Read the proposed text from Astafiev’s work “The Fish Tsar”, think about its meaning.
The writer addresses important problems of human existence - the mutual connection between man and nature. In the depicted tragic situation, Astafiev is looking for the key to explaining the moral virtues and moral vices of an individual; through the attitude to nature, the spiritual value and consistency of this individual is tested.
What artistic means Does the writer convey his attitude towards the natural world?
The genre of "The King of Fish" is "narration in stories." One of the leading artistic means of conveying one’s attitude towards the natural world is the use of associations between man and nature. In all the stories in the cycle, the author sees man through nature, and nature through man. To do this, a wide variety of metaphors and comparisons are used. Here is one of these comparisons: “Both the fish and the man grew weaker and bled. Human blood does not coagulate well. cold water. What kind of blood does a fish have? Also red. Fishy. Cold. And there is little of it in fish. Why does she need blood? She lives in the water. She has no need to warm up. It is he, the man, who needs warmth; he lives on earth. So why did their paths cross? The king of the river and the king of all nature - in one trap, in the cold autumn water."
Astafiev considers the relationship between man and nature as related, the relationship between mother and child, and thereby achieves the idea of unity, the understanding that man is a part, a child of nature. At critical moments, nature helps a person to realize his sins, even very old ones. Even when the most careful and decent of the poachers, Ignatyich, was pulled into the water by a giant fish and turned into a prisoner of his own prey, he remembers his past crimes and perceives what happened to him as punishment: “The hour of the cross has struck, it’s time to account for your sins...”
Analyze Ignatyich's thoughts. What does he regret and why?
At the moment of being between life and death, Ignatyich thinks about what he has lived, analyzes it, and most acutely feels the loss of spirituality that occurred due to the constant pursuit of profit. Because of her, “man was forgotten in man! Greed overwhelmed him!” Ignatyich thinks bitterly about a childhood that never happened. During class I thought about fishing. I spent only four painful winters at school, Ignatyich regrets that after school he didn’t even look at the library and didn’t take care of his children. They wanted to nominate him as a deputy, but they rejected him, because he fishes quietly, all the time in pursuit of profit. They didn’t save a beautiful girl from bandits because they were out fishing themselves. His conscience became sharper at a critical moment, when he found himself on the brink of an abyss.
Why did Ignatyich’s soul feel better when the king fish was freed? Why does he promise not to tell anyone anything about her?
It’s easier because death has retreated. The body felt better because it was no longer being pulled down. “And the soul - from some kind of liberation not yet comprehended by the mind.” Perhaps there was hope to fix something in your life. Perhaps Ignatyich was glad that this magical king-fish remained alive, seriously wounded, but furious and untamed.
It was a cruel, but instructive meeting for Ignatyich with one of the greatest secrets of nature. And he decided not to tell anyone about the king fish, so as not to arouse the interest of poachers in it. "Live as long as you can!"
The author's narration in this passage often merges with the thoughts of the hero, Ignatyich. Sometimes it is difficult to separate the words of Astafiev himself from the reflections of the hero who is gaining insight, realizing the meaning of life and responsibility for what he has done. The ability to capture and convey the subtlest shades of the movements of nature is amazing (“Silence! Such silence that you can hear your own soul, huddled into a ball”). Sometimes the story takes on a fantastic character. It should also be noted in the narrative the presence of elements colloquial speech, dialogic structure in the internal monologues of the author and his hero.
- Read the proposed text from Astafiev’s work “The Fish Tsar”, think about its meaning.
- By what artistic means does the writer convey his attitude towards the natural world?
- Analyze Ignatyich's thoughts. What does he regret and why?
- Why did Ignatyich’s soul feel better when the king fish was freed? Why does he promise not to tell anyone anything about her?
- What features of the author's narrative did you notice?
The writer addresses important problems of human existence - the mutual connection between man and nature. In the depicted tragic situation, Astafiev is looking for the key to explaining the moral virtues and moral vices of a person; through the attitude to nature, the spiritual value and consistency of this person is checked.
The genre of “The King of Fishes” is “narration within stories.” One of the leading artistic means of conveying one’s attitude towards the natural world is the use of associations between man and nature. In all the stories in the cycle, the author sees man through nature, and nature through man. To do this, a wide variety of metaphors and comparisons are used. Here is one of these comparisons: “Both the fish and the man grew weaker and bled. Human blood does not clot well in cold water. What kind of blood does a fish have? It's the same red. Fishy. Cold. And there is little of it in fish. Why does she need blood? She lives in Vo-de. She has no need to warm up. It is he, the man, who needs warmth, he lives on earth. So why did their paths cross? The king of the river and the king of all nature - in one trap, in the cold autumn water.”
Astafiev considers the relationship between man and nature as related, the relationship between mother and child, and thereby achieves the idea of unity, the understanding that man is a part, a child of nature. At critical moments, nature helps a person to realize his sins, even very old ones. Even when the most careful and decent of the poachers, Ignatich, was pulled into the water by a giant fish and turned into a prisoner of his own prey, he remembers his past crimes and perceives what happened to him as punishment: “The hour of the cross has struck , it’s time to account for your sins..."
At the moment of being between life and death, Ignatyich thinks about what he has lived, analyzes it, and most acutely feels the loss of spirituality that occurred due to the constant pursuit of profit. Because of her, “the human being was forgotten!” He was overwhelmed by greed!” Ignatyich thinks bitterly about a childhood that never happened. During class I thought about fishing. I spent only four painful winters at school, Ignatyich regrets that after school he didn’t even look at the library and didn’t take care of his children. They wanted to nominate him as deputy, but they rejected him because he fishes quietly, all the time in pursuit of profit. They didn’t save a beautiful girl from bandits because they were out fishing themselves. His conscience became sharper at a critical moment, when he found himself on the brink of an abyss.
It’s easier because death has retreated. Te-lu felt better because he was no longer being pulled down. “And the soul - from some kind of liberation that has not yet been comprehended by the mind.” Perhaps there was hope to fix something in your life. Perhaps Ignatich was glad that this magical king-fish remained alive, seriously wounded, but furious and untamed. Material from the site
It was a cruel, but instructive meeting for Ignatyich with one of the greatest secrets of nature. And he decided not to tell anyone about the king fish, so as not to arouse the interest of poachers in it. “Live as long as you can!”
