Chapter 11 "Prairie" IV

Four Solomon despised this mysterious and mysterious Varlamov, but everyone talked about him so much that even the beautiful countess wanted him, so who was he?It was this man that Yegorushka, who was half asleep, sat next to Deniska on the driver's seat, was thinking of.He had never seen the man, but he had often been heard of, and often pictured in his imagination.He knew that Varlamov had tens of thousands of dessiatines of land, a hundred thousand sheep, and a lot of money.Of his manner of life and occupation, Yegorushka knew only that he was always "walking about the neighborhood," and was always being sought out.

At home Yegorushka had also heard a great deal about Countess Dranitskaya.She also has tens of thousands of acres of land, many sheep, a horse farm, and a lot of money, but she doesn't "travel around", but lives on her own rich manor.Ivan Ivanitch, who had been to the countess's house more than once for business purposes, told other acquaintances many interesting stories about the estate, for example, they told: The royal statues of the Polish emperors in the past dynasties, there is a big clock, the clock is made into the shape of a cliff, on the cliff stands a golden horse, embedded with gemstone eyes, raising its front hooves, and a golden knight sits on the horse, every time the bell rings , he swung his saber left and right.It is said that the countess gave balls about twice a year, and invited nobles and civil servants from all over the province, including Varlamov.All the guests drink tea from a silver samovar, they eat all kinds of treasures (for example, in winter, and at Christmas, they can eat marlin fruit and strawberries), the guests dance to the music, and the band arrives every day. Music played non-stop at night. ... "How beautiful she is!" thought Yegorushka to himself, remembering her face and her smile.

Kuzmichov was probably also thinking about the countess, because the car had driven two versts, but he said: "That Kazimir Mikhailovich really sucks at her! Remember, I told her the year before last." When he was buying wool, he made about three thousand on a lot I bought." "It is impossible to think of the Poles otherwise," said Father Christopher. "But she doesn't mind at all. They say she's young and stupid. Very confused!" For some reason Yegorushka could only think of Varlamov and the countess, and especially of the countess.His drowsy head rejected ordinary thoughts at all, filled with a cloud, only kept the grotesque images in mythology, they have a kind of convenience, as if they will be born in the brain automatically, without the need for thinking people. As long as I shake my head vigorously, those images will automatically disappear again, without a trace.Moreover, nothing around him could give rise to ordinary thoughts in him.On the right is a stretch of black mountains, as if hiding something mysterious and frightening.On the left horizon the whole sky was covered with red clouds, and no one could tell whether it was because of a fire somewhere or because the moon was about to rise.As in the daytime, the distance can still be seen clearly, but the soft lavender, covered by the shadow of the evening, is gone.The whole steppe was in the shadows, like Moisey Moiseich's children were under the covers.

In July evenings and nights, the quail and the crake had ceased to cry, the nightingales had ceased to sing in the forested glens, and the scent of flowers was gone.But the prairie is still beautiful and full of life.No sooner had the sun set, no sooner had darkness settled over the land than the boredom of the day was forgotten, all was forgiven, and the steppe let out a sigh of relief from its broad breast.As if because the grass could not see its own aging in the dark, there rose from the meadow a cheerful and youthful chirping sound that could not be heard in the daytime; , alto, and treble, making up a continuous, monotonous noise. In that noise, meditating on the past, melancholy and sad, it is very comfortable.The monotonous chirping sound lulls you to sleep like a lullaby; you are sitting in the car and feel that you are going to fall asleep, but suddenly from somewhere there is a short and disturbing cry from a bird that is not asleep, Or hear an unknown voice, like someone shouting in surprise: "Ah!" Then sleepiness closes your eyelids again.Or, if you drive through a canyon where bushes grow, you will hear a bird called a "sleeping bird" by the residents of the grassland, calling someone: "I'm sleeping! I'm sleeping! I'm sleeping." !” Another bird was heard laughing or crying hysterically, an owl.For whom they cry, and who on this plain hears them, only God knows, but there is much sorrow and resentment in their calls. ... There is an aroma of straw, dead grass, and late-blooming flowers in the air, but the aroma is strong, sweet, and gentle.

