Almazova Olga, 9th grade

In her work, Almazova O. shares her impressions of the story she read by Sholokhov “The Birthmark”. The student notes that the writer is most concerned with the theme of the civil war, as a national catastrophe, not only in the story “Birthmark”, but also in the cycle “Don Stories”. The review draws attention to the features of Sholokhov’s style, artistic originality story and topical focus.

Download:

Preview:

Review of the story “Birthmark” by Mikhail Alexandrovich Sholokhov

The story “The Birthmark” was published in the book “Don Stories” by Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov. The story “The Birthmark” was published on December fourteenth, one thousand nine hundred and twenty-four. It describes the time of the Civil War. A merciless struggle between opposing class forces. A struggle for life and death. And in this struggle the blood of sons, brothers, fathers is shed.

Mikhail Alexandrovich Sholokhov is a Cossack, born on the Don. All of his works, including “Don Stories,” are associated with the Don Cossacks.

Most of all, M.A. Sholokhov, as the writer of “Don Stories,” is concerned about the loss of moral guidelines in human soul, the idea of ​​the decay of human souls, a terrible fratricidal war. M.A. Sholokhov assessed the civil war as a national catastrophe in which there were and could not be winners.

At the center of the story “Mole” is the fate of a young commander, eighteen-year-old Nikolka, who dies at the hands of his father. Nikolka's missing father recognizes his son by a mole on his leg, removing the boot from the man he killed. The war placed them on different sides. The chieftain had not seen his son for thirteen years and, of course, could not recognize him in the dashing commander. Only the mole that the son inherited from his father opened his eyes to the tragedy of what happened. A father found his son when he lost him forever. The author paints a stark, dark picture of a father shedding his son's blood. Life has lost its meaning for the chieftain, and he ends his life with a pistol shot.

The author sequentially talks first about Nikolka’s difficult childhood, then about his becoming a squadron commander and about his tragic death. Sholokhov truthfully describes his heroes. He sees them through the eyes of an artist, whose soul is open to all human pain and all that is beautiful. Reading the description of Nikolka’s portrait, we clearly imagine a broad-shouldered boy who “looks beyond his years. His eyes are aging with radiant wrinkles and his back is stooped like an old man.”

The boy has seen a lot in his life short life, With early childhood He was a laborer and grew up an orphan without parental affection and care. M.A. Sholokhov uses many dialect words for the purpose of authenticity of events. Throughout the entire story there is a contrast (antithesis) between colorful descriptions of nature, symbolizing life, and gloomy, harsh pictures of war, bringing with them death. In this individual style Sholokhov.

We live in difficult times. The topic of the civil war is still relevant today.

On the table are cartridge cases that smell of burnt gunpowder, a lamb bone, a field map, a report, a bridle with the scent of horse sweat, a loaf of bread. All this is on the table, and on a hewn bench, moldy from the damp wall, with his back pressed tightly against the windowsill, Nikolka Koshevoy, the squadron commander, is sitting. The pencil is in his frozen, motionless fingers. Next to the old posters spread out on the table is a half-filled questionnaire. The rough leaf says sparingly: Koshevoy Nikolay. Squadron commander. Digger. Member of the RKSM.

Against the “age” column, the pencil slowly writes: 18 years.

Nikolka is broad-shouldered and looks beyond his years. His eyes, lined with radiant wrinkles, and his back, stooped like an old man, make him look old.

“The boy, the boy, is a green cougar,” they say jokingly in the squadron, “but look for someone else who could eliminate two gangs almost without damage and lead the squadron into battles and battles for six months no worse than any old commander!”

Nikolka is ashamed of her eighteen years. The pencil always crawls against the hated “age” column, slowing down its run, and Nikolka’s cheekbones blaze with an annoying blush. Nikolkin’s father is a Cossack, and on his father’s side he is a Cossack. He remembers, as if half asleep, when he was five or six years old, his father put him on his service horse.

- Hold on to your mane, son! - he shouted, and his mother smiled at Nikolka from the door of the cooking shop, turning pale, and with wide open eyes she looked at the little legs that circled the sharp spine of the horse, and at her father, who was holding the reins.

It was a long time ago. Nikolkin’s father disappeared during the German war, as if he sank into the water. Not a word of him, not a ghost. Mother died. From his father, Nikolka inherited a love of horses, immeasurable courage and a mole, the same as his father’s, the size of a pigeon’s egg, on his left leg, above the ankle. Until he was fifteen, he hung around among the workers, and then he begged for a long overcoat and, with the Red Regiment passing through the village, went to attack Wrangel. This summer, Nikolka swam in the Don with the military commissar. He, stuttering and twisting his shell-shocked head, said, slapping Nikolka on her stooped and tanned back:

- You are... that... You are happy... happy! Well, yes, happy! A mole is, they say, happiness.

