Готовый перевод Среди растений и животных (Андрей Платонов) / Among animals and plants: 1

In the mist of morning wilderness a man with a hunting rifle walked amid the low-growing forest. This hunter was a bit pocked in his face, but still handsome and young. In this time of year there was an uncertain odour of warmth and dampness air in forests, because of the rising plants' breathing and due to the putrefaction of leaves, being for a long time dead.

One could not see a lot, but it was pleasant to walk alone and to think unimportantly, or, to the contrary, one can forget himself in slack. The forest was situated on a slope of a moderate mountain; among emaciated short birches here and there were large stones, this soil was scanty and poor, only clay and moist earth. Nevertheless, threes and grasses lived in this land for a long time, enduring its misery.

The hunter paused sometimes, that case he heard a muddy polyphonic hum, full with life of midge, petty birds, worms, ants, and a rustle of earth, whom these inhabitants vex and budge for eating and functioning. The forest resembled a big town, where the hunter never was, but imagined it for a long time. Only once he traveled near Petrozavodsk, though, without getting inside...

The forest was flooded of wails, squeaks, and faint mumbles. That could mean bliss and satisfaction, and, also, blight; in the fog, the wet leaves of a birch glow by an inner, green light of their existence, in the silence of stewing earth's exhalation been swaying with imperceptible insects.

Some distant and minor animal whimpered meekly in its hide; probably, it quivered there for the fright of its own existence, in fear of falling into the gladness of its heart, who sees the fascination of the world; being afraid to take a rare and short unexpected opportunity for living, because silent predators could detect it and eat.

The steam-engine whistle, thin and distant, torn by the wind from motion, sounded in the forests and in the mist like plaintive voice of an exhausted running man. "That's Polar Arrow!" - the hunter said. "It's a long distance runner, music keeps playing in the carriages there, intelligent people travel there, they drink bottled rose water and tell their tellings."

The hunter got bored in the forest, he sat down by a stump and leaned his rifle against a tree like something useless. It was a pity to him that he did not know any science, didn't travel by trains equipped with electricity, hadn't seen Moscow and just once had he smelled perfume from the bottle owned by the wife of the tenth passing track chief. All he had to do was wandering in the misty forest filled with insects, plants and with lack of culture, while some splendid trains were there running into the distance.

"Be it beast or bird - I'll kill whatever appears here!" - the hunter made up his mind. But still just some tiny, weakling creatures, useless for that battle, were making noise and buzz around him.

Zealous ants under the burden of their routine load were creeping before the hunter like small respectable people: vile creatures with kulakish temper - all their life they carry goods to their kingdom, exploit every lonesome big or small beast they get along, know nothing about cares of this world and only live for the sake of their greedy self-focused well-being.

For example, currently the ants were taking away in parts the body of a late old worm; in addition to their milking of green-flies and drinking milk, they also like to eat somebody else's beef. The hunter once got to see two ants dragging iron shavings back from the railway.

They appear to also need iron. They assemble their world crumb by crumb to make a single heap. The hunter trampled down the ants closest to himself and left that place in order not to hurt his heart anymore. He resembled his father who just like him always got angry when hunting, made war with beasts and birds as if they were his worst enemies, spent the evil of his heart away and came back home a kind and sensible family man.

Other people while hunting, on the contrary, walked on grass with their tender soul open, they killed the beasts with love, and with trembling enjoyment they caressed the flowers and trees with their hand, but at home they lived with irritation among people, again missing the wildlife, where they had felt like bosses due to their rifles.

"Hunting means either stupidity or misery, Sergey Semionovich," - his father used to tell him (just after his son reached eighteen, father started to address him by both first and second name). "Have you seen that - a man sitting alone by the lake; he uses worm by worm to cheat that foolish creature in the water: son of a bitch! Another one takes his rifle and goes to the forest: like, I don't need anybody, live without me as you like, and I'll feed myself, I'll enjoy myself alone... His dog is his friend, not you and me..."

When Sergey Semionovich was a child, his father showed him faces of killed jackrabbits and birds – they were meek, sometimes even clever, one didn't want them to eat, but afterwards it was necessary.

His father economically ate bagged animals and birds, even wisely, accustoming his children to do the same, for a perished bounty of nature turns into a benefit, not vanishing for nothing. He recommended to acquire not only replete from the flesh and the bones of the killed, but also a good soul, strength of heart and thought.

So, if you can not take its best goods from a bird or an animal, and you want only feed yourself, then eat only grass in shchi or bread tjurja. His father thought that animal and bird are worth souls in the world, and the love to them is an economical deal.

Sergey Semionovich lifted his riffle. Something stirred in low nearby grass. He walked thereto a bit. That happened to be a little hare, even whelp; almost as a human being it sat and rapidly chew, assisting itself with forepaws. Then it wiped its mouth by the same forepaws and promptly started to respire with clear, healthy air. It was fatigued by livelihood procuring from its infancy: its parents, probably, had died and it was living as an orphan.

