An excerpt of prose for the living classics competition. Reading prose works - "living classics"

Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov is introduced to the sons of the landowner Manilov:

“There were already two boys standing in the dining room, Manilov’s sons, who were at that age when they seat children at the table, but still on high chairs. The teacher stood with them, bowing politely and with a smile. The hostess sat down to her soup cup; the guest was seated between the host and hostess, the servant tied napkins around the children's necks.

“What cute children,” Chichikov said, looking at them, “and what year is it?”

“The eldest is eighth, and the youngest only turned six yesterday,” said Manilova.

- Themistoclus! - said Manilov, turning to the elder, who was trying to free his chin, which the footman had tied in a napkin.

Chichikov raised a few eyebrows when he heard this partly Greek name, to which, for some unknown reason, Manilov ended in “yus,” but immediately tried to bring his face back to its normal position.

- Themistoclus, tell me which one best city in France?

Here the teacher turned all his attention to Themistocles and seemed to want to jump into his eyes, but finally calmed down completely and nodded his head when Themistocles said: “Paris.”

- What is our best city? - Manilov asked again.

The teacher focused his attention again.

“Petersburg,” answered Themistoclus.

- And what else?

“Moscow,” answered Themistoclus.

- Clever girl, darling! - Chichikov said to this. “Tell me, however...” he continued, immediately turning to the Manilovs with a certain look of amazement, “in such years and already such information!” I must tell you that this child will have great abilities.

- Oh, you don’t know him yet! - answered Manilov, - he has an extremely lot of wit. The smaller one, Alcides, is not so fast, but this one now, if he meets something, a bug, a booger, his eyes suddenly start running; will run after her and immediately pay attention. I read it on the diplomatic side. Themistoclus,” he continued, turning to him again, “do you want to be a messenger?”

“I want to,” answered Themistoclus, chewing bread and shaking his head to right and left.

At this time, the footman standing behind wiped the messenger’s nose, and did a very good job, otherwise a fair amount of extraneous drop would have sunk into the soup.”

2 Fyodor Dostoevsky. "Demons"

Chronicler retells the contents philosophical poem, which the now aged liberal Stepan Trofimovich Verkhovensky wrote in his youth:

“The stage opens with a chorus of women, then a chorus of men, then some forces, and at the end of it all a chorus of souls who have not yet lived, but who would very much like to live. All these choirs sing about something very vague, mostly about someone’s curse, but with a touch of the highest humor. But the scene suddenly changes, and some kind of “Celebration of Life” begins, at which even insects sing, a turtle appears with some Latin sacramental words, and even, if I remember, one mineral sang about something - that is, the object is already completely inanimate. In general, everyone sings continuously, and if they talk, they somehow swear vaguely, but again with a touch of higher meaning. Finally, the scene changes again, and a wild place appears, and one civilized young man wanders between the rocks, plucking and sucking some herbs, and to the fairy’s question: why is he sucking these herbs? answers that he, feeling an excess of life in himself, seeks oblivion and finds it in the juice of these herbs; but that his main desire is to lose his mind as quickly as possible (a desire, perhaps, unnecessary). Then suddenly a young man of indescribable beauty rides in on a black horse, and a terrible multitude of all nations follows him. The young man represents death, and all nations thirst for it. And finally, already in the very last scene, suddenly appears Tower of Babel, and some athletes finally finish it with a song new hope, and when they have already completed construction to the very top, then the owner, let’s say Olympus, runs away in a comic form, and humanity, having guessed, having taken possession of his place, immediately begins a new life with a new penetration of things.”

3 Anton Chekhov. "Drama"

The kind-hearted writer Pavel Vasilyevich is forced to listen to the longest dramatic essay, which the graphomaniac writer Murashkina reads aloud to him:

“Don’t you think this monologue is a little long? - Murashkina suddenly asked, raising her eyes.

Pavel Vasilyevich did not hear the monologue. He was embarrassed and said in such a guilty tone, as if it was not the lady, but he himself who had written this monologue:

- No, no, not at all... Very nice...

Murashkina beamed with happiness and continued reading:

— „Anna. You're stuck with analysis. You stopped living with your heart too early and trusted your mind. — Valentine. What is a heart? This is an anatomical concept. As a conventional term for what is called feelings, I do not recognize it. — Anna(embarrassed). And love? Is it really a product of an association of ideas? Tell me frankly: have you ever loved? — Valentine(with bitterness). Let's not touch old, not yet healed wounds (pause). What are you thinking about? — Anna. It seems to me that you are unhappy."

During the 16th apparition, Pavel Vasilyevich yawned and accidentally made a sound with his teeth, the kind dogs make when they catch flies. He was frightened by this indecent sound and, in order to disguise it, gave his face an expression of touching attention.

“XVII phenomenon... When is the end? - he thought. - Oh my God! If this torment continues for another ten minutes, then I will shout the guard... Unbearable!

Pavel Vasilyevich sighed lightly and was about to get up, but immediately Murashkina turned the page and continued reading:

- “Act two. The scene represents a rural street. To the right is the school, to the left is the hospital. On the steps of the latter sit peasants and peasant women.”

“I’m sorry...” Pavel Vasilyevich interrupted. - How many actions are there?

“Five,” Murashkina answered and immediately, as if afraid that the listener would leave, she quickly continued: “Valentin is looking out of the school window.” You can see how, at the back of the stage, the villagers are carrying their belongings to the tavern."

4 Mikhail Zoshchenko. "In Pushkin's days"

At a literary evening dedicated to the centenary of the poet’s death, the Soviet house manager gives a solemn speech about Pushkin:

“Of course, dear comrades, I am not a literary historian. I will allow myself to approach great date simply, as they say, humanly.

Such a sincere approach, I believe, will bring the image of the great poet even closer to us.

So, a hundred years separate us from him! Time really does fly incredibly fast!

The German war, as is known, began twenty-three years ago. That is, when it began, it was not a hundred years before Pushkin, but only seventy-seven.

And I was born, imagine, in 1879. Therefore, he was even closer to the great poet. Not that I could see him, but as they say, we were only separated by about forty years.

My grandmother, even purer, was born in 1836. That is, Pushkin could see her and even pick her up. He could nurse her, and she could, of course, cry in her arms, not knowing who took her in his arms.

Of course, it’s unlikely that Pushkin could have nursed her, especially since she lived in Kaluga, and Pushkin, it seems, had never been there, but we can still allow for this exciting possibility, especially since he could, it seems, come to Kaluga to see his acquaintances

My father, again, was born in 1850. But Pushkin, unfortunately, was no longer around then, otherwise he might even have been able to babysit my father.

But he could probably already hold my great-grandmother in his arms. Just imagine, she was born in 1763, so the great poet could easily come to her parents and demand that they let him hold her and nurse her... Although, however, in 1837 she was, perhaps, about sixty years old , so, frankly speaking, I don’t even know how it was there for them and how they managed it... Maybe even she nursed him... But what is shrouded in the darkness of the unknown for us, is for them, probably there was no difficulty, and they knew very well who to babysit and who to rock whom. And if the old woman really was about six or ten years old by that time, then, of course, it would be ridiculous to even think that anyone would nurse her there. So, it was she who was babysitting someone herself.

And, perhaps, by rocking and singing lyrical songs to him, she, without knowing it, awakened poetic feelings in him and, perhaps, together with his notorious nanny Arina Rodionovna, inspired him to compose some individual poems.”

5 Daniil Kharms. “What are they selling in stores now?”

“Koratygin came to Tikakeev and did not find him at home.

And Tikakeev was in the store at that time and bought sugar, meat and cucumbers there. Koratygin stomped around at Tikakeev’s door and was about to write a note, when suddenly he saw Tikakeev himself coming and carrying an oilcloth wallet in his hands. Koratygin saw Tikakeev and shouted to him:

“And I’ve been waiting for you for an hour already!”

“It’s not true,” says Tikakeev, “I’m only twenty-five minutes from home.”

“Well, I don’t know that,” said Koratygin, “but I’ve been here for a whole hour already.”

- Do not lie! - said Tikakeev. - It's a shame to lie.

- Most gracious sir! - said Koratygin. - Take the trouble to choose expressions.

“I think...” Tikakeev began, but Koratygin interrupted him:

“If you think...” he said, but then Koratygin was interrupted by Tikakeyev and said:

- You yourself are good!

These words infuriated Koratygin so much that he pinched one nostril with his finger and blew his nose at Tikakeev with the other nostril. Then Tikakeev snatched the most from his wallet big cucumber and hit Koratygin on the head with it. Koratygin grabbed his head with his hands, fell and died.

These are the big cucumbers they sell in stores now!”

6 Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov. "Knowing of limits"

A set of hypothetical rules for stupid Soviet bureaucrats (one of them, a certain Basov, is the anti-hero of the feuilleton):

“It’s impossible to accompany all orders, instructions and instructions with a thousand reservations so that the Basovs don’t do something stupid. Then a modest resolution, say, banning the transportation of live piglets in tram cars would have to look like this:

However, when collecting a fine, keepers of piglets should not:

a) push in the chest;
b) call them scoundrels;
c) push a tram at full speed under the wheels of an oncoming truck;
d) they cannot be equated with malicious hooligans, bandits and embezzlers;
e) in no case should this rule be applied to citizens who are bringing with them not piglets, but small children under the age of three;
f) it cannot be extended to citizens who do not have piglets at all;
g) as well as schoolchildren singing revolutionary songs in the streets."

7 Mikhail Bulgakov. "Theatrical Romance"

Playwright Sergei Leontyevich Maksudov reads his play “Black Snow” to the great director Ivan Vasilyevich, who hates when people shoot on stage. The prototype of Ivan Vasilyevich was Konstantin Stanislavsky, Maksudov - Bulgakov himself:

“With the approaching twilight came a catastrophe. I read:

- “Bakhtin (to Petrov). Well, goodbye! Very soon you will come for me...

Petrov. What are you doing?!

Bakhtin (shoots himself in the temple, falls, an accordion was heard in the distance...).”

- This is in vain! - Ivan Vasilyevich exclaimed. - Why is this? This must be crossed out without hesitation for a second. Have mercy! Why shoot?

“But he must commit suicide,” I answered, coughing.

- And very good! Let him cum and let him stab himself with a dagger!

- But, you see, this is happening during a civil war... Daggers were no longer used...

“No, they were used,” objected Ivan Vasilyevich, “I was told by this... what’s his name... I forgot... that they were used... You cross out this shot!..”

I remained silent, making a sad mistake, and read further:

- “(...Monica and separate shots. A man appeared on the bridge with a rifle in his hand. Moon...)”

- My God! - Ivan Vasilyevich exclaimed. - Shots! Shots again! What a disaster this is! You know what, Leo... you know what, delete this scene, it’s unnecessary.

“I thought,” I said, trying to speak as softly as possible, “this scene was the main one... Here, you see...”

- A complete misconception! - Ivan Vasilyevich snapped. - This scene is not only not the main one, but it is not necessary at all. Why is this? Yours, what’s his name?..

- Bakhtin.

“Well, yes... well, yes, he stabbed himself there in the distance,” Ivan Vasilyevich waved his hand somewhere very far away, “and another comes home and says to his mother, “Bekhteev stabbed himself!”

“But there’s no mother...” I said, looking stunned at the glass with the lid.

- Definitely necessary! You write it. It is not hard. At first it seems that it is difficult - there was no mother, and suddenly there is one - but this is a delusion, it is very easy. And now the old woman is crying at home, and the one who brought the news... Call him Ivanov...

- But... Bakhtin is a hero! He has monologues on the bridge... I thought...

- And Ivanov will say all his monologues!.. You have good monologues, they need to be preserved. Ivanov will say - Petya stabbed himself and before his death he said this, this and that... It will be a very powerful scene.”

8 Vladimir Voinovich. "The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of Soldier Ivan Chonkin"

Colonel Luzhin is trying to extract information from Nyura Belyashova about a mythical fascist resident named Kurt:

“Well then. “Putting his hands behind his back, he walked around the office. - You still do. You don't want to be honest with me. Well. Mil by force. You will not. As the saying goes. We will help you. But you don't want us. Yes. By the way, do you happen to know Kurt?

- Chickens? - Nyura was surprised.

- Well, yes, Kurta.

- Who doesn’t know chickens? - Nyura shrugged. - How can this be possible in a village without chickens?

- It is forbidden? - Luzhin quickly asked. - Yes. Certainly. In the village without Kurt. No way. It is forbidden. Impossible. “He pulled the desk calendar towards him and took a pen. - What's your last name?

“Belyashova,” Nyura said willingly.

- Belya... No. Not this. I don't need your last name, but Kurt's. What? - Luzhin frowned. - And you don’t want to say that?

Nyura looked at Luzhin, not understanding. Her lips trembled, tears appeared in her eyes again.

“I don’t understand,” she said slowly. - What kind of surnames can chickens have?

- At the chickens? - asked Luzhin. - What? In chickens? A? “He suddenly understood everything and, jumping to the floor, stamped his feet. - Get out! Go away".

9 Sergey Dovlatov. "Reserve"

The autobiographical hero works as a guide in the Pushkin Mountains:

“A man in a Tyrolean hat approached me shyly:

- Excuse me, can I ask a question?

- I'm hearing you.

- Was this given?

- That is?

- I ask, was this given? “The Tyrolean took me to the open window.

- In what sense?

- In direct. I would like to know if this was given or not? If you don't give it, say so.

- I don't understand.

The man blushed slightly and began to hastily explain:

- I had a postcard... I am a philocartist...

- Philocartist. I collect postcards... Philos - love, cards...

- I have a color postcard - “Pskov distances”. And so I ended up here. I want to ask - was this given?

“In general, they did,” I say.

— Typically Pskov?

- Not without it.

The man walked away, beaming...”

10 Yuri Koval. "The lightest boat in the world"

A group of friends and pals of the main character are looking at sculptural composition artist Orlov “People in hats”:

“People in hats,” said Clara Courbet, smiling thoughtfully at Orlov. - What an interesting idea!

“Everyone is wearing hats,” Orlov became excited. - And everyone has their own inner world under their hat. Do you see this big-nosed guy? He's a big-nosed guy, but he still has his own world under his hat. Which one do you think?

The girl Clara Courbet, and after her the others, closely examined the big-nosed member of the sculptural group, wondering what kind of inner world he had.

“It is clear that there is a struggle going on in this person,” said Clara, “but the struggle is not easy.”

Everyone again stared at the big-nosed man, wondering what kind of struggle could be going on in him.

“It seems to me that this is a struggle between heaven and earth,” Clara explained.

Everyone froze, and Orlov was confused, apparently not expecting such a powerful look from the girl. The policeman, the artist, was clearly dumbfounded. It probably never occurred to him that heaven and earth could fight. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the floor, and then at the ceiling.

“All this is correct,” Orlov said, stuttering slightly. - Accurately noted. That's exactly the struggle...

“And under that crooked hat,” Clara continued, “underneath that there is a struggle between fire and water.”

The policeman with the gramophone completely staggered. With the strength of her views, the girl Clara Courbet decided to outshine not only the gramophone, but also the sculptural group. The policeman-artist was worried. Having chosen one of the simpler hats, he pointed his finger at it and said:

“And underneath this there is a struggle between good and evil.”

“He-he,” answered Clara Courbet. - Nothing like this.

The policeman shivered and, closing his mouth, looked at Clara.

Orlov elbowed Petyushka, who was crunching something in his pocket.

Peering at the sculptural group, Clara was silent.

“There's something else going on under that hat,” she began slowly. “This is... a fight of a fight with a fight!”

Texts for reading at reading competitions prose works

Vasiliev B.L. And the dawns here are quiet. // Series “100 main books. Descendants, 2015

Swaying and stumbling, he wandered through the Sinyukhin ridge towards the Germans. The revolver with the last cartridge was tightly clutched in his hand, and all he wanted now was for the Germans to meet quickly and for him to have time to knock down another one. Because there was no more strength. There was no strength at all - only pain. Throughout the body...

White twilight floated quietly over the heated stones. The fog was already accumulating in the lowlands, the wind had died down, and mosquitoes hung in a cloud over the foreman. And he imagined his girls, all five of them, in this whitish haze, and he kept whispering something and sadly shaking his head.

