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Underground children. Vladimir Korolenko Children of the Dungeon

Vladimir Korolenko

Children of the Underground

1. Ruins

My mother died when I was six years old. My father, completely absorbed in his grief, seemed to completely forget about my existence. Sometimes he caressed my little sister Sonya and took care of her in his own way, because she had the features of her mother. I grew up like a wild tree in a field - no one surrounded me with special care, but no one constrained my freedom.

The place where we lived was called Knyazhye-Veno, or, more simply, Knyazh-gorodok. It belonged to a seedy but proud Polish family and resembled any of the small towns of the Southwestern region.

If you approach the town from the east, the first thing that catches your eye is the prison, the best architectural decoration of the city. The city itself lies below sleepy, moldy ponds, and you have to go down to it along a sloping highway, blocked by a traditional “outpost”. A sleepy invalid lazily lifts the barrier - and you are in the city, although, perhaps, you do not notice it right away. “Gray fences, vacant lots with heaps of all sorts of rubbish are gradually interspersed with dim-witted huts sunk into the ground. Further, a wide square gapes in different places with the dark gates of Jewish “visiting houses”; government institutions are depressing with their white walls and barracks-like lines. A wooden bridge, thrown across a narrow river, groans, trembles under the wheels, and staggers like a decrepit old man. Beyond the bridge stretches a Jewish street with shops, benches, stalls and canopies. Stink, dirt, heaps of children crawling in the street dust. But another minute - and you are already outside the city. The birch trees whisper quietly over the graves of the cemetery, and the wind stirs the grain in the fields and rings with a sad, endless song in the wires of the roadside telegraph.

The river over which the aforementioned bridge was thrown flowed from a pond and flowed into another. Thus, the town was fenced from the north and south by wide expanses of water and swamps. The ponds became shallower year after year, overgrown with greenery, and tall, thick reeds waved like the sea in the huge swamps. There is an island in the middle of one of the ponds. There is an old, dilapidated castle on the island.

I remember with what fear I always looked at this majestic decrepit building. There were legends and stories about him, one more terrible than the other. They said that the island was built artificially, by the hands of captured Turks. “The old castle stands on human bones,” the old-timers said, and my frightened childhood imagination pictured thousands of Turkish skeletons underground, supporting with their bony hands the island with its tall pyramidal poplars and the old castle. This, of course, made the castle seem even more terrible, and even on clear days, when, sometimes, encouraged by the light and loud voices of birds, we came closer to it, it often brought on us fits of panic horror - the black hollows of the long-dug out windows; in the empty halls there was a mysterious rustling sound: pebbles and plaster, breaking off, fell down, awakening a echo, and we ran without looking back, and behind us for a long time there was knocking, and stomping, and cackling.

And on stormy autumn nights, when the giant poplars swayed and hummed from the wind blowing from behind the ponds, horror spread from the old castle and reigned over the entire city.

On the western side, on the mountain, among decaying crosses and collapsed graves, stood a long-abandoned chapel. Its roof had caved in in some places, the walls were crumbling, and instead of a high-pitched, high-pitched copper bell, owls began singing their ominous songs in it at night.

There was a time when the old castle served as a free refuge for every poor person without the slightest restrictions. Everything that could not find a place for itself in the city, which for one reason or another had lost the opportunity to pay even a pittance for shelter and a place to stay at night and in bad weather - all this was drawn to the island and there, among the ruins, bowed its victorious heads, paying for hospitality only with the risk of being buried under piles of old garbage. “Lives in a castle” - this phrase has become an expression of extreme poverty. The old castle cordially received and sheltered the temporarily impoverished scribe, and lonely old women, and rootless tramps. All these poor people tormented the insides of the decrepit building, breaking off the ceilings and floors, stoking the stoves, cooking something and eating something - in general, somehow maintaining their existence.

However, the days came when discord arose among this society, huddled under the roof of gray ruins. Then old Janusz, who had once been one of the small county employees, secured for himself something like the title of manager and began to reform. For several days there was such noise on the island, such screams were heard that at times it seemed as if the Turks had escaped from their underground dungeons. It was Janusz who sorted the population of the ruins, separating the “good Christians” from the unknown individuals. When order was finally restored to the island, it turned out that Janusz left mostly former servants or descendants of servants of the count's family in the castle. These were all some old men in shabby frock coats and chamarkas, with huge blue noses and gnarled sticks, old women, loud and ugly, but despite complete impoverishment they had retained their bonnets and cloaks. All of them formed a closely knit aristocratic circle, which received the right of recognized begging. On weekdays, these old men and women walked with prayer on their lips to the houses of the wealthier townspeople, spreading gossip, complaining about fate, shedding tears and begging, and on Sundays they lined up in long rows near the churches and majestically accepted handouts in the name of “Mr. Jesus” and "Pannas of Our Lady"

Attracted by the noise and shouts that rushed from the island during this revolution, I and several of my comrades made our way there and, hiding behind the thick trunks of poplars, watched as Janusz, at the head of an entire army of red-nosed elders and ugly old women, drove out of the castle the last residents who were subject to expulsion . Evening was coming. The cloud hanging over the high tops of the poplars was already pouring rain. Some unfortunate dark personalities, wrapped in extremely torn rags, frightened, pitiful and embarrassed, scurried around the island, like moles driven out of their holes by boys, trying again to sneak unnoticed into one of the openings of the castle. But Janusz and the old witches, screaming and cursing, drove them from everywhere, threatening them with pokers and sticks, and a silent watchman stood to the side, also with a heavy club in his hands.

And the unfortunate dark personalities involuntarily, dejectedly, disappeared behind the bridge, leaving the island forever, and one after another they drowned in the slushy twilight of the quickly descending evening.

- Sure sure! – the “professor” assented.

- So you assent, but you yourself don’t understand what the Klevan priest has to do with it - I know you. Meanwhile, if it weren’t for the Klevan priest, we wouldn’t have had a roast and something else...

– Did the Klevan priest give this to you? - I asked, suddenly remembering the round, good-natured face of the Klevan priest who visited my father.

“This little guy has an inquisitive mind,” continued Tyburtsy, still addressing the “professor.” - Indeed, his priesthood gave us all this, although we did not ask him, and even, perhaps, not only his left hand did not know what his right hand was giving, but both hands did not have the slightest idea about it...

