On a stuffy summer day, I was returning from hunting in a shaking cart. Suddenly my coachman became worried. Looking ahead, I saw that a funeral wagon was crossing our path. It was a bad omen, and the coachman began to urge the horses on in order to have time to pass in front of the convoy. We hadn't even gone a hundred paces when our cart's axle broke. Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. The coachman Yerofey said that they were burying Martin the carpenter.

Step by step, we got to Yudin's settlements to buy a new axle there. There was not a soul in the settlements. Finally I saw a man sleeping in the middle of the yard in the very sun, and I woke him up. I was struck by his appearance. He was a dwarf of about 50 with a swarthy, wrinkled face, small brown eyes, and a cap of thick, curly, black hair. His body was frail, and his eyes were unusually strange. His voice was surprisingly young and tender in a feminine way. The coachman called him Kasyan

After much persuasion, the old man agreed to take me to the cuts. Erofey harnessed Kasyanov's horse, and we set off. In the office, I quickly bought an axle and went deep into the cuts, hoping to hunt black grouse. Kasyan followed me. It was not for nothing that he was nicknamed the Flea: he walked very nimbly, plucked some herbs and looked at me with a strange look.

Not having come across a single brood, we entered the grove. I lay down on the grass. Suddenly Kasyan spoke to me. He said that the domestic creature was determined by God for man, and it is a sin to kill a forest creature. The old man's speech did not sound like a man, it was a solemn and strange language. I asked Kasyan what he did for a living. He replied that he did not work well, but that he was catching nightingales for human pleasure. He was a literate man, he had no family. Sometimes Kasyan treated people with herbs, and in the district he was considered a holy fool. They moved them from Krasivaya Mechi about 4 years ago, and Kasyan missed his native places. Taking advantage of his special position, Kasyan went around half of Russia.

Suddenly Kasyan shuddered, peering intently into the thicket of the forest. I looked around and saw a peasant girl in a blue sarafan and with a wicker box on her arm. The old man affectionately called her, calling her Alyonushka. When she came closer, I saw that she was older than I thought, about 13 or 14 years old. She was small and thin, slender and agile. The pretty girl was strikingly similar to Kasyan: the same sharp features, movements and sly look. I asked if it was his daughter. With feigned carelessness, Kasyan replied that she was his relative, while passionate love and tenderness were visible in his whole appearance.

The hunt failed, and we returned to the settlements, where Yerofey was waiting for me with the axis. Approaching the courtyard, Kasyan said that it was he who took the game away from me. I have not been able to convince him of the impossibility of this. An hour later I left, leaving Kasyan some money. On the way, I asked Yerofey what kind of person Kasyan was. The coachman said that at first Kasyan and his uncles went to the cart, and then he left it and began to live at home. Yerofey denied that Kasyan knew how to heal, although he himself was cured of scrofula. Alyonushka was an orphan, she lived with Kasyan. He doted on her soul and was going to teach literacy.

We stopped several times to wet the axle, which was getting hot from friction. It was already quite late when we returned home.

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

KASYAN WITH A BEAUTIFUL SWORD

I was returning from hunting in a shaking cart, and, depressed by the stuffy heat of a cloudy summer day (it is known that on such days the heat is sometimes even more intolerable than on clear days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and swayed, with gloomy patience, betraying myself to be eaten. fine white dust, constantly rising from the beaten path from under the cracked and rattling wheels - when suddenly my attention was aroused by the unusual restlessness and anxious movements of my coachman, who until that moment was even more deeply asleep than I was. He tugged at the reins, fidgeted on the box and began to shout at the horses, now and then looking somewhere to the side. I looked around. We rode across a wide plowed plain; in extremely gentle, undulating rumbles, low, also plowed hills ran into it; the gaze embraced only some five versts of deserted space; in the distance, small birch groves, with their rounded-toothed tops, alone broke the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across the fields, disappeared into hollows, twisted along the hillocks, and on one of them, which, five hundred paces ahead of us, had to cross our road, I made out a train. My coachman was looking at him.

