Stanyukovich Konstantin Mikhailovich
"Man overboard!"
Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich
"Man overboard!"
From the cycle "Sea stories"
The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun rolled slowly over the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried his canvas and glided silently across Atlantic Ocean, knots of seven. Empty all around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
Let the songwriters sing songs, your honor! - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, resounded in the middle of the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially old sailors, surround the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and earnestness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentyev, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by Marsafal, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is always brought from the shore in insensibility and with a broken face (he loved to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this same Lavrentiich, listening to songs , as if frozen in a kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray, like a plum, nose and bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression quiet reverie. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
There is enough for the very insides, scoundrel, - the sailors said about the echo.
Song after song poured out, reminding the sailors, among the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its dear to the heart of indolence and squalor ...
Come dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and now it was ringing with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small, lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if in himself a tucked-in body, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sound of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to smoke in the tub, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
And well you sing, oh, well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
He ought to learn a little more, but if, roughly, to understand the bass general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young clerk from the cantonists, Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise officials as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the blond, corpulent, pretty clerk and said:
You have an opera with us! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
Do you understand what opera means? - said the embarrassed scribe. - Eh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and wisely hastened to hide.
Look what an educated mumzel! - contemptuously let Lavrentich go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but this time without an affectionate expression ...
That’s what I’m saying, ”he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov, it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka ...
So what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with paint of tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare happy, cheerful natures, the sight of which involuntarily makes your soul brighter and more joyful. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to make an infectious, tasty laugh. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, although sometimes there was nothing particularly funny in Shutikov's story. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. A cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
I remember how one day we were storming. The wind roared fierce, the storm raged all around, and the clipper under storm sails was thrown like a splinter on the ocean waves, ready, it seemed, to swallow the fragile ship in its crests. The Clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all his limbs, merging his complaints with the whistle of the wind howling through the swollen rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all kinds of sights, were sullenly silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to be rooted to the railings, vigilantly gazing at the raging storm.
And Shutikov at this time, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, with extraneous conversations. He so calmly and simply "lashed out", talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the spray of the waves hit his face, that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.
And where is it you, the devil, have gotten so cleverly to tear your throat? - Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on a naso-warmer with makhorka. - One sailor sang with us on "Kostenkin", I must tell the truth that he sang uniformly, a rogue ... but everything is not so fierce.
So, self-taught, when he lived in shepherds. It used to be that the herd scattered through the forest, and you yourself lay under a birch tree and played songs ... That was how they called me in the village: the singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.
And for some reason everyone smiled in response, and Lavrentich, in addition, beat Shutikov on the back and, in the form of a special disposition, swore in the most gentle tone that his drunken voice was capable of.
At that moment, pushing the sailors aside, a stout, elderly sailor Ignatov hastily entered the circle.
Pale and bewildered, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he announced in a voice gusty with anger and excitement that his gold had been stolen.
Twenty franoks! Twenty franoks, brothers! he repeated plaintively, emphasizing the figure.
This news confused everyone. Such deeds were rare on the clipper.
The old men frowned. The young sailors, dissatisfied that Ignatov had suddenly disturbed the cheerful mood, with more frightened curiosity than sympathy, listened as he, panting and desperately waving his neat hands, hurried to tell about all the circumstances that accompanied the theft: how he, even today, after lunch, when the team was resting, I went to my little trunk, and, thank God, everything was intact, everything was in its place, and how now he went to get some shoe goods - and ... the castle, brothers, is broken ... twenty francs No...
Stanyukovich Konstantin Mikhailovich
Stanyukovich Konstantin Mikhailovich
"Man overboard!"
Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich
"Man overboard!"
From the cycle "Sea stories"
The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun rolled slowly over the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried his canvas and glided silently across the Atlantic Ocean, seven knots at a time. Empty all around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
Let the songwriters sing songs, your honor! - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, resounded in the middle of the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially old sailors, surround the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and earnestness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentyev, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by Marsafal, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is always brought from the shore in insensibility and with a broken face (he loved to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this same Lavrentiich, listening to songs , as if frozen in a kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray, like a plum, nose and bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression quiet reverie. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
There is enough for the very insides, scoundrel, - the sailors said about the echo.
Song after song poured out, reminding the sailors, among the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its dear to the heart of indolence and squalor ...
Come dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and now it was ringing with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small, lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if in himself a tucked-in body, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sound of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to smoke in the tub, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
And well you sing, oh, well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
He ought to learn a little more, but if, roughly, to understand the bass general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young clerk from the cantonists, Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise officials as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the blond, corpulent, pretty clerk and said:
You have an opera with us! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
Do you understand what opera means? - said the embarrassed scribe. - Eh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and wisely hastened to hide.
Look what an educated mumzel! - contemptuously let Lavrentich go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but this time without an affectionate expression ...
That’s what I’m saying, ”he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov, it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka ...