But there were still no Germans. They did not come across him, they did not shoot, although he walked heavily and openly and was looking for this meeting. It was time to end this war, it was time to put an end to it, and this last point was kept in the gray bore of his revolver.

He had no goal now, only desire. He did not circle, did not look for traces, but walked straight, as if wound up. But there were still no Germans...

He had already passed the pine forest and was now walking through the forest, every minute approaching the monastery of Legonta, where in the morning he had so easily obtained a weapon for himself. He didn’t think why he was going exactly there, but the unmistakable hunting instinct led him exactly this way, and he obeyed it. And, obeying him, he suddenly slowed down, listened, and slid into the bushes.

A hundred meters away a clearing began with a rotten frame of a well and a warped hut that had driven into the ground. And Vaskov walked this hundred meters silently and weightlessly. He knew that there was an enemy there, he knew precisely and inexplicably, like a wolf knows where a hare will jump out at him.

In the bushes near the clearing, he froze and stood for a long time, without moving, his eyes searching the log house, near which the German he had killed was no longer there, the rickety monastery, the dark bushes in the corners. There was nothing special there, nothing was noticed, but the foreman continued to wait patiently. And when a vague blur appeared slightly from the corner of the hut, he was not surprised. He already knew that the sentry was standing there.

He walked towards him for a long time, an endlessly long time. Slowly, as if in a dream, he raised his leg, weightlessly lowered it to the ground and did not step over it - he poured the weight drop by drop so that not a single twig would snap. In this strange bird dance, he walked around the clearing and found himself behind the motionless sentry. And even more slowly, even more smoothly, he moved towards this wide dark back. If he didn’t go, he swam.

And he stopped in his tracks. He held his breath for a long time and now waited for his heart to calm down. He had long ago put his revolver in his holster, held a knife in his right hand, and now, feeling the heavy smell of someone else’s body, he slowly, millimeter by millimeter, raised the gun for one single, decisive blow.

And he was still gathering strength. There were few of them. Very little, but left hand I couldn't help anymore.

He put everything into this blow, everything, to the last drop. The German almost didn’t cry out, he just sighed strangely and drawn out and knelt down on his knees. The sergeant major pulled open the crooked door and jumped into the hut.

- Hyundai hoh!..

And they were sleeping. We slept before the last rush to the iron. Only one was awake: he rushed to the corner, towards the weapon, but Vaskov caught his leap and put a bullet into the German almost point-blank. The roar hit the low ceiling, the Fritz was thrown into the wall, and the foreman suddenly forgot all the German words and only shouted hoarsely:

- Kick!.. Kick!.. Kick!..

And he cursed with dark words. The blackest I knew.

No, they were not afraid of the scream, or the grenade that the sergeant-major was waving. They just couldn’t think, they couldn’t even imagine in their thoughts that he was alone, alone for many miles. This concept did not fit into their fascist brains, and therefore they lay down on the floor, with their faces down, as ordered. All four lay down: the fifth, the quickest, was already in the next world.

And they tied each other with belts, carefully tied them, and Fedot Evgrafych personally tied the last one up. And he cried. Tears flowed down his dirty, unshaven face, he shook with chills, and laughed through these tears, and shouted:

- What, they took it?.. They took it, right?.. Five girls, there were five girls in total, only five! But you didn’t go through, you didn’t go anywhere and you’ll die here, you’ll all die!.. I’ll kill everyone personally, personally, even if the authorities have mercy! And then let them judge me! Let them judge!..

And his hand ached, ached so much that everything in him was burning and his thoughts were confused. And therefore he was especially afraid of losing consciousness and clung to it with all his might...

...He could never remember that last path. The German backs swayed in front, dangling from side to side, because Vaskov was staggering as if he were drunk. And he saw nothing except these four backs, and he only thought about one thing: to have time to press the trigger of the machine gun before he lost consciousness. And it hung on the last cobweb, and such pain burned throughout his whole body that he growled from the pain. He growled and cried: apparently he was completely exhausted...

But only then did he allow his consciousness to break off, when they called out to them and when he realized that his own people were coming towards them. Russians...

V.P.Kataev. Son of the Regiment // School Library, Moscow, Children's Literature, 1977

The scouts slowly moved towards their location.

Suddenly the elder stopped and raised his hand. At the same moment, the others also stopped, not taking their eyes off their commander. The elder stood for a long time, throwing his hood back from his head and turning his ear slightly in the direction from which he thought he heard a suspicious rustling sound. The eldest was a young man of about twenty-two. Despite his youth, he was already considered a seasoned soldier at the battery. He was a sergeant. His comrades loved him and at the same time were afraid of him.

The sound that attracted the attention of Sergeant Egorov - that was the surname of the senior - seemed very strange. Despite all his experience, Egorov could not understand its character and significance.

"What could it be?" - thought Yegorov, straining his ears and quickly turning over in his mind all the suspicious sounds that he had ever heard during night reconnaissance.

"Whisper! No. The cautious rustle of a shovel? No. File squealing? No".

A strange, quiet, intermittent sound unlike anything was heard somewhere very close, to the right, behind a juniper bush. It seemed like the sound was coming from somewhere underground.

After listening for another minute or two, Egorov, without turning around, gave a sign, and both scouts slowly and silently, like shadows, approached him closely. He pointed with his hand in the direction where the sound was coming from and motioned to listen. The scouts began to listen.

- Do you hear? – Yegorov asked with his lips alone.

“Hear,” one of the soldiers answered just as silently.

Egorov turned his thin dark face to his comrades, sadly illuminated by the moon. He raised his boyish eyebrows high.

- I don’t understand.

For some time the three of them stood and listened, putting their fingers on the triggers of their machine guns. The sounds continued and were just as incomprehensible. For one moment they suddenly changed their character. All three thought they heard singing coming out of the ground. They looked at each other. But immediately the sounds became the same.

Then Egorov gave the sign to lie down and lay down on his stomach on the leaves, already gray with frost. He took the dagger into his mouth and crawled, silently pulling himself up on his elbows, on his belly.

A minute later he disappeared behind a dark juniper bush, and after another minute, which seemed long, like an hour, the scouts heard a thin whistling. It meant that Egorov was calling them to him. They crawled and soon saw the sergeant, who was kneeling, looking into a small trench hidden among the junipers.

From the trench one could clearly hear muttering, sobbing, and sleepy moans. Without words, understanding each other, the scouts surrounded the trench and stretched out the ends of their raincoats with their hands so that they formed something like a tent that did not let in the light. Egorov lowered his hand with an electric flashlight into the trench.

The picture they saw was simple and at the same time terrible.

A boy was sleeping in the trench.

With his hands clenched on his chest, his bare feet, dark as potatoes, his legs tucked in, the boy lay in a green, stinking puddle and was heavily delirious in his sleep. His bare head, overgrown with long-uncut, dirty hair, was awkwardly thrown back. The thin throat trembled. Hoarse sighs flew out of a sunken mouth with fever-swept, inflamed lips. There was muttering, fragments of unintelligible words, and sobbing. The bulging eyelids of the closed eyes were an unhealthy, anemic color. They seemed almost blue, like skim milk. Short but thick eyelashes stuck together in arrows. The face was covered with scratches and bruises. A clot of dried blood was visible on the bridge of the nose.

The boy was sleeping, and reflections of the nightmares that haunted the boy in his sleep ran convulsively across his exhausted face. Every minute his face changed expression. Then it froze in horror; then inhuman despair distorted him; then sharp, deep features of hopeless grief erupted around his sunken mouth, his eyebrows rose like a house and tears rolled from his eyelashes; then suddenly the teeth began to grind furiously, the face became angry, merciless, the fists clenched with such force that the nails dug into the palms, and dull, hoarse sounds flew out of the tense throat. And then suddenly the boy would fall into unconsciousness, smile with a pitiful, completely childish and childishly helpless smile and begin to very weakly, barely audibly sing some kind of unintelligible song.

The boy's sleep was so heavy, so deep, his soul, wandering through the torments of dreams, was so far from his body that for some time he did not feel anything: neither the gaze of the scouts looking at him from above, nor the bright light of an electric flashlight, point-blank illuminating his face.

But suddenly the boy seemed to be hit from the inside, thrown up. He woke up, jumped up, and sat down. His eyes flashed wildly. In an instant, he pulled out a large sharpened nail from somewhere. With a deft, precise movement, Egorov managed to grab the boy’s hot hand and cover his mouth with his palm.

- Quiet. “Ours,” Egorov said in a whisper.

Only now the boy noticed that the soldiers’ helmets were Russian, their machine guns were Russian, their raincoats were Russian, and the faces bending towards him were also Russian, family.

A joyful smile flashed palely on his exhausted face. He wanted to say something, but managed to utter only one word:

And he lost consciousness.

M. Prishvin. Blue dragonfly.// Sat. Prishvin M.M. “Green Noise”, series: My notebooks. M., Pravda, 1983

During that First World War in 1914, I went to the front as a war correspondent dressed as a medical orderly and soon found myself fighting in the west in the Augustow Forest. I wrote down all my impressions in my own short way, but I confess that not for one minute did the feeling of personal uselessness and the impossibility of catching up with my words with the terrible things that were happening around me leave me.

I walked along the road towards war and played with death: either a shell fell, exploding a deep crater, or a bullet buzzed like a bee, but I kept walking, curiously looking at the flocks of partridges flying from battery to battery.

I looked and saw the head of Maxim Maksimych: his bronze face with a gray mustache was stern and almost solemn. At the same time, the old captain managed to express both sympathy and patronage to me. A minute later I was slurping cabbage soup in his dugout. Soon, when the matter heated up, he shouted to me:

- How come you, you such-and-such a writer, aren’t you ashamed to be busy with your own trifles at such moments?

- What should I do? – I asked, very pleased by his decisive tone.

“Run immediately, pick up those people over there, order them to drag benches from the school, pick up and lay down the wounded.”

I lifted people, dragged benches, laid out the wounded, forgot the writer in me, and suddenly I finally felt like a real person, and I was so happy that here, in the war, I was not only a writer.

At this time, one dying man whispered to me:

- I wish I had some water.

At the first word from the wounded man, I ran for water.

But he didn’t drink and repeated to me:

- Water, water, stream.

I looked at him in amazement, and suddenly I understood everything: he was almost a boy with sparkling eyes, with thin, trembling lips that reflected the trembling of his soul.

The orderly and I took a stretcher and carried him to the bank of the stream. The orderly left, I was left face to face with the dying boy on the bank of a forest stream.

In the slanting rays of the evening sun, the minarets of horsetails, leaves of teloreza, and water lilies glowed with a special green light, as if emanating from within the plants, and a blue dragonfly circled over the pool. And very close to us, where the creek ended, the trickles of the stream, joining on the pebbles, sang their usual beautiful song. The wounded man listened with his eyes closed, his bloodless lips moving convulsively, expressing a strong struggle. And then the struggle ended with a sweet childish smile, and the eyes opened.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Seeing a blue dragonfly flying by the creek, he smiled again, said thank you again, and closed his eyes again.

Some time passed in silence, when suddenly the lips moved again, a new struggle arose, and I heard:

- What, she still flies?

The blue dragonfly was still circling.

“It flies,” I answered, “and how!”

He smiled again and fell into oblivion.

Meanwhile, little by little it grew dark, and I, too, flew far away with my thoughts and forgot myself. When suddenly I hear him ask:

– Still flying?

“It flies,” I said, without looking, without thinking.

- Why don’t I see? – he asked, opening his eyes with difficulty.

I was afraid. I once happened to see a dying man who, before his death, suddenly lost his sight, but still spoke to us quite intelligently. Isn’t it the same here: his eyes died earlier. But I myself looked at the place where the dragonfly was flying and saw nothing.

The patient realized that I had deceived him, was upset by my inattention and silently closed his eyes.

I felt pain, and suddenly I saw the reflection of a flying dragonfly in the clear water. We could not notice it against the background of the darkening forest, but the water - these eyes of the earth remain light even when it gets dark: these eyes seem to see in the darkness.

- It flies, it flies! – I exclaimed so decisively, so joyfully that the patient immediately opened his eyes.

And I showed him the reflection. And he smiled.

I will not describe how we saved this wounded man - apparently, the doctors saved him. But I firmly believe: they, the doctors, were helped by the song of the stream and my decisive and excited words that the blue dragonfly flew over the creek in the dark.

A.Platonov. Unknown flower.

And one day a seed fell from the wind, and it nestled in a hole between stone and clay. This seed languished for a long time, and then it became saturated with dew, disintegrated, released thin root hairs, stuck them into the stone and clay and began to grow. This is how that little flower began to live in the world. There was nothing for him to eat in stone and clay; drops of rain that fell from the sky fell on the top of the earth and did not penetrate to its root, but the flower lived and lived and grew little by little higher. He raised the leaves against the wind, and the wind died down near the flower; specks of dust fell from the wind onto the clay, which the wind brought from the black, fat earth; and in those dust particles there was food for the flower, but the dust particles were dry. To moisten them, the flower guarded the dew all night and collected it drop by drop on its leaves. And when the leaves became heavy with dew, the flower lowered them, and the dew fell down; it moistened the black earthen dust that the wind brought and corroded the dead clay. During the day the flower was guarded by the wind, and at night by the dew. He worked day and night to live and not die. He grew his leaves large so that they could stop the wind and collect dew. However, it was difficult for the flower to feed only from dust particles that fell from the wind, and also to collect dew for them. But he needed life and overcame his pain from hunger and fatigue with patience. Only once a day did the flower rejoice: when the first ray of the morning sun touched its tired leaves. If the wind did not come to the wasteland for a long time, then the little flower became ill, and it no longer had enough strength to live and grow. The flower, however, did not want to live sadly; therefore, when he was completely sad, he dozed off. Still, he constantly tried to grow, even if his roots gnawed at bare stone and dry clay. At such a time, its leaves could not be saturated with full strength and become green: one vein was blue, another red, the third blue or gold. This happened because the flower lacked food, and its torment was indicated in the leaves. different colors. The flower itself, however, did not know this: after all, it was blind and did not see itself as it is. In mid-summer the flower opened its corolla at the top. Before that, it looked like grass, but now it has become a real flower. Its corolla was composed of petals of a simple light color, clear and strong, like a star. And, like a star, it shone with a living, flickering fire, and it was visible even on a dark night. And when the wind came to the wasteland, it always touched the flower and carried its smell with it. And then one morning the girl Dasha was walking past that vacant lot. She lived with her friends in a pioneer camp, and this morning she woke up and missed her mother. She wrote a letter to her mother and took the letter to the station so that it would arrive quickly. On the way, Dasha kissed the envelope with the letter and envied him that he would see his mother sooner than she did. At the edge of the wasteland, Dasha felt a fragrance. She looked around. There were no flowers nearby, only small grass grew along the path, and the wasteland was completely bare; but the wind came from the wasteland and brought from there a quiet smell, like the calling voice of a little unknown life. Dasha remembered one fairy tale, her mother told her a long time ago. The mother spoke about a flower that was still sad for its mother - a rose, but it could not cry, and only in the fragrance did its sadness pass. “Maybe this flower misses its mother there, like me,” Dasha thought. She went into the wasteland and saw that small flower near the stone. Dasha has never seen such a flower before - neither in the field, nor in the forest, nor in a picture of a book, nor in a botanical garden, anywhere. She sat down on the ground near the flower and asked him: “Why are you like this?” “I don’t know,” answered the flower. - Why are you different from others? The flower again did not know what to say. But for the first time he heard a person’s voice so close, for the first time someone looked at him, and he did not want to offend Dasha with silence. “Because it’s difficult for me,” answered the flower. - What is your name? - Dasha asked. “Nobody calls me,” said the little flower, “I live alone.” Dasha looked around in the wasteland. - Here is a stone, here is clay! - she said. - How do you live alone, how did you grow from clay and not die, you little one? “I don’t know,” answered the flower. Dasha leaned towards him and kissed his glowing head. The next day, all the pioneers came to visit the little flower. Dasha led them, but long before reaching the vacant lot, she ordered everyone to take a breath and said: “Hear how good it smells.” That's how he breathes.

