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Evgeniy Nosov

Doll (collection)

© Nosov E.I., heir, 2015

© Design. Eksmo Publishing House LLC, 2015

Kingfisher

Every fisherman has a favorite spot on the river. Here he builds a bait for himself. He hammers stakes into the bottom of the river near the bank in a semicircle, entwines them with vines, and fills the void inside with earth. It turns out something like a small peninsula. Especially when the fisherman covers the bait with green turf, and the hammered stakes send out young shoots.

Right there, three or four steps away, on the shore they build a shelter from the rain - a hut or dugout. Others make their own home with bunks, a small window, and a kerosene lantern under the ceiling. This is where fishermen spend their holidays.

This summer I did not build myself a camp, but used an old, well-lived one, which a friend gave to me for the duration of his vacation. We spent the night fishing together. And the next morning my friend began to get ready for the train. As he packed his backpack, he gave me his final instructions:

– Don’t forget about complementary feeding. If you don't feed the fish, it will leave. That’s why they call it bait because they attach fish to it. At dawn, add some buttermilk. I have it in a bag above my bunk. You will find kerosene for a lantern in the cellar behind the hut. I took the milk from the miller. Here's the key to the boat. Well, it seems that's it. No tail, no scales!

He threw his backpack over his shoulders, straightened his cap that had been knocked down by the strap, and suddenly took me by the sleeve:

- Yes, I almost forgot. There is a kingfisher living next door. His nest is in the cliff, under that bush. So you, then... Don’t offend. While I was fishing, he got used to me. He became so bold that he began to sit on fishing rods. We lived together. And you yourself understand: it’s a bit boring here alone. And he will be your faithful fishing partner. We've been dating him for the third season now.

I warmly shook my friend's hand and promised to continue my friendship with the kingfisher.

“What is he like, kingfisher? – I thought when my friend was already far away. “How do I recognize him?” I once read about this bird, but I didn’t remember the description, and I never saw it alive. I didn’t think to ask my friend what she looked like.

But soon she showed up herself. I was sitting by the hut. The morning bite is over. The floats stood motionless white among the dark green burdocks of water lilies. Sometimes the frenzied malva would touch the floats, they would tremble and make me wary. But soon I realized what was going on and completely stopped watching the fishing rods. The sultry afternoon was approaching - a time of rest for both fish and anglers.

Suddenly, a large bright butterfly flashed over the coastal thickets of sedge, flapping its wings frequently. At the same instant, the butterfly landed on my outermost rod, folded its wings and turned out to be... a bird. The thin tip of the rod swung beneath her, tossing the bird up and down, causing it to flinch its wings and spread its tail. And exactly the same bird, reflected in the water, then flew towards, then again fell into the blue of the overturned sky.

I hid and began to look at the stranger. She was amazingly beautiful. An olive-orange breast, dark wings with light speckles and a bright, heavenly-colored back, so bright that during the flight it shone in exactly the same way as emerald-blue satin shimmers on its curves. It is not surprising that I mistook the bird for an outlandish butterfly.

But the lush outfit did not suit her face. There was something mournful and sad in her appearance. The fishing rod stopped swinging. The bird froze on her, a motionless lump. She chillily pulled her head into her shoulders and lowered her long beak onto her crop. The short tail, barely protruding from under the wings, also gave her a kind of lonely appearance. No matter how much I watched her, she never moved, did not make a single sound. And she looked and looked at the dark waters of the river flowing beneath her. It seemed that she had dropped something to the bottom and now, saddened, she was flying over the river and looking for her loss.

And I began to formulate a fairy tale about a beautiful princess. About how the evil Baba Yaga bewitched her and turned her into a kingfisher bird. The bird's clothes remained royal: made of gold brocade and blue satin. And the bird princess is sad because Baba Yaga threw into the river the silver key that unlocks the forged chest. In the chest at the very bottom there is a magic word. Having mastered this word, the bird princess will again become a girl princess. So she flies over the river, sad and mournful, searching and unable to find the treasured key.

My princess sat and sat on the fishing rod, squeaked thinly, as if she had sobbed, and flew along the shore, often flapping her wings.