It was a funeral. Ahead, in a cart drawn by one horse, a priest rode at a pace; the deacon sat beside him and ruled; behind the cart four peasants, with their heads bare, carried a coffin covered with a white linen; two women followed the coffin. The thin, plaintive voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened: she was crying. This iridescent, monotonous, hopelessly mournful tune resounded dully among the empty fields. The coachman urged on the horses: he wished to warn this train. Meeting a dead person on the road is a bad omen. He actually managed to ride down the road before the dead man could reach it; but we had not yet gone even a hundred paces, when suddenly our cart was strongly pushed, it tipped over, almost collapsed. The coachman stopped the runaway horses, bent down from the box, looked, waved his hand and spat.

What is there? I asked.

My coachman tears silently and without haste.

Yes, what is it?

The axle is broken… burnt out,” he replied gloomily, and with such indignation he suddenly straightened the harness on the harness that it completely swayed to one side, but resisted, snorted, shook herself and calmly began scratching her front leg with her tooth below the knee.

I got down and stood for some time on the road, vaguely indulging in a feeling of unpleasant bewilderment. The right wheel almost completely tucked under the cart and seemed to be lifting its hub up with mute desperation.

So what's now? I finally asked.

Who's to blame! - said my coachman, pointing with a whip at the train, which had already turned onto the road and was approaching us, - I have always noticed this, - he continued, - this is a sure sign - to meet the dead ... Yes.

And he again disturbed the companion, who, seeing his dislike and severity, decided to remain motionless and only occasionally and modestly waved her tail. I walked a little back and forth and again stopped in front of the wheel.

Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. Quietly turning off the road onto the grass, a sad procession stretched past our cart. The coachman and I took off our hats, bowed to the priest, exchanged glances with the porters. They performed with difficulty; their broad breasts rose high. Of the two women walking behind the coffin, one was very old and pale; her motionless features, cruelly distorted by grief, kept an expression of strict, solemn importance. She walked in silence, occasionally raising her thin hand to her thin sunken lips. Another woman, a young woman of about twenty-five, had red and moist eyes, and her whole face was swollen with weeping; having caught up with us, she stopped screaming and covered herself with her sleeve ... But then the deceased passed us, climbed out onto the road again, and again her plaintive, soul-rending singing was heard. Silently following the rhythmically swaying coffin with his eyes, my coachman turned to me.

They are burying Martin the carpenter,” he began, “what about Ryaba.

Why do you know?

I learned from the grandmothers. The old one is his mother, and the young one is his wife.

He was sick, right?

Yes… fever… On the third day the manager sent for the doctor, but the doctor was not found at home… But the carpenter was a good one; zashibal manenko, and was a good carpenter. You see, the woman is killing him like that ... Well, but you know: women have tears that are not bought. Woman's tears are the same water ... Yes.

And he bent down, crawled under the reins of the harness and grabbed the bow with both hands.

However, I said, what are we to do?

My coachman first rested his knee on the shoulder of the root, shook it twice with an arc, straightened the saddle, then again crawled under the reins of the harness and, passing it in passing in the face, went up to the wheel - went up and, without taking his eyes off him, slowly pulled out from under the floor caftan tavlinka, slowly pulled out the lid by the strap, slowly put his two thick fingers into the tavlinka (and two barely fit in it), crushed and crushed the tobacco, twisted his nose in advance, sniffed with an arrangement, accompanying each reception with a long groan, and, painfully squinting and blinking his watery eyes, he plunged into deep thought.

Well? I finally spoke.

My coachman carefully put the tavlinka into his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyebrows, without the help of his hands, with one movement of his head, and thoughtfully climbed onto the box.

Where are you? I asked him, not without amazement.

If you please, sit down, - he answered calmly and picked up the reins.

Yes, how are we going?

Let's go, sir.

Yes axle...

Feel free to sit down.

Yes the shaft is broken...

She broke, she broke; well, we’ll get to the settlements ... at a step, that is. Here, behind the grove to the right, there are settlements, they are called Yudins.

And you think we'll get there?

My coachman did not deign to answer me.

I'd rather walk, I said.

Whatever, with…

And he waved his whip. The horses set off.