The author's narration in this passage often merges with the thoughts of the hero, Ignatyich. Sometimes it is difficult to separate the words of Astafiev himself from the reflections of the maturing hero, aware of the meaning of life and responsibility for what he has done. The ability to capture and convey the subtlest shades of the movements of nature is amazing (“Quiet! Such silence that you can hear your own soul, huddled into a ball”). Sometimes the story takes on a fairy-tale character. It should also be noted in the narrative the presence of elements of colloquial speech, a dialogical structure in the internal monologues of the author and his hero.
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Viktor Petrovich Astafiev
(1924–2001)
And since it fell to the lot of native literature to replace the church, to become the spiritual support of the people, it had to rise to this holy mission. And she got up!
V. P. Astafiev
The main idea of V.P. Astafiev’s works is human responsibility for everything that is on Earth. The writer proclaims the ethical values inherent in people's life. Among his works are “Starodub”, “Theft”, “War is thundering somewhere”, “Last bow”, “The Shepherd and the Shepherdess”, “The Sad Detective”, “Living Life”, “The King Fish”, “Cursed and killed."
"Tsar Fish" turned out to be one of the most profound works of Russian prose of the 70s. The author-narrator, observing the so-called ecological robbery, came to the conclusion that two types of people now predominate: poachers (reborn descendants of peasants) and “tourists in life” (such as Goga Hertsev). The author ends his story with a quote from the Book of Ecclesiastes: “For everything there is an hour and a time for every task under heaven.” There is a world-historical necessity and inevitability in the destruction of nature. Throughout the post-war period, people have not slowed down the pace of logging, despite the warning of scientists: if this pace is maintained in the future, then the last tree on earth will be felled in seventy years. In the Book of Ecclesiastes there are also these words: “What good does it profit a living man if he gains the whole world, but loses his own soul? What ransom will a mortal then give for his soul?”
There is a bitter truth in the words “there is no answer for me” that ends the story: the process of devastation of the Earth has no national, human dimension. In this book, Astafiev shows interest not in the act, but in the processes of cognition of the world, not in the event, but in its philosophical explanation. All storylines“The King of Fishes” is subordinated to the author’s journalistically passionate study of the contradictions of life. “I wrote about what was personal and intimate for me, but it turned out that my anxiety was shared by many, many...” Free composition, looseness of plot, the form of a parable - these are the features of V. Astafiev’s narrative.
In the village of Chush they called him politely and slightly ingratiatingly - Ignatyich. He was the elder brother of the Commander and treated both his brother and all the other Chushans with a certain degree of condescension and superiority, which, however, he did not show, he did not turn back from people, on the contrary, he was attentive to everyone, came to the aid of anyone if such was required, and, of course, he did not become like his brother when dividing up the spoils, he did not pick for money.<…>
In the icy autumn haze, Ignatyich went out to the Yenisei and hung on the planes. Before lying down in the pits, numb in the long winter slumber, the red fish greedily fed on the pupated jig, twirled around the underwater stone ridges, satedly played with the corks and hung thickly on the hooks.
Ignatyich took about seventy sterlets from the first two samolov, and hurried to the third, which was better and had the best catch of all. Apparently, he hit them right under the hag, and this is given only to masters of the highest standard, so as not to throw it into the ridge - the plane will hang and not swim far - the fish will pass the plane. Flair, experience, dexterity and a sniper's eye are required. The eye becomes sharper, the sense of smell does not sharpen on its own, from an early age become familiar with water, stand on the river, get wet and then rummage around in it, as in your closet...
Ignatyich arrived at the third end in the dark, a landmark on the shore - a poppy-cut fir tree, so clearly visible with a dark bell even on liquid snow, rested against low clouds, brainy air covered the shore, the ground, the river, gleaming tinny and raggedly in the night, broke and concealed the distance. The fisherman swam in five times and pulled the cat along the bottom of the river, he lost a lot of time, seemed to be frozen to the very bones, but he just hooked it, lifted the plane, and immediately felt that there was a large fish on it!
He did not remove the sterlet from the hooks, but the sterlet, the sterlet!.. A sterlet was seething, bent into a roll, on almost every hook - and all alive. Some fish unhooked, went away, some immediately went deeper, some were shot and splashed into the water, pecked the side of the boat with the tip of their nose - these had a damaged spinal cord, the ellipse was pierced, this fish was finished: with a damaged spine, with a pierced air bladder, with torn gills does not live. Burbot is a strong beast, but as soon as it runs into illegal fish, the spirit is out of it and the guts are on the phone.
A heavy, large fish was walking, striking the string rarely, confidently, not pushing in vain, not poking back and forth in panic. She pressed deeper, led to the side, and the higher Ignatyich raised her, the heavier she became, the more stable she rested. It’s good, even if you didn’t make any sharp jerks, then the hooks click on the side, the matches break, beware, don’t be lazy, fisherman, the hook will bite the meat or clothes. And okay, the hook will break off or you will have time to grab the side and peel off the nylon elbow with a knife, which is attached to the backbone of the fishing rod, otherwise...
The unenviable, risky lot of a poacher: take a fish, but at the same time fear the fisheries inspection more than death - it will sneak up in the darkness, grab it - you will get a shame, you will not consider the loss, if you resist, you will go to prison. You live on your native river Tatem and have trained yourself to such an extent that it would be like some kind of unknown, additional organ in a person - here he is leading a fish, dangling on the fishing end, and he is completely absorbed in this work, captured by excitement, his aspirations are to take the fish, and only! Eyes, ears, mind, heart - everything in him is directed towards this goal, every nerve is pulled out into a thread, through the hands, through the tips of the fingers the fisherman is soldered to the bowstring of the airplane, but something or someone is there, above the stomach, in the left half breast lives its own separate life, like a fireman, on vigilant duty around the clock. Ignatyich fights with the fish, guides the prey to the boat, and it, in its chest, moves its ear, probes the darkness with its wide-awake eye. In the distance, a light flashed like a spark, and it was already fluttering and quickening: what ship? What is the danger from him? Should I unhook from the fishing rod and let the fish go deeper? But she is alive, healthy, and can contrive and leave.