Everything could be seen through the shadows, but the colors and outlines of things were difficult to distinguish.Everything becomes different from what it should be.You are walking in a car, and suddenly you see a black figure standing beside the road ahead, like a monk. He stood motionless, waiting, with something in his hand. ...Don't be a bandit, right?The shadow is getting closer and bigger, and now it is beside the carriage, and you realize that it is not a person, but a solitary bush or a big stone.This steady, waiting figure stands on a low hill, hides behind a tomb, and pokes its head out of the weeds.They are all human-like and suspicious.

The moon came up, and the night grew pale and feeble.The shadows seemed to have dissipated.The air was transparent, fresh, and warm; everything could be seen clearly, and even the grass stalks on the side of the road could be discerned.Skulls and stones can be seen in the clearing in the distance.Against the bright background of the moonlit night, the suspicious monk-like figure appeared darker and seemed more melancholy.In the monotonous calls were more and more frequently interjected "Ah!—Ah!" from an unknown source, disturbing the still air, and the cries of sleepless or sleepy birds could be heard. .Broad shadows swim across the plain as clouds swim across the sky.In that unfathomable distance, if you gazed at it long enough, you could see vague, grotesque shapes rising up and piled on top of each other... It was a little eerie.One has only to look at the greenish starry sky, and see that the sky is neither cloud nor stained, to understand why the warm air is still, and why nature is so careful, not daring to move, trembling and reluctant to lose Even if it is a moment of life.As for the immeasurable depth and boundlessness of the sky, people can only experience it by sailing on the sea and the night scene of the grassland under the moonlight.The sky is terrible, beautiful, kind, lazy, seductive, and dizzy with its lingering affection.

You drove for an hour, two hours. ... You come across a silent ancient tomb or a stone in the shape of a man, and God knows when and by whose hand that stone was put there.Nocturnal birds flew soundlessly across the earth.Gradually, you recalled the legends of the prairie, the stories of travelers, the myths told by the nurse who lived in the prairie for a long time, and all kinds of things that your soul can imagine and understand.Then, in the chirping insects, in the suspicious figures, in the ancient tombs, in the blue sky, in the moonlight, in the night birds' flight, in everything you see and hear, you begin to feel The triumph of beauty, the vigor of youth, the growth of strength and the desire to survive.The soul responds to the call of its beautiful and austere homeland, and longs to soar over the steppes with the nightbird.In the triumph of beauty, in the exuberance of happiness, there is tension and sorrow, as if the grassland knows that it is alone, that its wealth and inspiration are wasted to the world, no one sings about it, and no one needs it .Amidst the joyful noise, people heard the sad and hopeless cry of the steppe: "Singer! Singer!"Singer!

"Hey! Hello, Panteley! Is everything all right?" "Thank God, Ivan Ivanitch!" "Have you seen Varlamov, my fellows?" "No, we didn't see it." Yegorushka woke up and opened his eyes.The car stopped.On the right side of the main road, there is a long line of freight cars stretching forward into the distance, and many people are walking around the cars.All the wagons, loaded with bales of wool, looked tall and chubby, while the horses looked small and short. "Very well, then, let's go to the Morokan faction now!" Kuzmitchov exclaimed. "The Jews say that Varlamov is going to spend the night with the Molokans.

That being the case, see you later, guys!May the Lord be with you! " "Good-bye, Ivan Ivanitch!" several voices answered. "By the way, boys," Kuzmitchov shouted again hastily, "take this little boy of mine with you! Why should he be jolted by the car with us for nothing? Let him go." Over the bales in your cart, Panteley, let him walk slowly, but we're going. Get down, Yegor! Go, it's all right! . . . " Yegorushka got out of the driver's seat. down.Several hands grabbed him and lifted him high into the air, and then he found himself on top of something big, soft, dewy, and slightly damp.At this time, he felt that the sky was close to him, and the land was far away from him.

"Hey, get the coat!" cried Deniska from a distance below. His overcoat and small bundle were thrown up from below and landed beside Yegorushka. He didn't want to think too much, so he quickly put the burden under his head, covered his body with the overcoat, straightened his legs, shrugged his shoulders slightly because of the dew, and smiled with satisfaction. "Sleep, sleep, sleep..." he thought. "Don't treat him badly, you ghosts!" he heard Deniska say from below. "Good-bye, fellows! The Lord be with you!" cried Kuzmitchov. "I'm counting on you guys!"

