Heir from Calcutta plot. "heir from Calcutta" - literature and folklore

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Heir from Calcutta

Heir from Calcutta
Cover of the first edition

Genre :
Original language:
Original published:

"Heir from Calcutta"() is an adventure historical novel by Robert Shtilmark.

The plot of the novel

The action takes place in the XVIII century, in the era of the completion of the great geographical discoveries, the English industrial revolution and the formation of the British colonial empire.

In a letter to his son, Shtilmark reported that he "came up with something adventurous, insanely complex and entertaining, not going through any gates."

In 1955, Shtilmark was rehabilitated and he left for Moscow. He managed to transfer the manuscript to Ivan Efremov, who gave good review for the publishing house "Detgiz". Allan Efremov, the son of Ivan Antonovich, recalled: “Father first gave me and my friend to read. We read avidly and expressed our delight to the father. He nevertheless broke through this adventure novel, and it was eventually published. The novel was published in 1958 in the Library of Adventure and Science Fiction series and became a bestseller. On the cover, in addition to Shtilmark, Vasilevsky was also indicated as the author. In 1959, Shtilmark proved through the court that he was the sole author.

The next wave of interest in The Heir from Calcutta arose in the late 1980s, when it was possible to tell about the true circumstances of his birth. Shtilmark himself wrote about this in detail in his autobiographical novel A Handful of Light, in which he introduced himself under the surname Waldeck, and Vasilevsky under the surname Vasilenko.

Literature

F. R. Shtilmark. Introduction // R. Shtilmark. Heir from Calcutta: Roman / R. Shtilmark. - M.: Transport, 1992. - 495 p. ISBN 5-277-01669-4

Notes

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See what "Heir from Calcutta" is in other dictionaries:

Heir from Calcutta (novel)- Heir from Calcutta Cover of the first edition Author: Robert Shtilmark Genre: adventure, historical Original language: Russian Original published: 1958 ... Wikipedia

Shtilmark, Robert Alexandrovich- Wikipedia has articles about other people with that surname, see Shtilmark. Robert Alexandrovich Shtilmark (April 3, 1909, Moscow September 30, 1985) Soviet writer and journalist. Contents 1 Biography 1.1 Beginning of life ... Wikipedia

Robert Alexandrovich Shtilmark- (April 3, 1909, Moscow 1985) Soviet writer, journalist. Contents 1 Biography 1.1 Beginning of life 1.2 During the war 1.3 ... Wikipedia

Robert Stillmark

Stillmark, Robert- Robert Aleksandrovich Shtilmark (April 3, 1909, Moscow, 1985) Soviet writer and journalist. Contents 1 Biography 1.1 Beginning of life 1.2 During the war 1.3 ... Wikipedia

Stillmark R.- Robert Aleksandrovich Shtilmark (April 3, 1909, Moscow, 1985) Soviet writer and journalist. Contents 1 Biography 1.1 Beginning of life 1.2 During the war 1.3 ... Wikipedia

Shtilmark R. A.- Robert Aleksandrovich Shtilmark (April 3, 1909, Moscow, 1985) Soviet writer and journalist. Contents 1 Biography 1.1 Beginning of life 1.2 During the war 1.3 ... Wikipedia

Shtilmark Robert Alexandrovich- Robert Aleksandrovich Shtilmark (April 3, 1909, Moscow, 1985) Soviet writer and journalist. Contents 1 Biography 1.1 Beginning of life 1.2 During the war 1.3 ... Wikipedia

Transpolar Highway- This article needs to be completely rewritten. There may be explanations on the talk page ... Wikipedia

Shtilmark, Felix Robertovich- Wikipedia has articles about other people with that surname, see Shtilmark. Felix Shtilmark in May 2004 Felix Robertovich Shtilmark (September 2, 1931 January 31, 2005) Soviet and Russian ecologist, hunter, one of the main participants ... ... Wikipedia

The bittersweet memories...
Alfred de Musset

Two men cautiously walked along a rocky path to a small bay between
rocks. A tall hook-nosed gentleman in a dark green cloak and triangular
hat walked ahead. From under the hat, a plait of a wig shone with silver, tight
intercepted with black tape, so as not to ruffle the wind. Marine boots with
raised lapels did not interfere with the elastic tread of a person. This walk
he did not work out the parquet of living rooms, but the rickety flooring of the ship's deck.
The man's companion in a cloak, a handsome young man in a groom's caftan, carried after him
a spyglass in a black case and a hunting rifle. The barrel of the gun was
best steel- "bouquet Damascus"; smoothly polished butt decorated
mother-of-pearl inlays. Belt and even belt lugs - antabok - this
there was no gun: the owner did not need to carry his hunting equipment
on his own shoulders - he did not go hunting without a squire.
The semicircle of the open bay was bordered by gray granite cliffs. fishermen
called it Old King's Bay: the jagged peak of the median cliff
looked like a crown. Above the grey-green, smelling of iodine, the waters hovered low
seagulls. The morning was overcast, with a drizzle of rain. This summer weather was
common here in northern England, on the coast of the Irish Sea.
The first shot echoed through the desert rocks. disturbed flock
seagulls soared up and with piercing sharp cries scattered in all directions.
Separate small flocks of birds rushed to the neighboring cliffs and there, on
the other side of the bay, again began to decline. Gentleman obviously
missed: not a single shot bird fluttered on the foamy water.
“The gun is reloaded, your grace!” - The young groom held out
to his owner a gun ready for a new shot; the shooter and his companion
reached the top of a low cliff and looked down. -- Birds now
calm down and fall off again.
“Hunting is not successful for me if I miss the first
shot," answered the gentleman. - Perhaps our walk today in general
useless: not a single sail is visible on the horizon. Probably our "Orion"
anchored somewhere. But still I'll stay here, watch over
horizon. Keep the gun, Anthony. Give me a spyglass and wait
me downstairs, by the horses.
Groom handed Mr. a case with a sliding pipe and began to descend on
path. The rustle of pebbles crumbling from under his feet and the rustle of bushes soon
quiet down below. The gentleman was left alone on the cliff.
The sea churned restlessly under the rocks. A cloud from the ocean, slowly
growing, it covered the breaks of the coast. Outlines of distant capes and small
The islands were gradually hidden in a strip of rain and fog. From under this low
rows of brown sea ramparts arose in a shroud; the shore opened to meet them
stone embraces of bays and coves.