Everything in the person is tense, the heartbeats are thinning, the hearing is strained to the point of ringing, the eye is trying to be stronger than the darkness, it is about to shock the body, the red light is blinking, like in a fire: “Danger! Danger! We're on fire! We're on fire!"
It's gone! A cargo self-propelled gun, grunting like a breeding poros from the Rumbling pig farm, passed through the middle of the river.<…>
At that moment the fish reminded, announced itself, went to the side, the hooks clicked on the iron, and blue sparks shot out from the side of the boat. Ignatyich retreated to the side, setting off the planes, immediately forgetting about the beautiful boat, without ceasing, however, to listen to the night that closed around him. Reminding itself, as if doing a warm-up before the fight, the fish calmed down, stopped wilding and just pressed, pressed down into the depths, with dull, unshakable stubbornness. By all the habits of the fish, by the weight of this blind pressure into the darkness of the depths, a sturgeon was guessed on the plane, large, but already killed. Behind the stern, the heavy body of the fish seethed, spun around, rebelled, scattering the water like rags of burnt, black rags. Pulling the backbone of the samolov tightly, the fish did not go deeper, but went forward, towards the guard, lashing the water and the boat with torn knees, plugs, hooks, dragging crumpled sterlets in a heap, shaking them off the samolov. “I've had enough of the air. I’m getting carried away!” - Ignatyich thought, instantly picking up the slack of the fishing rod, and then he saw a fish near the side of the boat. I saw and was taken aback: a black, varnish-gleaming bag with branches broken off at angles; steep sides, strongly marked by the sharp shells of the cloaks, as if the fish were surrounded by a chainsaw chain from gills to tail. The skin, which was crushed by water, tickled by threads of streams spinning along the cloaks and curling far behind the steeply curved tail, only looked wet and smooth, but in fact it was exactly like crushed glass mixed with wood. There was something primitive and rare not only in the size of the fish, but also in the shape of its body, from the soft, lifeless, worm-like whiskers hanging under the evenly planed head at the bottom, to the webbed, winged tail - the fish looked like a prehistoric lizard, which is shown in the picture in my son’s zoology textbook.
The current on the guard is vortex and ragged. The boat was moving, being pulled from side to side, being tossed around in streams, and one could hear the sturgeon’s cloaks, rounded with water, grinding against the metal of the prowling duralumin. The summer sturgeon is not even called a sturgeon, it’s just a bonfire, after that it’s called a karysh or a pan, it looks like an oddly splayed cone or on a spindle with spines sticking out. There is no appearance, no taste in the fire and no predator can eat it - it will tear open the fire and pierce the womb. And here you go! - from a sharp-nosed thorn this kind of hog grows! And what kind of food are you on? On jigs, on boogers and bindweeds! Well, isn’t it a mystery of nature?!
Somewhere very close, a corncrake quacked. Ignatyich strained his ears – did he sound like he was quacking on the water? The corncrake is a long-legged, running, land-dwelling bird and must escape to the warmer side before the deadline. But come on, he quacks! On close hearing, it seems like underfoot. “Are my pants quacking?!” Ignatyich wanted playful, even somewhat ironic little things to relieve the tension from him, to get him out of his tetanus. But the light mood that he desired did not visit him, and there was no excitement, that wild excitement, burning, all-consuming passion from which the bone howls and the mind goes blind. On the contrary, it seemed to be washed with warm, sour cabbage soup there, on the left, where it, the watchful ear, was on duty.
The fish, and it was its gristly mouth that creaked like a crake, spitting out air; the long-awaited, rare fish seemed ominous to Ignatyich. “What am I? – the fisherman was amazed. “I’m not afraid of God or the devil, I only revere the dark force... So, maybe that’s the point?” - Ignatyich grabbed the bowstring of the samolov by the iron rowlock, took out a flashlight, stealthily, from his sleeve, illuminated the fish from the tail. The round back of the sturgeon flashed over the water with sharp buttons, its curved tail worked tiredly, warily, as if sharpening a crooked Tatar saber on the stone blackness of the night. From the water, from under the bone shell protecting the fish’s wide, sloping forehead, small eyes with a yellow rim around dark, buckshot-sized pupils were drilled into the man. They, these eyes, without eyelids, without eyelashes, naked, looking with serpentine coldness, were hiding something within themselves.
The sturgeon hung on six hooks. Ignatyich added another heel to him - the hog didn’t even flinch from the sharp pricks that cut through the rawhide-hard skin, he just crawled to the stern, scratching against the side of the boat, gaining acceleration to rush through the tightly gushing water into it, taking a bowstring to the tip to break the leashes Samolov, break all these tiny, insignificant, but so sharp and destructive pieces of iron.<…>
You can't miss out on this kind of prey. The King Fish comes across once in a lifetime, and even then not every Jacob.<…>
Ignatyich shuddered, accidentally uttering, albeit to himself, fatal words - he had heard too much about the king fish, he wanted, of course, to catch it, to see it, but, of course, he was timid. Grandfather used to say: it’s better to let her go, damn her, quietly, as if by accident, to cross herself and move on with her life, think about her again, look for her. But once the word comes out, that means so be it, that means taking the sturgeon by the gills, and the whole conversation! Obstacles have been torn apart, there is firmness in the head and in the heart - you never know what the early people weaved, all sorts of healers and the same grandfather, lived in the forest, prayed to the wheel...