We really got to the settlements, although the right front wheel was barely holding on and was spinning in an unusually strange way. On one hillock it nearly fell off; but my coachman shouted at him in an angry voice, and we descended safely.

Yudin's settlements consisted of six low and small huts, which had already managed to twist on one side, although they were probably put up recently: not all of the yards were surrounded by wattle fences. Driving into these settlements, we did not meet a single living soul; not even chickens were visible on the street, not even dogs; only one, black, with a short tail, hurriedly jumped out of a completely dry trough in our presence, where thirst must have driven her, and immediately, without barking, rushed headlong under the gate. I went into the first hut, opened the door to the passage, called out to the hosts - no one answered me. I clicked again: a hungry meow came from behind another door. I pushed her with my foot: a thin cat darted past me, green eyes flashing in the darkness. I stuck my head into the room, looked: dark, smoky and empty. I went to the courtyard, and there was no one there ... In the fence, a calf lowed; a lame gray goose hobbled a little to one side. I moved into the second hut - and there was not a soul in the second hut. I'm in the yard...

In the very middle of the brightly lit yard, on the very, as they say, in the sun, lay, facing the ground and covering his head with a coat, as it seemed to me, a boy. A few paces from him, near a bad cart, stood, under a thatched awning, a thin horse in a tattered harness. Sunlight, falling in streams through the narrow openings of the dilapidated mantle, was full of small bright spots of her shaggy red-bay hair. Immediately, in a tall birdhouse, the starlings were chatting, looking down from their airy house with calm curiosity. I went up to the sleeping man, started to wake him up ...

He raised his head, saw me, and immediately jumped to his feet... “What, what do you need? what?" he muttered sleepily.

I did not immediately answer him: I was so struck by his appearance. Imagine a dwarf in his fifties with a small, swarthy and wrinkled face, a pointed nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes, and curly, thick black hair that, like a hat on a mushroom, sat wide on his tiny head. His whole body was extremely frail and thin, and it is absolutely impossible to convey in words how unusual and strange his look was.

What do you need? he asked me again.

I explained to him what was the matter, he listened to me, not taking his eyes off me slowly blinking.

So can't we get a new axle? - I said at last, - I would gladly pay.

And who are you? Hunters, right? he asked, looking me up and down.

Hunters.

Are you shooting heavenly birds? .. forest animals? .. And it’s not a sin for you to kill God’s birds, shed innocent blood?

The strange old man spoke very slowly. The sound of his voice also amazed me. There was not only nothing decrepit in him, but he was surprisingly sweet, young and almost feminine tender.

"Notes of a hunter" by I.S. Turgenev reflected not only the social status of the Russian peasantry in the 40-50s of the XIX century, but also the spiritual life of the peasants, in which various beliefs play a huge role. I.S. Turgenev in the stories "Bezhin Meadow" and "Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword" embodied the type of mythological thinking, which is characterized by syncretism, integrity of the perception of the world in all its manifestations, a constant feeling of the relationship between man and nature.

Folklore-mythological motifs are leading in the story "Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword" following "Bezhin Meadows". First, these two stories are related primarily thematically. In Kasyan's monologue, the image of a happy country reappears. Secondly, in the image of the protagonist, I.S. Turgenev embodied one of the folk types, the type of a peasant-dreamer with a poetic mindset. In the story "Bezhin meadow" Kostya can be attributed to the same type. Let us especially emphasize that in the image of Kasyan two contradictory principles were combined in many respects: Christian and pagan. With his speeches, Kasyan resembles an Old Testament prophet, and at the same time, the hero thinks in mythological images. Folklore and mythological motifs in the story "Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword" help to evaluate certain human actions from the point of view of folk wisdom, the bearer of which is the main character of the story.

It is necessary to pay attention to the name of the hero. Among Russian people, this name was associated with the name of the Monk Kasyan the Roman, whose day was considered February 29. Kasyanov day happens only in a leap year. In Russia, a leap year has always been considered dangerous, misfortunes and misfortunes were attributed to it: as if cattle were falling, and trees were drying up, and epidemic diseases appeared, and family strife started. Therefore, the people have an idea of ​​Kasyan as a symbol of trouble. In some places, he was not even considered a saint and was not recognized as a Russian. The very name Kasyan was reputed to be shameful. There was a belief that “Kasyan is subject to all winds, he keeps them on twenty chains behind twenty locks. It is in his power to bring down the wind to the earth and send pestilence on people and cattle.