The hare didn't notice the presence of the hunter, or it didn't understand an importance of that. Recovered, the hare loped and disappeared. Sergey Semionovich didn't kill it because it was too little and so useless for food, and it was a pity, the hare is still a child, but already a toiler. Let him breath.

Soon, Sergey Semionovich arrived at a glade. The same petty pudgy hare-infant burrowed there in the soil, with its forepaws procuring rootlets or dropped last year's cabbage leaf. It was diligently occupied by worry of its life, for it should grow and a desire of eating persisted for all times.

Had eaten what had been found on the ground, the hare started to play with its tail, then three pads with the forth, than with remains of dead wood bark, with bits of its scraps, and even with the empty air, trying to catch it with forepaws.

Had found a pool of water, the hare quenched its thirst, its damp eyes had look around, then it lay down in a pit, curled up into the warmth of its body and dozed off. Its already tasted all enjoyments of the life: its ate, sipped, breathed, viewed environs, experienced a pleasure, played and felt asleep.

Sergey Semionovich remembered how in his childhood he gazed on sleeping dogs, cats, and hens, with amazement and caution. Their mouths grinded and pronounced blissful sounds, sometimes they were slightly opening blinded, because of forgetfulness, eyes, closing them, they were stirring, muffling up in the warmth of their bodies and they were groaning with sweetness and peace of their existence in this slumber.

The hunter approached the little hare, picked it up and put it in his bosom; the hare squeaked and did not awake, but even more rolled up and warmed to the body of the man, though it was fresh and fervent itself.

On the Lobskaya Mount, there was a village in four izba, as a constellation of barren stars. One of them was was stoking with smoke going to the air, and on the roof of another one a man was sitting, his size was about the half of izba, he was staring on the Onezskoye lake, on the remote place.

A man on the roof was advanced in years, but shaven, with scraped painstaking faces as a wealthy or scientist. He combined his kolkhoz position with a service for Academy of Sciences, as a hydrometeorology station – for measurements of the water and storms.

Now he was watching the lake, observing there a wind or whatever other signs and events, important for the science. Sergey Semionovich also wanted to have such a duty, but it required to be shaved, write and communicate, however he was not good at that and felt shy.

Izbas were small, poor and uncoloured in this village, but at the same time it was cosily to live there, that is because they seem to be sufficient, even spacious, though the dwelling is modest. The hunter entered the worst izba, which had no appearance.

The wooden roof, overgrown with moss, of that izba had sweated, its low wreaths intered in the ground, as if they were returning to the depth of their own place, and therefrom, from the very underbody of the izba, two new faint branches were growing, they will be mighty oaks and, one day, they will eat somewhere in their roots the ashes of this outresided, consumed by the wind, the rain and the mankind, dwelling.

This izba was in the center of empty homestead, enclosed by a high pale, stones from Onega, piled up together by throwing, rusty sheets of roofing iron, likely having taken here from a remote town by a tempest; then, other worthless or accidental material.

This paling did not stay any longer : the stones were tumbling down, pales tilted, long since frozen and rotted in the soil. These izba and paling were looking like widow-orphan asylum, but there was a big, robust family -- listless, then, or discordant with itself.

But that was not true: the superior person in this farm, Semion Kirillovich, the father of Sergey Semionovich, worked on a lumber mill and looked forward to build soon anew, and give up the old izba for the roots of young oak could eat it. The old man headed for the better ages of life, and decided to pity and forget the time already lived.

All the family was at home. Father was putting a radio in order, which he had said he got as a bonus one month ago. In reality, he took this one-tube receiver for the zavcom's payment in instalments, and for the good of his wife he said at home that the radio is a bonus; Although the old man was only a factory's watchman, he also deserved respect in his family and dreamed about national gentility.

However, his old lady recovered all the truth soon, for which respect this radio was obtained, what could be hidden from an old, experienced wife.

Sergey Semiovich placed the leveret under the stove and picked up his ten-month daughter in his arms; she already can stand up on her feet and she was learning to move without assistance; in sixteen-eighteen years she will also be a bride and will start to give birth as well, nut meanwhile, let she grow and relax in parents' arms.

--So, why have you brought only one hare? -- said the young wife of Sergey Semionovich -- You have a family, you must think walking. There are squirrels, hazel hens, black grouses are living there, but you have borne only a leveret. You only spend the capsules, better your to buy something new for our house...

Sergey Semionovich became melancholic in these home conditions. He imagined long range express trains, light of the electricity behind the curtains of coaches' windows, merry music there, which he was hearing sometimes, pressing on the counterbalance of switch.

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/51708/218355

Переводчики: nikaan, Alex_ander