – Lavrentich noted authoritatively. – Am I saying it right, guys?

And almost all of the “guys,” to Ignatov’s displeasure, confirmed that it was not appropriate to start slander.

- Now bring Proshka here! Interrogate him in front of the guys! – Lavrentich decided.

And Ignatov, angry and dissatisfied, obeyed, however, general decision and went after Proshka.

In anticipation of him, the sailors closed the circle closer.

III

Everyone pushed him around; The boatswain and non-commissioned officers, going about the business, and so, for living well, scolded and beat Proshka, saying: “Uh-oh, a quitter!” And he never protested, but with some of the usual dull humility of a slaughtered animal endured the beatings. After several petty thefts in which he was caught, he was hardly spoken to and treated with disdain. Anyone who felt like it could scold him with impunity, hit him, send him somewhere, mock him, as if any other attitude towards Proshka was unthinkable. And Proshka, it seemed, was so accustomed to this position of a driven mangy dog that he did not expect any other treatment and endured the entire hard labor life, apparently without any particular hardship, rewarding himself on the clipper with hearty food and training a pig, which Proshka taught to do various things , and when going ashore - drinking and courting the fair sex, for whom he was a great hunter. He spent his last penny on women and for their sake, it seems, he stole money from his comrades, despite the severe retribution he received if caught. He was an eternal latrine worker - he had no other position, and was one of the latrine workers, fulfilling the duty of a labor force that did not require any abilities. And then he got it, because he always lazily pulled some kind of tackle together with others, pretending, like a lazy, crafty horse, as if he was really pulling.

Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich

Sea stories

K. M. Stanyukovich

Meanwhile, the story of the appearance of Stanyukovich’s first sea stories is no less amazing than many of his other stories.

Reading descriptions of warm seas, distant harbors, where caimans swim past the sides of Russian ships, their ruby-red eyes shining in the dark, where during the day the rays of the scorching sun dry out a freshly washed deck in a matter of minutes, where merciless hurricanes of ocean waves rise - reading these pages, it’s easy to imagine imagine that somewhere there, at distant latitudes and meridians, Stanyukovich wrote his stories, hot on the heels of events - the sailor’s way of life, the life of a sailing ship, were so clearly, so clearly captured in them. It’s easy to imagine this manuscript laid out on a table in an officer’s cabin, where through the ajar porthole the alluring aroma of unknown flowers can be heard from the shores of a foreign land... But no, in reality it was not like that. And in order to imagine the situation in which the first of the sea stories were created, we need to travel many thousands of miles from the ocean shores, to Asia, where the ancient Russian city of Tomsk rises on the steep banks of a wide river.

Along its dusty streets, past squat houses built from centuries-old Siberian larch, walked a short, gracefully built man with curly brown hair. He was either in a hurry to the editorial office of the local Sibirskaya Gazeta, or to the post office to receive news from the capital, or to the police department to check in, since he lived here as an exile.

How did fate bring him to this distant city?

Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich

Sea stories

K. M. Stanyukovich

Meanwhile, the story of the appearance of Stanyukovich’s first sea stories is no less amazing than many of his other stories.

Reading descriptions of warm seas, distant harbors, where caimans swim past the sides of Russian ships, their ruby-red eyes shining in the dark, where during the day the rays of the scorching sun dry out a freshly washed deck in a matter of minutes, where merciless hurricanes of ocean waves rise - reading these pages, it’s easy to imagine imagine that somewhere there, at distant latitudes and meridians, Stanyukovich wrote his stories, hot on the heels of events - the sailor’s way of life, the life of a sailing ship, were so clearly, so clearly captured in them. It’s easy to imagine this manuscript laid out on a table in an officer’s cabin, where through the ajar porthole the alluring aroma of unknown flowers can be heard from the shores of a foreign land... But no, in reality it was not like that. And in order to imagine the situation in which the first of the sea stories were created, we need to travel many thousands of miles from the ocean shores, to Asia, where the ancient Russian city of Tomsk rises on the steep banks of a wide river.

How did fate bring him to this distant city?

