Modern problems of science and education

Natalia Belinkova

Others and Olesha

The poor and sinful, frightened, surrendered artist died, smiling, understanding everything, not understanding everything.

Arkady Belinkov

Discoveries during the analysis of the archive of Yuri Olesha. They don’t even want to hear about the degradation of the Soviet writer. An application for a book about Olesha has been submitted. Blok conference in Tartu. The editor-in-chief of the magazine “Baikal” Balburov becomes our accomplice. Walking through torment at the publishing house "Iskusstvo". Belinkov is a voluntarist. “Surrender and death of the Soviet intellectual. Yuri Olesha” is published in Moscow after 34 years.

"Was good writer…” - this is the title Arkady Belinkov gave to the preface to the proposed American edition of his book “The Surrender and Death of the Soviet Intellectual. Yuri Olesha." He hurried. He published the foreword long before the book was published. However, this was only the middle of a long publishing process that stretched across two continents and several decades and was divided into three periods: Soviet, Western and Russian.

“Was” - ceased to “be”. In “Surrender and Destruction...”, over the course of almost a thousand typewritten pages, the reason for the loss or, rather, waste of talent by an extraordinary writer was explored: “I wrote a book in which I tried to talk about the fact that the Soviet government can trample almost everything, and does so It’s especially good when there is no resistance to it. When she is resisted, she can kill, as she killed Mandelstam, she can compromise, as she did with Zoshchenko, and retreat if non-retreat, unsurrendered artists - Akhmatova, Pasternak, Bulgakov, Solzhenitsyn - are fighting her.

Yuri Karlovich did not resist Soviet power».

How typical is this for a person who always disagreed with the official opinion of those times: “Soviet means excellent.”

For a book about the surrender of a creative personality to totalitarian power, according to Arkady, the fate of Viktor Shklovsky would have been most suitable (he never forgave the teacher for his repentant article “Monument to a Scientific Error”), but it turned out that V. B. Shklovsky was replaced by Yu. K. Olesha.

Yuri Karlovich Olesha has long had a reputation as an impeccable writer in all respects: he created a whimsical world of bizarre metaphors, remained silent for a long time to avoid lies, and gathered around him careless wits in the National restaurant - something like a club of freethinkers.

In 1960, Belinkov participated in the work of the Commission on the Literary Heritage of Yu. K. Olesha, organized by the Union of Writers of the USSR, and was faced with facts that destroyed a beautiful legend about a one-of-a-kind writer.

Part of the archive being analyzed was at the disposal of the Shklovskys at the dacha they rented in Sheremetyevo. In the winter of 1961, Arkady sorted out Olesha’s papers there. Having met literary heritage recently deceased writer, he discovered that, contrary to legend, the famous master of metaphors never stopped writing, but, following the demands of a tightening time, began to write the same thing and in the same way as all the other “pirates of the pen” of the era. socialist realism“: “Life on Soviet soil is getting better every day,” “Dreams have become reality,” and so on. Belinkov saw how Olesha changed his opinion about Shostakovich and Hemingway depending on the pointing out articles in Pravda, how he praised the leaders who succeeded one another on the podium of the Mausoleum. Moreover, it turned out that this literary waste paper in volume exceeded the best of what Olesha wrote in the 20s. The misconception that Olesha “fell silent” arose as a result of the fact that the writer ceased to stand out from the general background Soviet literature.

This discovery amazed Arkady so much that it ultimately led to the book “Surrender and Death of the Soviet Intellectual. Yuri Olesha." It is no coincidence that the writer's name occupies the last place in this title. “Yuri Olesha traveled in the same literature and in the same direction in which all Russian literature of the 30s–50s traveled. The only difference was that he did not sit on this tram, holding a thick briefcase on his knees, as his overweight colleagues did, but hung on the steps, waving like the flag of Russian free-thinking, and occasionally shouted out that he did not have a ticket, that he rides into the future as a hare and that in general he is completely polluted by his intelligence. But these were habitual historical and literary resignations, incomprehensible to the people and overflowing the Russian literature of the last century and a half, which, however, did not play any serious role in its progressive movement forward.” Olesha was not a unique writer, Belinkov insists, but an equal accomplice in the process of impoverishment of Soviet literature, which perished due to the fact that it did not resist pressure from above. Those who lived through the Soviet period of Russian history understand that such a statement is an extraordinary case in Soviet literary criticism: what kind of death is there when a widespread flourishing occurs in the country of socialism?

The matter was complicated by the fact that the critical attitude of the authorities towards Olesha, who was once considered just a fellow traveler and not a full-fledged Soviet writer, diverged from the new stereotypes of the Thaw. The progressive set of officialdom (the careful inclusion of new names in literature and the introduction of strictly controlled camp themes) also included the selective return of figures who were once subject to silence. Among them was Yu. Olesha.

The first collection was published in 1956 selected works writer. In 1965, the second was being prepared. In the same year, the book “Not a Day Without a Line” was published, compiled by Shklovsky from notebooks Olesha, the same ones that Arkady sorted out at his dacha. The prose writer’s colorful writing, so characteristic of the literature of the 20s, looked stunningly beautiful against the background of the gray literature of “socialist realism.”

Olesha was becoming fashionable. Apologetic articles began to appear about the master of metaphors. And just at this time, a critic who wrote in the language of literary prose, - Arkady Belinkov. Why is the author not suitable for re-research? open writer? The publishing house “Khudozhestvennaya Literatura” hastened to order him a preface for the second collection of Olesha’s works. Arkady sketched out a draft: art is not limited to brilliant metaphors, and the development of a creative personality in literature is not carried out thanks to guidance from above. The editor of the publishing house S. Izrailskaya, who apparently had good political instincts, doubted making the right choice author of the preface and came to our home to investigate. Having read the “virgin”, not yet edited text, I was seriously scared and accordingly reported to the right person. As a result, the collection of 1965 was published with a foreword by B. Galanov, at one time former employee"Truth."

Many magazines, in particular “Family and School”, “Children’s Literature”, also joined the marathon praising Olesha and also ordered articles from Belinkov. They were not printed there either. The proofs of one of them have been preserved - “Metaphor, history and sociology in Yuri Olesha’s fairy tale “Three Fat Men”” for “Children’s Literature”. They are dotted with typewritten inserts and corrections made by the author in pencil and black ink, joined by picky blue ink deputy editor-in-chief of the magazine I. P. Motyashev.

In order not to inadvertently destroy the fragile fairy-tale shell of the work, but to untie his hands, Belinkov classified “Three Fat Men” as a historical genre.

Natasha, you must agree, something is not right... A fairy tale and historical novel? This, you know, after all... - one friendly critic told me.

This is a demonstration, a grotesque... Such possibilities are revealed! - I say. - And I clearly remember how Arkady rejoiced when he came up with such a twist!

Then be sure to write about it.

Belinkov attributed “Three Fat Men” to conditionally historical genre. The fake war of the hungry and the well-fed easily overturned onto the real historical past, and then it was possible to stretch the threads to the present. After all, such a performance in “Tynyanov” was a success!

To the reader and critic of the post-Soviet era, analyzing a fairy tale by the standards of a historical novel will seem like a stretch, at most a literary joke, but editor-in-chief"Children's Literature" was armed with an advanced worldview and knew that a hint in a fairy tale could be a serious lesson. He took the matter seriously and, along with other abbreviations, decisively crossed out the end of the phrase: “Yuri Olesha did not finish the novel, probably because he did not have a very clear idea of ​​what would happen next to his characters and to himself and how his hopes would come true which the revolution caused." Arkady refused to change the text. The article was removed just before the issue was published. Failure of the plan! The December issue of 1967, the anniversary year, came out late.

Another contender for the former prisoner's pen was the Children's Literature publishing house of the same name. Its director Antonina Fateeva frivolously decided that Belinkov was a suitable candidate for a book about Olesha for a young reader. But the trouble is that this publishing house also needed a biography of such a wonderful Soviet writer, who in his wonderful creativity wonderfully reflected... and not one who lost his metaphors along the way because he did not resist pressure from above. Having looked at the application and realizing what kind of book she would have to deal with, Fateeva, naturally, did not agree to conclude an agreement.