When I.S. Turgenev draws a portrait of Kasyan at the beginning of the story, it seems that this name really corresponds to the hero: “Imagine a dwarf of about fifty with a small, swarthy and wrinkled face, a sharp nose, brown, barely noticeable eyes and curly, thick black hair, like a mushroom cap, sat wide on his tiny head. His whole body was extremely frail and thin, and it is absolutely impossible to put into words how unusual and strange his look was. The author will more than once focus his attention on Kasyan's "heavy look", which fully corresponds to the ideas that existed among the people. Kasyan’s eye was considered very dangerous, they were advised not to even go out of the hut on Kasyanov’s day, so that misfortune would not happen: “Kasyan is cross-eyed, from him, brothers, bury everything, jinx it lively, so much so that later neither the priests will reprimand, nor the grandmothers will whisper » . The fact that Kasyan is honored once every four years was explained by the peasants according to the legend, which says that Kasyan helped the peasant to pull out the cart, being afraid to stain the clothes of paradise. The Lord God ordered prayers to be served for Kasyan for this in three years, while prayers for Nikolai Ugodnik will be served twice a year for helping a peasant in trouble.

It can be assumed that I.S. Turgenev knew this legend, since in the story he describes a similar situation. When the narrator was returning from hunting, the axle of the wheel in the cart broke. The coachman decided to get to the nearest settlements, and then come up with something: “Entering these settlements, we did not meet a single living soul, not even chickens were visible on the street, not even dogs.” Gradually, a feeling of anxiety and anxiety grows, which is further enhanced by the fact that on the way to the settlements, the hunters saw a funeral procession, and this, as you know, is considered by the people to be a very bad omen. The mystery of what is happening is reminiscent of the beginning of the story "Bezhin Meadow", when a lost hunter cannot give a logical explanation for his wanderings.

In the strange settlements, among the silence, there was only one person, Kasyan. According to researchers, it is important that the narrator meets Kasyan not in his hut, although she is nearby, but in the very middle of a brightly lit courtyard: “This is a kind of sultry desert into which the biblical prophets retired from the unrighteous world.”

Feeling his moral superiority, Kasyan, not embarrassed by the fact that the master is in front of him, reads a sermon to him:

“- And who are you? Hunters, right? he asked, looking me over from head to toe.

Hunters.

Are you shooting heavenly birds, I suppose? ... Forest animals? ... And it’s not a sin for you to kill God’s birds, shed innocent blood?

Kasyan refuses to help the master, even money cannot seduce him. However, after some deliberation, he agrees to accompany the hunter to the grove. The attitude towards Turgenev's Kasyan, as well as towards the saint, is ambiguous on the part of the peasants. The coachman Yerofei warns the master that Kasyan can lead the wrong way, you should not trust him. At the same time, Yerofey calls Kasyan a holy fool, and, as you know, the Russian people were condescending, even benevolent towards this group of people. According to N. Berdyaev, this is characteristic of Russian religiosity. Such an extraordinary person as Kasyan, of course, aroused the close attention of the hunter. The narrator describes in detail the behavior of the “strange old man” during the hunt: “He walked unusually nimbly and seemed to be jumping up and down on the go, constantly bending down, picking some grass, muttering something under his breath, and kept looking at me and my dog, Yes, with such an inquisitive look. In the forest, Kasyan behaves calmly and confidently. He prefers to "talk" to the inhabitants of the forest rather than to his companions. With his habits, Kasyan resembles a goblin: he talks to the birds and they listen to him (perhaps that is why the hunter lost so much time before he was able to kill the bird). At the end of the story, Kasyan admits: “Master, and master, I am to blame for you, because it was I who took all the game to you.” Nevertheless, once the hunter was lucky: he killed the corncrake. It is necessary to pay attention to how Kasyan behaves. P. G. Pustovoit in his works notes that I. S. Turgenev uses the “principle of secret psychology”: “... the writer never depicts the entire mental process, he holds the attention of readers only on the external forms of its manifestation. Turgenev does not speak directly about the feelings and experiences of the characters, does not resort to monologues, but gives an idea of ​​\u200b\u200bthis with the help of gestures, meaningful pauses, and a romantic landscape.