The pioneers stood around the small flower for a long time and admired it like a hero. Then they walked around the entire wasteland, measured it in steps and counted how many wheelbarrows with manure and ash needed to be brought in to fertilize the dead clay. They wanted the land in the wasteland to become good. Then the little flower, unknown by name, will rest, and from its seeds beautiful children will grow and will not die, the best flowers shining with light, which are not found anywhere. The pioneers worked for four days, fertilizing the land in the wasteland. And after that they went traveling to other fields and forests and never came to the wasteland again. Only Dasha came one day to say goodbye to the little flower. Summer was already ending, the pioneers had to go home, and they left. And the next summer, Dasha again came to the same pioneer camp. Throughout the long winter, she remembered a small flower, unknown by name. And she immediately went to the vacant lot to check on him. Dasha saw that the wasteland was now different, it was now overgrown with herbs and flowers, and birds and butterflies were flying over it. The flowers gave off a fragrance, the same as that little working flower. However, last year's flower, which lived between the stone and clay, was no longer there. He must have died last fall. The new flowers were also good; they were only a little worse than that first flower. And Dasha felt sad that the old flower was no longer there. She walked back and suddenly stopped. Between two close stones a new flower grew - exactly the same as that old flower, only a little better and even more beautiful. This flower grew from the middle of the crowded stones; he was lively and patient, like his father, and also stronger than father because he lived in stone. It seemed to Dasha that the flower was reaching out to her, that it was calling her to itself with the silent voice of its fragrance.

G. Andersen. Nightingale.

And suddenly a wonderful singing was heard outside the window. It was a small living nightingale. He learned that the emperor was ill and flew in to console and encourage him. He sat on a branch and sang, and scary ghosts Those who surrounded the emperor grew pale and pale, and the blood flowed faster and hotter to the emperor’s heart.

Death itself listened to the nightingale and only quietly repeated:

Sing, nightingale! Sing again!

Will you give me a precious saber for this? And the banner? And the crown? - asked the nightingale.

Death nodded his head and gave away one treasure after another, and the nightingale sang and sang. So he sang a song about a quiet cemetery, where elderberries bloom, white roses smell fragrant, and the fresh grass on the graves sparkles with the tears of the living, mourning their loved ones. Then Death so wanted to return to his home, to the quiet cemetery, that he wrapped himself in a white cold fog and flew out the window.

Thank you, dear bird! - said the emperor. - How can I reward you?

“You have already rewarded me,” said the nightingale. - I saw tears in your eyes when I sang in front of you for the first time - I will never forget this. Sincere tears of delight are the most precious reward for a singer!

And he sang again, and the emperor fell into a healthy, sound sleep.

And when he woke up, the sun was already shining brightly through the window. None of the courtiers and servants even looked at the emperor. Everyone thought he was dead. One nightingale did not leave the sick man. He sat outside the window and sang even better than always.

Stay with me! - asked the emperor. - You will sing only when you want.

I can't live in a palace. I will fly to you whenever I want, and I will sing about happy and unhappy, about good and evil, about everything that is happening around you and that you do not know. A small songbird flies everywhere - it flies under the roof of a poor peasant’s hut, and into a fisherman’s house, which are so far from your palace. I will fly and sing to you! But promise me...

All you want! - the emperor exclaimed and got out of bed.

He had already put on his imperial robe and was clutching a heavy golden saber to his heart.

Promise me not to tell anyone that you have a little bird who tells you about the whole big world. This way things will go better.

And the nightingale flew away.

Then the courtiers entered, they gathered to look at the deceased emperor, and they froze on the threshold.

And the emperor said to them:

Hello! Good morning!

Sunny day at the very beginning of summer. I am wandering not far from home, in a birch forest. Everything around seems to be bathing, splashing in golden waves of warmth and light. Birch branches flow above me. The leaves on them seem either emerald green or completely golden. And below, under the birches, light bluish shadows also run and flow across the grass, like waves. And the light bunnies, like reflections of the sun in the water, run one after another along the grass, along the path.

The sun is both in the sky and on the ground... And this makes it feel so good, so fun that you want to run away somewhere into the distance, to where the trunks of young birch trees sparkle with their dazzling whiteness.

And suddenly from this sunny distance I heard a familiar forest voice: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku!”

Cuckoo! I've heard it many times before, but I've never even seen it in a picture. What is she like? For some reason she seemed plump and big-headed to me, like an owl. But maybe she's not like that at all? I'll run and have a look.

Alas, it turned out to be far from easy. I go to her voice. And she will fall silent, and then again: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku,” but in a completely different place.

How can you see her? I stopped in thought. Or maybe she's playing hide and seek with me? She's hiding, and I'm looking. Let's play it the other way around: now I'll hide, and you look.

I climbed into the hazel bush and also cuckooed once and twice. The cuckoo has fallen silent, maybe it's looking for me? I sit in silence, even my heart is pounding with excitement. And suddenly, somewhere nearby: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku!”

I am silent: better look, don’t shout to the whole forest.

And she’s already very close: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku!”

I look: some kind of bird is flying across the clearing, its tail is long, it is gray, only its chest is covered in dark speckles. Probably a hawk. This one in our yard hunts sparrows. He flew up to a nearby tree, sat down on a branch, bent down and shouted: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku!”

Cuckoo! That's it! This means that she does not look like an owl, but like a hawk.

I'll crow out of the bush in response to her! Out of fright, she almost fell out of the tree, immediately darted down from the branch, darted somewhere into the thicket of the forest, and that’s all I saw.

But I don’t need to see her anymore. So I solved the forest riddle, and besides, I myself spoke to the bird for the first time on its native language.

So the clear forest voice of the cuckoo revealed to me the first secret of the forest. And since then, for half a century, I have been wandering in winter and summer along remote untrodden paths and discovering more and more new secrets. And there is no end to these winding paths, and there is no end to the secrets native nature.

G. Skrebitsky. Four artists

Four wizard-painters somehow came together: Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn; They got together and argued: which of them draws better? They argued and argued and decided to choose the Red Sun as the judge: “It lives high in the sky, it has seen many wonderful things in its lifetime, let it judge us.”

Sunny agreed to be a judge. The painters got to work. The first to volunteer to paint a picture was Zimushka-Winter.

“Only Sunny shouldn’t look at my work,” she decided. “She shouldn’t see it until I finish.”

Winter has stretched gray clouds across the sky and let's cover the earth with fresh fluffy snow! One day I decorated everything around me.

The fields and hills turned white. The river became covered with thin ice, became silent, and fell asleep, like in a fairy tale.

Winter walks through the mountains, through the valleys, walking in large soft felt boots, stepping quietly, inaudibly. And she herself looks around - here and there she will correct her magical picture.

Here is a hillock in the middle of a field, the prankster took the wind from it and blew away his white cap. I need to put it on again. And over there a gray hare is sneaking between the bushes. It’s bad for him, the gray one: on the white snow, a predatory animal or bird will immediately notice him, you can’t hide from them anywhere.

“Dress yourself, sideways, in a white fur coat,” Winter decided, “then you won’t be noticed in the snow soon.”

But Lisa Patrikeevna has no need to dress in white. She lives in a deep hole, hiding underground from enemies. She just needs to be dressed up more beautifully and warmly.

Winter had prepared a wonderful fur coat for her, it was simply amazing: all bright red, like a fire! The fox will move its fluffy tail, as if it would scatter sparks across the snow.

Winter looked into the forest. “I’ll decorate it so much that the Sun will fall in love!”

She dressed the pines and spruce trees in heavy snow coats; she pulled snow-white hats down to their eyebrows; I put downy mittens on the branches. The forest heroes stand next to each other, stand decorously, calmly.

And below them, various bushes and young trees took refuge. Winter also dressed them, like children, in white fur coats.

And she threw a white blanket over the mountain ash that grows at the edge of the forest. It turned out so well! At the ends of the rowan branches, clusters of berries hang, like red earrings visible from under a white blanket.

Under the trees, Winter painted all the snow with a pattern of different footprints and footprints. Here is a hare's footprint: in front there are two large paw prints next to each other, and behind - one after the other - two small ones; and the fox - as if drawn by a thread: paw into paw, so it stretches in a chain; And Gray wolf he ran through the forest and also left his prints. But the bear’s footprint is nowhere to be seen, and no wonder: Zimushka-Winter Toptygina built a cozy den in the thicket of the forest, covered the target with a thick snow blanket on top: sleep well! And he is happy to try - he doesn’t crawl out of the den. That’s why you can’t see a bear’s footprint in the forest.

But it’s not just animal tracks that can be seen in the snow. In a forest clearing, where green lingonberry and blueberry bushes stick out, the snow, like crosses, is trampled by bird tracks. These are chickens of the woods - hazel grouse and black grouse - running around the clearing here, pecking at the remaining berries.

Yes, here they are: black grouse, motley hazel grouse and black grouse. On the white snow how beautiful they all are!

The picture of the winter forest turned out well, not dead, but alive! Either a gray squirrel will jump from twig to twig, or a spotted woodpecker, sitting on the trunk of an old tree, will begin to knock out seeds from a pine cone. He’ll stick it into the crevice and hit it with his beak!

The winter forest lives. Snowy fields and valleys live. The whole picture of the gray-haired sorceress - Winter - lives on. You can show it to Sunny too.

The sun parted the blue cloud. He looks at the winter forest, at the valleys... And under his gentle gaze everything around him becomes even more beautiful.

The snow flared up and glowed. Blue, red, green lights lit up on the ground, on the bushes, on the trees. And the breeze blew, shook off the frost from the branches, and multi-colored lights also sparkled and danced in the air.

It turned out to be a wonderful picture! Perhaps you couldn’t draw it better.

List of works to learn by heart and definition of the genre of the work the teacher carries out independently according to the author's program.

An excerpt of a work (poetic) for grades 5-11 must be a complete semantic text of at least 30 lines; prose text– 10-15 lines (grades 5-8), 15-20 lines (grades 9-11). Texts for memorizing from a dramatic work are determined by the form of the monologue.

1. A.S. Pushkin. “The Bronze Horseman” (excerpt “I love you, Peter’s creation...”)

2. I.S. Turgenev. "Fathers and Sons" (excerpt)

3. I.S.Goncharov. "Oblomov" (excerpt)

4. A.N. Ostrovsky. “Thunderstorm” (excerpt: one of the monologues)

5. F.I.Tyutchev. "Oh, how murderously we love..."

6. N.A. Nekrasov. “The Poet and the Citizen” (excerpt “The son cannot look calmly...”); “You and I are stupid people...”, “Who can live well in Rus'?” (excerpt)

7. A.A.Fet. “Distant friend, understand my sobs...”

8. A.K. Tolstoy. “In the midst of a noisy ball, by chance...”

9. L.N. Tolstoy. "War and Peace" (excerpt)

10. A. Rimbaud. "Closet"

Alexander Pushkin.“I love you, Peter’s creation” (from the poem “The Bronze Horseman”)

I love you, Petra's creation,

I love your strict, slender appearance,

Neva sovereign current,

Its coastal granite,

of your fences cast iron pattern,

of your thoughtful nights

Transparent twilight, moonless shine,

When I'm in my room

I write, I read without a lamp,

And the sleeping communities are clear

Deserted streets and light

Admiralty needle,

And, not letting the darkness of the night

To golden skies

One dawn gives way to another

He hurries, giving the night half an hour.

I love your cruel winter

Still air and frost,

Sleigh running along the wide Neva,

Girls' faces are brighter than roses,

And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,

And at the time of the feast the bachelor

The hiss of foamy glasses

And the punch flame is blue.

I love the warlike liveliness

Amusing Fields of Mars,

Infantry troops and horses

Uniform beauty

In their harmoniously unsteady system

The shreds of these victorious banners,

The shine of these copper caps,

Shot through and through in battle.

I love you, military capital,

Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,

When the queen is full

Gives a son to royal house,

Or victory over the enemy

Russia triumphs again

Or, breaking your blue ice,

The Neva carries him to the seas

And, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

Show off, city Petrov, and stand

Unshakable like Russia,

May he make peace with you

And the defeated element;

Enmity and ancient captivity

Let the Finnish waves forget

And they will not be vain malice

Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

I.S. Turgenev. "Fathers and Sons" (excerpt)

And now I repeat to you at parting... because there is no point in deceiving yourself: we are saying goodbye forever, and you yourself feel it... you acted smartly; you were not created for our bitter, tart, bean* life. You have neither insolence nor anger, but only youthful courage and youthful enthusiasm; This is not suitable for our business. Your brother, a nobleman, cannot go further than noble humility or noble ebullience, and this is nothing. For example, you don’t fight - and you already imagine yourself to be great - but we want to fight. What! Our dust will eat into your eyes, our dirt will stain you, and you haven’t grown up to us, you involuntarily admire yourself, you enjoy scolding yourself; But it’s boring for us - give us others! We need to break others! You are a nice fellow; but you are still a soft, liberal barich - e volatu, as my parent puts it.

Are you saying goodbye to me forever, Evgeniy? - Arkady said sadly, - and you have no other words for me?

Bazarov scratched the back of his head.

Yes, Arkady, I have other words, but I won’t express them, because this is romanticism - it means: get drunk *. And you should get married as soon as possible; Yes, get your own nest, and have more children. They will be smart just because they will be born on time, not like you and me.

NOTES:

* BOBYL- unmarried, bachelor, celibate, single, wifeless, familyless.

*GET EXCITED and fall apart, fall apart, fall apart - become soft, fall into a sentimental mood.

I.S. Goncharov."Oblomov" (excerpt)

No,” Olga interrupted, raising her head and trying to look at him through her tears. “I only recently found out that I loved in you what I wanted to have in you, what Stolz showed me, what we invented with him.” I loved the future Oblomov! You are meek and honest, Ilya; you are gentle... dove; you hide your head under your wing - and don’t want anything more; you are ready to coo under the roof all your life... but I’m not like that: this is not enough for me, I need something else, but I don’t know what! Can you teach me, tell me what it is, what I lack, give it all so that I... And tenderness... where it is not!

Oblomov’s legs gave way; he sat down in a chair and wiped his hands and forehead with a handkerchief.

The word was cruel; it deeply stung Oblomov: inside it seemed to burn him, outside it blew cold on him. In response, he smiled somehow pitifully, painfully bashful, like a beggar who was reproached for his nakedness. He sat with this smile of powerlessness, weakened from excitement and resentment; his dull gaze clearly said: “Yes, I am meager, pitiful, poor... beat me, beat me!..”

Who cursed you, Ilya? What did you do? You are kind, smart, gentle, noble... and... you are dying! What ruined you? There is no name for this evil...

“Yes,” he said, barely audible.

She looked at him questioningly, her eyes full of tears.

Oblomovism! - he whispered, then took her hand, wanted to kiss it, but couldn’t, he just pressed it tightly to his lips, and hot tears dripped onto her fingers.

Without raising his head, without showing her his face, he turned around and walked away.

A.N. Ostrovsky.“Thunderstorm” (excerpt: one of the monologues)

Monologue of Katerina.

I say, why don’t people fly like birds? You know, sometimes I feel like I'm a bird. When you stand on a mountain, you feel the urge to fly. That's how I would run up, raise my hands and fly...

How playful I was! I'm completely withered...

Was that what I was like? I lived, didn’t worry about anything, like a bird in the wild. Mama doted on me, dressed me up like a doll, and didn’t force me to work; I used to do whatever I want. Do you know how I lived with girls? I'll tell you now. I used to get up early; If it’s summer, I’ll go to the spring, wash myself, bring some water with me and that’s it, I’ll water all the flowers in the house. I had many, many flowers. Then we’ll go to church with Mama, all of us, strangers; our house was full of strangers; yes praying mantis. And we’ll come from church, sit down to do some kind of work, more like gold velvet, and the wanderers will begin to tell us: where they were, what they saw, different lives, or sing poetry. So time will pass until lunch. Here the old women go to sleep, and I walk around the garden. Then to Vespers, and in the evening again stories and singing. It was so good!

Monologue of Kuligin.

Cruel morals, sir, in our city, they are cruel! In philistinism, sir, you will see nothing but rudeness and stark poverty. And we, sir, will never escape this crust! Because honest work will never earn us more daily bread. And whoever has money, sir, tries to enslave the poor so that his labors will be free more money make money Do you know what your uncle, Savel Prokofich, answered to the mayor? The peasants came to the mayor to complain that he would not disrespect any of them. The mayor began to tell him: “Listen,” he says, Savel Prokofich, pay the men well! Every day they come to me with complaints!” Your uncle patted the mayor on the shoulder and said: “Is it worth it, your honor, for us to talk about such trifles! I have a lot of people every year; You understand: I won’t pay them a penny per person, but I make thousands out of this, so that’s good for me!” That's it, sir!

