In the bowels of the earth, read a summary. Kuprin Alexander in the bowels of the earth. XII. word drawing

LESSON

in literary local history

on the topic "A.I. Kuprin. "In the bowels of the earth"

(8th grade)

Teacher of Russian language and literature:

GARMASH LYUDMILA PETROVNA

MOU "School No. 64 in Donetsk", experience: 35 years

Topic. native literature. A.I. Kuprin. "In the bowels of the earth."

Target: show students that the structure of any work of art, genre and other artistic features are subordinated to a single task - to give a voluminous, deep description of the depicted events and heroes.

Equipment: portrait of A.I. Kuprin, map of Donetsk region, laptop.

During the classes.

I. 1. The song "Dark mounds are sleeping" sounds.

2. Introductory speech of the teacher against the background of music.

1. Donetsk is a major industrial, scientific and cultural center of our country. And its scale is truly grandiose: 350 sq. km. is the area of our city. (Show on the map Donbass and Donetsk).

2. Donetsk region, where we live, has not always been like this. 6-7 centuries ago there was a "clean field, unknown land", covered with steppe grasses. (Fragment of the video "Yuzovka").

As time went. Days turned into months, years into centuries. And now, many centuries later, we learn about the past of our region from ancient chronicles, works of UNT, historical songs, works of fiction.

Donetsk region is rich in literary traditions. Here, in different time there were Chekhov, Versaev, Bunin, Gorky, Mayakovsky. Today we read with excitement their documentaries and works of art about Donbass.

3. Recall with you the lines from the poems you know about the Donbass.

(Poetic five minutes)

4. Inexhaustible natural resources, rapid growth of industry and economic power, the unusual nature of the work and lifestyle of miners, the most severe exploitation of workers - all this quickly put the Donbass in the very center public life countries, drawing the attention of scientists, artists, writers to it. (Fragments of the video "Donetsk labor").

From the previous lesson, we know that Kuprin's work is closely connected with Ukraine, Donbass.

He, in particular, visited the Donbass in 1896. as a reporter for Kievskiye Vedomosti. Its appearance in the land of coal and metal is explained not only by the need to earn a living, but also by the desire to visit the very thick of the social relations that developed in the Donbass between the industrial bourgeoisie and the working class, to see firsthand the new that promised the development of the region in the future.

One of distinctive features Kuprin is that he always wrote about what he truly knew, about what he saw with his own eyes. Kuprin owns the words that a true artist must "see everything, know everything, be able to do everything, write about everything."

Let's remember what works of Kuprin you read?

Student responses.

II. Assimilation of new material. Announcement of the topic of the lesson and the purpose of the upcoming work.

1. Today, when we analyze the essay "In the bowels of the earth" written by Kuprin, which we read at home, we will try to make sure that everything in it is subordinated to a single goal - to deeply and objectively reveal the main idea, to comprehensively describe the characters of people.

1) What picture does the story begin with? What is the role of the painted landscape in revealing the main idea of the work?

What is the name of the artistic technique based on the opposition of the depicted events?

(The definition of antithesis is given)

2) What, according to the writer, violates the harmony in nature? How does he describe this whistle at the Gololobov mine? What does he compare it to? Find examples of metaphors that allow you to feel the author's attitude to the events described: to the hard work of miners, to the dangers that await them daily, hourly.

What syntactic constructions does Kuprin use when describing miners? What effect does the writer achieve by using sentences complicated by participle turnovers, rows homogeneous members suggestions?

(Visibility, brightness and persuasiveness in depicting the appearance of miners)

3) In whose perception is the picture of the terrible, hard labor, dangerous labor of miners drawn? Why does the author use this particular technique - he entrusts the story of the miners' hard labor to the 12-year-old boy Vaska Lomakin?

(He helps the reader to see the life of the mine "from the inside" through the eyes of a naive and gullible boy, which enhances the authenticity of the story, makes us closely follow the development of the plot).

4) What feelings do we experience together with Vaska, making our way through the long black galleries? What do we learn about mining?

5) How would you assess the act of Vaska, who did not leave his comrade-partner in trouble?

6) What thought did Kuprin, who wrote this story, want to convey to us?

7) Like this one the main idea reflected in the title of the story?

8) What do you think helps the author to draw the everyday danger of mining work so convincingly and vividly, to draw our attention to the inner world of our hero?

Teacher: Have you made sure, guys, that in each literary work every detail, every artistic device (be it a portrait, landscape, etc.), even the structure of sentences - everything is subordinated to a single goal - to reveal the main idea of the work as fully and reliably as possible, to help readers penetrate into complex world human soul to appreciate the heroes, their actions.

9) What does this story of Kuprin teach us?

10) Many of you have parents in one way or another connected with the mine. Have you ever been to a mine yard? Have you seen miners climbing up the mountain? What feelings did you experience? What do your parents tell about their comrades, about their problems? Have they all been resolved? Is it possible to say that the work of miners is a daily feat?

(Performances of students: 2-3 people talk about the work of their fathers-miners, 3-4 people read poems by modern Donetsk poets about mining work-feat).

The song "Donetsk is coal, Donetsk is steel" sounds.

III. Summing up the results of the lesson.

IV. Reflection.

V. Homework: Write a short essay

"Labor is a feat, life is a feat."

The story of Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin tells about a boy named Vanka. He is short and very thin. Vanka works in a coal mine, away from his family. The very work of the hero does not frighten, but it is alarming what a wild life the miners live. They are expressed foul language, a lot of drinking and carousing.

When Vanka just gets to the mine, he is settled in a barrack with the rest of the workers. Here he appears something like a guardian. They became the Greek. This is a man who can work for two months in a row, tirelessly and saving money. But when he receives a salary, for example, for two months, he goes on a long spree. At that time, the Greek drinks all the money he earns, fights in taverns and hires a violinist for the whole day to play for him when he drinks. When Vanka was settled in the barracks, the Grek drove another miner from a good sleeping place and told Vanka to lie down there. This place was near the stove. If someone began to resent the boy, then only one glance from the Greek was enough for all the indignations to stop.

One day, after a long drinking bout, Grek came to work. He was very ill, but he gathered the last of his strength and furiously began to mine coal. Then a seizure happens to him. Vanka is left to sit next to him while he convulses. The boy was confused and scared. But at the same time, a collapse occurs in the third room, and everyone starts running out of the mine. Vanka is in a very plight. Then, having gathered all his strength, he loads the Greek onto a cart and takes him out of the mine. Waking up on the surface, Vanka receives an approving review from the director of the mine, and the Greek looks at him with eyes full of gratitude and tenderness. Since then, these two people have been connected by strong and tender bonds.