One can only guess what Kasyan feels after the hunter fired: “Kasyan quickly closed his eyes with his hand and did not move until I loaded the gun and raised the corncrake. When I went further, he went to the place where the dead bird had fallen, bent down by the grass, on which a few drops of blood had splashed, shook his head, looked fearfully at me. Kasyan's reaction to the shot resembles the behavior of a frightened child who closes his eyes in fear. Kasyan cannot see how sin is being committed before his eyes.

Depicting a man, I.S. Turgenev resorts to describing nature. Nature helps to reveal the experiences of the characters, their mood and feelings. The narrator paints a picture of a beautiful hot summer day and conveys to us his feeling of admiration for the greatness of nature: “You are not moving - you are looking: and it is impossible to express in words how joyful and quiet it becomes in the heart. You look: that deep, pure azure excites a smile on your lips, innocent, like itself, like clouds across the sky ... ”[ibid., p. 79].

At that moment, when the hunter enjoys the beauty of nature, Kasyan, as if reading his thoughts, decided to speak. This “strange” serf peasant is trying to shame the master, to prove to him that it is impossible to kill the “bird of God”: “Blood is a holy thing blood! The blood of the sun of God does not see, the blood hides from the light ... a great sin to show the world, a great sin and fear. Oh great!" [ibid., p. 80]. In the Old Testament, in the book “Genesis”, the Lord, turning to Noah, said: “Everything that moves, that lives, will be given to you for food, as I give you all herbs. Only flesh with soul, do not eat it with blood. Kasyan preaches precisely this commandment. It makes you think about your actions in relation to nature. For people, what Kasyan is talking about is a “strange speech”: “God knows him, then he is silent like a stump, then he suddenly speaks, and what he speaks, God knows. Is it manners? It's not manners. He is an incongruous person” [ibid., p. 85]. Kasyan speaks as if on a whim. His speech is somewhat reminiscent of the speech of the prophets: “His words flowed freely, he did not look for them, he spoke with such animation and meek importance, occasionally closing his eyes this language, deliberately solemn and strange ... I have not heard anything like it” [ ibid., p. 80].

The "strange man" visited many cities, saw different lands. He has a dream: to visit those countries where “the sweet-voiced Gamayun bird lives, and the leaves do not fall from the trees either in winter or in autumn, and golden apples grow on silver branches, and every person lives in contentment and justice.” It is not by chance that the image of the Gamayun bird appears in Kasyan’s speech, since this “prophetic bird”. The mention of her is often found in spiritual verses. Gamayun lives in paradise and, if she cries, she prophesies happiness.

It should be noted that Kasyan's dream of fairy tale countries is interpreted by researchers in different ways. Yu.V. Lebedev writes: “In the mouth of Kasyan, the legend of distant lands, the people's dream of brotherhood and social harmony, receives its final form.”

The German scientist Kluge and N.P. Brodsky believe that a representative of the sect of runners-wanderers is depicted in Kasyan. Members of this sect rejected the existence of state and public institutions (including the need for labor), they ran away from them. This point of view seems not entirely legitimate, since, firstly, Kasyan did not run away, but left with the consent of his master. Secondly, Kasyan recognizes social order: “Under the old master, we all lived in our former places, but guardianship relocated. Our old master had a meek soul, a humble man, - he

heavenly! Well, guardianship, of course, fairly judged; Apparently it had to be."

Of course, the legend of warm countries has a social aspect, since such legends reflected the people's dream of easier living conditions. However, Kasyan's wanderings are explained primarily by his inner spiritual needs. Therefore, the point of view of P.G. Pustovoit, who believes that Kasyan is a type of people’s truth seeker, is closer to us: “Kasyan can most accurately be called one of the long-standing truth seekers in Russia, whose personal character was determined by their moral inquisitiveness and inner independence.” Kasyan wanders the world in search of truth, but not so much social as moral. For him, the main thing is that "there is no justice in man."