F.I. Tyutchev."Oh, how murderously we love..."

Oh, how murderously we love,

We are most likely to destroy,

What is dear to our hearts!

How long ago, proud of my victory,

You said: she is mine...

A year has not passed - ask and find out,

What was left of her?

Where did the roses go?

The smile of the lips and the sparkle of the eyes?

Everything was scorched, tears burned out

With its hot moisture.

Do you remember, when you met,

At the first fatal meeting,

Her eyes and speeches are magical

And baby-like laughter?

So what now? And where is all this?

And how long was the dream?

Alas, like northern summer,

He was a passing guest!

Fate's terrible sentence

Your love was for her

And undeserved shame

She laid down her life!

A life of renunciation, a life of suffering!

In her spiritual depths

She was left with memories...

But they also changed.

And on earth she felt wild,

The charm is gone...

The crowd surged and trampled into the mud

What bloomed in her soul.

And what about the long torment?

How did she manage to save the ashes?

Evil pain, bitter pain,

Pain without joy and without tears!

Oh, how murderously we love!

As in the violent blindness of passions

We are most likely to destroy,

What is dearer to our hearts!..

N.A. Nekrasov.“The Poet and the Citizen” (excerpt “The son cannot look calmly...”)

The son cannot look calmly

On my dear mother's grief,

There will be no worthy citizen

I have a cold heart for my homeland,

There is no worse reproach for him...

Go into the fire for the honor of your fatherland,

For conviction, for love...

Go and die blamelessly.

You will not die in vain, the matter is strong,

When the blood flows underneath...

And you, poet! chosen one of heaven,

Herald of age-old truths,

Do not believe that he who has no bread

Not worth your prophetic strings!

Don’t believe that people will fall altogether;

God didn't die in soul of people,

And a cry from a believing chest

Will always be available to her!

Be a citizen! serving art,

Live for the good of your neighbor,

Subordinating your genius to feeling

All-embracing Love;

And if you are rich in gifts,

Don’t bother exhibiting them:

They themselves will shine in your work

Their life-giving rays.

Look: solid stone in fragments

The poor worker crushes

And from under the hammer it flies

And the flame splashes out on its own!

N.A. Nekrasov.“You and I are stupid people...”

You and I are stupid people:

In just a minute, the flash is ready!

Relief for a troubled chest

An unreasonable, harsh word.

Speak up when you're angry

Everything that excites and torments the soul!

Let us, my friend, be openly angry:

The world is easier and more likely to get boring.

If prose in love is inevitable,

So let's take a share of happiness from her:

After a quarrel, so full, so tender

Return of love and participation.

N.A. Nekrasov.“Who can live well in Rus'?” (excerpt)

You're miserable too

You are also abundant

You are mighty

You are also powerless

Mother Rus'!

Saved in slavery

Free heart -

Gold, gold

People's heart!

People power,

Mighty force -

Conscience is calm,

The truth is alive!

Strength with untruth

Doesn't get along

Sacrifice by untruth

Not called

Rus' does not move,

Rus' is like dead!

And she caught fire

Hidden spark

They stood up - unwounded,

They came out - uninvited,

Live by the grain

The mountains have been damaged!

The army is rising

Countless!

The strength in her will affect

Indestructible!

You're miserable too

You are also abundant

You're downtrodden

You are omnipotent

Mother Rus'!

A.A.Fet.“Distant friend, understand my sobs...” (“A. L. Brzeskoy”)

Distant friend, understand my sobs,

Forgive me for my painful cry.

They bloom with you soul memories,

And I haven’t lost the habit of cherishing you.

Who will tell us that we did not know how to live,

Soulless and idle minds,

That kindness and tenderness did not burn in us

And we didn’t sacrifice beauty?

Where is all this? The soul is still burning

Still ready to embrace the world.

Vain heat! Nobody is answering,

Sounds will resurrect and die again.

Only you are alone! High excitement

There is blood on the cheeks and inspiration in the heart. -

Get away from this dream - there are too many tears in it!

It’s not a pity for life with languid breathing,

What is life and death? What a pity about that fire

That shone over the whole universe,

And he goes into the night and cries as he leaves.

A.K. Tolstoy.“In the midst of a noisy ball, by chance...”

In the middle of a noisy ball, by chance,

In the anxiety of worldly vanity,

I saw you, but it's a mystery

Your features are covered.

Like the sound of a distant pipe,

Like a playing shaft of the sea.

I liked your thin figure

And your whole thoughtful look,

And your laughter, both sad and ringing,

Since then it has been ringing in my heart.

In the lonely hours of the night

I love, tired, to lie down -

I see sad eyes

I hear cheerful speech;

And sadly I fall asleep like that,

And I sleep in unknown dreams...

Do I love you - I don't know

But it seems to me that I love it!

L.N. Tolstoy. "War and Peace" (excerpt)

In captivity, in a booth, Pierre learned not with his mind, but with his whole being, life, that man was created for happiness, that happiness is in himself, in the satisfaction of natural human needs, and that all unhappiness comes not from lack, but from excess; but now, in these last three weeks of the campaign, he learned another new, comforting truth - he learned that there is nothing terrible in the world. He learned that since there is no situation in which a person would be happy and completely free, there is also no situation in which he would be unhappy and not free. He learned that there is a limit to suffering and a limit to freedom, and that this limit is very close; that the man who suffered because one leaf was wrapped in his pink bed suffered in the same way as he suffered now, falling asleep on the bare, damp earth, cooling one side and warming the other; that when he used to put on his narrow ballroom shoes, he suffered in exactly the same way as now, when he walked completely barefoot (his shoes had long since become disheveled), with feet covered with sores. He learned that when he, as it seemed to him, of his own free will, married his wife, he was no more free than now, when he was locked in the stable at night. Of all the things that he later called suffering, but which he hardly felt then, the main thing was his bare, worn, scabby feet.

A. Rimbaud."Closet"

Here old wardrobe carved, whose oak is streaked with dark

I began to look like kind old men a long time ago;

The closet is thrown open, and darkness comes from all the secluded corners

The enticing smell flows like old wine.

Full of everything: a pile of junk,

Pleasant-smelling yellow underwear,

Grandmother's scarf, where there is an image

Griffin, lace, and ribbons, and rags;

Here you will find medallions and portraits,

A strand of white hair and a strand of a different color,

Children's clothes, dried flowers...

O closet of bygone days! Lots of stories

And you keep many fairy tales safely

Behind this door, blackened and creaky.

Chingiz Aitmatov. "Mother Field" The scene of a fleeting meeting between mother and son near the train.

The weather was, like yesterday, windy and cold. It is not for nothing that the station gorge is called the caravanserai of the winds. Suddenly the clouds cleared and the sun came out. “Oh,” I thought, “if only my son would suddenly shine like the sun from behind the clouds, if only he could appear before our eyes at least once...”
And then the sound of a train was heard in the distance. He was coming from the east. The ground shook underfoot, the rails began to hum.

Meanwhile, a man came running with red and yellow flags in his hands and shouted in his ear:
- Will not stop! Will not stop! Away! Get out of the way! - And he began to push us away.
At that moment a cry was heard nearby:
- Mom-ah! Alima-a-an!
He! Maselbek! Oh, my God, my God! He rushed past us very close. He leaned out of the carriage with his whole body, holding the door with one hand, and with the other he waved his hat at us and shouted, saying goodbye. I just remember screaming: “Maselbek!” And in that short moment I saw him accurately and clearly: the wind tousled his hair, the skirts of his overcoat beat like wings, and on his face and in his eyes - joy, and grief, and regret, and farewell! And, without taking my eyes off him, I ran after him. The last carriage of the train rustled past, and I was still running along the sleepers, then fell. Oh, how I moaned and screamed! My son was leaving for the battlefield, and I said goodbye to him, hugging the cold iron rail. The sound of the wheels went further and further, and then it died down. And now sometimes it still seems to me as if this train is rushing through my head and the wheels are pounding in my ears for a long time. Aliman ran up all in tears, sank down next to me, wants to lift me but can’t, she’s choking, her hands are shaking. Then a Russian woman, a switchman, arrived in time. And also: “Mom! Mom!” - hugs, cries. The two of them took me to the side of the road, and as we walked to the station, Aliman gave me a soldier’s hat.
“Take it, mom,” she said. - Maselbek left.
It turns out that he threw his hat to me when I was running behind the carriage. I was driving home with this hat in my hands; sitting in the chaise, she pressed her tightly to her chest. It still hangs on the wall. An ordinary soldier's gray earflaps with an asterisk on the forehead. Sometimes I take it in my hands, bury my face and smell my son’s smell.

"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (4)"

The prose poem “Old Woman” is read by Magomirzaev Magomirza

I walked across a wide field, alone.

And suddenly I thought I felt light, cautious steps behind my back... Someone was following my trail.

I looked around and saw a small, hunched old woman, all wrapped in gray rags. The old woman's face alone was visible from under them: a yellow, wrinkled, pointed-nosed, toothless face.

I approached her... She stopped.

- Who are you? What do you need? Are you poor? Are you waiting for alms?

The old woman did not answer. I leaned towards her and noticed that both her eyes were covered with a translucent, whitish membrane, or hymen, such as is found in other birds: they protect their eyes with it from too bright light.

But the old woman’s hymen did not move and did not open her pupils... from which I concluded that she was blind.

- Do you want alms? – I repeated my question. - Why are you following me? “But the old woman still did not answer, but only shrank a little.

I turned away from her and went my way.

And now again I hear behind me the same light, measured, as if creeping steps.

“This woman again! – I thought. - Why did she pester me? “But I immediately added mentally: “She probably blindly lost her way, and is now following my steps by ear, so that together with me she can go out to a residential area.” Yes Yes; This is true".

But a strange uneasiness gradually took over my thoughts: it began to seem to me that the old woman was not only following me, but that she was guiding me, that she was pushing me now to the right, now to the left, and that I was involuntarily obeying her.

However, I continue to walk... But ahead, on my very road, something turns black and widens... some kind of hole...

“Grave! – flashed in my head. “That’s where she’s pushing me!”

I turn sharply back... The old woman is in front of me again... but she sees! She looks at me with large, angry, ominous eyes... the eyes of a bird of prey... I move towards her face, towards her eyes... Again the same dull hymen, the same blind and stupid appearance.

"Oh! – I think... – this old woman is my destiny. That fate from which a person cannot escape!”

“Don’t leave! don't leave! What kind of madness is this?... We have to try.” And I rush to the side, in a different direction.

I walk quickly... But the light steps still rustle behind me, close, close... And the pit darkens again ahead.

I again turn in the other direction... And again the same rustling from behind and the same menacing spot in front.

And wherever I rush, like a hare on the run... everything is the same, the same!

“Stop! - I think. - I’ll deceive her! I’m not going anywhere!” – and I instantly sit down on the ground.

The old woman is standing behind me, two steps away from me. I can't hear her, but I feel that she is here.

And suddenly I see: that spot that was black in the distance is floating, crawling towards me!

God! I look back... The old woman looks straight at me - and her toothless mouth is twisted into a grin...

- You will not leave!

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (5)"

Prose poem "Azure Sky"

Azure Kingdom

O azure kingdom! O kingdom of azure, light, youth and happiness! I saw you... in a dream.

There were several of us on a beautiful, dismantled boat. A white sail rose like a swan's chest under the frisky pennants.

I did not know who my comrades were; but I felt with all my being that they were just as young, cheerful and happy as I was!

Yes, I didn’t even notice them. I saw all around me one boundless azure sea, all covered with small ripples of golden scales, and above my head the same boundless, the same azure sky - and across it, triumphant and as if laughing, the gentle sun rolled.

And from time to time, loud and joyful laughter rose between us, like the laughter of the gods!

Otherwise, suddenly words and poems would fly from someone’s lips, filled with wondrous beauty and inspired power... It seemed as if the very sky was sounding in response to them - and all around the sea trembled sympathetically... And there again a blissful silence fell.

Our fast boat sailed gently through the soft waves. She was not moved by the wind; it was ruled by our own playing hearts. Where we wanted, she rushed there, obediently, as if alive.

We came across islands, magical, translucent islands with low tides precious stones, yakhonts and emeralds. Delightful incense drifted from the rounded banks; some of these islands showered us with a shower of white roses and lilies of the valley; from others, iridescent long-winged birds suddenly rose up.

Birds circled above us, lilies of the valley and roses melted into the pearly foam that slid along the smooth sides of our boat.

Together with flowers and birds, sweet, sweet sounds flew in... Women's voices seemed to be in them... And everything around: the sky, the sea, the fluttering of the sail in the heights, the murmur of the stream behind the stern - everything spoke of love, of blissful love!

And the one whom each of us loved - she was here... invisible and close. Another moment - and then her eyes will shine, her smile will bloom... Her hand will take your hand - and take you with her to an unfading paradise!

O azure kingdom! I saw you... in a dream.

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (6)"

Oleg Koshevoy about his mother (excerpt from the novel "Young Guard").

"... Mom, mom! I remember your hands from the moment I became
to be aware of oneself in the world. Over the summer they were always covered in tan, and it didn’t go away even in the winter - it was so gentle, even, only a little darker on the veins. Or maybe they were rougher, your hands, - after all, they had so much work to do in life - but they always seemed so tender to me, and I loved kissing them right on the dark veins.
Yes, from the very moment I became conscious of myself until the last
moments when you are exhausted, quiet in last time she laid her head on my chest, walking me in the hard way life, I always remember your hands at work. I remember how they scurried around in soapy foam, washing my sheets, when these sheets were still so small that they looked like diapers, and I remember how you, in a sheepskin coat, in winter, carried buckets on a yoke, placing a small mittened hand on the yoke in front , she herself is so small and fluffy, like a mitten. I see your fingers with slightly thickened joints on the primer, and I repeat
you: “ba-a-ba, ba-ba.” I see how with your strong hand you bring the sickle under the belly, broken by the grain of the other hand, right on the sickle, I see the elusive sparkle of the sickle and then this instant smooth, such a feminine movement of the hands and the sickle, throwing back the ears in the bunch so as not to break the compressed stems.
I remember your hands, unbending, red, turning blue from the icy water in the ice hole, where you rinsed clothes when we lived alone - it seemed completely alone in the world - and I remember how imperceptibly your hands could remove a splinter from your son’s finger and how they instantly threaded a needle when you sewed and sang - sang only for yourself and for me. Because there is nothing in the world that your hands cannot do, that they cannot do, that they would abhor! I saw how they kneaded clay with cow dung to coat the hut, and I saw your hand peeking out of the silk, with a ring on your finger, when you raised a glass of red Moldavian wine. And with what submissive tenderness your full and white hand above the elbow wrapped itself around your stepfather’s neck when he, playing with you, picked you up in his arms - the stepfather whom you taught to love me and whom I honored as my own, for one thing alone, that you loved him.
But most of all, I remembered forever how gently they stroked, your hands, slightly rough and so warm and cool, how they stroked my hair, and neck, and chest, when I lay half-conscious in bed. And, whenever I opened my eyes, you were always next to me, and the night light was burning in the room, and you looked at me with your sunken eyes, as if from the darkness, yourself all quiet and bright, as if in vestments. I kiss your clean, holy hands!
You sent your sons off to war - if not you, then someone else, just like
you, - you will never wait for others, and if this cup passed you, it did not pass another, the same as you. But if even in the days of war people have a piece of bread and there are clothes on their bodies, and if there are stacks of stacks in the field, and trains are running along the rails, and cherries are blooming in the garden, and a flame is raging in the blast furnace, and someone’s invisible force raises up a warrior from the ground or from the bed when he was sick or wounded - all this was done by the hands of my mother - mine, and his, and his.
Look around you too, young man, my friend, look around like I did and tell me who you are
I have offended you more in life than my mother - is it not from me, not from you, not from him, is it not from our failures, mistakes, and is it not from our grief that our mothers turn gray? But the time will come when all this will turn into a painful reproach to the heart at the mother’s grave.
Mom, mom!.. Forgive me, because you are alone, only you in the world can forgive, put your hands on your head, like in childhood, and forgive...”