From this strange and confusing speech, I only understood that the method of acquisition was not entirely ordinary, and I could not resist inserting the question once again:

– Did you take this... yourself?

“The fellow is not without insight,” Tyburtius continued as before. “It’s just a pity that he didn’t see the priest: he has a belly like a real forty barrel, and, therefore, overeating is very harmful to him.” Meanwhile, all of us who are here suffer rather from excessive thinness, and therefore we cannot consider a certain amount of provisions superfluous for ourselves... Am I saying so?

- Sure sure! – the “professor” hummed thoughtfully again.

- Here you go! This time we expressed our opinion very successfully, otherwise I was already beginning to think that this little guy has a smarter mind than some scientists... However,” he suddenly turned to me, “you are still stupid and don’t understand much.” But she understands: tell me, my Marusya, did I do well to bring you the roast?

- Fine! – the girl answered, her turquoise eyes sparkling slightly. – Manya was hungry.

In the evening of that day, with a foggy head, I thoughtfully returned to my room. Tyburtsy’s strange speeches did not for one minute shake my conviction that “stealing is not good.” On the contrary, the painful sensation that I experienced before became even more intense. Beggars... thieves... they have no home!.. From those around me I have long known that contempt is connected with all this. I even felt all the bitterness of contempt rising from the depths of my soul, but I instinctively protected my affection from this bitter admixture. As a result, regret for Valek and Marusa intensified and intensified, but the attachment did not disappear. The belief that “it is wrong to steal” remains. But when my imagination pictured to me the animated face of my friend, licking her greasy fingers, I rejoiced at her and Valek’s joy.

In a dark alley in the garden, I accidentally bumped into my father. He, as usual, walked sullenly back and forth with his usual strange, as if foggy look. When I found myself next to him, he took me by the shoulder:

- Where does it come from?

- I was walking…

He looked at me carefully, wanted to say something, but then his gaze became clouded again, and, waving his hand, he walked along the alley. It seems to me that even then I understood the meaning of this gesture:

“Oh, whatever. She’s gone!..”

I lied almost for the first time in my life.

I was always afraid of my father, and now even more so. Now I carried within me a whole world of vague questions and sensations. Could he understand me? Could I confess anything to him without cheating on my friends? I trembled at the thought that he would ever find out about my acquaintance with “bad society,” but I was not able to cheat on Valek and Marusya. If I had betrayed them by breaking my word, I would not have been able to raise my eyes to them out of shame when I met them.

Autumn was approaching. The harvest was underway in the field, the leaves on the trees were turning yellow. At the same time, our Marusya began to get sick.

She didn’t complain about anything, she just kept losing weight; her face became increasingly pale, her eyes darkened and became larger, her eyelids lifted with difficulty.

Now I could come to the mountain without being embarrassed by the fact that members of the “bad society” were at home. I completely got used to them and became my own person on the mountain. Dark young personalities made bows and crossbows for me from elm; a tall cadet with a red nose spun me around in the air like a piece of wood, teaching me to do gymnastics. Only the “professor,” as always, was immersed in some deep considerations.

All these people were housed separately from Tyburtsy, who occupied the dungeon described above “with his family.”

Autumn was increasingly coming into its own. The sky became increasingly overcast with clouds, the surroundings were drowned in a foggy twilight; Streams of rain poured noisily onto the ground, echoing a monotonous and sad roar in the dungeons.

It took me a lot of work to get out of the house in such weather; however, I only tried to get away unnoticed; when he returned home all wet, he himself hung his dress in front of the fireplace and humbly went to bed, remaining philosophically silent under a whole hail of reproaches that poured from the lips of the nannies and maids.

Every time I came to see my friends, I noticed that Marusya was becoming more and more frail. Now she no longer came out into the air at all, and the gray stone - the dark, silent monster of the dungeon - continued without interruption its terrible work, sucking the life out of the small body. The girl now spent most of her time in bed, and Valek and I exhausted all efforts to entertain her and amuse her, to evoke the quiet overflows of her weak laughter.

Now that I have finally gotten used to “bad society,” Marusya’s sad smile has become almost as dear to me as my sister’s smile; but here no one always pointed out to me my depravity, there was no grumpy nanny, here I was needed - I felt that every time my appearance caused a blush of animation on the girl’s cheeks. Valek hugged me like a brother, and even Tyburtsy at times looked at the three of us with some strange eyes in which something shimmered, like a tear.

For a while the sky cleared again; The last clouds fled from it, and sunny days began to shine over the drying land for the last time before the onset of winter. Every day we carried Marusya upstairs, and here she seemed to come to life; the girl looked around with wide open eyes, a blush lit up her cheeks; it seemed that the wind, blowing its fresh waves over her, was returning to her the particles of life stolen by the gray stones of the dungeon. But this did not last long...

Meanwhile, clouds also began to gather above my head. One day, when, as usual, I was walking along the alleys of the garden in the morning, I saw my father in one of them, and next to him old Janusz from the castle. The old man bowed obsequiously and said something, but the father stood with a sullen look, and a wrinkle of impatient anger was sharply visible on his forehead. Finally he extended his hand, as if pushing Janusz out of his way, and said:

- Go away! You're just an old gossip!

The old man blinked and, holding his hat in his hands, ran forward again and blocked his father’s path. The father's eyes flashed with anger. Janusz spoke quietly, and I couldn’t hear his words, but my father’s fragmentary phrases could be heard clearly, falling like the blows of a whip.

– I don’t believe a word... What do you want from these people? Where is the evidence?.. I don’t listen to verbal denunciations, but you have to prove written denunciations... Be silent! This is my business... I don’t even want to listen.

Finally, he pushed Janusz away so decisively that he no longer dared to bother him, my father turned into a side alley, and I ran to the gate.

I greatly disliked the old owl from the castle, and now my heart trembled with a presentiment. I realized that the conversation I had overheard applied to my friends and, perhaps, to me as well. Tyburtsy, to whom I told about this incident, made a terrible grimace.

- Ooof, boy, what unpleasant news this is!.. Oh, damned old hyena!