Robert Stillmark

HEIR OF CALCUTTA

The bittersweet memories...

Alfred de Musset

The two men carefully walked along the rocky path to a small bay between the rocks. A tall, hook-nosed gentleman in a dark green cloak and three-cornered hat stepped forward. From under the hat, a silver plait of a wig gleamed, tightly tied with a black ribbon so as not to be ruffled by the wind. Marine boots with raised lapels did not interfere with the elastic tread of a person. It was not the living room parquet that produced this gait, but the rickety flooring of the ship's deck.

The cloaked man's companion, a handsome young man in a groom's caftan, carried behind him a spyglass in a black case and a hunting rifle. The barrel of the gun was made of the best steel - "bouquet Damascus"; the smoothly polished stock was decorated with mother-of-pearl inlays. This gun did not have a belt and even belt lugs - sling swivels: the owner did not need to carry his hunting equipment on his own shoulders - he did not go hunting without a squire.

The semicircle of the open bay was bordered by gray granite cliffs. The fishermen called it Old King's Bay, because the jagged peak of the middle cliff resembled a crown. Seagulls hovered low over the grey-green, smelling of iodine water. The morning was overcast, with a drizzle of rain. In the summer, such weather was common here in northern England, on the coast of the Irish Sea.

The first shot echoed through the desert rocks. A disturbed flock of seagulls soared up and with piercing sharp cries scattered in all directions. Separate small flocks of birds rushed to the neighboring cliffs and there, on the other side of the bay, they again began to descend. The gentleman obviously missed; not a single shot bird fluttered on the foaming water.

The gun is reloaded, your grace! - A young groom handed his master a gun, ready for a new shot; the shooter and his companion had already reached the top of a low cliff and were looking down. - The birds will now calm down and flock again.

Hunting is not successful for me if I miss the first shot, ”answered the gentleman. - Perhaps, our walk now is generally useless: not a single sail is visible on the horizon. Probably, our Orion is anchored somewhere. But still I'll stay here, watch the horizon. Keep the gun, Anthony. Give me a spyglass and wait for me below, by the horses.

Groom handed the master a case with a sliding pipe and began to descend onto the path. The rustle of pebbles crumbling from under his feet and the rustle of bushes soon died down below. The gentleman was left alone on the cliff.

The sea churned restlessly under the rocks. A cloud from the ocean, slowly growing, covered the breaks of the coast. The outlines of distant capes and small islands were gradually hidden in a strip of rain and fog. From under this low veil arose rows of brown sea ramparts; the shore opened to them the stone embrace of bays and bays. Slowly waving their shaggy manes, the waves rammed the foot of the cliff.

It seemed to the man standing on the top with a spyglass that the cliff itself, like a ship, was moving towards the oceanic swells, cutting through them with its stone chest, like the stem of a ship. Gusts of wind scattered the finest dust of salt spray in the air, and it settled on his hard, curly sideburns. Without looking up, he looked at the surf and counted the "ninth" waves, the largest and most maned.

Having broken on the cliff, the wave rolled back and dragged boulders and gravel behind it until then, into the sea, until a new boiling shaft picked up these stones to throw them again at the foot of the cliff ...

Man's thoughts are already far from this bay, from gray cliffs and seagulls with shrill voices; he does not distinguish anything around, except for angry shaggy crests. There is no longer a rock under it! He remembers a long-dead ship...

Again, as of old, he stands, legs wide apart, at the bowsprit, which is tilted, as if flying on the waves of a ship. The wind whistles in the rigging, filling the slightly reefed sails... Water warm sea phosphorescent overboard. Above the masts, in the deep blackness of the night sky, he sees not Orion's three-star belt, but shimmering gold. Southern Cross. He always believed that among the luminaries of these two the most beautiful constellations the northern and southern firmament is located and its happy Star, the star of his luck!

* * *

The third month the schooner is at sea. After a few short stops in insignificant ports and secluded coves west coast The African schooner rounded the Cape of Good Hope and, having visited the southern part of Madagascar, went deep into the waters of the Indian Ocean.

The captain of the schooner, the one-eyed Spaniard Bernardito Luis el Gorra, dialed good fellows for a long distance flight. Forty-six sailors, tattooed from head to toe, sniffing gunpowder and knowing a lot about the weather; the old boatswain, nicknamed Bob the Shark for his ferocity; assistant captain Giacomo Grelli, who earned the nickname Leopard Grelli in boarding battles, and, finally, Bernardito himself, the One-Eyed Devil - such was the crew of the Black Arrow.

More than two weeks have already passed since that early morning, when the rocky coast with Cape Agulhas 1, where the waters of two oceans eternally argue with each other in blue infinity, melted in the southwest behind the stern of the schooner, but not a single unguarded merchant ship has yet met with schooner in the Indian Ocean.

Blood and Thunder! Red Pugh swore on the bow, throwing a pewter mug onto the deck. - What, one wonders, the devil Bernardito dragged us on his vessel into this shark hell? Spanish doubloons ring, in my opinion, no worse than Indian rupees!

This is the third month I have been sailing with you, but not a single farthing has yet fallen into the lining of my pockets! - picked up the interlocutor of Red Pugh, a skinny tall man with a golden earring in his ear, nicknamed by the team Jacob the Skeleton. - Where are they, these cheerful yellow circles and beautiful iridescent pieces of paper? What will I show up with at the Salted Poodle Tavern, where God himself only gets his punch for cash? I ask, where is our sonorous joy?