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (7)"

A.P. Chekhov. "Gull". Monologue of Nina Zarechnaya (final scene of farewell to Treplev)

I'm so tired... I wish I could rest... I could rest!
I am a seagull... No, that's not it. I'm an actress. And he is here... He didn’t believe in the theater, he kept laughing at my dreams, and little by little I also stopped believing and lost heart... And then the worries of love, jealousy, constant fear for the little one... I became petty, insignificant, I played senselessly... I didn’t know what to do with my hands, I didn’t know how to stand on stage, I didn’t have control of my voice. You don't understand this state when you feel like you're playing terribly. I am a seagull.
No, that's not it... Remember when you shot a seagull? A man came by chance, saw him and, having nothing better to do, killed him... The plot for a short story...
What am I talking about?.. I'm talking about the stage. Now I’m not like that... I’m already a real actress, I play with pleasure, with delight, I get drunk on stage and feel beautiful. And now, while I live here, I keep walking, I keep walking and thinking, thinking and feeling how my mental strength... Now I know, I understand. Kostya, that in our business - it doesn’t matter whether we play on stage or write - the main thing is not fame, not brilliance, not what I dreamed of, but the ability to endure. Know how to bear your cross and believe. I believe, and it doesn’t hurt me so much, and when I think about my calling, I’m not afraid of life.
No, no... Don't see him off, I'll get there myself... My horses are close... So she brought him with her? Well, whatever. When you see Trigorin, don’t say anything to him... I love him. I love him even more than before... I love him, I love him passionately, I love him desperately!
It was good before, Kostya! Remember? What a clear, warm, joyful, pure life, what feelings - feelings similar to delicate, graceful flowers... "People, lions, eagles and partridges, antlered deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, starfish and those who could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, died out. For thousands of centuries, the earth has not carried a single living creature, and this poor moon lights its lantern in vain "The cranes no longer wake up screaming in the meadow, and cockchafers are no longer heard in the linden groves..."
I will go. Farewell. When I become a big actress, come and see me.
Do you promise? And now... It's too late. I can barely stand on my feet...

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (8)"

BAD CUSTOM. Zoshchenko.

In February, my brothers, I fell ill.

I went to the city hospital. And here I am, you know, in the city hospital, receiving treatment and resting my soul. And all around is peace and quiet and God's grace. Everything around is clean and orderly, it’s even awkward to lie down. If you want to spit, use a spittoon. If you want to sit down, there is a chair, if you want to blow your nose, blow your nose into your hand, but if you blow it into the sheet, oh my God, they don’t allow you to blow it into the sheet. There is no such order, they say.

Well, you resign yourself.

And you can’t help but come to terms with it. There is such care, such affection, that it couldn’t be better. Just imagine, some lousy person is lying there, and they bring him lunch, and make his bed, and put thermometers under his armpits, and push enemas with his own hands, and even inquire about his health.

And who is interested? Important, progressive people - doctors, doctors, nurses and, again, paramedic Ivan Ivanovich.

And I felt such gratitude towards all this staff that I decided to offer financial gratitude.

I don’t think you can give it to everyone - there won’t be enough giblets. I'll give it to one, I think. And to whom - he began to take a closer look.

And I see: there is no one else to give, except to the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich. The man, I see, is large and respectable and tries harder than anyone else and even goes out of his way.

Okay, I think I'll give it to him. And he began to think about how to stick it to him, so as not to offend his dignity and so as not to get punched in the face for it.

The opportunity soon presented itself.

The paramedic approaches my bed. Says hello.

Hello, he says, how are you? Was there a chair?

Hey, I think it took the bait.

Why, I say, there was a chair, but one of the patients took it away. And if you want to sit down, sit down with your feet on the bed. Let's talk.

The paramedic sat down on the bed and sat.

Well,” I tell him, “what do they write about, are the earnings high?”

The earnings, he says, are small, but which intelligent patients, even at the point of death, certainly strive to put into their hands.

If you please, I say, although I’m not dying, I don’t refuse to give. And I’ve even been dreaming about this for a long time.

I take out the money and give it. And he kindly accepted and curtsied with his hand.

And the next day it all started.

I was lying very calmly and well, and no one had disturbed me until then, but now the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich seemed stunned by my material gratitude. During the day he will come to my bed ten or fifteen times. Either, you know, he’ll straighten the pads, or he’ll drag him into the bath. He tortured me with thermometers alone. Previously, a thermometer or two would be set a day in advance - that’s all. And now fifteen times. Previously, the bath was cool and I liked it, but now it’s too much hot water to fill up - even though you’re on guard.

I have already done this and that way - no way. I still shove money at him, the scoundrel, just leave him alone, do me a favor, he gets even more furious and tries.

A week has passed - I see I can’t do it anymore.

I was exhausted, lost fifteen pounds, lost weight and lost my appetite.

And the paramedic is still trying.

And since he, a tramp, almost even boiled me in boiling water. By God. The scoundrel gave me such a bath - the callus on my foot burst and the skin came off.

I tell him:

What, I say, you bastard, are you boiling people in boiling water? There will be no more material gratitude for you.

And he says:

It won't - it won't be necessary. Die, he says, without the help of scientists.

But now everything is going as before again: the thermometers are set once, the bath is cool again, and no one bothers me anymore.

It’s not for nothing that the fight against tipping is happening. Oh, brothers, not in vain!

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document"

I SEE YOU PEOPLE! (Nodar Dumbadze)

- Hello, Bezhana! Yes, it’s me, Sosoya... I haven’t been with you for a long time, my Bezhana! Excuse me!.. Now I’ll put everything in order here: I’ll clear the grass, straighten the cross, repaint the bench... Look, the rose has already faded... Yes, quite a bit of time has passed... And how much news I have for you, Bezhana! I don't know where to start! Wait a little, I’ll pull out this weed and tell you everything in order...

Well, my dear Bezhana: the war is over! Our village is unrecognizable now! The guys have returned from the front, Bezhana! Gerasim's son returned, Nina's son returned, Minin Evgeniy returned, and Nodar's father returned, and Otia's father. True, he is missing one leg, but what does that matter? Just think, a leg!.. But our Kukuri, Lukain Kukuri, did not return. Mashiko's son Malkhaz also did not return... Many did not return, Bezhana, and yet we have a holiday in the village! Salt and corn appeared... After you, ten weddings took place, and at each I was among the guests of honor and drank great! Do you remember Giorgi Tsertsvadze? Yes, yes, the father of eleven children! So, George also returned, and his wife Taliko gave birth to a twelfth boy, Shukria. That was some fun, Bejana! Taliko was in a tree picking plums when she went into labor! Do you hear, Bejana? I almost died on a tree! I still managed to get downstairs! The child was named Shukriya, but I call him Slivovich. Great, isn't it, Bejana? Slivovich! What's worse than Georgievich? In total, after you, we had thirteen children... Yes, one more news, Bezhana, I know it will make you happy. Khatia's father took her to Batumi. She will have surgery and she will see! After? Then... You know, Bezhana, how much I love Khatia? So I'll marry her! Certainly! I'll celebrate a wedding, a big wedding! And we will have children!.. What? What if she doesn’t see the light? Yes, my aunt also asks me about this... I’m getting married anyway, Bezhana! She can’t live without me... And I can’t live without Khatia... Didn’t you love some Minadora? So I love my Khatia... And my aunt loves... him... Of course she loves, otherwise she wouldn’t ask the postman every day if there is a letter for her... She’s waiting for him! You know who... But you also know that he will not return to her... And I’m waiting for my Khatia. It makes no difference to me whether she returns as sighted or blind. What if she doesn't like me? What do you think, Bejana? True, my aunt says that I have matured, become prettier, that it is difficult to even recognize me, but... who the hell is not joking!.. However, no, it cannot be that Khatia doesn’t like me! She knows what I am like, she sees me, she herself has spoken about this more than once... I graduated from ten classes, Bezhana! I'm thinking of going to college. I’ll become a doctor, and if Khatia doesn’t get help in Batumi now, I’ll cure her myself. Right, Bejana?

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"Microsoft Word Document"

Marina Tsvetaeva. Sonechka's monologue. "How I love to love...".

Do you ever forget when you love something - you love it? I never. It's like a toothache, only the opposite - the opposite of a toothache. Only there it aches, but here there is no word.
And what wild fools they are. Those who don’t love don’t love themselves, as if the point is to be loved. I’m not saying, of course, but you hit a wall. But you know, there is no wall that I wouldn’t break through.
Do you notice how all of them, even those who kiss, even those who seem to love, are so afraid to say this word? How come they never say it? One explained to me that this is grossly backward, that there is no need for words when there are actions, that is, kisses and so on. And I told him: “No. The deed does not prove anything. But the word is everything!”
This is all I need from a person. “I love you” and nothing more. Even if he doesn’t love you any way he wants, or does whatever he wants, I won’t believe the deeds. Because there was a word. I only fed on this word. That’s why I became so emaciated.
And how stingy, calculating, and cautious they are. I always want to say: “Just tell me. I won’t check.” But they don’t say it because they think it’s about getting married, getting in touch, and not letting go. “If I’m the first to speak, I’ll never be the first to leave.” As if you can’t be the first to leave with me.
I have never been the first to leave in my life. And as long as God allows me in my life, I will not be the first to leave. I just can not. I do everything to make the other one leave. Because it’s easier for me to leave first - it’s easier to cross over my own corpse.
I was never the first to leave within myself. I was never the first to stop loving. Always until the very last opportunity. Until the very last drop. It’s like when you drink as a child and it’s already hot from an empty glass. And you keep pulling and pulling and pulling. And only your own steam...

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"Microsoft Office Word Document (23)"

Larisa Novikova

Monologue of Pechorin from "Hero of Our Time" by M. Lermontov

Yes, this has been my lot since childhood. Everyone read on my face signs of bad feelings that were not there; but they were anticipated - and they were born. I was modest - I was accused of guile: I became secretive. I felt good and evil deeply; no one caressed me, everyone insulted me: I became vindictive; I was gloomy, - other children were cheerful and talkative; I felt superior to them - they put me lower. I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me: and I learned to hate. My colorless youth passed in a struggle with myself and the world; Fearing ridicule, I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart: they died there. I told the truth - they didn’t believe me: I began to deceive; Having learned well the light and springs of society, I became skilled in the science of life and saw how others were happy without art, freely enjoying the benefits that I so tirelessly sought. And then despair was born in my chest - not the despair that is treated with the barrel of a pistol, but cold, powerless despair, covered with courtesy and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple: one half of my soul did not exist, it dried up, evaporated, died, I cut it off and threw it away - while the other moved and lived at the service of everyone, and no one noticed this, because no one knew about the existence of the deceased half of it; but now you have awakened in me the memory of her, and I read her epitaph to you.

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"wish"

You have to really want it and...

To tell the truth, all my life I have often had all sorts of difficult-to-fulfill desires and fantasies in my head.

At one time, for example, I dreamed of inventing a device with the help of which it would be possible to turn off the voice of any person at a distance. According to my calculations, this device (I called it TIKHOFON BYU-1 - a voice switch according to the Barankin system) was supposed to act like this: suppose today in class the teacher tells us about something uninteresting and thereby prevents me, Barankin, from thinking about what something interesting; I click the quiet switch in my pocket, and the teacher’s voice disappears. Those who don’t have such a device continue to listen, and I calmly go about my business in silence.

I really wanted to invent such a device, but for some reason I didn’t get beyond the name.

I also had other strong desires, but none of them, of course, captured me like this, truly, like the desire to turn from a man into a sparrow!..

I sat on a bench, without moving, without being distracted, without thinking about anything extraneous, and thought only about one thing: “How could I quickly turn into a sparrow.”

At first I sat on a bench just like all ordinary people sit, and I didn’t feel anything special. All sorts of unpleasant human thoughts continued to pop into my head: about the deuce, and about arithmetic, and about Mishka Yakovlev, but I tried not to think about all this.

I’m sitting on a bench with my eyes closed, I have goosebumps all over my body, like crazy ones, like kids at a big break, and I sit and think: “I wonder what these goosebumps and these oats mean? Goosebumps - that’s understandable to me, I’m probably the one who spent time on my feet, but what does oats have to do with it?”

I even mother's oatmeal with milk and jam and always ate it at home without any pleasure. Why do I want raw oats? I'm still a man, not a horse, right?

I’m sitting, thinking, wondering, but I can’t explain anything to myself, because my eyes are tightly closed, and this makes my head completely dark and unclear.

Then I thought: “Has something like this happened to me...” - and so I decided to examine myself from head to toe...

Holding my breath, I opened my eyes slightly and first looked at my feet. I look - instead of wearing boots, I have bare feet of a sparrow, and with these feet I stand barefoot on a bench, like a real sparrow. I opened my eyes wider, and I saw that instead of hands I had wings. I open my eyes even more, turn my head, and look - a tail sticks out from behind. What does this mean? It turns out that I have turned into a sparrow after all!

I am a sparrow! I'm no longer Barankin! I am the realest, most authentic sparrow! So that’s why I suddenly wanted oats: oats are the favorite food of horses and sparrows! All clear! No, not everything is clear! What does this mean? So my mother was right. This means that if you really want it, you can really achieve anything and achieve anything!

What a discovery!

Such a discovery is perhaps worth tweeting to the entire yard. What about the whole yard - the whole city, even the whole world!

I spread my wings! I popped my chest out! I turned towards Kostya Malinin and froze with my beak agape.

My friend Kostya Malinin continued to sit on the bench, like the most ordinary person... Kostya Malinin failed to turn into a sparrow!.. Here's to you!