Picture or drawing In the bowels of the earth

Other retellings and reviews for the reader's diary

Summary of Yakovlev Bavaklava
Twelve-year-old Lenya Sharov returns from school. He is surprised that, as usual, he is not met by his grandmother, who takes care of him while his parents are at work. The father informs the boy that his grandmother has died.
Summary of Bulychev Stone rebus
A mysterious black stone of unknown origin falls into the hands of Alisa Selezneva. To uncover his secret, the girl goes in search of adventure.
Summary of Chekhov Darling
The work "Darling" was written in 1899. Main Feature one can designate a versatile display of the image of the main character. For the theme, you can take a description of love, which is opposed to society
Summary of the Feast of Disobedience Mikhalkov
Reading the fairy tale "The Feast of Disobedience" one can understand that children are the main characters. Adults are very rare, in two chapters - this is the first and last. And that is not for long.
Summary of Remarque Black Obelisk
The novel takes place in the city of Werdenbrück after the First World War. Ludwig Breuer works for Heinrich Krol's tombstone company. 20s of the 20th century.

Alexander Kuprin

In the bowels of the earth

Sharply breaking the charm of this steppe morning, the usual six-hour whistle is buzzing at the Gololobovskaya mine, buzzing endlessly, hoarsely, with annoyance, as if complaining and angry. This sound is heard now louder, now weaker; sometimes it almost freezes, as if breaking off, choking, going underground, and suddenly breaks out again with a new, unexpected force.

On the vast verdant horizon of the steppe, only this mine with its black fences and an ugly tower sticking out above them reminds of man and human labor. Long red pipes smoked from above spew, without stopping for a second, clouds of black, dirty smoke. From afar, one can still hear the frequent ringing of hammers striking iron, and the lingering rumble of chains, and these disturbing metallic sounds take on some kind of stern, inexorable character in the silence of a clear, smiling morning.

Now the second shift should go down underground. Two hundred people crowd in the mine yard between piles of large pieces of shiny coal. Faces completely black, soaked in coal, not washed for whole weeks, rags of various colors and types, props, bast shoes, boots, old rubber galoshes and simply bare feet - all this was mixed up in a motley, fussy, noisy mass. Exquisitely ugly aimless swearing interspersed with hoarse laughter and a choking, convulsive, drunken cough hangs in the air.

But little by little the crowd dwindles, pouring into a narrow wooden door, above which is nailed a white plaque with the inscription: "Lamp". The lamproom is packed full of workers. Ten people, sitting at a long table, are constantly filling with oil glass bulbs, dressed on top in protective wire cases. When the light bulbs are completely ready, the lampmaker puts a piece of lead into the ears connecting the top of the case to the bottom and flattens it with one pressure of massive tongs. Thus, it is achieved that the miner cannot open the light bulbs until the very exit back from the ground, and even if the glass breaks by accident, the wire mesh makes the fire completely safe. These precautions are necessary because a special combustible gas accumulates in the depths of coal mines, which instantly explodes from fire, there have been cases when hundreds of people died from careless handling of fire in the mines.

Having received a light bulb, the miner goes into another room, where the senior timekeeper marks his name on the daily list, and two henchmen carefully examine his pockets, clothes and shoes to find out if he is carrying cigarettes, matches or flint.

After making sure that there are no forbidden things, or simply not finding them, the timekeeper briefly nods his head and throws abruptly: “Come in.”

Then, through the next door, the miner enters a wide, long covered gallery located above the “main shaft”.

In the gallery there is an ebullient bustle of change. In a square hole leading into the depths of the mine, they walk on a chain thrown high above the roof through a block, two iron platforms. At the time when one of them rises, the other descends a hundred fathoms. The platform, as if miraculously, pops out of the ground, loaded with trolleys with wet coal, freshly torn from the bowels of the earth. In an instant, the workers pull the trolleys off the platform, put them on the rails and run them to the mine yard. The empty platform is immediately filled with people. A conventional sign is given to the engine room by an electric bell, the platform shudders and suddenly disappears from sight with a terrible roar, falls into the ground. A minute passes, then another, during which nothing is heard except the chugging of the car and the clanging of the running chain, and another platform - but no longer with coal, but chock-full of wet, black and shivering people - flies out of the ground, as if thrown upward by some mysterious, invisible and terrible force. And this change of people and coal continues quickly, precisely, monotonously, like the progress of a huge machine.

Vaska Lomakin, or, as the miners called him, generally fond of biting nicknames, Vaska Kirpaty, stands over the opening of the main shaft, which constantly spews people and coal from its depths, and, with its mouth slightly open, looks intently down. Vaska is a twelve-year-old boy with a face completely black from coal dust, on which blue eyes look naively and trustingly, and with a funny upturned nose. He, too, must now go down into the mine, but the people of his party have not yet gathered, and he is waiting for them.

Vaska still cannot get used to coal work and miner's customs and habits. The magnitude and complexity of the mining business overwhelms his mind, poor in impressions, and, although he does not realize this, the mine seems to him some kind of supernatural world, the abode of dark, monstrous forces. The most mysterious creature in this world is undoubtedly the machinist.

Here he is sitting in his greasy leather jacket, with a cigar in his teeth and with gold glasses on his nose, bearded and frowning. Vaska can see it perfectly through the glass partition that separates the engine room. What is this person? Yes, complete: and is he still a man? Here he, without leaving his seat and without letting go of his cigar, touched a button, and in an instant a huge machine, still motionless and calm, came in, the chains rattled, the platform flew down with a roar, the whole wooden structure of the mine shook. Surprisingly! .. And he sits to himself as if nothing had happened and smokes. Then he pressed another bump, pulled on some steel stick, and in a second everything stopped, calmed down, calmed down ... “Maybe he knows such a word?” - Vaska thinks not without fear, looking at him.

The other is a mysterious and, moreover, a man invested with extraordinary power - the senior foreman Pavel Nikiforovich. He is a complete master in the dark, damp and terrible underground kingdom, where among the deep darkness and silence the red dots of distant lanterns flicker. On his orders, new galleries are being built and slaughterings are being made.

Pavel Nikiforovich is very handsome, but taciturn and gloomy, as if communication with underground forces has left a special, mysterious seal on him. His physical strength has become a legend among the miners, and even such “lucky” lads as Bukhalo and Vanka Grek, who give the tone to the violent direction of minds, speak of the senior foreman with a touch of reverence.

But immeasurably higher than Pavel Nikiforovich and the machinist is the director of the mine, the Frenchman Karl Frantsevich, in Vaska's opinion. Vaska does not even have comparisons by which he could determine the size of the power of this superman. He can do everything, absolutely everything in the world, whatever he wants. From the wave of his hand, from his one glance, the life and death of all these timekeepers, foremen, miners, loaders and carriers, who feed by the thousands near the plant, depend. Wherever his tall straight figure and pale face with black shiny mustaches are shown, one immediately feels a general tension and confusion. When he speaks to a person, he looks him straight in the eyes with his cold large eyes, but he looks as if he is looking through this person into something that he alone can see. Previously, Vaska could not imagine that people like Karl Frantsevich existed in the world. It even smells somehow special, some amazing sweet flowers. Vaska caught this smell once, when the director passed him two steps away, of course, not even noticing the tiny boy who stood without a hat, with his mouth open, following with frightened eyes the rushing earthly deity.