So what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with paint of tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare happy, cheerful natures, the sight of which involuntarily makes your soul brighter and more joyful. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to make an infectious, tasty laugh. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, although sometimes there was nothing particularly funny in Shutikov's story. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. A cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
I remember how one day we were storming. The wind roared fierce, the storm raged all around, and the clipper under storm sails was thrown like a splinter on the ocean waves, ready, it seemed, to swallow the fragile ship in its crests. The Clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all his limbs, merging his complaints with the whistle of the wind howling through the swollen rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all kinds of sights, were sullenly silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to be rooted to the railings, vigilantly gazing at the raging storm.
And Shutikov at this time, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, with extraneous conversations. He so calmly and simply "lashed out", talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the spray of the waves hit his face, that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.
And where is it you, the devil, have gotten so cleverly to tear your throat? - Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on a naso-warmer with makhorka. - One sailor sang with us on "Kostenkin", I must tell the truth that he sang uniformly, a rogue ... but everything is not so fierce.
So, self-taught, when he lived in shepherds. It used to be that the herd scattered through the forest, and you yourself lay under a birch tree and played songs ... That was how they called me in the village: the singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.
And for some reason everyone smiled in response, and Lavrentich, in addition, beat Shutikov on the back and, in the form of a special disposition, swore in the most gentle tone that his drunken voice was capable of.
At that moment, pushing the sailors aside, a stout, elderly sailor Ignatov hastily entered the circle.
Pale and bewildered, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he announced in a voice gusty with anger and excitement that his gold had been stolen.
Twenty franoks! Twenty franoks, brothers! he repeated plaintively, emphasizing the figure.
This news confused everyone. Such deeds were rare on the clipper.
The old men frowned. The young sailors, dissatisfied that Ignatov had suddenly disturbed the cheerful mood, with more frightened curiosity than sympathy, listened as he, panting and desperately waving his neat hands, hurried to tell about all the circumstances that accompanied the theft: how he, even today, after lunch, when the team was resting, I went to my little trunk, and, thank God, everything was intact, everything was in its place, and how now he went to get some shoe goods - and ... the castle, brothers, is broken ... twenty francs No...
How is it? To steal from your brother? - Ignatov finished, sweeping the crowd with a wandering gaze.
His smooth, well-fed, clean-shaven face covered with large freckles with small round eyes and a sharp, like a hawk's curved nose, always distinguished by calm restraint and a contented, sedate look of an intelligent person who understands his worth, was now distorted by despair ...
"Man overboard!"
"Sea stories"
Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich
"MAN OVERBOARD!"
The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun rolled slowly over the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried his canvas and glided silently across the Atlantic Ocean, seven knots at a time. Empty all around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
- Allow, your honor, songwriters to sing songs! - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, resounded in the middle of the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially old sailors, surround the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and earnestness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentyev, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by Marsafal, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is always brought from the shore in insensibility and with a broken face (he loved to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this same Lavrentiich, listening to songs , as if frozen in a kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray, like a plum, nose and bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression quiet reverie. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
- For the very insides enough, scoundrel, - said the sailors about the echo.
Song after song poured out, reminding the sailors, among the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its dearth and squalor dear to their hearts ...
- Go dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and now it was ringing with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small, lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if in himself a tucked-in body, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sound of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to smoke in the tub, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
- And well you sing, oh, well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
“He ought to learn a little more, but if, approximately, to understand the bass-general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young clerk from the cantonists, Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise officials as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the blond, corpulent, pretty clerk and said:
- You have an opera with us! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
- Do you understand what opera means? - said the embarrassed scribe. - Eh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and wisely hastened to hide.
- Look what an educated mumzel! - Lavrentich contemptuously let him go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but already without an affectionate expression ...
“That’s what I’m saying,” he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov, “it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka ...
- Well, what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with paint of tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare happy, cheerful natures, the sight of which involuntarily makes your soul brighter and more joyful. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to make an infectious, tasty laugh. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, although sometimes there was nothing particularly funny in Shutikov's story. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. A cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
I remember how one day we were storming. The wind roared fierce, the storm raged all around, and the clipper under storm sails was thrown like a splinter on the ocean waves, ready, it seemed, to swallow the fragile ship in its crests. The Clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all his limbs, merging his complaints with the whistle of the wind howling through the swollen rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all kinds of sights, were sullenly silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to be rooted to the railings, vigilantly gazing at the raging storm.
And Shutikov at this time, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, with extraneous conversations. He so calmly and simply "lashed out", talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the spray of the waves hit his face, that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.
- And where are you, the devil, so dexterously to tear your throat? - Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on a naso-warmer with makhorka. - One sailor sang with us on the Kostenkin, I must tell the truth that he sang uniformly, a rogue ... but everything is not so fierce.
- So, self-taught, when he lived in shepherds. It used to be that the herd scattered through the forest, and you yourself lay under a birch tree and played songs ... That was how they called me in the village: the singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.
And for some reason everyone smiled in response, and Lavrentich, in addition, beat Shutikov on the back and, in the form of a special disposition, swore in the most gentle tone that his drunken voice was capable of.
At that moment, pushing the sailors aside, a stout, elderly sailor Ignatov hastily entered the circle.
Pale and bewildered, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he announced in a voice gusty with anger and excitement that his gold had been stolen.
- Twenty franoks! Twenty franoks, brothers! He repeated plaintively, emphasizing the figure.