The day was drawing to a close. The sun was still high, but hidden in a misty haze. In the morning, the captain reduced the portions of water and wine given to the team. The thirsty sailors worked sluggishly and sullenly. Humid hot air relaxed people. A light breeze from the shores of Madagascar filled the sails, but this breath was so warm that it did not refresh the heated faces and bodies.

Let's sit down, Jacob. It's cooler here, under the boat. Our watch begins in half an hour, and my throat is dry, as if I had chewed and swallowed the Bible. Ax and gallows! When Black Woodrow was our boatswain, he always had an extra pint of dry Aragonese for me.

The aura of a mysterious adventure hero surrounds this novel in the minds of thousands and thousands of readers, there are rumors and legends about him, he is mentioned in critical and theoretical articles, but he himself has become a persistent bibliographical witness like the adventures of Kazakova or, even more so, Rocambol, for which

book dealers willingly give thousands of rubles from the catalog, yes no

Why, however, tempt the reader with the reputation of a novel that now lies before him on the table? Wouldn't it be simpler and at the same time more useful to dwell on this phenomenon itself, pecking literature. For “The heir of Calcutta is her objective mirror, reflecting the object with one hundred percent conscientiousness.

The work of R. Shtilmark is indeed the most ordinary of all ordinary.

And - in its own way - the most extraordinary of all the extraordinary

What is the "ordinary" nature of The Heir from Calcutta? First of all, in the wide use of traditional situations and the perils of the genre, of which only a few can, on a second approach, pass for original, bright, etc., but very many menacingly look like a second-hand scheme, whose synonyms are far from respectable at all: templates, stencils, cliches; what's good here?

Bertolt Brecht once remarked that the detective, unnecessarily criticized for its adherence to the scheme, is the optimal form of revealing artistic truth within this genre.

I am sure that Brecht's postulate has a much larger scope than declared by the author himself, controlling, in fact, all adventure literature - an adventure novel too, "travels" too, science fiction too. If you agree with Brecht, it will be possible to look through your fingers at many rehashings of the old filibuster-d "Artagnan motifs in The Heir from Calcutta, or even forgive the author for some disguised quotes from what was written earlier - for that, a classic and a classic, so that she imitate.

No, I am by no means going to stand up for secondary literature, I am only talking about the laws of the genre, which everyone who enters into the possession of "adventures" must accept - at least take into account - both the author and the reader.

Scroll through - for the sake of paradox - "True History" by Lukiaya, this "Voltaire of antiquity", a poisonous parody of antique romance travels, and following the "Voltaire of Antiquity" take Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, practically our contemporary, as an interlocutor. And quite unexpectedly, it turns out that both authors have similar techniques on the surface, which are fundamentally important as a sign of the adventurous genre. So, for example, with special interest the hero " true story peers at the footprints that catch his eye in the forest. And now turn to The Hound of the Baskervilles - how carefully Mr. Sherlock Holmes asks his interlocutors about the footprints in the garden, what ritual fuss he starts around them! As if there really is nothing more important than these traces in the world! But it’s really like this in all seriousness: for a detective in a detective story, weight begins with traces - and with traces, only already deciphered, unraveled, everything ends.

It is not only the traces that are imprinted as a catchy spot on the pictorial background of both plots that are important - not even so much the traces, but their position in the author's interpretation of the work.

A person sees traces, he, according to Conan Doyle, examines them, he starts an investigation, an investigation. And the end result of this entire chain of events can be designated as consequences.

Isn't it true that the root word "trace" denotes a certain, persistent trend in this fleeting description of an adventure plot (both ancient and modern). As long as it exists in the established classics and in The Heir from Calcutta, it must be taken for granted.

For the sake of completeness, let us turn to other analogies, closer to the present reader than this very respectable, but still too ancient Lucian. Stevenson, for example! How original is it? Of course, Stevenson is excellent, but - I repeat - how original is he? The author's confessions on this score, very frank, do not leave any loopholes to rumors. Stevenson remembered, in inventing his "Treasure Island", the wonderful story of Edgar Allan Poe "The Gold Bug". He relied on Daniel Defoe's acclaimed novel Robinson Crusoe. He took into account the legacy of Irving, Cooper and Mine Reed. He included in the system of his landmarks "Midshipman Easy" Frederick Marryat. Moreover, he treated relations with the classics, like a sailor, to the need to look at the compass and at the map, checking from time to time with the sailing ...

Detective Hercule Poirot main character Detective Queen Agatha Christie. Belgian origin of the hero and English pronunciation the writers hide from the pas the indisputable circumstance that he is the namesake of Hercules himself. Is it by chance? I would consider that by chance, if in some next year of her literary activity the writer did not release a collection of stories called "The Labors of Hercules", beating in it all the glorious deeds of the ancient demigod in turn. It turns out that the coincidence of names was programmed in advance - as the basis of the contrast between a small man with a huge mustache, physically weak, frail - and an omnipotent hero. And this reminiscence became a component of the image, a recurring reminder of the myth - a glimpse of ironic mockery of muscles that cannot compete with a sharp mind, with disciplined logical thinking.

Now try to say that Agatha Christie came out simply from her contemporary detective. They will quite reasonably object to you: she, like Pallas Athena, arose at a much higher level, in the bowels of great literature, glorified by the names of Homer, Sophocles, Euripides and Aristophanes.

Even the inanimate details of adventure literature strive to acquire a more or less venerable pedigree. And who can guarantee that Legrand's ordinary entomological find, the golden beetle, is not related to the sacred ancient Egyptian scarabs, but the blue diamond that plays such a big role in the pages of The Heir from Calcutta and, it would seem, was rented in the Moonstone Wilkie Collins, - with the treasures of the Nibelungs?!

The traditional path of world adventure literature, which finds itself in constant comprehension and rethinking of experience - one's own or peeped "on the side", in serious literature - will be repeated by our authors, masters of the action-packed novel ... Soviet Jules Verne and Main Reed, Stevenson and Bus- Senars, Wells and Conan Doyle will widely apply the recipes of adventurous classics with all its endless brawls, unstoppable travels, unceasing search. But this event repertoire will serve new ideas and ideals. Although its use in some cases will acquire a vulgar socialist tilt, on the whole, the process of assimilation of the gradational in relation to revolutionary reality will proceed successfully, as evidenced by P. Blyakhin's "Red Devils", A. Gaidar's stories, A. Belyaev's creations, and much, much more.