In 1963, Arkady submitted an application to the publishing house “Iskusstvo” for a book about the degradation of the Soviet writer under the pressure of “cast-iron, rhinoceros autocracy.” For now it was called “Yuri Olesha”.

He began by looking beyond the surface of Oleshin's imagery. "Metaphor artistic creativity begins not in a line, but in the very task of art, in the entire activity of the artist: to talk about one thing through another, to connect phenomena, to systematize the world. The blinding brightness of Yuri Olesha’s writing created the illusion of a serious artistic discovery, [but] his work never went beyond the norm of already existing aesthetics and was associated with the level of traditional aesthetic perception and reproduction of the world.”

Belinkov nevertheless admitted that, under relatively favorable external circumstances, Olesha still managed to touch upon important topics and concepts, since he was allowed to do so.

Concept number one. “A revolution contains everything that arises after it: the post-revolutionary state, society, institutions, ideology, punitive policies, art.” And for greater persuasiveness, Belinkov likened Olesha’s children’s fairy tale social novel, in which “only phraseology fairy tales, and sociology- life."

Concept number two. “There is a bloody, inexorable, unstoppable battle between the artist and society.” Taking advantage of Oleshin’s contrast between Kavalerov (a poet of the old school) and Babichev (a Soviet-style politician), Belinkov assures that the author extended the conflict between the “Poet” and the “rabble”, known since the time of Pushkin, to the post-revolutionary state.

Concept number three. “He [Olesha] repeated the path of literature of four decades... He swam in this literature, and he did everything that others did, and even better, and because he did everything that others did, he only did this is better than others, he brought more harm to Russian literature and Russian social consciousness than those who did the same thing poorly.” But this is the concept of Belinkov himself, and not Olesha.

The result was a book-satire, a book-requiem. A satire on the external circumstances in which a gifted writer lived, and a requiem for a man who himself ruined his talent by yielding to these circumstances.

It is impossible to accurately assess the book if you apply the old standards of classical literary criticism to it and consider that this is a story about Yuri Karlovich, a witty, melancholy man who once wrote brilliant books, filled to the brim with sparkling metaphors, and then suddenly fell silent. If this were a book about Olesha alone, the author would have the opportunity to create a truly tragic image. Belinkov wrote about the tragedy of entire literature. He was looking for the cause of her death and wrote a book not about a writer, the only one of his kind. He wrote about Olesha - Shklovsky and others, about Slavin - Ehrenburg and others. About such outstanding personalities who ruined their talent, voluntarily fulfilling social orders, and sometimes ran ahead of progress. The literary critic, like an artist, brought to the stage creative personality in the image of a writer who has lost his face. There were plenty of these in Soviet reality, but there were none in Soviet literary criticism yet. But here, perhaps, we need to talk not so much about a new genre within the framework of an old discipline, but about the crossing of two sciences. Reception fiction- generalization of a phenomenon through a specific image - took Belinkov away from “saving” literary criticism into social science. But in this field it was even more difficult to hide from censorship.

When the turn to the old Stalinist times began, which did not yet have its new name or point of reference, and Glavlit increased its vigilance, in opposition intellectual circles there was hope that censorship could be circumvented in oral speech. The role of scientific meetings has increased.

In June 1967, the now legendary Blok Conference took place in Tartu, at which Arkady made a report “On the “Appointment of the Poet” Blok and “Envy” of Yuri Olesha.”

On the platform of the Tartu station we were met by a pretty, fragile girl - the secretary of the conference. At the end of each of her business letters leading up to the trip was the strange signature “Guy”. Introducing herself, she called herself “Gaya.” Arkady couldn’t resist: “That’s it! So this is a name, and not an organization like the traffic police!” All three of us laugh happily.

Going to Tartu, Arkady agreed with his Leningrad uncle, journalist Lukyan Isaevich Pitersky-Zlobinsky, to meet at a conference. But time passed, and my uncle never showed up at the appointed time. And so, rising to the podium, Arkady began his report. I think there were about two hundred people in the hall. Two writers who remembered this conference many years later found that the report was very bold for those times. The conference organizers considered it dangerous (especially in light of the possible intervention of the three-letter organization). To a person unfamiliar with Soviet period Russian history, these estimates will most likely seem exaggerated.

And this is what happened. At that moment, when Arkady spoke with enthusiasm about the discrepancy between “socialist realism” and “realistic socialism”, about the natural and inevitable struggle of society with the protesting artist, the side door slowly opened with a creak and a man in gray cautiously entered the audience filled with tense listeners cloak.

Looking around the audience intently, he sat down next to me in the only empty chair, the same one that Arkady had recently occupied. “The train was late,” Lukyan Isaevich whispered guiltily in my ear, unbuttoning his coat. (I apologize to readers who may think that I am imitating a cheap detective story.)

Everyone sees how tightly he settles into his chair and how carefully he listens to the report. Arkady finishes his speech and heads to his place. And then there was a break in the meeting. A man in a raincoat walks across the crowd towards Arkady and takes his arm. Together with everyone else, they go out into the corridor.

Immediately, airspace is created between this pair and the other conference participants. Three letters, three letters, three letters! No one doubts that Arkady's interlocutor is a KGB agent. Zara Grigorievna Mints quickly passes by with a white face, trying not to look at me. On her shoulders lies not only the fate of the conference, but also of her husband, the famous scientist Yuri Mikhailovich Lotman. What will be the consequences for him and other conference organizers?

You see, my uncle,” Arkady began a kind of explanation the next day.

Yes, yes, we understand uncle,- they answered him. And they left.

The first Blokovskaya was considered a breakthrough in the legal possibilities of public speech. The conference materials were published in the Blokov Collection, the pride of freedom-loving literary scholars of the 60s. Don't look for Belinkov's report there. In fact, legal opportunities turned out to be severely limited by self-censorship - a widespread disease of the Lenin-Stalin-Brezhnev-Anthropov-Chernenkov era. Correct me, I did not mention Khrushchev in this clip.

In the autumn of the same year, a telephone rang in our Moscow apartment. Oh those calls! They left for dachas and creative houses, and Moscow writers could not live without them.

Volodya Baraev is calling, deputy editor-in-chief of the Baikal magazine, published in Ulan-Ude, the capital of the Buryat-Mongolian Autonomous Republic. He is in Moscow and asks permission to come. We hear the name Baraev for the first time. As we learned later, Yuli Smelyakov, who died early, and then worked as a WTO consultant on theaters in Siberia and the Far East, took a big behind-the-scenes part in Belinkov’s acquaintance with Baraev.

A tall, well-built young man arrives and tells how he went after a bear with a spear. He had already heard something about the book “Surrender and Death...”. He asks for an excerpt for the magazine. He behaves in a friendly manner, says that he is not afraid of anything. Its open honest face promises cooperation, not editorial and censorial control. We know that censorship in the center and locally operates with varying degrees of zeal: in the peripheral magazines “Prostor” and “Star of the East” things were published that were unthinkable in the capital. If an excerpt from the book is published, this will help push it through the publishing house. If the publication is attacked, then we will have to forget about the publication of the book in the USSR. Will it be possible to print it in the West? And what will it cost?

He knew that it was easier for a censor to find sedition in an article than in a book. There is more space in the book that a skillful author can take advantage of: here he will hide behind an extraneous episode, there behind irony, and there he will lay out a chain of homogeneous ideas from chapter to chapter in the hope that the vigilant censor's eye will get tired and lose the guiding thread. There is nowhere to hide in the article, “it is all visible, translucent, shot through.”

Still, Arkady made up his mind. He chose the chapter “The Poet and the Fat Man” for publication. It was expected that it would be published in three issues.