This news confused everyone. Such deeds were rare on the clipper.
The old men frowned. The young sailors, dissatisfied that Ignatov had suddenly disturbed the cheerful mood, with more frightened curiosity than sympathy, listened as he, panting and desperately waving his neat hands, hurried to tell about all the circumstances that accompanied the theft: how he, even today, after lunch, when the team was resting, I went to my little trunk, and, thank God, everything was intact, everything was in its place, and how now he went to get the shoe goods - and ... the castle, brothers, is broken ... there are no twenty franoks ...
- How's that? To steal from your brother? - Ignatov finished, sweeping the crowd with a wandering gaze.
His smooth, well-fed, clean-shaven face covered with large freckles with small round eyes and a sharp, like a hawk's, curved nose, always distinguished by calm restraint and a contented, sedate look of an intelligent person who understands his worth, was now distorted by the despair of a curmudgeon who had lost everything property. The lower jaw trembled; his round eyes crossed his faces in bewilderment. It was evident that the theft completely upset him, revealing his kulak, stingy nature.
It was not for nothing that Ignatov, whom some sailors were already beginning to honorably call Semyonitch, was a tight-fisted and greedy person for money. They're in circumnavigation went, volunteering as a hunter and leaving in Kronstadt his wife - a tradeswoman in the bazaar - and two children, with the sole purpose of saving some money in the voyage and, having retired, to do some trade in Kronstadt. He led an extremely abstinent life, did not drink wine, and did not spend money on the beach. He saved money, saved it stubbornly, for pennies, he knew where it was possible to profitably exchange gold and silver, and under great secrecy, he lent small sums for interest to reliable people. In general, Ignatov was a resourceful man and hoped to do a good job by bringing cigars and some Japanese and Chinese things to Russia for sale. He had already done such things before, when he sailed through the years in Gulf of Finland: in Revel, he used to buy kilka, in Helsingfors cigars and mamurovkas and resell them at a profit in Kronstadt.
Ignatov was the helmsman, served regularly, trying to get along with everyone, was friends with the battalier and the captain, was literate and carefully concealed that he had some money, and, moreover, decent for a sailor.
- This is certainly a scoundrel Proshka, no one like him! - seething with anger, Ignatov continued excitedly. - Dave, he kept spinning in the deck when I went to the chest ... Now what to do with this scoundrel, brothers? - he asked, referring mainly to the elderly and, as it were, seeking their support. “Can it be that I’m going to make up my mind about money? .. After all, I have Blood money… You yourself know, brothers, what money a sailor has… I collected a penny… I don’t drink my own glasses…” he added in a humiliated, plaintive tone.
Although there was no other evidence, besides the fact that Proshka was "spinning in the deck", nevertheless, the victim himself and the listeners had no doubt that it was Proshka Zhitin who had stolen the money, who had more than once been caught in petty thefts from his comrades. Not a single voice was heard in his defense. On the contrary, many outraged sailors showered the alleged thief with abuse.
- A sort of scoundrel! .. He only shames the sailor rank ... - said Lavrentich with a heart.
- Yes, yes ... We got a lousy dog too ...
- We must teach him a lesson now, so that he remembers, dissolute bummer!
- So how, brothers? - continued Ignatov. - What to do with Proshka? Let them sort it out in shape.
But this thought, pleasant to Ignatov, did not find support on the tank. The tank had its own special, unwritten charter, the strict guardians of which, like the ancient priests, were the old sailors.
And Lavrentich was the first to protest energetically.
- It turns out, with a leport on the authorities? He drawled contemptuously. - To start slander? Forgot, apparently, out of fright, he was a sailor's rule? Eh, you ... people! - And Lavrentich, for the sake of relief, remembered “people” with his usual word. - Also invented, and you are also considered a sailor! He added, casting a not particularly friendly look at Ignatov.
- How do you think?
- And in our opinion, the same as taught before. Beat the dog's son Proshka in a spray so that he remembers, but take the money. Here's our way.
- You never know, they beat him, the scoundrel! And if he does not give it back? .. So, then, and wasted money? What is this for? Let it be better to formally condemn the thief ... There is nothing to be sorry for such a dog, brothers.
- You are very greedy for money, Ignatov ... I suppose Proshka did not steal everything ... Still a little left? - Lavrentich said ironically.
- Did you think that!
- That’s why I didn’t consider it, but it’s not a sailor’s business - slander. It won't do! - Lavrentich noted authoritatively. - Am I right, guys?
And almost all the "guys", to the displeasure of Ignatov, confirmed that it is not good to start a slander.
- Now bring Proshka here! Interrogate him in front of the guys! - decided Lavrentich.
And Ignatov, angry and displeased, obeyed, however, the general decision and went after Proshka.
Waiting for him, the sailors closed the circle closer.