The writer's emphasis on the cognitive potentials of the genre will sharply increase. Soviet writers will turn "adventure" into a platform (here it would be better to say a chair) of social, exact, natural history knowledge. The saturation of this literature with reliable factual information and theoretical concepts will make it a successful competitor to popular science brochures and even textbooks. Indeed, who will take the liberty of asserting today that solid treatises have told readers more about the history of world culture, in more detail and more frankly than fascinating adventure novels that do not pretend to academicism? The same can be said about the physical foundations of the universe. Young people often get the theory of relativity and the structure of the universe mainly “at the suggestion” of adventure genres, not at a school lesson.

The educational pathos of adventure literature is getting stronger. From its rostrum (here the word "tribune" is more appropriate) the current political programs of our day are proclaimed - and ethical slogans that have earned themselves a solid reputation as universal moral commandments. And on the pages of a dizzying novel, edifications are not perceived as boring notation.

But epigonism is a dead end branch of literature, including adventure literature. On the consciousness of this objective circumstance (which you can’t argue against: it is objective), opposition is maturing creativity imitative. A conflict begins between the borrowed form and the actual, topical content. And it manifests itself, this conflict, in parodic intonations and situations.

The old is now often juggled and manipulated, as if emphasizing his "frivolity", lightness. In "Green Apples" by N. Borisov, excerpts from famous adventurous authors are sewn into a single plot, which, with its hyperboles, overshoots the "bar" of the permissible and turns into a parody.

The parody of classic "adventures" continues in collective novels such as "The Great Fires", written by twenty-five writers - chapter by chapter. However, single writers do not neglect parody. Like, for example, Valentin Kataev, whose protagonist mockingly imitates Captain Nemo in The Lord of Iron, and the stupid brother of Sherlock Holmes performs the functions of a detective.

The parodies of Sergei Zayaitsky, unfairly forgotten in our time, are very witty, especially his "Beauty from the island of Lulu". There are many positions and characters, almost in fact invited from Stevenson and Jules Verne on tour. And this diplomatic operation was carried out with such genuine comedy and tact that it remains only to welcome the cheerful writer's undertaking with approving applause.

I am listing these facts from the history of world and Soviet adventure literature not for the sake of enlightenment, but in order to help readers correctly assess the intention of R. Shtilmark, the author of the novel The Heir from Calcutta. Of course, they will have a feeling in one place or another, which in adventure novels is usually portrayed in this way: “When I woke up, I experienced a mysterious excitement. On the one hand, I am ready to swear that I have never been in this cave. And on the other hand - and again I'm ready to bet - everything here is familiar to me to the smallest detail, as if I left here the day before yesterday! What does it mean!?"

Of course, getting acquainted with the novel, you remember different things: here - Alexandre Dumas, there - Stevenson, and you also mentally turn to the shadows of Cooper, Collins, Twain, Haggard, Boussenard more than once, finding out if they are not disturbed by an infringement on their indisputable copyright. Well, I suppose they will all answer unanimously that, they say, they are not disturbed. Because the creative enterprise of R. Shtilmark is allowed, approved and even, perhaps, blessed by the rules of the game. The same game that they themselves played.

So in a sense, The Heir from Calcutta is a novel of novels, a sprawling digest of nineteenth-century adventure motifs. But the novel of novels does not mean a song with a song; the evaluative moment is excluded from this definition. Although, of course, the novel of novels certainly takes on many of the virtues source material, wonderful works included in the golden book of human culture. "Heir from Calcutta" is their rightful heir.

Re-reading an action-packed novel, remembering all its ups and downs, all the twists and turns of the action, all the plots and denouements, you will not always want to agree. Reading The Heir from Calcutta is like re-reading all adventure literature, reading it as if for the first time. The novel contains all the signs, all the generic features of this "big genre", which unites adventure, detective story, "travel", fantasy in a strong conglomerate. That's just fiction in "The Heir from Calcutta" is not enough - except for the very history of his birth. Adventure literature for its lover, such as Shtilmark, is a special, reserved zone of thinking, a kind of “second world”, where the laws of the “main world”, the first and only, are experimentally tested. This zone is internally integral, endless, interconnected and mysterious, like fairy-tale folklore.

There are no boundaries between individual plots, but their characters freely walk back and forth, exchanging interlocutors, partners, geography and destinies, go out into life and come back. Adventure thinking is like a huge gothic castle, with underground passages, throne rooms, gloomy dungeons, secret doors, prisoner cells, moats, patios, secluded rooms for ladies-in-waiting, and secret backstage chambers for conspirators (or for good fairies)... And it is like an endless ocean, with hurricanes, islands, schooners, pirates, boarding, treasures, captives. Truly "Heir from Calcutta".

Architecture adventure novel(in particular, "The Heir from Calcutta") is composed by a motley team of architects, including Fantasy, and the Game, and Miracle, and Realistic Truth, and the Flow of Information, and Rational Motivation, and Edification, and Random Coincidence, and Dynamics. And the writer simply writes under their dictation.

Childhood gives us the magic of unrevealed secrets. Not only fabulous - real. How many of them, such secrets, are forever buried behind the threshold of an insurmountable wall, on which is inscribed: "What was, you will not return!" Frozen words on someone's lips, some fateful people, incomprehensible excitement and joy of adults. We tried to unravel all this once and - often in vain, in vain. And suddenly we met it again - in "The Heir from Calcutta", - and here it seems to be finished, brought to its logical conclusion.