A SELECTION OF PASSAGES FOR READING BY MERT
Having emptied the pot, Vanya wiped it dry with a crust. He wiped the spoon with the same crust, ate the crust, stood up, bowed sedately to the giants and said, lowering his eyelashes:
- We are very grateful. I'm very pleased with you.
- Maybe you want more?
- No, I'm full.
“Otherwise we can put you another pot,” said Gorbunov, winking, not without boasting. - This means nothing to us. Eh, shepherd boy?
“It doesn’t bother me anymore,” Vanya said shyly, and his blue eyes suddenly flashed a quick, mischievous look from under his eyelashes.
- If you don’t want it, whatever you want. Your will. We have this rule: we don’t force anyone,” said Bidenko, known for his fairness.
But the vain Gorbunov, who loved for all people to admire the life of the scouts, said:
- Well, Vanya, how did you like our grub?
“Good food,” said the boy, putting a spoon in the pot, handle down, and collecting bread crumbs from the Suvorov Onslaught newspaper, spread out instead of a tablecloth.
- Right, good? - Gorbunov perked up. - You, brother, won’t find such food from anyone in the division. Famous grub. You, brother, are the main thing, stick with us, the scouts. You will never be lost with us. Will you stick with us?
“I will,” the boy said cheerfully.
- That's right, and you won't get lost. We'll wash you off in the bathhouse. We'll cut your hair. We'll arrange some uniforms so that you have the proper military appearance.
- Will you take me on reconnaissance mission, uncle?
- We’ll take you on reconnaissance missions. Let's make you a famous intelligence officer.
- I, uncle, am small. “I can climb everywhere,” Vanya said with joyful readiness. - I know every bush around here.
- It's expensive.
- Will you teach me how to fire from a machine gun?
- From what. The time will come - we will teach.
“I wish I could just shoot once, uncle,” said Vanya, looking greedily at the machine guns swinging on their belts from the incessant cannon fire.
- You'll shoot. Don't be afraid. This won't happen. We will teach you all military science. Our first duty, of course, is to enroll you in all types of allowances.
- How is it, uncle?
- It’s very simple, brother. Sergeant Egorov will report about you to the lieutenant
Sedykh. Lieutenant Sedykh will report to the battery commander, Captain Enakiev, Captain Enakiev will order you to be included in the order. From this, it means that all types of allowance will go to you: clothing, welding, money. Do you understand?
- I see, uncle.
- This is how we do it, scouts... Wait! Where are you going?
- Wash the dishes, uncle. Our mother always ordered us to wash the dishes after ourselves and then put them in the closet.
“She ordered correctly,” Gorbunov said sternly. - The same goes for military service.
“There are no porters in military service,” the fair Bidenko edifyingly noted.
“However, just wait until you wash the dishes, we’ll drink tea now,” Gorbunov said smugly. - Do you respect drinking tea?
“I respect you,” said Vanya.
- Well, you're doing the right thing. For us, as scouts, this is how it’s supposed to be: as soon as we eat, we immediately drink tea. It is forbidden! - Bidenko said. “We drink extra, of course,” he added indifferently. - We don't take this into account.
Soon a large copper kettle appeared in the tent - an object of special pride for the scouts, and a source of eternal envy for the rest of the batteries.
It turned out that the scouts really didn’t take sugar into account. The silent Bidenko untied his duffel bag and placed a huge handful of refined sugar on the Suvorov Onslaught. Before Vanya had time to blink an eye, Gorbunov poured two large breasts of sugar into his mug, however, noticing the expression of delight on the boy’s face, he splashed a third breast. Know us, the scouts!
Vanya grabbed the tin mug with both hands. He even closed his eyes with pleasure. He felt as if in an extraordinary fairy tale world. Everything around was fabulous. And this tent, as if illuminated by the sun in the middle of a cloudy day, and the roar of a close battle, and the kind giants throwing handfuls of refined sugar, and the mysterious “all types of allowances” promised to him - clothing, food, money - and even the words “stewed pork” printed in large black letters on the mug. - Do you like it? - asked Gorbunov, proudly admiring the pleasure with which the boy sipped the tea with carefully stretched lips.
Vanya couldn’t even answer this question intelligently. His lips were busy fighting the tea, hot as fire. His heart was full of wild joy that he would stay with the scouts, with these wonderful people who promise to give him a haircut, outfit him, and teach him how to fire a machine gun.
All the words were mixed up in his head. He just nodded his head gratefully, raised his eyebrows high and rolled his eyes, thereby expressing the highest degree of pleasure and gratitude.
(In Kataev “Son of the Regiment”)
If you think that I study well, you are mistaken. I study no matter. For some reason, everyone thinks that I am capable, but lazy. I don't know if I'm capable or not. But only I know for sure that I am not lazy. I spend three hours working on problems.
For example, now I’m sitting and trying with all my might to solve a problem. But she doesn’t dare. I tell my mom:
- Mom, I can’t do the problem.
“Don’t be lazy,” says mom. - Think carefully, and everything will work out. Just think carefully!
She leaves on business. And I take my head with both hands and tell her:
- Think, head. Think carefully... “Two pedestrians went from point A to point B...” Head, why don’t you think? Well, head, well, think, please! Well what is it worth to you!
A cloud floats outside the window. It is as light as feathers. There it stopped. No, it floats on.
Head, what are you thinking about?! Aren `t you ashamed!!! “Two pedestrians went from point A to point B...” Lyuska probably left too. She's already walking. If she had approached me first, I would, of course, forgive her. But will she really fit, such a mischief?!
“...From point A to point B...” No, she won’t do. On the contrary, when I go out into the yard, she will take Lena’s arm and whisper to her. Then she will say: “Len, come to me, I have something.” They will leave, and then sit on the windowsill and laugh and nibble on seeds.
“...Two pedestrians left point A to point B...” And what will I do?.. And then I’ll call Kolya, Petka and Pavlik to play lapta. What will she do? Yeah, she'll play the Three Fat Men record. Yes, so loud that Kolya, Petka and Pavlik will hear and run to ask her to let them listen. They've listened to it a hundred times, but it's not enough for them! And then Lyuska will close the window, and they will all listen to the record there.
“...From point A to point... to point...” And then I’ll take it and fire something right at her window. Glass - ding! - and will fly apart. Let him know.
So. I'm already tired of thinking. Think, don’t think, the task will not work. Just an awfully difficult task! I'll take a walk a little and start thinking again.
I closed the book and looked out the window. Lyuska was walking alone in the yard. She jumped into hopscotch. I went out into the yard and sat down on a bench. Lyuska didn’t even look at me.
- Earring! Vitka! - Lyuska immediately screamed. - Let's go play lapta!
The Karmanov brothers looked out the window.
“We have a throat,” both brothers said hoarsely. - They won't let us in.
- Lena! - Lyuska screamed. - Linen! Come out!
Instead of Lena, her grandmother looked out and shook her finger at Lyuska.
- Pavlik! - Lyuska screamed.
No one appeared at the window.
- Fuck it! - Lyuska pressed herself.
- Girl, why are you yelling?! - Someone's head poked out of the window. - A sick person is not allowed to rest! There is no peace for you! - And his head stuck back into the window.
Lyuska looked at me furtively and blushed like a lobster. She tugged at her pigtail. Then she took the thread off her sleeve. Then she looked at the tree and said:
- Lucy, let's play hopscotch.
“Come on,” I said.
We jumped into hopscotch and I went home to solve my problem.
As soon as I sat down at the table, my mother came:
- Well, how's the problem?
- Does not work.
- But you’ve been sitting over her for two hours already! This is just terrible! They give the children some puzzles!.. Well, show me your problem! Maybe I can do it? After all, I graduated from college. So. “Two pedestrians went from point A to point B...” Wait, wait, this problem is somehow familiar to me! Listen, you and your dad decided it last time! I remember perfectly!
- How? - I was surprised. - Really? Oh, really, this is the forty-fifth problem, and we were given the forty-sixth.
At this point my mother became terribly angry.
- It's outrageous! - Mom said. - This is unheard of! This mess! Where is your head?! What is she thinking about?!
(Irina Pivovarova “What is my head thinking about”)
Irina Pivovarova. Spring rain
I didn't want to study lessons yesterday. It was so sunny outside! Such a warm yellow sun! Such branches were swaying outside the window!.. I wanted to stretch out my hand and touch every sticky green leaf. Oh, how your hands will smell! And your fingers will stick together - you won’t be able to separate them from each other... No, I didn’t want to learn my lessons.
I went outside. The sky above me was fast. Clouds were hurrying along it somewhere, and sparrows were chirping terribly loudly in the trees, and a big fluffy cat was warming itself on a bench, and it was so good that it was spring!
I walked in the yard until the evening, and in the evening mom and dad went to the theater, and I, without having done my homework, went to bed.
The morning was dark, so dark that I didn’t want to get up at all. It's always like this. If it's sunny, I jump up immediately. I get dressed quickly. And the coffee is delicious, and mom doesn’t grumble, and dad jokes. And when the morning is like today, I can barely get dressed, my mother urges me on and gets angry. And when I have breakfast, dad makes comments to me that I’m sitting crookedly at the table.
On the way to school, I remembered that I had not done a single lesson, and this made me feel even worse. Without looking at Lyuska, I sat down at my desk and took out my textbooks.
Vera Evstigneevna entered. The lesson has begun. They'll call me now.
- Sinitsyna, to the blackboard!
I shuddered. Why should I go to the board?
“I didn’t learn it,” I said.
Vera Evstigneevna was surprised and gave me a bad grade.
Why do I have such a bad life in the world?! I'd rather take it and die. Then Vera Evstigneevna will regret that she gave me a bad mark. And mom and dad will cry and tell everyone:
“Oh, why did we go to the theater ourselves, and leave her all alone!”
Suddenly they pushed me in the back. I turned around. A note was thrust into my hands. I unfolded the long narrow paper ribbon and read:
“Lucy!
Don't despair!!!
A deuce is nothing!!!
You will correct the deuce!
I will help you! Let's be friends with you! Only this is a secret! Not a word to anyone!!!
Yalo-kvo-kyl.”
It was as if something warm was poured into me immediately. I was so happy that I even laughed. Lyuska looked at me, then at the note and proudly turned away.
Did someone really write this to me? Or maybe this note is not for me? Maybe she is Lyuska? But on back side stood: LUSYA SINITSYNA.
What a wonderful note! I have never received such wonderful notes in my life! Well, of course, a deuce is nothing! What are you talking about?! I'll just fix the two!
I re-read it twenty times:
“Let’s be friends with you...”
Well, of course! Of course, let's be friends! Let's be friends with you!! Please! I am very happy! I really love it when people want to be friends with me!..
But who writes this? Some kind of YALO-KVO-KYL. Confused word. I wonder what it means? And why does this YALO-KVO-KYL want to be friends with me?.. Maybe I’m beautiful after all?
I looked at the desk. There was nothing beautiful.
He probably wanted to be friends with me because I’m good. So, am I bad, or what? Of course it's good! After all, no one wants to be friends with a bad person!
To celebrate, I nudged Lyuska with my elbow.
- Lucy, but one person wants to be friends with me!
- Who? - Lyuska asked immediately.
- I don't know who. The writing here is somehow unclear.
- Show me, I'll figure it out.
- Honestly, won't you tell anyone?
- Honestly!
Lyuska read the note and pursed her lips:
- Some fool wrote it! I couldn't say my real name.
- Or maybe he’s shy?
I looked around the whole class. Who could have written the note? Well, who?.. It would be nice, Kolya Lykov! He is the smartest in our class. Everyone wants to be his friend. But I have so many C’s! No, he probably won't.
Or maybe Yurka Seliverstov wrote this?.. No, he and I are already friends. He would, out of the blue, send me a note! During recess, I went out into the corridor. I stood by the window and began to wait. It would be nice if this YALO-KVO-KYL made friends with me right now!
Pavlik Ivanov came out of the class and immediately walked towards me.
So, that means Pavlik wrote this? Only this was not enough!
Pavlik ran up to me and said:
- Sinitsyna, give me ten kopecks.
I gave him ten kopecks so that he would get rid of it as soon as possible. Pavlik immediately ran to the buffet, and I stayed by the window. But no one else came.
Suddenly Burakov began walking past me. It seemed to me that he was looking at me strangely. He stopped nearby and began to look out the window. So, that means Burakov wrote the note?! Then I'd better leave right away. I can't stand this Burakov!
“The weather is terrible,” said Burakov.
I didn't have time to leave.
“Yes, the weather is bad,” I said.
“The weather couldn’t be worse,” said Burakov.
“Terrible weather,” I said.
Then Burakov took an apple out of his pocket and bit off half with a crunch.
“Burakov, let me take a bite,” I couldn’t resist.
“But it’s bitter,” said Burakov and walked down the corridor.
No, he didn't write the note. And thank God! You won’t find another greedy person like him in the whole world!
I looked after him contemptuously and went to class. I walked in and was stunned. On the board it was written in huge letters:
SECRET!!! YALO-KVO-KYL + SINITSYNA = LOVE!!! NOT A WORD TO ANYONE!
Lyuska was whispering with the girls in the corner. When I walked in, they all stared at me and started giggling.
I grabbed a rag and rushed to wipe the board.
Then Pavlik Ivanov jumped up to me and whispered in my ear:
- I wrote you a note.
- You're lying, not you!
Then Pavlik laughed like a fool and yelled at the whole class:
- Oh, hilarious! Why be friends with you?! All covered in freckles, like a cuttlefish! Stupid tit!
And then, before I had time to look back, Yurka Seliverstov jumped up to him and hit this idiot right in the head with a wet rag. Pavlik howled:
- Ah well! I'll tell everyone! I’ll tell everyone, everyone, everyone about her, how she receives notes! And I’ll tell everyone about you! It was you who sent her the note! - And he ran out of the class with a stupid cry: - Yalo-kvo-kyl! Yalo-quo-kyl!
The lessons are over. Nobody ever approached me. Everyone quickly collected their textbooks, and the classroom was empty. Kolya Lykov and I were left alone. Kolya still couldn’t tie his shoelace.
The door creaked. Yurka Seliverstov stuck his head into the classroom, looked at me, then at Kolya and, without saying anything, left.
But what if? What if Kolya wrote this after all? Is it really Kolya?! What happiness if Kolya! My throat immediately went dry.
“Kol, please tell me,” I barely squeezed out, “it’s not you, by chance...
I didn’t finish because I suddenly saw Kolya’s ears and neck turn red.
- Oh you! - Kolya said without looking at me. - I thought you... And you...
- Kolya! - I screamed. - Well, I...
“You’re a chatterbox, that’s what,” said Kolya. -Your tongue is like a broom. And I don't want to be friends with you anymore. What else was missing!
Kolya finally managed to pull the lace, stood up and left the classroom. And I sat down in my place.
I'm not going anywhere. It's raining so badly outside the window. And my fate is so bad, so bad that it can’t get any worse! I'll sit here until nightfall. And I will sit at night. Alone in a dark classroom, alone in the whole dark school. That's what I need.
Aunt Nyura came in with a bucket.
“Go home, honey,” said Aunt Nyura. - At home, my mother was tired of waiting.
“No one was waiting for me at home, Aunt Nyura,” I said and trudged out of class.
My bad fate! Lyuska is no longer my friend. Vera Evstigneevna gave me a bad grade. Kolya Lykov... I didn’t even want to remember about Kolya Lykov.
I slowly put on my coat in the locker room and, barely dragging my feet, went out into the street...
It was wonderful, the best spring rain in the world!!!
Funny, wet passers-by were running down the street with their collars raised!!!
And on the porch, right in the rain, stood Kolya Lykov.
“Come on,” he said.
And off we went.
(Irina Pivovarova “Spring Rain”)
The front was far from the village of Nechaev. The Nechaev collective farmers did not hear the roar of guns, did not see how planes were fighting in the sky and how the glow of fires blazed at night where the enemy passed through Russian soil. But from where the front was, refugees walked through Nechaevo. They dragged sleds with bundles, hunched over under the weight of bags and sacks. The children walked and got stuck in the snow, clinging to their mothers' dresses. Homeless people stopped, warmed themselves in the huts and moved on. One day at dusk, when the shadow of the old birch tree stretched all the way to the granary, they knocked on the Shalikhins’ hut. The reddish, nimble girl Taiska rushed to the side window, buried her nose in the thawed area, and both her pigtails cheerfully lifted up. - Two aunties! - she screamed. – One is young, wearing a scarf! And the other one is a very old lady, with a stick! And yet... look - a girl! Pear, Taiska’s eldest sister, put aside the stocking she was knitting and also went to the window. - She really is a girl. In a blue hood... “So go open it,” said the mother. – What are you waiting for? Pear pushed Taiska: “Go, what are you doing!” Should all elders? Taiska ran to open the door. People entered, and the hut smelled of snow and frost. While the mother was talking to the women, while she was asking where they were from, where they were going, where the Germans were and where the front was, Grusha and Taiska looked at the girl. - Look, in boots! - And the stocking is torn! “Look, she’s clutching her bag so tightly, she can’t even loosen her fingers.” What does she have there? - Just ask. - Ask yourself. At this time, Romanok appeared from the street. The frost cut his cheeks. Red as a tomato, he stopped in front of the strange girl and stared at her. I even forgot to wash my feet. And the girl in the blue hood sat motionless on the edge of the bench. With her right hand she clutched to her chest a yellow handbag hanging over her shoulder. She silently looked somewhere at the wall and seemed to see and hear nothing. The mother poured hot stew for the refugees and cut off a piece of bread. - Oh, and wretches! – she sighed. – It’s not easy for us, and the child is struggling... Is this your daughter? “No,” the woman answered, “a stranger.” “They lived on the same street,” added the old woman. The mother was surprised: “Alien?” Where are your relatives, girl? The girl looked at her gloomily and did not answer. “She has no one,” the woman whispered, “the whole family died: her father is at the front, and her mother and brother are here.”
Killed... The mother looked at the girl and could not come to her senses. She looked at her light coat, which was probably blown through by the wind, at her torn stockings , on a thin neck, plaintively whitening from under a blue hood... Killed. Everyone is killed! But the girl is alive. And she is alone in the whole world! The mother approached the girl. -What is your name, daughter? – she asked tenderly. “Valya,” the girl answered indifferently. “Valya... Valentina...” the mother repeated thoughtfully. - Valentine... Seeing that the women took up their knapsacks, she stopped them: - Stay overnight today. It’s already late outside, and the drifting snow has begun – look how it’s sweeping away! And you'll leave in the morning. The women remained. Mother made beds for tired people. She made a bed for the girl on a warm couch - let her warm up thoroughly. The girl undressed, took off her blue hood, poked her head into the pillow, and sleep immediately overcame her. So, when the grandfather came home in the evening, his usual place on the couch was occupied, and that night he had to lie down on the chest. After dinner everyone calmed down very quickly. Only the mother tossed and turned on her bed and could not sleep. At night she got up, lit a small blue lamp and quietly walked over to the bed. The weak light of the lamp illuminated the girl’s gentle, slightly flushed face, large fluffy eyelashes, dark hair with a chestnut tint, scattered across the colorful pillow. - You poor orphan! – the mother sighed. “You just opened your eyes to the light, and how much grief has fallen upon you!” Such and such a small one!.. The mother stood near the girl for a long time and kept thinking about something. I took her boots from the floor and looked at them - they were thin and wet. Tomorrow this little girl will put them on and go somewhere again... And where? Early, early, when it was just dawning in the windows, the mother got up and lit the stove. Grandfather got up too: he didn’t like to lie down for a long time. It was quiet in the hut, only sleepy breathing could be heard and Romanok snored on the stove. In this silence, by the light of a small lamp, the mother spoke quietly with the grandfather. “Let's take the girl, father,” she said. - I really feel sorry for her! The grandfather put aside the felt boots he was mending, raised his head and looked thoughtfully at his mother. - Take the girl?.. Will it be okay? - he answered. “We are from the countryside, and she is from the city.” – Does it really matter, father? There are people in the city and people in the village. After all, she is an orphan! Our Taiska will have a girlfriend. Next winter they will go to school together... The grandfather came up and looked at the girl: - Well... Look. You know better. Let's at least take it. Just be careful not to cry with her later! - Eh!.. Maybe I won’t pay. Soon the refugees also got up and began to get ready to go. But when they wanted to wake up the girl, the mother stopped them: “Wait, don’t wake her up.” Leave your Valentine with me! If you find any relatives, tell me: he lives in Nechaev, with Daria Shalikhina. And I had three guys - well, there will be four. Maybe we'll live! The women thanked the hostess and left. But the girl remained. “Here I have another daughter,” said Daria Shalikhina thoughtfully, “daughter Valentinka... Well, we’ll live.” This is how a new person appeared in the village of Nechaevo.
(Lyubov Voronkova “Girl from the City”)
Not remembering how she left the house, Assol fled to the sea, caught up in an irresistible
by the wind of the event; at the first corner she stopped almost exhausted; her legs were giving way,
breathing was interrupted and extinguished, consciousness was hanging on by a thread. Beside myself with fear of losing
will, she stamped her foot and recovered. At times the roof or the fence hid her from
Scarlet Sails; then, fearing that they had disappeared like a simple ghost, she hurried
pass the painful obstacle and, seeing the ship again, stopped with relief
take a breath.
Meanwhile, such confusion, such excitement, such complete unrest occurred in Caperna, which would not yield to the effect of the famous earthquakes. Never before
the large ship did not approach this shore; the ship had the same sails, the name
which sounded like mockery; now they glowed clearly and irrefutably with
the innocence of a fact that refutes all the laws of existence and common sense. Men,
women and children rushed to the shore in a hurry, who was wearing what; residents echoed
courtyard to courtyard, they jumped on each other, screamed and fell; soon formed near the water
a crowd, and Assol quickly ran into the crowd.
While she was away, her name flew among people with nervous and gloomy anxiety, angry fear. The men did most of the talking; muffled, snake hissing
the stunned women sobbed, but if one had already begun to crack - poison
got into my head. As soon as Assol appeared, everyone fell silent, everyone moved away from her in fear, and she was left alone in the middle of the emptiness of the sultry sand, confused, ashamed, happy, with a face no less scarlet than her miracle, helplessly stretching out her hands to the tall ship.
A boat full of tanned oarsmen separated from him; among them stood one whom she thought
It seemed now, she knew, she vaguely remembered from childhood. He looked at her with a smile,
which warmed and hurried. But thousands of last funny fears overcame Assol;
mortally afraid of everything - mistakes, misunderstandings, mysterious and harmful interference -
she ran waist-deep into the warm swaying waves, shouting: “I’m here, I’m here! It's me!"
Then Zimmer waved his bow - and the same melody rang through the nerves of the crowd, but this time in a full, triumphant chorus. From the excitement, the movement of clouds and waves, the shine
water and distance, the girl could almost no longer distinguish what was moving: she, the ship, or
the boat - everything was moving, spinning and falling.
But the oar splashed sharply near her; she raised her head. Gray bent over, her hands
grabbed his belt. Assol closed her eyes; then, quickly opening his eyes, boldly
smiled at his shining face and, out of breath, said:
- Absolutely like that.
- And you too, my child! - Gray said, taking the wet jewel out of the water. -
Here I come. Do you recognize me?
She nodded, holding onto his belt, with a new soul and tremblingly closed eyes.
Happiness sat inside her like a fluffy kitten. When Assol decided to open her eyes,
the rocking of the boat, the shine of the waves, the approaching, powerfully tossing board of the "Secret" -
everything was a dream, where the light and water swayed, swirling, like the play of sunbeams on a wall streaming with rays. Not remembering how, she climbed the ladder in Gray's strong arms.
The deck, covered and hung with carpets, in the scarlet splashes of the sails, was like a heavenly garden.
And soon Assol saw that she was standing in the cabin - in a room that could no longer be better
be.
Then from above, shaking and burying the heart in her triumphant cry, she rushed again
great music. Again Assol closed her eyes, afraid that all this would disappear if she
look. Gray took her hands, and, already knowing where it was safe to go, she hid
a face wet with tears on the chest of a friend who came so magically. Carefully, but with laughter,
himself shocked and surprised that an inexpressible, inaccessible to anyone, had occurred
precious minute, Gray lifted his chin up, this dream that had long, long ago
The girl's face and eyes finally opened clearly. They had all the best of a person.
- Will you take my Longren to us? - she said.
- Yes. - And he kissed her so hard following his iron “yes” that she
laughed.
(A. Green. “Scarlet Sails”)
By the end of the school year, I asked my father to buy me a two-wheeler, a battery-powered submachine gun, a battery-powered airplane, a flying helicopter, and a table hockey game.
- I really want to have these things! - I told my father. “They constantly spin in my head like a carousel, and it makes my head so dizzy that it’s hard to stay on my feet.”
“Hold on,” said the father, “don’t fall and write all these things on a piece of paper for me so that I don’t forget.”
- But why write, they are already firmly in my head.
“Write,” said the father, “it doesn’t cost you anything.”
“In general, it’s worth nothing,” I said, “just an extra hassle.” - And I wrote in capital letters on the entire sheet:
VILISAPET
PISTAL GUN
PLANE
VIRTALET
HAKEI
Then I thought about it and decided to write “ice cream”, went to the window, looked at the sign opposite and added:
ICE CREAM
The father read it and said:
- I’ll buy you ice cream for now, and we’ll wait for the rest.
I thought he had no time now, and I asked:
- Until what time?
- Until better times.
- Until what time?
- Until the next end of the school year.
- Why?
- Yes, because the letters in your head are spinning like a carousel, this makes you dizzy, and the words are not on their feet.
It's as if words have legs!
And they’ve bought me ice cream a hundred times already.
(Victor Galyavkin “Carousel in the head”)
Rose.
The last days of August... Autumn was already coming. The sun was setting. A sudden gusty downpour, without thunder and without lightning, had just rushed over our wide plain. The garden in front of the house was burning and smoking, all flooded with the fire of dawn and the flood of rain. She was sitting at the table in the living room and with persistent thoughtfulness looked into the garden through the half-open door. I knew what was happening in her soul then; I knew that after a short, albeit painful, struggle, at that very moment she surrendered to a feeling that she could no longer cope with. Suddenly she got up, quickly went out into the garden and disappeared. An hour struck... another struck; she did not return. Then I got up and, leaving the house, went along the alley, along which - I had no doubt - she also went. Everything around me grew dark; the night has already come. But on the damp sand of the path, a bright red even through the diffuse darkness, a roundish object was visible. I bent down... It was a young, slightly blossoming rose. Two hours ago I saw this same rose on her chest. I carefully picked up the flower that had fallen into the dirt and, returning to the living room, put it on the table in front of her chair. So she finally returned - and, with easy steps Having walked the entire room, she sat down at the table. Her face turned pale and came to life; quickly, with cheerful embarrassment, her lowered, like diminished eyes ran around. She saw a rose, grabbed it, looked at its crumpled, stained petals, looked at me - and her eyes, suddenly stopping, shone with tears. “What are you crying about?” - I asked. “Yes, about this rose.” Look what happened to her.” Here I decided to show thoughtfulness. “Your tears will wash away this dirt,” I said with a significant expression. “Tears don’t wash, tears burn,” she answered and, turning to the fireplace, threw a flower into the dying flame. “Fire will burn even better than tears,” she exclaimed, not without boldness, “and the cross’s eyes, still sparkling with tears, laughed boldly and happily. I realized that she, too, had been burned. (I.S. Turgenev “ROSE”)