Doll (collection) Evgeniy Nosov

(estimates: 1 , average: 5,00 out of 5)

Title: Doll (collection)
Author: Evgeny Nosov
Year: 2015
Genre: Children's prose, 20th century literature, Stories, Soviet literature

About the book “Doll (collection)” Evgeny Nosov

Here is a book from the “Classics at School” series, which contains all the works studied in elementary school, middle and high school. Don’t waste time searching for literary works, because these books contain everything you need to read for the school curriculum: both for reading in class and for extracurricular assignments. Save your child from lengthy searches and unfinished lessons.

The book includes stories by E. Nosov, which are studied in the 7th grade.

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Quotes from the book “Doll (collection)” Evgeny Nosov

It's hard to think of anyone these days. Many have become accustomed to bad things and do not see how they themselves are doing bad things.

How so?! What will you teach, what beauty, what goodness, if you are blind, your soul is deaf!.. Eh!

Every fisherman has a favorite spot on the river. Here he builds a bait for himself. He hammers stakes into the bottom of the river near the bank in a semicircle, entwines them with vines, and fills the void inside with earth. It turns out something like a small peninsula. Especially when the fisherman covers the bait with green turf, and the hammered stakes send out young shoots.
Right there, three or four steps away, on the shore they build a shelter from the rain - a hut or dugout. Others make their own home with bunks, a small window, and a kerosene lantern under the ceiling. This is where fishermen spend their holidays.
This summer I did not build myself a camp, but used an old, well-lived one, which a friend gave to me for the duration of his vacation. We spent the night fishing together. And the next morning my friend began to get ready for the train. As he packed his backpack, he gave me his final instructions:
– Don’t forget about complementary feeding. If you don't feed the fish, it will leave. That’s why they call it bait because they attach fish to it. At dawn, add some buttermilk. I have it in a bag above my bunk. You will find kerosene for a lantern in the cellar behind the hut. I took the milk from the miller. Here's the key to the boat. Well, it seems that's it. No tail, no scales!
He threw his backpack over his shoulders, straightened his cap that had been knocked down by the strap, and suddenly took me by the sleeve:
- Yes, I almost forgot. There is a kingfisher living next door. His nest is in the cliff, under that bush. So you, then... Don’t offend. While I was fishing, he got used to me. He became so bold that he began to sit on fishing rods. We lived together. And you yourself understand: it’s a bit boring here alone. And he will be your faithful fishing partner. We've been dating him for the third season now.
I warmly shook my friend's hand and promised to continue my friendship with the kingfisher.
“What is he like, kingfisher? – I thought when my friend was already far away. “How do I recognize him?” I once read about this bird, but I didn’t remember the description, and I never saw it alive. I didn’t think to ask my friend what she looked like.

Now I rarely go to those places: it’s drifted, it’s drawn in, it’s silted, and the last Seim pools have been filled with sand.

They say that rivers used to be deeper...

Why go far into history? Not so long ago, I liked to visit near Lipino, about twenty-five versts from home. Just opposite the ancient headless mound, over which kites always hovered on hot days, there was one treasured pit. At this point, the river, having rested against the indestructible Devonian clay, turns so violently that it begins to spin the entire pool, creating a reverse circular flow. They circle here for hours, unable to escape into the free water: wood chips, algae, bottles sticking upside down, fragments of the ubiquitous polystyrene foam, and day and night the scary funnels purr, gurgle and sob, which even geese avoid. Well, at night the pool is not at all at ease, when suddenly the washed-out bank collapses loudly and heavily, or the seasoned owner, the catfish, who has risen from the hole, slashes through the water with a flat tail, like a board.
Once I found the ferryman Akimych near his hut doing secret fishing. Having adjusted his glasses to his nose, he concentratedly tore out the golden cord from a piece of the drive belt - he was planning a change. And he kept lamenting: he didn’t have suitable hooks.

I rummaged through my supplies, selected the most dashing ones, bent from blued two-millimeter wire, which I had once acquired just for the sake of exoticism, and poured them into Akimychev’s cap. He took one with naughty, stiff fingers, twirled it in front of his glasses and looked at me mockingly, squinting one eye:

And I thought it was really a hook. You'll have to order it from the forge. And take these out of laughter.