While admiring The Heir from Calcutta for his glorious literary genealogy, we seemed to turn a blind eye to the fact that many of his seemingly positive characters are selfish, that they are not shy about roles that are unattractive by our standards: pirates, deceivers, flatterers, looking at the world according to the most unprincipled principle: “everything here is relative, and therefore every phenomenon can be looked at this way, that way, and something else ...” Such a hero has long been familiar to us from past deeds. This is a noble bastard. A native of a picaresque novel, an inveterate plebeian, San-cho Panza. he gradually gains aristocracy, a carefree prankster turns into a concerned researcher and punisher, an ordinary swindler into a noble swindler, and in the end just a noble one, without any "swindler". Well, indeed - a knight without fear and reproach, the newly-minted Don Quixote, who, however, did away with his former recklessness and straightforwardness. Now he allows compromises. Paris, from his point of view, is worth a mass, and deceit is appropriate if it ultimately leads to the triumph of justice.

The most famous implementation of this concept of the image is, of course, d "Artagnan, combining Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in dynamic fluctuating proportions. And the most consistent is the Count of Monte Cristo, the avenging detective, and the settled robber Rocambol. In the field new literature noble crook with greatest success embody the characters of O'Henry or Chesterton, who play beautifully on the differences between adventure and a parody of adventure.

Today we can attribute R. Shtilmark to this list of heroes.

The main thing in the figure of a noble crook, as it is read by the history of world literature, is the overcoming of the past. Unlike dozens, from hundreds and thousands of originally noble ones, who repeat from the pages of countless novels and stories: “Oh, we knew better times!”, A noble Protestant professes a completely different faith and, accordingly, a different attitude to life: he knew worst of times. And from this position, he is determined to free the present from the past. Hence his promiscuity in means, unwillingness to "small things". Hence his mercy, reaching not only to elementary sensitivity - to sentimentality. Hence - an unconditional protest against lies, falsehood. Hence the Fickford cords of hoaxes brought under the citadels of all sorts of junk.

That's all about Shtilmark's novel as the most ordinary of the ordinary. Let something not quite ordinary be observed in this ordinariness, against the background of the following paragraphs, it should humbly keep silent. Because - and this has already been stated - "The Heir from Calcutta" is an extraordinary phenomenon, and perhaps unique.

It was created in the polar taiga. According to the author, "in an expeditionary field situation." “Our team,” continues R. Shtilmark, “brought with them to the Arctic ... the habit of spending wisely Golden time both at work and at leisure...

And then one day we started talking about how earlier, in other times, in other countries, new lands were developed, how settlements of people came from across the sea to other continents, who these people were, how they behaved in foreign forests and snow, what goals they set for themselves. It was then that the idea of the novel arose, for finished literature covering this topic was not available.

Together with technical specialty surveyor, the author brought with him to this team some literary experience, love for historical theme, a keen hatred for the enduring myth of the "good old days" of capitalism. And he decided to try his hand at the field of oral "independent" creativity as a novelist-storyteller by the fire.

Then pen, paper and ink appeared, assistants and advisers wove out of oblivion, little by little a manuscript was created, which was dragged along in a backpack. But all this was later. And at first there was a lonely bard who took on the heavy burden of creativity.

This is what makes "The Heir from Calcutta" unique. It's not because of its dependence on other people's plots - you think it's a merit, Shakespeare also looked into cribs. Not with its plot diversity, alternations of ups and downs, surprises and anticipations, troubles and victories - in the field of eventful, plot balancing act, the classics succeeded much more, but at least the same Dumas the Father (or any trained American detective who thinks that he is Dumas - holy spirit) ... No, the "Heir from Calcutta" is unique primarily by its strength human spirit able to remain faithful to childhood, faithful to a fairy tale (and through it, to faith and hope) in the most desperate circumstances, in difficult, extraordinary conditions, on the threshold separating life from death, endurable from unbearable.

Maybe the words of the author quoted just above are just an adventure metaphor. But something else is important - for history and for us living today: it took a lot of courage to rise above the specifics of difficulties - and soar in adventure. In fact, The Heir from Calcutta is an analogue of that novel by Jack London, where the hero escapes from prison by mental time travel. Isn't it the same way to the freedom of the individual that one historian from famous work M. Bulgakova - a man rushing on the wings of his novel into biblical antiquity!? "The Heir from Calcutta" is also an experiment on the problem of transmigration of souls.

That's how it happens! Not being great, adventure literature shares the mission of the great, and sometimes, where the great is silent, it takes over its work, picks up, saves - sometimes even ignites - its torch. And it carries, carries forward! .. And this torch, and the soul, and the impulse, and the desire to live on.

Quite recently, one person was convinced in my presence that he looked very young. And, in my opinion, every minute he felt more and more how old he was ... Here is the place to repeat: "The Heir from Calcutta" is a fascinating novel. But I will refrain from this, perhaps, excessive praise.

This is how the life of an adventure hero is arranged: a brick, allegedly hanging over every mortal, threatens to fall on his head. When I was asked to write about The Heir from Calcutta, I thought sinfully, looking sideways at the huge volume: “Well, finally, I have waited for my brick.” After reading the novel, I repented: under the guise of a brick, sometimes real pleasure falls on us, pure, genuine joy!

I am comforted by the hope that the reader will share this joy of mine.

Updated: 2011-03-07

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Bitter delight of memories...

Alfred de Musset

The semicircle of the open bay was bordered by gray granite cliffs. The fishermen called it Old King's Bay, because the jagged peak of the middle cliff resembled a crown. Seagulls hovered low over the grey-green, iodine-smelling water. The morning was overcast, with a drizzle of rain. In the summer, such weather was common here in Northern England, on the coast of the Irish Sea.

“The gun is reloaded, your grace!” - A young groom handed his master a gun, ready for a new shot; the shooter and his companion had already reached the top of a low cliff and were looking down. The birds will now calm down and flock again.

“Hunting is not successful for me if I miss the first shot,” answered the gentleman. - Perhaps, our walk today is generally useless: not a single sail is visible on the horizon. Probably, our Orion is anchored somewhere. But still I'll stay here, watch the horizon. Keep the gun, Anthony. Give me a spyglass and wait for me below, by the horses.