Nikolka bared his boiling teeth, dived and, snorting, shouted from the water:

- You're lying, weirdo! I’ve been an orphan since childhood, I’ve been a worker all my life, but he’s a blessing!..

The hut where Nikolka lives is located on a ravine above the Don. From the windows you can see the green splashing Obdonye and the blued steel of the water. At night, during a storm, the waves knock under the yar, the shutters yearn, choking, and it seems to Nikolka that water is creeping insinuatingly into the cracks of the floor and, as it arrives, shaking the hut.

He wanted to move to another apartment, but he never did, he stayed until the fall. On a frosty morning, Nikolka came out onto the porch, breaking the fragile silence with the chime of his shod boots. He went down to the cherry orchard and lay down on the grass, stained with tears and gray with dew. You can hear how the owner persuades the cow in the barn to stand still, the heifer moos demandingly and in a deep voice, and streams of milk are heard against the walls of the chicken barn. A gate creaked in the yard and a dog began to bark. Platoon commander's voice:

- Is the commander home?

Nikolka rose up on his elbows.

Along the hummocky summer grass, along the ruts, licked by the winds, the mousey roadside plant curls up, the quinoa and plump mushrooms burst thickly and terry. Once upon a time, hay was transported along the road to the threshing floors, frozen in the steppe with amber splashes, and the thorn road lay in a mound near the telegraph poles. The pillars run into the whitish autumn dregs, step over logs and beams, and past the pillars on a shiny path the ataman leads a gang - fifty Don and Kuban Cossacks, dissatisfied with the Soviet government. For three days, like a fed-up wolf from a flock of sheep, they leave on roads and virgin lands without roads, and behind him, in nazir, is Nikolka Koshevoy’s detachment.

Notorious people in the gang, service-minded, experienced, and yet the ataman is deeply thoughtful: he stands up in his stirrups, scans the steppe with his eyes, counts miles to the blue border of the forests stretching on the other side of the Don.

So they leave like wolves, and behind them Nikolka Koshevoy’s squadron tramples their tracks.

On fine summer days in the Don steppes, under the sky a thick and transparent silver ringing rings and sways an ear of grain. This is before mowing, when the garnivoka of vigorous wheat turns black on the ear, like a seventeen-year-old guy, and the grain blows upward and tries to outgrow the person.

Bearded villagers sow rye with wedges on loam, along sandy mounds, near levadas. For a long time it will not be born, for a long time the tithe does not give more than thirty measures, but they sow because they drive moonshine out of life, clearer than a girl’s tears; because from ancient times it was the custom, grandfathers and great-grandfathers drank, and on the coat of arms of the Cossacks of the Don Army Region, it must have been no wonder that a drunken Cossack was depicted, sitting slumped on a wine barrel. Farms and villages wander through the autumn with thick and furious hops, red-topped hats swing drunkenly over the fences of redwood. That’s why the ataman is never sober during the day, which is why all the coachmen and machine gunners are drunkenly staggering on the spring carts.

The ataman had not seen his native kurens for seven years. German captivity, then Wrangel, Constantinople melted in the sun, a camp in barbed wire, a Turkish felucca with a resinous salty wing, Kuban and Sultan reeds, and - a gang.

Here it is, Ataman’s life, if you look back over your shoulder. His soul became callous, just as the tracks of a bull’s cloven hooves near the steppe muzga become callous in the hot summer. The pain, wonderful and incomprehensible, sharpens from the inside, fills the muscles with nausea, and the chieftain feels: not to forget it and not to fill the fever with any moonshine. And he drinks - there is never a sober day because the rye blossoms more fragrantly and sweetly in the Don steppes, overturned under the sun by a greedy black earth womb, and the dark-skinned zhalmerki in the farmsteads and villages brew such moonshine that it is impossible to distinguish it from flowing spring water.

The first frost hit the dawn. Silver streaks splashed onto the spreading leaves of the water lilies, and in the morning Lukich noticed thin multi-colored pieces of ice, like mica, on the mill wheel.

In the morning Lukich fell ill: there was a tingling sensation in his lower back, and from the deaf pain his legs became cast iron and stuck to the ground. He shuffled around the mill, with difficulty moving his awkward, boneless body. A litter of mice darted out of the weeds; He looked up with teary-wet eyes: a dove was pouring out small and businesslike mutterings from the crossbar under the ceiling. With his nostrils, as if molded from loam, the grandfather inhaled the viscous scent of water mold and the smell of ground rye, listened to how badly, choking, the water sucked and licked the piles, and thoughtfully kneaded his moist beard.