“Father sent him away,” I remarked as a form of consolation.

“Your father, little one, is the best of all the judges in the world.” He has a heart; he knows a lot... Perhaps he already knows everything that Janusz can tell him, but he is silent; he does not consider it necessary to poison the old toothless beast in his last den... But, lad, how can I explain this to you? Your father serves a master whose name is law. He has eyes and a heart only as long as the law sleeps on its shelves; When will this gentleman come down from there and say to your father: “Come on, judge, shouldn’t we take on Tyburtsy Drab, or whatever his name is?” - from that moment on, the judge immediately locks his heart with a key, and then the judge has such firm paws that the world will sooner turn in the other direction than Pan Tyburtsy will wriggle out of his hands... Do you understand, lad?.. My whole trouble is that Once upon a time, a long time ago, I had some kind of clash with the law... that is, you know, an unexpected quarrel... oh, boy, it was a very big quarrel!

With these words, Tyburtsy stood up, took Marusya in his arms and, moving with her to the far corner, began to kiss her, pressing his ugly head to her small chest. But I remained in place and stood in one position for a long time, impressed by the strange speeches of a strange man. Despite the bizarre and incomprehensible turns of phrase, I perfectly grasped the essence of what Tyburtsy was saying about Father, and the figure of the father in my mind grew even larger, clothed with an aura of menacing, but sympathetic strength and even some kind of greatness. But at the same time, another, bitter feeling intensified...

“This is what he is like,” I thought. “But still he doesn’t love me.”

The clear days passed, and Marusya felt worse again. She looked at all our tricks to keep her busy with indifference with her large, darkened and motionless eyes, and we had not heard her laugh for a long time. I began to carry my toys into the dungeon, but they entertained the girl only for a short time. Then I decided to turn to my sister Sonya.

Sonya had a large doll, with a brightly painted face and luxurious flaxen hair, a gift from her late mother. I had great hopes for this doll, and therefore, calling my sister to a side alley in the garden, I asked her to give it to me for a while. I asked her so convincingly about this, so vividly described to her the poor sick girl who never had her own toys, that Sonya, who at first only hugged the doll to herself, gave it to me and promised to play with other toys for two or three days. without mentioning anything about the doll.

The effect of this elegant earthenware young lady on our patient exceeded all my expectations. Marusya, who had faded like a flower in autumn, seemed to suddenly come to life again. She hugged me so tightly, laughed so loudly, talking with her new friend... The little doll performed almost a miracle: Marusya, who had not left her bed for a long time, began to walk, leading her blond daughter behind her, and at times even ran, still slapping the floor with weak legs.

But this doll gave me a lot of anxious moments. First of all, when I was carrying it in my bosom, heading up the mountain with it, on the road I came across old Janusz, who followed me for a long time with his eyes and shook his head. Then, two days later, the old nanny noticed the loss and began poking around the corners, looking everywhere for the doll. Sonya tried to calm her down, but with her naive assurances that she did not need the doll, that the doll had gone for a walk and would soon return, only caused bewilderment of the maids and aroused the suspicion that this was not a simple loss. The father did not know anything yet, but Janusz came to him again and was driven away - this time with even greater anger; however, that same day my father stopped me on my way to the garden gate and told me to stay at home. The next day the same thing happened again, and only four days later I got up early in the morning and waved over the fence while my father was still sleeping.

Things were bad on the mountain, Marusya fell ill again, and she felt even worse; her face glowed with a strange blush, her blond hair was scattered over the pillow; she didn't recognize anyone. Next to her lay the ill-fated doll, with pink cheeks and stupid sparkling eyes.

I told Valek my concerns, and we decided that the doll needed to be taken back, especially since Marusya wouldn’t notice it. But we were wrong! As soon as I took the doll out of the hands of the girl lying in oblivion, she opened her eyes, looked ahead with a vague look, as if not seeing me, not realizing what was happening to her, and suddenly began to cry quietly, but at the same time so pitifully, and in the emaciated face, under the cover of delirium, flashed an expression of such deep grief that I immediately put the doll in its original place with fear. The girl smiled, hugged the doll to herself and calmed down. I realized that I wanted to deprive my little friend of the first and last joy of her short life.

Valek looked at me timidly.

- What will happen now? – he asked sadly.

Tyburtsy, sitting on a bench with his head sadly bowed, also looked at me with a questioning gaze. So I tried to look as nonchalant as possible and said:

- Nothing! The nanny probably forgot.

But the old woman did not forget. When I returned home this time, I again came across Janusz at the gate; I found Sonya with tear-stained eyes, and the nanny threw an angry, suppressive look at me and grumbled something with her toothless, muttering mouth.

My father asked me where I had gone, and, after listening carefully to the usual answer, he limited himself to repeating the order for me not to leave the house under any circumstances without his permission. The order was categorical and very decisive; I didn’t dare disobey him, but I also didn’t dare turn to my father for permission.

Four tedious days passed. I sadly walked around the garden and looked longingly towards the mountain, also expecting a thunderstorm that was gathering above my head. I didn’t know what would happen, but my heart was heavy. No one has ever punished me in my life; Not only did my father not lay a finger on me, but I never heard a single harsh word from him. Now I was tormented by a heavy foreboding. Finally I was called to my father, to his office. I entered and stood timidly at the ceiling. The sad autumn sun was peeping through the window. My father sat for some time in his chair in front of my mother’s portrait and did not turn to me. I heard the alarming beating of my own heart.

Finally he turned. I raised my eyes to him and immediately lowered them to the ground. My father's face seemed scary to me. About half a minute passed, and during this time I felt a heavy, motionless, oppressive gaze on me.

– Did you take your sister’s doll?

These words suddenly fell on me so clearly and sharply that I shuddered.

“Yes,” I answered quietly.

- Do you know that this is a gift from your mother, which you should treasure like a shrine?.. Did you steal it?

“No,” I said, raising my head.

- Why not? – the father suddenly cried out, pushing away the chair. - You stole it and demolished it!.. Who did you demolish it to?.. Speak!

He quickly came up to me and put a heavy hand on my shoulder. I raised my head with effort and looked up. The father's face was pale, his eyes burned with anger. I cringed all over.