“Ah, it was - it wasn’t!” - successfully, with all his might, Ignatyich slammed the butt of his ax into the forehead of the “tsar fish” and by the way it clicked loudly, and not dully, and boomed without recoil, he guessed that it had landed casually. It was not necessary to hit with a stupid blow, it was necessary to hit briefly, but more precisely. There was no time to repeat the blow, now everything was decided in moments. He grabbed the fish with a hook and almost threw it into the boat. Ready to let out a victorious scream, no, not a scream - he’s not a city idiot, he’s been a fisherman for centuries - just here, in the boat, hit the convex skull of the sturgeon one more time with the butt of his butt and laugh quietly, solemnly, victoriously. Another breath, effort – kick harder into the side, push harder. But the fish, dispersed in tetanus, turned sharply, hit the boat, thundered, and the river overboard exploded in a black rising heap of not water, no, but in clods. It burned, hit the fisherman on the head, pressed on his ears, and cut through his heart. “A-ah!” - burst out of his chest, as if in a genuine explosion, throwing him up and dropping him into a silent void: with his weakening mind he still managed to note - “so this is how it is, in war...”.
The insides, heated by the struggle, were stunned and squeezed with cold. Water! He took a sip of water! Sinking! Someone was dragging him by the leg into the depths. "On hook! Hooked! Gone!” - and felt a slight angle in the shin of the leg - the fish continued to fight, landing self-propelled hooks into itself and into the catcher. In Ignatich’s head, sadly and in agreement, completely in agreement, a sluggish resignation sounded, a flash of thought: “Then well... Then that’s it...” But the catcher was a strong, wiry man, a fish exhausted, tortured, and he managed to overcome not her, but first this one, submission in the soul, agreement with death, which is already death, turning the key to the gate to the next world, where, as is known, the locks for all sinners are turned in one direction: “It is useless to knock at the gates of heaven...”<…>
Both the fish and the man weakened and bled. Human blood does not clot easily in cold water. What kind of blood does a fish have? Also red. Fishy. Cold. And there’s not enough of it in fish. Why does she need blood? She lives in water. She has no need to warm up. It is he, the man, who needs warmth; he lives on earth. So why, why did their paths cross? The king of the river and the king of all nature - in one trap, in cold autumn water. The same painful death awaits them. The fish will suffer longer, it’s at home, and it doesn’t have enough intelligence to finish this bagpipe sooner. And he’s smart enough to let go of the side of the boat. That's all. The fish will push him deep, tremble, ooze with ouds, help him...
"How? What will it help with? Die? Go crazy? No! I won’t give in, I won’t give in!...” The catcher gripped the hard side of the boat tighter, rushed out of the water, tried to outwit the fish, with a surge of anger, he picked himself up in his arms and fell over the side of such a close, such a low boat! But the disturbed fish irritably slurped its mouth, twisted, moved its tail, and immediately several almost inaudible mosquito bites pinched the fisherman’s leg. “What is this!” - Ignatyich sobbed, sagging. The fish immediately calmed down, moved closer, sleepily poked itself not into its side, but under the armpit of the catcher, and because its breathing could not be heard, the water stirred faintly on it, he was secretly happy - the fish was falling asleep, it was about to tip over with its belly up! She was starved of air, she bled to death, and was exhausted in the fight with the man.
He fell silent and waited, feeling that he himself was falling into slumber. As if knowing that they were tied by one mortal end, the fish was in no hurry to separate from the catcher and from life. She worked with her gills, and the man seemed to hear the soothing creak of the dry ripples. The fish steered with its tail and wings, keeping itself and the man afloat. A haze of restful sleep rolled over her and the man, quieting their body and mind.
Beast and man in pestilence and fires, in all times of natural disasters, more than once or twice were left alone - a bear, a wolf, a lynx - chest to chest, eye to eye, sometimes waiting for death for many days and nights. Such passions and horrors were expressed about this, but for a man and a fish to become one and the same, cold, dull-browed, in the shell of cloaks, with yellow, waxy melting eyes, similar to the eyes of a non-beast, no - the beast has smart eyes, but those of a pig, it makes no sense - well-fed eyes - has something like this ever happened in the world?
Although everything and anything has happened in this world, not all people know it. So he, one of many people, will become exhausted, become numb, let go of the boat, go with the fish into the depths of the river, hang out there until the knees are unlocked. And the knees are made of nylon, they will last until winter! The fish will tear it to pieces, fish and loaches will suck it, various bugs will eat it, and water fleas will eat away the remains. And who will know where he is? How did it end? What kind of torment did you endure? Here is the old man Kuklin, about three years ago, somewhere here, near Oparikha, he sank into the water - and that was the end. The scrap was not found. Water! Element! In the water there are stone ridges, crevices, they will drag you, push you somewhere...<…>
- I don’t want to! I don't want to! – Ignatyich twitched, squealed and began to hit the fish in the head. - Leave! Leave! Ear-di-i-i-i!
The fish moved away, churned heavily in the water, dragging the catcher along with it. His hands slid along the side of the boat, his fingers unclenched. While he was beating the fish with one hand, the other completely weakened, and then he pulled himself up with all his strength, stood up, reached the side with his chin, and hung on it. The vertebrae of the neck were crunching, the throat was hoarse, it was torn, but the hands felt better, but the body and especially the legs moved away, they became strangers, the right leg could not be heard at all. And the catcher began to persuade the fish to die quickly:
- Well, what do you want? - he rattled in a ragged voice, with that pathetic, feigned flattery that he did not imagine in himself. – You’ll die anyway... – I thought: suddenly the fish understands the words! Corrected: -...You'll fall asleep. Humble yourself! It will be easier for you, and it will be easier for me. I'm waiting for my brother, and who are you? - and trembled, whispered with his lips, calling in a fading whisper: - Bra-ate-elni-i-i-ik!..
I listened - no echo! Silence. Such silence that you can hear your own soul, huddled into a ball. And again the catcher fell into oblivion. The darkness moved closer around him, his ears began to ring, which meant he was completely drained of blood. The fish turned sideways - it also withered, but still did not allow itself to be overturned by the water and death on its back. The sturgeon's gills no longer quacked, they only creaked, as if a tiny bark beetle was eating away at the woody flesh, soured from dampness under a thick coat of bark.
The river became a little lighter. The distant sky, tinted from the inside with the moon and stars, the icy shine of which was washed between heaps of clouds, similar to hastily raked hay, for some reason not swept into stacks, became higher, more distant, and a cold glow came from the autumn water. It's getting late. The upper layer of the river, warmed by the weak autumn sun, cooled, peeled off like a pancake, and the white-faced vision of the depths from the bottom of the river penetrated upward. No need to look at the river. It's chilly and miserable there at night. It's better to go up and look at the sky.