Lukich lay down to rest in the bee yard. Under his sheepskin coat he slept diagonally, with his mouth open, and in the corners of his lips he slobbered his beard with sticky and warm saliva. Twilight thickly smeared my grandfather's hut, a mill stuck in the milky patches of fog...

And when I woke up, two horsemen rode out of the forest. One of them shouted to his grandfather, who was walking through the beekeeper:

- Come here, grandfather!

Lukich looked suspiciously and stopped. During the troubled years, he had seen a lot of such armed people who took food and flour without asking, and he strongly disliked all of them indiscriminately, without distinguishing them.

- Hurry up, you old bastard!

Lukich moved between the dugout hives, muttered quietly with his faded lips, and stood at a distance from the guests, watching sideways.

“We are Reds, grandpa...Don’t be afraid of us,” the ataman hissed peacefully. - We are chasing a gang, we have fought off our own... Maybe you saw a detachment pass here yesterday?

- There were some.

-Where did they go, grandfather?

- And cholera knows them!

“You don’t have any of them left at your mill?”

“Netuti,” Lukich said briefly and turned his back.

- Wait, old man. - The chieftain jumped out of the saddle, swayed drunkenly on his arched legs and, taking a deep breath of moonshine, said: - We, grandfather, are liquidating the communists... That's it!.. And who we are is none of your business! - He stumbled, dropping the reins from his hands. - Your job is to prepare grain for seventy horses and remain silent... So that in no time!.. Do you understand? Where is your grain?

“Netuti,” said Lukich, looking to the side.

What's in that barn?

- It means that the trash is different... There is no grain!

- Well, let's go!

He grabbed the old man by the collar and pulled him with his knee towards the lopsided barn, rooted in the ground. The doors opened. There are millet and Chernobyl barley in the bins.

“Isn’t this grain for you, you old bastard?”

- Grain, breadwinner... This is grinding... For a year I collected it grain by grain, and you try to poison it with horses...

- Do you think our horses will die of hunger? What are you doing - standing for the Reds, begging for death?

- Have mercy, my pathetic one! Why are you taking me? - Lukich pulled off his cap, sank to his knees, grabbed the ataman’s hairy hands, kissing...

- Tell me: do you like red?

- Sorry, sick man! .. Sorry for the stupid word. “Oh, I’m sorry, don’t execute me,” the old man cried, hugging the ataman’s legs.

- God forbid that you don’t stand for the Reds... Don’t be baptized, but eat the earth!..

With his toothless mouth, the grandfather chews sand from handfuls and soaks it with his tears.

- Well, now I believe it. Get up, old man!

And the chieftain laughs, looking at how the old man will not get up on his numb legs. And from the bins the horse-drawn barley and wheat are pulled, they are poured under the horses’ feet and the yard is covered with golden grain.

V

Dawn in the fog, in the misty mist.

Lukich passed the sentry and, not along the road, but along a forest path known only to him, trotted towards the farm through the gullies, through the forest, alert in the sensitive pre-dawn drowsiness.

I reached the windmill and wanted to turn into a small street across the run, but the vague outlines of horsemen immediately appeared before my eyes.

-Who's coming? - an alarming shout in the silence.

“It’s me...” Lukich mumbled, and he went limp and shook.

-Who is this? What is a pass? What business are you running around on?

- I’m a miller... From local dropsy. Whenever I need to, I go to the farm.

-What are the needs? Well, let's go to the commander! Go ahead...” one shouted, running over with his horse.

Lukich felt the pair of horse lips on his neck and, limping, trotted off into the farmstead.

On the square, near a tiled hut, we stopped. The guide, groaning, got off the saddle, tied the horse to the fence and, rattling his saber, went up to the porch.

- Follow me!..

A light looms in the windows. We entered.

Lukich sneezed from the tobacco smoke, took off his hat and hastily crossed himself to the front corner.

- The old man was detained. I went to the farm.

Nikolka raised his shaggy head, covered in fluff and feathers, from the table and asked sleepily but sternly:

-Where were you going?

Lukich stepped forward and choked with joy.

Dear, these are our own people, but I thought - these are the adversaries again... I became very shy and was afraid to ask... I am a miller. How you walked through the Mitrokhin forest and stopped by me, I also gave you milk, the killer whale... Did I forget?..

- Well, what do you say?

- Otherwise I’ll tell you, my dear: yesterday these same gangs came to me in the dark and completely razed the grain with their horses!

-Where are they now?