- Well, what are you doing?.. Speak! “And the hand holding my shoulder squeezed it tighter.

– I-I won’t tell! – I answered quietly.

“I won’t tell,” I whispered even quieter.

- You will say, you will say!..

- No, I won’t tell... I will never, never tell you... No way!

At that moment, my father’s son spoke out in me. He would not have gotten a different answer from me through the most terrible torment. In my chest, in response to his threats, a barely conscious, offended feeling of an abandoned child and some kind of burning love for those who warmed me there, in the old chapel, rose.

The father took a deep breath. I shrank even more, bitter tears burned my cheeks. I was waiting.

I knew that he was terribly hot-tempered, that at that moment rage was boiling in his chest. What will he do to me? But now it seems to me that this was not what I was afraid of... Even in this terrible moment I loved my father and at the same time I felt that now he would smash my love to smithereens with furious violence. Now I have completely stopped being afraid. It seems that I was waiting and wishing for the catastrophe to finally break out... If so - so be it... so much the better - yes, so much the better.

The father sighed heavily again. Whether he himself coped with the frenzy that took possession of him, I still don’t know. But at this critical moment, the sharp voice of Tyburtsy was suddenly heard outside the open window:

- Hey-hey!.. My poor little friend...

“Tyburtsy has come!” - flashed through my head, but even feeling how my father’s hand, lying on my shoulder, trembled, I could not imagine that the appearance of Tyburtius or any other external circumstance could come between me and my father, could deflect that, which I considered inevitable.

Meanwhile, Tyburtsy quickly unlocked the front door and, stopping on the threshold, in one second looked at both of us with his sharp, lynx eyes.

- Hey-hey!.. I see my young friend in a very difficult situation...

His father met him with a gloomy and surprised look, but Tyburtsy withstood this gaze calmly. Now he was serious, did not grimace, and his eyes looked somehow especially sad.

- Master Judge! – he spoke softly. “You are a fair man... let the child go.” The fellow was in “bad society,” but God knows he did no bad deed, and if his heart lies with my ragged poor fellows, then I swear you had better have me hanged, but I will not allow the boy to suffer because of this . Here's your doll, little one!

He untied the knot and took out the doll.

My father's hand, which was holding my shoulder, loosened. There was amazement in his face.

- What does it mean? – he asked finally.

“Let the boy go,” Tyburtsy repeated, and his wide palm lovingly stroked my bowed head. “You won’t get anything from him by threats, but meanwhile I will willingly tell you everything you want to know... Let’s go out, Mr. Judge, into another room.”

The father, who was always looking at Tyburtius with surprised eyes, obeyed. They both left, but I remained, overwhelmed by the sensations that filled my heart. At that moment I was not aware of anything. There was only a little boy, in whose heart two different feelings were shaken: anger and love - so much that his heart became clouded. This boy was me, and I seemed to feel sorry for myself. Moreover, there were two voices, speaking in a vague, albeit animated manner, outside the door...

I was still standing in the same place when the office door opened and both interlocutors entered. I again felt someone’s hand on my head and shuddered. It was my father's hand, gently stroking my hair.

Tyburtsy took me in his arms and sat me, in the presence of my father, on his lap.

“Come to us,” he said, “your father will let you say goodbye to my girl... She... she died.”

I looked up questioningly at my father. Now a different person stood in front of me, but in this particular person I found something familiar that I had sought in vain in him before. He looked at me with his usual thoughtful gaze, but now in this gaze there was a hint of surprise and, as it were, a question. It seemed as if the storm that had just swept over both of us had dissipated the heavy fog hanging over my father’s soul. And my father only now began to recognize in me the familiar features of his own son.

I trustingly took his hand and said:

- I didn’t steal it... Sonya herself lent it to me...

“Y-yes,” he answered thoughtfully, “I know... I’m guilty before you, boy, and you’ll try to forget it someday, won’t you?”

I quickly grabbed his hand and began to kiss it. I knew that now he would never again look at me with those terrible eyes with which he had looked a few minutes before, and long-restrained love poured into my heart in a torrent.

Now I was no longer afraid of him.

– Will you let me go to the mountain now? – I asked, suddenly remembering Tyburtsy’s invitation.

“Yes, yes... Go, go, boy, say goodbye,” he said affectionately, still with the same shade of bewilderment in his voice. - Yes, however, wait... please, boy, wait a little.

He went into his bedroom and, a minute later, came out and thrust several pieces of paper into my hand.

“Tell this... Tyburtsy... Tell me that I humbly ask him - do you understand?... I humbly ask him - to take this money... from you... Do you understand? he knows someone here... Fedorovich, then let him say that this Fedorovich is better off leaving our city... Now go, boy, go quickly.

I caught up with Tyburtsy already on the mountain and, out of breath, clumsily carried out my father’s instructions.

“He humbly asks... father...” And I began to put the money given by my father into his hand.

I didn't look him in the face. He took the money and gloomily listened to the further instructions regarding Fedorovich.

In the dungeon, in a dark corner, Marusya was lying on a bench. The word “death” does not yet have its full meaning for a child’s hearing, and bitter tears only now, at the sight of this lifeless body, squeezed my throat. My little friend was lying serious and sad, with a sadly elongated face. The closed eyes were slightly sunken and tinged even more sharply with blue. The mouth opened slightly, with an expression of childish sadness. Marusya seemed to respond with this grimace to our tears.

The “Professor” stood at the head of the room and shook his head indifferently. Someone was hammering in the corner with an ax, preparing a coffin from old boards torn from the roof of the chapel. Marusya was decorated with autumn flowers. Valek slept in the corner, shuddering through his sleep with his whole body, and from time to time he sobbed nervously.

Conclusion

Soon after the events described, the members of the “bad society” scattered in different directions.

Tyburtsy and Valek disappeared completely unexpectedly, and no one could say where they were going now, just as no one knew where they came from to our city.

The old chapel has suffered greatly from time to time. First, her roof caved in, pushing through the ceiling of the dungeon. Then landslides began to form around the chapel, and it became even darker; The owls howl even louder in it, and the lights on the graves on dark autumn nights flash with a blue ominous light.

Only one grave, fenced with a palisade, turned green with fresh turf every spring and was full of flowers.