It seemed to the man standing on the top with a spyglass that the cliff itself, like a ship, was moving towards the ocean swells, cutting through them with its stone chest, like the stem of a ship.

Gusts of wind scattered the finest dust of salt spray in the air, and it settled on his hard, curly sideburns. Without looking up, he looked at the surf and counted the "ninth" waves, the largest and most maned.

Having broken on the cliff, the wave rolled back and until then dragged boulders and gravel behind it, into the sea, until a new boiling shaft picked up these stones to throw them again to the foot of the cliff ...

Again, as of old, he stands, legs wide apart, at the bowsprit, which is tilted, as if flying on the waves of a ship. The wind whistles in the rigging, filling the slightly reefed sails... The waters of the warm sea are phosphorescent overboard. Above the masts, in the deep blackness of the night sky, he sees not the three-star belt of Orion, but the shimmering gold of the Southern Cross. He always believed that among the luminaries of these two most beautiful constellations of the northern and southern firmament is his lucky star, the star of his luck!

... The third month the schooner is at sea. After several short stops in insignificant ports and secluded bays on the western coast of Africa, the schooner rounded the Cape of Good Hope and, having visited the southern part of Madagascar, went deep into the waters of the Indian Ocean.

The captain of the schooner, the one-eyed Spaniard Bernardito Luis el Gorra, recruited good fellows for a long-distance voyage. Forty-six sailors, tattooed from head to toe, sniffing gunpowder and knowing a lot about the weather; the old boatswain, nicknamed Bob the Shark for his ferocity; assistant captain Giacomo Grelli, who earned the nickname Leopard Grelli in boarding battles, and, finally, Bernardito himself, the One-Eyed Devil - such was the crew of the Black Arrow.

More than two weeks have passed since that early morning when the rocky coast with Cape Agulhas 1
Cape Igolny is the southernmost tip of the African continent.

Where in the blue infinity the waters of two oceans forever argue with each other, melted in the southwest behind the stern of a schooner, but not a single unguarded merchant ship has yet met with a schooner in the vastness of the Indian Ocean.

- Blood and thunder! Red Pugh cursed on the forecastle, throwing a pewter mug onto the deck. - What, one wonders, the devil Bernardito dragged us on his vessel into this shark hell? Spanish doubloons ring, in my opinion, no worse than Indian rupees!

“For the third month now I have been sailing with you, but not a single farthing has yet fallen into the lining of my pockets!” - picked up the companion of Red Pew, a skinny tall man with a gold earring in his ear, nicknamed by the team Jacob the Skeleton. - Where are they, these cheerful yellow circles and beautiful iridescent papers? What will I show up with at the Salty Poodle Tavern, where the Lord God himself gets his punch for cash only? I ask, where is our sonorous joy?

“Sit down, Jacob. It's cooler here, under the boat. Our watch begins in half an hour, and my throat is dry, as if I had chewed and swallowed the Bible. Ax and gallows! When Black Woodrow was our boatswain, he always had an extra pint of dry Aragonese for me.

"Shut up, Pew!" They say the captain doesn't like it when people mention Woodrow or Giuseppe.

“No one here can hear us.

“Tell me, Pugh, are the boys correct in their interpretation that Woodrow and Giuseppe held out their paw for Bernardito’s leather sack?”

Red Pugh smeared drops of sweat on his copper forehead with a greasy palm.

“If these old wolves had remained in our pack, we would not now hang out in this Indian pelvis like a dry cork, and would not be in need of anything. But, Jacob, about Bernardito's leather bag, I advise you to keep quiet for the time being. Bernardito has long arms, and he knows how to quickly pull the trigger ... I've been on the Arrow for more than a year and I saw this bag with my own eyes, but strike me with thunder if I blurt even a word about it! Meanwhile, I even once looked out the window of the captain's cabin when One-Eyed was untying his sack...

A breath of wind rocked the schooner, and the wave splashed harder against the side. Red Pugh paused and looked around.

“Listen, Pugh, Leopard Grelly, the captain's mate, called me over to talk about something last night,” Jacob said quietly. “It seems to me that he doesn’t like One-Eyed either. Grelli says that Woodrow and Giuseppe were real guys... Tell me, Pugh, why did Bernardito put them ashore?

No one knows for sure, but I'll tell you something. Just keep your mouth shut, otherwise the Leopard will not help: Bernardito will send us to the bottom to the Indian hell, and even, perhaps, his mouth is sewn up! The one-eyed man knows no mercy!

“May I have to drink goat's milk instead of gin for the rest of my life if I blabbed!”

- So, Jacob, before the start of this flight, our Arrow fell into a raid ...

- I heard about it. The guys brag that the Strela had a fight with almost an entire squadron.

- What? Boasting? Well, Skeleton, you obviously don't know One-Eyed yet! True, one must always keep an eye on him, because he sleeps with his finger on the dog, but he is a sailor - you will not find in any of the Royal Navy, I swear by the womb!

- Why did you run away?

- Why did they run away? I would love to see a brave man like you, Jacob, fight on our boat with a British frigate and a French double-deck brig! Oh, and it was a good thing! Only the fog saved us then. With a hole in the stern, we nevertheless got away from the Frenchman into a narrow Catalan bay ... Bernardito gloriously fooled all the hounds from Crete to Gibraltar! For two weeks they searched for us more diligently than a sober sailor in front of a counter looking for a penny lost in his pockets, but One-Eyed left only a selected tuft of wool in their teeth and, in the end, withstood a fight in a damned bay with a Spanish guard corvette.

The memory made Red Pugh feel proud. As he spoke, he waved his arms in front of Jacob's face. He calmly sniffed his pipe. The narrator put a portion of chewing tobacco with betel into his cheek. 2
B e t e l - East Indian pepper plant; its leaves, of a spicy taste, are chewed.