I SEE YOU PEOPLE!
- Hello, Bezhana! Yes, it’s me, Sosoya... I haven’t been with you for a long time, my Bezhana! Excuse me!.. Now I’ll put everything in order here: I’ll clear the grass, straighten the cross, repaint the bench... Look, the rose has already faded... Yes, quite a bit of time has passed... And how much news I have for you, Bezhana! I don't know where to start! Wait a little, I’ll pull out this weed and tell you everything in order...
Well, my dear Bezhana: the war is over! Our village is unrecognizable now! The guys have returned from the front, Bezhana! Gerasim's son returned, Nina's son returned, Minin Evgeniy returned, and Nodar Tadpole's father returned, and Otia's father. True, he is missing one leg, but what does that matter? Just think, a leg!.. But our Kukuri, Lukain Kukuri, did not return. Mashiko's son Malkhaz also did not return... Many did not return, Bezhana, and yet we have a holiday in the village! Salt and corn appeared... After you, ten weddings took place, and at each I was among the guests of honor and drank great! Do you remember Giorgi Tsertsvadze? Yes, yes, the father of eleven children! So, George also returned, and his wife Taliko gave birth to a twelfth boy, Shukria. That was some fun, Bejana! Taliko was in a tree picking plums when she went into labor! Do you hear, Bejana? I almost died on a tree! I still managed to get downstairs! The child was named Shukriya, but I call him Slivovich. Great, isn't it, Bejana? Slivovich! What's worse than Georgievich? In total, after you, we had thirteen children... Yes, one more news, Bezhana, I know it will make you happy. Khatia's father took her to Batumi. She will have surgery and she will see! After? Then... You know, Bezhana, how much I love Khatia? So I'll marry her! Certainly! I'll celebrate a wedding, a big wedding! And we will have children!.. What? What if she doesn’t see the light? Yes, my aunt also asks me about this... I’m getting married anyway, Bezhana! She can’t live without me... And I can’t live without Khatia... Didn’t you love some Minadora? So I love my Khatia... And my aunt loves... him... Of course she loves, otherwise she wouldn’t ask the postman every day if there is a letter for her... She’s waiting for him! You know who... But you also know that he will not return to her... And I’m waiting for my Khatia. It makes no difference to me whether she returns as sighted or blind. What if she doesn't like me? What do you think, Bejana? True, my aunt says that I have matured, become prettier, that it is difficult to even recognize me, but... who the hell is not joking!.. However, no, it cannot be that Khatia doesn’t like me! She knows what I am like, she sees me, she herself has spoken about this more than once... I graduated from ten classes, Bezhana! I'm thinking of going to college. I’ll become a doctor, and if Khatia doesn’t get help in Batumi now, I’ll cure her myself. Right, Bejana?
– Has our Sosoya gone completely crazy? Who are you talking to?
- Ah, hello, Uncle Gerasim!
- Hello! What are you doing here?
- So, I came to look at Bezhana’s grave...
- Go to the office... Vissarion and Khatia have returned... - Gerasim lightly patted me on the cheek.
My breath was taken away.
- So how is it?!
“Run, run, son, meet me...” I didn’t let Gerasim finish, I took off from my place and rushed down the slope.
Faster, Sosoya, faster!.. So far, shorten the road along this beam! Jump!.. Faster, Sosoya!.. I'm running like I've never run in my life!.. My ears are ringing, my heart is ready to jump out of my chest, my knees are giving way... Don't you dare stop, Sosoya!.. Run! If you jump over this ditch, it means everything is fine with Khatia... You jumped over!.. If you run to that tree without breathing, it means everything is fine with Khatia... So... A little more... Two more steps... You made it!.. If you count to fifty without taking a breath - that means everything is fine with Khatia... One, two, three... ten, eleven, twelve... Forty-five, forty-six... Oh, how difficult...
- Khatia-ah!..
Gasping, I ran up to them and stopped. I couldn't say another word.
- Soso! – Khatia said quietly.
I looked at her. Khatia's face was as white as chalk. She looked with her huge, beautiful eyes somewhere into the distance, past me, and smiled.
- Uncle Vissarion!
Vissarion stood with his head bowed and was silent.
- Well, Uncle Vissarion? Vissarion did not answer.
- Khatia!
“The doctors said that it is not possible to have surgery yet. They told me to definitely come next spring...” Khatia said calmly.
My God, why didn't I count to fifty?! My throat tickled. I covered my face with my hands.
- How are you, Sosoya? Do you have some new?
I hugged Khatia and kissed her on the cheek. Uncle Vissarion took out a handkerchief, wiped his dry eyes, coughed and left.
- How are you, Sosoya? - Khatia repeated.
- Okay... Don't be afraid, Khatia... They'll have surgery in the spring, won't they? – I stroked Khatia’s face.
She narrowed her eyes and became so beautiful, such that the Mother of God herself would envy her...
- In the spring, Sosoya...
– Just don’t be afraid, Khatia!
– I’m not afraid, Sosoya!
- And if they cannot help you, I will do it, Khatia, I swear to you!
- I know, Sosoya!
– Even if not... So what? Do you see me?
- I see, Sosoya!
– What else do you need?
– Nothing more, Sosoya!
Where are you going, road, and where are you leading my village? Do you remember? One day in June you took away everything that was dear to me in the world. I asked you, dear, and you returned to me everything that you could return. I thank you, dear! Now it's our turn. You will take us, me and Khatia, and lead us to where your end should be. But we don't want you to end. Hand in hand we will walk with you to infinity. You will never again have to deliver news about us to our village in triangular letters and envelopes with printed addresses. We'll be back ourselves, dear! We will face the east, see the golden sun rise, and then Khatia will say to the whole world:
- People, it’s me, Khatia! I see you people!
(Nodar Dumbadze “I see you, people!..."