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Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin

In the bowels of the earth

Early spring mornings are cool and dewy. Not a cloud in the sky. Only in the east, where the sun is now emerging in a fiery glow, are the gray predawn clouds still crowding, turning pale and melting every minute. The whole boundless expanse of the steppe seems to be showered with fine golden dust. In the dense stormy grass here and there trembling, shimmering and flashing with multi-colored lights, large dew diamonds. The steppe is cheerfully full of flowers: the gorse turns bright yellow, bluebells modestly turn blue, fragrant chamomile turns white with whole thickets, wild carnation burns with crimson spots. The bitter, healthy scent of wormwood mingles with the gentle, almond-like scent of dodder in the morning chill. Everything shines and basks and joyfully reaches for the sun. Only in some places, in deep and narrow beams, between steep cliffs overgrown with sparse shrubs, wet bluish shadows still lie, reminding of the bygone night. High in the air, invisible to the eye, larks tremble and ring. The restless grasshoppers have long ago raised their hasty, dry chatter. The steppe woke up and came to life, and it seems as if it is breathing deep, even and powerful sighs.

Sharply breaking the charm of this steppe morning, the usual six-hour whistle is buzzing at the Gololobovskaya mine, buzzing endlessly, hoarsely, with annoyance, as if complaining and angry. This sound is heard now louder, now weaker: sometimes it almost stops, as if breaking off, choking, going underground, and suddenly bursts out again with a new, unexpected force.

But little by little the crowd dwindles, pouring into a narrow wooden door, above which is nailed a white plaque with the inscription: "Lamp". The lamproom is packed full of workers. Ten people, sitting at a long table, are constantly filling with oil glass bulbs, dressed on top in protective wire cases. When the light bulbs are completely ready, the lampmaker puts a piece of lead into the ears connecting the top of the case to the bottom and flattens it with one pressure of massive tongs. Thus, it is achieved that the miner cannot open the light bulbs until the very exit back from the ground, and even if the glass breaks by accident, the wire mesh makes the fire completely safe. These precautions are necessary because combustible gas accumulates in the depths of the coal mines, which instantly explodes from the fire: there have been cases when hundreds of people died from careless handling of fire in the mines.

After making sure that there are no forbidden things, or simply not finding them, the timekeeper briefly nods his head and throws abruptly: “Come in.”

Then, through the next door, the miner enters a wide, long covered gallery located above the “main shaft”.

In the gallery there is an ebullient bustle of change. In a square hole leading into the depths of the mine, they walk on a chain thrown high above the roof through blocks, two iron platforms. While one of them rises, the other descends a hundred fathoms. The platform, as if miraculously, pops out of the ground, loaded with trolleys with wet coal, freshly torn from the bowels of the earth. In an instant, the workers pull the trolleys off the platform, put them on the rails and run to the mine yard. The empty platform is immediately filled with people. A conventional sign is given to the engine room by an electric bell, the platform shudders and suddenly disappears from sight with a terrible roar, falls into the ground. A minute passes, then another, during which nothing is heard except the chugging of the machine and the clanging of the running chain, and another platform, but not with coal, but chock-full of wet, black and shivering people, flies out of the ground, as if thrown up by some mysterious, invisible and terrible force. And this change of people and coal continues quickly, precisely, monotonously, like the progress of a huge machine.

Vaska Lomakin, or, as the miners called him, generally loving biting nicknames, Vaska Kirpaty, stands over the opening of the main shaft, which constantly spews people and coal from its bowels, and, slightly half-opening his mouth, looks intently down. Vaska is a twelve-year-old boy with a face completely black from coal dust, on which blue eyes look naively and trustingly, and with a funny upturned nose. He, too, must now go down into the mine, but the people of his party have not yet gathered, and he is waiting for them.

Another mysterious and, moreover, invested with extraordinary power is the senior foreman Pavel Nikiforovich. He is a complete master in the dark, damp and terrible underground kingdom, where among the deep darkness and silence the red dots of distant lanterns flicker. On his orders, new galleries are being built and slaughterings are being made.

- Hey, Kirpaty, climb up, or something! - Vaska heard a rude hail above his ear.

Vaska started up and rushed to the platform. The party in which he was an assistant sat down. Actually, he had two closest bosses: Uncle Khryashch and Vanka Grek. Together with them, he was placed on the same bunk in a common barracks, he constantly worked with them in the mine and, with them, carried in free time numerous domestic duties, which included mainly running to the nearest tavern "Date of Friends" for vodka and cucumbers. Uncle Cartilage was one of the old miners, exhausted and depersonalized by long overwork. He had no difference between a good deed and an evil deed, between a riotous stunt and a cowardly hiding behind someone else's back. He slavishly followed the majority, unconsciously listened to the strong and crushed the weak, and in the miners' environment, despite his advanced years, he did not enjoy either respect or influence. Vanka the Greek, on the contrary, to a certain extent led public opinion and the strong passions of the entire barracks, where the most weighty arguments were a splintered word and a strong fist, especially if he was armed with a heavy and sharp pick.

If in such a brutal environment Vanka the Greek enjoyed some comparative respect, then this to a certain extent speaks of his moral qualities. He was able to work for whole weeks, without looking up from his work, with some kind of embittered persistence, in order to spend all the money earned by this inhuman labor in one night. Sober, he was uncommunicative and silent, and when drunk, he hired a musician, took him to a tavern and forced him to play, while he sat opposite him, drank vodka in glasses and cried. Then he suddenly jumped up with a twisted face and bloodshot eyes and began to "spread". He didn’t care what or whom to spread, the nature enslaved by long labor asked for an outcome ... Ugly, bloody fights began in all parts of the plant and continued until a dead sleep fell this unbridled man from his feet.

But - strange as it may seem - Vanka the Greek showed Kirpaty something that looked like care, or rather, attention. Of course, this attention was expressed in a harsh and rude form and was accompanied by bad words, without which a miner can not do even in his best moments, but, undoubtedly, this attention existed. So, for example, Vanka the Greek arranged a boy in the very the best place on the bunk, feet to the stove, despite the protest of Uncle Khryashch, to whom this place used to belong. On another occasion, when a miner who was on a spree wanted to take fifty dollars from Vaska by force, Grek defended Vaska's interests. "Leave the boy," he said calmly, rising slightly on the bunk. And these words were accompanied by such an eloquent look that the miner burst into a stream of selective abuse, but nevertheless stepped aside.