"Don't worry, Ivan Ivanitch!" Deniska yelled at the horses, and the carriage creaked and rolled, but instead of going along the road, it went somewhere beside it.Then there was a silence of about two minutes, as if the convoy had fallen asleep, and the only sound that could be heard in the distance was the clinking of the iron barrel tied to the back of the carriage, gradually fading away.Then someone at the head of the convoy shouted, "Kiruha! On the road!" The front truck creaked, then the second, and the third. ... Yegorushka felt the wagon in which he was lying shake and creak.The convoy set off, and Yegorushka clutched the ropes that tied the woolen bales, laughed again with satisfaction, put away the honey cakes in his pocket, and fell asleep as usual in his bed at home. ... When he woke up, the sun had already risen, and an ancient tomb blocked the sun, but the sun tried its best to sprinkle light on the world, and shot light in all directions, making the horizon filled with golden light.It seemed to Yegorushka that the sun was in the wrong place, because yesterday it had risen behind him, but now it was far to the left. ...and the whole scene is not like yesterday.The mountains are gone.No matter which way you looked, in every direction, there were endless brown, listless plains.On the plain, here and there are some small graves, and the rooks flew here and there again yesterday.In the distance ahead, the bell tower and farmhouses of a village were white.It happened to be Sunday, and the Ukrainians were at home, baking bread and cooking, as could be seen in the black smoke rising from every chimney, which hung over the village like a blue-gray transparent curtain.In the clearing between the two rows of farmhouses, behind the church, a blue river emerged, with the foggy distance beyond.But nothing has changed more than the road since yesterday.Something extraordinarily broad, unrestrained, majestic and powerful stretched out on the grassland and became a road.It was a long gray strip, trampled by horses and people, covered with dust, like all roads, except that the road surface was several tens of azhangs wide.The vastness of the road puzzled Yegorushka and aroused in him fabulous fantasies.Who travels this way? Who needs such an open world?This is really incomprehensible and weird.In fact, those giants with big strides, such as Ilya Mulomets and the thief Solovy, may still live in Rus, and their tall horses are not dead. Yegorushka looked at the road and fancied six tall chariots galloping abreast, as seen in illustrations of biblical stories.Each chariot was drawn by half a dozen wild horses, their tall wheels churning up billows of smoke into the sky, driven by the kind of people only seen in dreams or in mythical fantasies. .If there are such people, how well they fit the prairie and the road! On the right side of the avenue, the pole with two strands of wires stretched to the end of the avenue.They got smaller and smaller, entered the village, disappeared behind the farmhouses and green trees, and then reappeared in the lavender distance, very small and thin sticks, like pencils stuck in the ground.Eagles, falcons, and crows stopped on the wires, watching the moving truck convoy with cold eyes. Yegorushka lay on the last wagon and could see the whole train of wagons.There are a total of twenty trucks in the truck convoy, and there must be a driver for every three trucks.Beside the last wagon in which Yegorushka was lying walked an old man with a white beard, thin and short like Father Christopher, but with a stern face browned by the sun. , pensive face.It is probable that the old man was not stern or brooding, but his red eyelids and long pointed nose gave his face a stern expression that one who is used to being alone with serious things all the time There will be such an expression.Like Father Christopher, he wore a wide-brimmed top hat, but not the one the master wore, but made of brown felt, and looked more like a cut-off hat than a top hat. A pointed cone.He is barefoot.Probably because he walked next to the truck in the cold winter, and he might freeze more than once, so he developed a habit of always patting his thighs and stomping his feet when he walked.Seeing Yegorushka awake, he looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and said, as if afraid of the cold, "Oh, wake up, boy! Are you Ivan Ivanitch's son?" "No, I'm his nephew. . . . " "Ivan Ivanitch's nephew? Look, now I've taken off my boots, and I'm jumping around in bare feet. My feet are sore, I've been through the cold, and I feel better without boots. . . . Well, boy.... So you're his nephew? He's a good man, all right. . . . God bless him with health. . . . All right. . . . I mean Ivan Ivanitch. . . . he has gone to the Molokans. . . . O Lord, have mercy on us!" The old man seemed to be afraid of the cold when he spoke, intermittently, and refused to open his mouth readily.His lip articulation was bad, and he slurred, as if his lips were frozen.He never smiled when he spoke to Yegorushka, and looked