I remembered the mowing on the Fetisovaya River, for some reason yellow, evenly illuminated by a kerosene lantern or lamp. Mowing without sounds, without any movement and crunching underfoot, a warm, hay crunch. Among the mowing there is a long combed head with the tip of poles sticking out along the hollow sagging top. Why is everything yellow? Voiceless? As soon as the ringing thickens, there would be a tiny blacksmith hiding under every stem of mown grass, and they ring without a break, filling everything around with the endless, monotonous, soporific music of a withered, sluggish summer. “Yes, I’m dying! - Ignatyich woke up. - Maybe I’m already at the bottom? Everything is yellow..."
He moved and heard a sturgeon nearby; he felt the half-asleep, lazy movement of his body - the fish was tightly and carefully clinging to him with its thick and tender belly. There was something feminine in this care, in the desire to warm, to preserve the emerging life within.
“Isn’t this a werewolf?!”
By the way the fish dozed freely, with well-fed laziness, on its side, crunching its mouth as if biting into plastic cabbage, its stubborn desire to be closer to a person, its forehead, as if cast from concrete, along which stripes were scratched evenly with a nail, the buckshot eyes, rolling without sound under the armor of the forehead, aloof, but not without intent, the fearless gaze staring at him - everything, everything confirmed: a werewolf! A werewolf carrying another werewolf, there is something sinful and human in the torment of the king fish, it seems that she remembers something sweet, secret before her death.
But what can she remember, this cold water creature? There are worm-like tentacles moving, stuck to the frog's liquid skin; behind the whiskers there is a toothless hole, now shrinking into a tightly sunken gap, now belching water into a tube. What else did she have besides the desire to feed, digging in the muddy bottom, choosing boogers from the trash?! Did she feed the eggs and once a year rub herself against the male or against the sandy water dunes? What else did she have? What? Why didn’t he notice before how disgusting this fish looked! Her tender woman’s meat is also disgusting, completely covered in layers of candle-colored, yellow fat, barely held together by cartilage, stuffed into a bag of skin; rows of shells in addition, and a nose and eyes floating in jaundiced fat, tripe filled with the mud of black caviar, which is also not found in other fish - everything is disgusting, nauseating, obscene!
And because of her, because of this kind of bastard, man was forgotten in man! He was overcome by greed! Even childhood has faded and moved to the side, but childhood, as it were, did not exist. I spent four winters at school with difficulty and agony. In class, at the desk, he writes a dictation, or listens to a poem, but mentally he is on the river, his heart is twitching, his legs are shaking, a bone in his body is howling - she, the fish, is caught, she is coming! It's coming, it's coming! Here she is! The biggest! King fish! Yes, be it... As far as I remember, everything is in the boat, everything is on the river, everything is in pursuit of it, after this damned fish. On the Fetisovaya River, the parents' mowing was delayed and overwhelmed. I haven’t looked at the library since school—no time. Was the chairman of the school parent committee- moved, re-elected: did not go to school. They appointed him as a deputy to the village council at the production site - a hard worker, an honest production worker, and silently took him away - quietly fishing, grabbing, which deputy is he? They don’t even take you into the people’s squad, they reject you. Deal with the hooligans yourself, tie them up, educate them, he has no time, he is always in pursuit. No bandit can get him! And they got it. My secret, my nephew, my favorite!..
A-ah, you bastard, bandit! The car hits a pole, a young, beautiful girl, in full color, a poppy bud, a soft-boiled pigeon egg. The girl probably at the last moment remembered her dear father, her beloved uncle, albeit mentally, she called out to herself. And they? Where were they? What did you do? They ran along the river, across the water in motorboats, chased fish, cheated, dodged, losing their human appearance...<…>
Ignatyich released his chin from the side of the boat, looked at the fish, at its wide, emotionless forehead, which protected the cartilage of its head with armor; yellow and blue veins were tangled between the cartilage. Illuminated, in detail, it became clear to him that from which he had been defending himself almost all his life and which he remembered immediately as soon as he fell for the planes, but he pushed away the obsession from himself, shielded himself with deliberate forgetfulness, but there was no strength to continue resisting the final verdict.
Night closed over the man. The movement of water and sky, cold and darkness - everything merged together, stopped and began to turn to stone. He didn't think about anything else. All regrets, remorse, even pain and mental anguish moved away somewhere, he calmed down within himself, passed into another world, sleepy, soft, calm, and only the one that had been there for so long, in the left half of his chest, under the nipple , did not agree with reassurance - he never knew it, he guarded himself and guarded the owner, without turning off his hearing. The thick mosquito ringing was cut through by an assertive, confident ringing from the darkness and poked - a light flashed under the nipple, in the still warm body. The man tensed, opened his eyes - the Whirlwind engine sounded along the river. Even on the perilous edge, already detached from the world, he identified the brand of the engine by his voice and was ambitiously delighted, first of all, with this knowledge, he wanted to shout out to his brother, but life took possession of him, awakening a thought. With her first shock, he ordered himself to wait: a waste of energy, there was only a crumb left, to yell now. When the engines turn off, the fishermen hang on the ends, then call and work hard.
A wave from a passing boat rocked the vessel, hit the fish against the iron, and it, having rested and gathered strength, suddenly reared itself, sensing the wave that once pumped it out of the black soft egg, cradled it in the days of well-fed rest, and happily raced in the shadow of the river depths. , sweetly tormented during marriage, at the mysterious hour of spawning.
Hit. Jerk. The fish turned over on its stomach, felt the stream with its rearing comb, whipped its tail, pushed against the water, and it would have torn the man off the boat, tearing off his nails and skin, but several hooks would have burst at once. The fish beat its tail again and again until it got off the trap, tearing its body to shreds, carrying dozens of deadly hooks in it.
Furious, seriously wounded, but not tamed, she crashed somewhere already invisibility, splashed in the cold swirl, a riot gripped the freed, magical king-fish.