Sonya and I, and sometimes even my father, visited this grave; we loved to sit on it in the shade of a vaguely babbling birch tree, with the city in sight quietly sparkling in the fog. Here my sister and I read together, thought, shared our first young thoughts, the first plans of our winged and honest youth.

The place where we lived was called Knyazhye-Veno, or, more simply, Knyazh-gorodok. It belonged to a seedy but proud Polish family and resembled any of the small towns of the Southwestern region.

And on stormy autumn nights, when the giant poplars swayed and hummed from the wind blowing from behind the ponds, horror spread from the old castle and reigned over the entire city.

Russian writer, publicist and public figure Vladimir Galaktionovich Korolenko (1853–1921) was born in Zhitomir into the family of a judicial official. His childhood and youth were spent in Zhitomir and Rivne. After graduating from high school, in 1871 the young man came to St. Petersburg and entered the Technological Institute. However, due to lack of funds, he had to leave his studies; the future writer did odd jobs: drawing work, proofreading.

In 1873, Korolenko moved to Moscow and entered the forestry department of the Petrovsky Academy. Three years later, for participating in student unrest, he was expelled from the academy and expelled from Moscow. Until the February Revolution of 1917, the writer’s life consisted of a series of arrests and exiles.

Korolenko’s literary debut was a newspaper article about a street incident in 1878. A year later, his first story, “Episodes from the Life of a “Seeker,” was published.”

From then on, Korolenko did not stop writing until the very end of his life. A writer of great and brilliant talent, he went down in the history of Russian literature as the author of numerous stories, short stories, artistic essays, as well as as a critic and publicist.

Korolenko’s literary heritage is large and diverse, but his most famous works were the stories “In Bad Society” (1885), “The Blind Musician” (1886), and “The River Is Playing” (1892).

In 1900, Vladimir Galaktionovich became an honorary academician in the category of fine literature. But in 1902, he, together with A.P. Chekhov, refused this title - in protest against the Academy’s cancellation of the election of M. Gorky.

Korolenko’s work is distinguished by a passionate defense of the disadvantaged, the motive of striving for a better life for everyone, the glorification of mental fortitude, courage and perseverance, and high humanism. For his high spiritual qualities, contemporaries called the writer “the beautiful Don Quixote” and “a moral genius.”

The book includes two textbook stories of the writer.

"Children of the Dungeon" - a shortened version of the story "In Bad Society" - touches on the eternal themes of friendship, love and kindness. The friendship between the son of a judge and a homeless boy is initially doomed to failure, but is capable of awakening sincere compassion for people in the soul of the former.

In “The Blind Musician” the motive of overcoming physical and moral illnesses sounds victorious. The great power of music helps Petrus, who was blind from birth, to find the meaning of life.

Children of the Dungeon

Ruins

The place where we lived was called Knyazhye-Veno, or, more simply, Knyazh-gorodok. It belonged to a seedy but proud Polish family and resembled any of the small towns of the Southwestern Territory.

If you approach the town from the east, the first thing that catches your eye is the prison, the best architectural decoration of the city. The city itself lies below sleepy, moldy ponds, and you have to go down to it along a sloping highway, blocked by a traditional “outpost”. A sleepy invalid lazily lifts the barrier - and you are in the city, although, perhaps, you do not notice it right away. Gray fences, vacant lots with heaps of all sorts of rubbish are gradually interspersed with dim-sighted huts sunk into the ground. Further on, a wide square gapes in different places with the dark gates of Jewish “visiting houses”; government institutions are depressing with their white walls and barracks-like straight lines. A wooden bridge spanning a narrow river groans, trembles under the wheels, and staggers like a decrepit old man. Beyond the bridge stretched a Jewish street with shops, benches, stalls and canopies. The stench, the dirt, the heaps of kids crawling in the street dust. But another minute - and you are already outside the city. The birch trees whisper quietly over the graves of the cemetery, and the wind stirs the grain in the fields and rings with a sad, endless song in the wires of the roadside telegraph.

I remember with what fear I always looked at this majestic decrepit building. There were legends and stories about him, one more terrible than the other. They said that the island was built artificially, by the hands of captured Turks. “The old castle stands on human bones,” the old-timers said, and my frightened childhood imagination pictured thousands of Turkish skeletons underground, supporting with their bony hands the island with its tall pyramidal poplars and the old castle. This, of course, made the castle seem even more terrible, and even on clear days, when, sometimes, encouraged by the light and loud voices of birds, we came closer to it, it often brought on us fits of panic horror - the black hollows of the long-dug out buildings looked so scary windows; in the empty halls there was a mysterious rustling sound: pebbles and plaster, breaking off, fell down, awakening a echo, and we ran without looking back, and behind us for a long time there was knocking, and stomping, and cackling.

And on stormy autumn nights, when the giant poplars swayed and hummed from the wind blowing from behind the ponds, horror spread from the old castle and reigned over the entire city.

There was a time when the old castle served as a free refuge for every poor person without the slightest restrictions. Everything that could not find a place for itself in the city, which for one reason or another had lost the opportunity to pay even a pittance for shelter and a place to stay at night and in bad weather - all this was drawn to the island and there, among the ruins, bowed its victorious heads, paying for hospitality only with the risk of being buried under piles of old garbage. “Lives in a castle” - this phrase has become an expression of extreme poverty. The old castle cordially received and sheltered the temporarily impoverished scribe, and lonely old women, and rootless tramps. All these poor people tormented the insides of the decrepit building, breaking off the ceilings and floors, lit the stoves, cooked something and ate something - in general, they somehow supported their existence.