- Tamotko is. They brought vodka with them, they lap it up, the unclean ones, in my room, and I came running here to report to your honor, maybe you can at least find some kind of justice for them.

“Tell them to saddle up!” Nikolka stood up from the bench, smiling at his grandfather, and pulled his overcoat by the sleeve tiredly.

VI

It's dawn.

Nikolka, green from sleepless nights, galloped up to the machine-gun gig.

- When we go on the attack, hit the right flank. We need to break their wing!

And he galloped towards the deployed squadron.

Behind a pile of stunted oak trees, horsemen appeared on the road - four in a row, carts in the middle.

- By basting! - Nikolka shouted and, feeling the growing roar of hooves behind him, pulled his stallion with a whip.

At the edge of the forest, a machine gun pounded desperately, and those on the road quickly, as if in a training exercise, crumbled like lava.

***
A wolf, hung with burrs, jumped out of a windfall onto a hillock. He listened, bending his head forward. Shots drummed in the distance, and a multi-voiced howl swayed like a viscous wave.

Knock! - a shot fell in the alder forest, and somewhere behind the hill, behind the plowing, the echo muttered patteringly: so!

And again often: knock, knock, knock!.. And behind the hill they answered: so! So! So!..

The wolf stood and slowly, waddled, pulled into the ravine, into the thickets of yellowed, unmown kuga...

- Hold on!.. Don’t throw the cart!.. To the coppice... To the coppice, into the mother’s blood! - shouted the chieftain, standing up in his stirrups.

And near the carts, coachmen and machine gunners were already scurrying around, cutting off the lines, and the chain, broken by the incessant fire of machine guns, was already overwhelmed in an uncontrollable flight.

The ataman turned his horse, and, opening up, one galloped towards him and waved his saber. The chieftain guessed from the binoculars dangling on his chest and from his burka that it was no ordinary Red Army soldier galloping, and he pulled the reins. From afar I saw a young, beardless face, twisted with anger, and eyes narrowed by the wind. The horse danced under the ataman, squatting on its hind legs, and he, pulling the Mauser caught in his sash from his belt, shouted:

- White-lipped puppy!.. Wave, wave, I’ll wave to you!..

The chieftain shot at the growing black cloak. The horse, having galloped about eight fathoms, fell, and Nikolka threw off his cloak, shooting, and ran closer and closer to the chieftain...

Behind the copse, someone howled like an animal and stopped short. The sun was covered by a cloud, and floating shadows fell on the steppe, on the roads, on the forest, torn away by the winds and in autumn.

“Nuk, the sucker, is hot, and because of this, death will get his hands on him here,” the chieftain thought in fragments and, waiting until he ran out of clips, let go of the reins and swooped down like a kite.

Having leaned from the saddle, he waved his saber, for a moment he felt how his body went limp under the blow and obediently slid to the ground. The chieftain jumped down, pulled the binoculars off the dead man, looked at his legs, which were trembling with a slight chill, looked around and sat down to remove the chrome boots from the dead man. With his foot resting on his crunchy knee, he took off one boot quickly and deftly. Under the other, it’s clear that the stocking has rolled up: it won’t come off. He pulled, cursed angrily, tore off the boot and stocking and on his leg, above the ankle, he saw a mole the size of a pigeon’s egg. Slowly, as if afraid to wake him up, he turned his cold head face up, smeared his hands with blood, which was crawling out of his mouth in a wide, lumpy shaft, looked closely, and only then awkwardly hugged the angular shoulders and said dully:

- Son!.. Nikolushka!.. Dear!.. My little blood...

Blackening, he shouted:

- Yes, say at least a word! How is this possible, huh?

He fell, looking into the fading eyes; eyelids, stained with blood, lifted, shaking the limp, pliable body... But Nikolka firmly bit the blue tip of his tongue, as if he was afraid to let slip about something immeasurably large and important. Pressing the chieftain to his chest, he kissed his son’s freezing hands and, clenching the steamed steel of the Mauser with his teeth, shot himself in the mouth...

***
And in the evening, when the horsemen loomed behind the copse, the wind carried voices, the snorting of horses and the ringing of stirrups - a vulture reluctantly fell from the shaggy head of the chieftain. It fell off and melted into the gray, autumn-colorless sky.

The years of the First World War, the revolution and especially the civil war became a test for all residents of Russia. I felt the consequences very acutely political events Cossacks. The freedom-loving people by nature could not come to terms with the fact that the well-established, established life for centuries was collapsing. But that wasn't even the worst thing. The split that occurred between people brought former neighbors, comrades and members of the same family to opposite sides of the barricades.