I think that with the fairy tale about the bear, Volodya was trying to charm our teeth, not himself. He knew what he was getting into and tried to gain serious support. As a result of his initiative, a pre-publication insert appeared, which was very flattering for the author, which was composed especially for “Baikal” by K. I. Chukovsky. Soon the usual editorial routine began, with the difference, however, that the author and editor acted as allies in this work and together figured out how to get the text through censorship without distorting the intent. Over a long-distance telephone line (neither fax nor e-mail existed in those days), lines about the dictatorship of the proletariat and the lack of freedom that it brings with it were discussed. How the magazine’s budget and eavesdroppers’ membranes, if any, survived these conversations, I don’t know. But most of all I was worried about one important circumstance. The editor-in-chief of the magazine, Afrikan Andreevich Balburov, according to Baraev, did not read the manuscript, and if he did, he did not show it.

Later short time We met another guest from Buryatia at the house - Afrikan Andreevich himself.

"Baikal" is not " New world", and Balburov is not Tvardovsky. The editor-in-chief of a typical Soviet magazine came to us, and, as we knew, he was a candidate member of the Central Committee of the Buryat Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic. It was still not known whether he had read the manuscript lying in his editor’s office.

The tension with which we expected Balburov was also contributed to by my idea of ​​the guest from the East. It must be received in a special way. Of course, both wine and vodka must be served with dinner. But the whole point is that Arkady doesn’t drink, and I, a woman, am probably supposed to stay in the background. And in general, as if there would be no awkwardness.

I’m calling Nathan Eidelman - he’s my guy, reliable.

Can't help? Come!

Certainly. What's the matter?

You see, you need to drink...

Afrikan Andreevich came first. He appeared before us exactly as we had imagined him: short, stocky, not to say square, his feet planted heavily and confidently, as if he never doubted anything.

He came to us from Peredelkino immediately after his visit to Galina Serebryakova. Here I should write a long digression about how opportunist writers emerged in the wake of the 20th Congress. Even when talking about their stay on the Gulag islands as political prisoners, they continued to justify the actions of the party that sent them there. A typical representative of this kind of writer was Galina Serebryakova (before the “imprisonment”, the author of the book “Marx’s Youth”). But I will refrain from a long retreat.

At first, Balburov appeared in the aura of the party elite. He was glowing like that. He uttered rounded phrases, neatly composed of words drawn from the latest editorials, and we, trying not to look at each other, remained silent or nodded in response. How we cursed ourselves for agreeing to this meeting! It was possible to use illness as an excuse, especially since in the case of Belinkov this was an enduring truth. I saw Arkady begin to turn pale. A little more and it will explode.

The guest must have sensed something was wrong. His speech gradually began to take on a different character. Either he took off his mask, glad that he didn’t have to wear it, or he put on a different mask to match the owners of another house. Some semblance of a conversation arose.

Now, decades later, Balburov seems to me nothing more than a painter with a brush and palette in his hands, and Arkady - a stretched canvas on an easel. When Balburov says a word, he throws the paint, he pulls back and looks: is it suitable? It will come closer again, another stroke will move away and try it on.

Our attitude towards guests also began to change. Maybe Balburov is not as tough as it seemed at first? Arkady's face brightened. The cheeks turned pink, the pursed lips straightened. The restraining wariness was released. In a calm voice and a somewhat eloquent style, he said that Stalin was not a distortion, but an absolute expression of Soviet power, that soviet history continues pre-revolutionary traditions, but at a qualitatively different level. It is impossible to surpass Stalin’s butchery, he said, but after each similarity to the “Thaw”, another “freeze” will occur. “Positive program?” - We haven’t grown up to it yet. In general, he said out loud what printed works hidden in subtext.

Listening to him was a completely different person than the one who had recently entered our house. Attentive, concentrated, he leaned forward confidentially, and under his heavy body the thin-legged Czech chair creaked slightly. It seemed that both had forgotten that a meeting was taking place between the now powerful and the former disenfranchised prisoner. Did Balburov catch us on bait or did he become himself?

Gradually, not only the mood changed, but also the roles. Now we listened, and he spoke in an even voice about the cruelties of the establishment of Soviet power in Buryatia, about the destruction of lamas. He told about an amazing Buryat doctor with ancient treatment methods.

Balburov began to persuade me to send Arkady to this Buryat doctor - it turned out that he knew about Arkady’s health condition. “Stay with me for the duration of your treatment,” he said, as if it went without saying. It was then that I thought: “Perhaps salvation is not in the West, but in the East?” Once in the West, I sometimes remembered this question I asked myself.

When Nathan arrived, Balburov’s behavior did not change. By trusting us, did he also trust our friends? Or is it Eastern politeness? Fortunately, Nathan had been to Buryatia, so his presence was very useful. (After we left the country, Eidelman made a trip along the “shackled route” of the Decembrists, accompanied by Volodya Baraev.)

Afrikan Andreevich told how he was prevented from working, how often he was required to make drastic changes in the direction of the magazine: in the morning, show a reflection of the leading role of the Russian people, and in the evening, a demonstration of flourishing is needed national cultures within the framework of "friendship of peoples".

He became so angry that, losing his stature, he told in humorous tones how once, at the very beginning of the Thaw, his Buryat Central Committee scolded him for publishing a poem by Yevtushenko, who was then still listed as a dissident. And here’s the scene: they press on patriotic feelings. Balburov quickly retorts: “So Yevtushenko is ours! Siberian". The members of the Central Committee are silent, puzzled. Balburov depicted how they were silent, and fervently, as if showing a fig, demonstrated his answer: “He was born at Zima station! He even has a poem about it.”

What simpletons we were, how easy it was to buy our trust! And how glad I am that the usual Soviet caution did not become a barrier in our relationships with people.

It seemed that we had found with Balburov common language. But how different we were! The years of the “Thaw” were marked by the noisy, nervous activity of middle-aged people in their thirties, busy transmitting “samizdat” and news heard on Radio Liberty. Everything caused an increased reaction in us: we accepted Solzhenitsyn unconditionally, treated Kochetov and Sofronov with demonstrative contempt, Pasternak with adoration, the trial of Sinyavsk and Daniel with indignation, and the flight of Svetlana Alliluyeva with enthusiasm. There was no composure.

Balburov differed from all of us in his monumental calmness. He seemed like an older man. And he was only a year older than Arkady. He was born and raised in another part of the world, among another people, his behavior was different, his scale of values ​​was different. Obviously, he did not mix the state system and his work as editor-in-chief. The Soviet regime was alien and offensive to Afrikan Andreevich, but since it was already set as a condition of existence, he wanted to do his main job, the magazine, well. So he was forced to turn between serious literature and bad political demands.

“Perhaps”, “obviously”, “seems”... Passages from the book about the surrender and death of the Soviet intellectual greatly upset the balance he had created. Why did he come to us?

Balburov hardly drank at the table. I preferred a glass of red wine to vodka. Despite my stupid fears, he spoke to me as an equal. He sat up straight. Narrow eyes are covered with lowered eyelids. Because his neck was too short, he had to lift his chin to better see his interlocutor. This gave him an arrogant look. No matter how frank he was, you felt that there was something more behind this that he had not revealed to you and, perhaps, would never reveal. Not a single word was said about Arkady's manuscript. “A hidden Buddhist,” Nathan whispered to me, “I’ve met someone like that.” I still don’t know who Balburov really was, but then it seemed to me that the likeness of Buddha was sitting at our table.

In the first issue of the magazine in 1968, the first third of the chapter “The Poet and the Fat Man” was published, about Olesha’s most significant work, “Envy.” Classic formula Russian literature- “the poet and the mob” - Belinkov transferred to Soviet soil. He even flattered Olesha a little and, taking advantage of his contradictory attitude towards his heroes, attributed to him some kind of political insight: as if in Babichev one could see a warning about the danger of the revolution degenerating into an authoritarian state, and in Kavalerov - one of the first persecuted and slandered poets who was not allowed to fulfill his high purpose. Oh, how the oppositional reader of the 60s liked this approach to the matter! We knew how to see between the lines back then.