“Go, fish, go! I won't tell anyone about you. Live as long as you can!” - said the catcher, and he felt better. The body - because the fish did not pull down, did not hang on it like a slouch, and the soul - from some kind of liberation, not yet comprehended by the mind.
Questions and tasks
1. Read the proposed text from Astafiev’s work “The Fish Tsar”, think about its meaning.
2. Analyze Ignatyich's thoughts. What does he regret and why?
3. Why did Ignatyich’s soul feel better when the king fish was freed? Why does he promise not to tell anyone anything about her?
1. By what artistic means does the writer convey his attitude towards the natural world?
The idea of continuity of generations is central to the story. "Last bow". It is largely autobiographical and tells about the childhood and youth of the main character Vitya, whose fate is connected with the lives of many people, happy and unsuccessful. His grandmother played a big role in his life; she was outwardly stern, but very kind, sympathetic, and gave people a lot of warmth and kindness. “During the days of my grandmother’s illness, I discovered how many relatives my grandmother had and how many people, not relatives, also came to take pity on her and sympathize with her. And only now, albeit vaguely, did I feel that my grandmother, who had always seemed to me like an ordinary grandmother, was a very respected person in the village, but I did not listen to her, quarreled with her, and a belated feeling of repentance tore through me.
“What kind of illness do you have, grandma?” - I wondered, as if for the first time, sitting next to her on the bed. Thin, bony, with rags in her split braids, the grandmother slowly began to talk about herself:
- I’ve been planted, father, worn out. All planted. From an early age I have been at work, at work. I gave money to my aunt and mother, but I raised my own tithes... It’s easy to just say. How about growing?! But she spoke about the pitiful only at first, as if for starters, then she talked about various incidents from her long life. It turned out from her stories that there were much more joys in her life than adversities. She did not forget about them and knew how to notice them in her simple and difficult life.”
When his grandmother died, Vitya was in the Urals, working at a factory, and he was not allowed to go to the funeral: he was not allowed to go to his grandmother.
“I did not yet realize the enormity of the loss that had befallen me. If this happened now, I would crawl from the Urals to Siberia to close my grandmother’s eyes and give her my last bow.
And lives in the heart of wine. Oppressive, quiet, eternal. Guilty before my grandmother, I am trying to resurrect her in my memory, to tell other people about her, so that they can find her in their grandparents, in close and beloved people, and her life would be limitless and eternal, just as human kindness itself is eternal.”
Works that are in one way or another related to the theme of the village are usually called “village prose.” Books of very different genres have been written about the village: stories by V. Astafiev and V. Rasputin, the socio-epic trilogy of F. Abramov, moral and educational novels by V. Mozhaev, stories by V. Belov and V. Shukshin. What place does the work of V. Astafiev and, in particular, his story “The Tsar Fish” occupy in the literature about the village?
Victor Astafiev is a talented master, knowledgeable of nature, requiring careful attitude To her. From his first steps in the literary field, the writer sought to solve important problems of his time, find ways to improve personality, and awaken a sense of compassion in his readers. In 1976, his work “The Fish King” appeared, with the subtitle “narration in stories.” It takes a fresh look at the constant motifs in Astafiev’s work. The theme of nature acquired a philosophical resonance and began to be perceived as an environmental theme. The idea of Russian national character, which the writer addressed in the stories “The Last Clone” and “Ode to the Russian Vegetable Garden”, also sounds on the pages of the story “The Tsar Fish”.
The work includes twelve stories. The plot of the story is connected with the journey of the author, the lyrical hero, to his native places - Siberia. The end-to-end image of the author, his thoughts and memories, lyrical and philosophical generalizations, appeals to the reader unite individual episodes and scenes, characters and situations into a complete artistic narrative. The basis of "Tsar Fish" consists of stories about fishing and hunting, written at different times. But, as the author himself admits, the narrative began to take shape as a coherent work only after writing the short story “The Drop”: “I started with the chapter “The Drop”, and it led to a philosophical understanding of all the material, leading the rest of the chapters with it. My friends encouraged me to name " "Tsar Fish" as a novel... If I were writing a novel, I would write more harmoniously, but I would have to give up what is most precious, what is commonly called journalism, free speeches, which in this form of storytelling do not seem to look like digressions." . Each individual story is perceived in its immediate, specific content, but in the narrative system they all acquire additional meaning, and also unfold a gallery before the reader folk types and characters. "The King Fish" opens with the story "Boye". In this story there is a story reminiscent of a parable about Nikolai's hunt for an arctic fox. Nikolai and his partner Arkhip, under the leadership of the “elder” who went through war and prison, agreed to hunt arctic fox in Taimyr, in the remote winter quarters. If successful, this promised big money. However, a pestilence began in the taiga, the arctic fox left, and the hunt failed. People had a choice: to leave and make their way for a long time with their luggage off-road, or to stay for the winter. In the case of such a winter in a deserted region, you need to be able to maintain a human appearance: not to go crazy, not to kill each other, not to go wild from idleness and cold. All of the above happened, but people remained alive. This winter taught them a lot and made them think about a lot. It is interesting that the author does not impose his conclusions on the reader, he simply tells, but he tells so masterfully that he touches the innermost strings of the human soul. Also from this story we learn about the facts of Astafiev’s biography: about a difficult childhood, about a dissolute father, about a stepmother unbridled in anger, about an unsettled relationship with his father’s second family. The restrained manner of narration evokes respect, but one can also discern bitterness, hidden childhood resentment, pity for the unlucky father, an ironic attitude towards oneself and brother Kolka, and sadness for a lost youth. The central chapter of the story is the chapter of the same name - “The Fish King”, in which the motives of the role of man on earth and eternal spiritual values are heard. Main character"Tsarfish" - Ignatyich, "an intellectual from the people." What is popular about it? Ignatyich is a native Siberian, the best representative of the Siberian national character: “Everywhere and everywhere he got by on his own, but he himself is always ready to help people,” he is a good worker, a strong owner, but not a greedy person or a penny-pincher; neat, clean; the best mechanic in his area and the best fisherman. But all his life, the soul of this person is fraught with sin; it is as if he is waiting for retribution for it. In his youth, Ignatyich mocked Glashka Kukhlina and humiliated her out of false pride. Only he and Glasha know about this act. Everyone has had their own family for a long time, but this act torments Ignatyich, he understands that “no crime passes without a trace,” he tries to ask her for forgiveness, but she replies that may God forgive him, but she does not have the strength to do so. So Ignatyich lives with this guilt, “hoping through humility, helpfulness... to overcome the guilt, to beg for forgiveness.”