Five more people climbed onto the platform along with Vaska. A signal rang out, and at the same moment Vaska felt an extraordinary lightness in his whole body, as if wings had grown behind him. Trembling and rattling, the platform flew down, and past it, merging into one continuous gray strip, the brick wall of the well rushed upwards. Then immediately there was a deep darkness. Light bulbs barely flickered in the hands of silent bearded miners, shuddering at the uneven shocks of the falling platform. Then Vaska suddenly felt himself flying not down, but up. This strange physical deception is always experienced by unaccustomed people at the time when the platform reaches the middle of the trunk, but for a long time Vaska could not get rid of this false sensation, which always made him slightly dizzy.

The platform quickly and gently slowed down and stood on the ground. From above, underground springs flowed down to the main shaft in a waterfall, and the miners quickly ran off the platform to avoid this heavy rain.

People in oilcloth cloaks, with hoods on their heads, rolled full trolleys onto the platform. Uncle Cartilage threw to one of them: “Great, Terekha,” but he did not deign to answer him, and the party dispersed in different directions.

Each time, finding himself underground, Vaska felt some kind of silent, oppressive melancholy take possession of him. Those long black galleries seemed endless to him. From time to time, somewhere in the distance, a pitiful pale red dot, the light of a lamp flickered and disappeared suddenly, and again appeared. The footsteps sounded dull and strange. The air was unpleasantly damp, stuffy and cold. Sometimes the murmur of running water was heard behind the side walls, and in these faint sounds Vaska caught some ominous, menacing notes.

Vaska followed Uncle Khryashch and Grek. Their light bulbs, swinging by hand, threw dull yellow spots on the slippery, moldy log walls of the gallery, in which three ugly, indistinct shadows whimsically darted back and forth, now disappearing, now stretching to the ceiling. Involuntarily, all the bloody and mysterious legends of the mine surfaced in Vaska's memory.

Here fell asleep collapse of four people. Three of them were found dead, but the corpse of the fourth was never found: they say that his spirit sometimes walks around gallery No. 5 and cries plaintively ... There, in the third year, one miner smashed his comrade's head with a pick, who refused him a sip of vodka, smuggled underground. They also talked about an old worker who, many years ago, got lost in galleries that were familiar to him like the back of his hand. He was found only three days later, exhausted from hunger and gone mad. It was said that "someone" took him through the mine. This "someone" - terrible, nameless and impersonal, like the underground darkness that gave birth to him - undoubtedly exists in the depths of the mines, but no real miner will ever talk about him, either sober or drunk. And every time Vaska, walking behind his party, thinks about "him", he feels on his body someone's quiet, cold breath, throwing him into a shiver.

- Well, Vanka, did you have a good walk? Uncle Cartilage asked searchingly, turning towards Grek as he walked.

The Greek did not answer and only spat contemptuously through his teeth. The day before, he had not come to work for five whole days, drinking his two-month salary sullenly and ugly. During all this time he had hardly slept at all, and now his nerves were excited to an extreme degree.

- Well, yes, my brother, well, there is nothing to say, - Uncle Cartilage did not let up. - How did you bark at the ten's manager? Very well…

“Don’t itch,” the Greek snapped shortly.

“Why itch, I don’t itch,” answered Uncle Cartilage, who was most offended by the fact that he did not manage to take part in yesterday’s revelry. “Only, my brother, you can’t escape the office now. They will call you, dear friend, to the calculation. It's like giving a drink...

- Get off!

- What's left behind. This, my dear, is not like twisting billiards in a tavern. Sergey Trifonych said just that: let him, he says, he will now ask me well. Let...

- Shut up, dog! Grek suddenly turned sharply to the old man, and his eyes glittered angrily in the darkness of the gallery.

- What do I do! I’m fine, I’m silent,” Uncle Cartilage hesitated.

It was almost a mile and a half to the place of work. Turning off the main highway, the party walked for a long time in narrow cranked galleries. In some places I had to bend down so as not to touch the ceiling with my head. The air grew damper and more suffocating every minute.

Finally they reached their lava.

In its narrow and cramped space, it was impossible to work either standing or sitting, it was necessary to beat the coal while lying on your back, which is the most difficult and difficult kind of mining art. Uncle Cartilage and Grek slowly and silently undressed, remaining naked to the waist, hooked their light bulbs on the ledges of the walls and lay down next to each other. The Greek felt very unwell. Three sleepless nights and prolonged poisoning with bad vodka painfully made themselves felt. A dull pain was felt all over his body, as if someone had beaten him with a stick, his hands obeyed with difficulty, his head was so heavy, as if it had been stuffed with coal. However, the Greek would never have dropped the dignity of a miner, betraying his morbid condition with something.

Silently, concentratedly, with clenched teeth, he drove a pick into the fragile, ringing coal. At times he seemed to forget. Everything disappeared from his eyes: the low lava, and the dull sheen of coal fractures, and the flabby body of Uncle Cartilage lying next to him. The brain seemed to fall asleep in moments, in the head monotonously, nauseatingly annoying, the motives of yesterday's hurdy-gurdy sounded, but the hands continued their usual work with strong and dexterous movements. Beating off layer after layer above his head, the Greek almost unconsciously moved higher and higher on his back, leaving his weak comrade far behind him.

Fine coal sprayed from under his pick, showering his sweaty face. Having turned out a large piece, Grek only lingered for a minute to push it away with his foot, and again went off to work with vicious energy. Vaska had already managed to fill the wheelbarrow twice and take it to the main highway, where the coal mined in the side galleries was dumped in common heaps. When he returned empty for the second time, he was struck from a distance by some strange sounds coming from a hole in the lava. Someone moaned and wheezed, as if he were being choked by the throat. At first, the thought flashed through Vaska's head that the miners were fighting. He stopped in fright, but the excited voice of Uncle Cartilage called out to him:

What have you become, puppy? Come here soon.

Vanka the Greek fought on the ground in terrible convulsions. His face turned blue, foam appeared on his tightly compressed lips, his eyelids were wide open, and instead of eyes, only huge spinning whites were visible.

Uncle Cartilage was completely at a loss, he kept touching the Greek by the cold, trembling hand and saying in a pleading voice:

- Yes, Vanka ... but stop it ... well, it will be, it will be ...

It was a terrible attack of epilepsy. An unknown terrible force tossed the whole body of the Greek, contorting him into ugly, convulsive poses.

He either arched, resting only on his heels and the back of his head on the ground, then he fell heavily down with his body, writhed, touching his chin with his knees, and stretched out like a stick, trembling with every muscle.

“Ah, Lord, here is the story,” Uncle Cartilage muttered in fright. “Vanka, stop it… listen… Oh, my God, how is it all of a sudden?.. Wait a minute, Kirpaty,” he suddenly remembered, you stay to watch over him here, and I’ll run after the people.

- Uncle, what about me? Vaska drawled plaintively.

- Well, talk to me again! It is said - sit down, and the matter is over, - Cartilage shouted menacingly.