In fact, Belinkov believed that the writer’s surrender began when he, “together with everyone and on an equal basis with the rule of law,” forced himself to see an envious nonentity in Kavalerov and in Babichev positive hero, who was in hard labor before the revolution. (In Belinkov’s camp stories, convicts are also in power. What coincidences there are!)

A distant Siberian magazine gained fame. An hour after it went on sale, it could no longer be obtained at any kiosk, and the distribution of the magazine from the bookselling system switched to “samizdat.” Of course! In the same issue, “Snail on the Slope” by the Strugatsky brothers was also published.

They said: Ulan-Ude? It doesn't matter where!

Arkady loved to discuss his plans and test individual pieces by ear. They started talking about the manuscript. Our numerous acquaintances would stop me on the street, or at a publishing house, or in the library, take me by the elbow when visiting: “Listen, let me read... You see, I’m writing a book now...” Arkady invited me home, let me read. As a result, an assessment of the manuscript appeared abroad: “... I had the opportunity to read a typewritten manuscript of over 900 pages in size by Arkady Belinkov... This is an essay about the fall of the Russian intelligentsia after the revolution, something like a requiem concentrated on the personality and work of Yuri Olesha... an inexorable fresco dedicated to the generation which, in the words of [Roman] Jacobson, has lost its poets, a saga of literary history about suffering and rejection, about humiliation and compromise, about the martyrdom of Russian writers under communism ... "

The manuscript's long, hopeless circulation ended in 1976 in the West (first edition) and in 1997 in Moscow (second edition).

What were these years filled with?

The internal review, which set the tone for the relationship between the publishing house and the author, was delivered to the editors by L. Slavin, a writer of the same generation as Olesha and Shklovsky. According to the recollections of a person who got acquainted with her, she turned out to be “destroying outright. Venomously witty, full of intelligence and feeling, this little article, due to the virtuosity of its striking remarks, seemed written by a young and furious polemicist, and not by that tired, greatly faded and therefore listlessly condescending old man, which was our beloved host. For the first time in my life I discovered that wonderful people can be hostile to each other, and the murder of books and thoughts does not require the participation of notorious scoundrels. And a little later I realized that I was defending myself and my destiny by this much-spent era old man, who once started so brilliantly, promised so much and failed... And therefore it was no coincidence that even the young and furious intonations of the rebuke: the passing years stood up to defend the memory of themselves.”

The director of the publishing house, the conscientious Karaganov, bound in his actions by the fate of the camp and the brilliant entry into literature of the author under his control, even came to our home to persuade Arkady to make concessions. This visit also ended with the defense of one’s own memory: “Arkady Viktorovich, if I sign your book for publication,” the director begged, “it means I admit that I have lived my whole life in vain!”

Arkady imagined that between him, a free artist, and the Soviet publishing house there was a struggle on equal terms. But he was simply starved to death.

They pretended that it was necessary to “adapt the manuscript to the profile of the publishing house”: they should have focused on Olesha’s theater and cinema. The author did not intend to do this, but got carried away and increased the volume of the already impressive manuscript by 200 pages.

They were forced to make alterations within the limits of what was written - “Olesha is not enough.” The manuscript was swelling again.

The composition of the book was disrupted. It became - “There are few “Fat Men””. The volume has increased by another 76 pages.

Changed editors. Each text was corrected in relation to changing external circumstances.

When the number of pages rewritten exceeded the contractual volume by more than two times, the thermometer began to drop. Now the manuscript had to be shortened.

Meanwhile, the author gradually turned into a disabled person of the second group - almost like in a camp. Doctors prescribed him bed rest. Publishing employees like medical workers, increasingly came to his house.

Valentin Malikov became the editor of the manuscript at its last and longest stage of walking through thorns. It seemed to us that he was a direct and strict executor of the publisher’s requirements. Or maybe...

Valentin Malikov carefully visited Arkady for several years and each time brought new demands. And each time Arkady sat down to rewrite entire sections again. A clear and short phrase turned into a lengthy story with a plot, climax and denouement. The author hid behind examples taken from the literature of other eras: he spoke either about an executioner elevated to the rank of nobility, or about a woman who covered her head with a skirt out of shame, or about a green lawn during the plague, sitting on which ladies and gentlemen could talk about what they wanted. just don't like it. Even the sharp political jokes of the 60s were presented as “old” tales. It was necessary to rearrange or replace unambiguous words: “Thermidor” was replaced by “rebirth”, and “post-revolutionary time” by “successor era” and vice versa.

Each alteration is an attempt to pull a camel through the eye of a needle. And the camel grew fat and swelled before our eyes. And the worst thing is that the camouflage did not justify its purpose, “heretical” ideas still stuck out.

What goal did Malikov pursue? By forcing the author to Sisyphean labor, he fulfilled the requirements of the publishing house, delaying the shame of terminating the contract (well, not shame - awkwardness)? Was he on Belinkov’s side and tried, although not always successfully, to make the manuscript passable? Did you have some third option in mind? After all, he whispered: “Arkady Viktorovich! Well, it won’t work! They won't let you in anyway. May be? A? Well, you understand... abroad...” Arkady himself at that time was looking for a way to the West for the book. Coincidence? Trap? Usually gullible, he did not trust Comrade Malikov even a penny. Just in case, I went to bury one of the copies. Luckily it was in the summer, at the dacha. This was the reflex of that time: hide, hide, destroy - just in case.

We haven't fully considered the last option. The moment came when Malikov, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, admitted to one of our friends: “Finally! I have brought the manuscript to such a state that it cannot be published here.” And he innocently told Arkady that no one authorized him to edit this book.

Could it be that Malikov, without following the instructions of the editors, without fulfilling anyone else’s tasks, ruined the book, and at the same time the author, on his own whim?

The hope of publishing a book in our country about the death of Soviet literature and the capitulation of one of its writers has virtually burst. But Arkady still continued to resist.

On the eve of his departure abroad, from which he did not return, Belinkov turned for help to the USSR Writers' Union to “comrades in our immensely difficult writing craft” F. Kuznetsov and V. Sokolov. He wrote: “The manuscript was retyped, rewritten, weighed, felt, held up to the light, checked by ultrasound, subjected to spectral analysis and measured by all available modern science about the resistance of materials in ways ... "

Time has changed. Directors of the publishing house, internal reviewers, editors came and went: A. Karaganov, Yu. Shub, E. Sevastyanov, L. Slavin, A. Gurevich, O. Rossikhina, K. Rudnitsky, V. Malikov. The requirements for the author have changed. The contract for the book was concluded and renegotiated several times: in 1963, 1964, 1967. In the anniversary year, the contract was renewed a month after the return of the manuscript.

A devastating article from Literaturnaya Gazeta broke into the protracted struggle between the publishing house and the author - a response to the publication in Baikal: “... a record of distortion of facts... [Belinkov] treats Olesha voluntaristically and opposes the movement forward.” One is not enough. The critic found three more that bloomed during the Thaw. He left two to the readers to guess, and named the third - Kaverin. They also hindered progress: one saw in “ Quiet Don"the actions of immature leaders of the revolution, another misrepresented the participants Civil War, the third idealized the role of the “Serapion Brothers” in the development of Russian literature.

It seems that, as in the good Stalinist times, they were putting together a group. In the practice of the Soviet “literary” struggle, this was a bad signal. The revision of history, undertaken in the fifties, began its slow retreat. No discussion, no debate, no dissent.

We can say that Arkady himself prepared the author of the development article. In his study “Russian Soviet Historical Novel,” he equated the depiction of prison life in literature to cheap effects, praising Tynyanov for not showing Kuchelbecker in prison “for the sake of a general optimistic sound.” The former prisoner in his “Yuri Tynyanov” sharply argued with him.

In Ulan-Ude they were clearly in a hurry. “Baikal”, disdaining merciless criticism, published a second excerpt, not subject to editorial editing, and even promised a third.

Litgazeta also hurried. Another article appeared on the same topic, but without a signature, an editorial.