The writer M. Sholokhov paid a lot of attention to depicting the horrors of the civil war and analyzing its impact on the destinies of people. The work “Mole,” written in 1924 and which marked the beginning of the “Don Stories” cycle, became the first in his work to show the truth about that terrible time. And for the epic novel " Quiet Don", in which the writer summarized all the material on the topic, the writer was awarded the Nobel Prize.

Features of the image of the Cossacks by Sholokhov

"Don Stories" became important event in the literature of the twenties. They were not similar to what was created during the formation period Soviet power proletarian writers. A hereditary Cossack and an excellent expert on life on the Don, M. Sholokhov managed to recreate in small works the unique flavor and originality of the way of life of the local population. Special attention he devoted moral beliefs and ideals, initially based on kindness and humanism, but crossed out by the fratricidal war.

The attitude towards the stories was ambiguous. Many were confused by the naturalism and unconventional portrayal of the civil war, but this is what allowed the writer to convey the true scale of the tragedy. It was these principles that Sholokhov was guided by when writing the story “The Birthmark”.

Summary of the work: meeting Nikolka

The plot of the story is quite simple and is built in chronological order With small digressions(retrospectives) into the past. Main character- Nikolai Koshevoy, young squadron commander of the Red Army. Nikolka is the name of the eighteen-year-old guy by the experienced Cossacks, who respected him for his courage and bravery. Despite his young age, he had already led the squadron for six months and during this time managed to defeat two gangs. The merit of his father, a prominent Cossack, who “disappeared” in the German war, was great for this. It was he who instilled in his son courage, endurance, and a love of horses: already at the age of five or six he taught his son to stay in the saddle. Nikolka also inherited from her father (and further analysis of Sholokhov’s work will be based on this) a mole on her left leg, the size of a pigeon’s egg.

The plot begins with a letter brought to the commander with the news of the appearance of whites in the area. The need to perform again causes the commander to gloomily reflect on how tired he is of military life: “I’d like to study... but here’s a gang.”

Valiant Ataman

Comparing the two strong characters builds the story “Birthmark” by Sholokhov. An analysis of the internal state of a middle-aged Cossack, who has not seen his father’s house for 7 years, is the next part of the work. He went through German captivity, served under Wrangel, visited Constantinople, and now he has returned to his native land at the head of a gang. The ataman has become hardened in soul over the years, he feels as if something is sharpening him from the inside, and gives him no rest.

The gang left Nikolka’s squadron for three days, then settled down with the miller, which the latter informed the Red Army soldiers about. And now a brave young Cossack is rushing towards the chieftain. His still beardless face, overcome with anger, and his desire to achieve his goal - even a bullet did not stop him - caused bitterness in the chieftain. In addition, the binoculars on his chest clearly indicated the rank of a warrior. The ataman flew up to him, and the young body went limp from the swing of his saber. Experience prevailed over youthful prowess. Then, with the stocking, the old Cossack pulled the chrome boot off his foot, and under it (Sholokhov depicts this episode incredibly truthfully and emotionally powerfully) - a mole. The analysis of the story reaches particular sharpness precisely in this scene, which became the culmination of the entire narrative.

The main characters as antipodes of war

At the same moment, the ataman of his son, who had seen a lot, learned, his soul was filled with suffering and pain: “Nikolushka!.. My little blood!..”. The bloody struggle that unfolded scattered relatives on different sides, making them irreconcilable enemies. The father could not forgive himself for killing his son - he clenched his Mauser steel with his teeth and fired. This is how Sholokhov tragically ended the story “Birthmark”.

Analysis of the description and behavior of the heroes shows how disgusting the war was to their nature, especially Nikolka. From the age of fifteen he had to fight, and at eighteen he already looked like a man tired of life: with a network of wrinkles around his eyes, a stooped back. His dream of getting an education was never destined to come true. The only bright moment for Nikolka was the memories of a calm, peaceful life, when her mother was still alive and her father was not listed as missing. These nostalgic pictures make it clear how disgusting he was with the very thought of having to go into battle again. So at the very beginning of the story “Mole” Sholokhov ( summary the hero’s thoughts look most eloquent) makes it clear to the reader that war is something unnatural, alien to human nature. The old chieftain, who was still trying to drown out the melancholy that did not let go of him with hops, dreams of returning to a peaceful life and plowing the land as before.