Near a big city, an old, sick man was walking along a wide road.
He staggered as he walked; his emaciated legs, tangling, dragging and stumbling, walked heavily and weakly, as if
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strangers; his clothes hung in rags; his bare head fell onto his chest... He was exhausted.
He sat down on a roadside stone, leaned forward, leaned on his elbows, covered his face with both hands - and through his crooked fingers, tears dripped onto the dry, gray dust.
He recalled...
He remembered how he, too, had once been healthy and rich - and how he had spent his health, and distributed his wealth to others, friends and enemies... And now he does not have a piece of bread - and everyone has abandoned him, friends even before enemies... Should he really stoop to beg for alms? And he felt bitter and ashamed in his heart.
And the tears kept dripping and dripping, dappling the gray dust.
Suddenly he heard someone calling his name; he raised his tired head and saw a stranger in front of him.
The face is calm and important, but not stern; the eyes are not radiant, but light; the gaze is piercing, but not evil.
“You gave away all your wealth,” an even voice was heard... “But you don’t regret doing good?”
“I don’t regret it,” the old man answered with a sigh, “only now I’m dying.”
“And if there were no beggars in the world who stretched out their hands to you,” the stranger continued, “there would be no one for you to show your virtue over; could you not practice it?”
The old man did not answer anything and became thoughtful.
“So don’t be proud now, poor man,” the stranger spoke again, “go, stretch out your hand, and give to others.” good people an opportunity to show in practice that they are kind.
The old man started, raised his eyes... but the stranger had already disappeared; and in the distance a passer-by appeared on the road.
The old man approached him and extended his hand. This passerby turned away with a stern expression and did not give anything.
But another followed him - and he gave the old man a small alms.
And the old man bought himself some bread with the given pennies - and the piece he asked for seemed sweet to him - and there was no shame in his heart, but on the contrary: a quiet joy dawned on him.
(I.S. Turgenev “Alms”)

Happy
Yes, I was happy once. I long ago defined what happiness is, a very long time ago - at the age of six. And when it came to me, I didn’t recognize it right away. But I remembered what it should be like, and then I realized that I was happy.* * *I remember: I am six years old, my sister is four. We ran for a long time after lunch along the long hall, caught up with each other, squealed and fell. Now we are tired and quiet. We stand nearby, looking out the window at the muddy spring twilight street. Spring twilight is always alarming and always sad. And we are silent. We listen to the crystals of the candelabra tremble from carts passing along the street. If we were big, we would think about people’s anger, about insults, about our love that we insulted, and about the love that we ourselves insulted, and about the happiness that no. But we are children and we don’t know anything. We just remain silent. We are terrified to turn around. It seems to us that the hall has already become completely dark and that this whole large, echoing house in which we live has darkened. Why is he so quiet now? Maybe everyone left it and forgot us, little girls, pressed against the window in a dark huge room? (*61) Near my shoulder I see my sister’s frightened, round eye. She looks at me - should she cry or not? And then I remember my impression of this day, so bright, so beautiful that I immediately forget both the dark house and the dull, dreary street. - Lena! - I say loudly and cheerfully. - Lena! I saw a horse-drawn horse today! I can’t tell her everything about the immensely joyful impression that the horse-drawn horse-drawn horse made on me. The horses were white and ran very quickly; the carriage itself was red or yellow, beautiful, there were a lot of people sitting in it, all strangers, so they could get to know each other and even play some quiet game. And behind on the step stood a conductor, all in gold - or maybe not all of it, but just a little, on buttons - and blew into a golden trumpet: - Rram-rra-ra! The sun itself rang in this pipe and flew out of with golden-sounding splashes. How can you tell it all! You can only say: - Lena! I saw the horse-drawn horse! And you don’t need anything else. From my voice, from my face, she understood all the boundless beauty of this vision. And can anyone really jump into this chariot of joy and rush to the sound of the sun trumpet? - Rram-rra-ra! No, not everyone. Fraulein says that you need to pay for it. That's why they don't take us there. We are locked in a boring, musty carriage with a rattling window, smelling of morocco and patchouli, and are not even allowed to press our nose to the glass. But when we are big and rich, we will only ride on a horse-drawn horse. We will, we will, we will be happy!
(Taffy. “Happy”)
Petrushevskaya Lyudmila Kitten of the Lord God
One grandmother in the village got sick, got bored and got ready for the next world.
Her son still did not come, did not answer the letter, so the grandmother prepared to die, released the cattle into the herd, put a can of clean water by the bed, put a piece of bread under the pillow, placed a filthy bucket closer and lay down to read prayers, and the guardian angel stood by in her heads.
And a boy and his mother came to this village.
Everything was fine with them, their own grandmother functioned, kept a vegetable garden, goats and chickens, but this grandmother did not particularly welcome it when her grandson picked berries and cucumbers in the garden: all this was ripe and ripe for supplies for the winter, for jam and pickles to the same grandson, and if necessary, the grandmother herself will give it.
This expelled grandson was walking around the village and noticed a kitten, small, big-headed and pot-bellied, gray and fluffy.
The kitten strayed towards the child and began to rub against his sandals, inspiring sweet dreams in the boy: how he would be able to feed the kitten, sleep with him, and play.
And the boys’ guardian angel rejoiced, standing behind his right shoulder, because everyone knows that the kitten was equipped for White light The Lord himself, how he equips us all, his children. And if the white light receives another creature sent by God, then this white light continues to live.
And every living creation is a test for those who have already settled in: will they accept the new one or not.
So, the boy grabbed the kitten in his arms and began to stroke it and gently press it to himself. And behind his left elbow stood a demon, who was also very interested in the kitten and the many possibilities associated with this particular kitten.
The guardian angel became worried and began to draw magical pictures: here the cat is sleeping on the boy’s pillow, here he is playing with a piece of paper, here he is going for a walk, like a dog, at his feet... And the demon pushed the boy under his left elbow and suggested: it would be nice to tie the kitten on the tail tin can! It would be nice to throw him into a pond and watch, dying of laughter, as he tries to swim out! Those bulging eyes! And many other different proposals were introduced by the demon into the hot head of the kicked out boy while he was walking home with a kitten in his arms.
And at home, the grandmother immediately scolded him, why was he carrying a flea into the kitchen, there was a cat sitting in the hut, and the boy objected that he would take it with him to the city, but then the mother entered into a conversation, and it was all over, the kitten was ordered take it away from where you got it and throw it over the fence there.
The boy walked with the kitten and threw it over all the fences, and the kitten cheerfully jumped out to meet him after a few steps and again jumped and played with him.
So the boy reached the fence of that grandmother, who was about to die with a supply of water, and again the kitten was abandoned, but then it immediately disappeared.
And again the demon pushed the boy by the elbow and pointed him to someone else’s good garden, where ripe raspberries and black currants hung, where gooseberries were golden.
The demon reminded the boy that the grandmother here was sick, the whole village knew about it, the grandmother was already bad, and the demon told the boy that no one would stop him from eating raspberries and cucumbers.
The guardian angel began to persuade the boy not to do this, but the raspberries turned so red in the rays of the setting sun!
The Guardian Angel cried that theft would not lead to good, that thieves throughout the entire earth were despised and put in cages like pigs, and that it was a shame for a person to take someone else’s property - but it was all in vain!
Then the guardian angel finally began to make the boy afraid that the grandmother would see from the window.
But the demon was already opening the garden gate with the words “he will see and not come out” and laughed at the angel.
And the grandmother, lying in bed, suddenly noticed a kitten that climbed into her window, jumped onto the bed and turned on its little motor, smearing itself on the grandmother’s frozen feet.
The grandmother was glad to see him; her own cat was poisoned, apparently, by rat poison at her neighbors' dump.
The kitten purred, rubbed its head against its grandmother’s legs, received a piece of black bread from her, ate it and immediately fell asleep.
And we have already said that the kitten was not an ordinary one, but he was the kitten of the Lord God, and the magic happened at that very moment, there was a knock on the window, and the old woman’s son with his wife and child, hung with backpacks and bags, entered the hut: Having received his mother’s letter, which arrived very late, he did not answer, no longer hoping for mail, but demanded leave, grabbed his family and set off on a journey along the route bus - station - train - bus - bus - an hour’s walk through two rivers, through the forest and the field, and finally arrived.
His wife, rolling up her sleeves, began to sort out bags of supplies, prepare dinner, he himself, taking a hammer, moved to repair the gate, their son kissed his grandmother on the nose, took the kitten in his arms and went into the garden through the raspberries, where he met a stranger, and here the thief’s guardian angel grabbed his head, and the demon retreated, chattering his tongue and smiling impudently, and the unfortunate thief behaved in the same way.
The owner boy carefully placed the kitten on an overturned bucket, and he hit the kidnapper in the neck, and he rushed faster than the wind to the gate, which the grandmother’s son had just begun to repair, blocking the entire space with his back.
The demon slinked through the fence, the angel covered himself with his sleeve and began to cry, but the kitten warmly stood up for the child, and the angel helped to invent that the boy had not climbed into the raspberries, but after his kitten, which supposedly had run away. Or maybe the demon made it up, standing behind the fence and wagging his tongue, the boy did not understand.
In short, the boy was released, but the adult did not give him a kitten and told him to come with his parents.
As for the grandmother, fate still left her to live: in the evening she got up to meet the cattle, and the next morning she made jam, worrying that they would eat everything and there would be nothing to give her son to the city, and at noon she sheared a sheep and a ram in order to have time to knit mittens for the whole family and socks.
This is where our life is needed - this is how we live.
And the boy, left without a kitten and without raspberries, walked around gloomy, but that same evening he received a bowl of strawberries with milk from his grandmother for an unknown reason, and his mother read him a bedtime story, and his guardian angel was immensely happy and settled down in the sleeper’s head , like all six-year-old children. Kitten of the Lord God One grandmother in the village got sick, got bored and got ready for the next world. Her son still did not come, did not answer the letter, so the grandmother prepared to die, released the cattle into the herd, put a can of clean water by the bed, put a piece of bread under the pillow, placed a filthy bucket closer and lay down to read prayers, and the guardian angel stood by in her heads. And a boy and his mother came to this village. Everything was fine with them, their own grandmother functioned, kept a vegetable garden, goats and chickens, but this grandmother did not particularly welcome it when her grandson picked berries and cucumbers in the garden: all this was ripe and ripe for supplies for the winter, for jam and pickles to the same grandson, and if necessary, the grandmother herself will give it. This expelled grandson was walking around the village and noticed a kitten, small, big-headed and pot-bellied, gray and fluffy. The kitten strayed towards the child and began to rub against his sandals, inspiring sweet dreams in the boy: how he would be able to feed the kitten, sleep with him, and play. And the boys’ guardian angel rejoiced, standing behind his right shoulder, because everyone knows that the Lord himself equipped the kitten into the world, just as he equips all of us, his children. And if the white light receives another creature sent by God, then this white light continues to live. And every living creation is a test for those who have already settled in: will they accept the new one or not. So, the boy grabbed the kitten in his arms and began to stroke it and gently press it to himself. And behind his left elbow stood a demon, who was also very interested in the kitten and the many possibilities associated with this particular kitten. The guardian angel became worried and began to draw magical pictures: here the cat is sleeping on the boy’s pillow, here he is playing with a piece of paper, here he is going for a walk like a dog at his feet... And the demon pushed the boy under his left elbow and suggested: it would be nice to tie a can on the kitten’s tail jar! It would be nice to throw him into a pond and watch, dying of laughter, as he tries to swim out! Those bulging eyes! And many other different proposals were introduced by the demon into the hot head of the kicked out boy while he was walking home with a kitten in his arms. And at home, the grandmother immediately scolded him, why was he carrying a flea into the kitchen, there was a cat sitting in the hut, and the boy objected that he would take it with him to the city, but then the mother entered into a conversation, and it was all over, the kitten was ordered take it away from where you got it and throw it over the fence there. The boy walked with the kitten and threw it over all the fences, and the kitten cheerfully jumped out to meet him after a few steps and again jumped and played with him. So the boy reached the fence of that grandmother, who was about to die with a supply of water, and again the kitten was abandoned, but then it immediately disappeared. And again the demon pushed the boy by the elbow and pointed him to someone else’s good garden, where ripe raspberries and black currants hung, where gooseberries were golden. The demon reminded the boy that the grandmother here was sick, the whole village knew about it, the grandmother was already bad, and the demon told the boy that no one would stop him from eating raspberries and cucumbers. The guardian angel began to persuade the boy not to do this, but the raspberries turned so red in the rays of the setting sun! The Guardian Angel cried that theft would not lead to good, that thieves throughout the entire earth were despised and put in cages like pigs, and that it was a shame for a person to take someone else’s property - but it was all in vain! Then the guardian angel finally began to make the boy afraid that the grandmother would see from the window. But the demon was already opening the garden gate with the words “he will see and not come out” and laughed at the angel.
The grandmother was plump, broad, with a soft, melodious voice. “I filled the whole apartment with myself!..” Borkin’s father grumbled. And his mother timidly objected to him: “Old man... Where can she go?” “I’ve lived in the world...” sighed the father. “She belongs in a nursing home—that’s where she belongs!”
Everyone in the house, not excluding Borka, looked at the grandmother as if she were a completely unnecessary person. The grandmother was sleeping on the chest. All night she tossed and turned heavily, and in the morning she got up before everyone else and rattled dishes in the kitchen. Then she woke up her son-in-law and daughter: “The samovar is ripe. Get up! Have a hot drink on the way..."
She approached Borka: “Get up, my father, it’s time to go to school!” "For what?" – Borka asked in a sleepy voice. “Why go to school? dark man deaf and dumb - that’s why!”
Borka hid his head under the blanket: “Go, grandma...”
In the hallway, father shuffled with a broom. “Where did you put your galoshes, mother? Every time you poke into all corners because of them!”
The grandmother hurried to his aid. “Yes, here they are, Petrusha, in plain sight. Yesterday they were very dirty, I washed them and put them down.”
...Borka would come home from school, throw his coat and hat into his grandmother’s arms, throw his bag of books on the table and shout: “Grandma, eat!”
The grandmother hid her knitting, hurriedly set the table and, crossing her arms on her stomach, watched Borka eat. During these hours, Borka somehow involuntarily felt his grandmother as one of his close friends. He willingly told her about his lessons and comrades. The grandmother listened to him lovingly, with great attention, saying: “Everything is fine, Boryushka: both bad and good are good. Bad things make a person stronger, have a nice shower It’s blooming.” Having eaten, Borka pushed the plate away from him: “Delicious jelly today! Have you eaten, grandma? “I ate, I ate,” the grandmother nodded her head. “Don’t worry about me, Boryushka, thank you, I’m well-fed and healthy.”
A friend came to Borka. The comrade said: “Hello, grandma!” Borka cheerfully nudged him with his elbow: “Let's go, let's go!” You don't have to say hello to her. She’s our old lady.” The grandmother pulled down her jacket, straightened her scarf and quietly moved her lips: “To offend - to hit, to caress - you have to look for words.”
And in the next room, a friend said to Borka: “And they always say hello to our grandmother. Both our own and others. She is our main one." “How is this the main one?” – Borka became interested. “Well, the old one... raised everyone. She cannot be offended. What's wrong with yours? Look, father will be angry for this.” “It won’t warm up! – Borka frowned. “He doesn’t greet her himself...”
After this conversation, Borka often asked his grandmother out of nowhere: “Are we offending you?” And he told his parents: “Our grandmother is the best of all, but lives the worst of all - no one cares about her.” The mother was surprised, and the father was angry: “Who taught your parents to condemn you? Look at me - I’m still small!”
The grandmother, smiling softly, shook her head: “You fools should be happy. Your son is growing up for you! I have outlived my time in the world, and your old age is ahead. What you kill, you won’t get back.”
* * *
Borka was generally interested in grandma’s face. There were different wrinkles on this face: deep, small, thin, like threads, and wide, dug out over the years. “Why are you so painted? Very old? - he asked. Grandma was thinking. “You can read a person’s life by its wrinkles, my dear, as if from a book. Grief and need are at play here. She buried her children, cried, and wrinkles appeared on her face. She endured the need, she struggled, and again there were wrinkles. My husband was killed in the war - there were many tears, but many wrinkles remained. A lot of rain digs holes in the ground.”
I listened to Borka and looked in the mirror with fear: he had never cried enough in his life - would his whole face be covered with such threads? “Go away, grandma! - he grumbled. “You always say stupid things...”
* * *
Recently, the grandmother suddenly hunched over, her back became round, she walked more quietly and kept sitting down. “It grows into the ground,” my father joked. “Don’t laugh at the old man,” the mother was offended. And she said to the grandmother in the kitchen: “What is it, mom, moving around the room like a turtle? Send you for something and you won’t come back.”
My grandmother died before the May holiday. She died alone, sitting in a chair with knitting in her hands: an unfinished sock lay on her knees, a ball of thread on the floor. Apparently she was waiting for Borka. The finished device stood on the table.
The next day the grandmother was buried.
Returning from the yard, Borka found his mother sitting in front of an open chest. All sorts of junk was piled on the floor. There was a smell of stale things. The mother took out the crumpled red shoe and carefully straightened it out with her fingers. “It’s still mine,” she said and bent low over the chest. - My..."
At the very bottom of the chest, a box rattled - the same treasured one that Borka had always wanted to look into. The box was opened. The father took out a tight package: it contained warm mittens for Borka, socks for his son-in-law and a sleeveless vest for his daughter. They were followed by an embroidered shirt made of antique faded silk - also for Borka. In the very corner lay a bag of candy, tied with a red ribbon. There was something written on the bag in large block letters. The father turned it over in his hands, squinted and read loudly: “To my grandson Boryushka.”
Borka suddenly turned pale, snatched the package from him and ran out into the street. There, sitting down at someone else’s gate, he peered for a long time at the grandmother’s scribbles: “To my grandson Boryushka.” The letter "sh" had four sticks. “I didn’t learn!” – Borka thought. How many times did he explain to her that the letter “w” has three sticks... And suddenly, as if alive, the grandmother stood in front of him - quiet, guilty, having not learned her lesson. Borka looked back at his house in confusion and, holding the bag in his hand, wandered down the street along someone else’s long fence...
He came home late in the evening; his eyes were swollen from tears, fresh clay stuck to his knees. He put Grandma’s bag under his pillow and, covering his head with the blanket, thought: “Grandma won’t come in the morning!”
(V. Oseeva “Grandma”)