Prokhor Zhitin, or, as everyone scornfully called him, Proshka, was the very last sailor. Having fallen into the sailors from the courtyards, a desperate coward, whom only the threat of flogging could compel to ascend to Mars, where he experienced an irresistible physical fear, a lazy person and a bummer who shirked work and was dishonest to all this, Proshka, from the very beginning of his voyage, became in a position of what something of a rejected pariah. They were all pushed around; boatswain and non-commissioned officers in passing, and for the cause, and so, you live great, scolded and beat Proshka, saying: "Uh, quitter!" And he never protested, but with some habitual stupid obedience of a slaughtered animal he endured the beatings. After several petty thefts in which he was convicted, he was hardly spoken to and treated with disdain. Anyone who was not lazy could curse him with impunity, hit him, send him somewhere, mock him, as if a different attitude towards Proshka was unthinkable. And Proshka seemed so accustomed to this position of a driven, lousy dog that he did not expect any other treatment and endured the whole convict life, apparently without any particular burden, rewarding himself on the clipper with hearty food and training a pig, which Proshka taught to make different pieces, and on trips to the shore - drinking and courting the fair sex, to which he was a great hunter; he spent his last penny on women, and for their sake, it seems, he dragged money from his comrades, despite the harsh retribution he received if he was caught. He was an eternal latrine - there was no other position for him, and was among the quarterderers, fulfilling the duty of a labor force that did not require any abilities. And then he got it, because he always idly pulled some tackle together with others, pretending to really pull.
Stanyukovich Konstantin Mikhailovich
"Man overboard!"
Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich
"Man overboard!"
From the cycle "Sea stories"
The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun rolled slowly over the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried his canvas and glided silently across the Atlantic Ocean, seven knots at a time. Empty all around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
Let the songwriters sing songs, your honor! - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, resounded in the middle of the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially old sailors, surround the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and earnestness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentyev, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by Marsafal, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is always brought from the shore in insensibility and with a broken face (he loved to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this same Lavrentiich, listening to songs , as if frozen in a kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray, like a plum, nose and bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression quiet reverie. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
There is enough for the very insides, scoundrel, - the sailors said about the echo.
Song after song poured out, reminding the sailors, among the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its dear to the heart of indolence and squalor ...
Come dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and now it was ringing with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small, lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if in himself a tucked-in body, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sound of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to smoke in the tub, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
And well you sing, oh, well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
He ought to learn a little more, but if, roughly, to understand the bass general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young clerk from the cantonists, Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise officials as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the blond, corpulent, pretty clerk and said:
You have an opera with us! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
Do you understand what opera means? - said the embarrassed scribe. - Eh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and wisely hastened to hide.
Look what an educated mumzel! - contemptuously let Lavrentich go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but this time without an affectionate expression ...
That’s what I’m saying, ”he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov, it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka ...
So what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with paint of tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare happy, cheerful natures, the sight of which involuntarily makes your soul brighter and more joyful. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to make an infectious, tasty laugh. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, although sometimes there was nothing particularly funny in Shutikov's story. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. A cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich
"Man overboard!"
From the cycle "Sea stories"
I
The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun rolled slowly over the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried his canvas and glided silently across the Atlantic Ocean, seven knots at a time. Empty all around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
- Allow, your honor, songwriters to sing songs! - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, resounded in the middle of the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially old sailors, surround the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and earnestness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentyev, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by Marsafal, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is always brought from the shore in insensibility and with a broken face (he loved to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this same Lavrentiich, listening to songs , as if frozen in a kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray, like a plum, nose and bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression quiet reverie. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
- For the very insides enough, scoundrel, - said the sailors about the echo.
Song after song poured out, reminding the sailors, among the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its dear to the heart of indolence and squalor ...
- Go dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and now it was ringing with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small, lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if in himself a tucked-in body, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sound of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to smoke in the tub, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
- And well you sing, oh, well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
“He ought to learn a little more, but if, approximately, to understand the bass-general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young clerk from the cantonists, Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise officials as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the blond, corpulent, pretty clerk and said:
- You have an opera with us! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
- Do you understand what opera means? - said the embarrassed scribe. - Eh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and wisely hastened to hide.
- Look what an educated mumzel! - contemptuously let Lavrentich go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but this time without an affectionate expression ...
“That’s what I’m saying,” he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov, it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka ...
- Well, what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with paint of tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare happy, cheerful natures, the sight of which involuntarily makes your soul brighter and more joyful. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to make an infectious, tasty laugh. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, although sometimes there was nothing particularly funny in Shutikov's story. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. A cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
I remember how one day we were storming. The wind roared fierce, the storm raged all around, and the clipper under storm sails was thrown like a splinter on the ocean waves, ready, it seemed, to swallow the fragile ship in its crests. The Clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all his limbs, merging his complaints with the whistle of the wind howling through the swollen rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all kinds of sights, were sullenly silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to be rooted to the railings, vigilantly gazing at the raging storm.
And Shutikov at this time, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, with extraneous conversations. He so calmly and simply "lashed out", talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the spray of the waves hit his face, that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.
- And where are you, the devil, so dexterously to tear your throat? - Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on a naso-warmer with makhorka. - One sailor sang with us on "Kostenkin", I must tell the truth that he sang uniformly, a rogue ... but everything is not so fierce.
- So, self-taught, when he lived in shepherds. It used to be that the herd scattered through the forest, and you yourself lay under a birch tree and played songs ... That was how they called me in the village: the singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.