However, the days came when discord arose among this society, huddled under the roof of gray ruins. Then old Janusz, who had once been one of the small county employees, secured for himself something like the title of manager and began to reform. For several days there was such noise on the island, such screams were heard that at times it seemed as if the Turks had escaped from their underground dungeons. It was Janusz who sorted the population of the ruins, separating the “good Christians” from the unknown individuals. When order was finally restored to the island, it turned out that Janusz left mostly former servants or descendants of servants of the count's family in the castle. These were all some old men in shabby frock coats and chamarkas, with huge blue noses and gnarled sticks, old women, loud and ugly, but despite complete impoverishment, they retained their bonnets and cloaks. All of them formed a closely knit aristocratic circle, which received the right of recognized begging. On weekdays, these old men and women walked with prayer on their lips to the houses of the wealthier townspeople, spreading gossip, complaining about fate, shedding tears and begging, and on Sundays they lined up in long rows near the churches and majestically accepted handouts in the name of “Mr. Jesus” and "Pannas of Our Lady"

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Vladimir Galaktionovich Korolenko

Children of the Underground

1. Ruins

The place where we lived was called Knyazhye-Veno, or, more simply, Knyazh-gorodok. It belonged to a seedy but proud Polish family and resembled any of the small towns of the Southwestern region.

If you approach the town from the east, the first thing that catches your eye is the prison, the best architectural decoration of the city. The city itself lies below sleepy, moldy ponds, and you have to go down to it along a sloping highway, blocked by a traditional “outpost”. A sleepy disabled person lazily lifts the barrier - and you are in the city, although, perhaps, you do not notice it right away. “Gray fences, vacant lots with heaps of all sorts of rubbish are gradually interspersed with dim-sighted huts sunk into the ground. Further on, a wide square gapes in different places with the dark gates of Jewish “visiting houses”; government institutions are depressing with their white walls and barracks-like straight lines. A wooden bridge spanning a narrow river groans, trembles under the wheels, and staggers like a decrepit old man. Beyond the bridge stretched a Jewish street with shops, benches, stalls and canopies. The stench, the dirt, the heaps of kids crawling in the street dust. But another minute - and you are already outside the city. The birch trees whisper quietly over the graves of the cemetery, and the wind stirs the grain in the fields and rings with a sad, endless song in the wires of the roadside telegraph.

I remember with what fear I always looked at this majestic decrepit building. There were legends and stories about him, one more terrible than the other. They said that the island was built artificially, by the hands of captured Turks. “The old castle stands on human bones,” the old-timers said, and my frightened childhood imagination pictured thousands of Turkish skeletons underground, supporting with their bony hands the island with its tall pyramidal poplars and the old castle. This, of course, made the castle seem even more terrible, and even on clear days, when, sometimes, encouraged by the light and loud voices of birds, we came closer to it, it often brought on us fits of panic horror - the black hollows of the long-dug out buildings looked so scary windows; in the empty halls there was a mysterious rustling sound: pebbles and plaster, breaking off, fell down, awakening a echo, and we ran without looking back, and behind us for a long time there was knocking, and stomping, and cackling.

And on stormy autumn nights, when the giant poplars swayed and hummed from the wind blowing from behind the ponds, horror spread from the old castle and reigned over the entire city.

There was a time when the old castle served as a free refuge for every poor person without the slightest restrictions. Everything that could not find a place for itself in the city, which for one reason or another had lost the opportunity to pay even a pittance for shelter and a place to stay at night and in bad weather - all this was drawn to the island and there, among the ruins, bowed its victorious heads, paying for hospitality only with the risk of being buried under piles of old garbage. “Lives in a castle” - this phrase has become an expression of extreme poverty. The old castle cordially received and sheltered the temporarily impoverished scribe, and lonely old women, and rootless tramps. All these poor people tormented the insides of the decrepit building, breaking off the ceilings and floors, lit the stoves, cooked something and ate something - in general, they somehow supported their existence.

Since this memorable evening, both Janusz and the old castle, from which previously a vague grandeur wafted over me, lost all their attractiveness in my eyes. It used to be that I loved to come to the island and admire its gray walls and mossy old roof, even from afar. When, at dawn, various figures crawled out of it, yawning, coughing and crossing themselves in the sun, I looked at them with some kind of respect, as if they were creatures clothed in the same mystery that shrouded the entire castle. They sleep there at night, they hear everything that happens there, when the moon peers into the huge halls through the broken windows or when the wind rushes into them during a storm.

I loved to listen when Janusz used to sit down under the poplars and, with the loquacity of a seventy-year-old man, begin to talk about the glorious past of the deceased building.

But from that evening both the castle and Janusz appeared before me in a new light. Having met me the next day near the island, Janusz began to invite me to his place, assuring me with a pleased look that now “the son of such respectable parents” could safely visit the castle, since he would find quite decent society in it. He even led me by the hand to the castle itself, but then I tearfully snatched my hand from him and started to run. The castle became disgusting to me. The windows on the upper floor were boarded up, and the lower floor was in the possession of bonnets and cloaks. The old women crawled out of there in such an unattractive form, flattered me so cloyingly, cursed among themselves so loudly. But most importantly, I could not forget the cold cruelty with which the triumphant residents of the castle drove away their unfortunate roommates, and when I remembered the dark personalities left homeless, my heart sank.

The city spent several nights after the described coup on the island very restless: dogs barked, house doors creaked, and the townsfolk, every now and then going out into the street, knocked on the fences with sticks, letting someone know that they were on their guard. The city knew that people were wandering along its streets in the stormy darkness of a rainy night, hungry and cold, shivering and wet; Realizing that cruel feelings must be born in the hearts of these people, the city became wary and sent its threats towards these feelings. And night, as if on purpose, descended to the ground amid a cold downpour and left, leaving low running clouds above the ground. And the wind raged amid the bad weather, shaking the tops of the trees, knocking the shutters and singing to me in my bed about dozens of people deprived of warmth and shelter.

But then spring finally triumphed over the last gusts of winter, the sun dried up the earth, and at the same time the homeless wanderers disappeared somewhere. The barking of dogs at night calmed down, the townsfolk stopped knocking on the fences, and the life of the city, sleepy and monotonous, went on its way.

Only the unfortunate exiles did not find their own track in the city. True, they did not wander the streets at night; they said that they found shelter somewhere on the mountain, near the chapel, but how they managed to settle down there, no one could say for sure. Everyone only saw that from the other side, from the mountains and ravines surrounding the chapel, the most incredible and suspicious figures descended into the city in the morning, and disappeared at dusk in the same direction. With their appearance, they disturbed the quiet and dormant flow of city life, standing out as gloomy spots against the gray background. The townsfolk looked sideways at them with hostile alarm. These figures did not at all resemble the aristocratic beggars from the castle - the city did not recognize them, and their relationship to the city was purely combative in nature: they preferred to scold the average person than to flatter him, to take it themselves rather than beg for it. Moreover, as often happens, among this ragged and dark crowd of unfortunates there were people who, in their intelligence and talents, could have done honor to the most select society of the castle, but did not get along in it and preferred the democratic society of the chapel.