Kasyan not only wanders, but also heals, which makes him even more distinguished from ordinary peasants. In the village, any person who possessed any knowledge and thereby stood out from the environment of ordinary people was called a healer or doctor. Often people suspected them of dealing with evil spirits, but unlike sorcerers, healers and healers do not sell their souls to her: S.V. Maksimov writes: “The village people did not skimp on the accusations of healers. At night, the healers could not light a fire in the hut or keep it longer than others without the neighbors thinking that he was preparing a potion, and an unclean spirit was helping him. Usually old people, widows, elderly girls, bachelors became healers. So, in the story of I.S. Turgenev, Kasyan does not admit that Annushka is his daughter. He does not confess, because he himself is in the position of a suspect and does not want to subject his daughter to the same fate. Healers and healers were feared and respected, as they possessed a huge amount of knowledge. After all, they were addressed in the most extreme cases, when the peasant had already used various home remedies and it was not easy to establish the cause of the disease. Therefore, Kasyan could not save Martyn the carpenter: "I found out too late."

Only gifted with knowledge and morally pure people can become healers: “You don’t need to look for a healer (unlike a sorcerer) in taverns, you don’t have to listen to his rudeness, watch how he breaks down, extorts payment, threatens and frightens with his bearish look and the promise of misfortunes ahead” . Kasyan, like most true doctors, is characterized by modesty and even to some extent self-abasement: “They call me a doctor ... What a doctor I am! ... And who can heal? It's all from God. But there are ... there are herbs, there are flowers and such words ... and whoever believes will be saved ... ".

I.S. Turgenev creates the image of Kasyan with the help of folklore and mythological motifs. This image reflected the type of thinking characteristic of the Russian people, in which elements of the Christian and pagan worldview were combined. As you know, Christian mythology is a mythology of a completely different type than pagan. Pagan mythology is an impersonal cycle of cosmic cycles and the choice between accepting or rejecting it is basically impossible. The focus of Christian mythology is the problem of personal choice.

As it was said above, Kasyan reminds with his speeches and behavior of the Old Testament prophet. At the same time, he is characterized by a pagan worldview, which humanizes the surrounding nature. Suffice it to recall the lines describing Kasyan's behavior in the forest, when the hero is talking to birds and herbs. Kasyan thinks in mythological images, in his speech the image of things of the Gamayun bird appears. Pagan motives can also include the idea of ​​the peasants about Kasyan as a medicine man, and, accordingly, about his connection with supernatural power. So, in the image of Kasyan, elements of Christian and pagan worldview are organically intertwined. It is difficult to characterize their relationship in Kasyan's worldview: they are inseparable and form a single whole. Folklore and mythological motifs in the story "Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword" serve as a means of creating an image of the peasant's personality in its spiritual development.

Literature:

1. Vlasova M.N. New ABEVEGA of Russian superstitions. - SPb., 1995.

2. Turgenev I.S. Hunter's Notes. - M., 1985.

3. Berdyaev N. Russian idea. The main problems of Russian thought of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th century: the fate of Russia. - M., 1997.

4. Pustovoit P.G. Turgenev is an artist of the word. - M., 1987.

5. Lebedev Yu.V. "Bezhin meadow" in the context of "Notes of a hunter" // Literature at school. - 1985. - 1985. - No. 5. - P.2-11.

6. Maksimov S.V. A bag of bread. Unclean, unknown and cross power. -Smolensk, 1995.

Parkhomenko E. (VSU)

I was returning from hunting in a shaking cart, and, depressed by the stuffy heat of a cloudy summer day (it is known that on such days the heat is sometimes even more intolerable than on clear days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and swayed, with gloomy patience, betraying myself to be eaten. fine white dust, constantly rising from the beaten path from under the cracked and rattling wheels - when suddenly my attention was aroused by the unusual restlessness and anxious movements of my coachman, who until that moment was even more deeply asleep than I was. He tugged at the reins, fidgeted on the box and began to shout at the horses, now and then looking somewhere to the side. I looked around. We rode across a wide plowed plain; in extremely gentle, undulating rumbles, low, also plowed hills ran into it; the gaze embraced only some five versts of deserted space; in the distance, small birch groves, with their rounded-toothed tops, alone broke the almost straight line of the sky. Narrow paths stretched across the fields, disappeared into hollows, twisted along the hillocks, and on one of them, which, five hundred paces ahead of us, had to cross our road, I made out a train. My coachman was looking at him.