stern. In front, two trucks away, there was a man walking, wearing a long khaki coat, a peaked cap, and high boots with sagging boots, holding a whip in his hand.This person is not old, about forty years old.When he turned his head, Yegorushka saw a long, red face with a thin goatee and a spongy growth under his right eye.Aside from the unsightly tumor, there was another feature of his that was very noticeable: he held a whip in his left hand and waved it with his right, as if conducting an invisible choir.From time to time he tucked the whip under his arm, and then directed with both hands, humming something to himself. The coachman ahead was a slender, straight man with sloping shoulders and a back as flat as a plank.He straightened himself as if he were marching, or swallowed a ruler.His arms didn't swing back and forth, but hung down like two straight wooden sticks.When he walked, his legs were like logs, like a toy soldier, almost without bending his knees, but he took as long as he could; every two steps the old man or the man with the spongy tumor took, he Just one step, so it looked as if he was going slower than them and lagging behind.A rag was tied over his face, and on his head there was something raised up that looked like a monk's bonnet.He wore a Ukrainian-style jacket full of patches, dark blue fat trousers with loose legs, and a pair of bark shoes on his feet. Yegorushka could not see the coachmen far ahead.He leaned on the cart, digging a small hole in the wool bales, and had nothing to do, pulling out the wool to weave and play with.The old man walking under him was not as stern and serious as people imagined from his expression.Once he opened his mouth to speak, he couldn't stop talking. "Where are you going?" he asked, stomping his feet. "To school," replied Yegorushka. "Go to school? Well... well, Holy Mother bless you. Yes. One brain is all right, but two are better. God gives one brain, another two, and another three. . . . Give another man three brains, that's true. . . . One was born with it, another from school, and a third from the good life. So you see, little brother, It would be nice if a man could have three brains. Not only could he live comfortably, but he could die comfortably. Die comfortably too. . . . We're all going to die." The old man scratched his forehead, looked up at Yegorushka with his red eyes, and went on: "Master Maxine Nikolaitch, who came from Slavyannoselbsk last year, Takes his little boy to school, too. Don't know how he's doing there, but he's all right, all right. . . . God bless them, those good gentlemen. Oh, and he's taking the kids too Go to school... There must be no schools in Slavyannoselbsk. No.... But that city is pretty good, very good.... There are ordinary schools for ordinary people to study, and when it comes to schools for learning , there's nothing there. . . . There's nothing, that's true. What's your name?" "Egorushka." "Then the rectified name is Yegoli. . . . Holy martyr, Yegoli the victor, whose feast day is the 23rd of April. My Christian name is Panteley. . . . Harov Khorodov... We are the Khorodov family. . Work in the city, but I'm a farmer. . . . I've always been a farmer. I went there about seven years ago. . . . That is, I went home. Been there too....I mean, been to Chimu. Back then, thank God, they were all alive and strong, but now I don't know....Someone might be dead....Damn it too because everyone is getting old, some older than me. It's okay to die, and it's good to be dead, but, of course, you can't die without confession. There's nothing worse than dying without time for confession. Yes. Only the devil likes a violent death. If you want to die after confession, so as not to be denied access to the Lord's Temple, then pray to Varvara the Martyr. She intercede. She is such a person, This is true. . . . because God has appointed her such a place in heaven that every one has the full right to pray to her and to demand the ritual of penance." Panteley was busy chattering to himself, obviously not caring whether Yegorushka was listening or not.He talked languidly, talking to himself, neither raising nor lowering his voice, but was able to say a great deal in a short time.What he said was composed entirely of fragments, so little connected with each other, that Yegorushka found it utterly devoid of interest.Perhaps he spoke these words only because, after a night of silence, he needed to examine his thoughts in the morning to see if they were all there.After he had finished the confession, he began to talk about Maxine Nikolaitch of Slavyanoserbsk. "By the way, he took the little boy. . . . He took it, it's true. ..." A coachman who was walking far ahead suddenly left his original place, ran aside, and whipped the ground with his whip.He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of about thirty, with curly blond hair, obviously powerful, and well-built.Judging by the action of his shoulders and whip, and the ferocity of his posture, he was striking something alive.Another driver ran up to him, a squat