He hurriedly grabbed his undershirt and, as he walked, putting it on in his sleeves, he ran out of the gallery. Vaska was left alone over the Grek, who was beating in a fit. How much time had passed while he sat huddled in a corner, filled with superstitious horror and afraid to move, he could not tell. But little by little, the convulsions that ruffled the body of the Greek became less and less frequent. Then the wheezing stopped, the terrible whites closed their eyelids, and suddenly, taking a deep breath with his whole chest, Grek stretched out motionless.

Now Vaska is even more terrified. "God, are you dead?" thought the boy, and at the very thought of it a terrible cold ruffled the hair on his head. Barely catching his breath, he crawled up to the patient and touched his bare chest. She was cold, but still rose and fell slightly noticeably.

“Uncle Grek, and Uncle Grek,” whispered Vaska.

The Greek did not respond.

- Uncle, get up. Let me take you to the hospital. Uncle!..

Somewhere in the near gallery, hurried footsteps were heard. “Well, thank God, Uncle Khryashch is back,” Vaska thought with relief.

However, it was not Uncle Cartilage.

Some unfamiliar miner looked into the lava, illuminating it with a lamp held high above his head.

– Who is here? Come upstairs live! he shouted excitedly and commandingly.

- Uncle, - Vaska rushed to him, - uncle, something happened to the Greek here! .. He lies and does not say anything.

The miner brought his face close to Grek's. But he smelled of a sharp stream of wine fumes.

“Ek got him,” he shouted, shaking the sick man’s arm. Get up, they tell you. In the third issue, a collapse happened. Listen, Vanka!

The Greek mumbled something incomprehensible, but did not open his eyes.

- Well, I have no time to get excited with him, with a drunk! the miner exclaimed impatiently. - Wake him up, little one. Yes, just faster. Not even an hour, and you will collapse. Disappear then like rats...

His head disappeared into a dark lava hole. After a few seconds, his frequent footsteps also subsided.

Vaska had an amazingly vivid picture of the horror of his situation. Millions of poods of earth hanging over his head can collapse at any moment. They will collapse and crush like a midge, like a speck of dust. If you want to shout, you won’t be able to open your mouth… If you want to move, your arms and legs are crushed by the ground…

And then death, terrible, merciless, inexorable death...

Vaska, in desperation, rushes to the lying miner and shakes him by the shoulders with all his might.

- Uncle Greek, uncle Greek, wake up! he screams, exerting all his strength.

Behind the walls - both on the right and on the left side - his sensitive ear catches the sounds of heavy, randomly hasty steps. All shifts run to the exit, seized by the same horror that has now taken possession of Vaska. For a moment, Vaska has the thought of leaving the sleeping Greek to the mercy of fate and running headlong himself. But immediately some incomprehensible, extremely complex feeling stops him. With an imploring cry, he again begins to pull the Greek by the hands, by the shoulders and by the head.

But the head obediently sways from side to side, the raised hand falls with a thud. At this moment, Vaska's eyes notice the coal wheelbarrow, and a happy thought illuminates his head. With terrible efforts, he lifts from the ground a heavy, heavy body, like that of a dead man, and dumps it on a wheelbarrow, then throws his lifelessly hanging legs over the walls and with difficulty rolls the Greek out of the lava. The galleries are empty.

Somewhere far ahead, the clatter of the last belated workers is heard. Vaska runs, making incredible efforts to keep his balance. His thin childish arms were stretched out and stupefied, there was not enough air in his chest, some kind of iron hammers were knocking in his temples, fiery wheels were spinning quickly before his eyes. Stop, rest a little, take it more comfortably with exhausted hands.

"No I can not!"

The inevitable death is chasing after him, and he already feels the breath of her wings behind him.

Thank God, the last turn! In the distance, the red fire of torches illuminating the lifting machine flashed.

People crowd on the platform.

Hurry, hurry!

One last, desperate effort... What is it, Lord! The platform rises... now it has disappeared completely.

"Wait! Stop!”

A hoarse cry flies out of Vaska's lips. The fiery wheels before the eyes flash into a monstrous flame. Everything collapses and falls with a deafening roar...

Vaska comes to his senses upstairs. He lies in someone's sheepskin coat, surrounded by a whole crowd of people. Some fat gentleman is rubbing Vaska's temples. Director Karl Frantsevich is also present here. He catches Vaska's first meaningful glance, and his stern lips whisper approvingly:

– Oh, mon brave garcon! Oh, you brave boy!

Of course, Vaska does not understand these words, but he has already managed to make out Grek's pale and anxious face in the back rows of the crowd. The look that these two people exchange binds them for life with strong and tender bonds.