Artistic details in the work

Unusual colloquial speech and the expressiveness of the work “Mole” attracts. Sholokhov - the problems of the story are directly related to this - enhances the feeling of tragedy thanks to his appeal to bright folklore images. Thus, a wolf is mentioned twice when describing the chieftain. At first, this is a vivid, figurative comparison of the old Cossack with the “convinced” leader of the pack, rapidly moving forward. Spoken word helps to better understand emotional state hero. Then, on the eve of a mortal battle, the wolf jumps out of the den in front of people, listens and slowly goes back. According to tradition, the wolf symbolized among the people a hungry, angry, usually lonely animal, evoking pity rather than fear. This is exactly how the old chieftain seems in the story.

Another predator is introduced into the story “Birthmark” by Sholokhov. Analysis last scene with a vulture, which, on the evening of the same day when the murder occurred, flies off the chieftain’s head and dissolves in the sky, suggesting the tired, tormented soul of a Cossack leaving the body and ascending upward.

Author's life experience

Sholokhov’s persuasiveness and naturalism in describing the events of the civil war are explained by the fact that in 1918-19 he found himself at the center of the confrontation between whites and reds in the area of ​​​​the Yelan capital. The writer witnessed unjustified cruelty and violence on both sides, and once he was even captured by Nestor Makhno, but was released after interrogation. Since 1920, Sholokhov himself “served and roamed around the Don land.” According to him, he and the gangs took turns chasing each other.

Conclusions to which Sholokhov leads the reader

"Mole" - full content The story cannot leave anyone indifferent - it makes you really think about the fact that in difficult conditions of devastation and irreconcilable hostility, people become embittered and forget about humanism and empathy. The author does not name in this, and in other stories, who is right and wrong, since in such a situation they simply cannot exist. The Civil War has become a universal tragedy that should never be forgotten - Sholokhov wants to draw the reader’s attention to this. The mole (analysis of the story leads to this conclusion) becomes a symbol of an unbreakable blood connection: Nikolka’s is the same as her father’s. Consequently, in the confrontation between the heroes (the father raised worthy son) there are no winners, this is initially contrary to human essence.

The meaning of Sholokhov’s “Don Stories”

The civil war was a real disaster, as a result of which moral standards were completely destroyed and the ties that existed between people were destroyed. This is emphasized by Sholokhov’s story “The Birthmark”. Analysis of the actions and feelings of the characters confirms this idea. The first work sets the tone for the entire cycle, and one after another comes to life before the reader’s eyes. scary pictures, telling about immeasurable human grief. And I would like to appeal to everyone living on earth: “People, come to your senses! If a brother kills a brother, and a father kills his son, if everything around is drowned in a sea of ​​blood, what is there to live on for?”

The Role of Advanced Text Analysis in Learning literary work and in understanding the author’s worldview.

M.A. Sholokhov, story “Mole”.

1. Along the hummocky summer grass, along the ruts licked by the winds, the mousey roadside is curled up, the quinoa and puffballs are bursting thickly and terry.

2. Once upon a time, hay was transported along the road to the threshing floors, frozen in the steppe with amber splashes, and the thorn road lay in a mound near the telegraph poles.3. The pillars run into the whitish autumn haze, they step over logs and beams, and past the pillars on a shiny path the ataman leads a gang of fifty Don and Kuban Cossacks, dissatisfied with the Soviet government. 4. For three days, like a fed-up wolf from a flock of sheep, they leave on roads and virgin lands without roads, and behind them, in nazir, is Nikolka Koshevoy’s detachment.

5. Notorious people in the gang, service-minded, experienced, but still the ataman is deeply thoughtful: he stands up in his stirrups, scans the steppe with his eyes, counts miles to the blue border of the forests stretching on the other side of the Don.

Before us is an excerpt from M.A. Sholokhov’s story “The Birthmark”. This is one of the writer’s “Don Stories”. M.A. Sholokhov is an amazing writer, a great master of words. We have to immerse ourselves in the artistic space of this text, highlight the features language manner author of the text, understand author's idea in this passage and comprehend the secret of this writer’s work.

So, this is a text, a single whole, characterized by coherence components. The sentences here are connected by a contact chain using lexical repetition: “by the flyer” (1 and 2 sentences), “pillars” (2 and 3). 3,4,5 sentences are connected by the same type - tense forms of verbs, verbs imperfect form present tense: “run”, “step over”, “leads”, “leave”, “thinks”, “gets up”, “paws”, “counts”. The text also contains the past tense verb “drove.” The presence of these forms allows us to come to the conclusion that for Sholokhov the roll call of times, past and present, is important; the future tense is also visible. Depicting present realities, the author yearns for the past, for peaceful life, for the beauty of peaceful work. At the same time, he looks to the future with hope, “counting miles to the blue border of the forests.”