And for some reason everyone smiled in response, and Lavrentich, in addition, beat Shutikov on the back and, in the form of a special disposition, swore in the most gentle tone that his drunken voice was capable of.
II
At that moment, pushing the sailors aside, a stout, elderly sailor Ignatov hastily entered the circle.
Pale and bewildered, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he announced in a voice gusty with anger and excitement that his gold had been stolen.
- Twenty franoks! Twenty franoks, brothers! he repeated plaintively, emphasizing the figure.
This news confused everyone. Such deeds were rare on the clipper.
The old men frowned. The young sailors, dissatisfied that Ignatov had suddenly disturbed the cheerful mood, with more frightened curiosity than sympathy, listened as he, panting and desperately waving his neat hands, hurried to tell about all the circumstances that accompanied the theft: how he, even today, after lunch, when the team was resting, I went to my little trunk, and, thank God, everything was intact, everything was in its place, and how now he went to get some shoe goods - and ... the castle, brothers, is broken ... twenty francs No...
- How's that? To steal from your brother? - Ignatov finished, sweeping the crowd with a wandering gaze.
His smooth, well-fed, clean-shaven face covered with large freckles with small round eyes and a sharp, like a hawk's, curved nose, always distinguished by calm restraint and a contented, sedate look of an intelligent person who understands his worth, was now distorted by the despair of a curmudgeon who had lost everything property. The lower jaw trembled; his round eyes crossed his faces in bewilderment. It was evident that the theft completely upset him, revealing his kulak, stingy nature.
It was not for nothing that Ignatov, whom some sailors were already beginning to honorably call Semyonitch, was a tight-fisted and greedy person for money. He went on a voyage around the world, volunteering as a hunter and leaving in Kronstadt his wife - a tradeswoman in the bazaar - and two children, with the sole purpose of saving some money in the voyage and, having retired, engage in trade in Kronstadt for a little. He led an extremely abstinent life, did not drink wine, and did not spend money on the beach. He saved money, saved it stubbornly, for pennies, he knew where it was possible to profitably exchange gold and silver, and under great secrecy, he lent small sums for interest to reliable people. In general, Ignatov was a resourceful man and hoped to do a good job by bringing cigars and some Japanese and Chinese things to Russia for sale. He had already done such things before when he sailed in the Gulf of Finland for the summer: in Revel, he used to buy kilka, in Helsingfors, cigars and mamurovkas and resell them at a profit in Kronstadt.
Ignatov was the helmsman, served regularly, trying to get along with everyone, was friends with the battalier and the captain, was literate and carefully concealed that he had some money, and, moreover, decent for a sailor.
- This is certainly a scoundrel Proshka, no one like him! - seething with anger, Ignatov continued excitedly. - Dave, he kept spinning in the deck when I went to the chest ... Now what to do with this scoundrel, brothers? - he asked, referring mainly to the elderly and, as it were, seeking their support. “Can it be that I’m going to make up my mind about money? .. After all, I have Blood money ... You yourself know, brothers, what money a sailor has ... I collected a penny ... I don’t drink my own glasses ...” he added humiliated, in a plaintive tone.
Although there was no other evidence, besides the fact that Proshka was "spinning in the deck", nevertheless the victim himself and the listeners had no doubts that it was Proshka Zhitin who had stolen the money, who had more than once been caught in petty thefts from his comrades. Not a single voice was heard in his defense. On the contrary, many outraged sailors showered the alleged thief with abuse.
- A sort of scoundrel! .. He only disgraces the sailor title ... - said Lavrentich with a heart.
- Yes, yes ... We got a lousy dog too ...
- We must teach him a lesson now, so that he remembers, dissolute bummer!
- So how, brothers? - continued Ignatov. - What to do with Proshka? Let them sort it out in shape.
But this thought, pleasant to Ignatov, did not find support on the tank. The tank had its own special, unwritten charter, the strict guardians of which, like the ancient priests, were the old sailors.
And Lavrentich was the first to protest energetically.
- It turns out, with a leport on the authorities? he drawled contemptuously. To start slander? Forgot, apparently, out of fright, he was a sailor's rule? Eh, you ... people! - And Lavrentich, for the sake of relief, remembered "people" with his usual word. Also invented, and you are also considered a sailor! he added, casting a not particularly friendly look at Ignatov.
- How do you think?
- And in our opinion, the same as taught before. Beat the dog's son Proshka in a spray so that he remembers, but take the money. Here's our way.
- You never know, they beat him, the scoundrel! And if he does not give it back? .. So, then, and wasted money? What is this for? Let it be better to formally condemn the thief ... There is nothing to be sorry for such a dog, brothers.
- You are very greedy for money, Ignatov ... I suppose Proshka did not steal everything ... Still a little left? Lavrentich said ironically.
- Did you think that!
- That’s why I didn’t consider it, but it’s not a sailor’s business - slander. It won't do! - Lavrentich noted authoritatively. - Am I right, guys?
And almost all the "guys", to the displeasure of Ignatov, confirmed that it is not good to start a slander.