And continued:

- That's when the captain decided to completely leave the good Mediterranean Sea and go here, to Indian waters. But navigator Giuseppe Lorano and boatswain Woodrow Craig did not agree. Bernardito was preparing to slip through Gibraltar at night, and Woodrow and Giuseppe began to incite the team against him. We had something to profit from on the schooner! There was good booty from the Greek ship in the holds ... And so, when the Strela anchored in the Catalan bay and we began to darn the stern, Bernardito gathered us all at night on the quarterdeck and said: “We will not share the booty!”

- And with such a captain you have been walking for more than a year! Sacramento! Yes I would...

"Wait, you brave man!" The captain said that the goods should be sold in Portugal, with this money to patch up the schooner, buy supplies and equip the Strela for a long voyage.

- Well, what about you?

– Yes, you see, no one has yet tried to argue with him openly. But that night, Giuseppe Lorano and Black Woodrow planned to kill him in secret. And the helmsman Fernando Diaz, whom Bernardito once saved from the gallows, revealed to the captain their plot. Bernardito wanted to slaughter both, but his assistant, Leopard Grelli, prevented him. Midnight was approaching, and the ringleaders were still squabbling in the captain's cabin. It was then that this Spanish patrol corvette crept up unexpectedly. A heated fight began in the light of torches ...

- The Spaniard attacked you from the stern?

- Yes, and the captain sent Woodrow and Giuseppe to the very mess, to protect the stern gap; he ordered Fernando Diaz to keep an eye on both of them, and put me at the helm instead of Fernando. The fight was crazy! The Spaniards will not soon forget the "Black Arrow"! .. We jumped out of the bay, but Woodrow tore off both feet, Giuseppe had a hole in his side, and Fernando earned two wounds. I, too, was deafened by a volley of buckshot.

- Eh, I was not with you then! .. So what ended up with those two?

- How did it end? We walked in the dark. It wasn't long before dawn, and there was still a way to get past the forts of Gibraltar and the patrol boats. There were four wounded on board: Woodrow, Giuseppe, Fernando and another mulatto Enrico Roy. The captain decided to land the wounded on the shore, because they would all have died on the ship: our doctor had been taken by the fish in the last battle. The leopard wanted to give the wounded their share of the booty, but the captain refused.

“Yes, if I were a dead man, I would have asked him my share!”

“Perhaps he would have been more accommodating with the dead, but he refused the living. However, among the wounded, only Fernando and the mulatto Enrico were conscious. Giuseppe Lorano and Woodrow Craig lay unconscious. Bernardito ordered that the wounded Fernando Diaz be carried to his cabin, over there, near the cabin, see? The wind lifted the curtain in the cabin window, and I saw One-Eye empty a sack of diamonds in suede cases, select the largest one and one smaller one, and give them to Diaz. I heard Bernardito say: “Take this blue diamond with a yellow spot to Greece to my mother so that she will not be in need if I die, and take the second stone for yourself, Fernando, and do with it what you want!” Then all three were taken to the boat, the mulatto Enrico Roy sat on the oars, his wound was not severe ...

- Wait! Enrico Roy was, as they say, a friend of the Leopard?

“Grelly kept it with him instead of a servant, or something. He was a glutton and a lazy person, this Enrico, I tell you. So, Grelly whispered to him, while One-Eyed talked to Fernando, gave the mulatto a handful of coins, and in pitch darkness the boat went to the Spanish coast. The wounded were saved or died, no one knows. And we were lucky: in the morning, in the fog, the schooner slipped through the strait. Then we hid off the coast of Portugal, repaired on the Azores, equipped for a campaign on the Moroccan coast, where you moved to us from a Turkish vessel, and here we are swimming for the third month, but what's the point?

A flock of flying fish swept on round, like lace collars, wings over the swell of the sea and plunged into the abyss again with a splash.

- Coffin and carrion! Look, Jacob, there's his one-eyed lordship leaning out of the cabin. The fever knocked him down. He turned as yellow as a louis, and lies on his bunk for days, while we rub our hands with gear until they bleed. Just look, he himself will wait for a canvas bag and a load on his chest, but he continues to stubbornly, the devil does not want to leave these damned waters, where the heat is like in a forge ... But what is this on the horizon? Hell and the devil! Yes, there is a fire!

At the same moment, the sentinel's cry: "Fire on the horizon, to the left aft!" He got the whole team up and running. Half-naked, decorated with outlandish tattoos on their arms and chest, in unimaginable headdresses made of scraps of cloth, palm leaves, and even book pages with biblical texts, the sailors of the Black Arrow poured onto the deck.

Leopard Grelli appeared on the command bridge with a spyglass. Only one Captain Bernardito was chained to his hanging bunk by the dengue fever. At times, almost losing consciousness from the internal heat, he swallowed cold water, and after a quarter of an hour he shuddered with chills, chattered his teeth and wrapped himself in woolen blankets.

The leopard gave the command, and the sailors, driven by the whistle of the boatswain, rushed to the tackle. The schooner, turning under sail, laid down on the reverse course. When the turning maneuver was completed, the schooner moved on short tacks to the fire on the horizon and soon came noticeably closer to the fire. Meanwhile, a black cloud was growing over the horizon, and the barometer in the captain's cabin fell as low as Leopard Grelli had ever seen before. The wind died down, and the schooner's sails drooped helplessly. In the rapidly gathering twilight, a fire blazed distinctly and ominously in the distance. Not one, but three giant bonfires raised almost sheer columns of flame, sparks and smoke to the sky. Obviously, the ships of the recently encountered caravan were on fire.

Soon the crew of the Black Arrow could clearly see, against the backdrop of the glow, two ships that had apparently separated from the caravan and turned towards the schooner. The nearest of them, a small brigantine, was only five or six cables from the schooner. 3
Cables - sea measure of length: 185.2 meters.

Another ship, rigged as a military corvette, was visible half a mile away. 4
Sea Mile - 1852 meters.

Behind the first.