Stanyukovich conceived a daring step: he decided, breaking family tradition, not to go to the navy, as his father demanded of him, but to go to university. When the father learned about this plan, he was beside himself with anger. Taking advantage of his connections, he arranged for his son, without completing the course, to be assigned to a circumnavigation of the world on the corvette Kalevala and in October 1860 he set off to sea. The corvette flew half the world around the Russian flag and arrived in Vladivostok nine months later. This journey was subsequently described by Stanyukovich in the famous book “Around the World on the Kite” - perhaps the best of all his works.

Over these years, while still a very young man, he visited different countries, saw a wide variety of ways of life, peace and war, endured storms and calms, and communicated closely with ordinary sailors. Of great importance for his future writing work was the fact that Stanyukovich had to serve on different ships. He saw how the order, the whole ship life, differed, depending on who stood on the captain's bridge - an enlightened, humane person or a rude, cruel ignoramus.

Stanyukovich writes his first works - articles and travel sketches, which are published on the pages of the "Sea Collection".

In order to get to know peasant Russia better, Stanyukovich becomes a rural teacher in the Vladimir province. The life impressions of this time were described many years later in “Memoirs of a Rural Teacher of the Sixties.” The young man was literally shocked by the poverty, lack of rights, and downtrodden conditions of the peasants, who, after the abolition of serfdom, found themselves in bondage to the village rich, in humiliating dependence on officials.

How could he help these people? Stanyukovich becomes a journalist. In his essays and feuilletons, he strives to talk about the plight of the common people and expose their oppressors. He changes many places of service, moves from city to city. His broad knowledge of life and accumulated experience push him towards artistic creativity. On the pages of one of the most advanced magazines of that time, “Delo,” he published his first play, “That’s why the pike is in the sea, so that the crucian carp does not sleep,” and his first novel, “Without an Outcome.” This is how Stanyukovich’s work as a writer begins.

Stanyukovich has written a lot. These are entire cycles of articles and feuilletons responding to all major events in public life. These are numerous stories and novels in which representatives of various strata of Russia act: metropolitan officials and ordinary men, scientists and high-society crooks, landowners and students, merchants and lawyers... In many works the writer tried to create the image of a positive hero, a man of progressive views who seeks ways of exposing any fraud, actively helping the suffering people.

K. M. Stanyukovich

Meanwhile, the story of the appearance of Stanyukovich’s first sea stories is no less amazing than many of his other stories.

Reading descriptions of warm seas, distant harbors, where caimans swim past the sides of Russian ships, their ruby-red eyes shining in the dark, where during the day the rays of the scorching sun dry out a freshly washed deck in a matter of minutes, where merciless hurricanes of ocean waves rise - reading these pages, it’s easy to imagine imagine that somewhere there, at distant latitudes and meridians, Stanyukovich wrote his stories, hot on the heels of events - the sailor’s way of life, the life of a sailing ship, were so clearly, so clearly captured in them. It’s easy to imagine this manuscript laid out on a table in an officer’s cabin, where through the ajar porthole the alluring aroma of unknown flowers can be heard from the shores of a foreign land... But no, in reality it was not like that. And in order to imagine the situation in which the first of the sea stories were created, we need to travel many thousands of miles from the ocean shores, to Asia, where the ancient Russian city of Tomsk rises on the steep banks of a wide river.

How did fate bring him to this distant city?

Stanyukovich writes his first works - articles and travel sketches, which are published on the pages of the "Sea Collection".

Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich

Sea stories

K. M. Stanyukovich

Meanwhile, the story of the appearance of Stanyukovich’s first sea stories is no less amazing than many of his other stories.

Reading descriptions of warm seas, distant harbors, where caimans swim past the sides of Russian ships, their ruby-red eyes shining in the dark, where during the day the rays of the scorching sun dry out a freshly washed deck in a matter of minutes, where merciless hurricanes of ocean waves rise - reading these pages, it’s easy to imagine imagine that somewhere there, at distant latitudes and meridians, Stanyukovich wrote his stories, hot on the heels of events - the sailor’s way of life, the life of a sailing ship, were so clearly, so clearly captured in them. It’s easy to imagine this manuscript laid out on a table in an officer’s cabin, where through the ajar porthole the alluring aroma of unknown flowers can be heard from the shores of a foreign land... But no, in reality it was not like that. And in order to imagine the situation in which the first of the sea stories were created, we need to travel many thousands of miles from the ocean shores, to Asia, where the ancient Russian city of Tomsk rises on the steep banks of a wide river.