It was a funeral. Ahead, in a cart drawn by one horse, a priest rode at a pace; the deacon sat beside him and ruled; behind the cart four peasants, with their heads bare, carried a coffin covered with a white linen; two women followed the coffin. The thin, plaintive voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened: she was crying. This iridescent, monotonous, hopelessly mournful tune resounded dully among the empty fields. The coachman urged on the horses: he wished to warn this train. Meeting a dead person on the road is a bad omen. He actually managed to ride down the road before the dead man could reach it; but we had not yet gone even a hundred paces, when suddenly our cart was strongly pushed, it tipped over, almost collapsed. The coachman stopped the runaway horses, bent down from the box, looked, waved his hand and spat.

What is there? I asked.

My coachman tears silently and without haste.

Yes, what is it?

The axle is broken… burnt out,” he replied gloomily, and with such indignation he suddenly straightened the harness on the harness that it completely swayed to one side, but resisted, snorted, shook herself and calmly began scratching her front leg with her tooth below the knee.

I got down and stood for some time on the road, vaguely indulging in a feeling of unpleasant bewilderment. The right wheel almost completely tucked under the cart and seemed to be lifting its hub up with mute desperation.

So what's now? I finally asked.

Who's to blame! - said my coachman, pointing with a whip at the train, which had already turned onto the road and was approaching us, - I have always noticed this, - he continued, - this is a sure sign - to meet the dead ... Yes.

And he again disturbed the companion, who, seeing his dislike and severity, decided to remain motionless and only occasionally and modestly waved her tail. I walked a little back and forth and again stopped in front of the wheel.

Meanwhile, the dead man caught up with us. Quietly turning off the road onto the grass, a sad procession stretched past our cart. The coachman and I took off our hats, bowed to the priest, exchanged glances with the porters. They performed with difficulty; their broad breasts rose high. Of the two women walking behind the coffin, one was very old and pale; her motionless features, cruelly distorted by grief, kept an expression of strict, solemn importance. She walked in silence, occasionally raising her thin hand to her thin sunken lips. Another woman, a young woman of about twenty-five, had red and moist eyes, and her whole face was swollen with weeping; having caught up with us, she stopped screaming and covered herself with her sleeve ... But then the deceased passed us, climbed out onto the road again, and again her plaintive, soul-rending singing was heard. Silently following the rhythmically swaying coffin with his eyes, my coachman turned to me.

They are burying Martin the carpenter,” he began, “what about Ryaba.

Why do you know?

I learned from the grandmothers. The old one is his mother, and the young one is his wife.

He was sick, right?

Yes… fever… On the third day the manager sent for the doctor, but the doctor was not found at home… But the carpenter was a good one; zashibal manenko, and was a good carpenter. You see, the woman is killing him like that ... Well, but you know: women have tears that are not bought. Woman's tears are the same water ... Yes.

And he bent down, crawled under the reins of the harness and grabbed the bow with both hands.

However, I said, what are we to do?

My coachman first rested his knee on the shoulder of the root, shook it twice with an arc, straightened the saddle, then again crawled under the reins of the harness and, passing it in passing in the face, went up to the wheel - went up and, without taking his eyes off him, slowly pulled out from under the floor caftan tavlinka, slowly pulled out the lid by the strap, slowly put his two thick fingers into the tavlinka (and two barely fit in it), crushed and crushed the tobacco, twisted his nose in advance, sniffed with an arrangement, accompanying each reception with a long groan, and, painfully squinting and blinking his watery eyes, he plunged into deep thought.

Well? I finally spoke.

My coachman carefully put the tavlinka into his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyebrows, without the help of his hands, with one movement of his head, and thoughtfully climbed onto the box.