In the bowels of the earth. Kuprin A story for children to read

Early spring morning - cool and dewy. Not a cloud in the sky. Only in the east, where the sun is now emerging in a fiery glow, are the gray predawn clouds still crowding, turning pale and melting every minute. The whole boundless expanse of the steppe seems to be showered with fine golden dust. In the dense lush grass here and there trembling, shimmering and flashing with multi-colored lights, large dew diamonds. The steppe is cheerfully full of flowers: the gorse turns bright yellow, bluebells modestly turn blue, fragrant chamomile turns white with whole thickets, wild carnation burns with crimson spots. The bitter, healthy smell of wormwood mixed with the gentle, almond-like aroma of dodder is diffused in the morning coolness. Everything shines and basks and joyfully reaches for the sun. Only in some places, in deep and narrow beams, between steep cliffs overgrown with sparse shrubs, wet bluish shadows still lie, reminding of the bygone night. High in the air, invisible to the eye, larks tremble and ring. The restless grasshoppers have long ago raised their hasty, dry chatter. The steppe woke up and came to life, and it seems as if it is breathing deep, even and powerful sighs.
Sharply breaking the charm of this steppe morning, the usual six-hour whistle is buzzing at the Gololobovskaya mine, buzzing endlessly, hoarsely, with annoyance, as if complaining and angry. This sound is heard now louder, now weaker; sometimes it almost freezes, as if breaking off, choking, going underground, and suddenly breaks out again with a new, unexpected force.
On the vast verdant horizon of the steppe, only this mine with its black fences and an ugly tower sticking out above them reminds of man and human labor. Long red pipes smoked from above spew, without stopping for a second, clouds of black, dirty smoke. From afar, one can still hear the frequent ringing of hammers striking iron, and the lingering rumble of chains, and these disturbing metallic sounds take on some kind of stern, inexorable character in the silence of a clear, smiling morning.
Now the second shift should go down underground. Two hundred people crowd in the mine yard between piles of large pieces of shiny coal. Faces completely black, soaked in coal, not washed for whole weeks, rags of various colors and types, props, bast shoes, boots, old rubber galoshes and simply bare feet - all this was mixed up in a motley, fussy, noisy mass. Exquisitely ugly aimless swearing interspersed with hoarse laughter and a choking, convulsive, drunken cough hangs in the air.
But little by little the crowd dwindles, pouring into a narrow wooden door, above which is nailed a white plaque with the inscription: "Lamp". The lamproom is packed full of workers. Ten people, sitting at a long table, are constantly filling with oil glass bulbs, dressed on top in protective wire cases. When the light bulbs are completely ready, the lampmaker puts a piece of lead into the ears connecting the top of the case to the bottom and flattens it with one pressure of massive tongs. Thus, it is achieved that the miner cannot open the light bulbs until the very exit back from the ground, and even if the glass breaks by accident, the wire mesh makes the fire completely safe. These precautions are necessary because a special combustible gas accumulates in the depths of coal mines, which instantly explodes from fire, there have been cases when hundreds of people died from careless handling of fire in the mines.
Having received a light bulb, the miner goes into another room, where the senior timekeeper marks his name on the daily list, and two henchmen carefully examine his pockets, clothes and shoes to find out if he is carrying cigarettes, matches or flint.
After making sure that there are no forbidden things, or simply not finding them, the timekeeper briefly nods his head and throws abruptly: “Come in.”
Then, through the next door, the miner enters a wide, long covered gallery located above the “main shaft”.
In the gallery there is an ebullient bustle of change. In a square hole leading into the depths of the mine, they walk on a chain thrown high above the roof through a block, two iron platforms. At the time when one of them rises, the other descends a hundred fathoms. The platform, as if miraculously, pops out of the ground, loaded with trolleys with wet coal, freshly torn from the bowels of the earth. In an instant, the workers pull the trolleys off the platform, put them on the rails and run them to the mine yard. The empty platform is immediately filled with people. A conventional sign is given to the engine room by an electric bell, the platform shudders and suddenly disappears from sight with a terrible roar, falls into the ground. A minute passes, another, during which nothing is heard except the chugging of the machine and the clanging of the running chain, and another platform - but no longer with coal, but chock-full of wet, black and shivering people, flies out of the ground, as if thrown up by some mysterious, invisible and terrible force. And this change of people and coal continues quickly, precisely, monotonously, like the progress of a huge machine.
Vaska Lomakin, or, as the miners called him, generally loving biting nicknames, Vaska Kirpaty, stands over the opening of the main shaft, which constantly spews people and coal from its bowels, and, slightly half-opening his mouth, looks intently down. Vaska is a twelve-year-old boy with a face completely black from coal dust, on which blue eyes look naively and trustingly, and with a funny upturned nose. He, too, must now go down into the mine, but the people of his party have not yet gathered, and he is waiting for them.

Vaska was only six months old when he came from a distant village. The ugly revelry and unbridled life of a miner had not yet touched his pure soul. He does not smoke, does not drink, and does not speak foul language, like his fellow workers, who all without exception get drunk on Sundays to the point of insensibility, play cards for money and do not let cigarettes out of their mouths. In addition to "Kirpaty", he also has the nickname "Mamkin", given to him because, entering the service, to the question of the foreman: "You, pig, whose will you be?", He naively answered: "A mamkin!" caused an explosion of thunderous laughter and a frantic stream of admiring abuse from the entire shift.
Vaska still cannot get used to coal work and miner's customs and habits. The magnitude and complexity of the mining business overwhelms his mind, poor in impressions, and, although he does not realize this, the mine seems to him some kind of supernatural world, the abode of dark, monstrous forces. The most mysterious creature in this world is undoubtedly the machinist.
Here he is sitting in his greasy leather jacket, with a cigar in his teeth and with gold glasses on his nose, bearded and frowning. Vaska can see it perfectly through the glass partition that separates the engine room. What is this person? Yes, complete: and is he still a man? Here he, without leaving his seat and without letting go of his cigar, touched a button, and in an instant a huge machine, still motionless and calm, came in, the chains rattled, the platform flew down with a roar, the whole wooden structure of the mine shook. Surprisingly! .. And he sits to himself as if nothing had happened and smokes. Then he pressed another bump, pulled on some steel stick, and in a second everything stopped, calmed down, calmed down ... “Maybe he knows such a word?” - Vaska thinks not without fear, looking at him.
The other is a mysterious and, moreover, a man invested with extraordinary power, senior foreman Pavel Nikiforovich. He is a complete master in the dark, damp and terrible underground kingdom, where among the deep darkness and silence the red dots of distant lanterns flicker. On his orders, new galleries are being built and slaughterings are being made.
Pavel Nikiforovich is very handsome, but taciturn and gloomy, as if communication with underground forces has left a special, mysterious seal on him. His physical strength has become a legend among the miners, and even such “lucky” lads as Bukhalo and Vanka Grek, who give the tone to the violent direction of minds, speak of the senior foreman with a touch of reverence.
But immeasurably higher than Pavel Nikiforovich and the machinist is the director of the mine, the Frenchman Karl Frantsevich, in Vaska's opinion. Vaska does not even have comparisons by which he could determine the size of the power of this superman. He can do everything, absolutely everything in the world, whatever he wants. From the wave of his hand, from his one glance, the life and death of all these timekeepers, foremen, miners, loaders and carriers, who feed by the thousands near the plant, depend. Wherever his tall straight figure and pale face with black shiny mustaches are shown, one immediately feels a general tension and confusion. When he speaks to a person, he looks him straight in the eyes with his cold large eyes, but he looks as if he is looking through this person into something that he alone can see. Previously, Vaska could not imagine that people like Karl Frantsevich existed in the world. It even smells somehow special, some amazing sweet flowers. Vaska caught this smell once, when the director passed him two steps away, of course, not even noticing the tiny boy who stood without a hat, with his mouth open, following with frightened eyes the rushing earthly deity.
- Hey, Kirpaty, climb up, or something! - Vaska heard a rude hail above his ear.
Vaska started up and rushed to the platform. The party in which he was an assistant sat down. Actually, he had two closest bosses: Uncle Khryashch and Vanka Grek. Together with them, he was placed on the same bunk in a common barracks, with them he constantly worked in the mine and with them he also carried out numerous household duties in his spare time, which included mainly running to the nearest tavern "Date of Friends" for vodka and cucumbers. Uncle Cartilage was one of the old miners, exhausted and depersonalized by long overwork. He had no difference between a good deed and an evil deed, between a riotous stunt and a cowardly hiding behind someone else's back. He slavishly followed the majority, unconsciously listened to the strong and crushed the weak, and in the miners' environment, despite his advanced years, he did not enjoy either respect or influence. Vanka the Greek, on the contrary, to a certain extent led public opinion and the strong passions of the entire barracks, where the most weighty arguments were a splintered word and a strong fist, especially if he was armed with a heavy and sharp pick.