I don’t know if Akimych caught the owner of Lipina Yama, because then for various reasons I had a break, I didn’t go to those places. Only a few years later I finally had a chance to visit my old neighbors.

I went and didn’t recognize the river.

The channel narrowed, became grassy, ​​the clean sands at the bends were covered with cocklebur and tough butterbur, and many unfamiliar shoals and spits appeared. There are no more deep rapids, where previously cast, bronzed ides drilled the river surface at dawn. It happened that you were preparing the tackle for wiring, but your fingers just couldn’t get the line into the ring - such a thrill of excitement came over you at the sight of steep, silently diverging circles...

Nowadays, all this cankerous expanse is bristling with clumps and peaks of arrowleaf, and everywhere, where there are still no grasses, there is a black bottom mud, grown rich from the excess of fertilizers carried by rains from the fields.

“Well,” I think, “nothing happened to Lipa’s pit. What can happen to such an abyss! I come up and can’t believe my eyes: where there was once a terrible twist and whirlpool, a dirty gray small thing stuck out with its hump, looking like a large dead fish, and on that small thing - an old gander. He stood so casually, on one paw, preening himself, using his beak to expel fleas from under his protruding wing. And the fool didn’t realize that just recently there was six or seven meters of black seething depth beneath him, which he himself, leading the brood, fearfully swam around to the side.

Looking at the overgrown river, barely oozing with subdued water, Akimych sadly waved it off:

And don’t even unwind the fishing rods! Dont spoil spirit. There is no business, Ivanovich, there is no business!

Soon Akimych himself was no longer in the Seimas, his ancient river transportation was gone...

On the shore, in a reed hut, I had the opportunity to while away summer nights more than once. Then it turned out that Akimych and I, it turns out, fought in the same Gorbatov’s third army, participated in “Bagration”, together liquidated the Bobruisk and then the Minsk cauldrons, took the same Belarusian and Polish cities. And they even dropped out of the war in the same month. True, we ended up in different hospitals: I ended up in Serpukhov, and he ended up in Uglich.

Akimych was wounded bloodlessly, but seriously: he was knocked down in a trench by a long-range landmine and concussed so that even now, decades later, having become agitated, he suddenly lost the power of speech, his tongue seemed to be tightly jammed, and Akimych, turning pale, fell silent, looking painfully, wide-eyed at his interlocutor and helplessly stretching out his lips like a tube.

This lasted for several minutes, after which he sighed deeply, noisily, raising his sharp, thin shoulders, and cold sweat fell on his face, exhausted by muteness and petrification.

“Has he already died?” - I felt an uneasy feeling when I came across the charred remains of Akimychev’s hut.

But no! Last fall, I was walking through the village, past the brand new white-brick school, which had so nicely occupied the green hillock above the Seim, and I looked and saw Akimych coming towards me! He hurriedly clucks his kirzachs, his cap, his padded jacket, with a shovel on his shoulder.

Hello, dear friend! - I spread my arms, blocking his path.

Akimych, pale, with painfully stiff lips, did not seem to recognize me at all. Apparently, something set him off and, as always in such cases, he was tightly jammed.

Where have you gone? Not visible on the river. Akimych pursed his lips, trying to say something.

I see your hut has been burned.

Instead of answering, he twirled his index finger at his temple, saying that it doesn’t take much intelligence.

So where are you now, I don’t understand?

Still not coming to his senses, Akimych nodded his head towards the school.

It's clear now. You look after and garden. Where with the shovel?

Ahh! - he burst out, and he shrugged his shoulder in annoyance, trying to go.

We walked past the school fence along a road lined with old willows, already covered in autumn gilding. In nature it was still sunny, warm and even festive, as sometimes happens at the beginning of a fine October, when the last chicory stars are blooming and black-velvet bumblebees are still rummaging through the belated caps of the tartar. And the air is already sharp and strong and the distances are clear and open to infinity.