The third passage did not appear in Baikal.

The magazine was smashed. And for “The Snail on the Slope” and for “The Poet and the Fat Man.” The editorial office was dispersed. Unemployed Balburov walked around Moscow and said that he was very pleased: he managed to publish Belinkov. Volodya Barayev, according to rumors, had a heart attack.

Contractual obligations with Art were terminated on May 21, 1968, after the first article in Litgazeta. I keep the document on termination of the contract with this date. In the same year, the director of the publishing house, E. Sevastyanov, told an Ogonyok correspondent that the break in relations between the publishing house and the author had occurred a year earlier. The director had sufficient reasons to remain silent about the renewal of the agreement: on July 13, 1968, the Radio Liberty reported that Belinkov was in the West.

The first five-year phase of the publishing plan has ended. There were two more ahead.

Belinkov's escape abroad was, after all, a matter of chance, but the transfer of the manuscript to the West was carefully thought out.

First she had to be secretly photographed. I had to find out from very faithful people who could do this, then it was necessary to secure a reliable recommendation in order to get to the photographer. The next step is to find his address and come to him and leave him unnoticed. You also need to bring the film you shot home. Give it to a reliable person who will take it across the border. For each step in this chain of actions, if done carelessly, you can pay dearly.

Our photographer was the son of the writer Tretyakov, who died in 1939. Having returned from the camps as an invalid, the younger Tretyakov lived in a communal apartment, occupying one room, in the corner of which heavy antediluvian equipment was piled up. Most of the Moscow “samizdat” passed through this corner - after all, manuscripts were reproduced not only by typewriter. The photographer and his wife lived in poverty - I once went to their place for a luxurious dinner: bread sandwiches with hard-boiled eggs sprinkled with dill. And in constant danger.

More than nine hundred pages were turned into a reel of photographic film the size of a fist. A person of the twenty-first century will be surprised: “What about a photocopier?” A Soviet person from the mid-twenties will answer: “All the duplicating machines were under strict control. Without permission from Glavlit, it was impossible to print more than ten copies of even an announcement about a party meeting. For violation - a term of ten years.”

We made two reels. A familiar European diplomat agreed to take one of them. The other was a friend who was leaving forever to visit her family in Poland. She had her own plan to hide it so that customs officers would not find it. The risk is great, both for us and for her.

On the day when she was supposed to cross the border, our nerves could not stand it. Leave the house! But where? We asked to see Flora and Misha Litvinov, Pavel’s parents. Not the most ingenious solution - Pavel is an active dissident, and our friends’ apartment is under constant surveillance. Arriving at the house on the embankment where they lived then, we whispered what was happening. (You can’t speak loudly - you were afraid of eavesdroppers.) It turned out that we “chose” the time well. Neither Pavel nor Nina, his sister, were at home. Ivy Valterovna - Pavel's grandmother - has already moved to the dacha. We were given her room with a very comfortable bed, custom made in America in time immemorial. After a relaxing evening with friends, the tension eased. This whole sleepover episode started to seem like a fun adventure. “But I must warn you,” said Flora, “a rare poisonous lizard escaped from Nina’s terrarium, and we don’t know where it is.”

“Surrender and death of the Soviet intellectual. Yuri Olesha" was published posthumously (the so-called Madrid edition). They ask: “Why Spain?” I answer: “There was a printing house there with the Russian font of Alexei Vladimirovich Stavrovsky - the cheapest in the West.”

With the help of Radio Liberty, we managed to find a grant that was enough for only a thousand copies. Four hundred copies additional circulation were paid for by me. In preparing the posthumous edition, I followed the text sent by the author abroad. In accordance with Arkady’s intention, I divided the chapter “Death of a Poet” into two: “Collect scrap metal!” (the title suggested by the text) and “The Death of a Poet.” Due to this, several paragraphs had to be rearranged. Arkady envisioned a compositional reworking of the chapter “Swallowed Flute.” Due to the uncertainty of his intentions, it remained unchanged. I had to remove five or six repetitions that got into the manuscript as a result of numerous revisions. The deliberate repetitions of the same thought, characteristic of Belinkov’s style, are left unchanged in the text. Although the full title of the book is indicated on the title, “Yuri Olesha” is written on the cover. It was hoped that a book with such a title would be easier to smuggle across the border. Part of the circulation ended up in university libraries in the West. The rest was slipped under the Iron Curtain. It ended up in the special storage departments of the largest libraries, where it was issued to literary scholars with special permission. The book was a success on the black market.

The first mention of Belinkov in his homeland (as a “forgotten critic” and about his “passionate and honest” books) appeared only in 1988.

Was it forgotten or silent? It seemed that it was time to return Arkady Belinkov to the Russian reader. At the insistence of our friends - the most active role in this belonged to Gala Belaya - the publishing house "Soviet Writer" decided to publish the second edition of "Surrender and Death...", but in an abridged version (35 author's sheets instead of 42).

I had to shorten the book (due to long quotes from Olesha and polemics thirty years ago). Having already shredded the text, I found a note from Arkady addressed to himself. He was going to remove quotes from Olesha and shorten polemical pieces that had lost their relevance. In 1990, through the Soviet trade mission in Washington, I sent the manuscript to the Soviet Writer publishing house. In “New Books” - an annotated thematic plan for the publication of literature for 1991 - it was announced about the upcoming publication of the book, and in the spring of that year the publishing house entered into an official contract with me. Editor - Marina Malkhazova. It seems to me that justice is finally prevailing. Time goes by. The long-awaited rectangular stamp “To type” appears on the manuscript. The artist V. Medvedev hastily finishes the design of the book. Time is ticking. In the fall, I decided to go to Moscow: my ninety-year-old mother was waiting for me. in my hands american passport, but American lawyers do not advise going: “Anything can happen to you there.” And, listing various reasons, they admit the possibility of a revolution. Just in case, I leave a power of attorney to reliable people to manage my affairs in America. I arrive in Moscow three days before the now memorable putsch. Yeltsin on a tank. I will finally publish “Olesha” - a promise made to my husband in his last hours.

In 1993, the administrative reorganization of the publishing house began with scandals, division of the editorial portfolio and positions. There is no time for the manuscript begun thirty years ago. Fortunately, it's about to " Soviet writer"The publishing house "Academy" will be spun off. The director of the new publishing house, S.I. Grigoryants, to my great joy, takes the manuscript for himself. I know that his manuscript will not be lost. But the fate of the new publishing house is up in the air. Time is ticking.

I'm coming to Moscow again. I have not been a Muscovite for a long time. In this city there is a life that is incomprehensible to me. How to find a suitable publishing house? I go to the now abolished Committee on Press Affairs, and there they come to me for sympathy: “Now everything is not like before. We can't order any more." I can only rejoice at the independence of literature from the powers that be. On the advice of friends, I turn to N.A. Anastasyev, director of the Kultura publishing house. He took the manuscript, and... the matter froze. No movement.

Natalya Belinkova How can you write in the camp? From the huge, smoking, rushing past world history The writer's book contains gifts and blows that he could not avoid. A. Belinkov “Arkady of the Russian Soviet Federative Republic.” Dolinka. Oral

Natalya Belinkova Search for a genre Choosing a genre and especially its predominance or decline in each historical period are in direct connection with the needs of the time. A. Belinkov State exam. Article about Blok. Attempts to return to prose. Hackwork.