Kylo (hailo) - a tool for knocking coal out of the rock. (Author's note)

In this world of stormy, ardent, desperate natures, each mutual clash took on an exaggeratedly sharp character. The barracks resembled a huge cage, crammed full of predatory beasts, where to be confused, to show a moment of indecision - was equal to death. An ordinary business conversation, a comradely joke turned into a terrible explosion of hatred. People who had just been talking peacefully jumped wildly from their seats, their faces turned pale, their hands convulsively clutched the handle of a knife or hammer, terrible curses flew out of their trembling, swollen lips along with splashes of saliva ... In the first days of his life as a miner, being present at such scenes, Vaska was completely paralyzed with fear , feeling his chest go cold and his hands become weak and wet.
If in such a brutal environment Vanka the Greek enjoyed some comparative respect, then this to a certain extent speaks of his moral qualities. He was able to work for whole weeks, without looking up from his work, with some kind of embittered persistence, in order to spend all the money earned by this inhuman labor in one night. Sober, he was uncommunicative and silent, and when drunk, he hired a musician, took him to a tavern and forced him to play, while he sat opposite him, drank vodka in glasses and cried. Then he suddenly jumped up with a twisted face and bloodshot eyes and began to "spread". What or whom to smash - he didn't care; nature, enslaved by long labor, asked for an outcome ... Ugly, bloody fights began in all parts of the plant and continued until a dead dream fell down this unbridled man.
But - strange as it may seem - Vanka the Greek gave Kirpaty something that looked like care, or rather, attention. Of course, this attention was expressed in a harsh and rude form and was accompanied by bad words, without which a miner can not do even in his best moments, but, undoubtedly, this attention existed. So, for example, Vanka the Greek arranged the boy in the best place on the bunk, with his feet to the stove, despite the protest of Uncle Khryashch, to whom this place used to belong. On another occasion, when a miner who was on a spree wanted to take fifty dollars from Vaska by force, Grek defended Vaska's interests. "Leave the boy," he said calmly, rising slightly on the bunk. And these words were accompanied by such an eloquent look that the miner burst into a stream of selective abuse, but nevertheless stepped aside.
Five more people climbed onto the platform along with Vaska. A signal rang out, and at the same moment Vaska felt an extraordinary lightness in his whole body, as if wings had grown behind him. Trembling and rattling, the platform flew down, and past it, merging into one continuous gray strip, the brick wall of the well rushed upwards. Then immediately there was a deep darkness. Light bulbs barely flickered in the hands of silent bearded miners, shuddering at the uneven shocks of the falling platform. Then Vaska suddenly felt himself flying not down, but up. This strange physical deception is always experienced by unaccustomed people at the time when the platform reaches the middle of the trunk, but for a long time Vaska could not get rid of this false sensation, which always made him slightly dizzy.
The platform quickly and gently slowed down and stood on the ground. From above, underground springs flowed down to the main shaft in a waterfall, and the miners quickly ran off the platform to avoid this heavy rain.
People in oilcloth cloaks, with hoods on their heads, rolled full trolleys onto the platform. Uncle Cartilage threw to one of them: “Great, Terekha,” but he did not deign to answer him, and the party dispersed in different directions.
Each time, finding himself underground, Vaska felt some kind of silent, oppressive melancholy take possession of him. Those long black galleries seemed endless to him. From time to time, somewhere in the distance, a pitiful pale red dot, the light of a lamp flickered and disappeared suddenly, and again appeared. The footsteps sounded dull and strange. The air was unpleasantly damp, stuffy and cold. Sometimes the murmur of running water was heard behind the side walls, and in these faint sounds. Vaska caught some ominous, threatening notes.
Vaska followed Uncle Khryashch and Grek. Their light bulbs, swinging by hand, threw dull yellow spots on the slippery, moldy log walls of the gallery, in which three ugly, indistinct shadows whimsically darted back and forth, now disappearing, now stretching to the ceiling. Involuntarily, all the bloody and mysterious legends of the mine surfaced in Vaska's memory.
Here fell asleep collapse of four people. Three of them were found dead, and the body of the fourth was never found; they say that his spirit sometimes walks around gallery No. 5 and cries plaintively ... There, in the third year, a miner smashed his comrade's head with a pick, who refused him a sip of vodka smuggled underground. They also talked about an old worker who, many years ago, got lost in galleries that were familiar to him like the back of his hand. He was found only three days later, exhausted from hunger and gone mad. It was said that "someone" took him through the mine. This “someone”, terrible, nameless and impersonal, like the underground darkness that gave birth to him, undoubtedly exists in the depths of the mines, but not a single real miner will ever talk about him, either sober or drunk. And every time when Vaska, walking behind his party, thinks “about him”, he feels on his body someone’s quiet, cold breath, throwing him into a shiver.
- Well, Vanka, did you have a good walk? - Uncle Cartilage asked searchingly, turning towards Grek as he walked.
The Greek did not answer and only spat contemptuously through his teeth. The day before, he had not come to work for five whole days, drinking his two-month salary sullenly and ugly. During all this time he had hardly slept at all, and now his nerves were excited to an extreme degree.
“N-yes, my brother, well, there’s nothing to say,” Uncle Cartilage did not let up. - How did you bark at the ten's manager? Very well…
"Don't itch," the Greek snapped shortly.
“Why itch, I don’t itch,” answered Uncle Cartilage, who was most offended by the fact that he did not manage to take part in yesterday’s revelry. - But only, my brother, you can’t escape the office now. They will call you, dear friend, to the calculation. It's like giving a drink...
- Get off!
- What's left behind. This, my dear, is not like twisting billiards in a tavern. Sergey Trifonych said just that: let him, he says, he will now ask me well. Let...
- Shut up, dog! Grek suddenly turned sharply to the old man, and his eyes glittered angrily in the darkness of the gallery.
- What do I do! I'm fine, I'm silent, - Uncle Cartilage hesitated.
It was almost a mile and a half to the place of work. Turning off the main highway, the party walked for a long time in narrow cranked galleries. In some places I had to bend down so as not to touch the ceiling with my head. The air grew damper and more suffocating every minute. Finally they reached their lava. In its narrow and cramped space it was impossible to work either standing or sitting; I had to beat the coal lying on my back, which is the most difficult and difficult kind of mining art. Uncle Cartilage and Grek slowly and silently undressed, remaining naked to the waist, hooked their light bulbs on the ledges of the walls and lay down next to each other. The Greek felt very unwell. Three sleepless nights and prolonged poisoning with bad vodka painfully made themselves felt. A dull pain was felt all over his body, as if someone had beaten him with a stick, his hands obeyed with difficulty, his head was so heavy, as if it had been stuffed with coal. However, the Greek would never have dropped the dignity of a miner, betraying his morbid condition with something.