Directly from the school fence, or rather, from the road passing by it, a river meadow began, still green like summer, with white splashes of yarrow, goose feathers and some meadow mushrooms. And only near the roadside willows was the meadow strewn with a fallen leaf, narrow and long, similar to our Seimas apex fish. And from behind the fence came the smell of damp, dug up earth and intoxicating apple juice. Somewhere there, behind the young apple trees, probably on the sports ground, the sharp slaps of a volleyball were heard, sometimes accompanied by bursts of triumphant, approving childish cries, and these young voices under a cloudless rural afternoon also created a feeling of festivity and the joy of being.

All this time, Akimych walked ahead of me silently and quickly, only when we passed the corner of the fence, he stopped and said in a choked voice:

Look...

There was a doll lying in a dirty roadside ditch. She was lying on her back, arms and legs spread out. Large and still pretty in face, with a light, barely defined smile on her childishly swollen lips. But the blond, silky hair on his head was burned in places, his eyes were gouged out, and where his nose had been, there was a hole that must have been burned by a cigarette. Someone tore off her dress and pulled off her blue panties right down to her shoes, and the place that had previously been covered by them was also covered with a cigarette.

Whose job is this?

Who knows... - Akimych did not immediately answer, still looking sadly at the doll, at which someone had mocked so cynically and cruelly. - Nowadays it’s hard to think about anyone. Many have become accustomed to bad things and do not see how they themselves are doing bad things. And the children get it from them. This is not the first time this has happened with the doll. I go to the district and to the region and see: here and there - whether under a fence, in a garbage heap - discarded dolls are lying around. Who are completely erect, in a dress, with a bow in their hair, and sometimes without a head or without both legs... It’s so bad for me to see this! I’ve seen enough human flesh for the rest of my life... It’s like you understand: a doll. But the appearance is human. They will do such a thing that you won’t be able to tell them apart from a living child. And he cries like a human. And when this likeness lies torn to pieces by the road, I cannot see. Beats me all over. And people walk by - each on their own business - and nothing. Couples pass, hold hands, talk about love, dream about children. They carry babies in strollers - they don’t raise an eyebrow. The kids run around and get used to such sacrilege. Here it is: how many students passed by! In the morning - to school, in the evening - from school. And most importantly, the teachers: they also pass by. That's what I don't understand! How so?! What will you teach, what beauty, what goodness, if you are blind, your soul is deaf!.. Eh!

Akimych suddenly turned pale, his face tensed with that terrible fossilization of him, and his lips naturally elongated into a tube, as if something unspoken was stuck and frozen in them.

I already knew that Akimych was “jammed” again and would not speak soon.

He stooped and bent over stepped over the ditch and there, in a vacant lot, around the bend of the school fence, near a large burdock tree with leaves like elephant ears, he began to dig a hole, having previously outlined its oblong contours with a shovel. The doll was no more than a meter tall, but Akimych dug diligently and deeply, like a real grave, burying himself to the waist. Having leveled the wall, he still silently and detachedly went to the haystack in the pasture, brought an armful of hay and lined the bottom of the pit with it. Then he straightened the doll’s panties, folded her arms along her body and lowered her into the damp depths of the hole. I covered it on top with the remains of the hay and only after that I took up the shovel again.

And suddenly he sighed noisily, as if he had emerged from some depth, and said with pain:

You can’t bury everything...

The narrator describes the once powerful river: “...And day and night, scary funnels purr, gurgle and sob, which even geese avoid. Well, at night the pool is not at all at ease, when suddenly the washed-out bank collapses loudly, heavily, or the seasoned owner-catfish, rising from the hole, slashes through the water with a flat tail, like a board.”

But several years have passed. “The channel narrowed, became grassy, ​​the clean sands at the bends were covered with cocklebur and tough butterbur, many unfamiliar shoals and spits appeared. There are no more deep rapids, where before at the evening dawn cast, bronzed ides drilled the surface of the river... Now all this ulcerous expanse is bristling with clumps and peaks of arrowleaf, and everywhere, where there are still no grasses, the black bottom mud rushes, grown rich from excess fertilizers carried by rain from the fields. Where there was once a whirlpool and a whirlpool, a dirty gray broom sticks out with its hump, looking like a large dead fish. Looking at the overgrown river, barely oozing with subdued water, Akimych sadly waved it off:

- And don’t even unwind the fishing rods! Don’t poison your soul...” Who is Akimych?