Natalya Belinkova Censor number instead of a camp number Between reality and history, the distance has been greatly reduced and the border has been erased. Arkady Belinkov Aesopian language and its capabilities. Blok's beloved in the role of editor of a Soviet publishing house. "Yuri Tynyanov" in

Natalya Belinkova The Christmas tree has gone out! Dear Anna Andreevna. If my generation can still say something without being ashamed of what they said, it is only because we read your poems from childhood, knew about your fate, and believed that you were right. Arkady Belinkov Dedication inscription on the book

Natalya Belinkova I am only a witness Alexander Isaevich Solzhenitsyn thought of writing wonderful books. Such books are obtained by combining two qualities: talent and courage. This is a necessary minimum, without which nothing can be achieved in art. Arkady

Natalya Belinkova Teachers and students are always to blame together: the person and the circumstances. Arkady Belinkov Victor Shklovsky “I was brought up on Shklovsky’s knee,” Arkady proudly declared. “This young man is religiously devoted to literature,” Victor spoke of him

Natalya Belinkova Route: Moscow - Vienna The earth was leaving, decreasing, melting great Russia, a brilliant country, an immense prison. Arkady Belinkov Ancient Rus'. Empty space in Svyatogorsk Cathedral. Tallinn. Documents for OVIR. The first crossing of the Soviet border.

Natalya Belinkova Green color of hope Viennese conversations. Address to the President of the United States of America. Short stop in Munich. “We, the Western intelligentsia, do not share your views.” Over Atlantic Ocean. Strike at Kennedy Airport (USA). Arcadia

Natalya Belinkova “Bedroom” New York Temporary life on the outskirts of New York. American uncle. A country club with a swimming pool is not for us. Interview for Time magazine. We have been granted political asylum. Arkady signs a contract to work at Yale

Natalya Belinkova This wasteland was owned by the late grandfather! Secular living rooms. Archpriest Alexander Dimitrievich Shmeman. Professor from Berkeley Gleb Petrovich Struve. Editor of the New Journal Roman Borisovich Gul. “The country of slaves, the country of masters...” - an article rejected in the USSR

Natalya Belinkova Fractions, my angry iambic, stones! It is not Dantes' bullet that kills the poet, but society. A. Belinkov, “Yuri Tynyanov” The trip to Israel is cancelled. The left in Russia becomes right when it comes to the West. The editorial notes of the American publishing house Doubleday coincide

Natalya Belinkova “New Bell” We are raised by one culture, people leaving the country will live for us there... Y. Daniel Car accident. A sparkling meeting of the New Year 1970. International Symposium on Censorship in London. We will publish our own magazine! Reaction

Natalya Belinkova There is no prophet from a foreign fatherland The red forest stood askance and quickly in front of him. The white sky shook and froze under his feet. It was an amazing reality, which was exactly molded according to the dream. A stone quickly and sharply rose from the road and hit the artist in the

Yuri Karlovich Olesha

The old man sat down at the table set for breakfast. The table was set for one. There was a coffee pot, a milk jug, a glass in a glass holder with a spoon shining dazzlingly in the sunlight, and a saucer on which lay two eggs.

The old man, having sat down at the table, began to think about what he thought about every time he sat down at the table in the morning. He thought that his daughter Natasha treated him badly. What does this mean? At least in the fact that for some reason she considers it necessary for him to have breakfast alone. She, you see, respects him very much, and therefore it seems to her that his life should be separate.

– You are a famous professor, and you should live comfortably.

“You fool,” the professor thinks, “what a fool she is!” I have to have breakfast alone. And I have to read newspapers at breakfast. So it got into her head. Where did she see this? To the cinema? What a fool."

The professor took the egg, dropped it into a silver glass and clicked the matte top of the egg with a spoon. Everything irritated him. Of course, he remembered Columbus, who did something like that with an egg, and this also angered him.

- Natasha! - he called.

Natasha, of course, was not at home. He decided to talk to her. "I'll talk to her." He loved his daughter very much. What could be better than a white linen dress on a girl? How the bone buttons shine! She ironed her dress yesterday. An ironed linen dress smells of leftovers.

After breakfast, the old man put on his Panama hat, threw his coat over his arm, took his cane and left the house.

A car was waiting for him at the porch.

- Dmitry Yakovlevich... where are we going? – asked the driver. - There?

“There,” said the professor.

- Natalya Dmitrievna ordered to convey...

The driver handed the professor an envelope. Let's go. The professor, bouncing on the pillows, read the letter:

“Don't be angry, don't be angry, don't be angry. I went on a date. Don't be angry, do you hear? Stein is very nice guy. You'll like him. I'll show it to you. Aren't you angry? No? Did you have breakfast? Kiss. I'll be back in the evening. Today is a day off, you are having lunch at the Shatunovskys, so I’m free.”

- What's the matter, Kolya? – the professor suddenly asked the driver. He looked back.

- You seem to be laughing?

It seemed to him that the driver was laughing. But the driver's face was serious. However, this did not remove the suspicion that the driver was laughing in his heart. The professor believed that the driver was in conspiracy with Natasha. Dandy. He wears some amazing wasp-colored sweatshirts. He calls me "My old man." I know what he’s thinking now: “My old man is out of sorts.”

The car was driving along a country road. They rushed towards flowering trees, hedges, passers-by.

“She will show me Stein,” thought the professor. - Stein is a good guy. Okay, let's see. Today I’ll tell her: “Show me Stein.”

Then the old man walked knee-deep in the grass, waving his cane.

- Coat? Where's the coat? – he suddenly realized. -Where is the coat? Yeah... I forgot it in the car.

He walked up the mountain, was a little out of breath, took off his Panama hat, wiped off the sweat, looked at his wet palm, and walked again, hitting the grass with his cane. The grass lay down with a shine.

Parachutes were already appearing in the sky.

- Last time I stood here? Here. He stopped and watched the parachutes appear in the sky. One, two, three, four... Yeah... and there's another one, and another... What's this? Sink? How they are filled with sunshine! High. But they say that the fear of heights disappears... Ahh... here he is, here!.. Striped! Funny. Striped parachute.

The professor looked around. Below there was a blue, small, long, capsule-like car. The trees were blooming and swaying there. Everything was very strange and like a dream: the sky, spring, parachutes floating. The old man felt sadness and tenderness and saw the sun penetrating to him through the cracks in the fields of his Panama hat.

He stood like that for quite a long time. When he returned home, Natasha was not there. He sat down on the couch in the pose of a man who is about to get up, and sat there for an hour. Then he stood up, dropping the ashtray, and went to the phone. And indeed, at that second the phone rang. The professor knew exactly what they would tell him, he just did not know what address they would tell him. They told him the address. He replied:

- Yes, I’m not worried. Who told you that I'm worried?

After ten minutes of a terrible race through the streets, the old man put on a white clattering robe and walked along the long parquet floor.

Opening the glass door, he saw Natasha's laughing face. In the middle of the pillow. Then he heard them say, “It’s no big deal.” This was said by a young man standing at the head of the room. He was wearing the same robe.

- Landed wrong.

She injured her leg. Everything was strange. For some reason, instead of talking about misfortune, they started talking about how the professor looked like Gorky, only Gorky was tall, and the professor was short. All three and the woman in the robe laughed.

- Did you really know? – Natasha asked.

- Well, of course I knew. Every time I arrived, I stood like a fool in the grass and watched!

Just then the old man began to cry. Natasha also cried.

- Why do you worry me! - she said. - I can't worry!

And she cried more and more, putting her father’s hand under her cheek.

“I thought you wouldn’t let me jump.”

“Oh, you,” said the professor, “you deceived me.” You said you were going on a date. How stupid this is. I stood in the grass like a fool... I stand, waiting... for the striped one to open...

– I didn’t jump with the striped one! With striped Stein jumping!

- Stein? - asked the old man, getting angry again. -Which Stein?

“It’s me Stein,” said the young man.

Yuri Karlovich Olesha

The old man sat down at the table set for breakfast. The table was set for one. There was a coffee pot, a milk jug, a glass in a glass holder with a spoon shining dazzlingly in the sunlight, and a saucer on which lay two eggs.

The old man, having sat down at the table, began to think about what he thought about every time he sat down at the table in the morning. He thought that his daughter Natasha treated him badly. What does this mean? At least in the fact that for some reason she considers it necessary for him to have breakfast alone. She, you see, respects him very much, and therefore it seems to her that his life should be separate.

– You are a famous professor, and you should live comfortably.

“You fool,” the professor thinks, “what a fool she is!” I have to have breakfast alone. And I have to read newspapers at breakfast. So it got into her head. Where did she see this? To the cinema? What a fool."