Silently, concentratedly, with clenched teeth, he drove a pick into the fragile, ringing coal. At times he seemed to forget. Everything disappeared from his eyes: the low lava, and the dull sheen of coal fractures, and the flabby body of Uncle Cartilage lying next to him. The brain seemed to fall asleep in moments, in the head monotonously, nauseatingly annoying, the motives of yesterday's hurdy-gurdy sounded, but the hands continued their usual work with strong and dexterous movements. Beating over his head layer after layer. The Greek almost unconsciously moved higher and higher on his back, leaving his weak comrade far behind him.
Fine coal sprayed from under his pick, showering his sweaty face. Having turned out a large piece, Grek only lingered for a minute to push it away with his foot, and again with vicious energy went to work. Vaska had already managed to fill the wheelbarrow twice and take it to the main highway, where the coal mined in the side galleries was dumped in common heaps. When he returned empty for the second time, he was struck from a distance by some strange sounds coming from a hole in the lava. Someone moaned and wheezed, as if he were being choked by the throat. At first, the thought flashed through Vaska's head that the miners were fighting. He stopped in fright, but the excited voice of Uncle Cartilage called out to him:
- What have you become, puppy? Come here soon.
Vanka the Greek fought on the ground in terrible convulsions. His face turned blue, foam appeared on his tightly compressed lips, his eyelids were wide open, and instead of eyes, only huge spinning whites were visible.
Uncle Cartilage was completely at a loss, he kept touching the Greek by the cold, trembling hand and saying in a pleading voice:
- Yes, Vanka ... but stop it ... well, it will be, it will be ...
It was a terrible attack of epilepsy. An unknown terrible force tossed the whole body of the Greek, contorting him into ugly, convulsive poses.
He either arched, resting only on his heels and the back of his head on the ground, then he fell heavily down with his body, writhed, touching his chin with his knees, and stretched out like a stick, trembling with every muscle.
“Ah, Lord, here’s the story,” Uncle Cartilage muttered in fright. “Vanka, stop it… listen… Oh, my God, how is it all of a sudden?.. Wait a minute, Kirpaty,” he suddenly remembered, “you stay to watch over him here, and I’ll run after the people.
- Uncle, what about me? Vaska drawled plaintively.
- Well, talk to me again! It is said - sit down, and that's it, - Uncle Cartilage shouted menacingly.
He hurriedly grabbed his undershirt and, as he walked, putting it on in his sleeves, he ran out of the gallery.
Vaska was left alone over the Grek, who was beating in a fit. How much time had passed while he sat huddled in a corner, filled with superstitious horror and afraid to move, he could not tell. But little by little, the convulsions that ruffled the body of the Greek became less and less frequent. Then the wheezing stopped, the terrible whites closed their eyelids, and suddenly, taking a deep breath with his whole chest, Grek stretched out motionless.
Now Vaska is even more terrified. "God, are you dead?" - thought the boy, and from this very thought, a terrible cold ruffled the hair on his head. Barely catching his breath, he crawled up to the patient and touched his bare chest. She was cold, but still rose and fell slightly noticeably.
- Uncle Greek, and uncle Greek, - whispered Vaska.
The Greek did not respond.
- Uncle, get up! Let me take you to the hospital. Uncle!..
Somewhere in the near gallery, hurried footsteps were heard. “Well, thank God, Uncle Khryashch is back,” Vaska thought with relief.
However, it was not Uncle Cartilage.
Some unfamiliar miner looked into the lava, illuminating it with a lamp held high above his head.
- Who is here? Come upstairs live! he shouted excitedly and commandingly.
- Uncle, - Vaska rushed to him, - uncle, something happened to the Greek here! .. He lies and does not say anything.
The miner brought his face close to Grek's. But he only smelled of a sharp stream of wine fumes.
“Ek got him,” the miner waved his head. - Hey, Vanka the Greek, get up! he shouted, shaking the patient's hand. - Get up, or something, they tell you. In the third issue, a collapse happened. Listen, Vanka!
The Greek mumbled something incomprehensible, but did not open his eyes.
- Well, I have no time with him, with a drunk, to get excited! exclaimed the miner impatiently. - Wake him up, kid. Yes, just faster. Not even an hour, and you will collapse. Disappear then like rats...
His head disappeared into a dark lava hole. After a few seconds, his frequent footsteps also subsided.
Vaska had an amazingly vivid picture of the horror of his situation. Millions of poods of earth hanging over his head can collapse at any moment. They will collapse and crush like a midge, like a speck of dust. If you want to shout, you won’t be able to open your mouth… If you want to move, your arms and legs are crushed by the ground… And then death, terrible, merciless, inexorable death…
Vaska, in desperation, rushes to the lying miner and shakes him by the shoulders with all his might.
- Uncle Greek, uncle Greek, wake up! he shouts, exerting all his strength.
Behind the walls - both on the right and on the left side - his sensitive ear catches the sounds of heavy, chaotically hasty steps. All the shifts run to the exit, seized by the same horror that Vaska has now taken possession of. For a moment, Vaska has the thought of leaving the sleeping Greek to the mercy of fate and running headlong himself. But immediately some incomprehensible, extremely complex feeling stops him. With an imploring cry, he again begins to pull the Greek by the hands, by the shoulders and by the head.
But the head obediently sways from side to side, the raised hand falls with a thud. At this moment, Vaska's eyes notice the coal wheelbarrow, and a happy thought illuminates his head. With terrible efforts, he lifts from the ground a heavy, heavy body, like that of a dead man, and dumps it on a wheelbarrow, then throws his lifelessly hanging legs over the walls and with difficulty rolls the Greek out of the lava.
The galleries are empty.
Somewhere far ahead, the clatter of the last belated workers is heard. Vaska runs, making incredible efforts to keep his balance. His thin childish arms were stretched out and stupefied, there was not enough air in his chest, some kind of iron hammers were knocking in his temples, fiery wheels were spinning quickly before his eyes. Stop, rest a little, take it more comfortably with exhausted hands.
"No I can not!"
The inevitable death is chasing after him, and he already feels the breath of her wings behind him.
Thank God, the last turn! In the distance, the red fire of torches illuminating the lifting machine flashed.
People crowd on the platform.
Hurry, hurry!
One last, desperate effort...
What is it, Lord! The platform rises... now it has disappeared completely.
"Wait! Stop!”
A hoarse cry flies out of Vaska's lips. The fiery wheels before the eyes flash into a monstrous flame. Everything collapses and falls with a deafening roar...
Vaska comes to his senses upstairs. He lies in someone's sheepskin coat, surrounded by a whole crowd of people. Some fat gentleman is rubbing Vaska's temples. Director Karl Frantsevich is also present here. He catches Vaska's first meaningful glance, and his stern lips whisper approvingly:
- Oh! mon brave garcon! Oh, you brave boy!
Of course, Vaska does not understand these words, but he has already managed to make out Grek's pale and anxious face in the back rows of the crowd. The look that these two people exchange binds them for life with strong and tender bonds.

Picture or drawing In the bowels of the earth

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