However, in understanding the character of the main character, the incident with the fish plays the most important role. One day Ignatyich caught a huge sturgeon, but couldn’t get it out. “You can’t miss such a sturgeon. The Tsar Fish comes across once in a lifetime, and even then not every Yakov.” This fish was truly amazing. “There was something rare, primitive not only in the size of the fish, but also in the shape of its body,” the fish looked like “a prehistoric lizard.” Trying to pull out the sturgeon, the fisherman fell overboard, the fish began to fight and stuck many hooks into itself and the catcher. “Both the fish and the man were weakening, bleeding,” “the same painful death was guarding them.” Ignatyich fought for his life, losing consciousness, and the fish kept clinging to him, pushing him to the bottom. The hero realized that “the time has come to account for his sins,” and half-forgotten asked Glasha for forgiveness. He was saved by chance: a wave from a passing boat helped the fish fall off the hooks. “And he felt better. The body - because the fish was not pulling down... the soul - from some kind of liberation not yet comprehended by the mind.”
In Ignatich's fight with the sturgeon, the king fish personifies nature, and Ignatich represents man. Moreover, a person’s character is tested for strength in extreme conditions, in which he himself becomes the prey instead of a hunter. In a duel with the king fish, the hero comprehends the truth: the meaning of human life is not in the accumulation of wealth, but in the fact that one must always remain human and not go against one’s conscience. The very root of the word “nature” contains a deep meaning: it is what gives birth, what gives life. Nature is a feminine noun, and so is its personification in the book - the king fish. During the fight, she protects her belly, filled with caviar, which symbolizes the continuation of life. In such situations, a person begins to feel the mystery of what is happening, Ignatyich remembers his life, his grandfather, who taught the young: “If there is a grave sin in your soul, do not get involved with the king fish.” And so Ignatyich reports to his conscience for his sins, especially for the one that he considers the most difficult. His mood changes: from the joy of owning a fish - to hatred and disgust for it, then - to the desire to get rid of it. In the face of death, he reconsiders his life, confesses to himself and repents, thereby removing grave sin from his soul. The active work of the soul and complete moral rebirth save Ignatyich from death. I believe that the pathos of the entire book “The King Fish” is in admiration for the beauty of our land, in denouncing those who destroy this beauty. Protection of nature, protection of the human in man is the main idea that runs through Astafiev’s entire work, and it is associated with the high humanistic traditions of Russian classical literature. Therefore, V. Astafiev’s work teaches us, readers, real lessons of kindness, humanity, love for native land and people.
Roman Ignatievich, sighing heavily, moved away from the dusty window. Another gray day, the appearance of which he saw through the glass, was not conducive to joyful thoughts. Looking from under his brows with a heavy old man's gaze at the small, untidy room, he took a pack of Belomor from the table, in which there were only two cigarettes left, and returned to the window.
Opening the window, Ignatyich, as his neighbors called him, crushed the cigarette holder with his usual movement and lit a cigarette. Strong, acrid smoke entered his lungs, and the old man began to cough. “Again,” he thought, looking unfriendly at the smoke rising upward, “But Nyurka the deceased warned...” Yes, the doctors and Ignatyich’s wife, Anna Fedorovna, who died a year and a half ago, strictly forbade him to smoke, but... What could he do? ?
When Ignatyich began to think about how and what he lives in Lately, he did not find any other name for the surrounding environment other than “emptiness.” Emptiness reigned in everything: his wife, the only person in his life, without whom he could not do without, died;
There is a daughter, Svetlana, but she has her own family and she doesn’t care about her old father’s grumbling, his illnesses and eternal dissatisfaction with what is happening. It was only enough to call Ignatyich on his birthday, and maybe even on New Year. The last time the father and daughter saw each other was at the funeral of Anna Fedorovna.
Ignatyich did not know whether he and his wife raised their daughter this way, or whether her husband, a man who considered himself a member of “high society,” did not approve of Svetlana’s meeting with two impoverished old men, but one way or another, Ignatyich extremely rarely communicated with his daughter.
At times, his soul was warmed by the understanding that, in general, everything was fine with his daughter, everything was fine, that she did not need anything. He recalled how two or three years ago, he and his wife were visiting Svetlana. Ignatyich, a simple Russian hard worker, was struck by the environment in which his daughter lives: a luxurious four-room apartment, a luxurious foreign car, insanely expensive furniture...
Ignatyich took another drag on his cigarette, but the cough became unbearable and he threw it out the window. Shuffling with his slippers, he walked over to the nightstand, which had peeled off from time to time, and turned on the old Record, which had seen a lot in its lifetime. About five minutes later, a picture appeared on the screen that had been warming up for a long time - a concert was being shown on TV. Some wildly painted girl, in a skirt that barely covered her stomach, twitching her thin legs, tried very unmusically to convey to the audience how much she loved someone. Ignatyich sympathized with the object of this “singer’s” passion, but then he became disgusted to look at such squalor, and he turned off the TV, forcing the girl to shut up.
After thinking for a while, he went into the kitchen, sat down on a chair and took yesterday’s Izvestia from the table. According to an old, long-standing habit, Ignatyich began reading the newspaper from the editorial, but, realizing that for some reason he was no longer at all worried about “further escalating tension in relations between the government and parliament,” he put the newspaper aside. There was absolutely nothing to do.
Ignatyich became even more sad because he was sitting and didn’t know what to do. He was never a slacker. All his life he worked honestly to get an apartment, to put his daughter on her feet, to have something to leave for his grandchildren. Yes, he has an apartment, and his daughter is doing well, but what about him? His own legs are gradually giving out, he is forbidden to smoke, and has nothing to do. Such a life was unbearable for Ignatyich. He wanted to call one of his old friends, but remembered that Seryozha - who always started them - was now at the dacha with the children, Petka was in the hospital, and Kolka... Kolka was at the cemetery.