The text refers to artistic style, this is a narrative with elements of description. Therefore, it contains many vivid epithets, metaphors, and comparisons. But first of all, we notice dialectisms in the text: “letnik”, “roadside dweller”, “pyshatki”, “burst”, “threshing floor”, “road”, “vnazirku”, “served”, “paws up”. These words are from the speech of the Don Cossacks. Thanks to them, we seem to immediately find ourselves at the scene of events. But besides this, and this is very important, the author conveys through them the spirit of his people, affectionate, good attitude Don Cossacks to their land, to their native expanses (“puffy”, “burst”). It is in these dialect words we notice the alliteration on "sh". Sholokhov will also use the element of sound recording to express the spirit of his people: the sound “sh” resembles the sound of a dying fire, the Cossacks are people with fire in their chests, but these people entered into a civil war, into fratricide, that is, the fire in the soul is extinguished, the people are not shown in best time. There is an assonance with “and” in the words “letnik”, “licks”, “vnazirka”, which speaks of the desire for space, the love of freedom of this people. Analyzing the vocabulary of this text, it is necessary to highlight such nouns as “pillars”, “road”, “mud”, end the fratricidal war. Only time is peaceful, calm, fussless - the present time. And here Sholokhov emphasizes the idea of ​​the triumph of peace on earth. The noun “beams”, the adverbs “hillock”, “roadless”, the verb “step over” talk about the difficulties of the path.

Let's stop on the trails. The key epithets in the text are “amber splashes” and “blue border of forests”. “Amber splashes” is also a comparison, it is a figurative expression from a past, peaceful life. Amber color is the color of light, the sun, the color of life on earth, the color of the divine. The words “steppe” and “hay” also speak about this color. From here we come to the author's worldview. Peace, life, according to Sholokhov, is a joy and a gift from God, but it is also pain and tragedy. Why will they allow us to say this? These are the following, standing next to each other, epithets: “in the autumn dregs, whitish.” White- the color of purity, aspirations for the better, and the noun “dregs” speaks of the absurdity and tragedy of events. This is an antithesis technique. The epithet in the combination “to the blue edge” is also very important. Blue is the color of hope and peace on earth. This means that the writer emphasizes his idea through color painting. There is an obvious comparison in the text “like a wolf that has become fed up with the candles of a flock”, the wolf is a gang, the ataman leads his gang. In a pack of wolves, there is also a leading wolf, and here, too, the ataman protects his gang, becomes thoughtful, and vigilantly monitors the situation. The verb “grasps” is given to characterize the behavior of the chieftain. This word has a rude connotation, which indicates the author’s condemnation of the situation of the gang and the chieftain. But at the same time, this word, when applied to the Don Cossacks, expresses another manifestation of feelings. The author not only condemns, but also pities the gang members. These are his people, part of the Cossacks, which broke away from the main mass. In the architecture of the Russian people, “forest” is a very important concept, it is a symbol of the people. Therefore, the gang, hurrying “to the blue edge of the forest,” strives to merge with the people. But is this possible? The problem of choice arises: will the gang, part of the people, disappear, or will it survive and unite with the people?

The blue border steps over the amber off-roads,

About severity real world, the difficulties of choice in the class struggle are also indicated by the hidden comparison “the road lies like a mound near the telegraph poles”, the metaphors “licked by the winds”, “poles are running”, “stepping over”.

Among the stylistic figures we can distinguish the anaphora in the first two sentences “according to the flyer”, the antithesis “in the dregs, autumn, whitish”, the gradations “notorious people in a gang, service, experienced”, “the ataman is thoughtful, stands up, paws, counts the miles”, very There are many inversions: “in the dregs, autumn, whitish,” “the glossy road,” “by the Soviet power,” “the ataman is thoughtful.” All these stylistic figures are used by the author to highlight the most important words and combinations for the idea.

Speaking about punctuation marks and conjunctions, it is important to say that the author connects the realities of nature with the conjunction “and”: “the quinoa and the puffballs burst thickly and plumply.” This suggests that Sholokhov sees agreement and harmony in nature, in peaceful life. And in human society he observes the opposite - disharmony, the tragedy of existence, civil war. Therefore, he uses the adversative conjunction “a”: “the pillars are running, and the ataman is leading.” From here we conclude that the truth for Sholokhov is not in the class struggle between citizens of one country, but in harmony, in agreement, in the beauty of nature. She has it in her.

This means that the author’s worldview is such that he accepts the world, but worries about social troubles and looks to the future with hope. This worldview is clearly presented in this text. It is necessary to resolve peacefully difficult questions life. And even more so, when it is in one country, fratricide should not be allowed. There can be no truth here; such a path leads to a dead end.