How did fate bring him to this distant city?

Stanyukovich writes his first works - articles and travel sketches, which are published on the pages of the "Sea Collection".

The writer's fame became increasingly widespread, but at the same time the police began to take a closer look at him. Police investigators were able to establish that Stanyukovich, as one of the leaders of the magazine “Delo,” maintained contacts with Russian revolutionaries living abroad, published their works under pseudonyms, and helped them with money. At this time, fate dealt Stanyukovich a heavy blow: his beloved daughter became dangerously ill. The writer and his family went abroad in the hope that European doctors would save the girl. But alas, everything was in vain: she died. And at that moment, when the grief-stricken father was returning to Russia, he was arrested by gendarmes while crossing the border, taken to St. Petersburg and imprisoned in the Peter and Paul Fortress without trial. Stanyukovich’s wife did not know about his fate for a long time: no one could explain to her where her husband had disappeared so suddenly and without a trace.

And at this moment of general stupor, Stanyukovich’s loud voice was heard.

- Cut the rope! - he shouted to the stern sailor, shouted so that he, without hesitation, slashed the tow rope with an ax.

Now the barge was free. The currents caught her, and she slowly passed the stuck steamer. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief...

They were an immediate success. They were reprinted by magazines, they were published in separate collections, the author began to receive letters of gratitude, including from experienced sailors.

By 1888, when his period of exile ended and Stanyukovich and his family returned to the capital, his reputation as a maritime writer had already been established. From that time until the end of his life (he died in 1903), the maritime theme remained the main one in his work, the writer found himself in it, and remained with it in the history of literature.

The time that Stanyukovich describes in his works is the time of decline of the centuries-old history of the sailing fleet.

Sailors judge their superiors accurately and insightfully. Tough, even cruel, ship discipline does not allow them to directly express their attitude towards the officers. But a moral assessment is given to everyone. And how humane, how benevolent, how condescending this assessment is! It seems that not only a good deed, just a kind word on the part of an officer is enough for the sailors to follow him through thick and thin! Fate has entrusted the command of the sailors to different people: among them there are worthy officers who care about the glory of the Russian fleet, there are also notorious scoundrels, careerists and swindlers. Such a blatant injustice! Doesn't it reflect the injustice that reigned throughout Russian society in those days? Stanyukovich gradually leads the reader to this idea.

One can be amazed at the power of the writer's memory. Through the decades, from his youth, he carried with him many features and traits of maritime life, and showed naval service in all its diversity. It’s as if we see with our own eyes the white-sailed ship, the low-slung cockpit, the cabins with oilcloth-covered floors, and the wardroom where off-duty officers have endless conversations...

Leonid Asanov

Sea stories

"Man overboard!"

The heat of the tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun slowly rolled towards the horizon.

Pushed by the gentle trade wind, the clipper carried all the canvas and silently glided across the Atlantic Ocean, in seven knots. Empty all around: no sail, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, there is the same boundless water plain, slightly agitated and rumbling with some mysterious roar, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue of a cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; the ocean carries a healthy sea scent.

Empty all around.

Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a flying fish will flash with bright scales, like gold; a white albatross will soar high in the air; a small noose will hurriedly sweep over the water, hurrying towards the distant African shore; the sound of a stream of water released by a whale will be heard - and again not a single living creature around. The ocean and the sky, the sky and the ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.

- Allow me, your honor, to sing songs to the songwriters? – asked the non-commissioned officer on duty, approaching the officer lazily walking along the bridge.

– It’s enough for the very gut, you scoundrel! - the sailors said about the echo.

- Get dancing, guys!

Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to the tub to smoke, he was greeted with approving remarks.

- And you sing well, oh well, the dog eats you! - the touched Lavrentich noted, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.

Lavrentyich, who could not tolerate and despised the “officials” as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and who considered it as if it was a duty of honor to cut them off on any occasion, frowned, cast an angry look at the blond, plump, handsome clerk and said:

- You are our opera! He grew a belly from idleness - and the opera came out!

There was giggling among the sailors.

– Do you understand what opera means? – noted the confused clerk. - Eh, uneducated people! – he said quietly and wisely hurried to hide.