And then Ignatyich made up his mind. Having rummaged in his pockets, he took out the last money (nothing, the day after tomorrow - pension), leisurely got dressed and left the house.
On the street, some young guys, laughing and occasionally quarreling, were busy repairing a beautiful car that, for some reason, was standing on the lawn near his house. Little neighbor girls were cheerfully jumping rope, and their peers were kicking a ball around on the playground. Even on such a gloomy day, this whole picture was bright, cheerful and cheerful. Ignatyich, in his dirty gray out-of-season coat and wrinkled brown trousers, like a gloomy ghost, slipped past the bustle that reigned around and left the yard.
Where he went, three or four years ago there was always a noisy crowd, arguments in lines, and sometimes fights. And even now the freshly painted “WINE” sign didn’t really harmonize with what was going on underneath it: five or six homeless people, a couple of lonely old people like Ignatyich, and a bunch of half-drunk teenagers half-sitting and half-standing at the door with peeled paint. As soon as he approached the store, two seemingly not entirely sober men jumped up to him and uttered what had apparently already become a routine phrase for them: “Well, what? Shall we take it for three?” Ignatyich nodded silently.
“Give me the money, father,” said one of them, a young, thin guy without two front teeth and with hair that had not been washed for a long time, “Now, I’ll do it in a jiffy.”
A couple of minutes later he returned, holding a half-liter bottle of vodka in his hand.
“Let’s go somewhere,” the guy suggested, “we can’t go here...
About fifty meters from the store there was a small public garden - a favorite place for local drunks. Having difficulty keeping up with his younger companions, Ignatyich hobbled there and sat down on a bench, trying to catch his breath.
“One moment,” exhaled the second of the “companions,” a hefty man, about fifty years old, with an indecently red face, and pulled out three plastic cups from somewhere from the depths of his enormous jacket, “pour it,” he nodded to the “thin one.”
“Well, for getting to know each other,” the guy hastily replied, handing out filled glasses to everyone, after which he immediately drained his own.
“For making the acquaintance,” Ignatyich nodded, agreeing, and, slowly, drank.
After the new “friends” drank the second glass, they suddenly discovered that the bottle was empty.
- Shall we continue? - the “thin” one, who of all three showed the greatest activity in this matter, asked recklessly.
“Let’s continue,” Ignatyich confirmed and, anticipating the next phrase of the “bad man,” he reached into his pocket for the money.
“The red-faced one” also took out a couple of crumpled pieces of paper and gave them to the “thin one,” who, swaying slightly, ran back to the store.
When he returned, weaned from vodka, and therefore fairly drunk, Ignatyich managed to briefly explain to the “red-faced” man, whose name was Volodya, about all his troubles.
“Your daughter is a bitch,” Volodya sighed, “and her husband…” he cursed briefly.
“Don’t say that,” Ignatyich asked piteously in a half-drunk voice, “it’s my fault too.”
“Well, as you wish,” Volodya did not argue and turned to the “thin one.” - Did you bring it?
“Of course,” he put another bottle on the bench. - Open up!
After the “thin” one, who called himself Dima, ran for the third bottle, and it was uncorked, the new acquaintances began to calm down the emotional Ignatyich. He listened to them, already having difficulty understanding what they were talking about. He didn't hear their words. A completely different thought was spinning in his head: “Why? Why did I find more understanding and support from these generally degenerate people than from my own daughter? What did I do wrong?” But the old man had no answer.
Dusk began to deepen and Dima, suddenly remembering that someone was waiting for him, walked away with an uncertain but fairly fast gait, having first said a heartfelt goodbye to his drinking companions. Volodya still sat on the bench for some time, holding the drunken Ignatyich by the shoulders, but then he, looking at his watch, apologized to the old man and also left. Ignatyich was left alone again. He didn't think about anything anymore.
He sat with his eyes closed, trying not to fall over on his side, when suddenly, unexpectedly, like a vague, blurry picture, his whole life flashed before his eyes. Hungry, cold, dirty childhood years, when he spent the night as a homeless child in doorways and under burning boilers. The war, where he volunteered, and where he was seriously wounded. The birth of his daughter, his wife’s funeral, his current small dusty apartment... “What have you done in your life? What have you come to? What have you achieved?”
Suddenly, from this oppressive melancholy, and perhaps from the vodka he drank too, Ignatyich’s heart ached. At first he was pinched, and then, unexpectedly, a sharp, terrible pain pierced through the entire old man’s body. Grabbing the left side of his chest, he fell off the bench and, for some reason, began to crawl onto the lawn and into the bushes. He felt nothing but pain.
A couple in love passing by looked with bewilderment at the crouched, dirty old man and, deciding that he was just very drunk, turned away and disappeared from view.
Ignatyich stopped feeling pain. He lay with his face buried in the grass, and from its smell it began to seem to his fading mind that his daughter was running along this grass towards the old man, only for some reason she was very small. She called him, stretched out her hands to him, called him to her... Ignatyich reached out to her, rising on his elbows, but his old, sick heart could not stand it, his arms gave way, and he fell on the grass again. His smoky lungs exhaled for the last time and his breathing stopped.
The next morning, some homeless man, making his way between the bushes in search of empty bottles, came across the lifeless body of Ignatyich.
- Hey, buddy! - he said. - It's time to get up!
But the old man could no longer answer him. Grunting indifferently, the homeless man continued his search.
When in the evening he passed by again and saw that Ignatyich was lying in the same place where he was, after some thought, he finally realized that the old man was dead. Looking around, he hastily searched the pockets of the dead man’s clothes, but found nothing and, spitting, considered it best to leave as quickly as possible.
A couple of hours later, Ignatyich’s body was discovered and taken to the morgue. The search for relatives did not lead to anything and “an unknown man, apparently about seventy years old, without signs of violent death” was burned at state expense.
Six months passed and Roman Ignatievich’s birthday arrived. Svetlana dialed his phone number, but no one, of course, answered. “Probably met with friends. Celebrating,” she thought and hung up. “Okay, he’ll call back.”