The professor took the egg, dropped it into a silver glass and clicked the matte top of the egg with a spoon. Everything irritated him. Of course, he remembered Columbus, who did something like that with an egg, and this also angered him.

- Natasha! - he called.

Natasha, of course, was not at home. He decided to talk to her. "I'll talk to her." He loved his daughter very much. What could be better than a white linen dress on a girl? How the bone buttons shine! She ironed her dress yesterday. An ironed linen dress smells of leftovers.

After breakfast, the old man put on his Panama hat, threw his coat over his arm, took his cane and left the house.

A car was waiting for him at the porch.

- Dmitry Yakovlevich... where are we going? – asked the driver. - There?

“There,” said the professor.

- Natalya Dmitrievna ordered to convey...

The driver handed the professor an envelope. Let's go. The professor, bouncing on the pillows, read the letter:

“Don't be angry, don't be angry, don't be angry. I went on a date. Don't be angry, do you hear? Stein is a very good guy. You'll like him. I'll show it to you. Aren't you angry? No? Did you have breakfast? Kiss. I'll be back in the evening. Today is a day off, you are having lunch at the Shatunovskys, so I’m free.”

- What's the matter, Kolya? – the professor suddenly asked the driver. He looked back.

- You seem to be laughing?

It seemed to him that the driver was laughing. But the driver's face was serious. However, this did not remove the suspicion that the driver was laughing in his heart. The professor believed that the driver was in conspiracy with Natasha. Dandy. He wears some amazing wasp-colored sweatshirts. He calls me "My old man." I know what he’s thinking now: “My old man is out of sorts.”

The car was driving along a country road. Flowering trees, hedges, and passers-by rushed towards us.

“She will show me Stein,” thought the professor. - Stein is a good guy. Okay, let's see. Today I’ll tell her: “Show me Stein.”

Then the old man walked knee-deep in the grass, waving his cane.

- Coat? Where's the coat? – he suddenly realized. -Where is the coat? Yeah... I forgot it in the car.

He walked up the mountain, was a little out of breath, took off his Panama hat, wiped off the sweat, looked at his wet palm, and walked again, hitting the grass with his cane. The grass lay down with a shine.

Parachutes were already appearing in the sky.

- Last time I stood here? Here. He stopped and watched the parachutes appear in the sky. One, two, three, four... Yeah... and there's another one, and another... What's this? Sink? How they are filled with sunshine! High. But they say that the fear of heights disappears... Ahh... here he is, here!.. Striped! Funny. Striped parachute.

The professor looked around. Below there was a blue, small, long, capsule-like car. The trees were blooming and swaying there. Everything was very strange and like a dream: the sky, spring, parachutes floating. The old man felt sadness and tenderness and saw the sun penetrating to him through the cracks in the fields of his Panama hat.

He stood like that for quite a long time. When he returned home, Natasha was not there. He sat down on the couch in the pose of a man who is about to get up, and sat there for an hour. Then he stood up, dropping the ashtray, and went to the phone. And indeed, at that second the phone rang. The professor knew exactly what they would tell him, he just did not know what address they would tell him. They told him the address. He replied:

- Yes, I’m not worried. Who told you that I'm worried?

After ten minutes of a terrible race through the streets, the old man put on a white clattering robe and walked along the long parquet floor.

Opening the glass door, he saw Natasha's laughing face. In the middle of the pillow. Then he heard them say, “It’s no big deal.” This was said by a young man standing at the head of the room. He was wearing the same robe.

- Landed wrong.

She injured her leg. Everything was strange. For some reason, instead of talking about misfortune, they started talking about how the professor looked like Gorky, only Gorky was tall, and the professor was short. All three and the woman in the robe laughed.

- Did you really know? – Natasha asked.

- Well, of course I knew. Every time I arrived, I stood like a fool in the grass and watched!

Just then the old man began to cry. Natasha also cried.

- Why do you worry me! - she said. - I can't worry!

And she cried more and more, putting her father’s hand under her cheek.

“I thought you wouldn’t let me jump.”

“Oh, you,” said the professor, “you deceived me.” You said you were going on a date. How stupid this is. I stood in the grass like a fool... I stand, waiting... for the striped one to open...

– I didn’t jump with the striped one! With striped Stein jumping!

- Stein? - asked the old man, getting angry again. -Which Stein?

“It’s me Stein,” said the young man.

Yuri Karlovich Olesha

The old man sat down at the table set for breakfast. The table was set for one. There was a coffee pot, a milk jug, a glass in a glass holder with a spoon shining dazzlingly in the sunlight, and a saucer on which lay two eggs.

The old man, having sat down at the table, began to think about what he thought about every time he sat down at the table in the morning. He thought that his daughter Natasha treated him badly. What does this mean? At least in the fact that for some reason she considers it necessary for him to have breakfast alone. She, you see, respects him very much, and therefore it seems to her that his life should be separate.

– You are a famous professor, and you should live comfortably.

“You fool,” the professor thinks, “what a fool she is!” I have to have breakfast alone. And I have to read newspapers at breakfast. So it got into her head. Where did she see this? To the cinema? What a fool."

The professor took the egg, dropped it into a silver glass and clicked the matte top of the egg with a spoon. Everything irritated him. Of course, he remembered Columbus, who did something like that with an egg, and this also angered him.

- Natasha! - he called.

Natasha, of course, was not at home. He decided to talk to her. "I'll talk to her." He loved his daughter very much. What could be better than a white linen dress on a girl? How the bone buttons shine! She ironed her dress yesterday. An ironed linen dress smells of leftovers.

After breakfast, the old man put on his Panama hat, threw his coat over his arm, took his cane and left the house.

A car was waiting for him at the porch.

- Dmitry Yakovlevich... where are we going? – asked the driver. - There?

“There,” said the professor.

- Natalya Dmitrievna ordered to convey...

The driver handed the professor an envelope. Let's go. The professor, bouncing on the pillows, read the letter:

“Don't be angry, don't be angry, don't be angry. I went on a date. Don't be angry, do you hear? Stein is a very good guy. You'll like him. I'll show it to you. Aren't you angry? No? Did you have breakfast? Kiss. I'll be back in the evening. Today is a day off, you are having lunch at the Shatunovskys, so I’m free.”

- What's the matter, Kolya? – the professor suddenly asked the driver. He looked back.

- You seem to be laughing?

It seemed to him that the driver was laughing. But the driver's face was serious. However, this did not remove the suspicion that the driver was laughing in his heart. The professor believed that the driver was in conspiracy with Natasha. Dandy. He wears some amazing wasp-colored sweatshirts. He calls me "My old man." I know what he’s thinking now: “My old man is out of sorts.”

The car was driving along a country road. Flowering trees, hedges, and passers-by rushed towards us.

“She will show me Stein,” thought the professor. - Stein is a good guy. Okay, let's see. Today I’ll tell her: “Show me Stein.”

Then the old man walked knee-deep in the grass, waving his cane.

- Coat? Where's the coat? – he suddenly realized. -Where is the coat? Yeah... I forgot it in the car.

He walked up the mountain, was a little out of breath, took off his Panama hat, wiped off the sweat, looked at his wet palm, and walked again, hitting the grass with his cane. The grass lay down with a shine.

Parachutes were already appearing in the sky.

- Last time I stood here? Here. He stopped and watched the parachutes appear in the sky. One, two, three, four... Yeah... and there's another one, and another... What's this? Sink? How they are filled with sunshine! High. But they say that the fear of heights disappears... Ahh... here he is, here!.. Striped! Funny. Striped parachute.

The professor looked around. Below there was a blue, small, long, capsule-like car. The trees were blooming and swaying there. Everything was very strange and like a dream: the sky, spring, parachutes floating. The old man felt sadness and tenderness and saw the sun penetrating to him through the cracks in the fields of his Panama hat.