- Now bring Proshka here! Interrogate him in front of the guys! - decided Lavrentich.
And Ignatov, angry and displeased, obeyed, however, the general decision and went after Proshka.
Waiting for him, the sailors closed the circle closer.
III
Prokhor Zhitin, or, as everyone scornfully called him, Proshka, was the very last sailor. Having fallen into the sailors from the courtyards, a desperate coward, whom only the threat of flogging could compel to ascend to Mars, where he experienced an irresistible physical fear, a lazy person and a bummer who shirked work and was dishonest to all this, Proshka, from the very beginning of his voyage, became in a position of what something of a rejected pariah. They were all pushed around; boatswain and non-commissioned officers in passing, and for the cause, and so, you live great, scolded and beat Proshka, saying: "Uh, quitter!" And he never protested, but with some habitual stupid obedience of a slaughtered animal he endured the beatings. After several petty thefts in which he was convicted, he was hardly spoken to and treated with disdain. Anyone who was not lazy could curse him with impunity, hit him, send him somewhere, mock him, as if a different attitude towards Proshka was unthinkable. And Proshka seemed so accustomed to this position of a driven, lousy dog that he did not expect any other treatment and endured the whole convict life, apparently without any particular burden, rewarding himself on the clipper with hearty food and training a pig, which Proshka taught to make different pieces, and on trips to the shore - drinking and courting the fair sex, to which he was a great hunter; he spent his last penny on women, and for their sake, it seems, he dragged money from his comrades, despite the harsh retribution he received if he was caught. He was an eternal latrine - there was no other position for him, and was among the quarterderers, fulfilling the duty of a labor force that did not require any abilities. And then he got it, because he always idly pulled some tackle together with others, pretending to really pull.
- Ooh ... a vile bum! - scolded his non-commissioned officer, promising him to "brush" his teeth.
And, of course, "cleaned".
IV
Climbing under the launch, Proshka slept sweetly, smiling meaninglessly in his sleep. A violent kick from his leg woke him up. He wanted to crawl away from this uninvited leg, when a new kick made it clear to Proshka that he was needed for some reason and that he had to get out of a secluded place. He crawled out, got to his feet and looked at Ignatov's angry face with a dull gaze, as if expecting that they would still beat him.
- Follow me! - said Ignatov, barely restraining himself from the desire to immediately torment Proshka.
Proshka obediently, like a guilty dog, followed Ignatov with his slow, lazy gait, waddling like a duck from side to side.
He was a man in his thirties, soft-bodied, awkward, ill-built, with a disproportionate body on short crooked legs, like tailors. (Before the service, he was a tailor on a manor house.) His puffy, sallow face with a broad flat nose and large protruding ears protruding from under his hat was unattractive and worn out. Small dull gray eyes looked out from under light sparse eyebrows with an expression of submissive indifference, which is the case with downtrodden people, but at the same time something sly was felt in them. In all his awkward figure there was not even a trace of a sailor's bearing; everything on him sat baggy and sloppy - in a word, Proshkin's figure was completely inappropriate.
When, following Ignatov, Proshka entered the circle, all the conversations fell silent. The sailors closed in closer, and everyone's gaze turned to the thief.
To start the interrogation, Ignatov, first of all, hit Proshka in the face with all his might.
The blow was unexpected. Proshka staggered slightly and unrequitedly blew off the crack. Only his face became dumber and more frightened.
- You first really torture, and you will have time to naklast in a pussycat! Lavrentich said angrily.
- This is for him as a deposit, scoundrel! - noticed Ignatov and, turning to Proshka, said: - Admit it, you bastard, did you steal the gold from my chest?
At these words, Proshka's dull face instantly lit up with a meaningful expression. He understood, it seemed, the full importance of the accusation, cast a frightened glance at the concentratedly serious, unfriendly faces, and suddenly turned pale and somehow cringed all over. A dull fear distorted his features.
This sudden change further confirmed everyone in the idea that Proshka had stolen the money.
Proshka was silent, his eyes downcast.
- Where's the money? Where did you hide them? Tell me! - continued the interrogator.
- I didn't take your money! - Proshka answered quietly.
Ignatov was furious.
- Oh, look ... I will beat you to death, if you don’t give the money in kind! .. said Ignatov and said so viciously and seriously that Proshka moved back.
And from all sides hostile voices were heard:
- Obey better, you brute!
- Don't lock yourself up, Proshka!
- You'd better give it back!
Proshka saw that everyone was against him. He raised his head, took off his cap and, addressing the crowd, exclaimed with the hopeless despair of a man clutching at straws:
- Brothers! As before the true God! Fuck swearing in an hour! Smite me on the spot! .. Do with me what is good, but I didn’t take money!
Proshkin's words seemed to shake some.
But Ignatov did not allow the impression to intensify and hastily began to speak:
- Don't lie, you vile creature ... leave God! You locked yourself even then, when you pulled out a franc from Kuzmin's pocket ... do you remember? And how did he steal Leontyev's shirt, he also went under oath, eh? You, shameless, swear to spit ...
Proshka lowered his head again.
- Blame, they tell you, rather. Tell me where is my money? I didn’t see you spinning around ... Tell me, shameless, why did you dart around on deck when everyone was resting? - the interrogator was advancing.