In addition to these people who stood out from the crowd, there was also a dark mass of pitiful ragamuffins huddled around the chapel, whose appearance at the market always caused great alarm among the traders, who were in a hurry to cover their goods with their hands, just as hens cover their chickens when a kite appears in the sky. There were rumors that these poor people, completely deprived of all means of living since their expulsion from the castle, formed a friendly community and, among other things, were engaged in petty theft in the city and the surrounding area.

The organizer and leader of this community of unfortunates was Pan Tyburtsy Drab, the most remarkable person of all those who did not get along in the old castle.

The origin of Drab was shrouded in the most mysterious obscurity. Some attributed to him an aristocratic name, which he covered with shame and therefore was forced to hide. But the appearance of Pan Tyburtsy had nothing aristocratic about him. He was tall, his large facial features were coarsely expressive. Short, slightly reddish hair stuck out apart; the low forehead, the lower jaw somewhat protruding forward and the strong mobility of the face resembled something like a monkey; but the eyes, sparkling from under the overhanging eyebrows, looked stubbornly and gloomily, and in them, along with slyness, shone sharp insight, energy and intelligence. While a whole series of grimaces alternated on his face, these eyes constantly retained one expression, which is why it always felt somehow unaccountably creepy to look at the antics of this strange man. There seemed to be a deep, constant sadness flowing underneath him.

Pan Tyburtsy's hands were rough and covered with calluses, his large feet walked like a man. In view of this, most ordinary people did not recognize his aristocratic origin. But then how to explain his amazing learning, which was obvious to everyone? There was not a tavern in the whole city in which Pan Tyburtsy, in order to instruct the crests gathered on market days, did not pronounce, standing on a barrel, entire speeches from Cicero, entire chapters from Xenophon. crests, generally endowed by nature with a rich imagination, knew how to somehow put their own meaning into these animated, albeit incomprehensible speeches... And when, beating himself on the chest and sparkling his eyes, he addressed them with the words: “Patres conscripti”, - they also frowned and said to each other:

- Well, the enemy’s son is barking like that!

When then Pan Tyburtsy, raising his eyes to the ceiling, began to recite long Latin texts, the mustachioed listeners watched him with fearful and pitiful sympathy. It seemed to them then that Tyburtsy’s soul was hovering somewhere in an unknown country, where they did not speak Christian, and that she was experiencing some kind of sad adventures there. His voice sounded with such dull, sepulchral peals that the listeners sitting in the corners, the most weakened from the vodka, lowered their heads, hung their long “chuprins” and began to sob.

- Oh-oh, mother, she’s pitiful, give him an encore! - And tears dripped from the eyes and flowed down the long mustache.

And when the speaker, suddenly jumping off the barrel, burst into cheerful laughter, the gloomy faces of the crests suddenly cleared up and their hands reached for the pockets of their wide pants for coppers. Delighted by the successful ending to the tragic adventures of Pan Tyburtsy, the crests gave him vodka, hugged him, and coppers fell jingling into his cap.

In view of such amazing learning, a new legend appeared that Pan Tyburtsy was once a courtyard boy of some count, who sent him along with his son to the school of the Jesuit fathers, in fact, for the purpose of cleaning the boots of the young panic. It turned out, however, that while the young count was idle, his lackey intercepted all the wisdom that was assigned to the master's head.

No one also knew where Mr. Tyburtsy’s children came from, and yet the fact stood there, even two facts: a boy of about seven, but tall and developed beyond his years, and a little three-year-old girl. Pan Tyburtsy brought the boy with him from the first days when he himself appeared. As for the girl, he was away for several months before she appeared in his arms.

A boy named Valek, tall, thin, black-haired, sometimes wandered sullenly around the city without much business, putting his hands in his pockets and throwing glances around that confused the hearts of the girls. The girl was seen only once or twice in the arms of Mr. Tyburtsy, and then she disappeared somewhere, and no one knew where she was.

There was talk about some kind of dungeons on the mountain near the chapel, and since such dungeons are not uncommon in those parts, everyone believed these rumors, especially since all these people lived somewhere. And they usually disappeared in the evening in the direction of the chapel. There, with his sleepy gait, a half-crazed old beggar, who was nicknamed “the professor,” hobbled there, Pan Tyburtsy walked decisively and quickly. Other dark personalities went there in the evening, drowning in the twilight, and there was no brave person who would dare to follow them along the clay cliffs. The mountain, pitted with graves, enjoyed a bad reputation. In the old cemetery, blue lights lit up on damp autumn nights, and in the chapel the owls squawked so piercingly and loudly that even the fearless blacksmith’s heart sank from the cries of the damned bird.

2. Me and my father

- It’s bad, young man, it’s bad! - old Janusz often told me from the castle, meeting me on the streets of the city among the listeners of Pan Tyburtsy.

And the old man shook his gray beard at the same time.

- It’s bad, young man - you’re in bad company!.. It’s a pity, it’s a pity for the son of respectable parents.

Indeed, since my mother died, and my father’s stern face became even gloomier, I was very rarely seen at home. On late summer evenings I sneaked through the garden like a young wolf cub, avoiding meeting my father, opened my window, half-closed by the thick green lilacs, using special devices, and quietly went to bed. If my little sister was still awake in her rocking chair in the next room, I would go up to her and we would quietly caress each other and play, trying not to wake up the grumpy old nanny.

And in the morning, just before dawn, when everyone was still sleeping in the house, I was already making a dewy trail in the thick, tall grass of the garden, climbing over the fence and walking to the pond, where the same tomboyish comrades were waiting for me with fishing rods, or to the mill, where the sleepy the miller had just pulled back the sluices and the water, shuddering sensitively on the mirror surface, rushed into the “trough” and cheerfully set about the day’s work.