There are wars that in history are conventionally (according to Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy) called fair, liberating: they, as a rule, are imposed by an external aggressor, and then there is an unprecedented unity of the people, rising to fight the common enemy, to defend the fatherland. The history of Russia knows examples of such Patriotic Wars– 1812 and 1941-1945. It is no coincidence that the word “Patriotic”, as if as a reminder of the exceptional importance of these wars for the preservation of the people and statehood, is written with a capital letter.

A civil war is never “just”. It is usually a consequence of social explosions and revolutions. So October Revolution 1917 gave birth Civil War 1918-1920. And although in the depiction of many writers of the 20s of the twentieth century this was a heroic time, in the perception of others this event looked like a tragedy - a fratricidal war, when brother fought against brother, and son against father. As a result of some incomprehensible processes, people who spoke the same language, sometimes related to each other by blood, became enemies.

This is exactly how the war appears in “Don Stories” by Mikhail Sholokhov. All the works in this cycle are not simply united commonplace actions - Don, Kuban, but with similar ideas. The war in these stories passes through a family in a bloody stripe, pitting father against son, and the death of both occurs absurdly. Many critics even condemned Sholokhov for the too bloody details of the death of both the “whites” and the “reds”. At the same time, the writer did not give any assessments of the events described, but allowed the reader himself to figure out who was right and who was wrong.

In the story “The Birthmark,” the analysis of which will be discussed later, the action unfolds on two levels: in the external plot, the author introduces readers to the young Red Army squadron commander Nikolai Koshev, whom even experienced soldiers affectionately call Nikolka. At the age of 18, he has already commanded a squadron for six months and during this time he defeated two gangs. He is an orphan, because his father died in the German war, and his mother died. Until the age of 15, the guy had to do odd jobs, and then he went to fight with the Reds.

The only thing left of his father are the memories of how his father, a six-year-old boy, put him on his horse, and a birthmark on his leg the size of a pigeon’s egg: his father had the same one. After more than three years of war, Nikolai is tired of such a life and now dreams that the war will end and he will be able to study. However, at the very beginning of the story it becomes known that the commander receives news of the appearance of a gang of whites in the area, which means he will go into battle again. And Nikolai reflects sadly: “And then there’s the gang... There’s blood again, and I’m tired of living like this... I’m sick of everything...”

In parallel with the image of Nikolai Koshevoy, the reader learns about the fate of the ataman of the gang of white Cossacks. He had not seen his father’s house for seven years - since he left to fight the Germans: German captivity, service with Wrangel, “Constantinople melted in the sun”, "Kuban reeds" and, finally, a gang of former White Guards, at the head of which he found himself. And now his soul is not at peace either: “a wonderful and incomprehensible pain sharpens from the inside, fills the muscles with nausea”. The chieftain is tired of war, his hands remember the plow and scythe, but he has to fight instead of doing his usual farming. And don't forget this pain, and “do not pour any moonshine”.

Stopping at the old miller Lukich, gang members, Cossacks, “dissatisfied with Soviet power”, offend him by taking the last grain for their driven horses. In addition, the old chieftain, disappointed in everyone and not trusting anyone, forces the old man to eat earth to prove that he “not for the Reds”. Lukich unnoticed by "lipping vodka in the upper room" bandits runs away to the red commander to tell him that the gang, which the detachment had been chasing for three days, hid in his mill and "washed away" over it.

And here is the climax of the story: a battle during which Nikolka, at the head of the squadron, overtakes the gang, but is ultimately left alone with the chieftain. This fight resembles a duel: on the one hand, a seasoned wolf (it’s not for nothing that a wolf appears from the forest at the beginning of this last chapter), and a young commander with “with a beardless face, twisted with anger, and eyes narrowed by the wind”. And if the ataman’s bullet doesn’t take "white-lipped puppy", then the ataman decides to take it by cunning: he swoops in only when Nikolka’s clip runs out. He swooped down like a kite and waved his saber. The only thing the old chieftain didn’t know was that, while pulling off his chrome boots, "dead", will see on his leg, just above the ankle, a birthmark the size of a pigeon’s egg - just like his own.

That's when the moment of truth came: it turns out that the father unintentionally kills own son. Recognizing his son in the red commander whom he hacked to death, he hugs him, speaks kind words to him, in vain trying to bring him back to life, calling him Nikolushka and "bloody", and son. And after making sure that the son was dead, “The chieftain kissed the freezing hands of his son and, clenching the steamed steel of the Mauser with his teeth, shot himself in the mouth...” Who is to blame? A fatal coincidence? What elemental force standing above people pushes them against each other against their will?