- So I walked ...
- So he went ?! Hey, Proshka, do not lead to sin. Confess.
But Proshka was silent.
Then Ignatov, as if wishing to try the last resort, suddenly immediately changed his tone. Now he did not threaten, but asked Proshka to give the money in an affectionate, almost ingratiating tone.
- You will not get anything ... do you hear? .. Give me only my money ... You must drink, and I have a family ... Give it back! - Ignatov almost begged.
- Search me ... I didn't take your money!
- So you did not take, mean soul? Didn't take it? - exclaimed Ignatov with a face pale with anger. - Didn't take ?!
And with these words, he, like a hawk, flew into Proshka.
Pale, his whole body shuddering, Proshka closed his eyes and tried to hide his head from blows.
The sailors frowned silently at this hideous scene. And Ignatov, excited by the irresponsibility of the victim, grew more and more ferocious.
- Enough ... Will ... will be! - Suddenly came the voice of Shutikov from the crowd.
And this soft voice immediately awakened human feelings in others as well.
Many of the crowd, following Shutikov, angrily shouted:
- Will ... will be!
- You first search Proshka and then teach!
Ignatov left Proshka and, shuddering angrily, stepped aside. Proshka ducked out of the circle. Everyone was silent for a few moments.
- Look, what a scoundrel ... he locks himself up! - taking a breath, said Ignatov. - Wait, as I will butcher him on the shore, if he does not give the money! Ignatov threatened.
“Or maybe it’s not him!” - Suddenly said quietly Shutikov.
And the same thought seemed to affect some of the tensely serious, frowning faces.
- Isn't he? For the first time to him, or what? .. This is certainly his business ... A thief known to him ...
And Ignatov, taking two people, went off to search Proshkin's things.
- And man is angry with money! Oh, angry! Lavrentich grumbled angrily after Ignatov, shaking his head. - And you do not steal, do not disgrace the sailor rank! - he suddenly added unexpectedly and swore - this time, apparently, with the sole purpose: to resolve the bewilderment that clearly stood on his face.
- So you, Yegor, think that this is not Proshka? he asked after a moment's silence. - If there is no one else.
Shutikov said nothing, and Lavrentich did not ask any more and began to intensively light his short pipe.
The crowd began to disperse.
A few minutes later it became known on the tank that neither Proshka nor his things had any money.
- Hid it, rogue, somewhere! - decided many and added that now Proshka will have bad things: Ignatov will not forgive him this money.
V
A gentle tropical night quickly descended over the ocean.
The sailors slept on deck - it was stuffy below - and there was one squad on watch. In the tropics, in the trade winds, the watch is calm, and the sailors of the watch, as usual, while away the night hours, dispersing the slumber with conversations and fairy tales.
That night, from midnight to six, the second section, in which Shutikov and Proshka were, happened to be on watch.
Shutikov had already told a few tales to a handful of sailors seated at the foremast and went off to smoke. Having smoked his pipe, he went, stepping carefully between the sleeping, on the quarterdecks and, seeing in the darkness Proshka, huddled alone at the side and nodding his nose, quietly called out to him:
- Is that you ... Proshka?
- I AM! - Proshka perked up.
`` What can I tell you, '' Shutikov continued in a quiet and gentle voice: after all, Ignatov, you yourself know what kind of man ... He will completely beat you on the shore ... without any pity ...
Proshka was on his guard ... This tone was a surprise to him.
- Well, let him hit, but I didn’t touch the money! - answered Proshka after a short silence.
- That's it, he does not believe and until he returns his money, he will not forgive you ... And many guys hesitate ...
- It is said: did not take! - repeated Proshka with the same persistence.
- I, brother, believe that you did not take ... Hey, I believe, and I regretted that you were beaten in vain just now and Ignatov is still threatening to beat you ... And this is what you are, Proshka: take twenty franoks from me and give them Ignatov ... God bless him! Let him rejoice at the money, but someday you will give it to me - I will not forcibly ... So it will be more accurate ... Yes, hey, don't tell anyone about this! added Shutikov.
Proshka was resolutely puzzled and could not find words at the first minute. If Shutikov could make out Proshkin's face, he would see that it was embarrassed and unusually agitated. Still would! They regret the proshka, and not only do they regret it, they also offer money to save him from beating. This was too much for a person who had not heard an affectionate word for a long time.
Depressed, feeling something approaching his throat, he stood silently with his head down.
- So take the money! - said Shutikov, getting out of. pockets of pants wrapped in a rag all their capital.
- It's like ... Oh, God! - Proshka muttered in confusion ...
- Eka ... stupid ... It is said: get it, don’t worry!
- Get it ?! Ah, brother! Thank you, your kind soul! - answered Proshka in a voice trembling with excitement and suddenly added decisively: - Only your money, Shutikov, is not necessary ... I still feel and do not want to be a scoundrel in front of you ... I do not wish ... I myself will give it to Ignatov after the watch gold.
- So you ...
- That's what I am! - Proshka said barely audibly. - Nobody would have found out ... The money is hidden in the gun ...