The large mill wheels, awakened by the noisy shocks of the water, also shuddered, somehow reluctantly gave way, as if too lazy to wake up, but after a few seconds they were already spinning, splashing foam and bathing in cold streams. Behind them, thick shafts slowly and steadily began to move, inside the mill, gears began to rumble, millstones rustled, and white flour dust rose in clouds from the cracks of the old, old mill building.

Then I moved on. I liked to meet the awakening of nature; I was glad when I managed to scare away a sleepy lark, or drive a cowardly hare out of a furrow. Drops of dew fell from the tops of the tremors, from the heads of meadow flowers, as I made my way through the fields to the country grove. The trees greeted me with whispers of lazy drowsiness.

I managed to make a long detour, and yet in the city every now and then I met sleepy figures opening the shutters of houses. But now the sun has already risen over the mountain, from behind the ponds a loud bell can be heard calling the schoolchildren, and hunger calls me home for morning tea.

In general, everyone called me a tramp, a worthless boy, and so often reproached me for various bad inclinations that I finally became imbued with this conviction myself. My father also believed this and sometimes made attempts to educate me, but these attempts always ended in failure.

At the sight of the stern and gloomy face, on which lay the stern stamp of incurable grief, I became timid and withdrawn into myself. I stood in front of him, shifting, fiddling with my panties, and looking around. At times something seemed to rise in my chest, I wanted him to hug me, sit me on his lap and caress me. Then I would cling to his chest, and perhaps we would cry together - the child and the stern man - about our common loss. But he looked at me with hazy eyes, as if over my head, and I shrank all under this gaze, incomprehensible to me.

- Do you remember mother?

Did I remember her? Oh yes, I remembered her! I remembered how it used to be, waking up at night, I would look for her tender hands in the darkness and press myself tightly to them, covering them with kisses. I remembered her when she sat sick in front of the open window and sadly looked around at the wonderful spring picture, saying goodbye to it in the last year of her life.

Oh yes, I remembered her!.. When she, all covered with flowers, young and beautiful, lay with the mark of death on her pale face, I, like an animal, hid in a corner and looked at her with burning eyes, before which the whole horror of the riddle was revealed for the first time about life and death.

And now, often, in the dead of midnight, I woke up, full of love, which was crowded in my chest, overflowing a child’s heart, I woke up with a smile of happiness. And again, as before, it seemed to me that she was with me, that I would now meet her loving, sweet caress.

Yes, I remembered her!.. But to the question of the tall, gloomy man in whom I wanted, but could not feel my soul mate, I cringed even more and quietly pulled my little hand out of his hand.

And he turned away from me with annoyance and pain. He felt that he did not have the slightest influence on me, that there was some kind of wall between us. He loved her too much when she was alive, not noticing me because of his happiness. Now I was blocked from him by severe grief.

And little by little the abyss that separated us became wider and deeper. He became more and more convinced that I was a bad, spoiled boy, with a callous, selfish heart, and the consciousness that he should, but could not, take care of me, should love me, but did not find this love in his heart, further increased his reluctance. And I felt it. Sometimes, hiding in the bushes, I watched him; I saw him walking along the alleys, accelerating his gait, and groaning dully from unbearable mental anguish. Then my heart lit up with pity and sympathy. Once, when, clutching his head with his hands, he sat down on a bench and began to sob, I could not stand it and ran out of the bushes onto the path, obeying a vague impulse that pushed me towards this man. But, hearing my steps, he looked at me sternly and besieged me with a cold question:

- What do you need?

I didn't need anything. I quickly turned away, ashamed of my outburst, afraid that my father would read it in my embarrassed face. Running into the thicket of the garden, I fell face down into the grass and cried bitterly from frustration and pain.

From the age of six I already experienced the horror of loneliness.

Sister Sonya was four years old. I loved her passionately, and she repaid me with the same love; but the established view of me as an inveterate little robber erected a high wall between us. Every time I started playing with her, in my noisy and playful way, the old nanny, always sleepy and always tearing, with her eyes closed, chicken feathers for pillows, immediately woke up, quickly grabbed my Sonya and carried her away, throwing her at me angry looks; in such cases she always reminded me of a disheveled hen, I compared myself to a predatory kite, and Sonya to a little chicken. I felt very sad and annoyed. It is not surprising, therefore, that I soon stopped all attempts to entertain Sonya with my criminal games, and after a while I felt cramped in the house and in the kindergarten, where I did not find greetings or affection from anyone. I started wandering. My whole being then trembled with some strange premonition of life. It seemed to me that somewhere out there, in this big and unknown light, behind the old garden fence, I would find something; it seemed that I had to do something and could do something, but I just didn’t know what exactly. I began to instinctively run away from the nanny with her feathers, and from the familiar lazy whisper of the apple trees in our small garden, and from the stupid clatter of knives chopping cutlets in the kitchen. Since then, the names of street urchin and tramp have been added to my other unflattering epithets, but I did not pay attention to this. I got used to the reproaches and endured them, just as I endured sudden rain or the heat of the sun. I listened gloomily to the comments and acted in my own way. Staggering through the streets, I peered with childishly curious eyes into the simple life of the town with its shacks, listened to the hum of the wires on the highway, trying to catch what news was rushing along them from distant big cities, or the rustle of ears of grain, or the whisper of the wind on the high Haidamak roads. graves. More than once my eyes opened wide, more than once I stopped with painful fear before the pictures of life. Image after image, impression after impression filled the soul with bright spots; I learned and saw a lot of things that children much older than me had not seen.

When all the corners of the city became known to me, down to the last dirty nooks and crannies, then I began to look at the chapel visible in the distance, on the mountain. At first, like a timid animal, I approached it from different directions, still not daring to climb the mountain, which had a bad reputation. But, as I became familiar with the area, only quiet graves and destroyed crosses appeared before me. There were no signs of any habitation or human presence anywhere. Everything was somehow humble, quiet, abandoned, empty. Only the chapel itself looked out, frowning, through its empty windows, as if it were thinking some sad thought. I wanted to examine it all, look inside to make sure that there was nothing there but dust. But since it would be scary and inconvenient to undertake such an excursion alone, I gathered on the streets of the city a small detachment of three tomboys, attracted by the promise of buns and apples from our garden.

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