“Akimych and I... fought in the same Gorbatov’s third army, participated in “Bagration”, together liquidated the Bobruisk and then the Minsk cauldrons, took the same Belarusian and Polish cities...

Akimych was wounded bloodlessly, but seriously: he was knocked down in a trench by a long-range landmine and concussed so that even now, decades later, having become agitated, he suddenly lost the power of speech, his tongue seemed to be tightly jammed, and Akimych, turning pale, fell silent, looking painfully, wide-eyed at his interlocutor and helplessly stretching out his lips like a straw.”

One day, having met him, the narrator noticed signs of extraordinary excitement. What's happened?

Akimych nodded his head towards the school.

“There was a doll lying in a dirty roadside ditch. She was lying on her back, arms and legs spread out. Large and still pretty in face, with a light, barely defined smile on her childishly swollen lips. But the blond, silky hair on his head was burned in places, his eyes were gouged out, and where his nose had been, there was a hole that must have been burned by a cigarette. Someone tore off her dress, and pulled off her blue panties right down to her shoes, and the place that had previously been covered by them was also riddled with a cigarette.”

Akimych looks sadly at the doll that someone so cynically and cruelly mocked.

“Many have become accustomed to bad things and don’t see how they themselves are doing bad things.” And the children get it from them. This is not the first time this has happened with a doll... I'm driving... and I see: here and there - whether under a fence, in a garbage heap - discarded dolls are lying around. Who are completely straight, in a dress, with a bow in their hair, and sometimes - without a head or without both legs. I feel so bad seeing this! My heart is already squeezing like a lump... It’s pounding all over me. And people walk by - each on their own business, and nothing. Couples pass, hold hands, talk about love, dream about children. They carry babies in strollers - they don’t raise an eyebrow. The kids run around and get used to such sacrilege... How can this be?! What will you teach, what beauty, what goodness, if you are blind, your soul is deaf!.. Eh...”

Akimych carries the doll to bury it. After all, this is the likeness of a person.

“He stooped and bent over stepped over the ditch and there, in a vacant lot, around the bend of the school fence, near a large burdock tree with leaves like elephant ears, he began to dig a hole, having previously outlined its oblong contours. The doll was no more than a meter tall, but Akimych dug diligently and deeply, like a real grave, burying himself to the waist.

Having leveled the wall, he still silently and detachedly went to the haystack in the pasture, brought an armful of hay and lined the bottom of the pit with it. Then he straightened the doll’s panties, folded her arms along her body and lowered her into the damp depths of the hole. He covered the top with the rest of the hay and only then took up the shovel again. And suddenly he sighed noisily... and said with pain:

“You can’t bury everything...”

Unfortunately, people do not always understand the true value of what surrounds them. This may concern not only things, but, more importantly, nature or even themselves. Writer Evgeny Nosov thought about human indifference, which painfully wounded his heart. And in many of the stories from this collection you can see how much he experiences this. One of the works in which he raises this topic is the story “Doll”. Everything here is symbolic: every word, every image.

The narrator remembers his native land, about nature, about all its wealth that once pleased the eye. And he regrets that now all this is no longer there, the rivers are becoming shallower, the fish are disappearing, and all of nature is being depleted, as if the colors are gradually fading. He talks about Akimych, his friend. One day he met him very upset, and he showed him a doll that was lying on the side of the road. She was mutilated and abandoned, and most people didn't see anything wrong with it. After all, it's just a toy. But Akimych thought differently.

The story clearly shows the theme of man's indifference to nature and to his own kind. A doll is a copy of a person; if a person cannot treat a toy so cruelly, then he will be kind to people. And if people allow themselves to treat something that represents them in such a way, then they are not far from real cruelty towards their neighbor. When you read this story, you understand how subtle the identification of man and doll is here, and it becomes painful from the awareness of human indifference. After all, people can pass by someone who needs help and not even think about it.

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