- Eh, Prokhor, Prokhor! - only Shutikov rebuked in a sad tone, shaking his head.
- Now let him hit me ... Let him turn the whole cheekbone. Do you a favor! Beat the scoundrel Proshka ... fry him, scoundrel, do not regret it! - Proshka continued with a kind of fierce animation against his own person. - I will endure everything with my pleasure ... At the very least, I know that you regretted, believed ... An affectionate word said to Proshka ... Oh, God! I will never forget this!
- Look what you are! - said Shutikov affectionately.
He paused and spoke:
- Listen to what I tell you, my brother: give up all these things ... really, give them up! .. Live, Prokhor, how people live in an amicable way ... Become a uniform sailor so that everything, then, as it should be ... That will be more sincere ... But is it really sweet to you yourself? .. I, Prokhor, not in reproach, but pitiful! .. - added Shutikov.
Proshka listened to these words and was under their spell. No one, in all his life, spoke to him so affectionately and sincerely. Until now, he was only scolded and beaten - that was the teaching.
And a warm feeling of gratitude and affection seized Proshkino's heart. He wanted to express them in words, but the words were not found.
When Shutikov walked away, promising to persuade Ignatov to forgive Proshka, Proshka did not feel so insignificant as he had considered himself before. For a long time he stood, looking overboard, and once or twice wiped away a tear that was pouring in.
In the morning, after the shift, he brought Ignatov a gold piece. The delighted sailor greedily grabbed the money, squeezed it in his hand, gave Proshka in the teeth and was about to go, but Proshka stood in front of him and repeated:
- Hit it again ... Hit it, Semyonitch! In the face in the very blow!
Surprised by Proshka's boldness, Ignatov looked contemptuously at Proshka and repeated:
- I would have butchered you, you bastard, completely, if you hadn’t given me the money, and now you don’t have to get your hands dirty ... Get lost, you bastard, but just look ... try to climb up to me again ... I will cripple! - Ignatov added impressively and, pushing Proshka out of the way, ran downstairs to hide his money.
That was the end of the massacre.
Thanks to the petition of Shutikov, the boatswain Shchukin, who learned about the theft and was going to “spit the bitch after the cleanup,” rather graciously, relatively speaking, patted, as he put it, “Proshkino hailo”.
- Proshka Semyonitch was frightened! He provided the money, and how he locked himself up, rogue! - said the sailors during the morning cleaning.
VI
Since that memorable night, Proshka selflessly became attached to Shutikov and was devoted to him like a faithful dog. Of course, he did not dare to express his affection openly, in front of everyone, feeling, probably, that the friendship of such an outcast would humiliate Shutikov in the eyes of others. He never spoke to Shutikov in front of others, but he often looked at him as at some special creature in front of whom he, Proshka, was the last trash. And he was proud of his patron, taking to heart everything that touches him. He admired, looking from below, how Shutikov quietly steers on the yard, froze with pleasure, listening to his singing, and in general found unusually good everything that Shutikov did. Sometimes during the day, but more often during night watches, noticing Shutikov alone, Proshka came up and stomped around.
- What are you doing, Prokhor? - Shutikov would ask, sometimes affably.
- Oh nothing! - Proshka will answer.
- Where are you going?
- And to my place ... I’m just so! - Proshka will say, as if apologizing for bothering Shutikov, and will leave.
With all his might, Proshka tried to please Shutikov with something: he would either offer him to wash his clothes, then fix his wardrobe, and often left embarrassed, receiving a refusal of services. Once Proshka brought a smartly crafted sailor's shirt with a Dutch front and, somewhat agitated, gave it to Shutikov.
- Well done, Zhitin ... Important, brother, work! - Shutikov remarked approvingly after a detailed examination and held out his hand, returning the shirt.
- This is me for you, Yegor Mitrich ... Respect ... Wear it to your health.
Shutikov began to refuse, but Proshka was so upset and so asked to respect him that Shutikov finally accepted the gift.
Proshka was delighted.
And Proshka became less lazy, working without his former slyness. They began to beat him less often, but the attitude towards him remained disdainful, and Proshka was often teased, making fun of this bullying.
Particularly fond of teasing him was one of the second-hand, bullying, but cowardly young sailor Ivanov. Once, once, wishing to amuse the assembled circle, he pestered Proshka with his mockery. Proshka, as usual, kept silent, and Ivanov became more and more importunate and ruthless in his jokes.
Shutikov, who happened to be passing by, saw Proshka being hounded, stood up.
- This, Ivanov, not that ... it is not good ... That you stuck to a person, exactly tar.
- Proshka is not touchy with us! - Ivanov answered with a laugh. - Come on, Proshenka, tell me how you dragged shilniki at the priest's place and wore mumzels afterwards ... Don't wander about ... Tell me, Proshenka! - sneered at the general amusement Ivanov.
- Don't touch, I say, the person ... - Shutikov repeated sternly.
Everyone was surprised that for Proshka, for the bum and the thief Proshka, Shutikov stood up so ardently.
- What are you doing? Ivanov snapped suddenly.
- I’m nothing, but you don’t swagger ... Look, too, found someone to swagger over.