little man with a big black beard, wearing a waistcoat and a shirt with the bottom of his shirt not tucked into his trousers.The coachman laughed in a low, coughing voice, and cried: "Boys, Dymov killed a poisonous snake! Really!" There are some people whose intelligence can be rightly judged by their voice and laughter alone.The man with the black beard was just such a lucky man.From his voice and laughter, it can be heard that he is extremely stupid.When the blond-haired Dymov finished beating, he picked up a rope-like thing from the ground with his whip, laughed, and threw it beside the car. "It's not a poisonous snake, it's a grass snake!" Someone shouted. The man who walked like a log with a rag on his face walked quickly to the dead snake, took a look, raised his stick-like arm, and clapped his hands together. "You prisoner!" he cried in a low, mournful voice. "Why did you kill the little snake? What did it do to you, damn you? Look, he killed a little snake! What would you do if someone beat you like that?" "You shouldn't kill the grass snake, it's true..." Panteley muttered calmly. "It shouldn't be killed....It's not a poisonous snake. Although it looks like a snake, it is actually a gentle and harmless thing....It likes people....Grass snakes are like this..." Dymov and the man with the black beard must have felt ashamed, for they laughed loudly and walked lazily back to their van without answering the complaints.When a van behind came to the place where the dead snake was lying, the man with the rags on his face leaned close to the grass snake, bent down, turned to Panteley and asked in a tearful voice: "My lord, why did he fight?" Kill this grass snake?" Only then did Yegorushka see that his eyes were small and dim, that his face was pale and sickly, as if dim, and that his chin was red and swollen, as it were. "Master, why did he kill it?" he repeated, walking side by side with Panteley. "He was a fool and had an itchy hand, that's why he killed it," answered the old man. "But the grass snake shouldn't be killed. . . . It's true. . . . Dymov is a troublemaker, everyone knows, and kills everything he comes across, and Kiruha didn't stop him. He should have stopped him. , but he said 'hahaha' and 'hohoho'. ... But you, Vasya, don't be angry either. ...why be angry?Just kill him, let him go. ...Dymov was a troublemaker, and Kiruha was like that because he was confused. ……nothing. ...they are ignorant fools, let them be.Ye Meiliyan never touches what he shouldn't touch. ... He never touches it, that's true. …Because he was an educated man, and they, stupid. ...Emelyan is different. ...he won't touch it. " The coachman in the earth-colored overcoat with the spongy bump, who was conducting an invisible choir, stopped when his name was mentioned, and waited for Panteley and Vasya to approach, and followed him. They move forward side by side. "What are you talking about?" he asked in a hoarse, breathless voice. "Here, Vasya is angry here," said Panteley. "So, I talked to him to calm him down. . . . Oh, my cold feet hurt! Ouch, Ouch!Just because today is Sunday, the Lord's feast day, my feet hurt even more! " "That came out," said Vasya. "No, boy, no. . . . It's not out of the way. It's more comfortable when I'm walking. Once I lie down and warm up, it will kill me. It's easier for me to walk." Emelyan, in a khaki overcoat, walked between Panteley and Vasya, waving his arms as if they were about to sing.After a short effort, he lowered his arm and let out a dry cough in despair. "My throat is broken!" he said. "What a misfortune! Last night, and all this morning, I've been thinking about that trilogy of hymns "Lord have mercy," which we sang at the Malinowskis' wedding; it's in my In my head, right at the mouth of my throat... as if I wanted to sing, but I really wanted to, but I couldn't! My voice is broken!" He was silent for a minute, thought of something, and went on: "I have sung in the choir for fifteen years, and there is probably no one in the whole Luhansk factory with a voice as good as mine. But, hell, the year before last I was in the I took a bath in the Donets River, and since then I can’t even sing a note correctly. My throat got cold. I lost my voice, just like a worker without his hands.” "It is true," agreed Panteley. "As for myself, I know I'm a hopeless man. It's over." At that moment Vasya happened to see Yegorushka.His eyes became oily and smaller than before. "So there is a young master walking with us!" He covered his nose with his sleeve, as if shy. "What a noble coachman! Stay and work with us, and you can also drive the cart and transport the wool." When he thought of a man who was both the young master and the coachman at the same time, he probably found it strange and interesting, because he laughed out loud and continued to develop his idea.Yemeliyan also looked up at Yegorushka, but only casually and coldly.He was thinking about his own thoughts, and if Vasya hadn't mentioned it, he probably wouldn't have noticed such a person as Yegorushka.Before five minutes