– There’s no need to interpret it. He's our go-to guy. One word – well done, Egorka!.. – someone remarked.

In response to approval, Shutikov only smiled, baring his even white teeth from under his good-natured, plump lips.

And this contented smile, clear and bright, like a child’s, stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered in tan; and those big dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like those of a puppy; and his neat, well-tailored, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not without, however, a peasant baggy fold - everything about him attracted and endeared him from the very first time, as did his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.

At that moment, pushing aside the sailors, a stout elderly sailor Ignatov, who had just jumped out of the deck, hurriedly entered the circle.

Pale and confused, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he said in a voice intermittent with anger and excitement that his gold had been stolen.

- Twenty francs! Twenty francs, brothers! – he repeated plaintively, emphasizing the number.

This news confused everyone. Such things were rare on a clipper ship.

- How is this possible? Rob your own brother? – Ignatov finished, looking around the crowd with a wandering gaze.

His smooth, well-fed, clean-shaven face, covered with large freckles, with small round eyes and a sharp, curved nose, like a hawk’s, always distinguished by calm restraint and the contented, sedate appearance of a smart man who understands his worth, was now distorted by the despair of a miser who had lost everything. property. The lower jaw trembled; His round eyes darted across their faces in confusion. It was clear that the theft completely upset him, revealing his kulak, stingy nature.

It was not for nothing that Ignatov, whom some sailors were beginning to honorably call Semenych, was a tight-fisted and money-greedy person. He went on a voyage around the world, volunteering as a hunter and leaving his wife, a market trader, and two children in Kronstadt, with the sole purpose of saving some money on the voyage and, upon retiring, doing some trading in Kronstadt. He led an extremely abstinent life, did not drink wine, and did not spend money on the shore. He saved money, saved it persistently, in pennies, knew where he could profitably exchange gold and silver, and, in great secrecy, lent small amounts for interest to reliable people. In general, Ignatov was a resourceful man and hoped to do a good job by bringing cigars and some Japanese and Chinese things to Russia for sale. He had been involved in such matters before, when he sailed during the summer in the Gulf of Finland: he used to buy sprats in Reval, cigars and mamurovkas in Helsingfors, and resell them at a profit in Kronstadt.

- What a bastard! It only disgraces the sailor’s rank...” Lavrentich said with his heart.

- Yes... We have a lousy dog too.

- Now we need to teach him a lesson so that he remembers, the dissolute lazybones!

But this thought, pleasant to Ignatov, did not find support on the tank. The forecastle had its own special, unwritten charter, the strict guardians of which, like ancient priests, were old sailors.

And Lavrentich was the first to energetically protest.

- How do you think?

– But in our way, just as they taught before. Beat the dog's son Proshka to pieces so that he remembers, and take away the money. That's how it is in our opinion.

– You are very greedy for money, Ignatov. Probably Proshka didn’t steal everything... There’s still a little left? – Lavrentich said ironically.

– Did you count, or what?

- Well, I didn’t think so, but this is not a sailor’s business - slander. No good! – Lavrentich noted authoritatively. – Am I saying it right, guys?

And almost all of the “guys,” to Ignatov’s displeasure, confirmed that it was not appropriate to start slander.

- Now bring Proshka here! Interrogate him in front of the guys! – Lavrentich decided.

And Ignatov, angry and dissatisfied, however, obeyed the general decision and went after Proshka.

In anticipation of him, the sailors closed the circle closer.

Prokhor of Life, or, as everyone disdainfully called him, Proshka, was the very last sailor. Having become a sailor from the yard, a desperate coward, whom only the threat of a flogging could force to climb to Mars, where he experienced an insurmountable physical fear, a lazy person and a quitter, shirking from work, and on top of all this dishonest, Proshka from the very beginning of the voyage became in a position some outcast pariah. Everyone pushed him around; The boatswain and non-commissioned officers, going about their business, and so, you live well, scolded and beat Proshka, saying: “Uh-oh, a quitter!” And he never protested, but with some of the usual dull humility of a slaughtered animal endured the beatings. After several petty thefts in which he was caught, he was hardly spoken to and treated with disdain. Anyone who felt like it could scold him with impunity, hit him, send him somewhere, mock him, as if any other attitude towards Proshka was unthinkable.