He stood like that for quite a long time. When he returned home, Natasha was not there. He sat down on the couch in the pose of a man who is about to get up, and sat there for an hour. Then he stood up, dropping the ashtray, and went to the phone. And indeed, at that second the phone rang. The professor knew exactly what they would tell him, he just did not know what address they would tell him. They told him the address. He replied:

- Yes, I’m not worried. Who told you that I'm worried?

After ten minutes of a terrible race through the streets, the old man put on a white clattering robe and walked along the long parquet floor.

Opening the glass door, he saw Natasha's laughing face. In the middle of the pillow. Then he heard them say, “It’s no big deal.” This was said by a young man standing at the head of the room. He was wearing the same robe.

- Landed wrong.

She injured her leg. Everything was strange. For some reason, instead of talking about misfortune, they started talking about how the professor looked like Gorky, only Gorky was tall, and the professor was short. All three and the woman in the robe laughed.

- Did you really know? – Natasha asked.

- Well, of course I knew. Every time I arrived, I stood like a fool in the grass and watched!

Just then the old man began to cry. Natasha also cried.

- Why do you worry me! - she said. - I can't worry!

And she cried more and more, putting her father’s hand under her cheek.

“I thought you wouldn’t let me jump.”

“Oh, you,” said the professor, “you deceived me.” You said you were going on a date. How stupid this is. I stood in the grass like a fool... I stand, waiting... for the striped one to open...

– I didn’t jump with the striped one! With striped Stein jumping!

- Stein? - asked the old man, getting angry again. -Which Stein?

“It’s me Stein,” said the young man.

Review of the story by Yu. Olesha “Natasha” Stoykova Maria, class 8A, 2013-2014 academic year. November 18, 2013. 10:00 Dear Diary, today early morning I read the story. Its author is Yuri Olesha. You know, this text... I’m not afraid of this word, I’m surprised. I rarely read without interruptions, but I read “Natasha” in one sitting. And you know, I thought about my relationship with my parents. Don't think I've never worried before. It’s just that the writer depicted such a life situation that I wanted to go up to my parents, sit with them, talking about life over a cup of tea. I just wanted to ask: “How are you? How was your day? How are you? November 18, 2013 10.30 My dear diary, I return again and again to the work of Yuri Olesha. “To be honest, I didn’t think that I would re-read it several times. Why? It's hard to say. But, probably, the name “Natasha” is important for me. This is the name of the text I read. The first thought was: “The story will probably be about a schoolgirl.” Perhaps she won’t have friends, she’ll be lonely.” However, my guess was wrong. The title reflects the theme of the story, but it is not what I expected. The author tells the story of an elderly man whose daughter, Natasha, hid her hobby of parachuting from him. Throughout the entire story, you can observe how lonely the hero begins his day, because his daughter has already left, having written that she is going on a date. I really liked that the writer chose such an ordinary situation as the theme of his story. Yes, teenagers talk about going on a date while they themselves are skydiving. November 18, 2013. 10.50 Dear Diary, thinking about how else I could title Yuri Olesha’s story, I came to the conclusion that the author chose the most successful title. But the title could very well be: “The secret always becomes apparent.” By using this frequently used phrase, the author would thus express the idea of ​​the text. The writer leads readers to the idea that it is better not to hide one’s actions. Why? I think because such actions do not make a person and the people around him feel better, they only complicate their lives. The writer reflects this through the old man's speech. (“... deceived me.. how stupid it is..”) And one cannot but agree with the author’s position... As I already wrote, I was very pleased that Yuri Olesha touched on important moral problems- the problem of relations between generations, the problem of loneliness. You don’t often see, especially in modern literature, which, it would seem, should reflect such pressing questions: “Why do relationships between generations sometimes not work out?” or “How can the problem of “fathers and sons” be resolved? November 18, 2013 11.15 Dear diary, after a long expression of emotions, I would like to dwell on the composition of the story. The text can be divided into four components, the outline of which will be as follows: 1) The professor's breakfast. 2) The old man's trip. 3) Observation of parachutes. 4) Meeting at the hospital. The exposition can be called the first semantic part (“The Professor’s Breakfast”), in which the author describes the usual beginning of the professor’s morning (how this man’s table is set, what he thinks about his lonely breakfast). The beginning can be considered the moment when Natasha’s father gets into the car and goes “there”. The development of the action is the third semantic part (“Observation of parachutes”). I consider the meeting of Natasha and her father to be the culmination. The denouement is the last three lines (“I’m not with the striped one..”), which “defuse” the atmosphere, appearing as a result of the conversation between the old man and the parachutist. One of the interesting features of the composition is the antithesis. In the first three parts, the professor is lonely, and the author emphasizes this with the help of the landscape (“strange, like a dream..”) and the interior (“the table was set for one...”). In the last semantic part (“meeting in the hospital”) the reader watches how the old man meets his daughter. Both are happy about this, and I am also happy for these people. November 18, 2013. 12.00 Dear friend, I’m sorry for writing down entries here that are not very suitable for a diary, but I really liked this story so much that I simply cannot remain indifferent and not analyze it…. What is the image system? The main characters are the professor and his daughter, the secondary ones are the driver Kolya and Stein. All these characters are different not only in character, but also in inner world. I'll probably start with the main thing. actor- the heroine's father. The professor is unpleasant that Natasha leaves him to have breakfast alone; he sincerely does not understand why she does this (“Fool, what a fool she is!.. where did she see this? In the movies? What a fool”). He is a little suspicious (“however, this does not remove suspicion..”). But at the same time, this man is very caring for his daughter (“ah-k...here he is! Here! striped!”), he is happy that she landed and cries in the hospital with happiness (“only the old man cried”), Having learned that the injury was not serious, that he finally saw Natasha. Natasha...At first she seemed somewhat frivolous to me, but this is not so, I think. She just didn’t want her father to forbid her to jump with a parachute (“I thought you wouldn’t allow it..”). In her letter you can see that she still cares about her father and loves him (“Did you have breakfast? I kiss you”). Thus, the author himself seems to laugh amiably at Natasha, who thinks that she is successfully hiding her hobby from her father. November 18, 2013 12:30 I will dwell on the features of visual and expressive means. Interesting syntactic means are rhetorical questions (“Here he is, here!”), expressing the emotions of the characters. Polyunion (“he walked up the hill, was a little out of breath, took off his hat...”) creates the effect of a slow, solemn speech...”). Syntactic parallelism (“I went on a date”, “You liked him”) make the heroine’s (Natasha) speech more laconic. Syntactic devices such as rows homogeneous members(“blue, small, long”), enhance the accuracy of the author’s thought. Interrogative sentences (“Stein? Which Stein?”) focus the reader’s attention on an important word and express the hero’s indignation. The introductory words (“You seem to be laughing?”) reflect the hero’s doubts. Reduced vocabulary (“Fool! What a fool she is!”) serves as a means of expressing an assessment of the character. The morphological means of expressiveness - a suffix with a diminutive meaning -OK- ("old man") reflects the author's attitude towards the main character - sympathy. Yuri Olesha certainly sympathizes with the old man, and at the same time in this way emphasizes his loneliness. The type of speech used by the author is narrative. This reflects the sequence of actions of the heroes. So, the visual and expressive means used by the author fill the text and enrich it. . November 18, 2013. 13:10 I don’t know why, but I associate Y. Olesha’s story with Stephen King’s work “Carrie”, which also very accurately noted the theme of loneliness, the problem of “fathers and sons”. The situations in these two works are, of course, very different, but the ideas are similar. Carrie White is a professor. These are lonely people who lacked attention from loved ones, who had disagreements with their relatives, but who continued to love their relatives. November 18, 2013. 13:30 My dear diary, I’ve finished sharing my impressions of Yuri Olesha “Natasha. Honestly, I would like to say that I regret this ending. This story penetrated deeply into my soul. Do you know why? Perhaps because the characters seemed real to me. In the images of the heroes, I saw real people. What I read made me think about my relationship with my parents. And I can say with pleasure that this story will remain in my memory for a long time... (excerpts from the diary)