had elapsed, he waved his arms again, and described to his companions the beauty of the wedding song "Lord have mercy," which he had thought of that night.He tucked the whip under his arm and waved his arms. The convoy of wagons stopped a verst from the village by a well with a water boom.Kiruha the Blackbeard put the bucket into the well, put his belly against the wall, bent over it, and thrust his shaggy head, shoulders, and part of his chest into the black hole, so that Yegorushka could only see His short legs barely touched the ground.He saw the shadow of his head reflected in the water at the bottom of the deep well, cheered up, and let out a low, goofy laugh, echoed by the same echo from the well.When he stood up, his face and neck were as red as red cloth.The first one to run to drink water was Dymov.He drank water with a smile on his face, and often turned his head away from the bucket and told Kiruha something funny, and then he turned around and uttered five ugly words so loudly that the whole steppe could hear See.Yegorushka did not understand the meaning of such words, but he knew very well that they were bad.He knew his relatives and acquaintances harbored a silent distaste for those words.For some reason he felt that way himself, and had always thought that only the drunk and the rough had the privilege of saying those words aloud.Hearing Dymov's laughter, he thought of the brutal murder of the grass snake, and felt a feeling of hatred for this man.As it happened, Dymov caught sight of Yegorushka at that very moment, who had already gotten out of the carriage and was walking towards the well.He laughed loudly and called out, "Boys, the old man gave birth to a boy last night!" Kiruha laughed in his bass voice, coughing until he laughed.Someone else laughed too.Yegorushka blushed and concluded that Dymov was a very bad man. Dymov, with curly blond hair, hatless and shirt open, looked handsome and very strong.From his every move, it can be seen that he loves to make trouble, has great strength, and knows his own abilities.He twisted his shoulders, put his hands on his waist, and talked and laughed louder than anyone else, as if he was going to lift a heavy object with one hand and shock the world.His haughty, mocking eyes darted up and down the avenue, the van, the sky, refusing to rest on anything, as if he wanted someone to punch him, or something, because he had nothing to do. Come to make fun of it.He was clearly afraid of no one, nothing could stop him, and he probably didn't care at all what Yegorushka thought of him. ... But Yegorushka hated his golden hair, his smooth face, his strength from the bottom of his heart, listened to his laughter with loathing and horror, and was already determined to find some curse to get back at him up. Panteley also came to the bucket.He took out of his pocket a little green cup, which had been the ever-burning lamp before the statue of the god, and he wiped it clean with a little rag, and filled the bucket with water, and drank, and refilled, and drank , then wrap it in a rag and put it in your pocket. "Grandfather, why do you drink from a lamp?" asked Yegorushka in surprise. "Some people drink water from a bucket, and some people drink water from a lamp," the old man faltered. "Everyone has their own rules.... You drink water from the bucket, okay, then drink your fill..." "You baby, you little beauty!" Vasya suddenly caressed said in a tearful tone, "O my dear!" His eyes gazed into the distance, they became oily and smiling, and his face had the same expression as when he had just looked at Yegorushka. "Who are you talking to?" Kiruha asked. "I'm talking about a cute little fox... lying there playing on his back like a puppy..." Everyone began to look into the distance, looking for the fox, but they couldn't see anything. Only Vasya saw something with his cloudy gray eyes, and was fascinated by it.His eyes were very sharp, as Yegorushka learned later.He sees so far that the desolate brown prairie is always full of life and content to him.He had only to look far away to see a fox, or a hare, or a bustard, or some other animal that kept away from man.It is not unusual to see a running hare or a flying bustard. Anyone who walks through the grassland can see it, but not everyone has the ability to see that those who are not running and hiding, nor are they in a hurry. Look around, but at wild animals living a domestic life. But Vasya could see foxes playing, hares washing their faces with their little paws, bustards pecking their feathers, and bustards crawling out of their eggs.Because of his sharp eyes, in addition to the world that everyone sees, Vasya also has a world that is unique to him and not shared by others.That world is probably very beautiful, because whenever he sees something and is fascinated by it, no one can but envy him. As the convoy moved forward, the church was ringing the bell for Mass. "Notes" ① 1 Russian mu is equal to 1.09 hectares. ② Warriors in Russian folk songs. ③The warrior in Russian folk songs. ④ That is Yegor.