Where are you? I asked him, not without amazement.

If you please, sit down, - he answered calmly and picked up the reins.

Yes, how are we going?

Let's go, sir.

Yes axle...

Feel free to sit down.

Yes the shaft is broken...

She broke, she broke; well, we’ll get to the settlements ... at a step, that is. Here, behind the grove to the right, there are settlements, they are called Yudins.

And you think we'll get there?

My coachman did not deign to answer me.

I'd rather walk, I said.

Whatever, with…

And he waved his whip. The horses set off.

We really got to the settlements, although the right front wheel was barely holding on and was spinning in an unusually strange way. On one hillock it nearly fell off; but my coachman shouted at him in an angry voice, and we descended safely.

Kasyan with the Beautiful Sword, like Kalinich, loves nature and knows it. He is extremely upset by this. what his. among other peasants, moved from his homeland to a new place. Sadness and indignation arouse in us the act of the master, who, at his whim, deprived Kasyan of the only pleasure - to admire nature. In the new place, Kasyan is completely confused and does not know what to put his hands on. He catches nightingales, but not for sale, but gives them to people for consolation and fun.

He would like to go to those countries where, according to rumors, "the sun shines more friendly and God knows a person better, where expanse and God's grace, where every person lives in contentment and justice." Kasyan's last words indicate the reason for his alienation from people. Meek and fair Kasyan cannot live with people, because there are constant disagreements and violence between them. But Kasyan, living in alienation from people, does not neglect them, but tries to benefit them: he collects healing herbs and heals people. Kasyan's love for all living things and his aversion to all violence culminated in some kind of mystical fear of blood.

When the author killed the corncrake in his presence, Kasyan closed his eyes and whispered in fright: “Sin! Oh, this is a sin!” and then started such a conversation: “Well, why did you kill the bird? You will eat it! You killed her for your amusement ... Corncrake is a free, forest bird. And he is not alone: ​​there is a lot of her, every forest creature, both field and river ... and it is a sin to kill her ... Blood, - he continued after a pause, - blood is a holy thing! The blood of the sun of God does not see, the blood hides from the light ... a great sin to show the holy blood, a great sin and fear ... oh, great!

Kasyan is a person "not of this world." He is completely incapable of practical life among people, of life's struggle. “I do not trade in anything,” he says to himself, “I am painfully unreasonable, from childhood; I'm a bad worker... where can I be! There is no health, and the hands are stupid. The peasants look at him as if he were a holy fool and treat him somewhat contemptuously; “a wonderful person, incongruous,” one of them speaks of him. But Kasyan is not at all offended by such an attitude, just as he does not complain about his fate, which offended him with health and bodily strength.

Humility, uncomplaining obedience constitute his hallmark: he, along with other peasants, was moved from his old, native places, where they lived well and freely, to places much worse, but Kasyan does not complain about this either: “Well, guardianship, of course, judged fairly; apparently it had to be so, ”he remarks about this. Living, as it were, outside human society, Kasyan is even closer than Kalinich is to nature. He knows the property of any grass, knows how to take care of bees, catches nightingales, whose singing fills his soul with "sweet pity." The beauty and majesty of God's world deeply move and delight him. Alien to practical activity, he spends his life in poetic contemplation and in aimless wanderings around his native land.

The meek and sensitive soul of Kasyan is embarrassed by the evil and suffering reigning in human society, he cannot bear their sight, he leaves people, "from sin." And he is not the only one endowed with such moral sensitivity: “many other peasants,” he says, “walk in bast shoes, roam the world, looking for the truth” ... But, living in estrangement from people, Kasyan still thinks about them, tries to bring them benefit than he can: he collects healing herbs, heals the peasants who turn to him and is known among them as a healer. He also treats his daughter Annushka with touching tenderness. In general, everything weak, defenseless arouses his sympathy, and this sympathy extends not only to people, but also to animals. His meek soul lovingly embraces everything that lives in general: any violence and suffering deeply revolts him; therefore, when a hunter kills a bird, he turns to him with bitter reproach and indignation: “great sin to show blood to the light, great sin and fear ... Oh, great!”