Even from afar, it was noticeable that the corvette's masts were damaged in battle, and the sails of the brigantine were tattered and battered. 5
About types sailing ships found in the novel, you can find information in the marine dictionary of Lukashevich. Briefly: b p and g - a two-masted vessel, merchant or military; a military brig is armed with twenty to thirty guns; sh x u n a - a merchant ship with a number of masts from two to five, with oblique sailing equipment; frigate - a high-speed, usually three-masted warship, one class below battleships; corvette - a small three-masted ship with good maneuverability, usually served for cruising purposes and communications; cara vella - a small vessel, the type of which changed with the development of the sailing fleet; brigantina - usually a two-masted small vessel, often used by Mediterranean pirates.

In the stillness of the evening came the muffled thunder of artillery cannonade. The ensuing pre-stormy calm forced both affected ships, as well as the schooner Bernardito, to lie in a dead drift. A distant glow cast the motionless black shadows of the three ships on the surface of the ocean, and a thundercloud was already moving towards the moon.

The leopard smells prey! Pugh whispered to his friend Jacob. “I'll be damned if he doesn't manage to find a living in someone else's fight. Get ready for business, old sperm whale! Finally, we got a real job!

Captain Bernardito Luis el Gorra was an experienced, desperately brave and mercilessly brutal pirate in battle. Perhaps, in the time of Cortes or Pizarro, he would have written his name in the bloody pages of the history of the conquest of Mexico, Brazil or Peru, but he was born in that century when the white spots on the globe disappeared with the speed of snow melting in spring, and the East Indian, South African and other trading companies, having established their power over the captured overseas possessions, robbed them under the shadow of the state laws of their countries.

Bernardito found that turning the blood and sweat of colonial slaves into gold was a slanderous and not very respectable business. It is more profitable and easier to extract this gold directly from merchants' pockets! His schooner, with a handful of desperate thugs who never looked into the future more than the next two hours, caused such damage to merchant ships in the waters of the Mediterranean and neighboring seas that the British, French, Spanish and Turkish authorities simultaneously took up the capture of the corsair Bernardito, not counting private shipping companies and solo maritime prize hunters.

From all his numerous pursuers, who would undoubtedly have caught the bold pirate if they could act in concert with each other, Bernardito deftly eluded and now, slipping under the very nose of the warships groping nearby, led his schooner on a long Indian voyage.

But this time, the gods of fortune seemed to deprive the one-eyed captain of their favors. Even before the start of the voyage, for the first time in his eventful life discovered a conspiracy against himself on the ship. Someone acted among the team cautiously and persistently. Having neutralized the conspirators, the captain lost his most devoted sailor, Fernando Diaz. Bernardito guessed that the secret spring of the failed plot was none other than his assistant Leopard Grelli, a man taken aboard the Black Arrow three years ago. Now, taking advantage of the captain's illness, Giacomo Grelli, apparently, was only waiting for an opportunity to become the leader of the gang and the captain of the Arrow himself.

Waking up in his cabin from heavy oblivion, Bernardito raised himself on his elbow. There was no one in the cabin. Outside the window, only the back of the sailor at the steering wheel was visible.

Bernardito pressed a button in the wall. He took out a leather sack from the hiding place that opened up and laid out more than two dozen suede cases with precious stones on the blanket. Having counted them, he put the stones in a bag, closed the hiding place and called his servant. Nobody responded.

- Dirty canals! Bernardito muttered through his teeth. - Pedro! Where are you, Pedro, son of a pig and a monk! Wait, I'll teach you how to yell Sacramento!

But the giant Pedro, the captain's bodyguard and servant, stuck out on the deck, trying to see the details of the battle. The helmsman also did not follow the course, but stared to the side.

“I will teach you to order on the ship!” Bernardito said angrily.

He reached for the pistol hanging at his head and, without aiming, knocked off the wicker straw shield from the head of the helmsman with a shot. Leopard Grelli ran into the cabin at the sound of the shot. Together with Pedro, he helped One-Eye out of the cabin and up to the bridge.

After getting out, the captain refreshed himself with a sip of undiluted Jamaican rum and took the pipe from Grelli. Not a single detail escaped his single but keen eye. The events of the battle unfolding in the distance, not yet understood by the rest of the team, were quickly unraveled by him. He guessed that the ships closing the Anglo-Dutch caravan were subjected to surprise attack two enemy - obviously French or Spanish - corvettes, crept up to them under the cover of low thunderclouds.

However, the cannons of the patrol boats of the caravan managed to open fire and set fire to one of the attacking corvettes. In the artillery duel that followed, two merchant ships also caught fire. Finally, the surviving enemy corvette still managed to cut off one English brigantine from the caravan, which had to change course and flee. She was moving just towards the pirate schooner.

The battered corvette, leaving the battle, set off to pursue the prey, but lost speed due to damaged sails. When the dead calm before the storm stopped both ships, the brigantine was almost at the side of the Black Arrow, but the corvette was far behind its victim.

- Carramba! If I had been lying around for another hour, the prey, which itself goes into our hands, would have been lost! shouted Bernardito. “Where were your eyes, Grelly?” What the hell is waiting for the boatswain, a cross between an old monkey and a sperm whale! Hey people! Lower both boats! Plant twelve devils in each - in half an hour they should be on the brigantine. Grelli and Shark will lead these boats into battle. The rest - to remove the sails and properly fix the guns on the deck! A storm is approaching, a hundred volleys to the boatswain in the lower back! Hurry, children of grief!

A few minutes later, two boats with pirates armed to the teeth left the schooner and flew to the brigantine.

At this time, Bernardito saw through the pipe that three boats were also being launched on the corvette. Obviously, the captain of the corvette decided to attack the brigantine. But the advantage was on the side of Bernardito's men. The boats of the Black Arrow, following in the wake of each other, had already covered half the distance to the brigantine.

The pre-stormy calm, the smoothly rolling waves of the ocean dead swell and the distant glow that shone on the attackers favored the attack. Meanwhile, the boats of the corvette had just rolled off the side of their ship.

Heir from Calcutta plot. "heir from Calcutta" - literature and folklore

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